Brimstone (Pendergast #5)(163)

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.

Shots echoed from the opening above, followed by a tremendous fusillade, followed by silence. Then a rush of voices: Eccoli! Di là!

D’Agosta glanced up to see a few heads craning out over the gulf. A hand with a gun appeared, aiming right at him. He was a sitting duck. Christ, it was over.

Pendergast’s gun cracked from far below: his final round. The shooter was hit square in the forehead; he staggered, fell, then came hurtling silently past, headed for the rocks below. D’Agosta looked away, resumed his descent as quickly as he dared.

From the opening above came more commotion. D’Agosta saw another figure appear cautiously, this time with the automatic weapon in hand. D’Agosta recognized the stubby form of an Uzi.

He flattened himself against the rock. Pendergast had vanished out of sight below. Where the hell was he?

He heard the Uzi go off in short bursts, rounds humming past his ear. He tried fishing out with his leg, searching for another foothold, but realized he was protected only by a thin shelf of rock overhead; if he moved again, he would be exposed.

Another burst confirmed the fact: he was pinned.

“Pendergast!”

No answer.

More shots came, stinging his face with splinters of stone. He shifted one foot, probed.

Another burst, and he felt one of the rounds nick his shoe. He pulled his leg back. He was hyperventilating now, gasping for breath as he clung to the tiny purchase. He had never felt so terrified in his life.

More shots, the stone fragmenting.

They were shooting through the thin shelf above him. Even if he didn’t move, they’d get him. He felt blood running down his cheek from where the stone chips had cut him.

Then he heard a single shot, this time from below; a scream from overhead; and then another man hurtled past, Uzi flying.

Pendergast. He must have reached the bottom and retrieved the dead man’s weapon.

D’Agosta began to climb down in a panic, slipping, recovering, slipping again. There was another shot from below, then another—Pendergast covering him, keeping the opening above clear of men.

The rock began to level out a little and he half climbed, half slid the last twenty feet. Then he was on his feet at the top of a scree slope, soaked in perspiration, heart hammering, his legs like jelly. Pendergast was here, crouched behind a rock, firing up again at the opening.