Shadowfires

you.”
    “He was too proud,” she said. “Always was. He liked to brag about
his accomplishments.”
    “Ninety-five percent of
Geneplan's staff is in the dark about the Wildcard Project,” Vincent said. “It's
that sensitive. Believe me, no matter how much you may have hated
him, he thought you were special, and he wouldn't have bragged about it to anyone else.”
    “I
didn't hate him,” she said. “I pity him. Especially now. Vincent, did you know he'd
broken the cardinal rule?”
    Vincent shook his head. “Not until… tonight. It was a mad thing to
do.”
    Intently watching the bald man, Ben reluctantly decided that the
guy was experienced with the Combat Magnum and would not be startled
by its recoil. is grip on it was not at all casual; his right hand
was clenched tightly. His aim was not casual, either; his right arm
was extended, stiff and straight, elbow locked, with the muzzle lined
up between Rachael and Ben. He would only have to swing it a couple
of inches in either direction to blow one or both of them away.
    Unaware that Ben could be of more use in such a situation than
he'd ever given her reason to believe, Rachael said, “Forget the damn gun, Vincent. We don't
need guns. We're all in this together now.”
    “No,” Vincent said. “No, as far as the rest of us are concerned,
you're not in this. Never should've been. We simply don't trust you, Rachael. And this friend of yours…”
    The dirty-gray eyes shifted focus from Rachael to Ben. His gaze
was piercing, disconcerting. Although his eyes lingered on Ben only a
second or two, there was an iciness in them that was transmitted to
Ben, sending a chill along his spine.
    Then, having failed to detect that he was dealing with someone far
less innocent than appearances indicated, Vincent looked away from
Ben, back at Rachael, and said,
“He's a complete outsider. If we don't want you in this, then we
certainly aren't about to make room for him.”
    To Ben, that statement sounded ominously like a death sentence,
and at last he moved with a sinuosity and lightning speed worthy of a
striking snake. Taking a big chance that the second command to the
voice-activated switch would be as simple as the first, he said,
“Lights off!” The room instantly went dark as he
simultaneously threw the flashlight at
Vincent's head, but, Jesus, the guy was already turning to fire at him, and Rachael was screaming-Ben hoped she was diving for the floor-and the sudden darkness was cast into confusion by the whipping beam of the tumbling Eveready, which he hoped would be enough to give him the edge, an edge he badly needed because, just a fraction of a second after the lights went out and the flashlight left his hand, he was already pitching forward, onto the malachite desk in a sliding belly flop that ought to carry him across and into Vincent, committed to action, no turning back now, all of this like a film run at twice its normal speed, yet with an eerie objective time sense so slowed down that each second seemed like a minute, which was just the old program taking control of his brain, the fighting animal taking charge of the body. In the next single second a hell of a lot happened all at once: Rachael was still screaming shrilly, and Ben was sliding, and the flashlight was tumbling, and the muzzle of the Magnum flashed blue-white, and Ben sensed a slug passing over him so close it might have singed his hair, heard the whine of its passage even above the thunderous roar of the shot itself- skeeeeeeeen -felt the coldness of the polished malachite through his shirt, and the flashlight struck Vincent as the shot exploded and as Ben was crossing the desk, Vincent grunted from the blow, the flash rebounded and fell to the floor, its lance of light coming to rest on a six-foot piece of abstract bronze sculpture, and Ben was off the desk by then, colliding with his adversary, both of them going down hard. The gun fired again. The shot went into the ceiling. Ben was sprawled on top of Vincent in the darkness, but with a perfect intuitive sense of the relationship of their bodies, which made it possible for him to bring a knee up between the man's
thighs, smashing it into the unprotected crotch, and Vincent screamed
louder than Rachael, so Ben rammed his knee up again, showing no
mercy, daring no mercy, chopped him in the throat, too, which cut off
the scream, then hit him along the right temple, hit him again, hard,
harder, and a third shot rang out,