our chums upstairs coming down to investigate.”
“What are you going to do?”
I reached into my pocket and pulled out my own shiny silver grenade. “Fight fire with fire. In an absolute-zero nothing-at-all-like-fire sort of way.”
I pressed the grenade’s two buttons and waited.
Silver rose ticklishly up my arm, reminding me of being swallowed by a boa constrictor. That may sound unpleasant, but it actually brought back fond memories of the Amazon rain forest where I encountered a dashing man from Her Majesty’s Secret Service . . . sorry, can’t tell you more without violating the Official Secrets Act. But a boa constrictor featured prominently, so I confess to being distracted as the silver continued to spread. At the very last moment, I remembered to take a deep lung-filling breath; then I was enveloped in airless silence, the mirrored shell muffling all outside sounds.
I tried to inhale a little deeper. I couldn’t. As I’d expected, the armor was entirely impervious, shutting me off from the outside air as effectively as it shielded me from bullets. Now I only hoped that my other supposition was correct: that the shell would dissolve on its own in a minute or so, before I began to suffocate. If my guess was wrong and I stupidly smothered inside the silver container, wouldn’t my face be red? Or blue, as the case might be.
The armor—or was it a force field?—might have kept out all air, but it let in light easily enough. I could see as if looking through gray-tinted glass. Reuben was just stepping away from the mercenary, both Uzis reduced to crumbled ruins. Farewell to the last of our firearms . . . but the pistols had served their purpose, distracting our enemy until I was armored up. Now it was my turn to deal with the hooligan: mano a frigid mano.
He began to stand. I let him. Then I punched him in the face.
It was more an experiment than a serious attack. I doubted my strike would penetrate his protective shell any more effectively than the Uzis or the Kaybar knife. Still, one shouldn’t take anything for granted. Since the silver barrier stuff had already displayed properties that defied my understanding of physics, I chose to regard it as magic in accordance with dear old Sir Arthur’s law. Why not test the nature of its mystic power?
So: up with the fist and out with the fist, full strength into my opponent’s nose.
Have you ever wondered what happens when an irresistible force, my armored fist, meets an immovable object, the gunman’s armored face? Turns out, the result is an earsplitting bang. By which I mean,
BAAAANNNNGGGG!!
with as many additional exclamation points as you care to append.
The noise was hemorrhagingly loud even with silver muffling my ears. To others in the OR, it must have been deafening: a bona fide sonic boom. I imagined all Warsaw echoing with the thunderclap. Within seconds, half the city would be calling the police to report someone shooting off a howitzer.
So much for keeping quiet. All the gunmen upstairs would come running immediately. So would the MI6/CIA/Interpol agents no doubt investigating a mysterious car explosion near the airport. I fervently wished to be elsewhere before those agents arrived. Otherwise, I’d end up “helping police with their inquiries” . . . then “detained pending further investigation” . . . then “taken into protective custody” . . . and even though the spooks knew I was no criminal, they’d threaten to put me in jail unless I did them “a few little favors.” Next thing I knew, I’d be paragliding into Beijing to steal the Sacred Sword of Sinanju or some such nonsense.
No thanks. After that mess in Mauritius, I was sick of playing errand girl. Which meant I had to finish things off fast and vamoose before the Sweeneys arrived.
My first obstacle: the ruffian in front of me. He turned in my direction, putting up his fists as if ready for more sonic-boom boxing . . . then suddenly he dropped his feint and bolted
“What are you going to do?”
I reached into my pocket and pulled out my own shiny silver grenade. “Fight fire with fire. In an absolute-zero nothing-at-all-like-fire sort of way.”
I pressed the grenade’s two buttons and waited.
Silver rose ticklishly up my arm, reminding me of being swallowed by a boa constrictor. That may sound unpleasant, but it actually brought back fond memories of the Amazon rain forest where I encountered a dashing man from Her Majesty’s Secret Service . . . sorry, can’t tell you more without violating the Official Secrets Act. But a boa constrictor featured prominently, so I confess to being distracted as the silver continued to spread. At the very last moment, I remembered to take a deep lung-filling breath; then I was enveloped in airless silence, the mirrored shell muffling all outside sounds.
I tried to inhale a little deeper. I couldn’t. As I’d expected, the armor was entirely impervious, shutting me off from the outside air as effectively as it shielded me from bullets. Now I only hoped that my other supposition was correct: that the shell would dissolve on its own in a minute or so, before I began to suffocate. If my guess was wrong and I stupidly smothered inside the silver container, wouldn’t my face be red? Or blue, as the case might be.
The armor—or was it a force field?—might have kept out all air, but it let in light easily enough. I could see as if looking through gray-tinted glass. Reuben was just stepping away from the mercenary, both Uzis reduced to crumbled ruins. Farewell to the last of our firearms . . . but the pistols had served their purpose, distracting our enemy until I was armored up. Now it was my turn to deal with the hooligan: mano a frigid mano.
He began to stand. I let him. Then I punched him in the face.
It was more an experiment than a serious attack. I doubted my strike would penetrate his protective shell any more effectively than the Uzis or the Kaybar knife. Still, one shouldn’t take anything for granted. Since the silver barrier stuff had already displayed properties that defied my understanding of physics, I chose to regard it as magic in accordance with dear old Sir Arthur’s law. Why not test the nature of its mystic power?
So: up with the fist and out with the fist, full strength into my opponent’s nose.
Have you ever wondered what happens when an irresistible force, my armored fist, meets an immovable object, the gunman’s armored face? Turns out, the result is an earsplitting bang. By which I mean,
BAAAANNNNGGGG!!
with as many additional exclamation points as you care to append.
The noise was hemorrhagingly loud even with silver muffling my ears. To others in the OR, it must have been deafening: a bona fide sonic boom. I imagined all Warsaw echoing with the thunderclap. Within seconds, half the city would be calling the police to report someone shooting off a howitzer.
So much for keeping quiet. All the gunmen upstairs would come running immediately. So would the MI6/CIA/Interpol agents no doubt investigating a mysterious car explosion near the airport. I fervently wished to be elsewhere before those agents arrived. Otherwise, I’d end up “helping police with their inquiries” . . . then “detained pending further investigation” . . . then “taken into protective custody” . . . and even though the spooks knew I was no criminal, they’d threaten to put me in jail unless I did them “a few little favors.” Next thing I knew, I’d be paragliding into Beijing to steal the Sacred Sword of Sinanju or some such nonsense.
No thanks. After that mess in Mauritius, I was sick of playing errand girl. Which meant I had to finish things off fast and vamoose before the Sweeneys arrived.
My first obstacle: the ruffian in front of me. He turned in my direction, putting up his fists as if ready for more sonic-boom boxing . . . then suddenly he dropped his feint and bolted
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