73. Chapter Seventy-Three
Chapter seventy-three
The sudden sharp whip crack of Zeqiri’s pistol felt like an ice pick in Noble’s brain. Tiled walls in the underground cavern system amplified the piercing beat of the gunshot, turning each report into thunderous cannon blast.
Noble’s arm came up, returning fire before he even had a target, and he dodged toward the inside of the curve where he’d have some small amount of cover.
Bullets skipped off the floor near his feet, turned tiles into powder and zipped through the air around his head.
Noble never stopped moving. Moving targets are deceptively hard to hit.
He thrust the Browning out in front of him and skirted along the wall in a crouch.
His heart crowded up into his throat where it made breathing difficult.
He spotted the muzzle flash from Zeqiri’s weapon, aimed in that general direction and squeezed the trigger.
Three rapid explosions issued from the Browning.
Fire leap from the barrel and gleaming brass cartridges went tumbling like tiny acrobats.
Noble reached the inside wall, narrowed his eyes which were nearly blind now from the muzzle flashes, and fired two more shots before retreating along the curve, trying to put as much stone between him and Zeqiri as possible.
How many shots have I fired, Noble wondered?
Five? Six?
His brain, amped with adrenaline, had lost count. The Browning held eight in the magazine. Two shots left. Maybe three. That left no room for error.
Zeqiri had stopped shooting.
Heavy silence descended.
Noble shuffled back along the sweep of the wall and shouted, “Give it up, Zeqiri! It’s over. You aren’t going far with a bullet rattling around in your belly. I’m surprised you made it this far.”
Noble kept the Browning aimed into the shadows, trying to pick out a shape, or movement.
Nothing stirred in the blackness. The silence stretched.
Noble’s heart rate started to migrate back down into his chest. He gasped for air.
“Zeqiri! Don’t kid yourself. Your men are dead.
The buyer’s dead. We rolled up your entire organization.
Your plan failed. Best thing you can do now it give yourself up and tell us where to find Kadare. ”
When Zeqiri didn’t answer, Noble shouted, “Come on, Zeqiri. Be smart. Surrender and cut a deal. Give us Kadare and maybe you get a few amenities in prison.”
The only sound was Noble’s own pulse hammering in his ears. He stood there in darkness, back against the clammy tile, and waited.
Zeqiri could have turned and fled. Or he could be laying there in wait.
Noble opened his mouth wide in an effort to relieve some of the pressure on his ears and wiped sweat from his eyes before carefully edging forward.
He reached the first spill of light and took a deep breath before moving into the illuminated circle created by the overhead.
His shadow first trailed him, then stretched out before him.
A moment later he was back in the darkness and hurrying forward.
He reached the next lighted spot and plunged through as quickly as he could.
A moment later he heard a soft wheeze and trained his gun in the direction of the sound.
There, in the false twilight, Noble spotted the slumped form of Zeqiri sprawled out on the floor.
“Let me see some hands, Zeqiri!” Noble ordered as he closed the distance.
But Zeqiri didn’t move. Either he’d finally lost enough blood and passed out, or Noble had gotten lucky with one of his blind shots and managed to tag the Albanian captain in the dark. Either way, Zeqiri lay in a heap.
Heart squeezing painfully hard inside his chest, Noble put one foot in front of the other, closing the distance, until he was close enough to kick the Albanian with a boot.
Zeqiri let out a weak groan.
As Noble’s eyes adjusted, he saw a fallen pistol and a slick of dark blood on the floor around the captain.
No one lost that much blood and lived to tell.
Not without a fast transfusion anyway. Zeqiri was on his way out, if he wasn’t dead already.
And he’d take any clue as to the whereabouts of Doctor Kadare with him.
Noble kicked the pistol, sent it sliding across the tunnel, then reached for Zeqiri’s shoulder. “Talk to me, Zeqiri. Tell me where I can find the doctor, and I’ll get you some medical help.”
With a wheezing grunt, Zeqiri rolled onto his back. His body had concealed the aluminum case, which was open. Inside were eleven sealed containers, with slots for twelve. The last container was in Zeqiri’s hand. And it was open.
Noble instinctively covered his mouth and nose with his elbow, for all the good it would do.
Zeqiri grinned weakly. “Too late, American. I killed you.”
His eyes rolled up in their sockets and Zeqiri let out one last rattling breath.
Noble stood and backed away, but he already knew it was a lost cause.
Zeqiri had released the virus. In such tight quarters, there was no way for Noble to avoid contracting the disease.
His first instinct was to turn around and get out of there, as quickly as possible.
But that was pointless. He’d carry the virus with him.
Judging by the size of the container in Zeqiri’s hand, Noble had gotten a hefty dose of the fatal pathogen.
Leaving now would only spread the sickness.
Noble reached into his pocket for the antidote. His fingers encountered a wet slick. His brow pinched. He backed up into the light where he could get a better look and found that one of the ampules had smashed.
He must have landed on it when he threw himself to the ground, trading bullets with the Iranians.
One left.
Noble put his back to the tiles, sank down onto his butt and weighed the vial of antivirus on his open palm.
One dose in a city with a population of several hundred thousand people.
Noble cursed.
He put the vial on the ground between his legs and took out his cellphone, hoping he would have a signal. The screen showed zero bars.
And was it just the adrenaline, or was he feeling feverish? He put a hand to his forehead. He was dripping sweat, but that might be all the physical activity of the last half hour.
He checked the phone again. Still no bars.
He’d like to make a few phone calls before he went out, tell people goodbye.
The tunnel was blocking cell signal. No chance of getting a call through.
He looked again at the plastic package with the syringe.
He could save himself, see Sam again, see his mother.
But where would that leave Zagreb? Or the rest of the world for that matter.
Sam would need the last bottle of antidote to synthesize a cure. She’d understand.
Hopefully she’d understand.
Noble rested the back of his head against the tile.
He felt an invisible feather tickle his throat and resisted the urge to cough as long as possible, because coughing proved the worst. His face bunched up and the cough finally forced its way out.
Noble rubbed his throat. The skin around his neck felt swollen and hot.
A face full of concentrated airborne pathogen goes to work fast apparently.
One hand went to the antidote. He held it up in front of his eyes. His vision was starting to blur, but that might be the tears. Noble thought long and hard, then put the bottle back down on the floor and closed his eyes.