“We make a stand. I’m counting on that shooting ability of yours, Vincent.”
Pendergast flattened himself against the last angle of the tunnel, and D’Agosta did the same. The men were coming up faster now—judging by the footsteps, there were at least half a dozen of them. D’Agosta turned, aimed, squeezed off a shot. In the dimness, he saw one of the figures fall. The rest scattered, flattening themselves against the rough rock walls. There was an answering blast of a shotgun. This was followed by the fast stutter of an automatic weapon: two short bursts, the bullets caroming off the ceiling in showers of sparks and stone.
“Shit!” D’Agosta said, shrinking back involuntarily.
“Keep holding them, Vincent, while I see what I can do about these bars.”
D’Agosta crouched low, ducked briefly around the corner, fired. The automatic weapon returned fire, the bullets once again ricocheting off the ceiling, thudding into the ground in a scattered pattern not far from D’Agosta.
They’re deliberately aiming for the ricochet.
He yanked his magazine out of the grip, examined it. It was a ten-shot magazine: six bullets were visible, plus the one in the chamber.
“Here’s the spare clip,” Pendergast said, tossing it to him. “Conserve your fire.”
D’Agosta glanced at it: full. He had seventeen shots.
Another short burst of automatic-weapons fire came zinging off the ceiling, thudding into the ground directly before his feet.
Angle of incidence equals angle of refraction, D’Agosta vaguely remembered from his pool-shooting days. He fired at the place where he’d seen the rounds ricochet off, fired a second time, each time aiming for a smooth patch of stone, carefully angling for the ricochet.
He heard a cry. Score one to mathematics.
Now a fusillade of shots came ricocheting in. D’Agosta rolled back just in time, half a dozen rounds slapping the ground where he had been.
“How’s it going?” he called over his shoulder.
“More time, Vincent. Buy me time.”
More bullets came in off the ceiling, with a spray of broken stone.
Time. D’Agosta had no choice but to return fire again. He crawled up to the angle, peered around. A man had ducked out from the shadows and was running up to a closer position. D’Agosta fired once and winged the man, who retreated with a cry.
Now Pendergast was firing his own gun in measured shots. Glancing back, D’Agosta could see him shooting into the masonry holding the grate in place.
More shots came in, landing about him in irregular spots. D’Agosta squeezed off another round.
Pendergast had emptied his magazine. “Vincent!” he called.
“What?”
“Toss me your gun.”
“But—”
“The gun.”
Pendergast caught it, took careful aim, and fired point-blank into the masonry at each point where the bars were cemented. The cement was old and soft, and the shots were taking effect, but still D’Agosta winced, unable to prevent himself from counting the wasted bullets. One, two, three, four, click. Pendergast popped out the spent magazine, tossed it aside. D’Agosta handed him the spare. The fire from around the corner had intensified. They had only moments before they were overrun.
Seven more shots rang out. Then Pendergast paused, crouched.
“Kick together. On three.”
They gave the grate a violent kick, but it remained immobile.
Pendergast fired two more shots, then tucked the gun into his waistband.
“Kick again. From the ground.”
They lay on their backs, cocked their legs, struck the grate together.
It moved.
Again, then yet again—and now it came free, clanging down the cliff face with a shower of rocks and pebbles.
They stood and approached the edge. The rough rock went straight down at least fifty feet before beginning to level out.
“Shit,” D’Agosta murmured.
“No choice. Toss the device. Look for brush, the gentlest landing place possible. Then climb down.”
D’Agosta leaned out, tossed the microwave weapon down into a thick patch of bushes. Then, swallowing his terror, he turned and eased himself over the edge. Sliding down slowly, holding fast to the mortar of the grate with his hands, he found a purchase for his feet. Then another descent, another purchase. In a moment, his face was below the edge of the chamber, clinging to the cliff face.
And then Pendergast was suddenly beside him. “Go sideways as you descend. It’s easier to see footholds, and you’ll make a more difficult target.”
The rock was shelving limestone, dreadfully sheer but offering abundant hand-and footholds. While it probably would have provided little challenge to a professional rock climber, D’Agosta was terrified nonetheless. His feet kept slipping, and his leather-soled shoes were almost useless.
Down he went, gingerly, one hand after the other, trying not to scrape his hurt finger against the sharp rocks. Pendergast was far below already, descending swiftly.