Dead or Alive - Tom Clancy [234]
Dominic powered up Almasi’s computer, a high-end Dell tower. The Windows Vista logo came up, followed by a log-in screen. He found a pad and pen in the desk drawer and shoved it across the desk to Almasi. “User name and password.”
Almasi didn’t move.
Brian pulled a nearby chair across the room and shoved Almasi down in it. He pressed the Browning against Almasi’s right knee. “That’s where I’ll start. Knees, then ankles, then elbows.” He picked up the pad and pen from the desk and dropped them in Almasi’s lap. “User name and password.”
This time Almasi didn’t hesitate. When he finished, Brian handed the pad to Dominic, who logged in and began scanning the computer’s directories. “Get him started on the safe,” Dominic said. “I’ll start downloading, then toss his bedroom.” He inserted a flash drive into the tower’s USB port and began transferring files.
Brian got Almasi to his feet and prodded him toward the safe. “Open.”
“My hands.”
“You’ll manage.”
Almasi dropped to his knees and began turning the dial.
“Be right back,” Dominic said, and left the room.
Almasi looked up at Brian. “Done.”
“Open it, then move back.”
Almasi did so, sidling backward on his knees. Brian knelt before the safe. Inside, it was empty, save a single CD-ROM in a paper sleeve. He reached inside. In the corner of his eye, he saw Almasi’s bound hands moving toward the shelf beside him. He turned, saw the pistol in his hands, spun, brought the Browning up while sidestepping. There was a crack. The room flashed orange. From the hip, Brian snapped off a shot, hitting Almasi in the center of the sternum. Almasi toppled sideways.
“Brian!” Dominic came through the door, took two strides, and kicked the gun from Almasi’s hand. He knelt down, checked his pulse. “He’s gone.”
“He came up with a gun,” Brian panted. “Took my eyes off him for a second. Goddamn it.”
“Whoa, sit down, Brian, sit down.”
“What?”
“You’re bleeding.”
“Huh?”
Dominic pushed him into the chair, grabbed his right hand, and pressed it against his upper belly. Brian felt the wetness and took his hand away and looked at his fingers. “Aw, shit.”
“Keep the pressure on it.”
“We’re gonna have company. Better check.”
Dominic moved to the window and parted the curtains. Below, lights were coming on in the adobe huts. “They’re coming.” He turned back to Brian, who had his shirt open. There was a pinkie-tip-sized hole about four inches below his right nipple. He pressed his fingertips around the wound and winced. Blood gushed from the wound.
“Rib broken?” Dominic asked from the window.
“Yeah, I think so. Slowed the bullet down. Ah, Jesus, that hurts. Shit, shit, shit! Get that CD I dropped, will you? It was in the safe.”
Dominic grabbed his backpack from the floor, fished inside, came up with a half a dozen maxi-pads. He handed them to Brian, then returned to the window. “We should have brought the real deal.”
“These are better, man, really absorb the blood.” He tore open a pad and pressed it to his chest. “See anything?”
“Lights are on. They’ll be coming. Can you move?”
“Yeah.”
“Gonna see if I can slow them up.”
Dominic grabbed Almasi’s pistol—a Beretta .32 Tomcat semiauto—from the floor.
“What kind of rounds?” Brian asked.
Dominic ejected the magazine and checked. “Hollow-point.”
“Huh. Okay. Get moving.”
Dominic dashed out the door, down the stairs, then out the door. He dropped to a crouch beside the steps, took aim on the westernmost hut, and fired three rounds through the window. Shouts came from inside. The lights went off. Dominic sprinted back into the house, locked the door, then turned right and ran to the corner window. He opened it and fired four shots at the east-side hut, then put five rounds through the front door. The pistol’s slide locked open. He dropped it, ran back upstairs. Brian was on his feet and steadying himself against the desk.
“I’m good.