T2, page 23
Dieter was impressed at the change in Waylon, from good ol’ boy to professional salesman, as well as relieved. That folksy charm got old fast. He was also impressed by the variety and quality of the goods offered, even though he’d known that Doc wouldn’t steer him wrong. Still, some of this stuff was brand-new and barely available to legitimate buyers.
Reaching into the trunk, he picked up a Barrett and worked the action; putting it to his shoulder, he checked the sight. Not light, but easy enough to use, and with enough punch to put down a Terminator. He noted several pieces that he wanted to purchase and started to ask about prices.
“I believe I’ve found von Rossbach’s backup,” the Sector agent reported. “A skinny guy with a CAR-15 aimed at the meeting place. Bridges and Hardy’s backup is still in hiding.”
“Roger that,” the project pilot said. “Hold your position. We’ll just stand by and wait for Mr. Bridges to make his move. When he does, make certain von Rossbach’s friend doesn’t interfere.”
“Roger that,” the agent said. “Out.”
The project pilot felt a spurt of excitement at the report. It had to be John Connor out there. At least he hoped it was—the reward for bringing him in would be immediate and very tangible. He smiled. Life was good.
He and his team had been in the area since noon. They’d checked out the gully and planted microphones in several spots as well as a couple of video cameras. There’d be ample documentation of this bust. And since there were seven agents to manage it, the recordings should make good theater.
Idly he wondered why von Rossbach had changed clothes and vehicles. The woman’s report of his terrible smell might explain the former, if not why he smelled so bad. But the change of vehicles? Admittedly, having a panic-stricken woman hidden in the toolbox might explain that, even if it didn’t explain why she was there in the first place.
The waitress had told them that von Rossbach claimed he couldn’t find the meeting place and she offered to draw him a map, then the way he looked and smelled caused her to panic. The cook had come rushing to her aid and von Rossbach had thrown him through the window.
The project pilot could believe that; the former agent was both huge and muscular as well as specially trained. They’d sent paramedics to the diner and the cook was in pretty bad shape.
Scary.
The strange thing was he’d kidnapped the woman because he needed her to show him to the meeting place. But if that was true, then how had he managed to conceal a car and a change of clothes nearby? And why?
Maybe von Rossbach had just plain gone nuts; his behavior this evening was certainly crazy. Suddenly the Austrian’s abrupt departure from the Sector seemed to put him under a cloud. Maybe he hadn’t left so much as been asked to leave. The project pilot shook his head. They’d find out when they had the man in custody.
If the problem was a mental breakdown, well, the Sector took care of their own. But if von Rossbach had gone rogue, well . . . again, the Sector took care of their own.
The T-101 watched the humans milling around in the gully, chattering and fondling weapons. Unfortunately John Connor wasn’t among them. But when they captured von Rossbach they would find out where he was hiding quickly enough.
It checked on the rest of its team. The other Terminators had landed five miles away in another, wider gully and were now running toward this place at approximately twenty miles an hour. By the time they arrived it should be dark enough to hide their presence.
For now it marked time and watched the humans it would kill.
“Now this one here’s my favorite,” Waylon said, picking up an Austrian Steyr assault rifle, a futuristic-looking bull-pup design with the magazine behind the pistol grip and a built-in optical sight.
Dieter glanced at the light weapon and dismissed it.
“I prefer something with a little more stopping power,” he said. Knowing that Bridges would, too, if the gunrunner had seen what the weapons would be used against. He leaned over and reached for a Carl Gustav recoilless rifle.
“Something more like this.” He hefted the weapon; it went over your shoulder, with grip and stock beneath the launching tube, and the shell would take out a light tank or armored car quite easily. Not bad on Terminators, either.
“Oh, I find this one has enough stopping power,” Waylon said cheerfully as he chambered a bullet. He pressed the gun to the back of the Austrian’s head. “Especially from this distance.”
Dieter froze, then slowly turned his head to give the gunrunner a narrow-eyed stare. “What is this?” he asked, his voice deadly quiet.
“This is a bust, asshole!” Luke said. Laughing, he pulled out a pair of handcuffs.
“Just put your hands behind your back real smooth like,” Waylon said, “so’s my buddy can lock you up. Don’t try no funny stuff. Hey, Luis!” he shouted.
Above them Luis stood, his rifle to his shoulder, his teeth glinting white in the gathering gloom as he grinned. “Shit, Waylon!” he said gleefully. “You got the bastard!”
“Told ja,” Waylon said smugly.
Luke approached von Rossbach cautiously and snapped a cuff on one of the big wrists; the band was almost too small and Hardy had to squeeze it shut.
Dieter winced as the metal pinched his flesh. His mind was working frantically. John wouldn’t shoot while the gun was to his head—at least he hoped not—or Bridges would probably squeeze the trigger reflexively and blow his head off. On the other hand, John had never shot a man before. He might not be able to do it.
My God! he suddenly thought. Did Doc set me up? It was possible, perhaps even likely. Dieter felt a profound sense of betrayal. “Why are you doing this?” he asked, his voice calm.
“Because you are worth a ton of money, buddy,” Luke said, clipping on the other cuff.
“We saw you on TV last night and we just had to have you.” Waylon laughed, lowering the gun. Then he looked at von Rossbach more seriously. “Besides, I don’t hold with cop killin’. Figured it’d be worth more to me to turn you in than to sell you guns. Man in my business never knows when he’s gonna need a favor, and arrestin’ you is gonna buy me a hell of a lot of favors.” He grinned and suddenly shouted, “Yeee-haw!”
Shoot him, John! Dieter thought viciously. Holmes hadn’t betrayed him; he’d just been snookered by bad luck and hillbilly greed. Shoot him!
I knew it! John thought. he cradled the rifle into his shoulder and waited for the right moment.
“Don’t move,” a voice said from behind him.
John stiffened, then slowly began to turn his head.
“Don’t turn around,” the voice said, sounding bored. “Turning around is moving. Don’t move until I tell you to move. Don’t do anything unless I tell you to. We don’t want to make any mistakes here.”
Somehow John didn’t think the voice went with good ‘ol boys incorporated down in the gully, so he obediently froze. Behind him he heard furtive movement. More than one person.
“We have taken the remote shooter prisoner,” the voice said.
Maybe, John thought.
“Okay, slowly now, put the rifle down at arm’s length in front of you, then push yourself away from it.”
Moving slowly, John complied, gently laying the rifle down; then putting his palms against the ground, he shoved himself backward.
“Again,” the voice demanded.
John complied, then waited.
“Okay, stand up slowly, hands up, then turn around.”
He rose and turned to find himself confronting two men dressed in black, their faces darkened; they wore night-vision goggles with the works turned up on their foreheads until it was dark enough for them to be useful, which should be any moment now. Both held FN-90 submachine guns on him and watched him warily. Commandos of some type, obviously, and just as obviously not connected with Bridges and Hardy, hick gunrunners. Maybe they were some kind of special police unit; the FN-90 was new, with a hot armor-piercing round.
“Hello,” John said. “Who are you?”
“We’re the guys who ask the questions, kid. You’re the guy who answers them and does what he’s told. Now that we know who everybody is, put your hands on your head, fingers locked.”
The man paused and for the first time John noticed the earpiece and microphone, though he’d surmised they must have them. You didn’t announce to the guy standing next to you that you’d taken a prisoner.
“Yes, sir,” the man said to the air. “C’mon,” he said to John, “we’re moving in.”
John glanced over his shoulder and saw nothing had changed down in the gully. Dieter was still in handcuffs, the gunrunners were still slapping each other on the back.
“Just keep your hands on top of your head and walk,” the talker said. “On our way,” he said into the microphone.
“Put your hands up, gentlemen,” a calm male voice said from out of the growing darkness.
Luis instinctively brought his rifle up and stared toward the place from which the warning had come.
“No, no, no, you don’t want to do that,” the voice said. “Look down.”
Luis cautiously looked at his chest and saw a red dot centered over his heart. Luke and Waylon immediately raised their hands and Luis dropped the gun as if it was suddenly red-hot.
“Thank you very much,” the voice said.
Footsteps sounded, coming in from every direction, and the gunrunners and von Rossbach looked around to spot the spokesman.
“Don’t look so worried, Dieter,” the voice said. “We know you’re in restraints.”
“Sully!” von Rossbach said in tones of disbelief.
A compact individual with graying dark hair walked down into the gully. “Yep,” he agreed, wearing a tiny smile.
“Last time I saw you, you were with—”
Sully interrupted him. “I was undercover.”
They looked at each other for a moment and Dieter shook his head slightly, trying not to grin. “Then I guess it’s a good thing I let you go.”
“Yeah,” Sully said sarcastically. “Straight down. Thanks.” Looking around as his team disarmed the prisoners. “You can put your hands down now, gentlemen.”
“Who the hell are you?” Waylon demanded. He glanced from von Rossbach to the black-clad man. “This guy is my prisoner. You have no right to take him from me. Those are my handcuffs on him and the reward is mine!”
“It certainly is, Mr. Bridges,” Sully agreed. “You might say we’re just saving you a few steps so that you can start celebrating that much sooner.”
“Oh, yeah,” Luke said, his eyes moving nervously over the silent men holding guns on him. “I don’t see no money around here. How do we know we can trust you?”
Sully looked at Dieter, a cynical smile curving one corner of his mouth. “You’d think he had a choice, wouldn’t you?”
Then he turned back toward the gunrunners; he slipped his hand under his vest, reached into his breast pocket, and extracted a check, which he held out to them. Waylon and Luke glanced uncertainly at each other. Sully tilted his head and shook the check at them teasingly.
“You don’t want it?” he asked. “Hey, I’ll be glad to put it back in the kitty. There’s never enough money around for fighting crime, y’know.”
Waylon reached out and grabbed the check. Unfolded it as Luke glanced from Sully to the check and back again. Amused, Sully reached out as though he was going to snatch it back. Bridges clutched it to his chest and as one the two gunrunners took a step back, wearing identically offended expressions.
Sully laughed and then turned serious. “Y’know, boys, there are some who’d say I didn’t need to give you anything at all since you’re out here committing a crime.”
“What crime?” Waylon demanded indignantly. “We’re apprehending a felon. We’re licensed.”
Sully went to the open trunk of Waylon’s car and picked up an Israeli-made antitank launcher. “Why . . . what’s this?” he asked in mock surprise. “Is this even on the market yet?,” He looked into the trunk. “And all of these other weapons . . . I may be wrong, but I don’t believe it’s legal for a private citizen to own a number of these.” He looked at the gunrunner. “Could I be mistaken?”
Luke nudged his partner and widened his eyes at him. Waylon frowned and nudged him back, hard enough to almost knock him off his feet. “They’re props,” he said. “We needed something to lure him out here where he couldn’t hurt anybody.”
Von Rossbach and all the men in black looked at him for a moment, then Sully turned to the big Austrian and they both grinned.
“That’s not bad,” Sully said, turning back to Bridges. “But you didn’t let me finish. See, this money isn’t just a reward. It’s a bribe to keep your mouth shut. You talk to anybody about what’s happened here tonight, and you and your buddies are going to be spending a very long time in a very high-security prison.” He looked each of the three men in the eyes. “Am I understood?”
The gunrunners nodded and shuffled, muttering unhappy agreement.
“Good!” Sully said happily. “Then you can go!”
The three men looked at him uncertainly for a moment, not moving.
“GO!” Sully bellowed, and slammed the trunk.
Suddenly he spun around and fell to the ground.
“Hit the dirt!” Dieter yelled, throwing himself down.
He rolled toward the car and hugged the side, looking into the darkness. Around him men in black leapt aside, disappearing as if by magic. Waylon, Luke, and Luis huddled at the back of the car as Bridges dug out his keys and unlocked the trunk.
“Let me out of these!” Dieter demanded.
Luke looked at Waylon, who hesitated, then nodded. Luke slipped forward, digging in his pocket for his key ring. He unlocked the cuffs and Dieter chaffed his wrists, giving the other man a hostile glance.
“Friends of yours?” he asked, gesturing toward the darkness.
Luke shook his head, then said “no” softly. “We didn’t tell anybody about this. Didn’t want to give anybody else a cut.”
Von Rossbach grunted. “You’d better give me a gun, then,” he said, and began to work his way to the back of the car.
The Infiltrator’s permission to kill had been acted upon instantly, much to Alissa’s dismay. Only one of the Terminators was in position; the others were still on the way. Her own fault, she realized, she should have phrased the order differently. More firepower would have made all the difference.
Only one human was down and Alissa, looking on remotely, was appalled. Everything in her own experience and even in Serena’s—up until the end, that is—had led her to believe that humans were easy prey. It was only when the Connors were involved that things became difficult.
Therefore, the Connors, one or both, were present. In which case there was no need to capture von Rossbach. Which should make things easier.
Even so the humans had reacted much more quickly than expected. The fault, of course, was that never in their brief existence had these Terminators faced humans who had been trained to kill and to respond to threat. Nor had she for that matter, a fact that suddenly frightened her.
*Terminate all humans present,* she ordered. *Let none escape.*
John led the two commandos over the gentle rise just in time to see another black-clad man below them spin and fall. Instinctively he fell to the ground; his captors followed suit.
“Roger that,” one of them said softly. “I can’t see anyone.”
Neither could John, but he was betting that the shooter had been in front of the man shot and he watched that side of the landscape, frustrated by the almost total darkness. He glanced back at the gully; only the civilians, if you could count Dieter as such, were huddled around the car, looking around anxiously. John assumed that meant there’d been no more shooting.
Heck, John thought, this is the great Southwest. It might have been some fool out shooting bottles and cans a mile away.
He turned toward his escorts and instinctively signed Quiet! Someone’s coming!—indicating the direction by pointing with two fingers. The men lowered their nightscopes and looked. One man! one of them signaled.
John could barely make him out; then off in the distance he saw another hint of movement. Hardly even movement; shadows among shadows, a clatter of a small rocks, shapes trotting forward. Somewhere a coyote howled, distant and as cold as the stars winking into sight in the darkening sky.
They’re not exactly sneaking around out there, he thought. Then the hair stood up on the back of his neck. My God. It’s them. Terminators. There was no mistaking that straight-forward walk that disregarded terrain and bullets equally. How many of them are there? Three at least, he answered himself, counting the shooter. He alerted the commandos, pointing off toward the one he’d spotted. He could no longer see it; the desert was becoming as black as pitch.
Clearly these Terminators weren’t in position yet and John wondered why the attack had gone forward without them.
Time seemed to crawl by as the four Terminators closed in on the gully. Alissa had read of this phenomenon, but this was the first time she’d experienced it. She pouted unhappily even as she felt her emotions becoming more and more muted due to the rebalancing of her brain chemistry that her computer was arranging. Knowing there were armed humans lurking in the dark, she’d ordered the Terminators to approach stealthily. To them that seemed to mean slow down.
For this she was not to blame. Their programming was designed to deal with a different war. Clearly this was something that she and her sister would have to look into.
She frowned impatiently, switching her viewpoint back to the first Terminator on the scene. The humans in the gully had taken refuge behind the car. The man who’d been shot was no longer in evidence. When queried, the Terminator confirmed that he’d been dragged behind the car by von Rossbach and one of the others.
