John Saul - The Manhattan Hunt Club

As silence once again fell, Keith stood up.

"Jesus," he whispered.

"He was going to kill us," Heather said, her voice dull. Her hands suddenly went limp, and the gun clattered to the floor. "He was going to kill us just the way he taught me."

Keith gazed at her steadily. "Who?" he asked, wanting the answer to come from her.

Heather's control finally gave way. "My father!" she cried out, the words resounding in the tunnel. "Don't you see? It was my father!" As the echo of her anguished words died away, she walked slowly into the darkness toward where he lay. Her father was sprawled on his back, a bloodstain spreading across his shirt. His eyes were open, and as she shined a flashlight into his face, he seemed to look up at her with an expression of surprise. Kneeling, she gazed into his empty eyes, then laid a hand on his cheek. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm so sorry." But even as she said it, she knew she'd had no choice.

It was her father who had set the rules, not her, and a moment later she would have been the one who died by his hand.

"What have you done?" she said softly. "Oh, Daddy."

Leaving her father there in the dark, she started back toward Keith.

The rattle of the semiautomatic rifle finally died away, but neither Jeff nor Jinx moved, remaining pressed against the side of the passage they'd turned into.

Another sound came to them-the clatter of something heavy falling onto the concrete floor.

Jeff's mind raced, trying to decide what to do. Whoever was out there hadn't been firing at them-they would have heard bullets ricocheting off the walls and pipes if the gunman had been shooting in their direction.

So whoever it was had shot the other way.

But why?

At what?

But what did it matter? Within a second or two the hunter would realize his mistake, reload, and then-

Unless I shoot first.

So there it was.

The rifle they'd taken from Monsignor McGuire was slung over his shoulder, and now Jeff took it in his hands. Reloaded with a full magazine, it felt strange-heavy, cold, and dangerous.

There was nothing about the gun that hinted at any kind of genuine sport. Jeff had seen hunting rifles before-dozens of them, in fact. He'd even admired some of them, for their remarkable craftsmanship. Some of the best had seemed almost warm to the touch, so perfectly was the wood of their stocks polished. Many had been inlaid with gold or silver or mother-of-pearl, giving the guns the look of a work of art.

Those were the guns used for target shooting or hunting game.

The gun in his hand, though, was purely utilitarian, constructed of cold metal and hard rubber, every part designed to function perfectly.

It was almost as if the rifle's designer had known it could have only one possible use, and had refused to try to disguise that use with any kind of beauty at all.

Jeff tightened his grip on the rifle, then released the safety.

Was that all he had to do? Was there nothing more left than to step out into the tunnel, point the thing in the direction from which the gunfire had come, and pull the trigger?

He looked around, searching in the darkness one last time for another way out, but knew there was none.

It was time to face whoever awaited him in the tunnel.

"Stay here," he whispered. "It's me they want. They don't care about you."

"But-"

Jinx's words were abruptly cut off by an anguished cry:

"My father! Don't you see? It was my father!"

Jeff stiffened, the echo of the words resounding off the walls, thundering down the tunnels, only to be back a split second later.

"My father… my father…father…"

"Heather," he whispered. He pictured himself standing in the middle of the tunnel, emptying the gun into the darkness with the intent of killing whoever might be there.

And he would have killed someone.

He would have killed Heather.

Dropping the rifle, Jeff Converse stepped out into the tunnel.

Keith heard the sound of someone moving in the darkness just beyond the range of his vision. He reached for the rifle he'd retrieved from the pool of blood beneath Viper's corpse and raised it to his shoulder after releasing the safety and putting the firing mechanism on automatic.

He peered into the scope and saw the silhouette of a man against the utility light that glowed in the distance. His finger began to tighten on the trigger, but as the figure took another step, he hesitated.

"Jeff?" he whispered, the name barely audible.

But it was enough for Heather. She was already racing down the tunnel toward Jeff, calling his name. Keith's impulse was to drop the rifle and run after her, to be with her when she threw her arms around his son. But he changed his mind.

Better to let them have their moment.

Putting the rifle aside, he reached into the backpack he'd taken from Vandenberg and took out the radio. Turning it on and putting the tiny headphone in his ear, he heard a voice.

Eve Harris's voice.

"This is Control. Report, Viper."

Keith raised the radio to his lips and spoke slowly and distinctly. "This isn't Viper," he said. "This is Keith Converse, Ms. Harris. Viper is dead. So are Mamba and Adder and Rattler. Maybe you can still save Cobra, whoever he is."

Dropping the radio back into the backpack, Keith moved down the tunnel to join his son.

Eve Harris glared furiously at the radio in her hand. It wasn't possible-Converse was trying to trick her! They couldn't all be dead-there was no way he could have beaten five perfectly armed men.

No-not five.

Only four.

Cobra-Arch Cranston-was still alive out there somewhere. So the two of them would finish the job the other four had botched.

Her eyes shifted from the radio to Malcolm Baldridge, who stood near the door to his private workroom. He was so still, she could almost mistake him for one of the trophies to which he'd so expertly applied his skills. "Get me a pack and a rifle!" she snapped.

Baldridge made no move until she took a step toward him, radiating fury, her eyes flashing dangerously.

"You can't-" Baldridge began, but she cut him off.

"Do what I tell you," she commanded, her voice low, but carrying enough danger to send Baldridge scurrying into the next room. While he was gone, she stripped off her street clothes and changed into a black jumpsuit that was only slightly too large for her. By the time she was dressed, Baldridge was back, carrying a backpack in one hand, a Steyr SSG-PI in the other.

"It has an infrared sight and-" Baldridge began, but Eve Harris didn't let him finish.

"I know what it has," she hissed, snatching the rifle from his hands and quickly checking it over. "And I know how to use it." She quickly rifled through the bag, replacing the radio with her own, setting its frequency to match Arch Cranston's. Finally, she put on a pair of night vision goggles, opened the door to the tunnel, and stepped through. As Baldridge closed and locked the door behind her, she switched the goggles on, the blackness of the tunnel giving way to a greenish glow. She moved her head slowly around, studying the tunnel in both directions.

Except for a large rat creeping along the wall to the left, the tunnel was empty. She reached into her backpack, groped until her fingers closed on the radio, then turned it on, pressed the transmit button, and whispered into the microphone.

"Cobra, this is Control. Come in."

When there was no response, she repeated her words, then swore under her breath as she dropped the radio into one of the pockets of her black jacket.

In her mind, she reviewed the maps of the tunnels the men had made over the years. The range of the radios was short, which meant that Converse was probably still closer to her than Arch Cranston, assuming Cranston was still alive. But could she assume that?