Net Force - Tom Clancy [2]
Out! Boyle screamed. Hes stuck a limpet on the door! Out!
Day grabbed the door handle on the drivers side, jerked it up, dove out and hit the ground in a sloppy shoulder roll.
There came the repetitive bark of a submachine gun, followed by the spang! spang! spang! of jacketed teeth chewing at the wounded limo.
Day rolled again, looking for cover. Nothing. Nowhere to hide!
He glanced back at the car. Saw and felt time become mired in heaviness. Boyle exited the car, gun working, tongues of orange fire stabbing into the dark, but it was like a slow-motion scene in a movie.
Boyle jerked as the small-arms fire beat at him, slammed into his torso.
In a small corner of his mind, Day knew that most submachine guns used pistol ammunition and that the vests he and Boyle both wore would stop any handgun round. As long as they didnt-
-blood and brain matter sprayed from the side of Boyles temple as a bullet exited there-
-as long as they didnt think to shoot for the head!
Damn, damn! What was going on? Who were these people?
In the limo, the driver kept trying to pull away, the roar of the engine continuing. Day could smell the exhaust, the burned tires-he could smell his own fear, too, sharp, sour, overwhelming.
The mine attached to the rear door of the limo went off-blam!
All the glass in the limo blew out. It sleeted in all directions-some of it hit Day, but he was only dimly aware of it touching him.
The cars roof peeled up a little in the back, leaving a fist-sized gap. Smoke, bitter and acrid, washed over him in a hot wave.
The driver hung partway out of his window, boneless.
Dead. The driver and Boyle were both dead. Help would be coming, but he couldnt wait for it-if he did, he would be dead, too.
Day came up, took two or three quick steps, jinked right for two more steps, then cut left. Broken-field, came back to him from football in high school thirty-five years ago.
Gunfire tried to catch him, but failed to connect solidly. A bullet tugged at his jacket, punched through under his left arm. He felt a sense of outrage. The goddamned jacket was Hong Kong silk, it had cost him six hundred dollars!
Another round smashed into his chest, right over the heart. Hed never worn the titanium trauma plate, had just used a trifold of Kevlar stuffed down in the trauma pocket over the heart like a lot of agents did, and the impact hurt like a bastard! Like hed been hit with a hammer, right on the sternum! Damn!
But it didnt matter. He was up, he was moving-
A black figure appeared in front of him, waving a flashing Uzi. Even in the night and murk of his fear, Day saw the man wore bulky combat armor under his black jacket. Day had been taught to shoot to the center of mass first, but that wouldnt do now, no, no, the SIG.40 wouldnt hurt the attacker that way any more than the Uzis 9mms were hurting him!
Still running, Day lifted the SIG, lined the glowing tritium dot of the front sight on the mans nose. Days vision tunneled-all he could see was the face. The green night-sight dot bounced around, but he squeezed off three shots as fast as he could pull the trigger.
The armored attacker dropped as if his legs had vanished.
All right! All right! He had taken one of them out, he had created a hole, it was just like in football when hed been the quarterback so long ago.
Now, go through the hole, fast, head for the goal line!
He caught motion peripherally, glanced to his left, and saw another man, also in black. The man held a pistol in two hands. He was as still as a painting. He looked as if he were at the range, ready to practice.
Day felt his bowels clench. He wanted to run, shoot, defecate, all at the same instant. Whoever these guys were, they were professionals. This wasnt any street gang looking for somebodys wallet. This was a hit, an assassination, and they were good-
It was his final thought.
The bullet hit him