Hard Rain (41 page)

Yafa and Shira seemed pretty relaxed about what had just happened to Burnbaum, the guy I believed had been pulling their strings. Which meant they were either quick to jump onto another horse when theirs fell over, or Stringer was their mount all along. Yafa stepped across to Burnbaum and bent over him, feeling for a pulse. She then pulled his piece from a shoulder holster – one of those nasty Glocks – which she handed to Stringer.

‘You were Burnbaum’s handler,’ I said. ‘You ran him.’

‘And he never knew,’ replied Stringer. ‘Can you believe that? And Burnbaum was a Cold War graduate. Well, I guess you can believe it – you didn’t get it either.’

Stringer placed the Colt on the arm of his chair, and went with
Burnbaum’s Glock. ‘Thanks for killing a dangerous spy for us, Cooper. Washington will give you a medal. Posthumously, of course.’

I shook my head, almost in wonder. Stringer had it all thought out. The guy they bought the HEX from was dead on the floor, the spy who organised it was dead beside him, apparently killed with my gun by me, the special agent on his tail. And no doubt Masters would be killed by Burnbaum’s weapon – all nice and neat. Stringer could then go back to what he was doing, being Jerusalem’s man on the inside. No doubt he’d work it so he was first on the scene, having cracked the plot wide open. He’d earn Mossad’s Man-of-the-Month plaque for sure.

I heard a series of thumps coming from the other side of the main door. And then suddenly it burst wide open and shoved Yafa Feinmann hard in the back. The force of the impact launched her forward. She stumbled and drove her head into the corner of the desk as she fell. There was a bloody divot in her forehead at the hairline. She groaned, semi-conscious, licked her Ferrari-red lips.

Kevin stood unsteadily in the doorway, blood running from his mouth and nose. He coughed up a glob of red ooze, into his hand, looked at it, then collapsed.

There was a moment of complete and utter silence, tension having squeezed every ounce of sound and movement from it. Stringer, Shira, Masters, me. We all looked at each other, calculating the angles, weighing the odds. Four pairs of eyes flitting left and right.

I broke first. I dived for the floor. The room exploded with gunfire. Deafening.
BANG! BANG!
Masters twisted and sank an elbow into Shira’s gut. I saw her get a hand on his pistol.
BANG!

The Glock in Stringer’s hand was pointed at the both of them.
BANG!
He squeezed the trigger again.
BANG!
And then again, only now at me.
BANG!
I was on the move, finishing the roll.

He missed.

As I came up, I snatched the DU penetrator from the carpet. Shira saw me. His gun jumped twice as Masters wrestled him for it.
BANG! BANG!
A round missed its intended target – me – and buried itself instead in Yafa’s back, between her shoulder blades, shattering her spine.

The penetrator was in my hand – warm and heavy. I had the angle, and the momentum.

BANG!
Stringer, thinking I was shot, had shifted aim again, now targeting the swirling duo of Masters and Shira, fighting for his Barak.

I carried the swing through its arc, using its energy, rising up off the floor. Stringer’s massive head came back with surprise when he saw me coming. His mouth opened. I caught him under the chin. The heavy DU penetrator pierced the soft muscle beneath his jaw. I pushed forward, putting my weight behind it. The DU continued up through the roof of his mouth, through his soft palate. I gave it a final thrust and the pointed tip crunched out through the back of the man’s skull, plastered in hair, blood and grey matter.

I snatched the Colt from the armrest. I had a clear shot at Shira as he wrestled with Masters. He saw me turn. Our weapons jumped at the same instant. He span away from Masters as the jacketed round from the Colt smashed through his arm, into his abdomen and out his back, taking his liver with it.

Masters stood, swaying. She lifted her head and I saw the dark stain spreading from her chest, soaking her jacket. I took a step towards her as she faltered. I caught her as she fell, her face suddenly ashen and bloodless. I unzipped her jacket, tore through her shirt and T. The ragged hole in her pale skin was big and black and red, a sliver of wet pink bone poking through. Beneath a ragged crimson flap of skin, I could see her lungs pumping. I reached behind and checked her back. Blood was seeping away through the entry wound, warming my hand, soaking the carpet beneath her.

‘Anna! Can you hear me!? Hang the fuck on. Anna! Jesus . . . !’ My head swung around. What was I looking for? The room was full of dead people, unconscious people. No one to help. Nothing to do. Jesus fucking Christ. Masters whispered something but I couldn’t hear her. I bent down, put my ear close to her lips. Her breathing was shallow, red froth bubbling from the hole in her chest.

‘Vin, I’ve . . . made . . . up my mind,’ she whispered, her breath shallow, fading, the wound sucking. ‘I . . . I quit.’