intact. Six took aim about fifteen centimeters above the handle, where the lock should be, and gave the door a hefty kick.
The door swung outward with a crash, showering plaster into the stairwell. Chunks fell to the basement level, cracking against the mound of debris which had once been the staircase, almost invisible in the darkness.
Six pressed a hand against the door frame, testing its strength. It seemed capable of holding his weight. Gripping it with one hand, he leaned out into the well and switched on his radio.
“Assault team, do you copy?” he whispered.
Only static came back.
“Kyntak, can you hear me?” he tried.
Still nothing. Six was about to try again when Agent Nine poked his head out of the door on the floor above, silhouetted in the foggy light. He looked down at Six.
“Whoa,” he said. “How’d you get down there?”
“It wasn’t easy. The rest of you will have to come this way. Just drop and I’ll catch you.”
Nine nodded nervously. “Okay. Ready?”
“Yes. Go.”
Nine stepped through the doorway into the well, and Six caught him with one arm and swung him into the first-floor corridor. Nine landed in a catlike stance, rattled but safe.
Six looked up. “Who’s next?”
It took less than two minutes to ferry agents Four, Five, Eight, and Ten to the first floor. The sounds of gunfire still raged on upstairs—Six hoped that this was just because the attacking soldiers were using it as a scare tactic.
He leaned out through the doorway again, but no one seemed to be coming down.
He took a swift head count. “Where’s Two?” he demanded. “And Kyntak?”
“I haven’t seen Kyntak since we left the van,” Nine said. “But Two was with us at the door.”
Six peered out again and looked up. There was no movement above.
He glanced at his watch again—12:19:30. The longer the other agents stayed, the more danger they were in. He wouldn’t leave Kyntak and Two behind, but he couldn’t risk the lives of the others.
“Go,” he said. “Now. The floor is structurally weakest in the center of each apartment—use your grenades to break through it, and get back to the trucks in the basement. Head for the Deck. I’ll find Kyntak and Two.”
The agents nodded and headed down the corridor, following Agent Five. They were soon out of sight around a corner.
The stairwell door was still open. Six put his foot on the handle and climbed up onto the top of the door. It rocked on its hinges, but being thick and heavy, its inertia was too strong for the movement to dislodge him.
He ducked instinctively as another blast of gunfire came from the floor above, closer this time. Keeping one hand on the door, he drew his Owl pistol from his belt and aimed it at the upper doorway.
When a figure flew out into the stairwell, Six almost fired. But then he recognized the Deck-issue fatigues, identical to his own. Two, he thought, or Kyntak.
The figure fell towards him limply, arms hanging from slackened shoulders, knees bent at ninety degrees, gloved fingers letting an Eagle automatic slip away from them.
He’s unconscious! Six thought. Letting go of his Owl, he leaned out into the center of the well, reaching for the arm of the falling agent.
But as the figure spun slowly in the air to face him, Six found himself looking into the still, lifeless eyes of Agent Two—and the bullet wound between them.
The body slipped through Six’s clutching hand and disappeared into the darkness below.
Six lost his balance and toppled off the door. He grabbed the handle on his way down and hung there, reality seeming to fade as the color washed out of it. He felt dizzy and light-headed.
He looked down. Two was dead.
The first thing Six felt was relief that it hadn’t been Kyntak. The second thing he felt was shame for feeling this.
The third thing was self-loathing, disgust for failing to protect Two, letting him die—a man whose last words to Six had been, “We trust you, Six. Go.”
And for
The door swung outward with a crash, showering plaster into the stairwell. Chunks fell to the basement level, cracking against the mound of debris which had once been the staircase, almost invisible in the darkness.
Six pressed a hand against the door frame, testing its strength. It seemed capable of holding his weight. Gripping it with one hand, he leaned out into the well and switched on his radio.
“Assault team, do you copy?” he whispered.
Only static came back.
“Kyntak, can you hear me?” he tried.
Still nothing. Six was about to try again when Agent Nine poked his head out of the door on the floor above, silhouetted in the foggy light. He looked down at Six.
“Whoa,” he said. “How’d you get down there?”
“It wasn’t easy. The rest of you will have to come this way. Just drop and I’ll catch you.”
Nine nodded nervously. “Okay. Ready?”
“Yes. Go.”
Nine stepped through the doorway into the well, and Six caught him with one arm and swung him into the first-floor corridor. Nine landed in a catlike stance, rattled but safe.
Six looked up. “Who’s next?”
It took less than two minutes to ferry agents Four, Five, Eight, and Ten to the first floor. The sounds of gunfire still raged on upstairs—Six hoped that this was just because the attacking soldiers were using it as a scare tactic.
He leaned out through the doorway again, but no one seemed to be coming down.
He took a swift head count. “Where’s Two?” he demanded. “And Kyntak?”
“I haven’t seen Kyntak since we left the van,” Nine said. “But Two was with us at the door.”
Six peered out again and looked up. There was no movement above.
He glanced at his watch again—12:19:30. The longer the other agents stayed, the more danger they were in. He wouldn’t leave Kyntak and Two behind, but he couldn’t risk the lives of the others.
“Go,” he said. “Now. The floor is structurally weakest in the center of each apartment—use your grenades to break through it, and get back to the trucks in the basement. Head for the Deck. I’ll find Kyntak and Two.”
The agents nodded and headed down the corridor, following Agent Five. They were soon out of sight around a corner.
The stairwell door was still open. Six put his foot on the handle and climbed up onto the top of the door. It rocked on its hinges, but being thick and heavy, its inertia was too strong for the movement to dislodge him.
He ducked instinctively as another blast of gunfire came from the floor above, closer this time. Keeping one hand on the door, he drew his Owl pistol from his belt and aimed it at the upper doorway.
When a figure flew out into the stairwell, Six almost fired. But then he recognized the Deck-issue fatigues, identical to his own. Two, he thought, or Kyntak.
The figure fell towards him limply, arms hanging from slackened shoulders, knees bent at ninety degrees, gloved fingers letting an Eagle automatic slip away from them.
He’s unconscious! Six thought. Letting go of his Owl, he leaned out into the center of the well, reaching for the arm of the falling agent.
But as the figure spun slowly in the air to face him, Six found himself looking into the still, lifeless eyes of Agent Two—and the bullet wound between them.
The body slipped through Six’s clutching hand and disappeared into the darkness below.
Six lost his balance and toppled off the door. He grabbed the handle on his way down and hung there, reality seeming to fade as the color washed out of it. He felt dizzy and light-headed.
He looked down. Two was dead.
The first thing Six felt was relief that it hadn’t been Kyntak. The second thing he felt was shame for feeling this.
The third thing was self-loathing, disgust for failing to protect Two, letting him die—a man whose last words to Six had been, “We trust you, Six. Go.”
And for
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