The Gods' Day to Die

by David Welch

  “Then we’ll have to fend for ourselves,” Zeus said, turning and picking up his daughter in a fast swoop. A short squeal escaped her lips. He hid a grimace of surprise. Every time he picked her up, she seemed heavier.

  “Look, Daddy,” she said, pointing down the slope. “They’re coming to see us!”

  He turned, and his smile faded. There were indeed figures coming up the slope, and there were more than four of them. And even from this distance he could tell they weren’t dressed like people out for a walk.

  “Hera, take the kids and make for the nearest patch of woods,” he said solemnly.

  Hera turned and her eyes locked on the figures. Dionysus followed her gaze.

  “I’ll take them, she’s a better fighter than me,” Dionysus said.

  “No. At least one of their parents should survive,” Zeus said in ancient Greek, so Meli wouldn’t understand.

  Hera looked like she wanted to argue, but didn’t. She took Bane in her arms, grabbed Melika’s hand, and started down the eastern slope of the mountain, away from the house.

  Zeus’ hand went to his hip for a pistol. Nice walk in the mountains or not, he wasn’t about to leave the house in times like these without a weapon. Dionysus had a weapon, too, and pulled it. Despite his unease with violence, he gripped it firmly in two hands, ready and waiting.

  “I think they have rifles,” Dionysus said.

  Zeus squinted, seeing the telltale shape.

  “Dammit,” he swore. Rifles meant the enemy had the range advantage. And he and Dionysus were on top of the ridgeline. The elevation gave them some advantage, but it also meant they were clear targets against the sky. If they stayed here, the bastards could stand off and pick them off from below, well out of range of the forty-five Zeus held in his hand.

  “Come on!” he said, and started hustling down the slope. He moved for the nearest patch of forest, two hundred yards in front of him. It was a semi-open glade on the western side of the ridge, stopping just short of the summit.

  Below, the gunmen adjusted their course, moving south as they climbed, approaching on a diagonal course. Zeus knew he’d reach the glade first, but he didn’t know if he’d get there before his family came into rifle range.

  Then his heart froze. Three of the men broke off and continued straight up the ridge. They must have seen Hera disappear behind the ridgeline, and were planning to crest the ridge then follow her down the western slope.

  “Son of a—” he began.

  “I see it!” Dionysus said.

  Before Zeus could react, his son broke off, running back up to the ridgeline and disappearing down the other side. Zeus cursed, but made no move to stop him. Seven men were closing in.

  Gunshots rang out, his pursuers firing wildly as they ran. They had little chance of hitting at this distance while running, but they fired all the same. Zeus poured on speed and dipped into the glade. Broad oaks and youngish redwoods rose up around him, casting shadows on the tall grass between them.

  He did a quick scan of the wood, seeing a particularly old and gnarled oak near the top of the glade, just shy of the ridgeline. He darted for it, bullets ripping into the trees around him, others striking soil and sending up clumps of dirt and grass. They missed wide, and he made it to the tree. He heard gunshots in the distance, from below. No doubt people were attacking the house. But he couldn’t do anything about that now. He had to focus on his own predicament.

  He spun behind the trunk, then shifted. The main limbs split from the trunk at shoulder level, giving him a good rest for his gun and some cover. Though a fine defensive position, the reality of the situation stared him in the face. Seven men carrying AR-15s entered the lower edge of the glade. The range advantage of their rifles was effectively neutralized by the various trees, but they still held the edge in firepower, mobility, and numbers. Things did not look good.

  But he stayed all the same. If they got him quickly, then there would be ten men after Hera and the children, not three. He took a calming breath, looked down the barrel of his Colt, and lined up his first shot.

  “Get down!” Aphrodite screamed, diving to the floor of the kitchen.

  Glass shattered as bullets ripped into the house. Ares ducked instinctively, taking cover behind the island in the middle of the kitchen. The clatter of automatic weapons filled his ears, and bullets shredded his house around him.

  He did not panic or freeze. Instinct kicked in and he moved, grabbing Aphrodite. Hunching low, the two ran from the kitchen, into the dining room behind it. With distance and a wall between them and the guns, they darted to a corner and stood up.

  “He found us,” Ares said.

  “Zeus and the kids!” Aphrodite began.

  “We have to deal with this before we can see if they’re okay,” Ares said. Staying low, he moved to a closet in the corner of the dining room. Opening it revealed a set of linens and china. He worked a wooden latch, and the drawers spun on a central pivot. A gun safe rotated into view. He dialed in the lock’s combination and opened it. Aphrodite darted over next to him.

  “Paranoia pays off,” Ares muttered. He pulled out two Kevlar vests, handed one to Aphrodite, then pulled one on himself. Then came Kevlar helmets, again one for each. After that came two pistols, a nine-millimeter for Aphrodite and a forty-five for himself. He clipped its holster to his belt, then turned back to the safe.

  He retrieved two M4 carbines, fully militarized versions he had bought through some less than legal contacts. Each had selective fire mode, which sent three bullets at an enemy for every pull of the trigger. He gave one to Aphrodite, calmly distributing preloaded thirty-round magazines between them while bullets chewed up the house.

  From above he heard a roar, the loud bark of a shotgun. Artemis had clearly found her way to one of the concealed safes upstairs.

  “Okay,” he said, turning to his wife. “I’m going back to the kitchen. I want you in the great room, covering the back entrance. All right?”

  She nodded, breathing heavily. Like all of them, Aphrodite had been in her share of fights. It was impossible not to have been, at their age. But she didn’t take to it the way he did, or even the way Artemis did. He squeezed her shoulder reassuringly.

  “I love you,” he said. “Remember all those things I tried to teach you?”

  She nodded. “Keep my head and don’t hesitate.”

  “Never hesitate,” he said. “And use all the cover you can. Now go.”

  She dashed off, hunched low. Ares ran back into the kitchen, approaching a large window near the table. The glass had been shot to pieces. Rounds streaked in through the empty space, splintering cabinets behind him. Crouched low, he grabbed the leg of the kitchen table, wrenching the heavy slab of wood over his head. He turned it on its side, then pushed it up under the window, so he had not just the wall but two inches of solid oak between him and his enemy. Going up onto one knee, he waited, listening. The roar of gunfire was close, maybe twenty yards away, and coming from his right. Trained from countless firefights in a dozen past wars, he had a pretty good idea of where the man was.

  He rose, his gun already at eye level. Before him stood the railing of his deck. Behind that, half obscured by the ridgeline, were the visible shoulder and head of a shooter.

  It was enough.

  Ares squeezed the trigger. Three hollow-point rounds exploded the man’s skull. Shouts went up, and a barrage of gunfire hit his position, but he was already down, behind the wall and table. What’s more, in the split second before dropping, he’d heard enough to figure out the other shooters’ positions.

  He scrambled toward the sink. A small window above it permitted him to get a shot off while standing. Jagged shards of glass remained in the frame. To his left, bullets tore through the empty window where he’d just been.

  He popped up again, aiming to his left, at a gunman closing on the window. The
man held a submachine gun and wildly sprayed the front of the house. In a heartbeat, Ares lined up a shot and fired. The burst caught the man in the chest, throwing him to the ground. To Ares’ surprise, the man rolled and got to one knee, still alive.

  Body armor!

  Ares cursed and ducked back down. He ran from the kitchen, moving again as a new barrage flew in through the small window. He came to the entrance hall. Bullet holes marred the front door, the small glass windows on either side shot to pieces. He moved behind the staircase, thinking.

  He was next to a small chest of drawers, used to hold trinkets and papers and various decorations of Aphrodite’s. Glancing at it, the obvious solution presented itself. He got behind it, crouched low, and pushed. The chest moved noisily across the floor until it was up against the front door, its wood giving him a bit more protection, as the table had in the kitchen.

  He turned and lined up his gun with one of the small windows beside the door. He saw a flash of motion, squeezed the trigger, and watched a man stumble to the ground. Two of the bullets had struck the man’s side, the vest stopping the rounds. The third went low, striking the man’s hip. He struggled to his feet, trying to hobble away. Ares squeezed off another burst quickly, aware of all the counter-fire about to come his way. The shots struck true, hitting the man in the neck and killing him.

  Wood splinters rained down on Ares as at least two guns zeroed in on the door, spraying the area with lead. Ares moved backward in a crouch, keeping behind the door and the chest. Their bulk ate up the rounds. Retreating down a small hallway, he found himself in the great room.

  Aphrodite was there, and so was Desmond. The man’s hair was dripping wet. He wore pants but no shirt, and had pulled on body armor. He had a rifle, but no helmet. Together with Dita, he traded fire with a series of figures on the slope above. They hid behind landscape bushes uphill from the courtyard, firing down at the pair. The large windows overlooking the courtyard patio had been shot out.

  “What’re you doing?!” Ares shouted. “They have elevation!”

  “Keeping them busy!” Desmond yelled.

  Ares slipped to the round stone hearth in the middle of the great room, using it as cover. For a few more seconds the two sides shot at each other, then came a deafening roar from above. The bushes exploded in a flurry of dust and leafy debris, the men behind them thrown to the ground. Ares smiled, realizing what Desmond meant. Upstairs, Artemis was carpeting them with shotgun shells. With their armor, the rounds wouldn’t kill, but they knocked down and obliterated all cover. Desmond and Aphrodite zeroed in, pounding rounds into the enemy. Ares darted close and joined in. Four figures dashed away from the shrubs. One went down with a bullet in his head. Ares and Aphrodite pooled their fire on another, hitting him with a dozen rounds, shattering his armor and the soft flesh underneath. Only two got away, circling around the northern side of the house.

  “My mistake,” Ares said. “Nicely done.”

  “Thanks,” Desmond replied.

  They fell back toward the hearth, putting some distance between themselves and whoever remained outside. Feet came down the stairs, stopping halfway.

  “I count six left,” Artemis shouted down. “Two of the survivors injured!”

  “You found the AA-12, didn’t you?” Ares shouted back.

  “No need to snipe at this range!” Artemis shouted back with a harsh laugh. Ares shook his head. The AA-12 automatic shotgun had a twenty-round magazine and could fire on full auto. At close range there was nothing much better, except maybe a flamethrower.

  “They’re saying something,” Des said, near the kitchen door. He kept low, keeping an end table between him and the shot-out front windows of the great room.

  Ares crept over, listening.

  “Can’t understand it,” said Des.

  “It’s Russian,” Ares said.

  He listened. The attackers were still shooting into the house, but the barrage had slackened. Snippets of conversation could be made out in the gaps between gunshots.

  “. . . what are . . . you crazy?” said one. “. . . already killed Grigory.”

  “. . . want . . . take him down . . . ,” came a vaguely female voice.

  “. . . ordered not to . . . hold them . . .”

  They kept jabbering, but the last words made Ares freeze. Hold them! He’d figured they’d attacked with only ten because they didn’t know how many people were in the house. If they’d assumed it was just him and Aphrodite, then ten people were well above the three-to-one ratio any good attacker sought to achieve. But against four? Not even close. He realized, horrified, that not one of them had tried to enter the house.

  It made sense. They’d spotted Zeus, sent one team to attack him, and another to distract him. These gunmen weren’t trying to take the house, they were making sure we don’t leave!

  A defiant scream broke his thoughts. He heard a heavy thud and saw a figure roll as it landed in the kitchen. He dashed in, pistol up and ready. The figure sprung to her feet. There stood a young, dark-haired woman, machine gun in hand. The two were on top of each other before either could fire, Ares slamming his bulk into the girl. She hurtled back, hard against the refrigerator. Her gun fell from her hands. He brought the barrel of his pistol up, but the woman’s hands snapped forward, batting the gun away with practiced speed. The impact didn’t even seem to stun her.

  She leapt forward, throwing a knee at his groin and jabbing furiously. He ducked to the side, a pair of jabs hitting his face. They were fast, but there wasn’t much power behind the blows. He threw a quick elbow sideways, slamming it into her sternum. The force of the blow jerked the woman backward into the kitchen island. The shock seemed to jolt her, but she recovered instantly, drawing up her fists to attack. Around them the gunfire had died off, the gunmen afraid to kill their compatriot.

  “You are quick,” the woman said in Russian, and a knife appeared in her left hand from out of her sleeve.

  Ares didn’t respond. In the close confines of the kitchen, there was no room to maneuver or posture. He threw a jab, only to see her duck and come for his stomach. He matched her speed, turning to his left, the knife slipping past his body and lodging in the wood of one of the cabinets. He shot a fast right into her, knocking her back, the knife coming out of her hands. He ducked low and slid forward, landing a thundering right to her midsection. The young woman doubled over, struggling for breath. She gamely flashed out several jabs, unfocused punches that slipped off his back. Ares threw a backhand with his left, catching her knee and knocking her off her feet. She fell on the tiled floor, her head hitting hard, but not hard enough to knock her out. She struggled to lift her head up, only for his fist to come down hard on her face. Her head lolled backward, and she lay still.

  Ares drew his hand back, ready to crush her windpipe and end it. But he hesitated, getting a good look at the woman’s face for the first time. He’d never seen this particular mercenary before, but there was something oddly familiar about her. The gray eyes, the shape of them . . .

  It couldn’t be—

  “Duscha, get out of there!” somebody shouted from outside, in Russian.

  Ares waved for Aphrodite to come in. She crouched low, staying out of sight.

  “Lower your voice and answer in Russian, see if you can confuse them!”

  She nodded, and ran between the windows.

  “I’m okay!” she called out. “I got him! You can come in!”

  Whether they bought the ruse or not, Ares didn’t know. Moments later the bellowing roar of Artemis’ shotgun shattered the silence, followed by shouts and more gunfire. Ares retrieved his pistol and dragged the unconscious woman back to the great room, where Desmond was waiting. He paused and took off his belt, using it to bind the woman’s hands behind her back.

  “Okay, listen up,” he said, waving Artemis and Desmond near. “Once I’m out of here, I want you to se
arch her for weapons, and then get upstairs. There’s a security door on top of the stairs. Shut that, and they’ll have to burn the house down to get to you.”

  “Where are you going?” Aphrodite demanded.

  “The attack was a decoy,” he said. “To keep us busy while they went after the others on the ridge. I’m going to help Dad.”

  “The police have to be on their way,” Desmond said. “This much gunfire will attract attention. And if they search this place, they’ll find all sorts of illegal weapons.”

  “Feign ignorance,” Ares said. “Tell them I took off to avoid getting captured.”

  “Ari . . .” Aphrodite began, “They’ll still have you outnumbered!”

  And I’ll have to charge uphill, he thought but didn’t say. Instead he pulled his wife close and kissed her fiercely.

  “I know, I know,” he said, and pointed to the unconscious woman. “Keep her alive. I think she might mean something to Lenka. And make sure you keep her secured. She’s feisty.”

  They nodded.

  Ares snatched up a rifle and headed for the stairs, shouting in Vesclevi, “I’m going out the courtyard! Cover me!”

  Aphrodite waved Desmond over to the window. As one they opened fire, scaring off a gunman coming around from the north side of the house. Ares leapt through the window and charged up the slope.

  Dionysus’ heart pounded, painfully so. It thumped against his chest as he ran, juiced by exertion and fear. He felt as if he were on autopilot, sprinting for the three men pursuing Hera down the slope. It was insane, one taking on three. Maybe not for Dad or Arty, but for him? Insane. But he was still running.

  What choice did he have? The men were getting closer and closer to Hera. She ran as fast as she could, Bane crying in her arms and Melika sprinting as fast as her little legs could take her. She’d had a sizable head start on her pursuers, but the men were young, strong, and unhindered.

  And they had assault rifles. He had a pistol. More madness. But he was sprinting anyway, hoping that with the wind in their ears and the blood pumping in their heads, the men wouldn’t hear him until he was close enough to shoot. He hoped they’d focus entirely on Hera.