Asher was sure the only thing that had kept them alive
this long was pure, dumb, luck. When Brad admitted that he
had told his editor about the alien and given him
directions, he knew that it was only a matter on time before
the military arrived. Most likely, they had not attacked
sooner because they knew the other reporters wouldn't arrive
until noon. They were measuring their time, considering
there options, doing every thing they could to do it right.
But, it was too late: Asher was too quick for them. This
was going to be the easiest five grand he'd ever made.
Originally, he'd told Melanie to arrange two safe
houses. As it turned out, her first choice had been a good
one. It was secluded, silent, and would have been
impossible to find if Dartmouth hadn't been a total moron.
Since their cover had been blown, the solution was obvious:
move the alien to safe house number two. The only problem
was the reporters from Las Vegas.
The solution to this problem was almost as simple as to
the first. Asher would move his car a few miles down the
road, then hike to the cross road where the reporters had to
turn to the cabin. He would intercept them, check there
credentials, then lead them to the second safehouse. The
plan was so simple, Asher laughed to himself, it was amazing
Dartmouth would pay five thousand dollars for it.
After one last sweep through the cabin to obliterate
any evidence that might clue the military as to their
identities, Asher grabbed his bag and started to the door.
He stopped midstride, half way across the room, and
listened. The sound was obvious: a squeaky floor board.
He shifted his weight from one foot to the other to
test the floor beneath him. The boards made no sound.
Someone else had stepped on the loose board. He'd made sure
that Ralston didn't give Dartmouth any trouble when they
loaded the van. Melanie drove at Asher's orders, so
Dartmouth could keep an eye on Ralston. As he hadn't heard
the van return, they couldn't be responsible for the sound.
As for Wilson, he'd finished his preflight check and
returned, slightly after the others' departure, to offer
Asher a ride. Asher declined the offer, and returned to the
cabin to wipe away finger prints and secure his gear. If it
wasn't any of his team, there was only one alternative.
Asher disengaged his weapon's safety, and moved slowly
toward the kitchen where Brad's rifle stood in the corner.
His mind attempted to formulate a plan. The thought that
this five grand wasn't going to be as easy to earn as he had
anticipated crossed his mind.
The front door of the cabin exploded from its hinges,
and sailed five feet into the room through a cloud of white
smoke. Instantly, two black clad figures skirted around the
door frame into the room. The blast forced Asher down, but
didn't stun him for long; he fired a burst from his rifle
and hit the man on the right in the chest. The impact of
the shells against the man bounced him out the door, but the
Kelvar fabric held against the bullets.
Realizing that his partner was no longer covering his
field of fire, the man on the left spun and let loose with
his HK94 submachine gun. Asher noticed the bulletproof
vests too late to adjust his aiming on the first man, but
was better prepared for the second. He fired his second
burst a foot off the floor and caught the soldier in the
knees. The man's spray went wild, missing Asher completely.
Asher took two steps toward the kitchen, was chased by
a volley of gunfire from the doorway, and had to dive into
the corner for cover. He recovered in time to see a fourth
soldier smash the window across the room with his rifle
butt. Asher realized he was almost trapped in a crossfire,
and temporarily lost his cool. He extended the rifle toward
the window and fired his remaining twelve rounds in one
uncontrolled burst, catching the soldier in the left arm.
Out of ammunition for his rifle, Asher had one choice:
dive for Brad's M-16, and charge his way out the far window.
He leapt to his feet, took three steps across the room, and
caught two rounds in the back. His forward inertia caused
him to miss the rifle when he stumbled, and fall into the
floor of the den. He drew the pistol from his belt, turned
to face the front door, but saw no target. He rolled to
face the far window, but found no target. That meant one
thing.
Asher grunted against the pain in his back and
shoulder, and forced himself to his knees just as the
percussion grenade crashed through the front window and
landed on the couch. Asher fell to his right side and
executed a somersault across the shards of broken glass. He
counted to himself, grabbed the grenade, and hoped it had a
long fuse. On his three count, he tossed it through the
door, and covered himself against the blast.
The grenade exploded with a dull thud, shattering the
cabin's remaining window panes, and showering Asher with
thousands of fragments of glass. He pushed himself to his
feet, screamed at the top of his lungs, and charged the side
window. With mere feet to spare, a soldier inadvertently
moved to block the outside of the window.
In the fleeting moment before either could react, Asher
saw the total surprise and fear in the eyes of the man
through the lenses of his gasmask. Both men raised their
weapons. Asher jumped into the air, thinking the force of
his impact would knock the soldier out of the way. Both men
fired.
One of Asher's pistol rounds stuck the soldier in the
neck, five of the soldier's rounds hit him. His leap was
not sufficient to clear window-- Asher's body fell in a
bloody heap upon the floor. He pushed against the floor and
broken glass in one last effort. All he had to do was get
to the other rifle and he'd be home free. His left arm
couldn't push, and he fell onto his back. He pushed off the
wall with his feet and slid halfway across the wood floor.
Just five minutes... If he'd only gotten out of there
five minutes earlier. It was all Dartmouth's fault: if the
bastard hadn't lied, they'd have made it. This was
definitely the last straw. When he got out of here, Asher
was going to hunt the son-of-a-bitch down and kill his ass.
He pushed again with his left foot and slid another two feet
closer to the weapon. If he could get to the rifle, he'd
make it out. Carl Asher was not about to die with money in
the bank.
But who was this fucker?
He stood in the doorway as if he were invincible. His
Air Force blues stood out in sharp contrast to the black
uniforms of the soldiers. He surveyed the cabin as if he
were in total control of the situation, and that eyepatch,
thought Asher, who in the hell does he think he is? Asher
pushed a second time, and reached for the rifle: two inches.
He twisted and strained... That was it... He almost had it.
A foot fell upon Asher's hand and pressed hard. Asher
followed the highly polished black shoe, passed the sharply
creased trouser leg, and onto the face of the one-eyed
officer. "Major Heath," stated Dandridge without removing
his eyes from the mercenary.
"Nothing, sir. I can't even tell if they've been
here."
Dandridge handed the rifle to Heath, grabbed Asher by
the shirt and hoisted him from the ground. "I must admit,
you're good. But, I'm afraid, I don't have time to play...
Where's the alien?"
Asher fought to maintain the officers stare. He'd met
his kind a thousand times before. Whether they were CIA,
KGB, military or civilian, they were all the same. Asher
could have spit in the man's face, but he didn't. The two
of them weren't that different: Asher did it for money, they
did it for principle.
"Come on mercenary," ordered Dandridge, "Where's the
alien!"
"Blaze of glory," uttered Asher. "A blaze of glory."
Dandridge swore under his breath, as the mercenary died
with a smile on his face. He shook the body one last time,
then let it drop to the floor. "What about the helicopter?"
Major Heath cleared his throat. "The Stallion gave
pursuit. When it refused to set down, the door gunner shot
him down."
"Shit, Heath. Couldn't they have taken him?"
"Not in a CH-53, sir. You know that thing's not made
for dogfighting. It was either shoot him down or let him
go, and you know General Keeney's orders."
Of course Dandridge knew the Major was right; he just
hated to be back to square one. Keeney had been quite
explicit about his orders to silence anyone connected to the
operation. He'd said they came straight from the top.
Dandridge could understand the importance of stopping
Dartmouth, but couldn't imagine why Keeney had become so
nervous. He'd get him. Without his merc to guide him, it
was only a matter of time before the reporter screwed up
again.
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