"Fire drill," she repeated, with a quirky smile and raised eyebrow.
Then the crowd ran.
"You!" Jason shouted, grabbing one of the people fleeing past him. "Grab a fire extinguisher and deal with it!"
The team kept moving down the hall into some kind of storage area. Bart dodged to one side and grabbed a power cord attached to a portable wall-sized monitor. Following his lead, Shaman found a cargo strap looped around a pallet of office supplies and cut the latch loose with his knife.
"Right!" Jason shouted and pointed.
Somewhere along the line, Bart had found a printed directory. He held it in one hand and his reader in the other and split his attention three ways. He obviously didn't see the stunner-armed guard ahead who was sizing up the group and deciding what action to take.
Alex zapped him and he stumbled, but tried to recover. He zapped again and put the man down. Bart jumped far too lightly for a man of his size over the still form, as if he'd known all along that someone would take care of the problem for him . . . and maybe he had. They'd been through so much shit that they were almost gestaltic.
Then a burst of real small-arms fire caused everyone to duck and dive.
That would be the rest of the squad, Alex thought. What now? They were split between both sides of the hallway with no hard cover, though side rooms would make excellent concealment for a few seconds . . .
"This way," he said, grabbed a gibbering Bal and reached for a door handle. Shaman was still with them, and Jason. So they had the native guide. That left the firepower under Elke, and . . .
Another burst came far too close.
. . . and Bart had a map and seemed to know what he was looking for.
"Go, Elke. We'll catch up shortly."
"Roger," she agreed. The two of them faded back through a door on their side.
Alex, Jason, Bal, and Shaman went through the door, which led into some sort of utility room. Jason grabbed a large spike and a hammer off a bench, jammed the spike into the door at an angle, setting it with one tap and then beating it twice.
"Ceiling," he suggested, vaulting onto the bench and helping Bal up. He punched out two panels and slid them aside carefully.
"Concrete ceiling," he added. This must still be the front side of the building, not the main working area. "Shit. Hold on . . ." He scanned around, grabbed a torch, and shone it in circles, then said, "Hatch, over that way. Bal, give me your hand."
Alex helped Bal ascend into the twilight of the utility space, then began easing himself up on his hands. Not too soon, either. There was beating at the door. In a moment, that turned to hinges being shot off and a wall being gutted. Shaman barely made it, grunting with the effort as Alex heaved him up.
But he was up, and slid the panels back carefully, trying not to disturb too much dust. He was already sticky with insulation and dirt clinging to the sweat coating him.
Below Jason heard, "Concrete ceiling, it's safe to shoot."
"Soon as I figure out where."
So there were at least two troops down there, and now was a good time for an incapacitance grenade. He backed carefully along a steel girder while drawing one from his ruck. Right side pocket, and only one more after this.
A bullet wanged off the girder a meter ahead of him. He didn't hear the rest of the burst, but did see the holes. Now was the time. He popped the pin, counted, "One," punched his hand through a soft tile and counted, "Two," and let it go.
Then he shimmied back as fast as he could, not worried about damaging wires or cables or if anyone saw him.
The pop! of the grenade was followed by loud cursing and scrabbling noises. Apparently their opponents had not expected them to use gas in the studio and had neglected to bring the appropriate gear. So it was likely that two more were out of commission, bringing the effectives down to no more than eight.
Assuming it was only one squad, and not counting any local security who would reinforce them.
Elke's voice came over his headset. "We're going to meet at Location Three in five minutes."
He tried to remember Location Three. That was the control room above the studio catwalks. From there, it was straight down into the main studio, Number Two . . . which was the one they needed.
****
Aramis skittered feet first over the seat and into the front of the vehicle. The engine was still running, and he slammed the transmission into reverse while nailing the throttle. First, he wanted outside where he had room to maneuver, and public visibility so he couldn't be convicted for anything he didn't do. Although, what he was going to do was plenty.
Dammit, he should be in on this, not sitting it out. The damage to his side was healing and every body was needed for this. He tried to pretend that looking over his shoulder to back didn't send stabbing pains up his side and around almost to his left nipple, back to the kidney, and up his neck.
The shredded, ruined wheels slammed against the curb of the decorative flower island out front but didn't immediately scale it. They did jolt him into further spasms of pain, but he rode through it, ignoring his pounding pulse and the sweats that came with it. The smell of damaged plastic grew stronger, along with assorted metallic scents and fuel.
He saw the two guards from the gate running up fast, batons out and shouting into radio collars. Time to dismount.
The nearest one fired, but Aramis was on his knees in the dirt, behind the open driver's door, and the heavy plastic didn't conduct the beam. He reached underneath, aimed by feel, and shot and missed, but the guy dodged aside and rolled for cover. The other was trying to flank him. Aramis shot at him, and that one dodged the beam, too, diving into the back of the flowers a few meters away.
Perfect.
He dropped the baton, reached back to the box between the seats, and grabbed a stun grenade. His left side hurt just from pulling the key, dammit, but once done, a careful right-handed lob sent it over the mound. As he used his left hand for suppressing fire, the baton zapping every half second or so. It was a good throw, even accounting for the higher gravity. As the grenade arced down he ducked his head and drew his arms in.
He was safe from the direct blast. His toes tingled a little, but it was manageable.
The stunner blast that smacked the closed rear door next to him was a little less so.
He yelped, fired blindly, rolled while his ribs stabbed, and shot again with better accuracy. The half-stunned survivor went down twitching and Aramis stunned him again. Meanwhile, he heard sirens howling as civil backup arrived. That would be City Safety Patrol, almost all of whom were ex-military, according to Jason.
Glancing around the trees, landscaping, and truck to be sure he was safe, he grabbed a couple more grenades, rose, and headed for the building at a limp, bent over his side. Looked at from this position, the front was a mess, doors and frames shattered, windows fragmented and even some rock damage, not to mention scrapes on the walkway from the now totally ruined truck.
He almost tripped on the curbs, stumbled inside, and slammed against the welcome desk, now empty, just in time to hear real rifle rounds slap into the brick façade a few meters away. Not good.
Building security to his left shouted and came after him as a few remaining gawkers squawked and ran. He counted three threats. There was only one thing to do: run. After tossing a stun grenade, of course.
Three rounds came close as he crossed the threat zone of the atrium again, past the desk, and toward a dead end. He zigzagged to get the solid cover of the greeting center between him and the impending blast. Then he heard shouts as the incoming fire met the pursuing security. Then he heard the grenade bang. He grinned.
One wounded Aramis had mission killed five local security and tied up the cops for a few seconds. If he could now get a good position, here, against a table with a stone statue atop it, he could possibly take more out.
It was a moral victory. A guard jumped over the railing above and landed bare centimeters away. He and the guard stunned each other
simultaneously, batons in contact for maximum effect. He passed out with a rictus of pain and triumph on his face.
****
Elke and Bart dodged the opposite way from Bal's group, which was toward the rear of the building and away from the studio or the control room above it. For now, she and Bart had to make as much of a distraction as possible without killing anyone or destroying anything.
That latter had already gone to hell, Elke decided, as her pounding heart kept time with her pounding feet. Fabric fluttered across her arms, and she realized her shirt was open to her belt. She'd popped all the buttons doing something. Her body armor was clearly visible.
Bart fired behind her with his pistol. Good. Just because they couldn't use nonlethal force didn't mean the enemy needed to know that. Though rules or no rules, if one of those Recon mamrds shot at her, she was going to kill him.
They seemed to like locked doors around here. Luckily, her breacher loads could shatter locks and the mechanisms attached. Just as they hit the door at the end of this corridor, literally, Bart crashing atop her and knocking her breath out, she jammed the shotgun muzzle against the lock and shot. The noise was hellacious from conduction, even with her earbuds in, but the door blew open.
It was dark as she erupted through left, Bart going right, ready to shoot anything with either the riot gun or the baton she held underneath. Her eyes adjusted in a moment, and the space wasn't actually dark, just lit by dim directional lights with dark walls. Seeing no immediate threats, she shouted, "Clear!" as Bart did also. She then took two seconds to attach her baton to the standard clip on the shotgun.
They were in an open area under a roof, a loading and work area behind the soundproofed and sealed studios. They were between outside cargo doors, and no threat was imminent. She dialed her gun, turned, and shot recon over the studios twice in different trajectories. One round smacked through something overhead, the other was unknown. Images flashed on her glasses, and she sorted them. Daylight, delete. Black, delete. Crowd near the front, good, that was away from them.
"What the fuck is going on back heurff!" someone shouted as Bart stunned him. Elke's charge was a moment behind. At five meters, he'd be down for minutes. There was another corridor and it was closer to where they wanted, but they needed to be sure. This was turning into an athletic event.
"This way!" she shouted, heading back to the right, past Bart. She scrolled the last two images . . . inconclusive, but this way was not filled with hostiles yet. What they needed was a massive distraction back here to draw attention away from Bal, while she and Bart tried to regroup. That distraction couldn't be a fire, damage to the building power or antennae.
An idea occurred to her and she loped toward the wall.
When it came down to it, the power, a camera, and an antenna were the minimum mission requirements. Beyond that, they needed more notice, and she had a reputation to uphold. Besides, distractions were best loud.
In ten seconds she had three breaching charges in five-meter increments slapped against the extruded wall with glue. That glue was also tacking up on her fingers and shotgun, but it could be peeled or dissolved later. Right now, it was time Recon thought Bishwanath had his own army.
"Fire in the hole," she whispered to Bart while grinning. He took off at a sprint with her on his heels. She grabbed four more small charges, called up a code on her programmer, and stuck each detonator in in turn. Those charges she just dropped on the ground.
****
Jason kicked a hole in the ceiling below and dropped, pointing and shooting at the two figures below. They turned out to be employees on their way out the door, but he hadn't had time for that distinction.
"Hallway!" he shouted and yanked the door, as Alex went through with Shaman and he brought Bal last. Elke and Bart were shouting on their mics, so they were still working.
Elke said, "Be advised large team out front and allied force in the rea—" as a bang and rumble shook the building.
"Holy shit." The original plan, he recalled, had involved as little damage as possible. Someone was going to pay hugely for this.
Ah, well. That did mean a better chance of notice . . . assuming they got through. But what the hell had Elke meant by "allied force"? Was that just a distraction? It had to be.
"Ladder," Alex pointed. "Goes up to the maintenance mezzanine."
"Perfect!" Jason tried not to shout. "Bal first, go!" It was a ladder with a web of safety rails around it, and a hatch only three meters up.
Bal looked dazed but did as he was told, clambering up as fast as he could. Jason went second. He held the hatch and stood ready to close it.
"Someone coming," Shaman hissed. "We'll meet you there. Go," he said, as he handed up the coil of cable, then slid down the ladder, turning to appear as if he hadn't used it yet.
Then the shooting and shouting started underneath. Jason closed the hatch with a curse and a flip of his stomach.
Below, he heard the zapping bang of a stun grenade, but whose?
No time. He needed to get Bal two hundred meters across that way. There was a catwalk near the arching roof but no handy way to get there. Or, there were the climate control ducts hanging on heavy straps. Those straps were not rated for a man's weight, certainly not for two, but he'd done it once or twice during maintenance, and this was an emergency.
Which of course meant it would fail. He was sure of it. Nevertheless, he urged Bal to shimmy up atop a decent-sized duct leading from an air handler, and followed.
"Watch yourself," he said with a wince as he ripped his palm on a loose edge. Even plastic could be sharp, and this stuff didn't get beat around enough to dull it down. There'd be jagged edges at every seam.
****
Elke was truly insane, Bart decided, head ringing from the triple blast. He also intended to shoot anyone who tried to get her therapy. Her lunacy had kept them alive many times now. When all you had was explosive, everything looked like a bank vault, it seemed. He wondered how much she had left.
"Catwalk," she said. "You cover down here and stop anyone. I'll cover the top." She unslung her shotgun, the strap tangling for a moment on the remains of her shirt.
"Ja," he agreed. That was likely best. Staggered defense for a few more seconds could let them finish this. He handed over his ersatz rappelling rope, which she dropped over her shoulder as she swung onto the ladder and started climbing. She ignored the power lift. It would make noise and be otherwise detectable, but she had a stiff climb without it, in higher than normal gravity. Bart crouched and ran to a pile of crates he could use for cover.
Clattering booted feet sounded from two directions, and it sounded like a lot of them. From his "rear" came a series of small explosions and shouts. Someone had found Elke's mines and was delayed. He squatted behind a stack of slatted plastic pallets that were great concealment but lousy cover, as absolutely anything could shoot right through them. Of course, he thought, as he laid out pistol, shotgun, and baton, that made them a great rest, because absolutely anything could shoot right through them.
Elke had stun rounds in this cassette, but he wasn't sure how many, nor could he easily read the indicators. On the other hand a shotgun was loud. Bart let the first man, almost certainly local security, get into clear view, then deliberately shot just behind him. He shrieked, stumbled, and dove for cover against the wall of the end studio. Bart recalled the map for a moment. No, that was not the studio in question, and holes wouldn't matter.
Someone else was close behind and shot back, then tossed a stun grenade that landed short. He felt the tingle through the gaps in his position, but it wasn't disabling yet. Bart had nowhere to retreat, however.
It took two seconds to empty the remaining rounds in the shotgun, snapping the trigger and letting the cassette spin sequentially until empty. Ambient light grew brighter as he shot, as several rounds tore holes in the studio wall across from his position. Shouts and curses indicated he'd had good effect. No one wanted to face that kind of artillery, ev
en in full armor, and non-Recon people in suits were likely not wearing more than torso armor to start with.
He wasn't sure at first why he was cringing, until his brain caught up with his reflexes and realized several weapons were being emptied at him not far ahead. Another grenade banged and zapped, and his left fingers went half numb. Something clublike slammed into his leg, and he knew he'd been shot.
That was enough. He shouted, "I surrender!" loudly and raised the shotgun butt first. He raised it off to one side, in case they decided to shoot.
"Drop the weapon and come out!" came the reply.
"I am wounded," he said. Ja, his leg was hit, muscle torn red and blood pouring out. He hoped they had a medic. Oh, scheisse, it hurt. He felt nauseous under the sweats and needed to lie down.
"Nice try. You better hope you can walk out, or we'll use shitgas."
That would certainly slow things down while they masked, but Bart had a better plan on removing combat effectives. His leg jolted with pain anyway, so he shuffled forward on his knees, leaving both firearms and using the baton as a short walking stick. Even that was excruciating, but he had to hold out a few moments more.
As soon as he peeked around he saw weapons. There were six here, plus the one he'd scared who'd been stunned by the incoming fire. Enemy fratricide was so useful when you were outnumbered. He just hoped he could arrange more.
"Put the baton down now!" someone shouted, recognizing it as a probable weapon.
So Bart jerked and fell forward, extending his arm and the baton in it. That aimed the baton directly at his foes, and made him the smallest target possible in the open. The floor was dusty but also cool, which felt good. He was near to throwing up from the pain.
As the first of them approached, he flicked the button for the light and started pressing the trigger.
Two men recoiled from the actinic flash, one stumbled from the charge, and a second one dodged aside. He could see four more weapons pointed at him, and more than one of them fired their own charges.
At least his leg stopped screaming at him as he blacked out.
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