I poked my head out long enough to see four men pushing a battered black pickup truck with a heavy chain gun mounted in the bed backward into the flooded street. The technical’s gunner was aiming at our position. They were easily a hundred fifty yards away, which put them in range of my SCAR and us well within range of that chain gun. Given that the fighters were hardly soldiers and that their vehicle didn’t even appear to run, I surmised that if I fired in their direction, they would run for cover and give us enough time to leave the area. For added insurance, wounding the gunner would buy us even more time.
“Duma!” I shouted, “Move now! Go! Go! Go!” I stepped out from the doorway, dropped to one knee, and took aim at the truck. Then I fired several bursts into its already-beat-up flank.
The pushers scattered, but the gunner hunkered behind the gun’s armored plates, leaving only his lower body exposed. I took careful aim, exhaled, and squeezed the trigger. Several rounds hit the gunner, and he dropped into the bed of the truck. I doubted I’d hit the guy anywhere vital, but it was enough to stop their advance for a few seconds. I fired a few more shots into the truck’s tailgate to empty the magazine, then I ejected and replaced it and started running again. I made it to the corner of the next building, where Duma reached out and jerked me into cover behind a burned-out car with the partially charred body of a rebel, no more than a teenager, inside.
“What the hell—” I spat, but he clamped his hand over my mouth.
In the sudden and stark relative quiet of the side street, I could hear the sound of a heavy diesel engine and the unmistakable squeak of tank treads on concrete. My shoulders sank.
“Some idea you had, Wile E.,” Duma whispered.
More than likely, the tank was on its way to meet the technical we’d just encountered, and its driver had no idea we were even present. I had little doubt, however, that like the guys around the technical, they would fire at us on sight. I stuck my head out around the burnt-out car’s bumper to get an idea of how far out the tank was, just as an RPG from a nearby rooftop slammed into the side of the tank’s turret. The resulting massive explosion was far out of proportion for the grenade alone. The old Soviet-made T-55 had to have upgraded explosive reactive armor, because the impact did little more than rock the tank, leaving it fully operational. The vehicle began rotating the main gun in the direction of the attack, leaving Duma and me temporarily clear.
“Let’s go.” I slapped Duma on the back to get him moving before I continued running.
Rather than taking off at full speed, Duma kept pace with me as we leap-frogged from cover to cover down the street for another block, racing toward the heavier fighting while watching for any sign of Deeta. At the end of the next block, we encountered five more technicals moving into position to take on two tanks farther down in a straight-on street fight. At least thirty armed militiamen surrounded and took cover around the battered improvised fighting platforms, while it appeared the tanks were on their own. Three of the technicals were outfitted with chain guns like the one we’d encountered earlier. Another had a multiple-rocket launcher, and the last carried a 105mm howitzer. To make matters crazier, the technicals were so close together that if one went up, it could easily take two others with it. The entire situation was tactically insane and made no sense. Even inexperienced civilians should be smarter than this.
Without warning, the multiple-rocket launcher fired first, sending six shells downrange in quick succession, though none came even remotely close to the tanks. The instant the smoke cleared, heavy machine-gun fire erupted from both ends of the street, tearing chunks of concrete up from buildings and the street itself. Men were preparing the howitzer to fire when a figure launched from a rooftop next to the trucks and landed on a roof across a narrow alleyway, easily covering twenty feet in the air. Milliseconds later, a dark-skinned figure in a white kaross followed, wielding a long, thin spear and holding an oval shield. I backhanded Duma’s shoulder, pointed at the rooftop the two figures had jumped from, then took off across the street to follow.
“On the rooftops! Focus on the guy being chased. The other one’s got to be Deeta. Let’s help him,” I shouted as Duma caught up to me.
Duma veered off to the other side of the street, jumped, then vaulted himself onto a second-floor balcony in a single fluid motion. Being less of a showoff, I crashed inelegantly through a partially closed door and charged up the stairs to the roof of the building. Stopping only long enough to locate the runners, I found them bounding across rooftops several hundred yards away, with the chaser falling steadily behind. The figure being chased ran with Duma’s speed and fluid ease, easily covering thirty to forty feet at a leap because of his momentum. Though I couldn’t see him well while running, something about the chased figure’s visage struck me as odd.
I ran after the figure I guessed was Deeta and was catching up fast. Ditaolane had his patron’s prowess as a hunter, and like me, he had greater-than-normal human endurance, strength, and speed but not to the same extent that I did. He was extremely strong for his build and probably a little faster than a world-record sprinter. I didn’t know if the figure Deeta was after was as fast as Duma, but even I couldn’t keep up with the Peri for more than a few dozen yards, and I could never catch him if he had a head start. Deeta rapidly lost ground on the guy he was chasing, and I was catching up to Deeta just as quickly.
As I jumped rooftops, I glimpsed Duma’s blur a few buildings over, making a beeline for the target, not gaining as much as cutting the angle to close the distance. Behind us, the tanks and trucks thundered away at each other, loudly enough that I didn’t hear the report of the sniper’s rifle even after it tore into the wall below the roof ledge as I jumped to the next building. Surprised, I landed in a roll and stayed prone. Lying still, I could hear random sniper fire from several directions, and it wasn’t aimed only at me.
I popped my head up long enough to get a bead on one sniper three rooftops to my left while the target figure dived for cover. A few buildings to my right, Duma ducked behind a structure on the roof he occupied as a bullet tore into it. Only Deeta kept racing along undaunted.
I counted enough different rifle reports to infer there were enough snipers to keep us all pinned down. The heavy fighting and explosions behind us—especially the chain guns—kept me from hearing the sniper rifle reports very well. The monotonous chuk-chuk-chuk-chuk-chuk made directional hearing nearly impossible. I tried visually to follow the trajectories of the impacts back to where the gunmen were hiding, but my position kept me from seeing all but the one I’d already identified well to my left.
Frustrated, I was getting ready to risk shifting for a better view when a chunk of masonry exploded near my head and showered me with sand and rocks. I dropped back down, but the fact that the shot had hit where it had meant that at least one sniper repositioned to get a better shot at me. I lizard-crawled over to the far wall and quickly poked my head up in the direction the shot had come from, immediately identifying the shooter two rooftops over. I raised my SCAR over the short wall while remaining on my back. I fired randomly in the sniper’s direction, hoping he would duck long enough for me to get into an offensive position. The gamble paid off.
While the shooter took cover, I scrambled to my knees, using the low wall for support, and took aim at the sniper’s gun protruding from his hiding spot. Once the sniper rose back to his position behind his rifle less than eighty yards out, I fired a short burst, hitting him several times and knocking him down. Behind me, Deeta, still several buildings away from his target, kept running as multiple bullets tore into the structures around him—the snipers began focusing on him since he was the only available target.
I ran toward him as fast as I could, firing the SCAR in uncontrolled bursts in the directions I guessed the snipers might be, attempting to buy him time. I cleared two more buildings while, off to my right, Duma dispatched another sniper. I didn�
�t stop even when a shot rang out to my left, less than fifty feet away, startling me. Without slowing, I brought the SCAR to bear on the sniper’s position and sent a sustained burst into his nest, killing him. That was when I realized he wasn’t aiming at me. Skidding to a stop, I noticed Deeta stumbling across the roof into a face-plant.
“Deeta!” I screamed. “Stay down. Help’s coming.”
I began running again for Deeta and noticed the figure he was chasing—now back on his feet—was doubling back on him. Only he was much closer.
I sprinted as fast as I could, still too far and running too fast to use my weapon effectively, when Duma screamed from my right. “I got ’em, D. Get the guy in the bedsheet!”
The figure closing in on Deeta’s position was simply too fast and too close. I watched as Deeta clambered back to his feet, using his spear to prop himself up. His once-stark-white kaross was stained crimson. The other figure reached the rooftop opposite Deeta and slowed, glancing first toward Duma—closing at frightening speed—then at me. The figure was still too far for me to see details, but I could tell he wore a balaclava, along with other modern tactical gear. Something still bugged me about the unusual brown pulsating energy he radiated—it definitely wasn’t human, and it was unlike any Paran’s I had ever seen. As he eyed me, he pulled a delicate pistol with a long barrel out from a holster under his left arm and aimed it at Deeta.
“Don’t do it!” I screamed, coming to an abrupt stop in an attempt to slow my heart rate and control my breathing enough to make a quick shot with my SCAR.
To put him down for sure, I would have to hit him in the head, but from a standing position, with my heart pounding and several hundred yards between us, there was no way. I hoped that seeing me ready to fire would cause the guy to panic and run. I also hoped that being outnumbered might spook him. Instead, the guy calmly pulled another gun from behind his back and aimed in Duma’s direction. The second gun was a hand-cannon—something like a Desert Eagle .50 AE because it was the size of a handheld howitzer.
Duma made it to the roof of the building on the gunman’s left and ducked behind a small structure. With Duma out of his line of sight, the gunman aimed the hand-cannon at me. I had no doubt that thing had the power to hit me, but I also knew that his best shot at this range was center mass, and I was covered for that. I began walking forward, slowly, keeping a tight bead on the masked figure as I crossed the roof. Duma, two buildings to my right, spun his kukri knives in each hand.
“Stop where you are and do not pursue me,” the figure said in a crisp and clear tone, without even breathing heavily.
His crazy aura pulsed once like a flash of lightning within a cloud, and as he spoke, my entire head vibrated as if someone had put a tuning fork to my skull. The sensation stopped me momentarily and forced me to shake my head to clear it.
“Diomedes, we should leave this guy alone,” Duma shouted from his position under cover.
“Duma, stay where you are. I got this,” I replied, once again focused and back on target.
“Yeah, but he asked us to leave him alone,” Duma shouted back, his face a mask of intensity.
What the hell is he on about?
“Ah, the Diomedes.” The gunman’s voice carried over the battle behind us. “And so we meet. No hard feelings, I hope? You are simply a convenient scapegoat.”
I kept progressing slowly. His scapegoat. This guy? The Hanner Brid? While I was concerned about Deeta, the notion suddenly occurred to me that if I could keep this guy talking, I might be able to stall him long enough to get in position for a reasonable shot and end the whole mess right there. “So you’re the one who framed me?”
He canted his head slightly. “Take another step, and I will kill two Guardians at once.” His voice never wavered.
All of a sudden, Deeta, who had been using his spear as a crutch, shifted and heaved the thin spear straight at the gunman. The throw was weak and obvious, allowing the masked figure plenty of time to duck to his left as the spear flew past, barely nicking his thigh. The gunman appeared to do nothing in response, but Deeta jerked then fell lifelessly to the roof.
Screaming, I opened fire, emptying the clip at the gunman. His body spasmed as several of my bullets hit him. Not only did he not go down, but he also managed to fire back with the large handgun. His shots were surprisingly well aimed for snap shots fired under duress, and I caught several in my lower abdomen. They thumped into my cuirass like a line drive, causing me to twist away. I dropped to one knee, ejected the spent magazine, inserted another, and began firing again—but the guy was already running again. After a few steps, he jumped off the roof, and I lost sight of him. I ran and jumped across to the adjacent roof to help Deeta, screaming for Duma to chase the guy down, but the Peri never moved.
By the time I reached Deeta, he was barely conscious. A Basuto warrior by birth, Deeta was dressed in the traditional style of his people, wearing a white toga-like kaross and no shoes. Though the kaross was apparently backed by a Kevlar weave, the garment left most of his upper chest unprotected. Two bullet holes in the exposed flesh on the left side of his chest were both gushing dark-red blood, and he had a gaping wound through his upper left shoulder. He was bleeding too much, and I tried to compress the smaller holes with a strip of his kaross.
Ditaolane was tall, nearly six feet two, but he weighed no more than a buck eighty soaking wet, and his dark skin—usually the color of very dark chocolate—was pallid. His thin body was more gaunt than usual. His wood-and-hide shield lay at his feet. I’d liked the kid the first time I met him, but he was too naive, maybe because of where he’d grown up. Good or bad, my perception of him was as more of an activist than a warrior, though his fighting skills had definitely improved over the years.
“Deeta, it’s me, Diomedes. Just lay still. We’ll get you help. You’ll be okay,” I lied then shouted for Duma.
Deeta’s eyes stared into the middle distance, and I knew he didn’t have long. The revelation that I’d just encountered the assassin I was after, combined with Deeta dying in my arms, made me howl with rage.
“Deeta, who was that?” I didn’t really expect a response, but I wasn’t sure what else to do, except make sure he knew he wasn’t alone. Again, I screamed for Duma.
“The spear…” Deeta said in a barely audible whisper, trying to reach for his weapon but unable to muster the strength. “Get my spear. Blood…”
“I will, Deeta, lay still.” An icy shock in my skull that was characteristic of the presence of one of the Old Ones—one I hadn’t sensed in a long time—jarred me.
I glanced over my shoulder to see Artemis dressed in an orange kaross with a brightly colored blanket of the kind made by Basuto women draped over her shoulders. To Ditaolane, she was Uhlanga, the Goddess of the Marsh. She wore her long sandy hair in a single braid draped over one shoulder, and her normally brilliant-blue eyes were as gray as wet cement. The rest of her face was an unreadable mask as she knelt next to Deeta. There was nothing we could do to save him.
Deeta was dead within minutes. In my long life, I had witnessed that same moment for many fine men, too many times. I felt helpless each time, and it was a weakness I hated. And it pissed me off. That bastard had killed a fellow Guardian and friend. He was causing massive problems in both human and nonhuman realms, and he was trying to frame me. When I caught up to him, he would be lucky if I only killed him.
Chapter 19
Artemis and I sat silently next to Deeta for several long minutes while the sounds of war roared in the background. Buildings were being blown apart, and the echo of artillery and gunfire hung in the air all around us. I didn’t want to leave him there, but I really wasn’t in a position to do anything about it. And Artemis remained annoyingly silent. Our relationship had been rocky since she’d chosen to fight with her brother Apollo for the Trojans and snatched away Aeneas before I could ki
ll him. But in that moment on that rooftop, I was willing to let bygones be bygones if she would only say something.
Thankfully, Duma broke the painful silence by showing up with Deeta’s spear. He had a sheepish expression, and he wouldn’t make eye contact with me. “Um… I went after that guy. All I found over there was this.” He held out the spear.
I glared at him, unable to understand why he’d failed to react. Artemis stood and gently took the spear from him. She faced me, her forehead wrinkled and her eyes sad. The edges of her mouth twisted down ever so faintly.
“Perhaps you can find a use for this,” she said, presenting the long, thin weapon to me.
“I’m honored, but no. You know I am the keeper of the Pelian Spear, and I don’t use it often as it is.” I bowed my head.
I stood out of respect for Artemis and her offer, and my eyes traveled to the spear’s leaflike blade. It was covered with an oily, yellowish goo that resembled pus. And then I connected the dots. Spear… blood. That was what Deeta had said before he died. It wasn’t just a dying warrior wanting his weapon—he’d known there would be blood on it. With that, we could track the bastard. I knew the kid carried a special amulet of divining bones that helped him locate demons, but he’d apparently had other tricks up his sleeve, as well.
Eyeing Artemis, I gripped the spear tightly. I could feel the grin widen across my cheeks. She smiled back at me as I took the spear and held it out to Duma. I was so charged up that we could track the jackwagon that I’d forgotten—for a moment—that he had abandoned me when I needed his help.
“I need you to use this blood to track that son of a bitch,” I said to Duma, angling the blade toward him so he could see the yellow liquid. “Can you do that?” It wasn’t the time or the place to lay into him for his inactivity.
Chaos Unbound (The Metis Files Book 2) Page 15