by Brad C Scott
“Spare her,” I say, the words spilling out. I twist my head to lock eyes with Revenant. “She’s just following my orders, there’s no need to kill her.”
“There is a need,” he says.
“Then I’ll do it,” I say. “I’ll do it. Your offer? I accept, on condition she lives. You know my word is good. Now you have it.”
Revenant stares, motionless and considering, looking for deceit he won’t find.
What have I done? Only what I had to. If he accepts, at least I’ll die quickly in his service, take care of it myself. But she’ll get to live.
Fair trade.
CHAPTER 31
“Nice try, asshole, but no deal,” says Krayge. He aims the pad at me and looks to Connor. “We’re on the clock here.”
“Wait,” says Revenant.
Krayge stares at his boss, eyes bulging with outrage and disbelief.
“You sure?” says Connor, sounding disappointed. When I meet his eyes, he’s still got the pistol on me, finger tight on the trigger. He stares me down and grins like a maniac.
Then he shouts, “Danilo!”
Quickfire explosions stutter-bang behind me and I’m knocked forward onto the table. Pushing myself off and falling to a knee, I blink through the debris choking the air to see Connor firing the pistol at someone to my right. Krayge, stumbling away, hit? A glance to my left reveals Evans tumbling over and behind the bar as Fashion Police blasts away with his shotgun at one of the mercs. The other two lie prone, blown off their feet, foot-wide craters pockmarking the rug-covered floor around them.
The thunder of small-arms fire and the thwack of rounds get past the ringing in my ears, but to hell with finding cover. I grab my helmet, slap it on, and look around. There he is, leaning against the pool table, his combat armor and bodysuit scored and slashed by shrapnel.
Revenant.
Lunging up and nearly losing my balance, I twist and launch myself at him. Rounds from God-knows-where deflect off my armor before I slam into the bastard, nearly laying myself out on top of the pool table. I right myself and punch him in the jaw with all I’ve got, but it’s not enough, his head rocked maybe a few inches. Then his hands grab my wrists.
“Did you think I wouldn’t be ready for this?” Revenant growls in my face.
I snarl in pain at the pressure applied to my left arm, trying to pull free without success. Somehow, he’s stronger than me, even without a hard suit’s strength enhancement.
“You keep walking into the dragon’s den,” he roars in my face, remorseless gray eyes aglow, “and expect not to get burned? Did you learn nothing from LA?”
To hell with this.
I lunge forward, slamming my helmeted head into his unprotected one. He jerks back, grip loosening enough to yank my wrists free. Bringing a knee up into his gut leans him forward just enough. I draw my right fist back, intent on sending it through his face and out the back of his head, but then the world flashes and tilts.
My back hits the deck, head on fire. Feels like I got punched by a truck, even through the bloody helmet. He steps up to stand over me, silhouetted in the hanging light over the pool table, an ATAC rifle pointed down at my chest.
I knock the barrel wide as the muzzle flashes, though not quickly enough to prevent penetration into my left shoulder. I cry out, stunned by the shock of pain, unable to respond as he reorients the ATAC rifle, the barrel now pointed at my visor, muzzle kissing the transparisteel. I can’t stop him, my arms won’t work.
Rachel...
A triple-tap of rounds to the chest knocks him back reeling. From my back, I catch an upside-down view of Evans ducking behind the bar with her marksman rifle, a barrage of fire forcing her back into cover. She’s shouting something, but I can’t make out the words. As my hard suit injects me with pain stims, I focus again on Revenant and punch up into his crotch with my gauntleted right fist – not an honorable move, but the fucker shot me. Not that it matters, he’s dead already, but rather than accept the obvious, he narrows his eyes and staggers away.
The fuck? How is he not dead?
As I get my feet under me, I take one in the chest and drop back down behind the pool table, rounds whizzing by and pocking the purple velvet. I check it – no penetration, absorbed by the hard suit, though the fucking left shoulder feels like it’s on fire, a ragged hole dimpled at the edge of my breastplate. A snap glance over the table’s top reveals muzzle flashes pulsing out in the gloom of the main chamber as more rounds zip by.
Ignoring them for the moment, I look to the real enemy, Revenant lurching away down the same corridor from whence he came, somehow still on his feet. I reach for my SWAT pistol and find an empty holster.
Shit.
Scanning wildly for weapons, I see an ATAC rifle a few meters away, on the ground where Revenant dropped it. Scrabbling to snatch it up, I prop the barrel on my left forearm, pain shooting up the almost useless arm. As I take aim, he looks back, cruel gray eyes glowing beacons in the flash-fire gloom. I pull the trigger, but Revenant lunges into a crossing corridor, evading my fire. A merc steps out to take his place, so I switch targets, his rifle spraying automatic fire into the walls as he goes down. Right as my clip goes to empty.
Where the fuck is my pistol?
“Redeemer!” I hear shouted over the tumult of battle. “Over here! Malcolm!” Evans crouches by the side of the bar, motioning me over. The polished oak is riddled and scored by small-arms fire. I toss the empty rifle aside and throw out a hand to her while peering at the bodies of the three mercs lying scattered nearby. One took my pistol, but which? There, five meters away, holstered at the belt. Bastard must have taken it for his own.
My head gets rocked by a graze. Dropping to my belly, I activate thermographics and scan from beneath the pool table. Three mercs occupy the main chamber, all with elevation and cover up in the metallic rafters. Two sentry drones hover with them. That’s too much for Evans to handle alone, and I’d expose myself to their fire to chase after Revenant. But first things first.
I get to my haunches and signal to Evans for covering fire. As I do, more bottles behind the bar get hit, booze spraying over her hard suit from behind. Evans holds out a fist and turns to shout at someone – Fashion Police must be back there with her. When her fist opens, I hustle in a crouching charge over to the dead merc while the two of them lay down fire. I yank my pistol free of the merc’s holster and turn just as rounds start to zip past again. Lunging toward the bar, I launch myself over its top, my body hitting the shelves and sprawling into the aisle.
Evans helps me right myself. “Are you alright!”
“Sitrep!” I shout, checking my pistol’s settings.
“Three mercs to the north have us pinned down! Two drones reinforce them! That’s visual only, we’ve got no tactical, the scrambler net is still active!”
“Keep them off us!” I shout. “Reinforcements should be inbound!”
“That’s assuming they’re coming! I haven’t been able to reach anyone!”
From behind the bar, I’ve got a good view of the corridor down which Revenant retreated. Krayge must have preceded him, his body nowhere in sight. There’s no movement there now, but if they want to flank us, that’s the way to do it.
“Storm cloud!” I shout into my comm, “We’re under heavy attack and need assistance!”
A burst of static over the comm is the reply.
“Storm cloud! Come in, storm cloud!”
A garbled transmission of Henrikson’s voice gets through: “…hit…active cam… let…”
“Storm cloud, what’s the status on storm wing, over!”
More static, then more garbled words: “…inbound…expected…”
“Goddamnit!” I shout. “Kari, keep trying to reach them!”
“Hey!” shouts Fashion Police, crouched behind the bar beside Evans while jamming shells into a pump-action shotgun. “Hey, hot shit! What about our guys?”
“Which ones are yours?”
“At the e
ntrances!” He jerks his head at something past me. “The boss, we got to help him! He can rally our guys!”
Connor slumps on the floor, back against the wall behind an upended table riddled with bullet holes, a poor choice for improvised cover. His head’s down, one hand still gripping the pistol. Dead? No, not yet – his chest just rose and fell.
I signal to Evans and she nods. Slapping her shoulder, I hustle over to Connor, staying low as she provides suppression. I grab him with my working arm and drag him back to the bar as rounds zip by and impact around us. Thank a God who favors the reckless that the armor and pain stims are keeping me in this fight.
“Connor!” I hunch over him and check his wounds. His shirt is soaked through with blood on one side. Tearing it open reveals a vest underneath, punctured near his heart. He also took rounds in the right shoulder and arm. I open my visor and lower my head.
His eyes flutter open. “Fucking hero,” he mumbles, barely audible. Connor raises one of his arms, weak from blood loss, hand grabbing at my arm.
Even with a medkit, there’s little I could do to help him. Pulling an injector from a belt pouch, I plunge it into his arm, the andronisol causing his gaze to solidify and his grip to strengthen. Hope I don’t need that later.
“Danillo,” he says.
Fashion Police leans over him. “What is it, boss?”
Connor coughs up blood. “You’re the boss. Give it to him.”
“Boss? You sure?”
“He earned it.” Connor exhales a wheezing breath.
Fashion Police pulls a datastick from his pocket and hands it over with a frown. Before he can explain, Connor clutches at my arm, so I lower my head again.
“Datastick, for you, recordings,” he says, laboring for breath. “You were right. Place is wired, more explosives, enough, blow building, to hell. Get, cocksuckers…”
His grip tightens on my arm, his breath rattling.
“I’ll get them,” I say. “My word on that.”
“Good,” he says, his hand falling away. He smiles. “Cocksuckers…”
With a final breath, his eyes become unfocused, pupils dilating.
“Malcolm!” shouts Evans.
I stow the datastick in a belt pouch and pivot to face the corridor. Two mercs move into position there behind a reinforced riot shield. Evans fires at them, rifle barrel projecting over my left shoulder, as I add armor-piercing fire of my own. Nothing gets through.
“Here! Here!” shouts Fashion Police, banging a drawer beneath the counter.
As he turns away, shotgun held tight, I yank the drawer open and peer inside. Frag grenades, three of them, assorted boxes of ammo, and a switch box with a row of four toggles, wires snaking away from it into the interior of the bar. All the toggles are in the “off” position save one. Huh, so that’s how they did it. Clever bastards. The detonator, wired up the old-fashioned way so no signal jamming could stop it.
A strangled shout whips my head over to see Fashion Police crash into the back of the bar, dead, his throat shot out. His body collapses into the glass shards and booze, leaving us without backup. And leaving me no way to confirm what will happen if I try those switches.
“Take his position!” I shout. “I’ll cover the corridor!”
Evans crunches over glass and the quivering body of Fashion Police, ready to resume suppression fire to the north, as I hunker back and reload my pistol. An EMP grenade lands at my feet. Pausing mid-reload, I grab it and toss it away, the electromagnetic burst distorting the area near the upended table with its air-rippling effect.
What have I gotten us into? Apparently, my plan sucks.
I resume firing at the two mercs in the corridor, accomplishing nothing save keeping their heads down. They should have advanced by now, especially with that shield, but instead, they’re keeping us contained at the bar. They’re waiting for something, same as us.
“How’s it looking over there?” I shout at Evans.
“One down, the rest holding position!”
Bloody goddamn hell, there it is. Another merc moves up behind the duo in the passage, this one carrying a launch tube with a black spherical object at its tip. They’ve got a detonation drone – Krayge’s doing, no doubt. Sure enough, he appears from the side passage further back, shouting something into his comm while locking eyes on me.
“DD!” I yell.
“Oh shit!”
“Grenade out!” I pull a grenade from the drawer, arm it, and chuck it toward the corridor opening, hoping the blast will buy us some luck. My throw’s not good enough – the frag grenade bounces off the shield to tumble away. It goes off, the explosion rocking the mercs but failing to dislodge them or penetrate that bloody shield.
Krayge sends fire my way over its top and the heads of his men. I return it with interest, quick-firing armor-piercing rounds. After he ducks down, one of the mercs leans out from the shield’s side with an SMG. Switching targets, I hole his forehead and the body slumps sideways. The remaining two mercs get the message, keeping their heads down.
I grab another grenade, arm it, and let fly. This time I lob it past the assholes with their shield near Krayge’s feet. The mercs pull the shield over themselves as Krayge disappears into the side passage a split second before it explodes, filling the corridor with shrapnel.
I reload and sight in through the debris cloud. The mercs lever the shield back into position without exposing themselves. Fuck. Unless I get a shot on the one with the launcher…
“The drones are moving in!” shouts Evans.
Great. If the DD fails to end us – a long bet – they’ll finish the job. And that still leaves Krayge and four mercs with superior positions. Maybe Revenant will return with reinforcements. Impossible odds any way you cut it. Our time’s run out.
I settle back behind the bar and look over at Evans.
“I never was a fan of this plan,” she says, resting her helmet against mine.
“Sorry, Kari. About everything.”
I stare into the drawer at the detonator. The switches gleam dully in the darkened haze. Looks like Conner had the better plan, after all.
The comm static suddenly clears up.
“Brace for incoming,” transmits Spalleti, “storm wing is on station.”
I throw myself down over Evans. The thunder of heavy autocannon fire reverberates all around us as the ceiling shivers, raining down debris. The walls shake and toss the last bottles behind the bar to crash around us. The rending shriek of metal sets my teeth on edge, followed moments later by the crashing boom of a structure collapsing.
But not onto us. I lever myself up and risk a peek over the bar. A section of the roof near the center of the main chamber is just gone, a jagged hole twenty meters across blasted open to the sky. Rather than stars, I see the running lights of our hovership as it settles into position above the opening. A turret on its undercarriage swivels and fires, storming high-caliber rounds into the corridor. Clambering to my haunches, I witness the carnage as the two mercs there make a desperate stand, one rotating the shield as the other orients the launcher toward the hovership. The autocannon fire dismantles them, ripping their limbs away and geysering their shredded insides out their backs in broad arterial sprays, their armor and shield useless. The detonation drone gets hit even as it launches. I throw an arm up at the explosion, the force and white fire rocking me back, debris pinging off the hard suit that saves my life again.
“I told you my plan would work!” I say, grabbing out the last grenade and closing the drawer with the detonator.
“Still not a fan!” replies Evans.
On station, First Redeemer.
Patton makes his appearance, dropping through the hole in the ceiling, wings extended and thruster flaring. “Drop your weapons and surrender!” he blares from his audio array, rotating to face the two mercs posted in the metallic rafters.
The mercs drop weapons and raise their hands, but the sentry drones are having none of it. Both flank wide to pincer Pa
tton, their weapon nozzles sparking rounds off his armored skin. Rather than take his weapons racks off the mercs, Patton launches a pair of seeker missiles. The drones fail to evade or shoot them down, their shredded remnants exploding away to pock the armory’s walls.
With Patton on station, the remaining hostiles get pinpointed on my restored tactical display. The two covered by Patton, and one in the corridor? Peering down its flame-flickered, blackened length, nothing remains of the mercs and their shield, but movement further back gets bracket-squared – a figure, rising from prone, wobbling on its feet: Krayge. He stumbles into the side passage and out of sight.
Without a word, I race after him.
“Malcolm!” shouts Evans behind me.
“On my six!”
“First Redeemer,” transmits Patton, “a SMART drone attacked the hovership and was driven off, but it remains in the vicinity. What are your orders?”
A quick glance reveals a pair of drop lines deployed from the hovership through the hole in the ceiling – good, Patton will have plenty of reclaimer support to mop up here. But if that drone attacks during deployment… “Stay with the hovership!” I huff. “Tell storm cloud and Hawk we need a solid perimeter! Evans and I will apprehend Krayge and his boss! Once things are secure here, get some reinforcements on our tail!”
“Affirmative, First Redeemer. Good luck.”
We’re still alive, so maybe it is.
◊ ◊ ◊
We enter a large underground parking area, slowing to a walk, heads on swivel. Krayge disappeared from tactical during our descent, but his blood trail leads into the maze of vehicles and pallet stacks. Plenty of places to hide. Signaling at Evans, she fades back, hunting a good spot to cover my advance. I move up, sweeping the pistol around one car and stack after another while following the trail, grill lights in the ceiling giving enough light to go on. No sight or sound of him, though, his available hiding spots diminishing with each step I take.
