Silent Assassin(10)

He took the hose and connected one end into the air nozzle on the rat cage, and the other to the canister. There was a faint hiss as colorless, odorless gas seeped into the cage. The rats were at first paralyzed, then began to seize madly, foaming at their mouths, scratching at one another involuntarily until their white fur was stained red. Slowly, the seizing tapered to stillness but for an odd twitching leg.

“It appears you are a man of your word, Mr. Morgan,” said Novokoff. He motioned toward the hose, and the nearest man moved to disconnect it. He undid the lock on the nozzle and pulled, but it didn’t come loose. He pulled harder. It gave, but the man lost his balance, knocking his leg against the canister. Morgan’s heart skipped a beat as the canister teetered uncertainly.

What happened next seemed to move in slow motion. The canister tipped over, and for a split second it seemed like it might teeter back to its standing position. But it moved an inch too far, and it dropped to the ground. The struggle ceased, and everyone froze as the canister rolled a few feet and came to a halt. Then, there was a bright flash, and a wave of hot air blew into Morgan’s face. The fail-safe had gone off.

Novokoff turned to him with snake’s eyes, and Morgan knew that he understood exactly what had happened. Novokoff drew his gun and shot, but Morgan had already anticipated this and dodged the first salvo of bullets. Novokoff ’s men, however, took the cue and fired bursts at Morgan and Lubarsky’s goons. Those two drew their own guns and shot back.

“Stop that!” yelled Lubarsky.

Novokoff shouted in Russian, and it was obvious why: the crate with the canisters was dangerously close to the line of fire. One of Lubarsky’s men was hit. Morgan saw another of Novokoff ’s men fall near him; the bullet had come from Ferenc, who had joined the fray. Novokoff retreated behind a pillar, and Morgan kicked over a table and hid behind it. He listened for the gunfire, waiting for a lull. He pictured the position of one of the shooters. His eyes met those of Ferenc, who was crouching behind the truck. He signaled for cover fire. Ferenc nodded.

Ferenc emerged, shooting. A split second later, Morgan stood, and with another split second to aim, fired. He hit the man squarely in the forehead. He crouched and looked at Ferenc but saw him sprawled on the floor, inert, blood pooling underneath him.

Damn.

He heard moans. Lubarsky was several yards away, shot in the gut.

“You’re a dead man, Cobra . . .” he said, with labored breathing.

“You are alone, Cobra!” Novokoff yelled out to him. “Come out now, you double-crossing son of a bitch, and I promise you a quick death!”

The bastard. Morgan was half-tempted to make his an ending befitting Butch Cassidy, but instead he took a deep breath. There was a burst of gunfire in his direction, hitting the table deafeningly. But the table held the bullets. He was safe until they realized he was out of ammunition.

He looked around. A few feet away from him was the crate, and next to him was the body of one of Novokoff ’s guards, the first to fall, killed by one of Lubarsky’s men. His gun, however, was several feet out of reach, in the path of enemy bullets.

What wasn’t out of reach were the man’s grenades.

He took them. There were only two; he would have to make them count. He couldn’t rely on killing both his enemies with grenades—they were too mobile, the space too open. But there was one possibility.

He took one grenade in each hand and held them to his chest. One chance, and he would probably die. But if he did, he would go out fighting. With his mouth, he pulled the pin on one grenade and sent it sailing in the direction of Novokoff. He removed the pin from the other and, in the cover of the first explosion, tossed it into the crate with the canisters. And then he ran.

The burst came along with a heat wave from the thermite, which was what he had hoped for. Almost immediately he heard Lubarsky gag and cough, and he turned to see him start convulsing. He had released the gas.

And then the tingling hit him. At his extremities, at first. He had to run, had to get out of there. He stumbled out the door the truck had come in.

He panted, his nose running. He stumbled and fell into the soft snow. Consciousness was fading; he knew he didn’t have long. He reached into his pocket and brought out the syringe Dr. Barrett had given him. He fumbled to open it. His hands were already losing their grip. With all his effort, he ripped the package and removed the needle’s cover with his mouth. He looked at it: it was one big mother of a needle. This had a slightly sobering effect. He tried to concentrate on the target of his chest. His hands were about to give out. He had one chance to do this, or he was dead.