Karla glanced at the two men she’d taken out with the MP-5. Twisting, she grabbed the smaller by his tactical vest, braced herself, and slung his weight against the fire door.
The guy toppled backward, blocking the door open. No gunfire erupted.
Still holding her breath, she flipped out her mirror, crawled along his body, and peered out. Two men lay sprawled to the left, three to the right.
Karla glanced back. Farmer was staring bug-eyed at the dead, and Savage was covering the stairs. Karla rose and signaled them to follow.
She crept slowly past the doorway, the butt of the MP-5 against her chest. “Moving. Clear!”
“Moving. Six, clear.” Savage crowded up, covering the rear as she advanced down the hall.
Reid Farmer finally gasped, drawing a breath. “Sorry,” he whispered.
“A minute’s up,” Karla hissed back, sucking breath. Her gaze searched the dark offices on her left. The right wall sported occasional photos of pine trees, Grand Canyon, mountain lakes, and other landscapes.
Cat’s gas worked; the downed security men snoozed peacefully, mouths open, saliva leaking.
Touching her throat mic, Karla said, “We’re in the basement. Lab One should be coming up on the right.”
“Roger that.” The Skipper’s voice came back. “ET reports that the machine is in use, but currently on low power. He’s triggering alarms all over the building and perimeter as a distraction. He’s got the cameras rerouted to his command.”
“I see the lab door.”
“Careful.”
Oh, yeah. Her skills had been honed during Green Team training. But there it had been other SEALs she’d worked with, people who knew their jobs. Her current situation was a disaster waiting to happen. Sam Savage was good—he’d at least been trained, worked in the craft. But “good” wasn’t SEAL-trained.
And tagging along right behind her was Reid Farmer, a clumsy-footed civilian archaeologist carrying a gun. He was as likely to shoot her as a bad guy.
Think, Karla. Concentrate.
She hurried forward, trying to see everything, eyes darting, senses pinging like active sonar.
Each time she passed an office, her back prickled. All it would take was one guy with a subgun opening the door and shooting from point-blank.
She was no more than three feet away from the lab door, a glimmer of disbelief that they’d made it this far tickling her hopes. She had actually lowered her MP-5, reaching for the door when it opened and Bill Minor stepped out. His hand was already withdrawing a pistol from his suit coat.
He should have been startled, eyes widening. In that moment of surprise, Karla should have been able to raise the HK and lace his chest with hot, copper-jacketed slugs.
Instead, he rushed her, recognition in his dark eyes as he thrust his pistol at her.
Instinctively, Karla pivoted as she took his weight. She caught his right wrist, jerking it aside as the Sig fired.
Minor struggled to twist his gun out of her grip and hooked an arm around her waist. She lost her hold on the HK as she tried to throw him.
For an instant they rocked, his greater strength and weight countered by her superior position and balance. The Sig fired again, the concussion ringing in her ears. They both twisted at once, breaking loose. Karla recovered first, kicking his wrist. The Sig spiraled away as she recovered and ducked under the roundhouse blow he unleashed with his left hand.
She grabbed for the taser at his hip only to have him slap it out of her hands.
She hammered his ribs, striking at his kneecap, and felt the HK’s weight vanish as the sling slipped off her shoulder. The gun clattered on the floor.
Minor leaped backward, light on his feet for such a muscle-bound man. With a flick of his hand, he extracted a knife from his pocket, jacking the blade open.
Karla circled warily, shucking her Gerber fighting knife from its sheath. Got to keep him away from that subgun.
“Karla?” Reid Farmer called softly, “Savage’s hit.”
She feinted, Minor skipping away.
“Reid? Get into that lab. You know what you’ve got to do.”
“But . . . Savage . . .”
“Wreck that fucking machine!”
“No, you won’t.” Minor danced forward, blade held low. He flicked it at her like a fencer, the steel darting as she skipped back. Then she feinted left, ducked right, and tried to slip in past his guard.
She caught the barest glimpse of Savage. The major lay on his side, mouth open, panting for breath.
She skipped away from Minor’s rush, her blade laying the sleeve of his suit coat open.
“Get the lipstick off your dick?” she asked conversationally.
“I’m killing you very slowly for that. Get your little redheaded friend, too.”
“What kind of gratitude is that? And after the fun we had?”
Bill Minor chuckled. “Got to tell you, you’re pretty good. Who trained you? FBI?”
“SEALs,” she said softly. “Chief Petty Officer First Class, Karla Raven, at your service.”
“Lie, bitch. No woman’s ever been a SEAL. Too many tough men ring that bell. A woman wouldn’t make it two days into Hell Week.”
And she knew from his tone. “How many days did you last before you rang out?”
She saw the answer in his eyes and smiled. “Time to ring you out again.”
At her words, his eyes went insane. He spread his arms. Bellowing in rage, he charged. What he couldn’t do with finesse, he would do with brute force, crushing her in the process.