Painkiller

60

Gibson detected the sound of the shots around the time Cooper’s second bullet struck the crane’s protective cage. He dove too late; Cooper’s third bullet penetrated his massive latissimus dorsi, but had about as much effect on Gibson’s health as a paintball pellet might have had on an elephant. Bullets four and five tore through the air precisely where Gibson’s head had been positioned before his dive.

The evasive action got him safely over and behind the body of the crane, but also resulted in the violent jerking of the crane’s control levers. The command was duly executed by the hydraulic system operating the arm of the crane, and under the propulsion of the violently whipping arm that held it, the fully loaded warhead container swung across the remaining expanse of lagoon Gibson had intended for it to cross. Packing tremendous momentum, the crate smashed headlong into the side of the Ukrainian submarine.

The stress brought on by the collision proved too great for the three padlocks Gibson had used to secure the container’s lid. Had all eight been sealed, the lid might have held, but with only three locks struggling to contain the violence of the smash, the container’s latches snapped clean off. Responding to gravity, the body of the container immediately dropped, yawing open at the hinges as it clanged a second time against the metal skin of the submarine. Two of the warheads tumbled immediately from their foam nests in the container and splashed into the lagoon; a third slid halfway out, its rounded head slipping from its slot but still holding. Having shed seven-hundred-odd pounds of bulk with the loss of the two warheads, the container then righted itself.

Held into the foam by the added width of the harness Gibson had left wrapped around it, the fourth bomb remained wedged in its slot.

Cooper stayed at it with the MAC-10, hammering another half-dozen bullets into the body of the crane in hopes it would blow, or maybe tilt over and fall on Muscle-head. Bullet holes cut into the crane’s yellow skin; a rubber gasket snapped, releasing a geyser of hydraulic fluid; sparks flew, and a wisp of smoke rose from the crane’s engine block. Finally, the engine sputtered, then died.

The instant Cooper paused, opting to save the remaining bullets in his clip, Gibson reached around the side of the crane with his Glock and took a pair of potshots. He missed by a few feet, and Cooper got off a couple more-realizing as the bullets whinged off the crane and pocked off the lava wall that he’d fired the last of the shells from his clip. He dropped, making sure to turn away from the place where Laramie lay, and ducked back into the tunnel. As he moved, he heard a series of shots fired by Gibson, one of the bullets clipping the SEAL-issue cross-terrain disposable boot on Cooper’s right foot but otherwise coming up empty.

Gibson’s next pull on the trigger, Cooper heard, resulted in a dry click.

The thrum of the four diesel generators groaned on outside the cavern, and the third of the W-76 warheads, tail dipping deeper from its slot in the container, finally slid, like a fish from a dock, into the water of the lagoon.

Given the relative silence, Cooper guessed that Gibson was doing something smarter than he was-maybe sneaking around behind him, for instance. Stumbling forward, Cooper folded the MAC-10 between his good elbow and his waist, and, grimacing, fumbled through the mess of blood, guts, and canvas jersey formerly composing the maid’s stomach in search of another clip. He snagged nothing but muck until he heard the sound of metal against rock, and then it was heavy in his hand-full, loaded with all thirty-two bullets, and just about enough, Cooper thought, to remove Spike Gibson from cavern and earth.

He yanked the clip out of the mess of gore and struggled to get it into the gun.

Gibson came out from his hiding place and strode across the cargo cave.

As Cooper took his best shot at jamming the slippery clip into its slot, he was faced with the realization that he was completely fucked.

No way would he get the clip loaded in time.

Gibson stepped over Lana’s body and grinned.

“Albert!” he exclaimed. “How are you, buddy?”

Cooper resorted to a pathetic surprise attack, ferociously whacking at Gibson’s face with the butt of the MAC-10, a distraction that bought him about two seconds. Cooper felt the gun land on the hard bone of Gibson’s left cheek at least once, but the bodybuilder soon threw his heavy forearm in the way of Cooper’s thrashing blows and swatted the gun from his hands.

Then Gibson proceeded to unload on him.

Releasing the raw, sinewy power he’d stored in bulk form across years of exercise, Gibson pummeled Cooper with successive blows. Even with the bullet that had pierced his right lat, Gibson had both arms to work with, and Cooper’s one-armed defensive maneuvers did nothing to stop the creatine-boosted onslaught. He tore open the skin on Cooper’s face with the blows, loosened teeth with elbow shots, broke Cooper’s nose for maybe the twenty-seventh time in Cooper’s life with a succession of head butts. When Cooper could no longer stand, Gibson held him upright, grasping the collar of Cooper’s body armor with his left fist while bashing Cooper’s face with his right.

Finally Gibson let go, and Cooper dropped like a dress on the body of a woman who’d just had her shoulder straps snipped. Gibson straightened, inclined his head, breathed deeply of the foul air of the cavern, and, vaguely satisfied, turned and retraced his route across the lava rock floor.