Free Vulcan's Forge by Jack Du Brul

body. The instant before his fist smashed into the man’s face, Mercer bent his arm, and his elbow connected solidly with Rosenburg’s cheek. Tish muffled a scream in her hands as the doctor’s head whipped around and he slammed into the wall.
    Mercer turned to her. “Get dressed now, I’m getting you out of here.”
    Rosenburg was already regaining his feet, a six-inch stiletto in his hand. Mercer bent at the knees and torqued his body around, extending one leg in a sweep. The man fell back, his body shaking the wall when he hit. Mercer planted a foot squarely in his stomach, then kicked up into his face as he doubled over. Rosenburg’s head snapped back and crashed into the wall. He slumped over, unconscious.
    Mercer looked at Tish, who was still in bed. “He won’t be alone. Now get dressed.”
    She flew from the bed and was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt within moments, though not before Mercer stole a glimpse of exquisitely long legs and a white silkpantied backside.
    Mercer opened the door slowly and looked toward the guard station. The pool of blood under the desk told him that both FBI agents were dead.
    “Oh, Jesus,” Tish moaned as Mercer led her past the desk. Pausing for an instant, he found an automatic pistol and a spare clip inside one of the dead men’s jackets. He held the weapon discreetly under his own coat and slipped the clip into a pocket.
    Mercer took Tish’s hand as they went down the stairs to the lobby. A quick scan of the faces there confirmed that the killer upstairs was indeed not alone. Three men stood just outside the automatic door while another trio peered at a glass-covered bulletin board, their eyes watching the room in its reflection.
    The fugitives turned away from the lobby. Mercer led Tish through a set of doors marked NO ADMITTANCE and out onto a loading dock. The man standing on the dock looked at Tish just a bit too critically, so Mercer smashed his knee into the man’s groin. If he was an innocent by-stander, where better to get treated for his injuries, and if he was an assistant to the assassin upstairs, screw him. Mercer and Tish ran to his car.
    The Jaguar V12 burst into life instantly. Mercer had hoped to get away without being seen, but two men were already running toward them from the loading dock. Mercer jammed the gearbox into drive and smoked the Pirelli tires pulling out onto the street. A few cars pounded their horns in anger and a pair of nurses jumped back to the sidewalk for safety. Three identical BMWs were already in pursuit as Mercer turned onto 23rd Street heading toward Washington Circle.
    Mercer took the car around the circle twice, trying to snarl his pursuers in traffic before tearing off down K Street. The maneuver gained him only a second or two.
    Mercer put the borrowed pistol, a Heckler and Koch VP-70, on his lap as he jinked around a Metrobus. The deadly 9mm German-made gun had eighteen rounds inside its wide grip.
    He clicked off the safety, then pressed the button that lowered his window. The sounds of the city whipped into the car. Mercer wished that he had taken the top down to give him better visibility, but there was nothing that he could do about that now.
    The first chase car was pulling up on Mercer’s left. The driver was intent on the road ahead, but the passenger had his eyes glued on Mercer. He threw a sardonic wave and pulled a Beretta model 12 into view. The little Italian submachine gun could fire a blanket of 9mm bullets at a rate of 550 a minute. Just as the man brought his weapon to bear, Mercer lifted his pistol over the windowsill and let loose.
    He fired as fast as he could. The first five rounds tore up the body of the gunman; his torso and head jumped at every impact. As he slumped over, the next five rounds pulverized the head of the driver. The BMW slowed and began to veer off the road. It careened off one of the huge trees that lined K Street and shot back into traffic. In the rearview mirror, Mercer saw the BMW fly