for the door. Coward. Then again, the man didn’t have many options left. If I was right, and the silver armor held up only a minute or two before dissolving, my opponent’s mirror shell must be close to shutting off. By the time that happened, the thug would want to be elsewhere—back with his fellow mercenaries. They were his only protection, now that his Uzi was reduced to frozen frass.
I caught the gunless gunman just as he reached the corridor. This time, I didn’t punch him—I had no desire to trigger another thunderclap. Instead I thrust my arm around his neck and gingerly pulled back with a basic forearm choke hold. There was still a
whomp
as our silver shells made contact, but much softer than the first time. That could have been because the shells didn’t smack together with the pile-driving force of a punch . . . or maybe the silver force fields had blown off most of their energy the first time they collided. Now, they had far less “juice” to power sonic outbursts. Every moment they remained in contact, they seemed to drain each other more. After five seconds, both the mercenary’s silver lining and my own winked out with a soft
whoof
of air, like two fires that have burned up each other’s fuel.
For an instant, nothing happened . . . but my arm was still bent around the man’s neck, pressing in on his throat, and now there was no shell preventing me from cinching up on his esophagus. I did so. The mercenary attempted to respond with a standard escape move—turning his head toward my elbow to reduce the constriction on his windpipe, grabbing my wrist to loosen the grip, and stepping into a lower stance in preparation for a release maneuver—but partway through, his injured ankle snapped from exertion.
Nothing sounds so
meaty
as a leg bone breaking. It’s the crack of mortality.
The man would have fallen if I hadn’t been holding him around the neck. He ended up dangling from my choke hold, making urgent gargling noises. I could have proceeded to kill him . . . but why? I whispered in his ear, “If I let you live, do you promise to be good?”
He gagged out something I took for a yes.
“Fine.” I dropped him to the ground and stepped away. He lay on the floor, gasping. I considered whacking him a few times to knock him out, but the thought of pummeling an injured man into unconsciousness turned my stomach. In his weakened condition, any more damage could kill him. I made do with poking my foot lightly into his ribs. “Help the poor,” I said. “Find a cure for cancer. Do something useful with your life so I don’t regret letting you live.”
The man didn’t answer. He might not have understood what I’d said. But he looked so dazed—close to clinical shock—I was certain he wouldn’t cause any more trouble.
I turned to Reuben. “We’d better get ready,” I said. “The bad guys will be here any moment. Time for our last stand.”
We had half a minute to scour the OR for implements of defense. The place had exactly what you’d expect: an abundance of bandages and penicillin but a dearth of firearms, Tasers, and antipersonnel devices. I improvised what I could, then ran to the door as I heard combat boots drawing near.
The corridor outside the OR was just wide enough for a gurney . . . and since we
had
a gurney available, I’d asked a nurse to wheel one out. With its brakes locked, the gurney formed a simple barricade between us and the oncoming horde. It wouldn’t stop our enemies for long, but it would slow the first arrivals. We’d also moved the emergency light into the hall to illuminate anyone approaching. Enough light spilled backward that the OR wasn’t completely dark, but we could see the gunmen more clearly than they could see us.
Such little advantages were important. The assault force had started with sixteen bad guys. Dr. Jacek said the doorman had killed one with a lucky shot to the head and had disabled another with an ankle shot. The ankle victim was, of
I caught the gunless gunman just as he reached the corridor. This time, I didn’t punch him—I had no desire to trigger another thunderclap. Instead I thrust my arm around his neck and gingerly pulled back with a basic forearm choke hold. There was still a
whomp
as our silver shells made contact, but much softer than the first time. That could have been because the shells didn’t smack together with the pile-driving force of a punch . . . or maybe the silver force fields had blown off most of their energy the first time they collided. Now, they had far less “juice” to power sonic outbursts. Every moment they remained in contact, they seemed to drain each other more. After five seconds, both the mercenary’s silver lining and my own winked out with a soft
whoof
of air, like two fires that have burned up each other’s fuel.
For an instant, nothing happened . . . but my arm was still bent around the man’s neck, pressing in on his throat, and now there was no shell preventing me from cinching up on his esophagus. I did so. The mercenary attempted to respond with a standard escape move—turning his head toward my elbow to reduce the constriction on his windpipe, grabbing my wrist to loosen the grip, and stepping into a lower stance in preparation for a release maneuver—but partway through, his injured ankle snapped from exertion.
Nothing sounds so
meaty
as a leg bone breaking. It’s the crack of mortality.
The man would have fallen if I hadn’t been holding him around the neck. He ended up dangling from my choke hold, making urgent gargling noises. I could have proceeded to kill him . . . but why? I whispered in his ear, “If I let you live, do you promise to be good?”
He gagged out something I took for a yes.
“Fine.” I dropped him to the ground and stepped away. He lay on the floor, gasping. I considered whacking him a few times to knock him out, but the thought of pummeling an injured man into unconsciousness turned my stomach. In his weakened condition, any more damage could kill him. I made do with poking my foot lightly into his ribs. “Help the poor,” I said. “Find a cure for cancer. Do something useful with your life so I don’t regret letting you live.”
The man didn’t answer. He might not have understood what I’d said. But he looked so dazed—close to clinical shock—I was certain he wouldn’t cause any more trouble.
I turned to Reuben. “We’d better get ready,” I said. “The bad guys will be here any moment. Time for our last stand.”
We had half a minute to scour the OR for implements of defense. The place had exactly what you’d expect: an abundance of bandages and penicillin but a dearth of firearms, Tasers, and antipersonnel devices. I improvised what I could, then ran to the door as I heard combat boots drawing near.
The corridor outside the OR was just wide enough for a gurney . . . and since we
had
a gurney available, I’d asked a nurse to wheel one out. With its brakes locked, the gurney formed a simple barricade between us and the oncoming horde. It wouldn’t stop our enemies for long, but it would slow the first arrivals. We’d also moved the emergency light into the hall to illuminate anyone approaching. Enough light spilled backward that the OR wasn’t completely dark, but we could see the gunmen more clearly than they could see us.
Such little advantages were important. The assault force had started with sixteen bad guys. Dr. Jacek said the doorman had killed one with a lucky shot to the head and had disabled another with an ankle shot. The ankle victim was, of
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