Apex

by Ryan W. Aslesen

  It chased the truck despite their gunfire.

  Max got the thing in his quadrant sight and cut loose with another grenade. The truck crashed over a bump, spoiling his aim yet again. His shot fell well past the dinosaur. For the moment, the creature formed a buffer between them and the machinegun on the command car, the only beneficial aspect of its presence.

  The enemy driver steered deftly around the smoking crater of the grenade.

  Swift tossed another grenade into the road. Oblivious to the danger, the creature ran past it before it exploded. Some pink, bloody mist accompanied the detonation.

  That grenade proved a mixed blessing when the force of the explosion hurtled the dinosaur forward into the truck bed. Engine screaming, the truck rose sharply onto its rear wheels. Dinosaur teeth snapped at Heat as the team slid out of the truck bed.

  The enemy gunner again raked them with bullets; Heat cried out, hit in the shoulder. The team and the dinosaur fell in a haphazard pile on the muddy road.

  Cursing, Swift blasted the thing full in the face with his Uzi, putting out one of its eyes and forcing it to rear back. More bullets from the command car strafed the earth around them.

  Death descended from nearly every direction, yet Max had only two eyes.

  A roar of fetid breath heralded another bite from the dinosaur. Max turned, pointed his rifle down the thing’s throat, and opened fire. Once again, Max found himself pinned beneath a dead dinosaur’s head. One miraculous shot had penetrated its thick skull to scramble its tiny brain.

  A booming shot from Flint’s rifle hit the machine gunner high in the chest. Swift tagged him several more times until the bullet-riddled man slumped dead over his weapon.

  Unable to penetrate the car’s armor with bullets, Swift tossed another grenade. The driver threw the vehicle into reverse to avoid the blast.

  Max slid from beneath the dinosaur’s head and regained his feet. The opposing machine gunner shook his head as though clearing his brain after taking a hard punch. Max again opened fire, aiming for the head, but the gunner ducked into the vehicle.

  “Let’s go!” Max shouted to Heat, but nearly catatonic she made no move to comply. He dragged her to the truck. Her wound appeared superficial, though it would require attention when he got the chance. No time soon. When they were loaded up, he shouted, “Go!”

  Otto took off at breakneck speed, and Max didn’t blame him. They didn’t have enough firepower remaining to fight off another dinosaur.

  Max suggested to Heat that she ride in the front seat, but she wouldn’t have it, preferring to stay close to his side.

  The command car still pursued, though now it kept a more respectful distance. He’ll wait until we reach the chateau before he attacks again. That, of course, could not be allowed to happen.

  Otto swung recklessly around a sharp curve bordered by a rock outcropping to the left of the truck and a sheer drop to the right. Max thought for sure they were going over the edge, but Otto floored the accelerator and steered them away from the cliff, mud flying from the tires as the truck righted itself and moved on.

  “Stop!” Max called.

  “You fuckin’ nuts?” Swift asked.

  “Shut up and give me a grenade.”

  “So I guess that’s a yes.” Swift placed a high-explosive grenade in his hand.

  Max jumped from the bed. The pain from his calf wound shoot straight for his brain. But the pain dissipated some as his adrenaline began to flow again. He jogged the short distance back to the outcropping and started climbing. Adrenaline or not, his leg burned as he ascended the slope.

  Intent on taking out their pursuers, he remained ever mindful of the engine noise from the command car as it drew closer. Situated about fifteen feet above the turn, right over the apex of the curve, he ducked into a scrub thicket to wait with the grenade in hand, pin pulled and the spoon clutched securely.

  Across the road the chasm yawned, at least an eighty-foot drop.

  The asshole in the machinegun nest, no fool, scanned the outcropping closely. Then his focus snapped to the truck parked in the road. He exchanged fire with Swift and Flint, his attention completely diverted from Max, who stood up in the scrub.

  “Catch,” Max shouted as he dropped the grenade into the gunner’s hole.

  Though he doubted the reptilian heard him over the gunfire, he certainly felt the grenade when it dropped into the vehicle to bounce on his lap. Terrified shouts emanated from the car, but the gunner merely looked down for a moment before he scurried from the hole.

  Max dropped back into cover an instant before the grenade blasted the inside of the command car. He stood and returned to the overlook. In his panic the driver must have hit the accelerator, for Max glimpsed the ass end of the smoking truck as it went over the cliff and tumbled downward in a riotous racket of crashing metal and snapping wood.

  The reptilian gunner lay inert—for the moment—in the middle of the road, his left leg raggedly amputated at the knee.

  Can he grow a new leg? Max didn’t wish to find out. He put the red dot of his reflex sight between the gunner’s eyes and fired a single shot. If that’s not lights out, I don’t know what is.

  Down in the ravine, the command car exploded.

  24

  The road became a bit smoother as Otto rounded a bend and urged the jeep up a steep straightaway. Shadows cast by the thick jungle canopy made it seem as though they were moving through a tunnel. Up the hill, afternoon sunlight signaled the jungle’s end.

  The chateau grounds must start there. Max wondered how many reptilians Wilde had guarding the place. Not enough to save him.

  “If what that guy at the cave said is true,” Swift said, “I think we’ve about wiped this place out.”

  “Don’t assume that for a second,” Max replied. “Wilde could have another company protecting the chateau for all we know.”

  Flint nodded his agreement. “He’ll have some kind of protection.”

  Max leaned over and said to Otto, “Floor it for the mansion when you break from the trees. Take us all the way to the front door if this piece of shit will make it.”

  “I’ll try. She’s seen better days.”

  That’s for sure. The engine remained remarkably undamaged, but the cab was trashed and the suspension shot. The spring on the right rear wheel had broken somewhere along the line, and bumps from that quarter rattled everyone’s bones.

  Otto had them moving at a good clip by the time the truck burst from the jungle into the open field. About two hundred yards further on, the chateau’s main house, a sprawling two-story affair painted pale yellow with white trim and a red tile roof, dominated the hilltop. Otto floored it up the arrow-straight road for the six-column portico before the front door.

  Bullets tore into the earth around the truck, showering the bed with grit and stones. Several of the high-caliber rounds struck the vehicle with solid thunks.

  “Automated guns!” Otto shouted, swerving about on the road in an attempt to dodge their fire.

  Max spotted two guns, triggered by either motion or infrared. They flanked the road atop cantilevered steel towers a dozen feet high.

  Otto managed to evade most, but not all, of the bullets. The engine began to sputter. A tail of black exhaust trailed them up the hill as they lost speed. Steam hissed from the blown radiator and drifted over the truck bed where Max lay with the others taking cover.

  “Hang on!” Otto yelled.

  The engine revved, coughed, revved. The sputtering vehicle bucked and jerked in time with its wounded power plant. They jolted to a dead stop, metal screeching. Otto had rammed a gun tower, which toppled at the side of the dead truck.

  One down. They still needed to take out the other gun across the road. The mercs had the good sense to bail out immediately, but Max dragged Heat from the truck a mere instant before bullets raked the bed.
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  Two problems with automated guns atop a tower: they can’t fire straight downward or lead a running man like a skilled machine gunner. Though they fired quickly upon their targets once acquired, there was nevertheless a slight delay.

  The team dashed across the road, and—to Max’s dismay—took fire from two more automated tower guns located closer to the house. As bullets chewed into the turf, Max pulled Heat into cover behind one of the gun tower’s concrete support plinths. The other men had the same idea, each hiding behind his own support.

  Momentarily out of the guns’ sights—motion, not infrared—Max took time to plan. Looking up, he could see the gun fed from a massive steel crate of ammunition, fifty caliber from the look of it. They won’t run out anytime soon. “Otto, can you shut down those guns from here somehow?”

  “The electronics are up there. I need a distraction so I can climb up.”

  “You’ll have four of them. Carter, Flint, draw fire from the left gun. Try not to get yourselves killed. We’ll handle the right.”

  “You’re outta your gourd,” Heat said. “I’m not stepping in front of those guns.”

  “You’ll be an afterthought, trust me. I’ll go first and get the thing shooting at me; then you make a beeline for the portico, I’ll meet you there. Carter, secure the perimeter around the house once these guns are down.”

  Swift raised a brow. “If you insist.”

  “I hope you know what the fuck you’re doing,” Heat said.

  “So do I. Men move on the count of three. Heat, you count another three before you break cover. We all clear?” The men grumbled various affirmations. Heat said nothing, merely nodded, eyes wide like a doe on the first day of deer season. “All right, then. One... two... three!”

  Max broke cover and ran uphill in a diagonal path. The machineguns cracked into life a second later, shooting at Max, Flint, and Swift as the three ran over the field in zigzagging routes. Between shots, Max could hear the whine of the gun’s motor and hydraulics operating a split second behind his movements. Though he felt the wind off several bullets, he evaded them all.

  Max worked his way gradually uphill, finally reaching safety at the bottom of the gun tower. The gun, unable to track Max, swiveled to fire upon Swift and Flint, who zigged and zagged through the field. About forty feet separated Max from the portico. There Heat waited behind one of the pillars, occasionally sticking out her head to monitor his progress.

  Shit, shit, shit! Max had hoped Otto would have the guns down by now, yet still they blasted away. But perhaps the guns’ motion sensors only spied downhill. If one of them sees you, run for the portico or it’s lights out. With no time to stand there and debate his next move, he sprinted an erratic path for the cover of the portico.

  The sensors on the left gun spotted him as he leapt for the third step leading up to the front door. Bullets ricocheted through the portico, bouncing off the marble flagstones and columns. Max noticed Heat as he ran past her. “Come on!”

  The wide front door, set in a Gothic arch, appeared to be constructed of thick hardwood—an immovable object. Max doubted that Wilde had the courtesy to unlock it, so he dropped his shoulder and plowed into the wood. The door and its lock held fast—but the jamb disintegrated into splinters with a rending crack. The door swung open. Max tumbled headlong into a round entrance hall floored in black-veined marble and ringed with columns of identical stone.

  Clutching her shoulder, Heat ran inside a moment later, drawing one final bullet that ricocheted off the floor to shatter a sculpted bust atop a pedestal. “How do you do this for a living?” she asked, breathless.

  “It’s all in the execution,” Max responded. “Let me see your shoulder. How does it feel?”

  “It hurts like hell when I move, but I’ll be all right.”

  Max inspected the wound, noting that the bullet had passed clean through. No major blood vessels had been hit. The majority of the bleeding had stopped, and the joint itself seemed fine. With gauze from his med kit, he packed the wound quickly but with practiced care.

  He glanced around the room as he patched up Heat, eyes monitoring the various exits, which included ascending stairways. Opulent didn’t begin to describe the décor. Art history had never been Max’s strong suit, but even he recognized a few of the paintings displayed on the chamber’s round wall. Fakes? Stolen originals? Alas, his limited art knowledge provided no answers. Several statues sculpted from various types of stone stood about the chamber, though he recognized none of them. The Persian rug on the floor, measuring some twenty by twenty feet, was sooty and stained. And really fucking old, probably priceless. Likely the reason Wilde hadn’t had it cleaned.

  Heat winced as he slapped on a dressing. “I didn’t know Wilde had a thing for knockoff art.”

  “Don’t assume they’re knockoffs. Remember who his friends are.” Max finished taping her off and stowed his med kit in his cargo pocket.

  “I’ll give you that. So which way?”

  Max, who had exchanged his 416 for his UMP40, considered the options. Open archways beckoned left, right, and straight. Two curving marble stairways ascended behind the columns, their lower landings adjacent to the left and right exits. “Not upstairs, that’s probably guest quarters for the hunters. Wilde will have Josh chained to a workstation someplace, either on this floor or in the cellar, if there is one.” A grand piano gleamed through the right-hand exit, while only darkness showed through the left archway. The area straight ahead, dimly illuminated, appeared to be a large open space.

  “We go straight. Keep behind me. Ready?”

  “As I’ll ever be.” Max almost offered her his pistol but refrained when he saw the camera in her hands. Never mind. She’s shooting pictures, not bullets.

  He led the way into the next room, a cavernous two-story chamber with an exposed-beam ceiling. Luxurious furniture dominated the space: leather couches and armchairs, gilded smoking stands, antiques hundreds of years old. Heads of big game trophies stared down from high on the walls, a mountain gorilla and a white rhino the most prominent. A rug fashioned from the full pelt of a white tiger spread before the huge fireplace, over which hung the inscrutable face of Mona Lisa.

  “That’s got to be authentic,” Max said. “Wilde wouldn’t hang an imitation—his guests would laugh at him.”

  But Heat wasn’t listening. She stood about twenty feet away snapping pictures of a hunting trophy that hung dead-center of the tall wall opposite the fireplace, a young, brown-skinned man.

  “The sick motherfuckers,” Max muttered as he joined her to view the trophy.

  Face forever frozen in a fierce roar, the man’s muscular arms extended to either side in a threatening posture as he burst from the wall. THE RUNNER read a gold plaque.

  The framed photograph above the plaque repulsed Max almost enough to shiver with dread. The photo immortalized The Runner—a tall youth with the lean, ripped muscles of a triathlete—hanging by his ankles from a gin pole. With a hole blown straight through his heart, gooey tendrils of blood dangled from his gaping mouth. Next to him stood the proud hunter, a prim-looking older man wearing a jungle camo hunting suit fresh off the rack. He carried a bolt-action rifle with a powerful scope, offered barely a smile, yet seemed quite pleased with himself nonetheless.

  Heat gasped. “I need that photo. Do you know who that is?”

  “The Runner or the hunter?”

  “The hunter. That’s Judge Clarence Gauge from the US Circuit Court of Appeals. He’s famous for being anti–Second Amendment. Obama even considered him for the Supreme Court.”

  “How ironic.”

  Her voice dropped an octave. “And The Runner must be Pierre Dussault, a local track-and-field star who recently went missing. I read about him during my research. He was offered a tryout for the 2020 French Olympic Team.” She shook her head. “That fucking hypocrite shot him down like a deer. I need t
hat picture.”

  “No time for that.” The photo hung some twelve feet above the floor.

  “Come on, help me move this thing!” Heat stepped to an antique sideboard where, with one swipe of her good arm, she sent crystal glasses and several bottles of rare booze flying to smash against the hardwood floor.

  “Fine, we’ll get it.” Max growled and grabbed her by the arm. “Now stop making noise!” Shaking his head, he shoved the sideboard to the wall beneath the picture. “Get up there; it won’t hold me.”

  Stretched to her limits atop the sideboard, Heat jumped and nudged the picture upward with a fingertip to unhook it from the wall. The picture hit the floor and its glass shattered. She jumped down, flipped the picture over, carefully removed it from the frame, then rolled and stowed it in her backpack.

  “Can we go now?” Max asked.

  “Yeah, we can,” she spat back at him. “And thanks, asshole.” Now she smiled endearingly.

  Max silently cursed the female gender as they departed the trophy room.

  They moved on to a dining room dominated by a table some forty feet long lined with leather-cushioned thrones. Though they’d encountered no guards—to Max’s astonishment—a suit of authentic Renaissance-era jousting armor stood watch in each corner. Have to get me one of those someday.

  Moving to the kitchen, they found all the usual pots and pans along with a walk-in refrigerator loaded with delicacies: foie gras, beluga caviar, sides of perfectly marbled beef, and a whole pig ready for roasting.

  Still no guards. Or anyone else.

  “This is really fucking weird,” Heat said.

  “Not really. I get the feeling he might have bolted again.”

  “Fuck, you think so?”

  “It’s in his nature. But I won’t leave until I’m sure of it.”

  “We have to get him! Did you know he charges two million dollars a day to hunt humans?”

  “I didn’t know the amount, but I figured it was a lot. How did you find out?”