Termination Orders(48)

Morgan’s gaze was drawn to his dead friend. The damage was mostly from the exit wound, and his face was marked only by a single round hole in his forehead. He stared blandly out of his still-open eyes, a blank look on his face, showing no surprise. He had never even known what had happened to him. Under his head was a file folder, half-covered in a puddle of blood.

Plante had known something. Could he have been looking over the relevant files before he died? Things he wanted to show Morgan? And how could Morgan make a grab for it, right in full view of the sniper?

His mind raced. The only light in the room came from a metal lamp on Plante’s desk. It was an architect-style lamp, heavy-based, articulated, and intensely bright with a metal reflector. He followed the cord to where it was plugged into the wall, just a few feet away on his side of the room. He had seen no other light on in the house; unplugging it would plunge the room into total darkness. It would leave the sniper blind—unless, of course, they—she, he was almost certain—had night vision.

Well, he thought, only one way to find out. He reached out to grab the plug, knowing that if his hand was within the sniper’s line of sight, he would lose it. In one quick movement, he pulled it, and the room went dark. He stood in silence for a few seconds. No gunshots. If the roles were reversed, and he was suddenly blind, he would be shooting up the room right now. Not a good sign. But he had to make sure.

He grabbed a large hardcover book from the bookshelf, about the size of his head. Let’s see how good your reflexes are, he thought, and he flung the book past the window. The shot came immediately, hitting the book and sending it flying toward the opposite corner of the room.

Damn. The cover of darkness wouldn’t help him.

But . . . He had a thought. The sniper might be able to see in the dark, but too much light too quickly would temporarily overwhelm the night vision. The lamp on Plante’s desk was powerful and would again suit his purpose fine.

He grabbed the cord and edged the lamp off the table, careful not to pull too quickly. It teetered off the table and landed on the thick carpet with a thud, base down, as he had hoped. He pulled it quickly out of the sniper’s sight. Then he clicked it off at the base and plugged it in once more. Picturing the spatter patterns on the wall and the broken windowpane, he worked out the shooter’s approximate position. This would have to be quick.

He positioned the lamp just out of sight, adjusting the blistering hot reflector with his hand, burning himself slightly even through his tugged-down sleeve. Then he took a deep breath. Here goes nothing, he thought, and in one motion, he clicked the lamp on and pushed it out into the sniper’s line of sight.

Immediately, he heard the cracking of a glass pane, the shattering of much thinner glass, and the metallic clang of the bullet hitting the reflector. Sparks flew. The bulb, which had barely had time to flash on, was instantly extinguished.

The shot had come fast, too fast for a sniper who should’ve been shooting blind. How had the shooter known his move before he made it? He felt the pain of the burn in his hand, and it became obvious: the heat signature. The sniper was using a thermal scope. Even with the lamp off, that scope would have been lit up like a Christmas tree.

It was hopeless. His only choice was to risk running out in front of the window and hope that the bullet wouldn’t find its target, knowing that, if it were he at the other end of that scope, he couldn’t miss. Here goes, he thought, his calves tensing in preparation for the sprint.

And then his eye caught a single point of light in the room: a spark from the lightbulb still smoldering on the sheer curtains. And he had one last, mad idea.

He opened the cabinet and groped around through a series of small objects. Please, Plante, he thought, tell me you kept it here. His hand found a cool tin container, and his heart skipped. He picked it up and shook it slightly. It was about half-full of liquid. He brought it up to his face, and the unmistakable odor of lighter fluid wafted to his nose.

He sprinkled the fluid at the curtains and the floor in front of the door, shaking the tin hard enough that its contents would reach the other side. He did this until he exhausted the container, and then he went back into the cabinet. He found what he was looking for: a matchbook, the kind that restaurants and hotels give out. He ripped out one of the thin paper matches and lit it. He then touched it to the rest of the match tips, and they ignited. The flash of phosphorus burned brightly in the darkness.

He smiled as he dropped the matchbook onto the fluid-soaked carpet. It lit up in a blue blaze that climbed the curtains and raged toward the ceiling. He heard numerous tinkles of cracking panes and realized that the sniper was shooting blindly. The smoke alarm started beeping maniacally, and in the din, Morgan laughed out loud and yelled, “Can you see me now, bitch?”