Skulls. More goddamned Skulls.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Miguel said. “They filled shipping containers with Skulls? What in God’s name were they thinking?”
Glenn marveled at the sight. “‘The onrush of a conquering force is like the bursting of pent-up waters into a chasm a thousand fathoms deep,’” he quoted.
“Sun Tzu?” Jenna asked.
Glenn nodded. “Maybe FGL is still going to deliver a batch of airborne Oni Agent somewhere. But that wasn’t all they had planned. These are their armies now. The Hybrids can lead these Skulls into battle. Imagine sending a force like this into the United States. Just these three freighters full of Skulls in a consolidated sweep could clean up the remnants of our military. It would be like an unstoppable tide. And instead of losing numbers after a battle, everywhere they went, they would recruit more foot soldiers through the Hybrids.”
“Damn, bro,” Spencer said. “That is fucked up.”
“The Skulls aren’t exactly well-trained, and the Hybrids barely seem to be able to control them,” Meredith said. “Sun Tzu also said, ‘Victory usually goes to the army who has better-trained officers and men.’”
“Keyword is ‘usually,’” Andris said. “A thousand Skulls could still stomp a platoon of Legionnaires. I regret to say even well-trained Hunters might not withstand such a force.”
“Then what are you waiting for?” Jenna asked.
Andris nodded. “Come. We must put distance between ourselves and the ships!”
O’Neil rallied the rest of the Hybrids. The Hunters forced their way toward the pipe where Andris hoped Jalil and Hamid were still hidden and safe. The Russians had been thoroughly routed. The majority of the forces were still embroiled with the first swarm of Skulls that had fought past the barbed wire and machine-gun nests. A Goliath smashed the hood of an MRAP, and a pair of Droolers doused the crowd with burning acid, indiscriminately spewing the toxic liquid over Skull and soldier alike.
The Hunters and Hybrids focused on defense. Their goal was to put distance between themselves and the ships, not to take down Russians. A Goliath bellowed on one of the freighters and began a mad ascent to the bridge, punching through glass and pulling out sailors as it did.
“They packed goddamned Goliaths?” Miguel yelled. “Dios mio, man. These people are insane.”
“Please tell me we can disable those ships now,” Jenna said.
Andris tightened his grip on the remote. “Here we go.” He depressed the button.
There was a brief delay during which Andris feared everything had failed.
Then it happened. The explosives he and Meredith had planted went off first. Water burst out in a geyser from the stern of the ship. The protest of tearing metal echoed over the shipyard. The second explosion went off with similar pomp and circumstance. The ship lurched violently to the side. Shipping containers and Skulls plunged into the water. Sailors leapt from the superstructure as the ship crashed into its neighbor. Two ships down. Both began to sink, condemning their cargo of Skulls to a watery death.
But Andris was shaking his head. “No, no, no.”
The nearest freighter was undamaged.
He depressed the remote detonator again and again.
Nothing. Had the explosives not been watertight? Were the detonators not working properly? Had he messed up the ratio of fuel to ammonium nitrate? A thousand possibilities rushed through his head.
Whatever the reason, the ship was still floating. Escaped Skulls wreaked havoc on its deck. A Goliath leapt from the side, clearing the harbor and landing on the pier. Its huge feet slammed against concrete, leaving elephantine footprints.
Most of the shipping containers still remained in their stacks, every one filled with Skulls waiting to be released. The macabre army might be down two-thirds in strength, but if that freighter still managed to get out of the harbor and land where Spitkovsky had planned his demonic D-Day...
Andris was unable to fathom the resulting destruction. He would be responsible for every one of those deaths. This was worse than failing to save Terrence or when he thought he had left Meredith to die.
That ship had to be stopped. No matter the cost.
-40-
Dom leaned forward in the MRAP’s chair. He felt as if he were in a Mad Max movie as he plowed through crates and smaller vehicles. And as the others had warned him, the Skulls were now filtering into the base. One appeared in his bouncing lights. The ragged remains of long robes fluttered from its spikes. It turned to Dom and hunched down as if it was going to charge the MRAP.
The beast did not disappoint.
It ran headlong into the most suicidal jousting match Dom had ever seen. The Skull burst over the hood of the vehicle. Flesh and blood spattered, smearing across the windshield.
“Thanks a lot, asshole.”
Dom slammed his boots onto the pedal. The other MRAP banked around a corner. One wheel cut dangerously close to the edge of the pier, kicking gravel into the water.
“Bravo,” Dom called over the comm link. “I’m in pursuit of a vehicle. I think the people in charge of the base are in it.”
“Is it headed our way?” Meredith asked.
“Negative,” Dom said. “Opposite direction.”
Meredith cursed. “We can’t help out right now. One, we don’t have wheels. And two, we’ve got problems of our own.”
The MRAP plowed into another trio of Skulls. They flew like ragdolls over the top of the vehicle. Another was crushed under the heavy tires, crunching noisily even amid the growl of the MRAP’s engine. Dom had to catch those bastards. If they lost him on the way out of Tangier, they were as good as free.
As he took a turn too wide, the MRAP scraped against the side of a building. It tore away a metal pipe and gutted a row of cinder blocks. Then a Drooler stumbled in front of his path. When the vehicle hit the beast, it popped like a balloon, brown acid dripping everywhere.
Again, Dom found himself thankful for the sturdy construction of the vehicle. The only problem was that the MRAP he was chasing was built just as well. Trying to stop it would be difficult.
He accelerated down a straightway and then wound between a few concrete planters and dead trees. The rear door on the enemy MRAP opened. Dom thought at first they were about to jump out and disappear into the neighboring building.
Probably the only thing worse than chasing the vehicle by himself would be to engage in a foot chase. His leg still burned, and blood from his reopened wound soaked his pants. He’d have a hell of a time catching one person, let alone a whole squad of the bastards. And if Spitkovsky chose to fight him or run, Dom was pretty sure he’d be zero for two against the Russian.
But the enemy MRAP wasn’t slowing down to disgorge its passengers. It kept rocketing toward its destination. Instead of soldiers bailing out the rear, a few merely crouched at the edge with weapons readied.
Bullets slammed against Dom’s MRAP. They pinged and ricocheted off the hood and smacked against the windshield. Dom swerved instinctively, wheels squealing, then straightened the MRAP out again. A few pockmarks formed in the glass, but small-arms fire wasn’t going to bring him down.
What in the hell were they doing? They should know they couldn’t stop him. After all, this was their vehicle.
Dom began to close the distance to them. Still they fired as if they could eventually chisel away the windshield. The best they had to show for their efforts were a few gouges in the reinforced glass that looked as if the windshield had been chipped by rocks kicked up on the highway.
They fired in bursts, aiming directly at him. He fought the instinct to duck. He couldn’t afford to look away now, not when he was so close. He could see their faces now, expressionless as masks. They didn’t seem particularly worried about him.
And that was when the realization sank into Dom. It was as if he had just stepped over the edge of a cliff. Of course they knew they weren’t going to stop him with rifle fire. That wasn’t their intent. They were just distracti
ng him, building his confidence and drawing him in close.
A soldier appeared from the shadow of the enemy MRAP’s cabin. He had a long metal cylinder over his shoulder—an RPG-29, if Dom had to guess. A weapon that could burst through some of the strongest tank armor out there. It was also well suited for fending off an errant Goliath, Dom imagined, or an MRAP hijacked by your enemy.
The RPG fired. Smoke and fire curled from the weapon.
Dom yanked hard on the wheel and slammed on the brakes. The MRAP slid sideways, the front of the vehicle crashing into an empty storefront, tearing away glass and brick. The rocket bolted past, missing him by mere inches. It slammed into a warehouse and exploded. A cloud of smoke and tongues of flame leapt out of the shredded wall.
Turning the wheel hard, Dom brought the MRAP back onto the road and resumed his chase. The soldier with the RPG appeared to be reloading the weapon. Dom gritted his teeth.
Take your best shot. You are not getting away.
He waited for the RPG to straighten on the man’s shoulder again. The rest of the world fizzled away. He barely noticed the Skulls that fell under the MRAP’s huge tires or the bullets flicking against the windshield. The smell of smoke and burned plastic, still drifting from the rear of the vehicle, evaporated. All that mattered now was the soldier with the RPG.
Every nerve in Dom’s body tingled. He had to make the right move. Had to do it at exactly the right moment. It was either that, or give up and let Spitkovsky and his men go free. Dom wouldn’t do that. He couldn’t. Not when he was so close.
He waited for the man to straighten the RPG. Saw the look in the soldier’s eyes as he picked a perfect bead on Dom. There was a small flash of orange and red, a puff of gray. The rocket came at Dom like a cobra. He twisted the wheel, doing his best to avoid the rocket at the last second.
The rocket missed.
For an old man with a screwed-up leg, he was doing pretty damn well. These bastards couldn’t stop him.
Of course, he still had to stop them.
The MRAP drifted around another corner. Ahead was yet another obstacle to overcome.
“Oh Christ,” Dom muttered.
Skulls filled the road. Hordes of them poured over a wall, tripping one another as they churned along, filtering through the base like a flood. The enemy MRAP punched through their masses. It left a trail of broken bodies in its wake. Some still clawed at the air, their legs smashed like an insect’s. Dom closed in, using the clear field to his advantage. Each Skull slamming into the front of the enemy’s MRAP slowed their speed enough to give Dom a chance to catch up.
As the soldier with the RPG loaded a third round, Dom looked ahead and saw there was an end to the sea of Skulls. That would give the other MRAP an opportunity to reestablish its lead. He had to make a move now. His MRAP bounced as it crushed the remains of injured and dead Skulls under its tires. Dom finally reached the enemy and rammed them. The driver hadn’t been prepared, and the MRAP fishtailed. One of the soldiers fell from the open rear door. His body was swallowed by the mass of Skulls.
The soldier with the RPG lost his balance, too. He barely managed to stay inside the vehicle. But once he righted himself, he finished loading another rocket.
Now or never, Dom thought as they approached the end of the swarm.
Dom hadn’t quite thought ahead as to what he would do once he stopped them. Try to run them over? Leave them to the Skulls?
What he really needed was to bring in at least one of the people in charge of this base for a lengthy interrogation. But if he couldn’t achieve that, seeing them all perish at the hands of their own creations wouldn’t be a terrible outcome.
Dom pressed all his weight onto the pedal. The MRAP’s engine let out a throaty growl. The edge of the Skull horde was near. Beyond, Dom now saw what the FGL leaders were trying to reach. There was a row of six helicopters. The blades were already moving on the first three, no doubt ready to take off as soon as these people arrived.
The soldier with the RPG aimed. Dom made a quick calculation, weighing whether it was better to play defense and avoid the rocket or barrel straight ahead while the Skulls were still slowing the MRAP.
An unexpected variable appeared. A Goliath threw itself over the wall of the base. It lumbered toward the MRAPs. Whether it saw them as a threat or prey, Dom didn’t have time to guess. He only knew that the Goliath was directly in their path, a monster just as dangerous as an RPG-launched rocket.
Dom started to swerve to avoid the Goliath just as the lead MRAP cleared the horde of Skulls.
Then the RPG fired.
Now the MRAP was damn near sideways, skidding away from the Goliath. Dom had no time to course-correct. The RPG hit the exposed rear quarter of the MRAP.
Heat and a concussive force slammed into Dom’s back, throwing him into the windshield of the MRAP. Long fingers of smoke and fire splayed from a new wound in his vehicle, finishing what he’d started with the earlier grenade blast. Pain tore through his chest where he’d hit the wheel, and his lungs were robbed of breath.
Ahead, the enemy MRAP smashed into the Goliath. The hood crumpled as the creature leaned into the vehicle like a bull crashing into a matador. The rear end, carried by momentum, flipped upward. The MRAP scraped across concrete, sparking as it came to a stop. A soldier, blood dripping down his forehead, started to crawl out.
Pain made Dom’s muscles tremor. He still hadn’t recovered his breath. His vision was clouded with red—blood or anger, he wasn’t sure. Didn’t care. He had one thought on his mind: Stop Spitkovsky before he gets away.
-41-
The Goliath threw its head back and let out another roar that shook Shepherd’s eardrums. It resonated through his bones and sent electricity sparking through his nerves, the natural response when faced with an apex predator. Sweat dripped down his forehead, carrying with it the dirt and grime that had masked his face.
This was it, his final stand. To think that he’d once resented his desk job at Detrick. Now Shepherd would give anything to be back there.
As the Goliath broke out of the cover of the forest, its form was completely visible for the first time. Huge tusks jutted from its massive underbite, and even the horns atop its head seemed to tremble with rage as its voice boomed. It tossed another two nearby Skulls for good measure. One splattered against the side of the lighthouse. The other smashed through the remnants of glass panes near Shepherd. He raised an arm to shield his face, and Costas fired at the writhing Skull until it went still.
All around the lighthouse platform, the remaining airmen laid down defensive fire. The monsters continued throwing themselves at the tower. Their claws found purchase in the space between bricks, and they carried upward with suicidal fanaticism, baring fangs and shrieking. The door to the platform was now dented from repeated bashes by the Skulls within. Each thump and scrape of claw against metal set Shepherd on edge.
Every second they went without a rescue—if a rescue was even coming—was another second closer to death.
“We need help here!” Divya cried, firing her handgun over the rail of the platform. A Skull fell away, knocking one of its brethren with it. But three more took their places. Divya’s handgun looked pitiful in comparison to the monsters charging up to face her.
Rachel and Rory put themselves in front of the Weavers. The parents struggled to calm their boy. They didn’t look much better off than the child.
Terrence groaned, propped against the wall behind Divya. Matsumoto’s eyes seemed lucid, but he merely stared straight ahead. He was muttering to himself. A prayer. A curse.
Shepherd didn’t care.
This man was the reason they were about to die. The Oni Agent, the Skulls, the fall of the United States. It all led back to this bastard.
Even if Matsumoto died today, shredded by the giant claws of that Goliath, Shepherd didn’t think it would be enough. It was too easy. The man should be punished for his crimes, and a quick death seemed like a mercy he didn’t deserve.
Costas was trying to station his people around the platform where their firepower would be most useful. The truth was that it didn’t matter; the Skulls were ascending from every direction. Maybe they could hold these bastards back a little longer, but it was just prolonging the inevitable.
The Goliath rumbled toward the lighthouse. It picked up speed on the open road. Each step left a huge footprint in the wet earth, and its bellows grew louder with each loping step. Bullets smacked against its armor. Small chips of bone flew off from each impact, but nothing slowed it. The Goliath might as well have been charging through a cloud of gnats for all the good the small-arms fire did.
Shepherd sighted up the creature’s ugly face. He put his targeting reticule over the Goliath’s nostrils. He squeezed the trigger.
Rounds sliced into the flesh of its nasal cavity. Spots of blood flew from each hit. And still the monster charged, its tusked mouth opens in a wordless challenge. You cannot destroy me, it seemed to be saying.
Watch me, Shepherd thought.
He squeezed the trigger again. Rounds cut into the roof of the creature’s mouth. Now the Goliath stumbled. It sprawled, its mouth slamming shut when its jaw hit the ground. Its huge body rolled, end over end, crushing the spikes along its back.
Navid laughed. It was a half-crazed, manic sound. “Fuck yeah! You did it!”
There was little time to celebrate. The Goliath’s collapse hadn’t done anything to stop the Skulls climbing the lighthouse. Shepherd took down another wave of them.
“I’m all out!” Navid yelled. Shepherd searched his tac vest and tossed the young scientist his last magazine. “That’s all I got.”
The Tide: Dead Ashore (Tide Series Book 6) Page 31
