“Dat Nighthunter guy? Some toying,” Willems said, and whistled.
Frank cycled to the end of the list of transmissions and listened to the most recent one. The unit indicated that Elliot had ridden into the abandoned and condemned Soldier Field.
Thinking fast, he added to the conversation via implant. “All units, this is Campanelli, five-one-six-two. Do not pursue Elliot Three-Seven inside the stadium. To all units available, converge and surround all entrances and exits to Soldier Field. SWAT teams mobilize and meet me there ASAP.”
At that moment, a two-man squad arrived on the scene. Frank bolted for it, showed his badge to the passenger, and jumped in the back seat. “Soldier Field! Go!”
***
The last report given on the pursuit of Elliot Three-Seven described him leading several police cars on a chase around the old stadium and entering the facility from the south entrance. Campanelli was familiar with the layout of the place, as the abandoned sports arena had been a popular place for criminal activity ever since it was closed. Dozens of bodies had been dumped there over the years and it was often the center for gang-related activities, including wars, which took place on the now downtrodden dirt field.
“I want all surveillance drones to converge on Soldier Field and every helo we have on station. We have a chance to trap and capture Elliot Three-Seven,” the Captain of Detectives sent to the CPD dispatcher, using the squad car’s transceiver.
“Roger, five-one-six-two,” the dispatcher replied audibly.
It seemed to Campanelli that every police vehicle in the city was on its way to Soldier Field. The car he rode in eventually became surrounded by a sea of white and blue. His ears could barely register anything beyond the cacophony of sirens around him. Not a civilian vehicle remained on the streets.
“Five-one-six-two, from fifty-two-oh-two,” Marcus called over the radio.
Frank leaned as far forward as he could, restrained as he was by the critter-cage separated him from the front seats. “Go ahead, Williams.”
“Frank, the blotter says you wrecked, you okay?”
He shook his head. It was not something he wanted announced over the radio. “I’m fine. Is your squad in place?”
“Affirmative,” Williams answered. “We have three squads assembled at the south entrance, where the suspect was seen entering. Should we proceed?”
“Negative. Wait for me.”
“Roger.”
“I’m a few minutes out,” Campanelli added. “Where are Quinne and Dr. Ruger?”
“They are standing by,” Williams answered.
The cruiser Frank was riding in bounced up a curb to approach the south entrance. Ahead, he could see the area, a wide concrete swath originally intended for pedestrians was now covered with squad cars and SWAT vans.
“I’m on scene, wait for me!” Frank shouted and opened the door before the driver came to a complete stop.
Campanelli ran for the entrance, weaving between vehicles and uniformed officers. Out of habit, he held up his badge, which minimized queries. He made his way to the center of the mass of humanity and began counting the armored personnel. He confirmed three squads and Frohm was the ranking officer over all three. He called the man’s name and found him in the crowd.
“I’ve just sent a request for further SWAT units to assist in securing the facility. Your three squads will be going in with a small detachment of uniformed police and myself and we’re gonna find this asshole!”
“Yes, sir!” Frohm agreed vehemently, though his voice was now a hollow representation of itself through the vent of the fully-encompassing helmet. Marcus Williams stood next to him, taller and more monstrous than ever in the AA-Suit due to the armor and articulating armatures.
“Detective! Detective Campanelli!” Dr. Mitchell Ruger called frantically as he bumped through the crowd of officers and SWAT.
“Dr. Ruger,” Frank greeted.
“I need to go in with your group,” Ruger demanded. “I can talk to Elliot.”
Frank looked to Agent Quinne, who came up behind the old geneticist. The man shrugged.
“Look, Doctor. I don’t think that’s wise. Your presence may have the opposite effect, you know.”
“I’ve thought of that, believe me. But I think that Elliot will talk to me,” Mitchell insisted. “He had to know that I disagreed with the decision to eliminate the FROGs.”
“Dr. Ruger…”
“Please, Detective!”
At that very moment, a surveillance drone transmitted the image of Elliot Three-Seven, riding the Torpedo across the uneven and muddy playing field. They had to move in and Frank knew it.
“Detective, Elliot hacked into your squad car’s computer and caused your crash,” Ruger explained quickly. “He did that to two others as well. He can hack into any implant he wishes. If he wanted to kill you, he would have hacked your implant directly.”
“Look! I think this is a terrible idea, but we have to go!” Frank shouted. “Frohm! He’s on the field! Let’s go!”
Frohm replied in the affirmative and ordered his squads inside the facility. With a nod, Marcus Williams was off, sticking closely to Frohm’s side.
“All right!” Campanelli called to the uniformed men around him. “You four on me! Quinne, protect Dr. Ruger!”
Quinne nodded and pulled his semi-auto from his shoulder holster. “Stick close to me, Professor.”
The men, counting more than forty including the uniformed officers covering the rear, ran up the ramps and through the corridors that brought them to the first level of seating. Frohm split the SWAT squads, sending one east and one west. Spread as they were, they would emerge from the outer corridor and enter the seating area as one unit.
Once he got the confirmation that the other squads were in place, he ordered them forward. Each SWAT member stayed low and acquired the target through their rifle scopes once they had moved forward enough to see him on the field.
Frank ordered the uniformed officers, armed with semi-automatic rifles or shotguns in addition to their sidearms, to remain in the corridor to cover their rear. He then moved in with Frohm’s squad and took a position near the sergeant. Quinne and Ruger came along, but stayed back and low.
Campanelli kicked concrete and glass debris out of his way and crouched next to Sergeant Frohm at the last row of lower deck seats. Marcus Williams remained at the ready on Frohm’s right.
The roar of the motorcycle’s four-cylinder resonated throughout the old crumbling structure. Elliot rode like a madman over the gutted football field, making fresh ruts in the mud with the powerful bike.
Frank was about to peek when his CAPS-Link received a ping. There were several hundred police officers surrounding the stadium, but he knew who it was.
“He knows we’re here,” he said to Frohm, who nodded.
As if to confirm that, Elliot slowed the motorbike and brought it to the center of the field. Once there, he gazed at the seating sections on the field’s southern end and smiled. He held the bike in place and gunned the engine, flinging the rear end around and around as he cackled madly.
“Can someone please take him off that thing?” Frank asked of the SWAT commander.
“Sure,” Frohm answered. “This may be our best opportunity to take him down.”
“I can do it,” Williams affirmed and focused his sights on the FROG.
“No! Wait!” Ruger called from behind them. “I haven’t talked to him, yet…please!”
“Marcus.” Frank leaned forward and looked to his partner. “Target the bike itself.”
“Sure thing,” Williams said with confidence.
Tired of spinning the Torpedo in circles, Three-Seven brought it to a stop and stared hard into the group of armed men. He could see them watching him from their rifle scopes. Elliot was about to shout up to them when a muzzle flash blossomed. The buzzing round came in quickly and struck the motorbike’s engine block with a ringing report. The engine coughed and ran unevenly for a few seconds before a loud ha
mmering came from deep within the contraption.
“No, no, no, noooo!”
With a final thwack! and a cough, the motor died. Black smoke exuded from the hole that was punched into its side and the exhaust pipes.
“Well, that’s not fucking cool!” Elliot screeched. He reached back into a saddlebag, retrieved one of the Warlock submachine guns and appeared to take a casual, single shot in response to the received gunfire.
The domed top of Marcus’s helmet was struck with the round. Had he not heeded Frohm’s order to get down, the bullet would have entered through the helmet’s visor.
“Shit!” Williams hollered. “That’s it!” He shifted over to the next row of seats and raised his weapon to take out the FROG once and for all.
Other SWAT members opened fire on the FROG, forcing him to drop the hefty bike nearly on top of himself for cover.
“Cease fire!” Frohm called into the helmet radio.
“Hold it, Williams!” Campanelli shouted.
“Goddamn it!”
“Just stand down a minute!” the Captain of Detectives ordered his partner.
“Elliot!” Ruger called as he ran forward. “Elliot Three-Seven!”
Frank rolled his eyes, turned, and reached out with his left hand. His fingers grasped the elderly doctor by the belt and held him there.
The stadium fell nearly silent. Only a stiff breeze could be heard for several seconds.
“Dr. Ruger?” Elliot called from his place of hiding. He was virtually lying under the disabled motorcycle, despite the engine heat.
“Yes! It’s me, Elliot!” He ceased any attempts to move further forward, but Frank held on to the belt.
“Can anyone get a clear shot of him?” Sergeant Frohm nearly whispered into the mic. No one answered, so the answer was negative.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Three-Seven shouted. He shifted under the Torpedo, trying to see if he could place the barrel of the gun through a bit of the machine’s anatomy to return fire.
“I just wanted to talk to you,” Mitchell Ruger replied. “I…want you to drop your weapons and come in. Surrender yourself, please. Whatever’s wrong we can talk about it.”
Agent Quinne come up alongside the doctor and remained in a low crouch behind the seats opposite the row Frank was hiding behind. Campanelli gave him a hard look for letting Ruger leave his side. Quinne shrugged in an apology.
“You’ve got to be yanking me, Doc!” Elliot yelled back angrily. “You bastards killed us! Almost all of us!” He magnified his vision upon the area where his ears had pinpointed Ruger’s position.
“That wasn’t my idea, Elliot! I swear to you, I never wanted that!” Mitchell bellowed sorrowfully.
Three-Seven found the voice and smiled. The geneticist was crouched behind the seats of the lower level like the rest of the policemen. To Elliot’s delight, the blind detective was alongside him.
Placing the barrel of the submachine gun through the gap between the front forks and the frame of the ruined motorcycle, Elliot fired a single shot.
The lone report echoed throughout the quiet stadium. Dr. Ruger let out a short yelp of pain and crumpled to the concrete floor.
“Goddamn it!” Campanelli shouted, but was drowned out by sporadic return fire from the SWAT teams. He leaped to his feet and dragged the doctor back to the entrance.
Rounds struck the motorcycle, ringing off the thick metal frame and engine. Several led projectiles punched holes in the fuel tank. Gasoline rained down upon Elliot’s face.
“Arrgh! Fuck!” he spat and shrunk into a ball. Straining to reach it, he fiddled through the saddlebag on that side of the slowly disintegrating machine and pulled the other weapons from within it, one by one.
Three-Seven waited for the firing to cease. He knew then that most of his attackers were reloading, so he made his move.
Sliding out from under the bike, he knocked the kickstand into place with the barrel of the submachine gun and jumped up into a crouch. His FROG-ServLink quickly assessed the threats and sent the location of each gunman in the stands, marking them with a red dot on his lenses. Each weapon in his hand was capable of firing automatically, but Elliot needed precision at this range, so he had left them set at single shot. He brought the guns close enough together that each of his eyes could make use of their sights and picked out one target after the other. He fired as he retreated.
One by one, SWAT members took a hit in their body armor or helmets and dropped, shouting in pain. Frohm and Williams returned fire, tracking the fast moving FROG. The reports from the falling SWAT members filled their helmet radios. They watched as their target skillfully evaded the rounds they fired. He hopped and ran, rolled along the dirt, jumped to his feet, and sprinted away with astounding agility and speed.
“How the hell?” Marcus mumbled as he took careful aim and fired. Round after round missed cleanly, though a couple appeared to come very close. He marveled at the FROG’s uncanny ability to place such long range shots on target, even while evading fire.
Frohm emptied his magazine and began reloading just as Marcus did the same. Williams kept his eye on Elliot as he went about reloading his weapon. After a second, he was glad he did.
“Down!” Marcus shouted and spun about, throwing an arm across Sergeant Frohm’s chest and bringing the both of them down to the concrete, hard.
Both of Three-Seven’s shots at them missed.
Frank inspected Ruger’s wound and determined that it was serious, but not life threatening. He told the geneticist to make his way back outside and alerted a uniformed officer that the doctor needed medical attention. The old man had taken a nine millimeter round in the shoulder and could walk.
Campanelli ran back to join the SWAT team, entering the seating area in time to duck the rounds meant for Williams and Frohm. He magnified his vision and caught a glimpse of the FROG as he disappeared into the shadow of a tunnel at the northwest corner of the field.
On impulse, Campanelli bolted down the steps between the weather-beaten and vandalized seats toward the field. He did not hear Marcus shouting after him. He vaulted over the wall at the bottom of the decline and landed hard onto the muddy field, letting out a cry of pain. His legs instantly ached from the impact, but he pushed them hard, reaching a near-sprint pace through the torn-up and rutted field. He did not take his eyes from the tunnel ahead.
Marcus ran after him and continued to reload his rifle on the way. “Frank!” he shouted again, but his older partner never faltered. Williams landed hard on the muddy field and ran after him.
Campanelli reached the far end of the field and put his back against the wall to the left of the tunnel opening. He hesitated for several seconds, catching his breath. He saw Williams had followed and was headed for the opposite side of the entrance.
“Are you nuts?” Marcus sent in an audible message. The sanitized digital voice of Williams only hinted at the ex-SEAL’s angst, which was clearly stamped upon his face.
“I think maybe, yes,” Frank returned in kind. Quickly, he adjusted his vision for night and curled his head around the corner. He saw no one, just the tunnel which led to the innermost depths of the ancient stadium. On the ground lay the two submachine pistols. Apparently, they had been emptied.
Without wasting any more time, Campanelli came around the corner and stepped forward. Williams followed.
To their left, a pair of doors hung wide open. Whether or not this had just been done was doubtful, as Soldier Field had been at the mercy of gangs, criminals, and relatively harmless trespassers for decades.
As the Captain of Detectives approached the opening with his handgun raised, a radio message from Sergeant Frohm reached Williams’s helmet radio. It would be a few seconds before it would reach Frank’s CAPS-Link.
“He’s flanked you! Above and left!”
“Look out, Frank!” Marcus shouted and brought his weapon up. He saw Elliot’s face for the first time, taking it in during the second that passed before he c
ould pull the trigger. Three-Seven appeared calm, even amused, as he smiled and looked down upon the two policemen. The bright yellow eyes locked on Marcus’s face, though he did register the SEAL’s intent to shoot him.
Frank anticipated what Elliot had done, assumed that he was about to fire on them, and raced around the corner through the open doors.
By the time Marcus had placed his finger on the trigger, Elliot had disappeared.
Gunfire erupted from the SWAT team, and rounds rained over the seating area above them. The assault was brief, as Three-Seven moved out of their sight as well.
With the assistance of the AA-Suit, Marcus launched himself upward and grasped the edge of the wall. The powerful actuators allowed him to pull himself up with one arm. Giving a glance about the area, he lifted his body over the top of the wall. He stayed low, covering the area around him with the rifle.
“Where’d he go?” Williams called into the microphone.
Campanelli ascended a staircase strewn with litter and refuse. He was careful, but quick. He reached the top and left the stairwell, finding himself inside the stadium. He increased the sensitivity to his ears and heard footfalls receding quickly at his left.
“He went up the row right where you are, Marcus,” Frohm answered. “Then inside.”
“Roger,” Williams answered and ran past the stairs leading to the upper level, toward the first open doorway he saw. He saw Campanelli stride past. “Frank! Wait a minute!” he shouted.
He burst into the wide corridor and was relieved to find that his partner had waited. Williams gave him a nod as his eyes wandered over the place, even giving a glance up to the rafters. They could not afford to continue underestimating Elliot’s abilities.
“I heard footsteps this way,” Frank sent to Marcus over the implant. He pointed to their left and stepped hurriedly in that direction.
Both men kept sharp, watching the long abandoned and emptied shops, vendor counters, and washrooms. The entire area reeked of mold, causing Campanelli’s sinuses to itch and run.
Sunlight spilled into the area from the outer windows, setting the dusty air alight in long, foggy beams which spilled onto the gray floor. Frank thought the command to link with the CPD server. It took a moment to find a police vehicle within range to relay the signal, but in a moment, he was able to access the array of police drones that were patrolling the stadium.
Campanelli: Siege of the Nighthunter Page 19