Robert Ludlum's (TM) The Bourne Initiative (Jason Bourne series)(31)

“Keyre and the concept of justice are incompatible.”

“So you think, Jason. But you’re wrong. Justice is paramount to Keyre—it always has been.”

“You have found some good in him, is that what you’re telling me?”

She bit her lip. “We’re—all of us—capable of great good and great evil, don’t you think?”

The night, slipping away, was gradually being replaced by predawn light, dirty and wan.

“Right now I’m thinking it’s ironic that light is better for us than darkness. Those night-vision glasses are better than the human eye in picking up and homing in on prey.”

“You don’t really think the traps will injure them?”

“They might—once. After that, no.” Bourne moved them to their left, positioning them squarely at the head of the rock fall they had bypassed on the way down. “But it doesn’t matter; that’s not their purpose.”

—



The first tripwire Bourne had set caught one of the Dreadnaught agents at thigh level, the fish hooks puncturing his trousers and flesh. As he reared back in reaction, they tore chunks of muscle out of both thighs. He grunted in pain as his legs went out from under him. The rest of the team abandoned their positions, grouped around him.

“Fucking Bourne,” said the lead, a man with a long indentation down one side of his bald skull. He was about to cut the fishing line with his knife when he looked around. Then he put the knife back in its sheath. “Okay, this can’t be the only one. Be on the lookout. And don’t cut the line. There’s no telling what that will trigger. We’re dealing with a very clever and resourceful sonuvabitch. You see here a perfect example. He must’ve seen that we had night-vision goggles, exceedingly fine for picking out living creatures in the night, but of no use at all seeing trip wires.”

The man on the ground was writhing in agony. The leader glanced at him briefly. “Give him something.”

“He’s bleeding like a stuck pig,” said another and pointed. “One of the hooks must’ve torn open an artery.”

The wounded man started to scream as the real pain set in. The leader clamped a hand over his mouth. “Give him something to shut him the fuck up,” he said.

“We’re just going to leave him here?” asked another.

“This isn’t the marines. We don’t exist.” The man dug into a first-aid kit, extracted a hypodermic needle, and drove it into the man’s biceps.

As the wounded man calmed, closed his eyes, the leader nodded, then stood up. “Bury him deep, where no one will find him. Then let’s move out.”

Afterward, they returned to their positions, more or less, trying as best they could to compensate for the loss of their comrade. With two down, there were three of them left: the leader, the boat driver, and one other, the man who spoke up. Their spread was of necessity more compact, covering less territory. That could not be helped, and, as it turned out, it didn’t matter, since as they encountered more of the trip wires they were forced to move closer together.

This was the purpose of the trip wires’ placement as Bourne conceived of them: to create a funnel along which the Dreadnaughts were forced forward. He did not want them spread out when he sprang his lethal surprise.

—



It took them longer to come into Bourne’s view than he had expected. Then, as he counted their number, he understood. The first trip wire must have caught one of them because there were three, not four. He glanced to right and left, but this was inhospitable terrain for a flanking maneuver, plus they couldn’t be sure where he was.

That would change in a moment.

Ready? he mouthed, and she nodded. She was ready.

They had briefly discussed how to get the rock fall moving most efficiently. They separated now, growing dim to each other in the ghostly light. Sea birds had awoken, calling and crying as they circled overhead. He welcomed the raucous noise; the clatter as the rock fall began would easily be confused with the clamor of the birds.

They were each now on separate parts of the rock fall, their butts on solid ground, their boots hovering inches above the layers of precariously balanced rock shards. Ignoring each other, they looked to the movement below them as what was left of the Dreadnaught team entered the defile into which they had been herded, beginning the steepest part of the ascent.

Bourne pushed himself back, stood up, fired his pistol at them. The report caused the rock fall to tremble, that’s how fragile its stability was. The three men below scrambled as best they could, but the defile afforded them scant cover and, in any event, at that moment, Mala ground her boot heels into the shards with a powerful double kick. The rumble began.

Bourne lowered himself, gave his own mighty double kick—once, twice, the third time in exact concert with another from Mala, and the entire rock fall gave way. The avalanche picked up speed at once, and, as it did so, its sound deepened, widened, became palpable, like an intense atmospheric disturbance, rushing, tumbling, roaring down the defile with such demonic energy all three Dreadnaughts disappeared from view.

It was only afterward, in the stifled peace of the rock slide’s aftermath, that they heard the sound of the rotors and, looking up, saw the military helo diving toward them.





11



Morgana was waiting behind the wheel of the car when Lieutenant Francis Goode exited the NSA complex. When Goode got in his car and fired the ignition, she followed him out of the vast parking lot that surrounded the black edifice like a castle moat.