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Working swiftly, he pushed aside the biker's chest protector and uncased a Para-Ordnance 10+1
round, .45-caliber automatic from a shoulder holster strapped under an armpit. He trained the sights on the back of the biker standing on his right and pulled back the hammer. He had never fired a P-10
before, but from the feel, he knew the magazine was full and that the gun possessed most of the same features as his trusty old Colt .45, which was locked inside the NUMA vehicle he'd driven to Colorado from Washington.
The headlights on the motorcycles brightly illuminated the two killers, who failed to detect the figure stealing up behind them, but as Pitt crept closer, he passed in front of the light from the third bike, which was lying on the track, and he became identifiable to Ambrose.
The anthropologist spied Pitt emerging from the bright light, pointed behind the bikers, and blurted,
"How did you get back there?"
At the words, Pitt took careful aim and allowed his index finger to caress the trigger.
"Who are you talking to?" the first biker demanded.
"Little old me," Pitt said casually.
These men were top of the line in their profession. There was no hint of stunned surprise. No pointless discussion. No obvious questions. No hesitation or remote display of uncertainty. Their sixth sense worked as one. Their actions came with lightning speed. In a seemingly fused, well-practiced movement, they jerked the P-10 autos from their holsters and whirled around within a single second, the expressions on their faces frozen in cold implacability.
Pitt did not face the killers full-on, knees slightly bent, his gun gripped and extended in two hands directly in front of his nose, the way they taught in police academies or as seen in action movies. He preferred the classic stance, body turned sideways, eyes staring over one shoulder, gun stretched out in one hand. Not only did he present less of a target, but his aim was more precise. He knew that the gunslingers of the West who'd lived to a ripe old age had not necessarily been the fastest on the draw, but they were the straightest shooters, who'd taken their time to aim before pulling the trigger.
Pitt's first shot took the biker on the right in the nape of his neck. A slight, almost infinitesimal shift of the P-10 as he squeezed the trigger for the second time, and the biker on the left took a bullet in the chest at nearly the same instant his own gun was lining up on Pitt's silhouetted figure. Pitt could not believe that two men could react as one in the blink of an eye. Had they been given another two seconds to snap off a shot, it would have been Pitt whose body fell heavily across the granite floor of the mine tunnel.
The gunshots erupted like a deafening barrage of artillery fire, reverberating throughout the rock walls of the tunnel. For ten seconds, perhaps twenty-- it seemed more like an hour-- Pat, Ambrose, and Marquez stared unbelievingly at the dead bodies at their feet, eyes wide and glazed. Then the tentative beginnings of a dazed hope and the final realization that they were still alive broke the horror-numbed spell.
"What in God's name is going on?" Pat said, her voice low and vague. Then she looked up at Pitt.
"You killed them?" It was more a statement than a question.
"Better them than you," Pitt said, putting his arm around her shoulders. "We've experienced a nasty nightmare, but it's almost over now."
Marquez stepped past the rails and leaned down over the dead killers. "Who are these people?"
"A mystery for law-enforcement authorities to solve," replied Ambrose. He thrust out a hand. "I'd like to shake your hand, Mr. . ." He paused and looked blank. "I don't even know the name of the man who saved my life."
"It's Dirk Pitt," said Pat.
"I'm deeply in your debt," said Ambrose. He seemed more agitated than relieved.
"As am I," added Marquez, slapping Pitt's back.
"What mine do you think they entered to get here?" Pitt asked Marquez.
The miner thought a moment. "Most likely the Paradise."
"That means they purposely trapped themselves when they blew the dynamite that caused the avalanche," said Ambrose.
Pitt shook his head. "Not purposely. They knew they could make their way back to the surface by another route. Their big mistake was in using too massive a charge. They hadn't planned on the earth tremors, the collapse of the tunnel, and the opening of the underground fissures that allowed the water to rise and flood the tunnel."
"It figures," agreed Marquez. "Since they were on the opposite side of the cave-in, they could have easily ridden their bikes up the sloping shaft ahead of the flooding to the entrance. Finding it blocked with snow, they began searching connecting tunnels for a way out--"
"And after riding lost through the mines for hours, eventually came upon us," finished Ambrose.
Pitt nodded. "By riding up the Paradise's entrance shaft to this level, they saved climbing the vertical shafts we were forced to struggle through."
"It's almost as if they were looking for us," Marquez murmured.
Pitt didn't voice his thoughts to the others, but he was certain that once the bikers had ridden to the upper levels to escape the flooding, they had then followed in the footsteps of the four of them.
