James Rollins - Altar Of Eden

He twisted to the side entry. He tested the knob.

Locked.

He had expected no different-only hoped for at least a small break. It wasn’t to be. He holstered his pistol and shrugged off the other weapon from his shoulder. The AA-12 assault shotgun was not a subtle weapon.

Then again maybe it was high time for subtlety to end.

He backed three steps and pointed the barrel at the door’s dead bolt.

Before he could pull the trigger, a spat of distant gunfire erupted. Off to the west. From the clear ring of the blasts, the shots had come from outside. Jack glanced that way.

What was going on? What were they shooting at?

He turned farther and realized someone was missing.

Burt.

Jack went cold. The hound seldom broke his field training, not unless something really irresistible struck his nose: a dead fish, a rotting squirrel. To make matters worse, Burt loved to roll in those rich stinks.

As he listened the spat of gunfire died off.

The night went quiet again.

Jack turned back to the door. Unlike Burt, he didn’t have the luxury of curiosity. Or subtlety.

He lifted the shotgun and fired.

LORNA HEARD SOMETHING loud blast beneath her. She couldn’t tell if it came from inside or outside. She’d been hearing periodic gunfire as she fled across the neighboring labs toward the veterinary clinic. Listening to the blasts, she was glad she had opted to stay inside versus taking her chances outside. She never would have survived.

A part of her heart went out to the animals she had let loose.

Were they the targets of all this gunplay?

Knowing she’d done all she could, she continued until she reached the veterinary wing. The clinic was currently under renovation, with the surgical suite undergoing a much-needed update. Because of the construction, there were no animals housed here.

Lucky for that.

With rifle in hand, she pushed carefully into the main treatment room of the clinic. She stayed low, her senses stretching outward for any hidden dangers in the dark. The smell of fresh paint and wood dust struck her. Through her night-vision goggles, she made out the central exam station with an attached wet table and overhanging surgical lights. To the left, a bank of empty stainless-steel cages covered one wall, while the other side opened into a scrub area and the half-renovated operating room.

All seemed quiet.

She crept only a couple of steps into the room and turned to a smaller door on her immediate left, marked with posted hazard symbols.

She tugged it open. Inside stood a bank of green oxygen tanks. Five in total. The set of tanks supplied the clinic and other labs with its piped oxygen. She knew by memory which tank fed the surgical suite and unhooked its regulator from the wall-then twisted the valve to on.

A fierce hissing flowed from the open tank.

She left the others untouched.

Trembling with fear, she closed the door and retreated toward the operating room on the other side of the room-but not before first stopping to raid the veterinary lab in the corner.

She only had one last preparation to make.

But did she have enough time?

WITH THE SHOTGUN blast still ringing in his ears, Jack kicked open the outer door. The small office beyond barely had enough room for a work desk and filing cabinet. He moved quickly. To his right, a closed door led to the pathology lab. Directly ahead stretched an office window that looked out onto the open floor.

Jack noted a few wobbling glows out there.

Flashlights.

They speared toward the office, drawn by the shotgun blast.

Never stopping, Jack grabbed the desk chair with one hand and flung it through the window. Glass shattered. At the same time he dove to the door, shouldered it open, and rolled out into the cavernous room beyond.

He spotted two men standing ten yards away.

They were in full camo, with flashlights in one hand, pistols in the other. Drawn by the exploding office window, they were a fraction too slow in turning toward Jack.

Sweeping around with his shotgun, Jack pulled the trigger and held it. A barrage of shells sprayed out like a machine gun. The rounds blasted the two men across their midsections, ripping them nearly in half.

Flashlights went flying.

Not knowing how many more men were down here, Jack leaped for the cover of a steel equipment locker. He stared across the room toward the hall that led toward the walk-in cooler.

A glow came from that hallway.

As he watched, the light clicked off.

Damn it.

At least one more man was still down here.

Before he could even calculate a strategy, two shots fired. The pair of discarded flashlights went dark. The last man was a crack shot, taking out the last lights.

Not good.

Jack was now blind. He pulled back undercover.

As he did so he heard boots pounding across the cement floor, the ring of a heel hitting one of the steel drains. He blindly pointed his weapon and strafed in the general direction. The muzzle flash would give away his position, but he had no choice. He kept firing until the drum magazine emptied.

A sharp cry of surprise cut through the barrage.

Jack’s ears strained as the echoes died away.

Was the man down?

Even as he thought it the steps resumed out of the dark, more stumbling, erratic-but they were heading away.

Jack dropped the shotgun and grabbed his pistol.

Across the room, a door opened and slammed closed. The man had fled out of here.

Suspicion rang through Jack. These were trained killers, not cowards. What would make the man flee like that?

He stepped out of hiding and kept his pistol pointed toward the door-when the world exploded.

Duncan listened to the muffled blast fade away. It came from a floor below. He had tried to raise Korey’s team down there, but he’d gotten no answer.

Worrisome, but not his primary concern.

The place was surrounded. No one was getting in or out.

Duncan stood over Fielding’s dead body. His face was a bloody ruin, his eyes gone, his lips blackened as if flash-frozen. Duncan had already noted the liquid nitrogen tanks in the room and could surmise what had taken place. Fielding must have underestimated the woman and let his guard down.

Stupid.

Duncan felt no sympathy for the man’s agonizing death.

Another of Duncan’s unit, an Asian-American named Takeo, came up behind him. “Second floor is swept. No sign of the woman.”

Duncan didn’t acknowledge him. He wasn’t surprised.

Another teammate spoke by the lab door. “Do you want me to go check on the others down in the morgue?”

That could wait.

“You’re both with me,” he ordered.

With the place surrounded, nothing else mattered. He’d be out of here in two minutes. With at least one prize in hand. Then he’d burn this fucking place to the ground and be done with it.

“Where to, sir?” Takeo asked.

Duncan didn’t answer. He had noted a stack of cards by the lab’s computer. Dr. Lorna Polk. From his intel on this place, he knew she was the staff veterinarian. She ran this cryogenic lab and the veterinary facility. From the schematics, the veterinary wing lay toward the rear of this level, farthest away from the fires.

Panicked, she would’ve fled to a place of security, a place she knew.

Duncan stepped over Fielding’s corpse and headed in that direction. He moved cautiously. The body was a good lesson. He would not underestimate Dr. Polk.

“Follow me.”

JACK PICKED HIMSELF up. The blast had knocked him off his feet. Across the dark lab, a fire glowed. It raged down the hall that led to the walk-in cooler. Smoke poured into the main room.

He gave the open pathology lab a quick scan and saw no sign of the assault team. But the man who had fled would alert others. Jack didn’t have much time. He ran toward the fires.