The Hunters (Presidential Agent 3)

There was suddenly the sound of submachine gunfire, very loud in the low-ceilinged garage. Castillo saw where it was coming from. There were orange flashes from three, maybe four muzzles beside the white ECO laundry truck.

“Oh, shit!” Castillo said as he jumped out of the Traffik.

He saw that Pevsner was down, sprawled flat on the floor, and that János was sitting down, pistol in hand, bleeding from at least one wound in his side and looking dazed.

Castillo emptied the Micro Uzi in two bursts directed in the general direction of the ECO truck and reached for a second magazine.

Then came fire from the other side of the ECO laundry van, the peculiar, familiar sound of a Car-4 being fired in short controlled bursts of three to five rounds each.

Who the hell is that? Davidson or Kensington? One of them must’ve got out of the car to cover the laundry truck.

Then immediately—before Alfredo Munz, carrying a pistol, could get out of the Traffik—there came the sound of more short bursts from a Car-4 in the vicinity of the BMW and then the familiar report of a 1911A1 Colt .45 semiautomatic. The .45 was being fired steadily but some what slowly, suggesting aimed fire from a skilled pistoleer.

“All down!” a voice that only after a moment Castillo recognized as that of Sergeant Major Jack Davidson called out. “Hold fire!”

As Castillo, his ears ringing madly, ran to see what had happened to Pevsner, he saw Davidson running—carefully—toward the ECO van with his Car-4 at the ready.

János, still sitting holding his pistol, looked at Castillo without comprehension—

then fell over. Castillo dropped to his knees and felt for a pulse. There was one.

Where the hell is Pevsner?

Max answered the question. The big dog was growling deep in his throat and trying unsuccessfully to get under the Mercedes.

“Come out of there with your hands up!” a very sincere—if some what youthful—voice ordered from behind Castillo.

Castillo turned to see Corporal Lester Bradley holding a 1911A1 Colt .45 in both hands aimed at the underside of the Mercedes.

Well, now I know who that skilled, timed-firing pistoleer was.

“Okay, Max,” Castillo ordered, in Hungarian. “Sit!”

Max, visibly reluctant to do so, sat but did not stop growling. His lips were drawn tight against a very impressive row of massive teeth.

“Come out, Alek,” Castillo called.

When Max saw movement, he stood up.

“Goddamn it, Max, sit!”

Aleksandr Pevsner appeared.

“Hands up, goddamn it!” Bradley ordered.

Pevsner got to his knees, then to his feet, and raised both hands in the air.

There is fear on ol’ Alek’s face. But what’s scaring him? Max? Or the boy with the .45 pointed at his forehead? So far, he’s managed not to get shot…

“He’s okay, Bradley,” Castillo said, then saw the dog moving again. “Max! Sit!”

“Can you control that animal so I can go to János?” Pevsner asked.

“Go ahead,” Castillo said, pointing a finger at Max and mouthing Stay!

“Is he dead?” Pevsner asked as he dropped to his knees beside János.

“Not as of thirty seconds ago,” Castillo said.