He jumped into the next aisle, P99 covering the far end. He made it halfway and stopped. Think, he told himself. Jay and the others are counting on you. He was properly adrenalized, which meant he could move faster and with more power than normal, but at the cost of cognitive function. He couldn’t think properly.
What could he do to even the odds? He silently wished he had Grace’s X-ray vision, then remembered his own abilities. He closed his eyes, opened his mouth and let his ears do the searching. The air-conditioning rumbled at a low frequency and the fluorescent lights buzzed at a higher frequency. He filtered those out and tuned to the frequencies between.
Footsteps. Light, rubber-soled. Moving tentatively around the supermarket. He tried to identify them, make out how many and who was closer. He could hear one set that was particularly close. Two aisles left, a fraction back. He needed to calm his breathing, in through the nose and out through the mouth. If his heartrate jumped any higher he’d hit the gray zone: even more adrenaline. A state of hyper-vigilance. He wouldn’t be able to move his fingers, he wouldn’t be able to think at all, he’d lose his peripheral vision and maybe lose his hearing completely. If that happened, he was as good as dead.
He opened his eyes. Staring him in the face: sugar, spice and all things nice.
He had an idea.
He selected a miniature bottle of paprika powder and held it between his teeth, then carefully moved to the rear of the supermarket. There would be more soldiers at the front than the rear to cover any attempted escape. On the way he snatched a box of Koko Krunch cereal. The koala on the front promised a Jango Fett figurine inside. He reached the end of the aisle and, cereal box in one hand, P99 in the other, checked his right. No soldiers at the end of the aisles, yet.
He retreated past a rack of egg cartons and emptied the cereal box in his wake. The cocoa shells skittered across the lino floor, along with a solitary plastic figurine in Mandalorian armor. Damien withdrew to the far right corner of the supermarket: an open aisle with generous displays of fruit and vegetables. No soldiers. Yet. He had thirty seconds at most.
He snatched an egg carton and emptied it in front of Jango Fett. The eggs broke across the floor. Taking the paprika bottle from between his teeth, he ducked out of view and tuned to the footsteps again. They were careful and faint, but their rubber soles occasionally gave a faint squeak. He pinged several at the other end, near the entrance.
He moved along the vegetables to the front of the supermarket, but held back a few feet. He unscrewed the cap from the paprika and waited. He needed to time this right.
The cereal he’d poured on the floor was to cover his blind spot and serve as an early warning system in case anyone tried to get the jump on him. The eggs were a precautionary measure in case he couldn’t cover himself in time. Even if the soldier didn’t slip — the egg yolks were more noticeable than oil — it would still slow them down by a second or two. And that would be the difference between alive Damien and dead Damien.
As CT soldiers, they’d drill for scenarios similar to this on a daily basis, their reaction times shaved to nothing. Chimera vectors or not, he knew that all it would take was a round to the head or the artery in his neck and he’d be dead in seconds.
Around the corner he confirmed two nearby soldiers. Moving now would be suicide. He picked up a nearby fruit — a coconut — and hurled it over to the rear of the aisle. It landed with a hollow clonk. Footsteps shifted and moved toward him. These soldiers weren’t stupid; he would take the corner wide.
Damien closed his eyes, listened. He heard the footsteps approach. And another set, about five feet behind. There was another soldier in the aisle directly behind Damien, halfway down. The others were too far away to pinpoint.
His heartrate had receded now. He’d managed to calm himself to the point where he had maximum awareness, maximum cognitive functioning, high physical functioning and good bloodflow. He knew what needed to be done.
He turned and shook the paprika bottle at the soldier. The powder shot out and coated the soldier’s face. His eyes were protected by goggles, but the paprika still blinded him and filled his nostrils.
Damien had to expose himself now. He moved into view, firing his P99 one-handed. The soldier in the next aisle pivoted, subcarbine barrel aiming for Damien’s chest. Damien fired his first shot on the move, then his second. The first went wide. The second caught the soldier through the goggles. Damien followed instinctively with a third. The slide on his P99 locked to the rear.
He slammed the butt of his P99 into the nose of the paprika-sprayed soldier, then brought the pistol down, guiding the soldier’s subcarbine to one side and clear of his own body. He brought his other fist up, empty paprika bottle still firmly in hand, and jabbed it into the operator’s Adam’s apple.
Damien moved his attention to the aisles and the supermarket’s front. He was close enough to make an escape, but already he could see two more soldiers emerging from the aisles ahead, shotguns, submachine guns and subcarbines locking onto him. He still had the paprika soldier as a shield, and the guy wasn’t dead yet. He could run, but he’d be lucky to make it ten feet.
Two soldiers positioned themselves for a better shot, moving in an arc on both sides. There wasn’t much space at the front of the supermarket. The soldier on the left was cut off by an aisle and the soldier on the right was hampered by cash registers. Damien pushed his paprika soldier closer toward them, planted one leg behind the soldier and jerked his helmet to one side. He stumbled toward his colleague on the left, trapping them both in a corner.
Damien pressed the paprika soldier’s subcarbine against his belly and, leaving room for the ejection port, aimed at the operator on the right. He squeezed and a burst of rounds caught the soldier in the stomach. Following through with the motion, Damien drove his elbow into paprika soldier’s face. His head snapped backward, smearing Damien’s hand with spice, and his helmet collided with the left soldier who was now cornered behind him. Damien sidestepped the paprika soldier and moved toward the left soldier.
The guy saw him coming and quickly adjusted tactics. He brought his subcarbine to bear, magazine pointed at Damien, and used it as a blunt instrument. Damien caught the magazine and flipped it up and over. The subcarbine spun in the soldier’s hands until it was in Damien’s grasp. He turned his hips, driving the muzzle into the soldier’s stomach and knocking the air from him. Then he thrust the muzzle upward, catching the soldier under the chin.
In the same movement, Damien withdrew the subcarbine and forced it down on the unbalanced paprika soldier’s forehead. Paprika soldier fell backward. Damien squatted, his knee positioned under the guy’s spine as he fell. He bounced off Damien’s knee and rolled across the crimson-spattered floor.
In his peripheral vision, Damien spotted the right soldier getting to his knees, shotgun in both hands. He’d taken the rounds in his stomach — protected by a vest.
Damien slammed the butt of his subcarbine into the left soldier’s groin. He gave a silent scream and collapsed. Damien aimed the subcarbine and fired a three-round burst into the shotgun soldier’s head. He jerked the subcarbine back, driving the butt into the left soldier a second time. This time, the butt connected with the soldier’s head and rendered him unconscious.
Damien heard a crunch from his left, in the distance. Someone was trying to circle around, stepping over the discarded Koko Krunch. Another soldier appeared in front of him, five aisles ahead. Damien took cover in the aisle on his left, pausing for a moment to check himself over. Adrenaline masked pain, so he needed to run a free hand over his body for anything sticky or wet. No injuries, just the soldiers’ blood. He ran to the rear of the supermarket. Subcarbine in one hand, he scooped up a large rectangular tin of oil and windmilled it, still running. He heard someone slip on the broken eggs, a weapon clattering to the floor.
There were footsteps ahead. Two pairs.
Damien kept his movements light and fast, the tin of oil swinging and the subcarbine
aiming from the hip. It wouldn’t be accurate, but he needed to close this gap as quickly as he could. Inside of twenty meters, a rifle or pistol wasn’t particularly effective.
The operator on the left appeared, barrel just visible. Damien released the oil tin and watched it fly toward the firearm. By the time the tin reached the end of the aisle, the soldier had walked into range. The tin caught him in the shoulder and rolled into the side of his helmet. He recoiled from the blow, falling against the glass display of cold meats with a satisfying smack.
Damien grabbed whatever was to hand — a bottle of vinegar — and smashed it across a second soldier as he appeared on the right. The bottle struck him in the chest, not the head as Damien had hoped. He brought his boot into the side of the soldier’s leg. The operator slipped and, covered in vinegar, fell into a display of frypans.
Damien snatched a frypan as they tumbled and brought it around to the soldier on his left, who was now coated in egg and cocoa shells. But before he could strike with the frypan, they both slipped and fell together on the egg-slicked floor.
‘Fuck,’ Damien said.
He shoved the cocoa-egg soldier’s muzzle away from his face and scrambled into the fruit and vegetable aisle. He’d left his subcarbine behind and it was too late to go back for it. The other soldiers would be advancing to catch him.
Now that he was clear of the vinegar soldier, he could deal with the cocoa-egg soldier. He got to his knees as the guy snapped his rifle up. It dripped with raw egg. Damien grabbed whatever was behind his head — an upo, a baseball-bat-sized vegetable that resembled a radioactive zucchini. Sidestepping the muzzle, he slapped the upo over it. The rifle touched the floor and Damien stomped down on its side, pinning it to the floor along with the soldier’s hand. Upo in both hands, Damien shoved it hard across the soldier’s neck, pressing into his carotid arteries. This was short-lived, however, as the soldier sliced the upo in two with a knife Damien hadn’t seen until now.
Damien leaped back, and just in time as the vinegar soldier made an encore appearance. Damien twisted and ducked to avoid him. He grabbed the water spray hose from the vegetable display and shot a jet of water into the soldier’s goggles. He was running out of weapons.
He freed a durian — a spiky football-shaped fruit — from its display and drop-kicked it into the vinegar soldier’s face, then ducked as the cocoa-egg soldier lunged toward him, double-edged knife gleaming. Damien pulled the spray hose taut. The knife arm bounced off the hose and into the vinegar soldier. The blade went straight through the durian. An inch more and it would’ve impaled the vinegar soldier’s stomach.
Damien squirted water at the cocoa-egg soldier’s face, then ducked suddenly. He caught the hose low before the heavy nozzle could fall on him and, using the weight of the nozzle on the end, he snapped it like a whip. The nozzle struck the soldier in the face. Blood flowed from his nose. Damien snapped the nozzle sideways, striking vinegar soldier in the neck. He spluttered, reaching down to fetch a fallen pistol.
The Jango Fett figurine was right in front of Damien. He snatched it and closed on the vinegar soldier, who now stank more of durian fruit than vinegar. Damien wasn’t sure which was worse. He elbowed the soldier’s pistol aside, clamping over it with one hand, and punched Jango headfirst into the side of his neck, hard into the subclavian artery. Blood squirted around the figurine and the soldier collapsed and fell still. His eyes were wide and lifeless.
Leaving Jango embedded in the dead soldier’s neck, blood still shooting from the wound, Damien redirected the pistol to cocoa-egg and fired. The shot went wide as cocoa-egg came under his line of fire, blade aimed at Damien’s inner thigh. Damien saw the danger and bent his leg inward. The knife missed the back of his knee by an inch. He straightened his leg out again, knocking cocoa-egg’s arm to one side.
Moving quickly, Damien brought his leg around and stepped on the knife, pinning the hand to the floor again. Cocoa-egg kicked out, catching Damien in the thigh and spreading his legs wide. The knife arm came free, swinging back across Damien’s shin. Damien fell back flat, his legs straightening out just in time. Cocoa-egg lunged on top of him, knife hunting for his neck.
The soldier was well-trained: a knife in the upper body was hit or miss with ribs in the way. But a well-planned slice across particular parts of the neck almost assured a kill.
Damien scooped up the durian beside him and clonked the cocoa-egg soldier in the face. The fruit bounced harmlessly off his goggles. Damien withdrew his knee and caught the knife arm from the outside, then steered the blade wide, rolling with it. Before he knew it, he was on top of the soldier, his knee pressed on the outside of the soldier’s elbow. He took the knife and … stopped. The thought of sinking that blade into the soldier’s neck was repulsive.
The Fifth Column had, directly or indirectly, sent a team of innocent men to subdue him. These men had families, friends, hopes and aspirations, and he’d slaughtered them. As Jay would say: wrong place, wrong time. They just happened to be on the wrong side.
The soldier’s free hand struggled for his pistol holster. His fingers found the pistol grip.
Damien drove the knife into the man’s neck, past the spinal cord, then withdrew it so he would bleed out. The man’s body trembled, his pistol tapping against the floor.
Damien heard crunching. Without looking, he flung the combat knife in that direction. When he turned, a soldier was slumped on top of the Jango Fett-ed operator, his neck spurting blood from the exit wound. Damien’s knife bounced off the glass display, too late to do any harm.
Grace appeared, butterfly sword in hand, forehead shiny with sweat. ‘Clean-up on aisle six,’ she said, unsmiling.
‘Thanks,’ he said.
She surveyed the dead operators. ‘Did you just kill a counter-terrorist soldier with a Star Wars figurine?’
Chapter Twenty-Six
The vortex ring grenade knocked the wind from Sophia and sent her tumbling through the bank aisle, through the rope and metal poles, and into the wall beneath the teller windows. She wasn’t sure how long she was out, seconds or minutes, but when she came to, Big Dog was advancing to the front of the store, the glass before him blown out and offering him barely a corner to shoot from.
Her body screamed pain at every inch. She gasped for air, felt it burn into her lungs. She tried to move her arms. She’d been hit by the shocktrooper’s vortex ring grenade. He was here.
‘Benito!’ she yelled. Her voice rasped, hopefully loud enough — it was hard to tell over the ringing in her ears. ‘Hit the button!’
She rolled on her side, away from the wall. Her arms flopped with her. She came to rest on her back and looked over at the teller windows. There was a short, shrill beep. A thick metal barrier slid upward, sealing the interior. The metal barrier was stenciled with the words: SECURITY ALARM ACTIVATED. STAFF CANNOT COMMUNICATE. POLICE WILL ARRIVE SHORTLY.
Yeah, they arrived some time ago, she thought.
Big Dog had disappeared from the bank. She could hear the cracks and pops of gunfire outside. That wasn’t good.
Her arms were working — sort of. She reached for her MP7. It wasn’t in arm’s reach. She didn’t know where it was. Instead, she went for her P99 pistol tucked in her waistband, only to remember she wasn’t packing a pistol. Damien was carrying it now. She should’ve taken Benito’s.
Someone entered the bank carrying Big Dog’s L22, and it wasn’t Big Dog. It was the same shocktrooper she’d crossed paths with earlier, in the jeep. She lay there as he strode past. He paused at the keypad and aimed the L22 at her head.
‘What’s the combination?’ he said, his voice even and measured.
She shifted her fingers an inch. She could move now, but she wanted him to think she was immobile.
‘I don’t know,’ she said.
She heard him punch in a combination, and then another. The door clicked. Probably used the same UV trick as Jay.
He stepped back to open the door. Sophia seized an aisle post
next to her and swung it low, into the back of his knees. He didn’t see it coming and fell backward, rolling over his shoulder. The bullpup carbine slipped from his grasp. He pulled a Glock 17 pistol as he moved into a crouch.
She was planning on his quick recovery and was already on her feet. As he drew the pistol, she gripped the barrel and turned it outward, bending his wrist. The Glock was hers now. She was quite pleased with that maneuver.
The shocktrooper clamped down on the barrel with one hand and the trigger guard with the other, peeling her aim to one side and pulling the slide from the pistol completely, leaving her with nothing but the pistol frame.
OK, Plan B, she thought.
Something struck her in the ribs — the shocktrooper’s boot — knocking the air from her lungs. She was lifted off her feet and tossed sideways through the air, entangling with more aisle rope until she hit a computer and tumbled onto the floor. She felt like she’d been kicked by a horse. A horse made from steel. She drew breath and her ribs felt ablaze. She breathed in short, sharp bursts. If any ribs were broken this was going to be a very short fight.
She got to her knees and searched for her next weapon. Big Dog’s bullpup carbine wasn’t in her field of vision, but she spotted her own MP7 inside a half-enclosed office. Problem was, the office was on the other side of the bank. The shocktrooper was blocking her path now, watching her carefully. After a moment’s consideration, he strode toward her. She kicked his leading foot out, forcing his stance too wide. She brought her heel down on his kneecap with a satisfying crack. The shocktrooper barely made a sound. He rolled away, injured leg outstretched. It wouldn’t deter him for long.
The Seraphim Sequence tfc-2 Page 21
