Rogue Threat by AJ Tata Page A

Matt figured, Ballantine was out for revenge on two different levels. First, on a personal level, he wanted to seek justice for his brother’s death. Since Ballantine probably knew that Zachary was dead, Matt would likely be the next-best target. Or perhaps the first-best target. Brother for brother. Second, Ballantine could also, through his prism, blame the United States for the loss of his brother and many of the other ills that had befallen Iraq over the last decade. So Hellerman was right, it was Ballantine who might be planning to distribute attacks throughout the United States with a purpose of wreaking havoc, reopening the still too-fresh wounds of 9/11. Like jujitsu , Matt thought, catch us leaning one way and follow up with a well-placed kick to disable us .
    “I see,” Matt said. “So he has delegated the dirty task of killing me to you? He wants you to avenge his grudge?”
    Once again, Matt’s mind was not truly monitoring the words his well-trained brain was formulating and causing his mouth to speak. Every ounce of his analytical power was operating faster, more powerfully than any Intel microchip could ever push a computer hard drive. Scores of chess moves played out, then the board reset, then another option played out, then the board reset, and so on.
    There is one last chance, and only one , he surmised.
    “A task that I do not mind at all. In fact, it gives me great pleasure to do this,” his lead captor said.
    Matt noticed as the man began to transfer the shotgun from a carrying position to a firing position that the butt stock was passing beneath the assassin’s armpit and would begin to rise toward his chest. Matt had run this possibility through five or six different permutations.
    As the butt stock passed the man’s armpit, Matt lunged with the quickness and ferocity of a mountain lion, catching both of his captors unawares. As part of his mental algorithm he had calculated the length of the long barrel and how much time it would take for the man with the musical voice to swing it into action. Having hunted fowl with a Browning before, Matt knew that the barrel was maddeningly long and that only skilled and experienced hunters could maneuver it with precision. Most fumbled clumsily with the awkward length. Matt had also noticed that both weapons seemed practically brand new. They were shiny, with a light sheen of oil, and clean, with no marring on the butt stocks.
    Without warning, Matt grabbed the long barrel and thrust it sharply upward, catching the man squarely under the jaw, snapping his head back and causing momentary shock. He kicked the stunned captor in the stomach as he ripped the shotgun from his grip, launching him off balance, then instinctively thumbed the safety off and fired into the belly of the man with the musical voice. The shotgun created a thunderous boom. But another boom, not created by Matt’s weapon, quickly followed and he felt a searing hot pellet rip through his biceps. Then he quickly fired another round into the skull of the backup man as if he were knocking down two quail that had taken flight at the point of his dog, Ranger.
    Matt confirmed what he already knew, that both of his captors were dead, as he moved briskly to the door. He realized that he would be in a race with the guard at the end of the hallway to Peyton’s room. Leading with the shotgun barrel, he quickly turned into the long hallway. He picked up the movement of the guard racing toward him, fumbling with his pistol, and Matt squeezed the trigger. The shot stood the guard straight up, splaying his hands into the air as if he had suddenly decided to surrender. The pistol came tumbling toward Matt, involuntarily tossed to him by the forward motion of the guard’s arm. Matt secured the pistol and stuffed it in his waistband. Then he snatched another pistol magazine from the guard’s belt, shoved it in his pocket, and moved toward Peyton’s door, still leading with the shotgun.
    He kicked the