Dick Stivers - Deathbites

"Did you see the sign on the door?" she asked Deborah.

"Yeah. That's why I came in. You're out of your mind."

"You're just in time. Brace the table."

"What?"

"The table. Keep it from moving away from the window."

Deborah dutifully put her shoulder to the table, spread her feet and pushed against it. Ti stood with her back to the window and her hands on the edge of the table. Suddenly she kicked her feet up into the air and then straight back in a mule kick that hit the center of the windowpane with a resounding bang. The window did not break, but Deborah and the heavy table moved back eight inches. Ti landed lightly on her feet.

"I'm sold. It's good glass."

"God," Deborah said, "to resist a kick like that, it's good steel."

Ti dusted her hands off. "Thank you. Now, you saw the sign on the door. I have to get ready for the meeting."

"Yeah. Well, I'm going to attend the meeting too," Devine said.

"But, it's scientific personnel only. You saw the sign on the door."

"Save it for someone who isn't in the business. You're the only scientific personnel left in this joint. That sign is nothing but an engraved invitation to the terrorists. I'll hang around, thank you."

Ti looked at the platinum blonde with a mixture of respect and affection.

"Sure?" Ti asked.

"Positive."

"Then let's start getting ready."

"What makes you so sure that they'll attack again today?"

"They turned their computer off at 5:06 this morning. But not before a telephone call from Jishin. I feel sure she'll be coming back here."

"Why?"

"It's a matter of face. She lost a great deal of face here. In her mind, she won't be able to regain her respect until she's returned here and destroyed whatever caused the loss of face."

"You?"

"Mostly, me," Ti admitted.

"Where do we begin?"

"Gadgets left some plastic explosive behind. I want booby traps. I also want to keep this place looking as if it were in full use."

"Let's do it," Deborah said.

July 14, 923 hours, Santa Clara, California

"What was that?" Babette asked.

Hal Brognola pulled the cigar from his mouth and whispered. "Someone picking the lock on the door."

Babette quietly moved to the small desk and chair she had put into the office. She sat in the chair facing the door and pulled open the top drawer. She removed an Ingram Model 10, chambered a .45 round and put the weapon back, barrel forward in the open drawer.

Brognola moved against the wall to stand behind the door when it opened. He carefully placed the wooden chair in which he had been sitting so it would prevent the door from being slammed into him. He took out his VP 70Z and waited.

The lock on the door finally clicked back. The picker opened the door and stepped back.

"It's open, Fred."

"Then let's see what's in there."

The one called Fred took three paces into the room and stopped cold. His partner who picked locks almost bumped into him.

"Good morning, gentlemen," Babette said calmly. "Couldn't you have waited? The office opens at 9:30."

The two men had stopped exactly between Babette and Brognola. The one known as Fred brought his hand from his pants pocket. The hand was wrapped around a Colt 1911 Al automatic. He pointed it at Babette.

"Just freeze," he told her. "If that hand starts coming out of the drawer, I'll blow your head off."

Brognola tried to ease the door open. He was anxious to cross the doorway and get Babette out of the position where she was lined up with the two terrorists.

"Just what did you gentlemen want that meant you couldn't wait for the office to open?" Babette stalled.

"We want to see if you have a computer that could be connected to ours in some way. We seem to be having trouble," Fred answered. Then he spoke to his partner. "Orrie, go around the desk and take whatever she has her hand on in that drawer."

When Orrie made his move, Brognola stepped rapidly to the side, forcing the door to slam. Orrie turned and leaped at him. Brognola fired a short burst. The 9mm parabellums entered through the chin and throat. They exited through the back of the head, spraying bits of brain on the ceiling.

The front of the cheap desk erupted as Babette squeezed the trigger on the Ingram. Forty-five caliber slugs flew through the desk. A line of them stitched the gunman's groin, shoving him back across the room. He collapsed eight feet from where he had been standing. Babette removed the Model 10 from the drawer and finished the job with a single head shot.

The sound of shots erupted from somewhere else in the building.

"What's happening?" Babette asked.

Brognola was already checking the hall outside. There was no activity yet.

"When Ti telephoned to tell us that the main computer had been shut down, I guessed this might happen," Brognola admitted. "It's a very small step from concluding that your computer has been tampered with to deciding that the tamperers must be somewhere close by. I was hoping they wouldn't, but that was too much to hope for."

"I've figured the rest out," Babette said. "They've sent a small army to check out the building."

"You got it. Gadgets says you're deadly with that thing." He nodded at the Ingram.

"That's right," Babette said with a proud smile.

"If you're game, I'd like to do more than escape. This group of terrorists is probably planning to attack an industrial site when they finish with us. If we have to shoot our way out anyway, I'd prefer not to leave enough of them to do any further damage."

Babette shrugged. "Why not?"

Brognola clamped his cigar in his teeth and stuffed the jacket pockets of his impeccable gray suit with clips for both the Ingram and the Heckler & Koch automatic.

"There's a bandolier in the case," he told Babette. "I thought you might be short of pockets."

"Then you were expecting this?" she asked.

"I thought it was a possibility. I suggest we go straight for their training center and work our way out."

He picked up the telephone and put it back.

"They're serious. The lines are dead."

"The rope we used for returning the bodies is still in the corner. Why don't we go down that way?"

"That's what I call a surprise visit."

Brognola swung the gymnast on the end of the rope. She gained the ledge and quickly refastened the rope to the pitons she had driven into the building before. Brognola tied off the rope at the top and then slid down to join Babette outside the window to the computer room. A quick kick removed the glass.

Babette did a forward roll into the room and came up with the Ingram cocked and ready. Brognola followed. There was no sign of the regular workers. Instead, two men and a woman stood using citizen-band radios. Each had an M-16 slung over a shoulder. The breaking glass caused them to turn, but they were too taken by surprise to do more than look.

"Put those radios down slowly," Brognola told them.

The woman threw her radio at the big Fed and let the assault rifle slide from her shoulder into her hand. She was much too slow. Babette's chatter gun spat a figure eight of 250-grain sizzlers that drove the three back over desks.

Babette was already running toward the door to the hall. She threw it open and leaned around the doorway. A group of about a dozen terrorists were pounding up the hall toward the sound of the firing. They already had their guns out.

Babette emptied the rest of her clip into the running horde, then jerked back inside just as bullets from the opposite direction chewed up the doorway.

Brognola stood and listened to the group charge from the other end of the hall. Babette moved clear of the fire zone as she quickly changed clips.

When he heard the footsteps slow down at the door, Brognola emptied his clip through the wall. He was rewarded with a chorus of screams.