flickered to masking, and he closed his left eye. The explosion was even more devastating than the door charge had been.
>TWO DOWN IN FRONT. Lincoln was getting some work after all. >SWEEPERS.
That left nine, one of which was the bunny’s little girl. Deke ground his teeth and moved toward the junction. Sweepers from around back of the building—sweepers being those blokes who’d try to come around the building and get behind him—in less than thirty seconds meant a disgustingly high state of readiness. Either these Leafs were real pros, or they were real nervous having the bunny’s daughter getting her organs removed in their building.
Either option would get Deke killed.
Two more forms loomed out of the darkness ahead as he went left at the T. He brought the subgun up and fired twice, six rounds. Three to each form. Both of them collapsed as Deke darted forward behind his bullets. They were women, in hospital greens. Harmless.
Still dead.
“There’s two kinds of people in the world, lad,” his first sergeant in the SAS had told him once. “The kind that matter and the kind that don’t.” Deke had frowned then, and the sergeant had clapped him on the arm. “On an op, there’s those you’re there for and those you aren’t, and those you aren’t are disposable. They get in your way, you move them. You don’t leave problems behind you.”
Deke stepped past them. He didn’t look down twice.
Seven .
>THE ORK IS DOING SOMETHING.
Deke swore and shouldered a door open. An empty breakroom, full of spilled coffee and dots screaming fire warnings. Deke swung around.
A flicker of light made him jerk back, but not far enough. Something tugged at the subgun for an instant, right before the front half of the barrel dropped off. Another flicker of light, and Deke looked away from the end of his gun lying on the floor and down the hallway. A man in heavy gloves twirled a length of line. Monofilament. As sharp as the blade in Deke’s fist.
“Runners,” the man spat.
“Corps,” Deke spat back.
“You’re not getting out of here,” the sec man said.
“Darn,” Deke said. He dropped the remains of his submachine gun and held his hands out toward the man. The sec guard snarled and swung his line. Deke, his overlays ready, tagged the line in flight and stuck his right hand out, fist clenched. The line jerked in the air and went taut, the end wrapped around the edge of the monoblade protruding from Deke’s fist.
“Nice trick,” the sec guard said. “Not nice enough.” He jerked.
There was another tug as the monofilament sawed through the blade and swung free. The man spun, unbalanced, gathering the line back to himself. It took the low-mass line barely a second to writhe back under his control.
Just in time for the bullet from Deke’s pistol—the one he’d drawn with his left hand even as his right registered the tug of the monofilament cutting—took him in the shoulder and spun him around.
Deke switched the gun to his right hand, advanced two steps, and put four more rounds into the downed sec man. The fourth round entered the man’s head through his right temple. It didn’t—that Deke could see—come out.
“Works,” Deke said. Six .
>DON’T GET COCKY.
Deke’s cyberear picked up the footstep even as he chuckled at Lincoln’s comment. He spun around, gun ready, but not fast enough. Bullets crackled down the hallway as the man—the elf, Deke saw—held down the trigger on the submachine gun he held. The first round crashed against the right side of Deke’s chest, but it bounced off his dermal plates and ricocheted away. The others—twenty-eight or so, his mesh told him—flew on steadily higher trajectories as the recoil raised the barrel.
Pain flared through Deke’s chest at the impact. The armor was subdermal, after all… he had a right-big gouge through the flesh and muscle of his chest. He let himself fall to the corridor floor but kept a tight grip on the pistol in his right
>TWO DOWN IN FRONT. Lincoln was getting some work after all. >SWEEPERS.
That left nine, one of which was the bunny’s little girl. Deke ground his teeth and moved toward the junction. Sweepers from around back of the building—sweepers being those blokes who’d try to come around the building and get behind him—in less than thirty seconds meant a disgustingly high state of readiness. Either these Leafs were real pros, or they were real nervous having the bunny’s daughter getting her organs removed in their building.
Either option would get Deke killed.
Two more forms loomed out of the darkness ahead as he went left at the T. He brought the subgun up and fired twice, six rounds. Three to each form. Both of them collapsed as Deke darted forward behind his bullets. They were women, in hospital greens. Harmless.
Still dead.
“There’s two kinds of people in the world, lad,” his first sergeant in the SAS had told him once. “The kind that matter and the kind that don’t.” Deke had frowned then, and the sergeant had clapped him on the arm. “On an op, there’s those you’re there for and those you aren’t, and those you aren’t are disposable. They get in your way, you move them. You don’t leave problems behind you.”
Deke stepped past them. He didn’t look down twice.
Seven .
>THE ORK IS DOING SOMETHING.
Deke swore and shouldered a door open. An empty breakroom, full of spilled coffee and dots screaming fire warnings. Deke swung around.
A flicker of light made him jerk back, but not far enough. Something tugged at the subgun for an instant, right before the front half of the barrel dropped off. Another flicker of light, and Deke looked away from the end of his gun lying on the floor and down the hallway. A man in heavy gloves twirled a length of line. Monofilament. As sharp as the blade in Deke’s fist.
“Runners,” the man spat.
“Corps,” Deke spat back.
“You’re not getting out of here,” the sec man said.
“Darn,” Deke said. He dropped the remains of his submachine gun and held his hands out toward the man. The sec guard snarled and swung his line. Deke, his overlays ready, tagged the line in flight and stuck his right hand out, fist clenched. The line jerked in the air and went taut, the end wrapped around the edge of the monoblade protruding from Deke’s fist.
“Nice trick,” the sec guard said. “Not nice enough.” He jerked.
There was another tug as the monofilament sawed through the blade and swung free. The man spun, unbalanced, gathering the line back to himself. It took the low-mass line barely a second to writhe back under his control.
Just in time for the bullet from Deke’s pistol—the one he’d drawn with his left hand even as his right registered the tug of the monofilament cutting—took him in the shoulder and spun him around.
Deke switched the gun to his right hand, advanced two steps, and put four more rounds into the downed sec man. The fourth round entered the man’s head through his right temple. It didn’t—that Deke could see—come out.
“Works,” Deke said. Six .
>DON’T GET COCKY.
Deke’s cyberear picked up the footstep even as he chuckled at Lincoln’s comment. He spun around, gun ready, but not fast enough. Bullets crackled down the hallway as the man—the elf, Deke saw—held down the trigger on the submachine gun he held. The first round crashed against the right side of Deke’s chest, but it bounced off his dermal plates and ricocheted away. The others—twenty-eight or so, his mesh told him—flew on steadily higher trajectories as the recoil raised the barrel.
Pain flared through Deke’s chest at the impact. The armor was subdermal, after all… he had a right-big gouge through the flesh and muscle of his chest. He let himself fall to the corridor floor but kept a tight grip on the pistol in his right
Similar Books
