“Si, Major,” said the colonel, and he bent over his radio.
Jessa Eames peered through a vision port in the side of the armored compartment. “Driver, turn this rig left and go through those barriers.” She yelled. “Opposite lanes are empty, sort of. We’ll go on that side. Fire up the 30 mike-mike and punch through if you have to.” She tapped PFC Banner on the shoulder. “Tell the tracks behind us to stick close. Oncoming traffic will just have to get the hell out of out our way.”
Private Banner started speaking then clutched his headset again. “Major, the emergency services net is getting a stream of calls about gunfire in the streets. Seems to be moving toward the Docks.”
“All the more goddamn reason to get units there. If you’re in the Spanish Grid, can you pull down any cam shots on the attackers?”
“Working on it,” he replied, and his fingers flew over the keys. In seconds, four grainy images tiled up into the corners on his screen. “Enhancing now. Timestamp says they’re about twelve minutes old. Spain’s gear is total junk, but in this one you can see two shooters behind the taxi. They’re firing at someone off to the side. In this picture, the van’s already trashed. That’s the back of it there, on its side. Here and here,” Private Banner highlighted one area, “you can see a third shooter. A scrawny male.”
Major Eames looked closely. In the first image, she could make out the figure of a large man crouched behind the hood of a car, and a woman near the trunk was clearly firing an AK-74 at someone off screen.
“Those two are from the apartment raid.” Colonel Estevana spoke up. “And that means the mosque too.”
A chill spiked through Major Eames. She tapped Banner’s helmet. “Find who she’s gunning for. Get anything from those side streets heading southeast?”
There was another staccato rush of key strokes, and a succession of low-res pictures marched past, all blurry angles, dark with fog and smoke. He stopped on one abruptly. “Got ‘em. There’s three, like a matching set. See? There… near the parked truck and behind that corner. One of them is firing. See the head and torso? That looks like an H&K G-40.”
“Zoom in and enhance.”
The image clicked and expanded, pixels resolving to a rough clarity until they filled the pop-up window. Major Eames focused on the profile and froze.
“Suffering Christ,” she said. “That better not be what I think it is.”
“What?” Private Banner asked.
“Look at the size of it, the face, the pale skin. That’s a Pretoria clone.”
“Shiiiiit!” Private Banner breathed out.
“That’s impossible,” Colonel Estevana said. “U.N. commanders accounted for all General Mambi’s forces after Victoria Falls. They said they rounded them up and had them destroyed.”
“The latte brigades can’t find their own arse with two hands, Colonel.” She nodded at the screen. “And that sure as hell looks like someone missed a couple.”
Private Banner spoke up. “Major, that’s not good. The UNdies were scared shitless of them. They were filling ditches with bodies and torching ‘em just to make sure they were really dead.”
“Yeah well… From what I heard, I might have too if I’d have tussled with them.” Major Eames leaned over. “Private, put a warning out on the tac-net and tell the boys to stay frosty. I hope like hell I’m wrong, but this thing’s morphing into a real freak show.”
As PFC Banner started talking into his comm-set, the rapid crack, crack, crack of a 30mm chain gun filled the IFV’s interior, blasting a four-meter-high section of the highway barrier into chunks and dust.
---------------
We ran through empty streets, the storm and gunfire had cleared the way. Tam and Poet9 were the lead, and I followed up with Gibson in my arms. Freezing rain was beating like a lunatic’s rage, drenching us through to the skin, but he was warm to the touch, and I could feel his heart fluttering like a bird. The winds tore at us, and dense curtains of water snaked out of the fog, slamming down on the roadway with such force they threatened to drown us. I hunched over Gibson, trying to cover him, but it didn’t work.
“Sorry, kid,” I murmured in his ear.
“It’s OK. We almost there?”
The road crested ahead, and all I could see was the wind-whipped sky between the narrow gaps of buildings, but the stench of fuel and tide rot was heavy in the air. I guessed we were maybe two blocks away from the Port.
“Yeah, just a little more. We’re almost there.”
“Good.” He nestled back into my shoulder.
Tam and Poet9 had stopped to catch their breath.
“Madre de Dios, could this get any worse?” Poet9 panted out, wiping his eyes clear.
“They could catch up,” Tam said, jerking his thumb back down the street. “And then we’d find out.”
I slowed my own breathing and listened, trying get a fix on any pursuit, but it was impossible. This storm wanted to sit at the big hurricanes table, and it tossed the noise of weapons and sirens around like kites in a gale. All I got were soggy echoes coming from everywhere, dismal and confused.
Tam nodded at Gibson. “Is he gonna make it?”
“We gotta get out of this.”
He peered back down the street, then up further on toward the sea. “Let’s move. We’re one step ahead, and we need to stay that way. We’ll stop in the next block and work up a way to get onto the Docks.”
None of us spoke, just ran straight into the mouth of the storm chased by the clamor of approaching violence.
On the next block, we ducked down a side street lined with cheap two-story prefab units. All of them were weathered hard, their battered façades covered with peeling paint and weeping rust stains. Each building had two large, second-story windows on the left and right that stared seaward, dark and vacant, over a large garage door covered with steel roll-down shutters. Some of them had been welded shut, others stuck half-open, or torn and gaping. In the gloom, the row of buildings looked like decapitated heads, executed heretics on display for the opening segment of a jihadist webcast. We ducked through the broken mouth of the nearest one and got out of the rain.
I set Gibson down against the back wall on the first floor as Poet9 and Tam went upstairs. “You hanging in there OK?” I asked Gibson.
He was dripping wet and shivering, but he nodded back at me. The fever shine in his eyes was brighter.
“Where’re Carmen and Mr. Alejo?”
“Probably already at their friend’s boat. Why?”
“There was shooting again, and I don’t want them to get hurt.” He gave me a long look. “Are those people after me?”
I lied. Again. “No. It’s us—me, Tam, and the others they want. I think. But don’t worry, we’ll take care of them and get you somewhere safe.” I hunted around for anything remotely dry and warm to cover him with but came up empty. Except for scattered trash, hanging shreds of insulation, and fistfuls of empty purple crank vials, the place was a stripped-out concrete box.
Through the window, the shadowy arms of giant cranes loomed in the sky, and the massive skeletal form of the multilevel Docks was outlined in blinking yellow lights. Under the sound of the storm, we could hear the heavy throb of machinery from deep inside. Directly across the street, a tall reinforced cyclone fence topped with triple strands of barbed wire and security cam nodes marked the start of the Barcelona Port Complex. A guardhouse sat ten meters inside the gate, and beyond it, stacks of shipping containers created a maze of alleys off a central road.
Poet9 came down the stairs, obviously anxious to go.
“Tam thinks going straight up to the gate is best. We don’t have time to find another way in. He’ll cover us from upstairs until we reach the guardhouse, then you and I’ll have to get past the rent-a-cops they got camera sitting. He’ll be on our tail as soon as we disarm the guards.” He nodded at the pistol in my belt. “Stay behind me. I’ll carry Gibson. The sight of a sick kid should get us close enough so you can take them down. Try a
nd look wet and miserable, OK?”
“No problem there.” He turned to leave. “Wait. Where’s the Bible smuggling sea captain?”
“That’s the very end of South Dock, at the bottom level.”
“You think Al’s friend is going to risk his ship in this?”
Poet9 rolled his eyes. “Umm, no, now that you mention it.” He paused and lowered his voice. “Tam says if he’s not sailing, we’re heading to the APAC Legation. We’re going trust the Japanese to pull our fat out of the fire.”
Somehow I knew that was coming, but it didn’t make me feel any better when he said it.
He picked up Gibson, and the three of us slipped out and started across the broad street. We kept our heads down against the rain and stumbled through puddles toward the gate. I saw one of the guards lift off a stool and scrutinize us through the window, then lean over to his partner. We kept walking.
He ambled to the door, stuck his head out and started yelling. He probably thought we were laborers looking for shift work, or beggars wanting to scrounge through their dumpsters. Almost there. Keep yelling, pudgy. We’re two soggy scabs with a kid, nobody worth getting wet for, and certainly not a threat.
We were almost to the other side of the street when I felt something. I can’t say how; the storm was in full gear. Maybe I heard the rumble under the roar of rain. Maybe I picked up the tremble in the roadway, or it could have been that my brain recognized the distant shapes materializing in the fog before I actually understood what they were. Whatever it was, my body tensed up for a fight, and my vision switched to high-def clarity.
The guard started waving us away with a disgusted look on his face. I plastered a pathetic look on mine, and as we reached the sidewalk, I moved out from behind Poet9 and started walking faster. Five more steps and we were through the gate. The guard swore and stepped outside into the rain. Hands on his hips, he was telling us in no uncertain terms to piss off, or else.
My hand curled around the railing in front of him as two Dawson-Hull armored tracks charged up the avenue. Poet9 broke into a run, holding Gibson close to his chest. He ducked behind the nearest stack of shipping containers and got out of sight. I leapt up the steps and slammed into the startled guard.
I drove him back into the booth flailing and slipping, swearing in a panic, and he fell, clipping his head on the edge of the countertop. His mouth clicked shut, and he slid onto the floor, out cold. The charge carried me into the little room where his partner sat in his chair stunned, clutching his coffee cup and a pastry. He looked down at his friend then back up at me. He didn’t even reach for the gun on his hip. I whipped the pistol out from under my shirt and pointed it at his forehead.
“Incluso no piense en él a mi amigo.” Don’t even think about it, my friend.
He nodded at me, open-mouthed, crumbs on his chin.
Behind me, Poet9 was shouting toward the storage unit just as the thick shapes of the two APCs ground to a halt in the street. The roar of their engines was deafening, and their turrets activated, the long barrels of the 30mm chain guns slashing through the air like probing antenna. Even before they stopped, back hatches clanged open and gray and red uniformed Dawson-Hull troopers spilled out and around the flat armored sides, yelling as they filled the intersection.
Tam shot out of the small building like a bat out of hell, a low dark shape slicing across their front, heading for the gate entrance. It took a second, but one of them spotted him and shouted a command. Rifles went up.
I shoved the seated guard aside and slammed the emergency lock-down button on his console. A braying two-tone klaxon erupted, and a row of nasty tire spikes fanged up out of the grating across the entrance. Half a dozen yellow caution lights began spinning as the tall steel gates started sliding shut with a grinding squeal. All the troopers flinched instinctively at the noise and light, weapons ready for a threat. Tam ran faster. The gates were closing rapidly. I could hear them squealing in their metal tracks.
“Halt! Stop, stop or we’ll shoot. Freeze scab motherfucker! Drop him. Drop him!”
The first shot rang out.
The two gate edges were barely a meter apart when I saw Tam take two huge steps and jump. The guttural coughs of tri-bursts skipped around the street as the troopers opened fire, but Tam was diving low and sideways through the air. He cleared the tire spikes as the two gates clamped shut behind him, landing in a spray of muddy water. He rolled off to one side, and after a couple seconds, stopped flat on his back.
Poet9 was the first to reach him. He was still carrying Gibson. “You all right? You all right?”
Tam lay there, eyes open to the sky, Poet9 on his knees beside him. Suddenly the wiry North Korean groaned and sat up with a wry smile on his face.
“I really need that vacation.”
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN: HEADSHOT CLEARANCE
Barcelona Port Complex, Asian Pacific Consortium Trade Offices, Section D. South Dock, Level Five. 7:55 p.m. Day Five.
When Colonel Otsu arrived in the Command Center, warning lights were flashing at every workstation, reflecting off the tense faces of the technicians. A klaxon blared over the androgynous voice of the security grid, which kept repeated its decision to bring the perimeter defense turrets online.
“Someone shut that thing up,” the colonel ordered, and the audio fell silent.
A massive screen hung over the main console, filled with the face of Captain Murata, the Chief of Security. Colonel Otsu could see one of the Dock’s loading platforms stretched out in the background, and the storm raging beyond that. “Report. What’s going on out there?” he demanded.
“Sir, we just received a general All-Port alert.”
“Because of the storm?”
“No, sir. An emergency lockdown went into effect seven minutes ago.”
“Who triggered it?”
“It came from landside, Colonel. The north eleven gate. “
“Someone trying to rob the place again?” Colonel Otsu asked.
“I don’t think so, sir. The surveillance feed shows four suspects—three adult males and a child—rushing a gate’s guard station. No trucks, no guns I could see. Not even the Russians are that crazy. The really strange thing is two units of corporate troops arrived on the scene at the same time. Soon after, someone there hit the alarm.”
“You’re sure those troops were corporate, not Spanish nationals?”
“Yes, sir. The Dawson-Hull logo is plastered all over the vehicles. From the uniforms and gear, it looks like they’re Special Deployment Branch.”
“Were they chasing those four?”
“Yes, sir,” said the captain.
“Did they get in? The four I mean.”
“Yes, sir. Barely.”
“And the British?”
“Stuck standing outside in the rain, sir. It appears the intruders headed straight onto the South Arm. I put the men on standby. Your orders, Colonel?
“You’re doing fine, Captain. I want you to track those four people. I have reason to believe they’re headed our way.”
“They won’t get past us, Colonel.”
“No. If I’m correct, those are free agents who’ve been working for us. It’s vital they reach here safely.”
“Sir, I can use the Dock security, get a fix on their position, and have a squad there in ten minutes.”
“Captain, this is a complicated situation that just got more difficult. London only let Special Deployment out of their cage when they’re dead serious.” Colonel Otsu frowned. If he assisted the agents directly, he would implicate the Consortium, and there was no way he could risk a public confrontation with Special Deployment troops. However, if he failed to act and the agents were caught, he’d be held responsible for the mission’s failure. He chose the middle ground. “I want your men ready to protect and assist them once they reach our sector, but under no circumstances are your men to leave the boundaries of the Legation. I repeat: do not leave Asian Pacific jurisdiction. I can’t risk giving Dawson-H
ull a reason to enter our sector.”
“Yes, Colonel, but if they can’t find one, I think they might invent it.”
“What do you mean?”
“More D-H troops keep coming, sir, from everywhere. They’re all over the Dock feed in the streets. The lockdown might have shut them out, but I see multiple heavy units taking up positions at all points landside. It looks like they’re sealing the Docks off from the rest of the city.” The captain glanced off screen momentarily. “I’ve got breeching teams assembling outside north gates eleven and fifteen. There’s also a report of a tug launch from the shore headed our way. It looks like they’re gearing up for an assault, Colonel.”
“Keep your men focused, Captain. I’m turning over control of the automated defense system, but don’t activate it yet. I don’t want it targeting those four fugitives.”
“Yes, sir.” Captain Murata saluted.
“Have them escorted directly to me in the Command Center once they arrive. Afterwards, you’re free to conduct whatever tactical response is necessary to keep our interests secure. The British might get livid for losing them, but they’re not crazy enough to violate corporate sovereignty laws. All we need is those agents to keep it together and get here in one piece.”
-------------
Major Jessa Eames stood outside the Barcelona Port Complex in the pouring rain feeling thoroughly pissed on as well as pissed off. She glared at the garish orange and black security barrier that blocked the gate opening as if she could bore a hole through its duracrete sections. Surrounded by the frantic chatter of a dozen radios and the incessant commotion of troopers and technicians, she was in full swing of what her men called her ‘rip’ mood; as in “rip someone’s face off”. The scurrying personnel did their best to stay out of her line of sight and keep busy elsewhere. Someone had to update her, so one of the Special Deployment sergeants took a deep breath before approaching.
“We haven’t got the override code yet, Major,” he started.
Running Black (Eshu International Book 1) Page 26