The Cassandra Complex - Brian Stableford [52]
“Oh, fuck!” she breathed.
Directly ahead of them, about fifteen meters away, the body of Peter Grimmett Smith’s driver lay supine on the concrete, unconscious or dead. There was an obscenely large gun in her outstretched right hand, pointed in the direction of a yellow Fiat that was skewed across the entry.
If appearances could be trusted, the Fiat had been shunted into that position by a black Daf van, both of whose doors were yawning wide. The huge screen shielding the entrance to the parking lot had almost completed its descent a couple of meters behind the van.
Chan Kwai Keung was standing beside the Fiat, having apparently exited the driver’s seat in some distress. There was blood on his forehead and naked fear in his face as he stared at a black-helmeted figure who was pointing a gun almost as large as Ginny’s at his chest, from little more than arm’s distance.
TEN
Peter Grimmett Smith was obviously a senior spook, who had presumably been desk-bound for many years, but he must have known more active days and he hadn’t lost the reflexes instilled by his early training. No sooner had he seen the body of his driver than he threw himself forward, leaning low in anticipation of plucking the gun—which Ginny had presumably failed to use to any significant effect—out of her limp hand.
Lisa understood, of course, why Smith had felt compelled to go for the gun. He was unarmed, and the person who had felled the driver would know that, because he or she would know he would not have been allowed to carry a gun into the lobby. Smith had no idea of how many adversaries he might be facing, but he did know that once he got a gun in his hand, he would be no mean opponent.
Unfortunately, he was by no means the only one who knew that and understood its implications.
As Smith went for the gun, the black-helmeted figure who had Chan covered immediately turned in order to take care of the new hazard. As the gun fired, Lisa winced reflexively, but the sound was nowhere near as loud as she had anticipated.
The MOD man was already reaching out to snatch up the gun, and the shot that had been fired at him almost missed—but almost wasn’t good enough. The impact wasn’t sufficiently powerful to bowl Smith over, but it made him lurch and stagger, and his extending hand failed to pick up the weapon.
Lisa hadn’t been able to see the dart flying through the air, but she saw its red fletchings as soon as it lodged in the muscle at the back of Smith’s lower leg. She registered the fact that the missile was nonlethal, but only in passing. The intention at the forefront of her mind was to get out of the way before the black-helmeted figure fired again.
Chan Kwai Keung obviously had the same idea. As soon as the gun had swung away from him, he dived to his left, determined to put the body of the Fiat between himself and the shooter.
Lisa went to her own left. There was a gray Datsun parked on that side of the elevator doors, no more than a couple of meters away, and she dived toward it, ducking down as low as she could to ensure that her whole body would be shielded the moment she was in front of the hood. It was a wise precaution, because a second shot sounded from the direction of the attendant’s booth, far louder than the first. The window of the Datsun’s passenger seat exploded into a host of tiny shards.
“Lights!” howled a distorted voice, twisted as much by anguished urgency as by the device set to disguise it.
That was a real bullet! Lisa thought. If it had hit me,…
Only twelve hours had passed since the time she had been forty years in the police force without ever having had a gun pointed in her direction. Now she had been shot at twice, and although she was fairly certain that the first shooter had aimed to miss, she wasn’t at all sure about this one.
The first time, she had been curiously detached from the whole business, incapable even of participating fully in her own pain, but twelve hours had made a big difference. This time, she was abruptly consumed by a sickening wave of pure terror.