by Mel Odom
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Spinning into motion, his wired reflexes coming online, and the world slowing down around him, Hawke threw himself to the floor, Predator clenched in his fist, before Mr. Johnson’s corpse hit the thin carpet. Adrenaline fired through him as his gaze swept the club.
Two of the sec men scanned the room while the third crouched low and headed for Mr. Johnson.
The surrounding club patrons had no clue what was going on, and just eased away from Hawke ’til a young ork in metal-studded leather froze in his tracks and dropped to the floor. The guy gasped and choked on blood gushing from his mangled throat where a large caliber bullet had plowed through flesh and bone. Like the first shot, Hawke hadn’t heard the second over the pounding beat.
Now realizing a threat was among them, the crowd ducked for cover like herd animals fleeing a predator. Several pulled heavy caliber pistols, looking for the shooter. Hoarse screams and curses filled the air. The raucous music played on, rocking the building’s interior.
Hawke took solace in the presence of Mr. Johnson’s sec men. He wouldn’t be the only one looking for the shooter, and they’d both provide cover and confusion. The downside was they’d be watching over him as well.
The sec man beside Mr. Johnson laid a hand on the side of the dead man’s throat. Mr. Johnson stared up at the ceiling. A small, neat hole wept a slow trickle of blood.
“You!” the sec man roared. He was human, a combination of steroid and cyber, a meat shield and heavy bruiser who got paid for fighting other people’s fights. Plastic surgery had turned his features into average, brown on brown. He was a component that could be placed anywhere and fade into the background till he took action. He pointed a silencer-equipped Hammerli 620 pistol at Hawke. “Drop your—”
Hawke shifted his hands slightly, keeping the sec man’s attention there, rolled to his side, then kicked him in the temple. Immediately unconscious, the sec man slumped beside Mr. Johnson.
“Hawke?” Flicker called over the commlink.
“I’m busy.”
Scrambling back, Hawke reached Mr. Johnson’s side and ran his free hand through the corpse’s clothing, hoping for a commlink or anything he could use to get more information.
A short distance away, one of the remaining sec men took three bullets to the chest, but remained on his feet. Either his subdermal armor hadn’t been compromised, or chems slamming through his body kept him up and moving. He extended a Colt Cobra TZ-120 and snapped the folding stock out, then fired at figures taking cover beside support pillars on the other side of the room. Hawke didn’t know if those figures were assassins or club security or paranoid bikers, but they were trading shots with the sec men.
Finding nothing on the dead man, Hawke rose into a half-crouch and looked for an escape route. He rapped a fist against the window behind him and discovered that it was reinforced transplas, bullet-resistant and bombproof. He’d need major explosives or an anti-tank missile to get through it.
That left the entrance and exits on the first floor, all of which would be heavily guarded and would form chokepoints that would work in favor of any hostiles surrounding the building. Hawke had no way of knowing how deep the opposing numbers ran, but with corps involved, he guessed the effort would be more than a skeletal team.
If the target had been Mr. Johnson, the hitters weren’t giving up. Either Hawke had been on the list with him, or the assassins were looking to add collateral damage to make a statement.
“Hawke—” Flicker tried again.
“I need that exfil now.” Hawke stood and grabbed the sec man closest to him, yanking him off balance. The guy had been shedding bullets like raindrops. Synthskin ripped away from the bodyguard’s face, exposing the steel beneath. He looked more machine than human.
Distracted, the sec man swept his free hand back while his other continued firing the Cobra. Hawke ducked the blow and hustled the sec man toward the steps. The big man’s body vibrated when struck by the incoming heavy caliber bullets, but none appeared to do any significant damage.
“Let go, you fragging drekker!” The sec man swung another punch, then started to come around with the pistol.
Hawke chopped the man’s wrist with the barrel of his Predator. The impact didn’t knock the other man’s weapon away, but it did block the blow. A bullet smashed into the sec man’s forehead just over his right eye, and rocked his head back on his thick neck. By then Hawke had him to the stairs.
The man’s foot moved out from the first step, found nothing, and he toppled over. Hawke raced down beside the falling man tumbling down the steps, knowing he was in the open now and speed was the best defense he had. More bullets caromed off the stairs, rails, and the dead man’s armor.
“Stand by for exfil.” Flicker’s voice was tight but controlled. “Ready for overlay feed.”
“Bring it online.” Hawke experienced a split-second disruption in his vision, then the drone feed came through. The angle told him Flicker’s drone had entered the club and was angling for the high ground to give him a complete view of the area.
Two guys in biker leathers took aim from the second floor. Hawke didn’t know if they were part of the hit team, but they were definitely gunning for him. Bullets cut the air around him. He put two rounds into the first man’s bearded face and watched him stagger back, either mortally wounded or momentarily sidelined.
Reaching the bottom of the stairs, Hawke pushed and shoved through the crowd, feeling bad when bystanders took bullets meant for him, but knowing he’d gotten caught in crossfires himself on occasion. Someone who went to places like the Hellstorm had to expect to get blown up at some point. That was just how the odds played out.
“Exfil through the back of the building,” Flicker said. “The club owners have a private exit there.”
“And they’ll have security to protect it.” Hawke angled for the bar. He used his forearms like battering rams, colliding with people and knocking them out of his path when they didn’t clear quickly enough. Bruised flesh and broken bones gave way before him. Pained yelps and curses trailed him.
A pair of heavy caliber rounds thudded against his back, but flattened on his bulletproof armor. Hawke kept running toward the bar. One of the bartenders swung around to face him, bringing a stubby Enfield AS-7 combat shotgun to bear.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Wrapping his free hand around the short barrel, Hawke pushed the shotgun aside just as the bartender fired. The barrel heated immediately, but Hawke stubbornly held on. Riding out the recoil, he pulled the weapon forward, but was unable to wrench it from the bartender’s grip. Instead, he stopped his momentum and shoved the shotgun back into the man’s face.
Nose broken and streaming blood, half-dazed by the impact, the bartender stumbled back into his partner, who was turning toward him. Hawke spun, chambered his right leg, and fired it into the first bartender’s chest, driving him into the second. Both went down in a tangle of flailing limbs.
Through the drone’s view, Hawke spotted three men heading toward him. Their paths were direct and simple, and they shot anyone who got in their way. One of them went down in a hail of bullets fired by one of the club’s enforcers, but the other two killed the shooter with combined machine pistol fire.
Then the lead gunman, a human dreadnought much like Mr. Johnson’s sec man, turned his attention back to their intended prey. He fired two short bursts and the bullets peppered the wall of liquor bottles behind Hawke, sending broken glass and alcohol tumbling to the floor.
Hawke leathered his Predator and double-fisted the Enfield. The 8-gauge combat shotgun had a 24-capacity drum slung under its barrel. He aimed at the lead gunner and fired twice. Instead of double-ought buckshot, the shotgun was loaded with ceramic slugs designed to render impact damage without penetration. Against bulletproof clothing or subdermal armor, the slugs delivered sledgehammer blows.
Struck in the chest and face, the assassin broke his stride and dropped to a crouch. The second man v
eered from his direct approach and triggered a new volley of rounds that left long scars in the bartop.
Hawke dropped below the bar, still able to watch his opponents through the drone interface, and crouch-walked to the far end. Near the corner, the PRIVATE door sat partially ajar. Without pause, he slammed a shoulder into the door and drove back the guard taking cover there. Hinges shrieked as they tore free of the jamb.
Whirling as he entered the room, which turned out to be a small kitchen outfitted in plasteel, Hawke leveled his captured shotgun at the man sprawled on the ground. Burly and bearded, the go-ganger reached for the pistol he’d dropped during the collision.
Hawke blasted the pistol. The ceramic slug shattered on impact, but the weapon spun across the floor out of the man’s reach.
“Don’t,” he warned.
The go-ganger held up his hands in surrender and broke eye contact, becoming immediately submissive. “Just doing my bit, chummer. Working for the cred. No personal investment. I’m done.”
The three cooks here had already hit the floor. All of them wore casual jeans and tee shirts bearing the Hellstorm Club logo. They were wageslaves, no fighters among them.
“Through the kitchen,” Flicker directed.
“If this comes out into an alley, they’ll have people there.” In spite of his own concerns, Hawke headed for the kitchen’s back door.
“You’re not going into an alley.” Tension tightened Flicker’s words. “And the alley wouldn’t be a concern anyway. Someone’s got a private helo hovering over the club. I’m trying to identify it now.”
“That’s the Johnson’s ride.”Hawke cursed as he burst through the next door and discovered two go-gangers standing watch over a door to the right. Both men immediately pointed their weapons at Hawke.
Ducking and bringing up the Enfield at the same time, Hawke pumped a rapid salvo of shots into the men’s center mass, not wanting to kill them because they were—relatively—innocent bystanders here. The ceramic slugs knocked both men back into the wall behind them as the detonations blasted through the room.
“There’s a rooftop access panel to your left on the ceiling,” Flicker said.
Hawke looked and spotted the panel. Three metal rungs stood out on the wall. “I see it.”
“Go up.”
Crossing to the rungs, Hawke dropped the Enfield and climbed fast. The ceiling panel was locked, but it broke open the second time he slammed a fist into it. He scrambled up, hearing the coughing men recovering behind him as he heaved himself up into the darkness, throwing the panel closed behind him. The access tunnel ran straight through the second floor, where another panel barred his exit. Bracing himself, he drove his fist into the locking mechanism again and again.
Through the drone’s vision, he kept an eye on the two gunmen headed in his direction. Three other men, probably a backup team, followed them. Pausing briefly at the door he’d broken through behind the bar, they rushed into the kitchen, which was now empty, then into the next room.
The two recovering go-gangers barely had their weapons in hand before the new arrivals opened fire and cut them down. Hawke redoubled his efforts to break open the sturdier roof hatch. Finally the lock shattered and rained broken pieces down into the room below.
Drawn by the falling debris, the gunmen crowded under the ceiling access. Hawke barely shoved himself through the opening before bullets ricocheted off the access tunnel’s sides. He hit the pebbled rooftop and rolled, then pushed himself to his feet and drew one of the Predators as he swept the area for opponents.
The loud whop-whop-whop of helicopter rotor blades closed in on him. Flicker transferred the video feed from the drone inside the club to one she had flying nearby in the night. Hawke picked up the helo in the dark sky just before an infrared searchlight fell over him. His vision suite alerted him to the increased light spectrum.
“Move!” Flicker yelled. “To the west side of the roof!”
Hawke sprinted and heavy caliber bullets pounded the pebbled roof in his wake, dogging his heels. As big as the Hellstorm Club was, he ran out of space quickly. “Flicker—”
“Jump. There’s a delivery truck parked in the space below you.”
Trusting his partner, Hawke reached the building’s edge and leaped, picking up the solid top of the truck five meters out. He waved his arms and legs to keep his balance, couldn’t, and hit the truck’s roof on his side. His breath rushed from his lungs, which felt like they were on fire, and his senses spun, but he managed to get control of his wild skid across the metal just before he dropped off the side.
He landed in a crouch on the ground. Bullets from the helo’s machine gun ripped through the truck like it was made of paper.
“North,” Flicker said. “Along the street. I’m running the Growler over to you now.”
As she spoke, Hawke spotted his motorcycle rounding the corner at a sharp angle, the rear wheel drifting almost even with the front tire as it powered through traffic.
Pushing out from the truck just far enough to spot the helo adjusting its position overhead, Hawke raised the Predator and fired four quick shots at the transplas bubble where the pilot sat. The bullets wouldn’t penetrate, but getting shot at was still a distraction, and the helo jerked in reply.
Then the helicopter instantly turned into a roiling orange and black fireball. Hawke registered the looping contrail of a surface-to-air missile launcher fired from somewhere on the other side of the Hellstorm Club. Either one of the go-gangs had struck back at the interloper, or there were two groups of heavy hitters on-scene.
Pieces of the destroyed helicopter rained down in flaming bits around Hawke and the street as the Growler skidded in his direction. He holstered his weapon and caught the motorcycle’s handlebars, pulling himself atop the machine while it was still moving.
“I’ve got it,” Hawke said, transitioning control from Flicker between heartbeats. He leaned over the handlebars and twisted the throttle. The motorcycle shot down the street, weaving easily between the confused traffic trying to get out of the area. He accelerated again, heading for the safety of the smuggler routes. A brief glance at the rear-view mirrors showed no evidence of pursuit.
But it would be coming. Hawke was certain of that. He just wasn’t certain what he was going to do about it.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
In the dream that wasn’t quite a dream, Rachel knew she was in terrible danger. Even though she was aware that she was sleeping, or something close to that, on some primitive level she was certain that if she died here, she would be dead everywhere.
Just . . . gone. That scared her more than anything she’d ever known.
She hid under a rocky overhang that reminded her of the broken land in Guatemala, but the terrain spread out a few hundred feet below her wasn’t anywhere in Aztlan. At least, it wasn’t in the Aztlan she knew. Maybe at some later date, after a drastic climate change or genetically modified organism got loose, the entire world would look like this. Doomsayers had been forecasting an apocalypse along those lines for decades.
Instead of the normal rain forest fanning out below her across the tall hills and deep valleys, a vast, towering jungle unlike anything she had ever seen—except maybe in my dreams—covered the broken terrain. The land lay in cracks and sharply angled pieces. There was nothing soft about it. From the destruction that wasn’t covered by jungle and brush, it looked as though something huge and monstrous had run rampant through the whole area.
Or perhaps monstrous things had warred here at some time and left this ancient battleground behind to be claimed by the encroaching jungle that was slowly filling the scars.
The thought made Rachel shiver, even though the temperature was hot and humid. Her clothing, khakis and a fitted pullover she remembered from her early college days, stuck to her skin. She wore a ball cap. When she took it off, she discovered it was from Tufts University, where she’d gotten her undergrad degree. She pulled it back on and scoured the countryside again.
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br /> Creatures roved the jungle. Only creatures wasn’t quite the word she was looking for. These things that crawled and scampered and ran weren’t like anything she’d ever seen. They looked like—prototypes of later animals. Scales covered most of them, but a few furred things leaped from branch to branch in the trees.
“Part of you knows this land. Some piece of you remembers this.”
The voice came from inside Rachel’s head, “loud” enough that it hurt. Startled, she shifted on the ledge, sending a handful of scree pouring down the steep incline. Even though the voice mixed with her thoughts, something told her it was close to her.
She spun, rising from her hunkered position to stand. She wished she had a weapon, the staff she sometimes used in the brush, or even a camp knife. Anything would have been better than standing empty-handed before the thing that stood behind her in the cave mouth.
Covered in iridescent scales that looked green at first glance, then blue at another, the creature stood more than three meters tall. Its massive head, shaped like an ax blade, bobbed low between its pointy shoulders to avoid contact with the rough, white limestone ceiling. Virulent red eyes sat on either side of its narrow face. Its arms and legs were too short for the long body, but the limbs were thick with muscle. Faded gray scars stood out against the beautiful scales.
“You recognize this place on some level, don’t you?” The thing cocked its head at her, fixing her with one crimson eye.
Rachel didn’t try to answer. She couldn’t. This is a dream. Just a dream. Wake up!
“A dream?” The thing laughed, the growling, gurgling noise sounding like rocks banging together. “This is no dream, Rachel Gordon. This is a warning.”
“A warning about what?” she asked.
