Dore Peretz' chest still felt like it was on fire, a burning sensation
that seemed to spread across the entire front of his torso; in fact, he
felt like shit. And he had almost been blinded by the intense blue
laser strobes that had purged the island when the Cyclops kicked on.
However, in all the confusion surrounding the lift-off of VX-1, nobody
had bothered to wonder where he was. That part suited him fine.
Donning the bulletproof vest around midnight had been the best idea of
his life. . . . No, that wasn't true. The best of all was coming up.
Sometimes, he thought, life could have a moment so delicious it made up
for all your past disappointments. And you could either seize that
moment, or you could forever let it pass, wondering what it would have
been like. Not this one, baby.
As he passed through the lobby, he noticed the security door leading
into Command had been blown away with some kind of military explosive.
Probably C-4. Curious, he paused and assessed the damage. Hey, the
television down in Launch hadn't really done the assault justice. Must
have been one hell of a show.
Then he stepped inside and checked out the scene.
Jesus! The place was a mess, showed all the signs of a bloody assault.
Luckily, however, the emergency lights were working, their harsh beams
perfect for what he wanted to do now. There was definitely plenty of
evidence of gunfire, flecked plaster from the walls, and over there . .
. Christ! It was Jamal, or what was left of Jamal. Little fucker's neck
looked like he'd had a close encounter with a chain saw. Not far away
was Salim, shot in the face. Then, on the other side of the room, was
the body of the last German Stasi, Peter Maier. His demise had come
neatly, right between the eyes.
Smooth piece of work, you had to admit. The only asshole unaccounted
for was Jean-Paul Moreau. So what happened to that arrogant French
prick? Did he escape, get captured? . . . Who gave a shit?