Lethal Exposure by Kevin J. Anderson, Doug Beason Page B
Authors: Kevin J. Anderson, Doug Beason
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attacked.
“Whoa, wait a minute!” Goldfarb shouted, but the man hurled the object—a wrench he had been using on the diagnostics. The wrench flew with the precision of a circus knife thrower and struck Goldfarb high on the chest near his right shoulder. His arm instantly felt an explosion of pain, then went numb. He heard a crack of his collar bone, then the ball joint in his shoulder erupted in white internal fire from his nerve endings.
Goldfarb ducked aside while reaching behind him with his left hand. He dropped his badge wallet and ID, fumbling awkwardly for his weapon in the pancake holster beneath his belt. His right hand was useless, so he’d have to do the best he could, shoot left-handed.
The suspect’s eyes carried a feral glint of terror and desperation, like a cornered rat. The man wasn’t thinking about his actions, merely acting on keyed-up instinct. Goldfarb had stumbled upon something—and this man didn’t seem ready to surrender; he wasn’t even cowed by the presence of the FBI.
The man charged forward, head down. Goldfarb got his hand on the butt of his pistol and started to tug it free, though that sent another wave of pain through his broken shoulder. He clenched his teeth, working his finger around the trigger guard.
“Stop!” he commanded.
With a fleeting thought, a tiny scolding voice in his head told him how remarkable it was that he always managed to get himself into these situations.
The man rammed into Goldfarb like a linebacker smashing into an opposing quarterback. Goldfarb slammed backward into the computers and oscilloscopes, fighting for balance. Papers and desk paraphernalia cluttered to the floor. The wind whooshed out of him.
He managed to wrench his pistol around, pointing it at his opponent. But the man did not hesitate to grab Goldfarb’s wrist and jerk the pistol away from the aim point. The first, instinctive gunshot went wild, ricocheting off the concrete wall and embedding itself in the ceiling of the substation.
“You asshole,” the man said, yanking Goldfarb’s arm. The pain in his broken collar bone made him want to vomit.
Instead, using the momentum in his turning body, Goldfarb swung one of the desk chairs around. It was heavy and metal like surplus from an old army base. It struck the other man in the hip, knocking him sideways. Then Goldfarb jabbed upward with his knee, hoping to catch the outraged man in the groin—but instead he only brushed the side of his leg.
Viciously, the man swung a fist down, smashing Goldfarb’s collar bone where the wrench had hit. The pain made a black thunderstorm in his head, and Goldfarb’s knees turned to water.
Seizing his chance, the man grabbed the agent’s handgun. Goldfarb struggled to remain conscious against the waves of nausea, but the other man twisted the pistol around. Goldfarb lurched away from the computer terminals against which he had been pressed, gave one last burst of strength—but the man countered him, clawing at the pistol.
Again, the gun went off.
The shot sounded like a hand grenade exploding, and Goldfarb felt the bullet plow into his ribs with all the force of a pickup truck. The impact threw him into the wall of computers and oscilloscopes again. He heard shattering glass, sparks.
Unable to stand any longer, he slid down to the concrete floor, barely able to focus his eyesight against the competing avalanches of pain. His enemy wrenched the pistol out of his limp hand and stepped back, aiming the weapon toward Goldfarb. The FBI agent had a last, unsettlingly clear glimpse of a man with dark disheveled hair and a matted goatee, his face tightened into a knot of anger and panic.
Goldfarb hadn’t even had a chance to cry out.
Then the man stepped back, pointed the pistol again, and shot Goldfarb once more in the chest for good measure.
He fell the rest of the way to the hard, cold floor in a rapidly widening pool of his own blood.
CHAPTER 7
Tuesday, 2:07 P.M.
Wilson Hall
Fermi
“Whoa, wait a minute!” Goldfarb shouted, but the man hurled the object—a wrench he had been using on the diagnostics. The wrench flew with the precision of a circus knife thrower and struck Goldfarb high on the chest near his right shoulder. His arm instantly felt an explosion of pain, then went numb. He heard a crack of his collar bone, then the ball joint in his shoulder erupted in white internal fire from his nerve endings.
Goldfarb ducked aside while reaching behind him with his left hand. He dropped his badge wallet and ID, fumbling awkwardly for his weapon in the pancake holster beneath his belt. His right hand was useless, so he’d have to do the best he could, shoot left-handed.
The suspect’s eyes carried a feral glint of terror and desperation, like a cornered rat. The man wasn’t thinking about his actions, merely acting on keyed-up instinct. Goldfarb had stumbled upon something—and this man didn’t seem ready to surrender; he wasn’t even cowed by the presence of the FBI.
The man charged forward, head down. Goldfarb got his hand on the butt of his pistol and started to tug it free, though that sent another wave of pain through his broken shoulder. He clenched his teeth, working his finger around the trigger guard.
“Stop!” he commanded.
With a fleeting thought, a tiny scolding voice in his head told him how remarkable it was that he always managed to get himself into these situations.
The man rammed into Goldfarb like a linebacker smashing into an opposing quarterback. Goldfarb slammed backward into the computers and oscilloscopes, fighting for balance. Papers and desk paraphernalia cluttered to the floor. The wind whooshed out of him.
He managed to wrench his pistol around, pointing it at his opponent. But the man did not hesitate to grab Goldfarb’s wrist and jerk the pistol away from the aim point. The first, instinctive gunshot went wild, ricocheting off the concrete wall and embedding itself in the ceiling of the substation.
“You asshole,” the man said, yanking Goldfarb’s arm. The pain in his broken collar bone made him want to vomit.
Instead, using the momentum in his turning body, Goldfarb swung one of the desk chairs around. It was heavy and metal like surplus from an old army base. It struck the other man in the hip, knocking him sideways. Then Goldfarb jabbed upward with his knee, hoping to catch the outraged man in the groin—but instead he only brushed the side of his leg.
Viciously, the man swung a fist down, smashing Goldfarb’s collar bone where the wrench had hit. The pain made a black thunderstorm in his head, and Goldfarb’s knees turned to water.
Seizing his chance, the man grabbed the agent’s handgun. Goldfarb struggled to remain conscious against the waves of nausea, but the other man twisted the pistol around. Goldfarb lurched away from the computer terminals against which he had been pressed, gave one last burst of strength—but the man countered him, clawing at the pistol.
Again, the gun went off.
The shot sounded like a hand grenade exploding, and Goldfarb felt the bullet plow into his ribs with all the force of a pickup truck. The impact threw him into the wall of computers and oscilloscopes again. He heard shattering glass, sparks.
Unable to stand any longer, he slid down to the concrete floor, barely able to focus his eyesight against the competing avalanches of pain. His enemy wrenched the pistol out of his limp hand and stepped back, aiming the weapon toward Goldfarb. The FBI agent had a last, unsettlingly clear glimpse of a man with dark disheveled hair and a matted goatee, his face tightened into a knot of anger and panic.
Goldfarb hadn’t even had a chance to cry out.
Then the man stepped back, pointed the pistol again, and shot Goldfarb once more in the chest for good measure.
He fell the rest of the way to the hard, cold floor in a rapidly widening pool of his own blood.
CHAPTER 7
Tuesday, 2:07 P.M.
Wilson Hall
Fermi
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