Minotaur

17

Dozens of crates—each one filled with assault rifles. It was more than Chapel could possibly have hoped for. For one thing it was additional proof that Favorov was smuggling guns. He hardly needed this many AK-47s to teach his son how to shoot. But it might also mean that Chapel didn’t have to just surrender and be taken hostage again.

Not, of course, that fate had made things easy on him. He could hardly open one of the crates without making any noise. And guns were never shipped already loaded—there would probably be crates full of bullets in the cellar as well, but getting two crates open, unpacking a rifle, unpacking a clip of ammo, and loading the rifle would take far more time and make a lot more noise than he dared. He had maybe a few seconds before his pursuers would be on him as soon as he made the slightest noise.

So he was just going to have to improvise.

Chapel studied the maze of crates around him, hoping he would get just one more lucky break and find a crate that was already open. No luck with the crates of rifles—each one he could see was nailed tightly shut, and it would take a crowbar to open it. He pulled himself carefully between two more crates, worming his way back toward the cellar wall, but each crate he examined was still factory sealed. He’d achieved nothing more than splinters for his trouble by the time he reached the far end of the maze and the end of the crates.

From that position, though, he could see more of the cellar. Now that it was lit up he could make out more than just shapes. The workbench was covered in tools, like he’d thought, but not woodworking tools or the kind of power tools you’d use to do repairs on the house. The bench was set up for small-scale gunsmithing—for assembling assault rifles and working with bullets, changing out their loads of gunpowder or replacing their casings with special materials. A complete cartridge was loaded into a vise there, where someone must have been working on it recently. One bullet, ready to go, if Chapel could reach it. No use at all, of course, without a rifle to load it into. Although—

“I can hear him wriggling around back there,” Michael called out. Chapel cursed silently as he heard men fanning out across the cellar, taking up firing positions, pinning him down. “There,” Michael said. “Behind those crates!”

There was no time left to lose. Chapel needed to move fast and fluid, just as he’d been trained. Even as he jumped up out of cover he was visualizing his moves, planning out exactly what he was about to do. The guards would have orders not to kill him. They would be jumpy, though, ready to shoot at the slightest provocation.

He was counting on it.

A row of conventional tools hung on hooks above the vise, including a standard ball peen hammer. Even as he ran forward, even as he heard the guards shouting and raising their weapons, he grabbed up the hammer and started to swing. If he missed—

The bullet in the vise was pointing toward the wall. The rear end of its casing was in front of him, a tiny little bull’s-eye of metal. The outer ring was the true casing, while the circle inside it was the primer, the initial explosive that would ignite the gunpowder propellant inside the casing. The primer was designed to explode when it was struck by the firing pin of a rifle.

In a pinch, a sharp blow from a hammer did just fine.

Chapel hit the bullet square on. The primer ignited the gunpowder and the bullet shot out of the casing, straight into the wall, harming no one. It did have the effect Chapel had intended, however. It made a sound exactly like a gunshot.