I re-sheathed one sword, pulled the Glock, and knelt in the doorway. I took careful aim at the destroyed entryway down the hall.
“You missed,” I shouted, ready for a gunman to appear.
As soon as a figure poked through the doorway, I fired twice, dropping him instantly. I stood and began advancing down the hallway, pressed tightly against the wooden interior wall. Any other gunman that came out of that ruined doorway would have to expose himself for a split second first to shoot me. It was a small tactical advantage, but with my speed, a second was more than I would need. I couldn’t protect myself from anyone coming in through either transom door. Sure enough, gunfire from some position on the other side of the destroyed transom door at the far end of the car began tearing up the hall, leaving me no option but to slam through the middle sliding door in the hall. Fortunately, it buckled more easily than I’d expected.
I fell into a dimly lit room, tucking into a roll, and quickly got back to my feet, facing the doorway through which I’d crashed. The room had no windows, and the only light came from fluttering white emergency lighting along the ceiling and the outside wall. The space appeared to be a parlor or sitting area, with large, overly ornate furniture out of a seventeenth-century royal palace. Two soldiers cowered in a corner just inside the door. They never even attempted to stop me, so for a second I ignored them. Besides the outer one I’d crashed through, there were two other doors into the room: one forward and one to the rear, next to the supposed guards.
I faced the trembling soldiers still clinging to their guns. “Kim?” I screamed as I pointed at the forward door.
Nothing.
“Kim!” I screamed again, still pointing, when one of the guards shook his head while unsteadily pointing at the intact door behind them.
Some security these guys are.
Hopefully, that meant that Kim was behind me, through the door at the rear of the room—then the Hanner Brid would have to pass through me to get to his target. Perfect. I positioned myself closer to the destroyed exterior doorway to give me a better vantage point in case attackers came from either down the hallway or through the door at the front of the room.
No sooner did I move than a figure in winter camo stepped through the smoke from the next car up. I dropped flat and fired off two rounds at the figure, staggering it. The forward door inside the room exploded, flinging smoke, shrapnel, and shards of wood. Instinctively, I threw my hands over my head as bits of wood and metal ripped into my right arm and leg. Deafened but otherwise okay, I picked myself up to one knee and drew my gun around to focus on anything coming through the newly formed gaping hole. I felt more than heard a single shot and an impact to my chest against my cuirass near my left shoulder. I swung the gun back around to the hall where the shot had come from in time to see the figure I’d shot a moment ago standing shakily with a pistol in his hand. I could tell the shooter was human, but he left me no choice. I fired three times in rapid succession, dropping him again, and quickly refocused on the smoldering hole in the wall.
The car we were in rocked like a rowboat in a hurricane-tossed sea, nearly sending me sprawling, and a bullet tore past my head into the wall behind me. I dropped my Glock to steady myself and rolled toward the remnants of an overturned couch in the middle of the room. Then I pulled my other sword, waiting for a target to show through either entry point. As the car settled down from its lurch, four more shots rang out, followed by the dying gasps of the cowering guards behind me. Several more shots ripped into the couch, but the small-caliber rounds couldn’t penetrate the sheer bulk of the heavy furniture.
“Are you still fighting, Diomedes?” came the Hanner Brid’s far-too-casual voice from the other side of the ruined wall in front of me.
“Always,” I growled.
“I figured those amateurs pursuing me the last few days couldn’t have been you. So inept and clumsy. And that oaf Elegast—please. But not you, Diomedes, the Guardian of Bruchad… perhaps we can make a bargain?” he said, mocking me.
There’s that damn word again… “Why? Want to give yourself up?”
“Not quite. But I’ll make you a deal. Let me take the dictator, and I won’t kill you. He’s filth, even for a human, and you know I’d be doing your kind a service. You should be thanking me, not trying to stop me.”
“Ah, no,” I replied.
Two more rounds slammed into the couch. As the smoke cleared, I could see into the space—an opulent bar—but still couldn’t see the Hanner Brid. Heavy automatic gunfire continued outside the train. Hopefully, Duma and Ab were keeping the North Koreans busy. Then those were the only noises I heard. For a brief moment, everything inside was still and quiet.
“Very well then. I suppose this was inevitable. Unstoppable force and immovable object and all that,” he said, breaking the silence, then sent three more shots into the couch.
“Yeah, well, let me apply the brakes for you then.” I vaulted the couch and charged at the wall that he was using for cover, throwing my arms up in front of my head as I hit the thin interior walls. I plowed right through, colliding with the son of a bitch on the other side, knocking the gun from his hand, and sending him flying into the bar room beyond. But when I hit the wall, something snapped in my left wrist, causing me to drop one of my swords.
We both scrambled to regain our footing, though it hurt like hell to move my left hand. The Hanner Brid, dressed similarly to me in a winter camo jumpsuit, got to his feet first and attacked. I couldn’t turn fast enough to dodge the blow, so I went limp. He caught me around the midsection, smashing me back through the already-destroyed partition and into the couch I’d taken cover behind, sending my remaining sword flying. My cuirass saved me from a broken back as we hit the heavy piece of furniture. Impulsively, I drove my right fist into his head at the neck, causing him to roll off me.
I got to my feet before he did, and I watched as he climbed slowly to one knee then to his feet, shaking his head. My left hand was mostly useless, so I held the arm tucked alongside my chest, keeping my right hand up. I wanted him to attack first so I could assess his technique and develop a strategy now that I was one armed. I assumed his training was similar to mine, maybe even better, but I had no earthly clue how good he was in hand-to-hand combat.
He glared at me with golden-yellow eyes, and I sneered back.
“I bet that hurts,” he said, glancing at my arm.
“Not that bad, actually.”
He shot forward and swung his right arm in a wild roundhouse punch. I turned away from it and lowered my head, taking the blow largely on my back and to my cuirass. He followed with a body blow with his left that also connected with metal. Oddly, the blows weren’t as fast as I’d expected from a half-demon, half-Blud Fae. Based on the speed of his first blow, I knew he was at least as fast as I was. So why was his second attack so slow in coming? I could have landed at least three or four more punches in the same timeframe—even injured.
Using my body, I drove my right elbow into his jaw. Though I couldn’t get much force behind the blow so close in, the shot still knocked him back. I instantly closed, keeping the distance between us to a minimum. He ducked his head, put a leg between mine, and tried to shove me off balance, but I twisted entirely around to my right and brought my left elbow around to connect with the top of his ducked head, this time with much more force. It was another maneuver I shouldn’t have been able to pull off against someone with his speed. While the blow staggered him, knocking him to his knee, the shock of pain that jolted through my left arm nearly blinded me for a second.
He swung his right fist toward my left knee, and I lifted my leg easily. The punch knocked me backward, and I landed awkwardly. At that point, I expected him to pounce—that was what I would have done. Instead, he got back to his feet and pulled a broad-bladed Bowie knife from his vest.
I rolled over to get up, bu
t the Hanner Brid kicked me in the back, sending me flailing into the wall to Kim’s room. Bouncing off the wall, I managed to spin in time to see him coming at me with the big knife pointed at me in his right hand, his left hand up near his throat and open. He was sneering like a predator with its prey cornered.
I pushed myself forward off the wall, and the Half Breed stabbed straight at my heart. The combined force of his blow and my speed caused the heavy blade to snap as it met my cuirass, somehow surprising him. I used my momentum to drive a head butt straight into his face with a gratifying crunch from his nose as a pale-yellow liquid spurted from it and his mouth. He staggered backward.
Keeping my hands low so as not to telegraph my intentions, I stepped forward. The moment I was in range, I jabbed at his throat with the span between the thumb and index finger of my right hand, followed by a blow to his head with my left elbow. Again, the pain was severe, but I didn’t care. I followed with two more quick blows to his chest and stomach with my right hand then let him stagger backward.
In the back of my mind, one thing kept gnawing at me: why wasn’t this guy faster? Then something occurred to me. Hand-to-hand combat in modern warfare was rare, and I was a relic who’d maintained and upgraded my skill set over the centuries. The Hanner Brid, on the other hand, was a world-class sniper who probably wasn’t used to dealing face-to-face with targets, let alone with creatures of his own speed and strength—but I’d forced him into just such a situation. While he probably could easily overpower and outmaneuver any normal human target, even up close, and take out virtually any target at long range, when evenly matched for speed and strength, he wasn’t prepared to go toe-to-toe. For my part, all I’ve ever done is face bigger, faster, and stronger creatures, and I always expect to be the underdog. It was a reasonable assumption, which if true, meant I needed to stay in close to him.
His sneer gone, the Hanner Brid wavered, barely able to stand, so I pressed the attack as he tried to catch his breath and regain his wits. I reached over, grabbed his head with my right hand, and pulled it down as hard and fast as I could. Bringing my knee up to meet his face, I felt something else crack. His legs buckled and gave way, causing him to fall straight down on his ass, pale-yellow blood pouring from his mouth and nose, his left cheek already swollen and misshapen. I could hear him wheeze as he tried to breathe through a damaged windpipe. “Unstoppable force, my ass,” I said, standing over him.
I should have continued the fight, but instead, I tried to find one of my swords like an idiot. Supernatural creatures like him don’t go down as easily as humans do—ever. Finding the sword I lost when we hit the couch, I picked it up, only to find the Hanner Brid standing, pointing my Glock at me with a crooked grin on his twisted, swollen face.
At this range he has me dead to rights—so why not go down fighting?
I bellowed at the top of my lungs and charged. His eyes widened, and without knowing if he fired or not, I tackled him about mid-chest and drove him back through the broken wall, across the next room, and into a massive marble-and-granite bar along the far wall. As we hit the bar, bones cracked inside the Hanner Brid’s chest, and he fell completely limp as my left arm suddenly went from feeling as if it were on fire to completely numb, even at the break in my forearm.
I staggered back and nearly fell when I put pressure on my left leg and had to fight to keep myself upright. The Hanner Brid slid down to a seated position then fell to his right, coughing and spitting up yellow blood. His golden-yellow eyes darted back and forth. My left arm hung limply from the shoulder, and I knew I’d dislocated it as the feeling came back, giving way to intense pain. I also discovered that I’d been shot in my left thigh, and as I tried to cradle my useless left arm with my right, I became aware that I’d also taken a round to my left bicep, where blood stained my white suit. Neither wound was gushing, so I decided they weren’t that bad.
I glared at the Hanner Brid, still lying in a pile on the floor, coughing and choking, eyes still unfocused and gun still clutched in his hand. I limped over and clumsily kicked the gun out of his hand, and he didn’t resist. His body sat peculiarly on the ground, legs out at an odd angle, arms limp and akimbo. He tried to lift his head but couldn’t manage it.
“I’d guess you have a broken back. I told you drooling and diapers would be involved if you made me chase you. Now this time, don’t move. I’ll be right back.” My original intention had been to kill him, but seeing him like that, I wondered if I might be able to get some information out of him—maybe something to help Athena smooth things over or simply why this bastard did it. Only now isn’t the time.
I shuffled through the car, trying to find my swords. I didn’t care about the guns. Once I had them, I went to the only door still closed and on its hinges—the one the guards had said Kim was behind—and tried to open it. With all the strength I had left, I shoved one of my swords through the handle. The door swung open, and I staggered in.
A small form lay partly sprawled across a bed in the dull glow of the emergency lighting. The body, dressed in drab clothes, was unnaturally still, one arm dangling off the made bed while a pair of gaudy, large-framed eyeglasses sat on the floor beneath the head. I knew that it was Kim Jong-Il. It was also clear that he was dead. I dragged him fully onto the bed and found no wounds or injuries as I did so. Other than being dead, he appeared fine. Even his hair was—well, not normal, but in place. Probably a heart attack, due to all the excitement of the attack outside.
Great. Just great.
Chapter 39
I began to limp out of the bedchamber when voices speaking English carried through the car from behind me. One of them was Duma.
“Diomedes!” he shouted, then I heard him speaking rapidly in Korean.
“Down here,” I said, trying to shout back, but it hurt too much.
I made it back to the overturned couch and leaned against it, noting that the Hanner Brid was partly on his stomach, trying to drag himself somewhere, legs still spread at a gruesome angle.
“Hey, dirt bag,” I said to him. “You know you’re done, right?”
He didn’t, or couldn’t, respond.
I nodded painfully to myself in satisfaction as the sounds of movement from farther down the train became closer. “You know, I don’t even know your name. No one does. We keep calling you the Hanner Brid, which I guess means ‘half breed’ in some language or other,” I said, again mostly to myself, but also in case he was listening. “And what the hell does bruchad really mean, dammit? It’s been bothering me since Gracen said it in Seville.”
I glanced up to see Duma appear out of the smoky hallway in the doorway. First, he spied the Hanner Brid, then me, and I laughed at his surprised expression—mouth open, eyes wide. Mostly the laugh was one of relief, though it was mixed with exhaustion and pain.
“Holy shit, D! You did it!”
“You sound surprised, but no, not exactly,” I said, trying to keep myself upright against the couch and feeling more than a bit sheepish. “We apparently scared Kim to death.” I hooked a thumb over my shoulder toward his bedchamber and nearly fell over without the support of my right arm.
I had no idea what the implications of his death would be, but I knew as long as we weren’t there when they found the body, the highly insular government would likely cover it up. I had no doubt they would make underground inquiries to their limited allies as to who might have orchestrated the assault, but for them to publicly admit some government had snuck so far into their country and attacked their beloved leader would undermine the country’s defiant bravado. Hell, they probably won’t even tell their own people what really happened. At least we avoided the conflicts that definitely would have resulted in a more public death.
“Who cares? You got this fucker…” He did a double take when he noticed the Hanner Brid wasn’t dead yet. “You want me to finish him?” He knelt next to him, pulling a
long, wicked needlelike dagger called a miséricorde from his boot. It was a blade used to put dying knights out of their misery.
“No point,” I replied. “If he dies, he dies. Either way, he’s going back to Poveglia…” I tried to shrug in indifference, but it hurt too much. “Ow. Shit. Maybe this way, I can get a few answers out of him on the way.”
“Well then, get your ass up. We only have a few minutes to get out of here before the choppers come or more soldiers show up,” he said with renewed urgency.
Ab showed up behind Duma in the doorway. “Pick it up, D. We got incoming,” the big Peri said, an intimidating automatic shotgun slung over his shoulder.
“Gotta get the cloak,” I said, first trying to turn my head toward the storage car behind us, but settling for pointing due to the pain. “Just inside the next car back. Should be on the ground between some crates over a tied-up solider.”
Ab headed back, and I pushed myself up and started hobbling forward. Ab returned with the cloak before I made it to the door, while Duma took off back up the train.
“Little help,” I said to Ab, motioning down at the Hanner Brid with my head.
“Really? Do I gotta?”
“Well, I sure as hell can’t,” I replied. “And this bastard has a date with the Unseelie Court.”
He reached down, grabbed the limp figure by one wrist, and began dragging him out. He could have easily picked him up, but I could see the disdain on his face for both the chore and the creature. The Hanner Brid’s face was too swollen and distorted to read, but he gagged and coughed up a gob of blood as Ab dragged him.
“Might be faster if we go out here,” I said pointing at one of the still-intact reinforced bulkhead doors off the train.
Chaos Unbound (The Metis Files Book 2) Page 33