Chapter 11
Constantine handed me his heavy, black handgun. It was larger than any kind of pistol I’d even used. It was monstrously large in my hand yet felt remarkably light. I hefted it and tested its sights.
“It’s a centimeter gun,” Constantine explained as he was digging in the truck of his Charger. We were three block for the address O’Day had sent me. It was dark and the streets were empty. Those that weren’t rioting downtown were locked up tight in their homes. We had the city to ourselves.
“Centimeter?” I raised a curious eyebrow.
“Ten millimeter, caseless ammunition,” he continued. I turned the gun over looking for the magazine. Where did the bullets go? Constantine reached out and flipped open a hatch. “Twenty-two rounds, ablative magazine. Doesn’t violate assault weapon legislation because technically it doesn’t have a magazine at all. The bullets are held together by epoxy. The breech strips off one round at a time.”
“You’re kidding me?” I laughed, poking the solid block of clear plastic inside the handle of the gun.
“Nope.” Constantine pulled a bulletproof vest over his suit jacket. When he was armored, he armed himself with a futuristic looking machine gun. “The centimeter round is an intermediate-powered cartridge, delivering almost 1.8 kilojoules of muzzle energy. That’s more than the old .223 Remington. That amount of firepower allows ammunition uniformity between sidearm and assault rifle.” He held up the black gun. It also didn’t have a detachable magazine, just a well to feed in bullets. He picked up a couple of the over-sized candy bars of a glued bullets and fed each in turn into the weapon. He cycled the bolt and seated the rifle in his shoulder.
“You Hot Kids get all the cool toys,” I said, looking at the black handgun. It was a lot more firepower than my little Rhino. But I wished I had one of his bulletproof vests.
“We didn’t come to Seattle unprepared,” he said, starting up the street toward are target address.
I followed. “Not unprepared for a fight but you didn’t expect the sort of resistance you’re getting downtown, did you?” I cocked a thumb back toward the city.
A few doors away from the dilapidated house that O’Day’s lowjack had led us to, Constantine paused to check his rifle. I tried to wrap my hands comfortably around the hilt of the handgun, but it felt too large in my grip.
“We’ve already identified the ringleaders,” Constantine spoke up, breaking the silence. “We know that members of the old city regime are behind the violence. When we’ve subdued the protest; they will be dealt with.”
“Dealt with?” I said in disgust. “Do you hear yourself? First the Progs, then the Genies, now the Seattle old guard. You’re sure making enemies fast.”
“You’ve got to break some eggs, Fonseca, if you want to make an omelet.”
“Yeah, but people have to want to eat an omelet, Special Agent,” I replied.
But Constantine missed my quip. He was already on his feet scurrying toward the dark, abandoned house. I trotted to keep up, staying low and silent. It was no time to fool around. For once, Constantine’s tactical preparedness was perfectly warranted.
Genies were dangerous when cornered. They might lull you in with the false pretense of hippie, dopey acquiescence. But like all addicts, their mood could change on a dime. One minute, you were dealing with a spaced-out junkie then next a snarling maniac trying to rip out your throat. And the Genies we were after, the one’s who’d burned O’Day’s lab and potentially murdered Montavez, had already show a propensity for violence. No, I’d stay behind Constantine’s rifle and keep his centimeter gun leveled. There was no telling what we’d find inside the Rosicrucian’s flop.
Constantine shimmied up to the right of the front door and gave me the go signal. I stepped back, put my boot into the door, and kicked it wide open. Constantine was already moving, slicing the pie to the right. I followed on his heels, gun at the low ready, and went left.
Through the door there was a hall, with stairs to the second floor. To the right was a living room, to the left a dining room. The place was mess, a jumbled collection of garbage and broken furniture.
Standard Genie flop, I said to myself as sweeping the dining room for targets. There was an exit at the rear, with the kitchen beyond, but it was clear. I turned on my heels and joined Constantine in the living room. I covered him as he advanced across the room, to the far door. My focus was on the opposite corner of the living room, when I heard a sound to my left: that unmistakable click clack of a shotgun being pumped.
The Genie was standing on the landing of the stairs, black pump scatter gun in his hands. I staggered back and tried to raise my gun. My feet came away underneath me. Good thing, too, because the Genie took a hip shot at where my head should have been.
The shotgun made a deafening bark and plaster exploded above my head. I hit the floor, weapon still raised, and fired wildly up the stairs.
The centimeter gun was large, and it coughed forth with an impressive muzzle flash, but the recoil was remarkably mild. My first shot hit a banister, the second, the ceiling. My third shot, however, caught the Genie in the left shoulder, just as he was shucking his scatter gun. He flailed in pain, losing hold of his weapon, and staggered toward the stairs, just as Constantine came into the hall. The Genie was falling as Constantine’s rifle opened up. The Genie was dead by the time he hit the hallway’s floor.
Constantine gave me a look of disdain as I pulled myself to my feet, but he had no time to lecture me. From the doorway across the living room, another Genie began to fire a pistol. The windows beside the front door shattered as I raised the black centimeter gun and returned fire. Constantine turned, and let forth with a burst of automatic fire. The Genie in the doorway dove for cover.
The Special Agent gave me the sign to go left, through the dining room and around. He advanced across the living room, rifle raised.
I moved quickly, leaping over the detritus of the dining room and around into the kitchen. As I cleared the door jamb of the back hall, Constantine began to fire. I could see the Genie, on his knees at the back door to the living room, plaster from Constantine’s rounds raining down above him. When Constantine paused in his attack and the Genie sprang up to return fire, I raised my pistol and fired. My first round hit home, and the Genie fell like a rag doll onto his side.
“Clear!” I yelled, and Constantine came cautiously through the bullet-ridden rear door of the living room. He kicked the dead Genie with the toe of his loafer.
I was standing in the center of the kitchen, like a fool, watching Constantine clear a back bedroom and washroom, when a burst of automatic fire came up out of the basement though a closed door. I was spared any of the lead as it tore into the ceiling, but a hail of splinters sent me diving for linoleum.
“Motherfuckers!” a voice screamed out, counterpointing between bursts of machine gun fire. Constantine came into the kitchen and took cover behind the refrigerator. I stayed, sprawled out on the tile, fearing that one of the splinters in my cheek was a gunshot.
When I realized I wasn’t about to die, I started to climb to my feet. But Constantine give me the hold sign.
The shooting stopped and there was silence. I waited, poised on my haunches, as Constantine slung his rifle. He reached for the basement door and counted down on the fingers of his spare hand.
When he reached zero, I sprang to my feet as he threw open the door.
Sure enough, door at the foot of the steps, a shirtless, scraggly-haired Genie was wrestling with the magazine of an AK. I popped off a few shots, hitting the concrete around his feet. Just as his fire had been high, mine was low, shooting down their stairs. One bullet must have ricocheted off the floor, however, as he suddenly flipped onto his face, his leg kicked from underneath him.
He fell right into my line of fire, two rounds thumping red warts into his back. He lay still as the centimeter holes began to well with blood.
“Fuck!” I cursed, realizing that the slide of my black gu
n had locked back. I went automatically into a reload drill, but the gun had no magazine release switch or magazine to release. Helpless, I put the gun down on the kitchen counter beside me and grabbed hold of the granite myself.
Fuck, I’d never killed anyone before. Not in ten years on the job. And there I was, in thirty seconds, I’d plugged three people. Genies, sure, but people. I felt sick, my head began to spin as the adrenaline started to wear off. I needed to sit down.
Constantine descended the basement stairs slowly. He was gone for maybe a minute before he returned with his rifle over his shoulder.
“Clear?” I asked, standing at the sink. If I was going to puke, I wanted to do it there.
“Clear,” Constantine replied. But the look on his face said a lot more.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, swallowing hard.
“Maybe you should take a look...” Constantine said, pointing back at the basement. “I think we’ve found Vivian’s book.”
That Nietzsche Thing Page 13
