Dark Zone

106

Dean found a magazine for the submachine gun in the terrorist’s belt.

The man was still breathing; a quick kiss of the trigger took care of that.

Dean stepped over the body, moving in the direction the other man had gone.

Had he fled in fear? Or was he out of bullets, without even a spare like his friend?

Dean stopped at the vestibule, listening. When he thought he heard a creak in the next car, he threw himself inside, firing a burst from the gun as something flicked at the edge of his peripheral vision. In the same motion he dove to the ground, rolled, ready, waiting.

But there was nothing.

Dean got to his hands and knees and moved forward slowly. He paused about midway, listening. When he started again the front of the car lit up with gunfire. Diving into the nearby seats, he could almost feel the bullets zipping overhead.

The burst was long; Dean suspected it was covering an advance and got ready. When it stopped he made a feint with the gun toward the aisle and drew more fire. This time the burst was much briefer. When it ended he held the gun up and fired a few rounds toward the back of the car, then burst out into the aisle, gun blazing, throwing himself across to the other side.

As he landed on the floor he realized the terrorist had retreated. Dean jumped up and ran to the end, breath shallow, blood spurting from his head. He spun himself around the bend to the floor, ready to fire but not shooting this time. He had to conserve his bullets.

He waited a breath, two breaths, then began moving forward again.

Maybe the other man was out of bullets.

Why was he still in the train? And what were the boxes there for?

Another bomb.

Maybe the man was running to set it off.

As Dean reached the end of the coach he threw himself around the passage, diving headfirst into the other car. Dean began to run, racing through the coach. But as he sprang into car seventeen the air around him exploded with ricochets and shrapnel. He fired down the aisle of the car, the MP-5 shaking and then stuttering as he dove straight down to the floor, rolling and crawling and pushing behind the seats.

He was out of bullets.

Dean waited. When the terrorist didn’t come, he slid toward the aisle, gun-first. A fresh fusillade drove him back.

Sure that the man would be coming for him, he pushed against the bottom of the seat cushion, coiling his body, ready to spring out.

He’d use the gun as a battering ram, hope that he’d be lucky, or lucky enough not to be killed.

When the man didn’t appear, Dean told himself to wait — then changed his mind and slid the gun forward.

More rounds spat through the car, ricocheting and slapping around him. The seats were thick and the gunman had no angle, but the fact that Dean hadn’t been shot yet was due largely to the gunman’s inexperience — if the terrorist had been trained better, he would have held his fire and closed the angle down patiently, relentlessly, seat by seat.

Dean glanced across the aisle at the acrylic shelving. He could see a reflection — the terrorist, lying at the end of the car, gun poised.

Why was he on the floor out in the middle of the aisle?

Dean slid his gun forward into the aisle. Another few rounds, poorly aimed.

There was only one reason he’d be on the floor — he’d been wounded so severely he couldn’t move.

But he had Dean pinned.

There were several bodies blocking anything but a shot from the aisle.

Dean climbed up into the seat, hunkering and gathering his breath. With a sudden heave he threw himself over the top of the chair, flying into the next row. The gunman didn’t catch on until Dean hit the cushion on the other side.

More gunfire — and then nothing, a click, the gun empty, a curse.

Had he heard that? Or did he want to hear that?

Dean jumped to his feet.