"Kill him!" Robert Capesterre shrieked repeatedly like a mad man.
"Kill him!"
Pitt heaved in a corkscrew motion and brought his fist up from the floor, striking Ibn in the Adam's apple. With the cartilage of the larynx crushed, most men would have gagged to death-the rest should have at least gone unconscious. Ibn did neither. He simply clutched his throat, made a terrible gurgling voice and reeled backward.
They both struggled drunkidly to their feet, Pitt hopping on one leg, Ibn gasping for air, his mangled right hand hanging useless. They stood there, facing each other like wounded pit bulls catching their breath for the next round, warily eyeing each other to see who would make the first move.
It came from an unexpected quarter. Capesten-e suddenly came to his senses and threw himself on the Colt, fiercely struggling one-handed to pry the frozen fingers from the grip.
The dead hand fell away.
Then, like a game of musical chairs, Capesterre's grab triggered a like response from Ibn and Pitt. They quickly looked around for the weapons nearest them.
Pitt lost. The shotgun was in Ibn's corner. So was the Roman sword.
any port in a storm, Pitt thought. He kicked out wildly with the foot of his wounded leg, connecting with Capesten-e's rib cage, but suffering a grinding pain from the effort. He also hurled the shield like a Frisbee at Ibn, s g the Arab on the stomach and knocking the wind out of him.
A loud wailing cry gushed from Capesterre's lips. He dropped the Colt and Pitt caught it in midair. It was a nearperfect catch-His hand slipped around the bloodied grip and his finger through the trigger guard. Ibn, doubled over by the blow from the shield, was still awkwardly lifting the pistolized shotgun with his left hand when Pitt fired.
Pitt tightened his grip for the next recoil. Th
e Arab stumbled backward against the chamber wall, and then his body fell forward onto the floor and his head struck with a repugnantthud.
Pitt stood panting through clenched teeth. Only then did he hear a familiar voice shout through the speaker.
"Get out of there!" Hollis was yelling. "for Jesus' sake, run for it!"
Pitt was temporarily disoriented. He was so busy fighting Ibn he forgot which passage led to the easier tunnel and which to the more difficult crater exit. He took a last fleeting glimpse of Robert Capesterre.
The face was ashen from the loss of blood but not, Pitt saw, with fear.
Hate filled the eyes of Topiltzin.
"Enjoy your trip to hell," Pitt said.
Capesterre's reply was the smoke bomb. He had somehow pulled the primer pin. Smoke instantly burst and fined the interior of the chamber with a densely packed orange cloud.
"What happened?" the President asked, staring at the strange orange mist that blocked out the camera view of the chamber.
"Capesteffe must have been carrying some kind of a smoke-screening device," Chandler answered.
"Why haven't the explosives gone off?"
"One moment, Mr. President." Chandler looked off-camera and conversed angrily with an aide. Then he turned back. "Colonel Hollis of the Special Operations Forces insists on a direct order from you, sir."
"Is he in charge of the detonation?" demanded Metcalf.
"Yes, General."
"Can you patch him into our communications network?"
"One moment."
Four seconds was all it took before Hollis's face was peering from one of the monitors in the Situation Room.
"I-you can't see me, Colonel," said the President.
"But you'recognize my voice."