Page 92 of Rising Tiger

Grabbing an edge of the foil with his free hand, he began tearing it away. He pulled the material off the front and then all the way down one side. There were no gunports that he could see.

He tried to open it, but it was locked. There was a keypad next to the door and he punched in a few random combinations, but nothing worked. Each attempt was greeted by a blinking red light and an error buzzer. He gave up.

The container appeared to be fabricated out of thick steel and probably offered a certain level of ballistic protection. He’d need a plasma cutter or, if it was thicker than two inches, an oxyacetylene torch to get in there. Despite everything else he had brought for this job, neither of those items had been on the list. He would literally have to “smoke” them out.

Taking a look again at the HVAC system, he realized that while the steel box might function as an impromptu panic room, that wasn’t its primary goal. It was likely stuffed with computer equipment that needed to be kept cool. That was the container’s Achilles’ heel. If he could get a fire going in the system, the container would fill with smoke and they’d have no choice but to open the door.

He moved back into the bedroom proper, looking for anything that would be easy to burn and would create a lot of smoke.

That was when he heard a noise from the hallway.

It wasn’t a groaning floorboard or a door creaking on its hinges. It was the telltale sound of battle rattle—one piece of tactical gear bumping up against another. And it had the effect of a starting gun being fired.

As Carbon dove for cover, the two men he had been hunting stepped into the doorway wearing chest rigs and carrying CZ Scorpion EVO 3 A1 submachine guns.

Somehow they had not only managed to evade him and sneak up on him from behind, but they had also completely upgraded their equipment. That was why the cigar smoker’s jacket was on the bed. It was much easier to throw a chest rig on over a shirt. They probably had gear stored in the foil-wrapped SCIF.

The bullets from the Scorpions rained down like liquid fire and reverberated throughout the stone room like amplified thunder.

Everything was being torn up. Chips of stone, plaster, and splinteredwood choked the air. Carbon was pinned down and had yet to return fire.

The two men took turns shooting, each covering the other while he reloaded. For the assassin, it was like being the target of some crazed helicopter gunship.

It was relentless. The intensity of the rounds coming at him was off the charts. These guys obviously had one very specific rule of engagement—no survivors. It explained the scale of devastation from the antipersonnel devices in the woods. In short, the Carlton Group didn’t fuck around.

Neither did Carbon.

Transitioning his pistol to his left hand, he slid a fragmentation grenade from the equipment belt beneath his jacket, removed the pin, and prepared to hurl it toward his attackers, but he couldn’t pull his arm all the way back. Something was wrong.

Looking down at his shoulder, he saw that it was drenched in blood. He had been shot.

He set his pistol in his lap, visualized the distance to the hallway, and, using his left hand, tossed the grenade through the oncoming fire.

It bounced against the doorframe, landed on the threshold, and before the two men could scramble to cover, detonated.

The hail of shrapnel had been close enough to do serious damage, but not close enough to kill them.

Carbon had used the explosion to scramble into the Troll’s side of the his-and-her bathroom. He needed a towel, antiseptic, and medical supplies, but all of that would have to wait until he was sure he had neutralized the threat.

Passing through the other bathroom, he found a door that was open onto the hall. Both men were slumped against the wall, bleeding as bad as him. Their weapons lay nearby, but not in their hands.

Still deadly accurate, he stepped out of the bathroom with his pistol in his left hand.

“Who else is on the property?” he demanded. “Who’s on their way?”

Davis looked at him and smiled, weakly. “Everyone is on their way. They’reallcoming.”

“Where’s the man they call the Troll?”

“Never met him.”

Carbon kept his eyes locked with Davis, turned his pistol on Hauptmann, and shot him in the stomach.

The Marine roared in agony and struggled to get to his rifle. The assassin, his ears still ringing from the gunfight, kicked both weapons away and relieved the men of their sidearms.

“I’ll ask you one last time,” he said. “Where’s the Troll? Tell me, or the next round goes through your colleague’s skull.”

Suddenly there was a voice from behind. Someone had climbed the stairs, but he hadn’t heard them coming.

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