raced ahead for the girl, praying she was still alive.
He fell down next to her shattered, bleeding body. Her face was intact, her unblinking eyes opened to the sky above. Jack felt for a pulse but knew before he touched her that she was gone.
Jack wept.
Beyond the bullet wounds he saw a body brutalized. Her nails were torn away from bloody and callused fingers, and her bruised flesh scabbed and purpled.
The girl was fleeing the mountaintop, terrorized and terrified. She might have escaped if she had stayed on the trail, hiding among the boulders. But she saw him and thought he was chasing her, too.
In a way, he’d caused her death.
Jack glanced up at the summit.
Whoever had killed that girl was on top of that mountain.
Something broke in him.
He stood, trembling with rage.
Suddenly his mind narrowed, his focus singular and pure.
All of his life had led him to this moment.
And if it was his last, so be it.
Somebody had to pay.
For all of the evil, and all of the pain, and all of the hell on earth, or at least his corner of it.
Right here. Right now.
He knew he didn’t stand a chance. He had no weapons, no food, no strength.
There was only one thing he could do.
Fight like hell anyway.
78
CYBERSPACE
CHIBI’s computer received the last of the four acknowledgments. With four—well, technically five—proof-of-concept demonstrations, each of the four bidders—Iran, China, Russia, and the Iron Syndicate—now understood the value of what was being put up for auction.
The time—two days from now—was set, as were the place and conditions. Everything had gone according to plan.
How high the bidding would go was anybody’s guess. But that was the point of a blind auction, wasn’t it? What would America’s fiercest enemies be willing to pay for unlimited and undetectable access to the totality of Western intelligence—past and present—twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week?
A billion?
Ten billion?
More?
However high the bidding went—and truly, the sky was the limit—all of it would land in CHIBI’s digital pocket.
More than enough money to disappear, to reinvent, to resurrect in a new face, a new body, a new reality.
Good-bye, CloudServe.
* * *
—
Jack scrambled back up the slope and onto the trail.
The Cayuse had disappeared and was out of earshot; whether it landed back on the mountaintop or flew away, he didn’t know. It could reappear at any moment, and the trail was probably monitored. He began using whatever cover he could, crouching low and scrambling fast among the jagged boulders through which the trail now threaded.
Up ahead, heavy boots scuffed in the dirt and rocks, heading his way. No doubt somebody sent down to verify the kill and dispose of the corpse. Jack ducked behind a boulder just off the trail and held his breath.
A voice crackled on a radio as heavy footfalls crunched past. Jack timed his swing perfectly. A sharp, softball-sized stone in his hands thudded hard into the soft flesh of the bearded man’s temple, spraying hot blood onto Jack’s numb face.
The bearded man hit the ground face-first, dead before his forehead broke open against a jagged stone embedded in the trail.
Jack scrambled to pull the corpse off the trail and back behind the boulder where he’d been hiding just in case another man was following behind or someone was watching up above.
The bearded man was Jack’s size—a little taller, actually. That was lucky. He stripped the man of his camouflage coat and pulled it on, along with his black woolen watch cap. The cool breeze had picked up and blew colder, dragging black clouds across the late-afternoon sky.
Jack secured the man’s Glock ten-millimeter pistol and tossed it into the coat pocket along with the two extra mags he was carrying. Jack quickly unlaced the man’s boots and pulled them off. He stripped off his own wet socks and pulled on the man’s dry but stinking woolen socks, then pulled on one of the man’s unlaced boots. It was a near perfect fit for Jack’s swollen, blistered foot.
He slipped on the other boot, snagged the handheld radio, and headed up. Voices chattered on the speaker, mostly in accented English.
He heard a name—Rodrigo—called out three or four times. Must’ve been the name of the guy he’d killed. Jack lifted the radio and clicked the transmit button on and off like it was broken, and muttered gibberish until he finally heard the response, “Damn radios. Never mind. Just get your ass back up here. Rain is on the way. Out.”
Rodrigo won’t mind the rain now, Jack thought.
And