Immune (The Rho Agenda #2)(6)

“Inshallah, even Godless swine like you may yet be enlightened. Hurry now. Do not delay.”

“Wait.”

But the phone line went dead as the word left Yolanda’s lips.

“What have you got?” Sergeant Collins’ voice at her shoulder startled her again. Apparently, the man had not been as deeply asleep as she had thought.

By the time she had played back the recording, Billy Collins was already removing a 12-gauge shotgun from the rack and heading toward the door. He paused to yell back over his shoulder, “Get on the horn to Fred and Enrique. They are the closest cruiser, so get them rolling. I’ll meet them on the way. After that, round up every other squad car we have out there and get them all moving that way.”

“What about the state police?”

“Let them know as soon as you have our folks moving, and put in a call to the sheriff. I won’t wait for them though.”

The door slammed behind Billy Collins as Yolanda pressed the switch that activated the radio microphone. As she began speaking, the thought that she might never see Billy alive again tickled the back of her mind.





7


The feel of the stock of the AK-47 against his cheek felt good. Something about the solid feel of a Kalashnikov made it obvious why this was the most popular assault rifle in the world. The weapon felt like what it was: reliable.

Jack Gregory thumbed the infrared laser power on and peered out through the scope, which made the targeting dot visible. This was a sniper modification he had added to the rifle to fit this particular purpose, one that he had zeroed in exactly four hours before.

Jack had hand-loaded a hundred rounds of ammunition using the press and loading die he had found in Priest's basement. He always loaded his own ammunition if given the opportunity. A bullet's trajectory brings it out of the barrel of a rifle up through the sight line, continuing to rise several inches for the next hundred-plus meters. Then the round begins to drop, passing back down through the line of sight before running out of energy. Only by loading the exact measure of gunpowder into each round and by using the same weight and shape of slug can a shooter know precisely where the round will hit.

Priest had never bothered with such details. Jack did.

A three-burst crackle of static on the small radio at his side let him know that the truck had just rolled past Bronson's position and was rounding the curve that would shortly bring it into Jack's sight line. Jack had picked this spot so that the first shot would take the driver while the truck was still on the curve, causing it to veer off the road at that point. That would force the man riding shotgun to reach for the wheel, exposing him for the second shot.

As the twin high beams of the refrigerated truck swept around the bend, the driver's face swam into view, illuminated in the infrared scope by the lights from the truck dashboard. The laser dot steadied on the driver's mouth. At this range, the bullet would strike an inch above the dot. Jack's gloved finger squeezed the trigger smoothly, his shoulder kicking back with the recoil as the sound of the weapon split the night air like thunder.

The truck swerved and then straightened as the other man in the truck grabbed the steering wheel. Jack let the natural resistance of his body rock him forward again as smoothly as if he were on springs, his aim-point steadying as his finger squeezed off the second round.

The sound of screeching metal mingling with the echoes of the second gunshot as the truck veered off the road and plowed into the rocks and trees on the far side. The trailer jackknifed past the truck cab, twisting and flipping over as it came to a sudden halt.

Jack was already halfway across the highway by the time the trailer rocked to a stop. A quick glance to his left revealed Janet lying prone a few feet off the road, her rifle leveled and ready to provide covering fire.

Jack reached the far side of the highway and plunged down the slight embankment. The cab of the truck had sandwiched itself around the thick trunk of a pine tree, the lower branches of which were illuminated by a headlight that had somehow survived the impact, although it now pointed skyward. A strong scent of diesel hung in the air.

Jumping up on what was left of the driver's-side running board, Jack tugged at the door, which yielded reluctantly to his second effort. The inside of the cab was a ruin of shattered glass, crumpled metal, and blood. The driver's head was wedged between the spokes of the steering wheel, a large chunk of the rear and top of the skull blown away by the exiting bullet.

Jack cut the seat belt strap and heaved the body out of the cab and onto the ground below. As Jack climbed farther inside so that he could cut the seat belt off the guard, the man's head turned, revealing a perfectly round hole just above the junction of the man's eyebrows. The eyes fluttered open.

Jack cut the strap, grabbed the guard's shoulders, and pulled hard, sliding the body across the wrecked cab and out to fall beside the body of the driver. Jack jumped down, landing just beyond the two men.

If he hadn't already watched the miraculous healing powers displayed by the nanites that had infested Priest Williams’ blood, the sight of the bodies of two men who should already be very dead trying to repair themselves would have shocked him to his core. Already, the wound at the back of the driver's skull had begun to knit itself closed although the damage was so severe that the operation would take some time, assuming the nanites could overcome the loss of brain tissue.

But the slug that had passed through the head of the guard had not created such a large exit wound. The man was beginning to show signs of recovered voluntary movement; his eyes followed every motion as Jack bent down, grabbed the driver's body, and turned it over so that it knelt, face to the ground, toward the west.