Inherit the Earth - Brian Stableford [80]
Rajuder Singh must have reached the same conclusion, but he didn’t bother to complain, or even to say “I told you so.”
Damon ostentatiously turned the gun away from Rajuder Singh, pointing it at what would soon be the open space left by the sliding door. He knew that the room would still be filled with poisonous smoke, and that anyone who had got to the console in the middle of the room in order to send a return signal to the elevator would have to be wearing a gas mask, but that didn’t mean that they’d be armored against darts. One shot might be enough, if only he could see a target—and even the larger helicopter which had followed the two miniatures couldn’t have been carrying more than a couple of men. If he could hold his breath long enough, there might still be a chance of getting outside and into the welcoming jungle. It was a one in a million chance, but a chance nevertheless.
“They must have been waiting,” he muttered to Rajuder Singh. “But they couldn’t have known what Karol would do, even if they figured that I’d fly to Molokai. They must have been here because they were keeping watch on you, waiting to take action against you.”
“That’s impossible,” Rajuder Singh said again. “I’m just support staff.”
“But you’re sitting on a secret hidey-hole,” Damon pointed out. “Maybe there isn’t anything down there to interest them—but they don’t know that. Maybe they really do think that Conrad Helier’s there, directing Karol’s operation. Maybe this was always part of their plan, and my presence here is just an unfortunate coincidence. Maybe they don’t give a damn about you or me, and only want access to the bunker. . . .”
Damon could have gone on. His imagination hadn’t even come near to the limit of its inventiveness—but he didn’t have time.
The elevator stopped again, although the lights stayed on this time.
Bitter experience had told Damon to take a long deep breath, and that was what he did. As the doors began to open, before the gas could flood in, he filled his lungs to capacity. Then he threw himself out into the smoky room, diving and rolling as he did so but keeping his stinging eyes wide open while he searched for a target to shoot at.
There was no target waiting; the room was devoid of human presence.
His ill-formed plan was to get to the doors that led outside, and get through them with all possible expedition. He managed to make it to the inner door easily enough and brought himself upright without difficulty—but the door was locked tight. He seized the grip and hauled with all his might, but it wouldn’t budge. He was fairly certain that Singh hadn’t locked it, and he knew that it wouldn’t matter whether the thin man was carrying a swipecard capable of releasing the lock. There wouldn’t have been time, even if the other had been right behind him—which he wasn’t.
Damon immediately turned for the window, even though he knew full well that it wouldn’t be easy to exit past the jagged shards of glass that still clung to the frame. His long stride carried him across the room with the least possible delay, but his eyes wouldn’t stay open any longer and his nose was stinging too. By the time he reached the window he felt that he couldn’t hold on any longer—but he knew that there was fresh air outside.
Damon grasped the window frame with his free hand, steadying himself as he let out his breath explosively. Then he stuck his head out into the open, in the hope of gathering in a double lungful of untainted air, while the hand that held the gun groped for a resting place on the outer sill.
Someone standing outside plucked the dart gun neatly out of his hand. Damon tried his utmost to force his stinging eyes open, but his reflexes wouldn’t let go. He never saw who