Another moved across the open area in front and he targeted the figure, fired five rounds and dropped him. Fire was coming from the streambed that the muj had been headed for but even that was slackening off.

They were winning. f.u.c.k these blacka.s.s motherf.u.c.kers. They would have the moneyand the biologicals.

Hopefully, Sergei would just destroy the latter. Then they could all retire on a nice trop...

Tunnel vision has an evolutionary purpose; it permits the mind to avoid distraction and concentrate on the "prey." It is probably derived from early hunting necessity; prey in herds scattered and crossed, making it hard to concentrate on just one target. Tunnel vision permitted the early human predator to ignore those distractions and dial down on just one prey. But the problem with it is that sometimes a distraction is important. Such as the "distraction" of someone coming up behind you and putting four rounds through the back of your head.

Gena Mahona was getting a bit sick of this.

He was a fighter. That was what the Keldara were raised to be; they took it in with their first sip of beer which was usually administered in the nursery. A weapon was placed in their hand while the afterbirth was still extruding from their mother's womb. The highest calling was to die in battle, eyes broad and screaming defiance into the face of their enemies.

The American way of war that the Kildar taught was colder, quieter, in many ways more merciless. But this was just sickening.

The mujaheddin they were fighting were very good. They were aiming, they were taking cover. But they weren't looking behind them. They had had a security force out to the rear. But as soon as the firing started, the security force had oriented towards the Russians. Most of them had run forward to engage the obvious enemy.

He was shooting people in the back.A lot of people. He had stopped counting at four kills.

Even the muj that had taken cover in the stream weren't paying attention to their rear. They were firing in short bursts, reloading, firing, all of it perfectly drilled and automatic. But they didn't seem to notice the sound of the Keldara sloshing down the stream, or even the occasional curse as one slipped on a slime covered rock. When one fell they a.s.sumed it was from the fire to the front, even thoughthat was slackening off.

There were only three he could see still firing. One was clearly out of rounds and turned to his fellow, saying something quick in Arabic. But that had caused him to look around, finally.

"Don't," Gena said, quietly, as the rest of the team started to gather to either side.

The fedayeen looked at him, wide-eyed, then at the trail of bodies faintly visible in the streambed.

"Just...don't."

The fedayeen cursed and reached into his robe as his companion started to turn...

It wasn't good fire discipline, but the nine Keldara gathered in the streambed expended over thirty-six rounds on the last three mujaheddin.

Just sickening. It made you want to weep. The Father of All wasn't going to considerthis a battle. This wasn't exactly going to get him to the Halls of Feasting.

On the other hand, there were a bunch of dead fedayeen and in the grand scheme of things he had to consider that a plus.

Sergei hurled Dr. Arensky into the front seat of the Mercedes then climbed over him into the driver's seat.

"Make one stupid move," Sergei threatened, turning the key. "Yakov! Dmitri? f.u.c.k..." He put the car in drive and looked in his rearview mirror. He'd thought the f.u.c.king blacka.s.ses had hit them but now he could see camouflage clad figures moving down the line of vehicles, firing into the unprotected backs of his men. "It's not the blacka.s.ses!" He screamed over the team circuit. "You're being hit from behind!"

It was clearly too late. The blacka.s.ses were firing to the rear as well, clearly they'd been hit from both directions. It was a total f.u.c.kup.

Time to get the f.u.c.k out, then.

The blacka.s.ses had pulled into the Georgian road, blocking it. Not that he wanted to go that way. The proper escape route was up into Russia. But the only road open was the one to Azerbaijan. Fine.

He put his foot down and peeled out, all four tires screaming at the wet gravel.

Time to fly.

"No, no, NO! FUUUCK!" Mike screamed up at the clouds. As rounds cracked over his head from behind him he ripped off the poncho and triggered a UV strobe on his shoulder. "Check f.u.c.king FIRE!"

he screamed into his throat mike. "This f.u.c.king op is BLOWN! The package is in movement. Repeat, the package is ACTIVE! Lasko, stop that VEHICLE!"

"That is not good," the president said. "Is the B-2 on station."

"Ready to drop," the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs said. He'd been brought in late in the operation but was fully up to speed at this point. "All the codes have been given. Literally, all you have to do is give the drop order."

"Minuet?" the president said.

"One minute," she replied.

"We don'thave one minute," the Secretary of Defense pointed out. "Those things do have a limited blast range. It'sbig , but it's limited."

"Give me the Kildar," the president said.

"LASKO?".

"Negative, Kildar," Lasko replied. "The target is out of view."

Mike was already in one of the Mercedes and starting it. Fortunately they all had keys in the ignition. He jerked it into gear just as he felt thumps in the back.

"Sawn, Kildar, I'm in the back."

"We are so out of..."

"Mike, this is the President."

"Oh, Jesus, sir, not NOW."

"Mike, is the package in movement?"

"I canstop it!"

"Do you have any forces in the way?" the president asked, remorselessly.

"It take it back!" Mike yelled. "I was JOKING. I can STOP it. I've never f.u.c.king FAILED, sir. I am not about to start now!" He took a breath as he hit the first curve. He could see the lights of the other Mercedes up ahead. The guy didn't have that much of a lead on him. "I can stop it, sir. I am in pursuit at this time. I am sending continuous coordinates. All that I ask is that if you drop, you drop on me and not my men. If you hit my position, at any time, you will destroy the target. If that changes, you'll be the second person to know," Mike added as the Mercedes skidded through another turn.

"Very well," the president said, nervously. "I'm out of the connection."

"Thanks," Mike said. "I can concentrate on driving."

"Do we actually have track on him?" the president asked.

"Yes, sir," the major replied, instantly. "His BFT is updating his location every second and a half. The B-2 has the same track point and should be tracking."

"Send them definite orders to track on that source," the president replied. "When the track point is four kilometers from the origin point, they are authorized to drop." He pulled a card out of his pocket and consulted it. "Code Alpha, Charlie, One, Five, Six, Bravo, Niner."

"Yes, sir," the major said, swallowing but tapping the orders into the B-2 link.

"Kurt!" Sergei said into his throat mike. "Kurt, can you hear me?"

"Is he the one guarding my daughter?" Arensky asked, curiously.

He seemed awfully detached, almost catatonic. Some people got that way when things went bad.

Sergei, though, prided himself on keeping a cool head.

"Just shut the f.u.c.k up," Sergei snarled. He just had to clear the area. But the road was a nightmare, slick, twisting and climbing up into the mountains. He'd barely gotten a couple of kilometers, maybe three, away from the firefight. He had to get further...

"Things don't seem to be going very well," Arensky replied, glancing over his shoulder. "What, did you think the Russian government was just going to let you walk away with smallpox? They, and the American and the French and the Germans and the f.u.c.kingNigerians are going to be hunting you for the rest of your very short life. Give up now."

"Just shut the f.u.c.k up!" Sergei screamed. "Or your daughter..."

"Is either dead or already rescued," Arensky said, evenly. "Either way, that threat has grown weary, no?"

"Then try this one," Sergei screamed, pulling out his pistol and holding it to the scientist's temple. "Say one more f.u.c.king word and you are going to be splattered all over that window."

Arensky raised his hands in surrender and then pulled on his seatbelt to tighten it. As the mobster put his weapon away the scientist braced his feet and shifted in his seat, grasping at the seat handles. After a moment he checked his watch, then braced some more.

"What in the f.u.c.k are you doing?" Sergei ground out. He was definitely feeling ill about this. He was practically shaking. No matterhow bad an op had gone, he never shook. He was iron. Everyone knew that.

"Just bracing myself," Arensky said. "Airbags aren't perfect. I'm glad you chose a Mercedes, through.

Oh, and checking the time."

"Why?" Sergei asked, wiping at his forehead. He was definitely shaking. d.a.m.n. d.a.m.n this man. d.a.m.n this op. d.a.m.n those f.u.c.kers back there. Spetznaz probably. He'd probablytrained some of them for f.u.c.k's sake!

"Because as you were bundling me about and threatening me I was slipping three small needles into your thigh," Arensky said. "You probably didn't notice the slight pain what with everything else. One of them was coated in a product derived of argot. That's bread mold to you. It causes a reaction called Saint Vitus' Dance. Think of it as LSD. Psychotropic, hallucinogenic, very effective. You're probably already feeling the effects; it's fast stuff. If that didn't get you, the second was coated in a nasty little microbe that is found in sink drains world-wide. Very rarely kills anyone despite that; most people don't eat food they pick out of the sink drain. However, if it is cultured by an expert and then stuck into someone's thigh, it will spread through the bloodstream rather fast. Oh, it's not going to kill you for three or four days, but that one wasguaranteed . The last was, I'mpretty sure, botulinus toxin. One of the tins of meat you left us was rather swelled and the resultant culture surelooked like botulinus. And botulinus is nasty. A teaspoon would kill a city. The amount I gave you would only kill, say, an elephant. By the way, that would have killed me if I'd eaten it. Such great care you took, too..."

Mike slowed the Mercedes as he saw the vehicle he'd been chasing suddenly swerve from side to side then roll off the road.

When he slid to a stop near the wreck all he could see was airbags. Frankly, he'd always thought Mercedes overdid the whole airbag thing. Sure, one in the front. Maybe ones on the sides. But that wasn't good enough for Mercedes, oh, no. They had them on both sides, front and back, top and in the middle. If you so much as. .h.i.t a pole in a parking lot you were suddenly smothered in exploding balloons.

The Mercedes SUV was upside down in a ditch, the driver's side window pointed towards him. He and Sawn approached, weapons pointed forward, as the balloons slowly deflated.

The man hanging upside down in the straps was alive and, amazingly, unscratched from the crash. Okay, so maybe that many airbags had a purpose. On the other hand, he was having convulsions. It was clearly Sergei, though. He might be foaming at the mouth, but it was Sergei.

Mike considered putting a few rounds into his head and then thought better of it. The guy might have information they could use. Waste not and all that.

He ducked down and looked to the other side of the vehicle.

"And who are you?" Dr. Arensky asked.

"Mike Jenkins," Mike replied, head on the side to look through the vehicle. "I work for various people.

Right now I'm getting paid to get you, and some stuff you're carrying, away frombad people."

"Oh, glad to meet you," Dr. Arensky said. "I seem to be stuck."

"Yeah," Mike said. "What's wrong with Sergei here?"

"Oh, that," Arensky said with a shrug. "Mr. Jenkins, can I call you Mike?"

"Sure," Mike said, trying not to giggle at the unreality. "Wait just a sec, though." He keyed his throat mike. "h.e.l.lo, G.o.d on High. You still listening?"

"Go, Mike," the president answered, tensely.

"Got the package," Mike said. "Call off the flyboys. Arensky is alive as well. Getting out will be interesting, but the packageis secure."

"Glad to hear it," the president said. "Good job. Tell me when the material is...fully safe."

"Yes, sir," Mike replied, unkeying the mike. "Just make sure you make the payments. Sorry, you were saying?"

"Mr. Jenkins, Mike, let me suggest something to you," Arensky said, smiling despite being stuck in the seatbelt and dangling upside down. "I know that you do a lot of hard things in your line of work. That you p.i.s.s off a lot of people."

"That's a given," Mike said, tilting his head again.

"Mike, Mr. Jenkins, my friend," Arensky said, grinning. "Let me give you one piece of advice. Take it for what you will. p.i.s.s off terrorists, p.i.s.s off mobsters, p.i.s.s off your president if you wish. But neverever p.i.s.s off a microbiologist."

Chapter Thirty-Two.

The BFT device in his thigh pocket buzzed just for a moment. Time.

The snipers were using .338 Whisper sniper rifles. The rifles were big as was the round, but it was subsonic and the silencers were integral, part of the ma.s.s of the rifle. The two guards at the front door, shielding their cigarettes against the wind and rain, never knew what hit them. They slumped straight down, red blotches staining the wall behind them where their heads used to be.

The strike team crossed the road fast and silently. Shota was in the lead but even before he reached the door two teams of two Keldara each split left and right down the side of the building. The rest stacked behind the leaders, spread to either side in two wings of heavily armed, and armored, figures.