A siege tunnel! Gabe felt certain of it. Most medieval castles had one or more secret ways to go around or behind a besieging army to escape or to bring in supplies and weapons. It would have been a surprise if eccentric Bedard Stoddard had not built one.

"Crackowski, what in hell happened to you back there?"

The heavy southern drawl was one Gabe recognized immediately.

His heart stopped, considered remaining that way, then slowly started up again, missing every few beats.

"I smashed my fucking head in that fucking tunnel," the other man, Crackowski, said. "Shit, it's bleeding."

"That's what you get for shaving your head."

"Fuck you, Carl. When we've taken care of business here, I'm gonna shave your head."

"It'll be really hard to do that with a bullet through your eye. Now, let's get this over with."

"You take the front half out there, I'll take the rear. Any lights you find, turn them on. Whoever yelled knows we're here, so we're not going to take anyone by surprise. One alive, one dead."

"One alive, one dead," Jim Ferendelli's killer echoed.

Gabe silently backed away and into the great room, where there were some swords and a spear or two, plus a number of places he could conceal himself. If he understood the orders from the man named Crackowski, the other killer, Carl, would be coming his way.

"One alive, one dead."

Gabe had little trouble believing that he was the throwaway. With the nanotechnology at their disposal, it seemed that whoever was behind the transmitters could deal with the president any time they wanted. Of course, it was still possible that Drew was the real target and not just his presidency, as Ferendelli believed. But like Lily Sexton, Gabe had become a dangerous loose end.

The two killers knew about the siege tunnel. Did they know about the bunker as well? If Drew remained locked inside, getting at him would be a hell of a problem . . . unless they were able to shut off his air.

With the skipped heartbeats increasing again, Gabe pressed himself against the wall behind the huge armored stallion and rider and forced himself to calm down and focus, much as he had done over the years when faced with medical crises.

Chances were that he was going to die, but the two men were going to have to earn their kill.

At that moment, Carl moved cautiously into the great room, his heavy pistol ready. Gabe clutched his hunting knife and tried unsuccessfully to imagine any scenario where he might have even a slight advantage. He ducked down and moved deeper into the shadows behind the mannequin steed and its rider as the gunman approached.

Fifteen feet . . . ten . . . five . . .