The Operative (A Star Trek novel)

Chapter Twenty-Four

Armed men and women pass within arms' reach of where he huddles, and McCoy tries to pull back even more into the pile of metal tailings, leftovers from some milling operation. If he could, he would try to think like a piece of metal. The metal shards are pricking him in a hundred places, and his borrowed uniform has begun to rub him raw in the most intimate locations, but these are the least of his worries. It's only a matter of time, he knows, before someone comes along with a tricorder.

It's been only a few minutes since the guards spewed from the building. Some sixth sense seemed to warn him that the people opening the door were not Kirk and Spock. Had he not listened, had he not bolted for cover, they would have seized him immediately.

He knows he has to make his move soon, or not at all. No use going inside for the other two; he'll do them no good getting captured, too. And his hand phaser seems pitiful armament indeed against all the armored figures.

Damn it, he thinks, I wish one of them was out here and I was in there. They'd know what to do—I'm a doctor, not James Bond.

When the guards turn the corner, he takes a deep breath and is off and running. He is not in as good of shape as he once was, but he nonetheless covers the ground at an impressive speed, then leaps high and hits the electrified fence well off the ground, praying that it is just a hunk of metal and nothing fancier. It is. Unless he touches something that grounds him, he is safe on the fence, like a bird on a high-tension wire. Some of the better fences weave ground wires among the others, where someone climbing them is sure to be fried. He says a silent prayer of thanksgiving for whatever budget cut led to them buying the cheaper model.

He scrambles up and over, then jumps well away, almost spraining his ankle in the process. Then he is gone into the shadows toward downtown.

Into the shadows behind him silently plunges the young, blond-haired man from inside, carefully keeping a respectable distance between himself and the doctor. It is probably just as well that no one is present to glimpse his chilling grin.

❖

McCoy usually is confident, a confidence borne of good training and exceptional skill. Ask anyone who has ever watched him operate. In his other role, as Starfleet officer, he is equally self-assured, as befits the company he keeps.

Now, however, he finds himself dithering. He called Helena from a public phone and gave her the code signal meaning "dissolve the cell," which was a laugh, really. The cell had been effectively dissolved by the armed people back at the shield generator. By now, she will gotten her charges out of the house, and the injured remnants of the cell will go to ground. Of Helena, he knows not where she will go.

He can't decide whether to go to the safehouse to try to find her, or to keep away. He knows what makes sense—he could lead someone right to her and the others. But he is afraid that if he doesn't find her now, he may never find her again. Or, worse, that something might happen to her. He has only known her for couple of days, but already she is, he is forced to admit, special to him.

Probably that whole groupie thing she has going, he chides himself. You old fool. You think Kirk is the only one whose ego gets a boost from a pretty young thing?

He shakes his head and gives up the idea of doing some damn fool hero stunt. She'll be fine, or she won't. He'll see her again, or he won't. More importantly, he has to find some way to free his friends, carry on the mission.

His one hope is that there are other cells in this city that can help him. It is a vague, but powerful hope. Besides, it is the only alternative available to him at the moment. Though he has his communicator, there is little chance that there are friendly ships in orbit, and even if there are, they will undoubtedly be so busy with Ocht's orbital defenses or his little Klingon and Romulan friends that they won't be able to drop their shields to beam him up.