Ezquerra was big, he was bad and he was dangerous.
He looked like an adolescent next to the creature.
He also wasn’t a good man to startle. As soon as the creature showed itself, Ezquerra instantly drove a booted heel into the nightmare’s knee. The armor over the thing’s kneecap took the worst of the damage, but the blow was enough to make it lose its balance.
He lifted his pistol and fired point blank at the Predator’s head. Instead the bullet found that damnable war mask again, though the impact sent the alien reeling back. Armor or no armor, the .45 caliber bullet carried a heavy impact. The thing let out another noise and staggered, catching itself before it could fall. Another deep wound scarred the metal surface of the mask.
Ezquerra took advantage of the moment and fired twice more, both bullets striking the mask again, and one of them, by design or happy accident, shattered the lens over the creature’s right eye.
Then the Predator hit him in the chest and sent him sliding through the mud. When it struck, the soldier’s armor did its job. Ezquerra stayed on his feet and remained functional despite being knocked several feet back. He got off another shot, which went wild. The one after that caught the Predator in the left shoulder, just under the small armor plate that covered the top of its arm.
LaValle pushed the spear through his arm, gritting his teeth and letting out a long whimpering screech as he freed himself. It hurt, oh, God, it hurt. The weapon slipped into the mud and was nearly buried under the torrent of water running for lower ground. He climbed to his feet, blinking back the rain. With his good hand he reached for the service pistol on his hip. It came free in his grasp and he sighted and aimed, ignoring the way his arm wanted to shake.
Ezquerra blocked a hard blow from the alien, but only barely. Where most men would have had their arm knocked aside by the savage strike, the Predator hardly moved. Instead of trying to fire again, Ezquerra stepped in closer and drove his elbow into the alien’s abdomen.
That was a mistake. The attack would have probably worked on most people, but the Predator simply took the blow and then reached out with both hands, grabbing at the agent’s head. Huge hands wrapped around Ezquerra’s helmet and held it tightly.
Ezquerra pointed his pistol at the Predator’s chest and fired.
The bullet tore into meat.
The Predator drove its knee up even as it hauled Ezquerra’s head down. The helmet cracked in the nightmare’s hands. What was left of Ezquerra’s head leaked brains as the body fell to the ground. Fresh blood fell from the wound on the creature’s chest, but it hardly seemed to notice.
Instead it looked toward LaValle and tilted its head, the one good eye on the mask a counterpoint to the dark wound where the other lens had been.
LaValle tried to aim his pistol.
The cannon on the creature’s shoulder sent a flaming ball of energy for LaValle’s face. It was the last thing he saw.
25
The National Weather Advisory called the weather over northern Florida and southern Georgia a tropical storm. The winds were harsh but not consistently bad enough to qualify as a hurricane. The rains were torrential, dropping more than an inch an hour. Lightning strikes were recorded at near record levels, and the warnings came out for people to stay in their homes if possible to avoid flash floods and wind shear capable of substantial damage.
It was bad enough that half of Coyahunga County was without power after the winds toppled four trees that took out power lines and one substation. It would be days before the power was fully restored.
In the area around Deer Water Springs, the water levels rose to dangerous heights, forcing the Army Corp of Engineers to release large quantities from the local reservoir to avoid a possible collapse of the outdated dam. The overflow washed out several smaller roads and kept the local police busy in efforts to redirect traffic and to aid the local power companies in attempting to repair downed wires.
All of which meant no one even cared what was happening at the local fair, which had wisely shut down when the storm warnings started. The Reapers carefully assessed the situation and prepared to enter what could only fairly be called a war zone.
* * *
The hunt had been violent, but fruitful, and he gathered the trophies.
When it was done, he started back toward the ship and prepared for the tasks ahead. He was bloodied and he needed to attend to that before he could address the possessions that had been taken from him. The thrill of the hunt enabled him to barely feel the wounds, but they were still there and he was still bleeding.
Then he stopped.
There were more hunters in the area. Crouching behind one of the dilapidated structures, he saw them approach. Like the ones he’d eliminated, they were dressed in black garb, and heavily armed. They didn’t see him—not yet— but they were looking, and they had to know he was close.
One last hunt then. One more fight before he collected everything he needed to collect. If he was too badly wounded by the time it was done, he’d set the self-destruct on both of his control gauntlets and let the explosions erase any evidence.
Quick patches were all he could manage for his new wounds. They would have to suffice. His Combistick was lost somewhere in the mud, but he retained other weapons, and he had his hands.
There were only four this time, but they wore devices over their faces that were likely to help them see in the semi-darkness of the storm. Taking one last look around, he moved to higher ground. Though he was being hunted, he would show them who was the prey.
This would all end soon enough.
He intended to be the only victor.
* * *
“So if I was a seven-foot-tall asshole from another planet that wanted to hunt humans, where the hell would I hide?” Hill’s words were loud and clear over their radio link.
“No clue,” Tomlin replied, “but we need to find this thing fast and we need to stick together. It’s bound to be close.” At least he hoped it was.
“That’s an affirmative.” Pulver pointed to a spot where a long metallic spear lay flat in the mud. There were no other indications that anything had happened there. Any evidence must have been washed away by the rain.
“We need to even the odds here,” Tomlin said. “Pulver, can you find the generator and knock out the power? I don’t know if the thing can see in the dark, but it can’t hurt, and it might help.”
“Understood. Let me see what I can find.” The man started looking around, and then nodded. “About thirty yards ahead, right-hand side.”
“Let’s move in that direction.”
They continued as a unit, each of them working to cover his own designated area as thoroughly as possible. The alien had to be there. If it had already left, they were wasting time. This was their chance to get the bastard.
Hill tapped Tomlin’s shoulder and pointed to a large ramshackle hut with a gaudily painted front end that said “Hall of Mirrors.”
Christ, Tomlin thought, that was the last thing they needed—to try and find an invisible target in a room that barraged them with dozens of distorted reflections. He shook his head and motioned for them to continue.
Lightning cracked open the heavens and blinded them all for a moment, even as a deep bass roar of thunder shattered the hissing of the rain and the whooshing of the wind. The storm was getting worse, and they’d be lucky not to get fried.
“Seriously, where the hell does a thing like that hide?” Hill repeated, shaking his head as he looked carefully at every obstacle, every landmark. The ground was wet and sloppy, offering poor footing and hiding deep puddles.
“Anywhere it wants to,” Tomlin answered. “It’s got camouflage technology, remember?”
A few more yards and they reached the control box for the fairground, such as it was. As they approached they remained silent, and moved carefully. There were too many shadowy structures and draped tents, places where their quarry could be hiding. Places where things could go wrong.
&n
bsp; There was a lock in place, but it wasn’t secured. Pulver opened the box with ease. A minute later the entire carnival went dark.
“There,” he said. “Maybe that will even the odds a bit.”
Hyde shook his head and peered around again, using his night-vision goggles and trying to spot their target. Abruptly he snapped his fingers and pointed up toward the sky. Tomlin followed the gesture. All he saw was the dark shape of the Ferris wheel.
“What?”
“It’s up there, on the—”
Then he dove out of the way as something hurtled toward them from above. A metal disc slapped into the muck. While it was still quivering Hyde was already up and moving, hauling ass for a different spot.
“Fuck!” Hill said. “It’s above us!”
As if on cue the air crackled with artificial lightning. A ball of blue energy ripped through the air and narrowly missed taking him out. Hill ran forward and to his left. The ground where he had been standing exploded in a brilliant blue flash.
Pulver looked up at the amusement ride, pulled his arm back, and hurled something small and cylindrical.
“Don’t look at it!”
Tomlin knew what was coming.
“Heads!” he shouted.
The grenade was small. It didn’t have to be any larger. An instant later another blast of false lightning shattered the night, followed by a thunderclap. The flash-bang grenade lived up to its design as the sound shook the air and vibrated the bones in his chest.
Though no shape was visible, they all saw the resulting splash as the alien hit the ground. The wave of muck was impressive. It might have made their progress hazardous, but it also worked as a boon in this case, allowing them to know exactly where their quarry had landed.
Pulver tossed another flash-bang.
“Heads!”
This explosion was closer, close enough that even with his eyes closed, Tomlin saw a blue afterimage. The noise was louder, too, the bang painful even with his ears covered. There hadn’t been time to put in earplugs.
When he looked up, all he could see was the spot where the mud was shaped roughly like a man. It looked like maybe Pulver’s tactic had done some good. The thing wasn’t yet moving.
Without waiting, Tomlin aimed and squeezed off a couple of rounds. One hit mud and sprayed upward. The second hit something that wasn’t there and resulted in a quick spray of green luminescence.
An instant later the humanoid shape filled with water. The creature was gone. Lightning flashed through the sky, natural this time, and distracted him from trying to watch where the mud had shifted.
Pulver prepared to throw another flash-bang when the hand holding the grenade fell off at the wrist. Even with goggles on Tomlin barely saw the disc that took off the limb. It was like the one that had cut Orologas nearly in half.
The grenade hit the ground.
It was too close!
The light was enough to blind him through his eyelids. The explosion knocked him senseless.
* * *
The world was a blur. His eyes refused to focus and try though he might, he couldn’t hear anything beyond a thunderous ringing noise.
He tried to stand but his legs refused to move. He’d have been happy with crawling on his hands and knees, but that wasn’t happening either. He wished he could remember his name or why he was lying face up in the rain.
Then it came rushing back.
Alien. Hunter. Killing.
Explosion.
With awareness came a pain that he’d managed to ignore. His hand was gone. He’d swung his arm to pitch the grenade, same as before, only this time when he watched to see if his aim was true all he saw was a jet of black liquid spurting from his wrist. Before he could figure out what the hell had happened, the world went fiery white and he was knocked to the ground.
“Ahhhhh. Guh!” It was all he could say. The pain crushed him under a ton of raw, screaming nerve endings. He still couldn’t see worth a damn and his brain was drowning in sensory overload.
Warmth bled out of his wrist and across his chest. He looked down at the bleeding stump and reached with his remaining hand, growing aware of the fact that if he didn’t staunch the blood flow he was as good as dead.
How the hell had this happened?
It had been going well. He was sure they had the damned thing on the ropes. Hell, it had fallen right in front of them, into the mud. That should have been it.
The world started to focus again and he looked up at the sky as the rain suddenly stopped dropping on his face. The goggles over his eyes were blurred by water, and so he used his good hand to wipe it away. He needed to see. Needed to know where the damned thing was and if it planned on killing him.
Everything above him should have been clear, but it was still distorted. The rain pounded down around him, but not where he was lying. It stopped before it could hit him in the face.
That distortion rippled and wavered and something that resembled a hand came down and covered his face. He couldn’t really see it, but he could feel it as it covered his mouth and nose and eyes and pushed. His head slapped down into the mud and his helmet shifted.
Suddenly Pulver couldn’t breathe. He could smell a cold, reptilian scent but he couldn’t catch a decent breath. The pressure increased and he reached up with his remaining hand to push against the emptiness. It wouldn’t move.
He tried to gasp, but couldn’t. No air came to his lungs. Tried to scream but as soon as he opened his mouth the pressure shifted and he tasted a musky flavor and mud. Something cut into his scalp—claws—and shoved his helmet up and away from his face.
Pulver lashed out again with his remaining fist and hit the air, but it didn’t flinch, would not move. His head went deeper into the mud and he thrashed, kicked with his feet and tried desperately to escape the growing pressure that shoved his head deeper and deeper into the muck.
The claws tore deep into his flesh, peeling his scalp away.
Pulver tried one more time to let out a scream, but no sound escaped past the flesh that was crushing his mouth and shoving his teeth back into his skull. He scrabbled to reach for another grenade, and remembered too late that his hand was no longer there.
* * *
Jermaine Hyde was happiest when he was on the hunt. It wasn’t that he liked killing, exactly. It was that he liked the challenge. He wanted to be the best at what he did—something he shared with Hill. He wanted to excel in a field where there were already any number of very good performers.
If he’d been musician, he’d have wanted to be the best. An Eddie Van Halen of the guitar, a Yo-Yo Ma of the cello. Instead, he worked at covert operations and, frankly, assassination. Other members of the Reapers were soldiers, but he never saw himself that way. He was a killer. He’d lie for the reports and say otherwise, but, really, that was what it came down to.
They pointed, he killed.
For this mission, however, the field was different. What he was supposed to kill was bigger, badder, and deadlier than he was. He’d never dealt with something like that.
It was also staggered, and that helped.
He didn’t see it when it attacked Pulver. If he had, he’d have done his very best to save the man. Pulver was one of his own, a brother in arms. They fought together and they did it well. Hell, there had been several occasions where Hyde wouldn’t have had the chance to make a kill if Pulver hadn’t been there to make a big bang loud enough to distract his enemies.
Now Pulver was dead. Tomlin was doing his best to recover from one too many flash-bangs, and Hill was— well, he couldn’t see Hill. Maybe the guy was finding an angle of his own for killing the damned alien. He could have it, too, if he beat Hyde to the punch.
Pulver was dead. Something was standing over him and probably dancing a little cabbage patch of celebration, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was that Hyde could see the bastard well enough to know it was there.
Hyde’s first rule was simple.
If he could
see it, he could kill it.
He didn’t try for subtle. Instead he pulled his HK45C and fired four rounds into the distortion standing above his friend’s corpse. The bullets were black talons. The shells were designed to open up like a flower when they hit a target. Four pieces of metal blossomed outward, each curving and pointed, and tore a target open. Just to add to the fun several small pellets were waiting inside that bloom, suspended in gel. Once fired the bullet spun through a target and then released the pellets into the open wound. Some people called them “sure-kill” rounds. Hyde preferred the term “overkill.” Hit a bastard with one of those, and even if it only caught him in the wrist, most of his arm was going away.
Problem was, the bastard he was shooting had protective armor. He saw the ricochet from the first bullet as it hit metal. The second round did the same thing. The third round was higher in the air, and it hit metal, too, but this time the result was different.
The first two rounds staggered the thing. They were .45s and they had a damned fine kick. So bullet one, and the thing splashed in the mud. He imagined it stepping to the side to compensate. Round two and the sound of metal on metal was louder and the thing must have fallen, because there was a bigger splash of mud this time.
Round three, and the shot must have gotten lucky.
The thing’s war mask must have taken the brunt. Bang! He heard the metal on metal sound again, only this time the alien freak was suddenly visible. He saw the faceplate go sailing sideways as the ugly fucker phased into view in a wash of electrical discharge. The thing’s head slapped hard to the left.
The war mask slipped and rolled and then stuck in the mud maybe fifteen feet from where the thing showed up. When the bastard looked his way, the anger in its alien features was impossible to miss.
When it charged him, Hyde felt a tight grin mar his features.
The Predator Page 18
