Running Black (Eshu International Book 1)

by Patrick Todoroff

  Another line of boxes whizzed by my head. “This is a little too asymmetrical for me. Plan?”

  Tam closed his eyes. “Go black, split left and right, come around on their flanks. We’ve got to get close.”

  “I was afraid you’d say that.”

  “Sorry to bore you,” he flashed a tight grin. “See you on the other side.”

  I nodded and as the next string of boxes went by, we separated.

  Even with all the crates and machinery, getting close was the main issue. The brutal fact was we needed to be right next to them to punch through the weak spots in their armor. I checked the Walther 11 one last time, rolled to the next stack of crates and took a deep breath.

  I started shutting everything out: sight, noise, smell, the sensations of cold and damp, the weight of the pistol in my hand, the itch of clothing against my skin. I concentrated until the noise and motion around me dropped away and all I heard was my heartbeat and the slow bellows of my breathing. I focused on those two until I found their rhythm, and dense gray filled in from the edges.

  Once I’d fastened myself in that place, I counted down from twenty, turning things back on. Every sensation was sharper, more distinct. I smelled the thick stench of hydraulic fluid, the musk of mold, and the iron tang of rust, the stale breezes of cardboard and plastic boxes. I could hear the rattle of the spindle bearings on the conveyors, the thrumming of the electric motors, and the thin drips of rain sweat off the walls. I tuned in the rubber texture and finger grooves on the pistol grip in my right hand, the knurled haft of the knife in the other. My muscles slid and coiled beneath my skin, electric.

  Last of all, I opened my eyes. In the dim light, all the edges were traced in a thin black line, each object separate and specific. My mind was clear and hard as I gathered up the facets of my surroundings and hid myself inside. I was ready to run. Tam was already in motion on the other side of the room, so I rolled to a crouch and slipped off to my left.

  The trooper on the outside left had taken a position near an aluminum repair bench about five meters behind of his partner. He was supposed to provide flank security, but he never looked to the ocean side once. He figured any attack would come straight across the floor. Someone said once you should never interrupt your enemy when they’re making a mistake, so I circled around and kept the wind and waves at my back.

  A minute later, the Gerber opened his throat and he was on the floor. I sighted the Walther on his partner’s head, waiting for a Tam’s signal.

  A split second later, I heard the flat pops of a 9mm double tap and rose up to shoot, but the trooper had ducked. Radio squelch cut through the air.

  “Top, this is Six-Two, Six-Two. We have contact, our position. Repeat. Six-Two has contact our position.”

  “Contact Six-Two confirmed. Hold on. Units en route.”

  There was a yell and more shots from the far side of the elevator cage: 9mm followed by the stutter of an F2000. My guy popped up and turned, looking for his backup. He spotted me instead.

  I came at him straight on, emptying Poet’s Walther. He peeled off sideways, firing his rifle on the move. We both missed. As I reloaded, he began backing away, loosing tri-bursts in my direction to keep my head down. The gunfight was building on the other side too. Tam and I had maybe five minutes before their backup arrived.

  I scrambled low and chased him around the back of the elevator shaft to the other side. Staying behind containers, he kept out of sight, and closed in on Tam and the other D-H trooper.

  I focused in on the sounds. There was no gunfire, but I could hear Tam and the other trooper scuffling somewhere straight ahead of me. No sign of my target. I made a mad dash between stacks and ended up next to an open white walkway running alongside a conveyor. Framed at the far end, Tam and the second D-H trooper were wrestling, hammering at each other in a mad flurry of blows and kicks.

  I ran forward and dropped to one knee, waiting. Between the distance and the tangle of them fighting, I had no shot.

  The brawl seesawed back and forth until Tam threw the D-H soldier down on the conveyor belt. A line of crates smashed into him and snatched his body out of sight. As Tam was gulping for air, the final trooper I’d been hunting stepped directly behind him, that nasty little rifle sighted up on his shoulder.

  Instinctively, I uttered three words, raised the Walther and fired a single shot.

  The second trooper spun and fell.

  Tam turned around at the sound, startled.

  I held up Poet9’s pistol. “Grace works for me.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY: ORDERS

  Barcelona Port Complex, Gate Five. 8:55 p.m. Day Five.

  Major Eames stood next to her Grizzly Command Track staring at the Port Complex. Her men had sealed off the all landside entry points to the huge structure, and radio reports poured in as various units checked in. The pain in her arm and shoulder had subsided into a deep, dull ache, and she let it throb, hoping it would put an edge on her thinking. She still couldn’t wrap her head around London’s orders to stand down. Suddenly, Private Banner called out from the top hatch.

  “Major, I’ve got no signal from the units at Gate Eleven.”

  “What the—? Get someone there and find out why.”

  “Yes, Major. Ahh, ma’am? Six Two just called in a hostile contact on the Tac-net.”

  “Six-Two? What’s their position?”

  “On the Docks, ma’am. Deployed at South Arm, Section Three, Level Six. Right outside the APAC sector.”

  “Current status?”

  “They’re not answering, ma’am.”

  “Christ on a crutch!” she shouted. “Scabs are there already. Are they really that good, or do we just suck?” She stared furiously at the Docks, then up at Private Banner, who still held the radio. “That’s the way it is? Fine. Order all units to close on the APAC Legation.”

  “Major?”

  “You heard me, Banner. Do it. Now,” she spit out. “One of my units has been attacked, and we are moving to assist.”

  “All of them? What about Director MacKinnon’s orders, Major?”

  Major Eames stared hard at the young soldier. “There’s an old saying about permission and forgiveness, Private. I’ll worry about MacKinnon, you worry about me. It’ll take days to get the U.N. moving on this, and then all the suits will just dick around and deny everything. They’ll sit there on their fat arses while their lawyers shout at each other across a round table. Goddamn waste of oxygen if you ask me.”

  She scrutinized the tactical display on her data pad. Three other combat teams were in position out on the South Arm. “I didn’t come all this way to lose the asset now. We’re going in, and I’m going to pull him out of there if I have to tear down every building in the Jap sector to do it. Now get ‘em moving!”

  -----------------

  The elevator lurched to a stop on Level Six, Section Four, and I swung back the gate. As we stepped onto the floor, a group of soldiers burst out from behind a duracrete barricade, running towards us.

  Poet9 tensed, but Tam spoke up. “Yellow and black. They’re Asian Pacific. We’re here.”

  Two full squads of Japanese corporate security surrounded us, weapons facing outward for defense. An officer stepped forward, snapped to attention and saluted Tam.

  “Welcome to the Asian Pacific Trade Legation, Barcelona. I am Captain Murata, chief security officer. Please be assured from this point on, you are all under our protection. My commanding officer is expecting you, and I have orders to provide you with whatever assistance you deem necessary.”

  Poet9 brought Gibson around off his shoulder. The boy’s face was ashen, his breathing labored, and for a second I thought he’d died. “Are we there yet?” he croaked out.

  Tam, Poet9 and I almost laughed aloud with relief. “Yeah. Yeah, kid. We’re here.”

  “He needs a doctor right away,” Tam said to the captain. “Where’s your medical station?”

  Captain Murata barked out a command in Japanese, and t
wo soldiers ran forward with a stretcher. “I was to escort you to the Legation’s commander, Colonel Otsu, as soon as you arrived. The clinic is next to the Command Center. I suggest we go now.”

  As the two soldiers gingerly placed Gibson on the stretcher, Captain Murata gave a slight bow and gestured for us to follow.

  “Dios santo en cielo, gracias,” Poet9 breathed, and we started after them.

  -----------------

  Cottontail thought the storm was raging like a rabid thing, cruel, blind, and savage. Cold rain fell in torrents, pounding down like fists, drenching everything flat and numb. Tantrums of icy winds lashed out of the clouds, clawing at him and his brothers, slicing and shoving from every direction. Ahead of them, a massive, multi-layer shape sat heavy and black behind a curtain of churning gray, and despite the hurricane, the stink of fuel and rot was heavy in the air. They’d reached the end of the long avenue and were standing in front of the Barcelona Port Complex South Arm Dock.

  The Port entrance itself was blocked by a massive orange and black barrier, a large “11” stenciled in white block letters on chipped duracrete. The abiku were nowhere to be seen, but the bodies of eight corporate soldiers lay scattered like rag dolls in the street. An armored personnel carrier was skewed up on the sidewalk, greasy black smoke sputtering out its vents and forward top hatch, sly, hungry flames flickering inside the troop compartment. Its back ramp was bent, and the rear door was slamming back and forth in the frigid gusts, clanging like a broken bell.

  Cottontail recognized it as a standard corporate-issue transport, a Dawson-Hull “Grizzly” Armored Personnel Carrier. He scanned the bodies and realized all the soldier’s rifles were missing, and on the right, there was a large tear in the chain-link fence. Not only had the hostiles re-armed themselves, but they were inside the B-Port Complex.

  Cottontail checked his own G3 assault rifle. He was down to his last five rounds. His brothers checked their own weapons; 5901 held up five fingers, 5902 held up four. Fourteen rifle rounds between the three of them, nowhere near enough to stop this enemy.

  The voice of his old Zulu drill sergeant screamed in his mind. Action—not thought! Action! They were losing time and distance standing here. Cottontail frowned. “Search and salvage. Most fast,” he ordered.

  His brothers moved among bodies as he turned to double-check the long avenue and watch for policía.

  Three minutes later, 5901 and 5902 came back clutching a handful of pistol magazines, two small caliber back-up pistols, and a plastic emergency kit filled with magnesium flares. Cottontail looked up from the meager finds and inspected his two brothers. Both were wounded. 5902, the one named Mopsy, was favoring his left leg, two AK rounds having passed through the meat of his thigh. 5901, or Flopsy, was bleeding heavily from the right side of his face, head and ear. 5905 figured it looked worse than it was. Head wounds bled a lot. “Tend that,” he commanded. 5901 tore a length of sleeve and tied it around his head to keep the blood from dripping in his eyes.

  Cottontail himself was relatively unscathed. There were numerous bloody scratches from splinters and concrete chips on his hands, shoulders, and neck, but none of them serious. Both his brothers kept glancing from his face to the Dock, their eyes sharp and bright. They were eager to pursue. 5905 grinned. They were functional, and that was the key. You are the weapons! Not the guns. Day and night, the Zulu instructors had beaten that mantra into them. Does the weapon still function? Yes? Then you can still fight. And if you fight, you can kill. Now go kill. That was all that mattered.

  Mr. Tam had given them orders; Gibson needed to stay safe. The little guns would have to do. Cottontail nodded, and the three of them ran across the street and slipped through the fence. The chase was still on.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE: TROUBLE JUST FOLLOWS

  Barcelona Port Complex, South Dock, Section Three. 9:00 p.m. Day Five.

  It was another twenty minutes before Major Eames could set up her command post. Her men had secured the entire section next to the APAC Legation, and she stood a mere thousand meters away from a main entrance, looking over the tactical display.

  A 3D schematic was projected in the air, the Legation boundaries highlighted in neon yellow, Consortium units in red, her own in green. She thumbed the track ball and the image spun to a different angle.

  “All teams good to go?” she asked one of the lieutenants.

  “Yes, Major.”

  “ECM geeks hack their defense systems yet?”

  “They’re mugging their grid now. In the meantime, we’ve set up jammers at the assault points. That should snow-blind the sensors long enough for our troops to disable their turrets. If you’re hell bent and hot to trot, Major, we won’t have a better chance than right now,” the officer replied grimly.

  She frowned at the holo-display one last time. “Go.”

  The lieutenant tapped his comm-set. “All units, green light on the assault. I repeat: weapons are free and you are green to go. Commence assault now.”

  --------------

  Tam, Poet and I had stepped off another elevator when a siren started blaring. Captain Murata and the two soldiers with the stretcher halted in mid-stride and looked at each other.

  “Is that bad?” Poet asked. “It sounds bad.”

  “What’s that mean?” I looked to the captain.

  He threw me a grim look and got on his radio. The two soldiers set Gibson down and brought their rifles up. Automatic weapons fire erupted behind us.

  “Dios santo, not again,” Poet muttered.

  Captain Murata issued several sharp commands and signed off. “We’re under attack. Dawson-Hull Special Deployment are jamming our automated systems and threatening to breech our lines.” He pointed to a group of low white structures in the center of the next section. “The Command Center is right over there, the large building on the ocean side. Report there first, and ask for Colonel Otsu, he will see to it your friend gets proper treatment.” He bowed low. “I must return and conduct the defense.” With that, he and his troops ran off.

  Poet smiled down at Gibson on the stretcher. “Trouble just follows you, doesn’t it?”

  Tam and I picked up the handles, and Poet9 drew Grace. Together, we set off toward the squat, white metal and black armorglass building.

  -----------------------

  Cottontail and his brothers caught up with the three abiku on a middle floor in Section Three. A sorting area, it was nestled deep in the South Dock’s interior, brightly lit and dry, away from the storm’s fury. One of the large conveyors had thrown a roller, hurling a cargo segment into the elevator cage, smashing the wire gate shut with a pile of containers. The rest of the floor remained in motion; infrared readers bobbing and blinking, crates whizzing past in every direction at random intervals. 5902 spied the scrawny rat-faced male leading the woman and her larger partner toward the stairs.

  Using hand signals, Cottontail directed his brothers to the left. He’d given them all the scavenged pistols and spare magazines in return for the remaining rifle rounds. Speed was their only chance now. They had to press the attack, pull them close, and finish them quickly. To draw out lions, hunters staked a buck in a clearing as bait. To kill these enemies, Cottontail decided his brothers were blades, and he would be the bait.

  Cottontail fired as the abiku were in the open space in front of the floor’s maintenance station. The big man recoiled, clutching his side, and the other two scattered, seeking cover. His brothers had started moving fast, silent and low the moment he’d raised the rifle, and they disappeared down an aisle between two sorting gates.

  Cottontail ran forward, firing his rifle until he was ten meters away, then dove behind a stack of metal crates directly in front of them. He had their attention now. The only way off the floor was in the open toward the stairwell down, or past him back to the stairs leading up. Seven shots left in the rifle, two magazines for his pistol, and then it was fists and feet; not very menacing, but the abiku would have to kill him before they went
any further.

  His brothers couldn’t spring the trap until they moved on the bait, so Cottontail popped up and fired two more rounds near where the big man had stumbled. No response. He had to flush them out, so crouched behind the crates, he scrutinized the maintenance station.

  Tucked in between two thick support pylons, the back wall was lined with lockers, and there were tools littering several workbenches. A rack of oversize wrenches and man-sized crowbars stood nearby, and pyramids of blue plastic lubricant drums squatted on the floor like an obstacle course. Nothing but junk. On the right, the battered, empty skeleton of an exo-suit loader slouched next to its propane gas fueler.

  You are the weapon. There is always something you can do, a Zulu sergeant screamed in his head. Always something you can use. Find it!

  Cottontail felt the hard cylinders of the magnesium flares rolling against his thigh and smiled.

  Suddenly, one of the conveyor belts next to his head rasped, and a line of canary-yellow crates sang by his head. The bed of steel rollers rattled down the line and the three agents attacked.

  Spraying their weapons on full-auto, the two men stayed behind a rack of steel shelves while the woman sprang forward on his right. Cottontail shifted and crawled below the metal-rimmed side of the conveyor platform as rounds buzzed and sparked around him. Frantic to catch up with Mr. Tam and Gibson, they were trying to pin him down and rush the stairs. Cottontail didn’t signal his brothers yet.

  He waited for a microsecond pause between bursts, then leaned out and fired twice at the men. As they snapped out of sight, he put his last three rifle rounds into the propane tank. He threw the rifle down as another length of boxes raced by and crawled closer.