“I can think of a dozen ways,” Ratel said. “If they’re any good, they’ll be here. I just hope help arrives before that.”
Less than an hour later, amid the steady rain and an occasional gust of wind, they heard the sound of metal scraping on metal outside the main entrance door. “Follow me,” Ratel whispered, and he and Brad retreated to the hangar. There was a small business jet inside, its black paint job signifying it belonged to Kevin Martindale’s Scion Aviation International outfit. Ratel found a large cabinet-sized toolbox on wheels alongside a hangar wall, pushed it away from the wall, and they both got behind it. “Okay, your job is to watch that walk-through door over there,” Ratel said, pointing to the large aircraft hangar door. “I’ll be watching the door to the front office. Single shots only. Make them count.”
A few minutes later they heard another sound of forced metal, and a few minutes after that they heard more sounds of metal on metal coming from the walk-through hangar door, a signal that the door was being jimmied open. A moment later the door opened and Brad could see a man wearing night-vision goggles, crouching low, come through the opening, carrying a submachine gun. The bizjet was now concealing him. A second attacker stepped through the door, closed it, and stayed there to cover it. At the same time Ratel could see two more attackers come through the office door, also wearing night-vision goggles and carrying submachine guns.
“Crap,” he whispered. “Four guys. We’ve run out of time.” He pulled out his cell phone, dialed 911, left it on, turned the volume all the way down, and slipped it under the toolbox. “Use the pistol. Get the guy by the door. The other guy will probably hide behind the jet’s right wheel.” Brad peeked out from behind the toolbox and aimed at the guy by the walk-through door, which was partially illuminated by a lighted emergency exit sign. Ratel took a deep breath, then whispered, “Now.”
Brad and Ratel fired nearly simultaneously. Ratel’s shot found its mark, and one attacker went down. Brad had no idea where his shot went, but he knew he didn’t hit one thing except maybe a hangar wall. The guy by the door dashed along the hangar wall toward the conference room, crouching low. As Ratel had predicted, the other guy took cover behind the jet’s wheel . . . and then the hangar erupted with automatic-weapon fire, seemingly coming from all directions at once. Ratel and Brad ducked behind the toolbox.
“Open fire when the shooting stops!” Ratel shouted. The toolbox was being raked with bullets, but it looked like the tools inside were absorbing the bullets. A moment later there was a momentary lull in the shooting, and Brad peeked over the toolbox, saw movement by the jet’s tire, and fired. The round hit the tire, which instantly exploded, sending a concussion shock wave into the attacker’s face. He screamed, clutching his face in agony. The bizjet looked like it was going to crash to the right, but the wheel hub barely kept it from completely tipping over.
Now the gunfire was shifting directions—more bullets were hitting the side of the toolbox instead of the front. “Watch your sides!” Ratel shouted. “They’ll try to . . . ahhh! Shit!” Brad looked to see Ratel clutching his right hand, which looked as if it had been split wide open by a bullet. Blood spurted everywhere. “Take the rifle and hold them off!” Ratel shouted, clutching his injured hand, trying to stem the bleeding.
Brad tried to peek around the toolbox, but the moment he moved, the bullets began to fly, and now he could feel them getting closer and closer, like a swarm of bats buzzing past his head. He tried pointing the rifle around the toolbox and firing, but the rifle’s muzzle was jumping around uncontrollably. Ratel had wrapped a rag around his right hand and was firing a pistol with his left, but the muzzle wasn’t steady at all and he looked as if he was going to go unconscious at any moment. Brad heard boot steps and voices in Russian getting closer. This is it, he thought. The next shot he’d hear would be the last one ever, he was certain of it . . .
SIX
A lie never lives to be old.
—SOPHOCLES
PASO ROBLES, CALIFORNIA
Suddenly there was a tremendous explosion at the back of the hangar. The air was instantly filled with dust and debris. Voices were shouting in Russian . . . and soon the shouting was replaced by screaming, and a moment later the screams fell silent as well.
“All clear, Brad,” came an electronically synthesized voice. Brad looked up, and there behind the bizjet was a Cybernetic Infantry Device.
“Dad?” he asked.