by Ani Fox
Ever wondered how men kill tigers? Tiger traps are pretty much a gimmick. Almost all tigers are killed by guns. Tigers are simply unable to conceive of danger. As the apex predator of all apex predators, tigers are wired to kill anything that moves and as such, do not see a problem with armed men approaching it. You could say the same of the Abschnitt’s people. Hard to kill, immune to all but the strongest pain, pumped full of nanites and superhuman chemical enablers, they are literally stronger, faster, bigger, and more resilient than almost any living thing twice their size.
It would make sense that you kill both predators the same way. You outsmart them and shoot them from a distance, if it’s at all possible. Then why I was stupidly tromping down a burnt out hallway reloading a smoking shotgun and charging headfirst into the tiger’s den? Ultimately, agents are not tigers. Tigers have feelings, care for their young, and only kill for food or defense. Whereas the agents of Section 22 kill for fun and profit, hate pretty much anyone and everyone, murder their own if ordered to and, worse, have the infinitely dangerous ability to reason. Plenty of daring heroes have fallen to the presumption that given their physical superiority, the Two Two do not rely on their minds. In fact, I was depending on the fact that they are better strategists, smarter, and faster on their mental feet, tactically aware, and driven to succeed by their crazy high IQs and training.
I stopped and examined the dead. The sabot flechettes had gone right through their ceramic and Kevlar body armor. The damned SEALs that attacked the BBW had come armed with depleted uranium rounds. Each shell must cost $200 and I had fourteen sets of twenty. When The Web goes to war, it spares few expenses. The backup weapon on the backup boat was sporting $60K worth of ammo. More importantly, it’s very hard to make a DU flechette, coat it in magnesium, and pack it in automatic shotgun round with enough kick to trigger the recoil mechanism. These rounds had been hand modified and packed into a standard shell.
Which meant that the Americans had built a new Special Operations black team and it was fearsome. That off-the-cuff shot that killed one of Harv’s snipers while under DARDO attack had to be one of the best shots I’d ever seen. Either they were a fifth and, as of yet, unknown player, or this little cadre would be a major asset to the player presently contesting The Great Game. It bore considering as soon as my life was not immediately on the line.
I looked around and got my bearings. They had chosen the entrance because there were few ways in or out. They’d have the main door down to the hallway barricaded, and if I knew my S22 procedures, there would be a fearsome level of security present. Steel reinforced door, possibly blast proof with spy eyes and murder holes. Like an automated defense. When last I’d seen them, they had strapped claymore mines to the door facing outward and put bouncing betties in the walls. Maybe even a bomb proof combat robot or two. Typical tigers, bottlenecking their prey in one area and then cheerfully killing it.
I had no intention of going to that door. I took the shotgun and pointed it at the ceiling near a structural wall. Then I unloaded the clip on a meter wide circle. The flechettes went through the tiles, shattered the lights and electrical cables, and drove into the concrete flooring above. In a game of DU versus concrete, DU will win. I reloaded and fired again. Now here’s the thing, Cassandra has trained the cadre to be almost instantly reactive. They must have realized what I was doing and seen the danger. By the time I had reloaded the third clip, the unbreachable doors were opening and a horde of tigers started flowing towards me. Which had been my plan.
I dropped to the floor behind a stack of smoldering bodes and fired in a wide arc that put rounds across 100 degrees. Their own defenses did the rest. The bouncing betties in question were likely V-69 knock offs from South Africa. S22 tended to cut fuse time down to half a second to prevent accidentally living by taking cover; V-69s almost never misfire and they never fail to detonate. What the mines do is pop the explosive outward using a spring mechanism. Which, when placed in walls, meant they fired into the running men and fell to the floor. At half a second they reached knee height when they exploded, immediately triggering the wall of claymores facing out. Thousands of steel spheres blew into the walls, ceiling and down the hallway towards me. The bodies absorbed the shrapnel but nothing could shield me from the shockwave. I rode it like a surfer as I was thrown up the stairs and against the side of the SUV.
I crawled under the frame and reloaded. By then they had regrouped. In under three seconds, they’d found a way past their own trapped corridor and were coming. Men in respirator masks and heavy body armor with riot shields started up the stairs. I let them have the full clip, reloaded and fired. Eight mags later, they stopped trying. It took perhaps another second before a sniper put out all four wheels, dropping the SUV upon me. Which should have been game over.
I know Section 22 and I have learned to anticipate how they think. It’s the smart move, drop the SUV on the enemy and then follow up with a killing blow. Which is why I’d added a twenty-five cm of steel to several points on the chassis. With its full twenty inch clearance the SUV could roam the street; tires blown out, it rested like a steel coffin on my cramped shoulder. I slithered backwards to the rear bumper and popped the hatch. Heavy machine guns opened up but I’d parked so that the angle of fire was almost impossible. As long as I stood very still, the SUV would keep me alive.
Instead, I grabbed a duffel full of dangerous things, armed the explosives I’d rigged in the SUV, and then fired the shotgun over the roof, spraying the machine gun nest. I reloaded and fired again. Someone screamed and a body dropped to the ground. Section 22 was not above luring men to their deaths by killing their own wounded but all of battle involves risk. I had no choice but to risk the next move. I reloaded and mounted the SUV’s roof using my left arm. On my back the duffel slammed against me and I kept firing with my right. The shotgun blew about wildly. The recoil being half normal meant I didn’t lose the thing in the scuffle but It’d be miraculous if I’d done more than scare off return fire. I reloaded and killed a trio of brave souls who’d been creeping up from the basement. Then I dumped the shotgun and jumped onto the building.
The rear entrance to the Four Seasons Centre has an intriguing architecture, something you might term Hide Everything Chic. Behind the glass and steel exterior walling, there runs a double wide alley full of stairwells, pipes, trashcans, and dumpsters. In a fit of design genius, ninety percent of the building looks gorgeous, clean and modern to the public. The last bit lies hidden behind an artful screen, and behind that façade hunkers every ugly tool and pipe needed to make the place run. It made the climb a snap. I followed pipes and outcrops up about seven meters and found a large exhaust vent. I slapped on some Semtex, and then kept climbing until I was out of immediate blast range. I popped the vent, which blew a massive hole in the building, the outer walls tearing like tissue paper and starting to fall. It took ramming into a pipe and taking a nice gash to the left eye but I let the fall take me into the bosom of the destruction. Once I was on solid ground, I hooked the duffel to a pipe using carbineers and some climbing rope, double checked that the duffel was strapped to my torso, and blew the vehicle. The floor dropped beneath me.
To be clear, I had no idea where I was or what to expect, which meant that the other team couldn’t predict what I’d do next either. As the rubble started to settle, I looked around. I was hanging from a distressed pipe roughly six meters from the ground, the back of the Centre had slid out into the alley is if slagged by lava, a smoldering ruin of steel and glass. I heard men yelling and sirens wailed. I pulled out a pair of Berettas and got ready for the next portion of the fight. As heads appeared, I took single placed shots. Often in two directions at once. My left hand is not as accurate as my right, so I often lead with my left and use my right hand as a reflexive reaction. It meant taking the harder shot on the fly and without proper aim. But it guaranteed a higher chance of survival.
Sooner or later, whomever had survived would figure out where I was and take proper act
ion. Until then I had some clear shots at shell-shocked agents and I took them. There was a radio crackle and suddenly the assailants withdrew. Right. They had found me and were coordinating a response. I dropped the guns, cut myself loose and shimmed down the pipe to enter the building on its ground floor, a good four meters above the alley. Then, just to be random, I tossed several flash bang grenades over the side into the rubble of my stolen SUV. I moved inside the building to a place of relative shadow, where a burst pipe was pumping out a steady spray of hissing steam, and knelt. The explosions rocked the building and set off a set of fire alarms that had, for some reason, not been activated by the prior blasts. Sprinklers started and everywhere the building became covered in stale, cold water.
Here’s a handy tip. Delicate firearms don’t do well when submersed. Between the debris, smoke, mud, and water, most everything accurate and available would be sidelined from the fight. Section 22 generally carried very little low tech weaponry because face to face fights in the mud were a rarity for them, most especially when on their home turf. Still, they’d have some survivors among them who’d have a Colt 1911 or some such and would be ready to go at me with spears and machetes if need be.
Inside the duffel a HK416, a souped-up assault rifle, lay covered in a clear plastic bag, taped down with a slot for the trigger and a small hole to swap cartridges. I lifted it to my shoulder and waited. It was only a matter of time before they regrouped and came looking for me. Sure enough, the survivors started combing the area, the footsteps echoed with the slog slap of the falling water. This time I let them flank me in the building and the ground. The steam and water kept me more or less invisible to optics. I took a proper count. Whatever they’d started with, they now had seven functional assets, all of them wounded to some degree. Leading them was as close the Nazi superman as I’d ever seen. He stood over two meters with cropped platinum hair and crisp blue eyes, the strong chin and sharp cheekbones we associate with movie stars and aristocrats, broad muscular shoulders, perfect proportions, and a walk like a prowling lion. He had authority and confidence, moved perfectly, and knew exactly where to step. He made almost no noise as he made his way through the building to the ruin’s edge. Behind him stalked two nearly perfect specimens who seemed shabby in comparison. On the ground, men called out to them in accented German. Interesting.
They called him Zeus. Of course they did. Cassandra had outdone herself. These men were pillars of righteous eugenic perfection. I listened to them trading intelligence and flashing operational signals. They worked as unit, smart and ruthlessly efficient. Then Zeus yelled and his voice shook like thunder. They had rigged a PA system to some hidden microphone. His voice had a rich charismatic tone that dripped with sex appeal. I don’t know how he did that considering what he said, but I had half an impulse to tear of my clothes and declare my undying love. Maybe they had laced the air with pheromones, or maybe he was just that staggeringly handsome and confident. The ultimate alpha male.
“Enemy combatant. It’s over. Surrender and we shall show you mercy.” Lies, all of them. They knew who I was or suspected. So pretending I was some faceless commando was insulting and childish—perhaps it was meant to be. We both knew it was far from over and that no mercy could possibly be dispensed. All of which told me he had a couple of additional assets looking for me. I stood as still as I could and used all my senses. On the floor behind him two shapes in gilly suits slithered on the floor, their rifles covered like mine in plastic. Zeus stepped into the night, his body exposed. He had huge brass balls and it made him even more epic. Come fight me, he seemed to be saying. Mano y mano. Which was the trap.
I watched the snipers hunt for me and when it was clear they had no idea where I was, he frowned and turned to his people. In whispered German he asked, “No shot?”
The sniper on the left exposed a delicate hand of palest skin—a woman then—and signaled “NO”.
One of his lieutenants sighed. “He’s not here. He’s gone `round the side perhaps?”
Zeus nodded. “It’s a better position and we know he’s fast enough. Still, I would have expected something more egotistical, more recklessly arrogant from that barbarian.” He’d just called me a Visigoth. That made me smile. He sniffed the air, as if his senses alone could find me. Who knew, with the upgrades she’d provided, maybe these supermen could track me by scent. Thankfully, the whole area had been set on fire several times and the reek of explosions covered all of us with a thick grunge.
Zeus made a twisty hand motion and both snipers rose. They stretched and checked their gun sights. The water stopped pouring from the sprinklers, which brought them all to a motionless stop. They were still in a way that was both disconcerting and astonishing. All of them seemed to be listening for something. Water splashed everywhere, draining into the broken alley, and beside me the pipe continued its steady fit of steam. I stayed as still as I could, not bothering to sight them. I had the range and I knew I could pull off a shot if I needed to.
They started moving again, Zeus giving quiet directions and using a walkie talkie to coordinate with the team below. Someone squawked in Low German and it became clear that the remainder of Generation Sixteen stood in front of me. The men coordinating on the other end of that radio were mere commandos. Someone from within the building called and Zeus beckoned. My arm and shoulder had begun to burn with the strain of holding still.
Cassandra stepped into my sight, her hair cut short and blackened with dye. She wore tortoise shell glasses and party dress of bright orange with some kind of feathering done in tasteful black rhinestones. It looked expensive and did a good job hiding her middle aged body. The years had been unkind to the scientist and, while her children dripped with beauty, Cassandra was ugly both within and without. She spoke in a soft voice and, while I could not hear her, I was confident the hacking software in my phone would tell me later.
She approached Zeus, who pointed to the bombed side of the building and seemed to be explaining that I’d fled around to the eastern edge of the Centre. She patted him on the shoulder and leaned towards his ear to whisper something. That’s when my gun fired. As if of its own volition, the rifle opened up on Zeus in a three round burst. His left shoulder blew apart and with it, the corpse of Cassandra flung backwards into a half circle of shocked agents. Damn and damn again. I had missed his neck. Zeus dropped to the ground, blood spraying everywhere. I flipped a switch and unloaded the entire clip into the kill team. Then reloaded in a heartbeat and started making called shots as the Abschnitt tried to respond. One sniper got her rifle up and into position before I blew her head apart. The commando on the left got his grenade launcher raised and started to fire when one of my rounds knocked his weapon from his hands. The explosion cleared them all from the floor, half into the alley and half into a bloody pulp against the walls.
I followed to the edge while reloading, then started pumping the corpses full of shots to the head, neck, and inner thigh where the femoral arteries would be. Two twitched and one actually turned to fire back before my second shot ripped his neck open enough to complete the kill. Commandos rounded the corner and I cut them down like paper targets. Nine bodies later, the rush of men stopped. I rammed another cartridge into the HK and searched for people to shoot.
Cassandra lay on top of what looked like Zeus. I pumped both bodies full of lead, reloaded, and fired again. Somehow I found myself at the bottom of the alley—had I jumped? I reloaded and fired more into the woman who had tortured me as a child. Her skull had disappeared and her body looked more like hamburger than a human. The man beneath was one of Zeus’ bodyguards. The leader himself was gone, perhaps blown against the walls above, perhaps fallen further into the rubble. Behind me, I heard men shouting, and through the alley I saw across the street a command vehicle marked Canadian Emergency Task Force disgorge a whole tribe of black suited policemen bristling with armaments. I squatted down and rifled through the dead’s pockets, finding a simple red phone in Cassandra’s bra. I took it.
After that, speed meant life. I dropped the rifle and pulled off my body armor. Then I donned a lime colored sweatshirt from the duffel bag with the I Heart Montreal logo on it. An Expos baseball cap and some shopping bags from Lavish & Squalor completed the disguise. One badly behaved tourist, covered in slime and smoke stood where I had been. I rigged another explosive charge in the duffel, dumped it on top of the discarded rifle, and started into the Centre proper. It popped thirty seconds later, shaking the building and splattering water everywhere. By the time I’d reconnoitered to the main hall, now swarming with police, the residual water and smoke had made me a soggy, pathetic mess. I held my precious bags close to me and tried to look like I wasn’t going to cry. Someone in a uniform grabbed me, yanked the clothing bags from my arms, and pulled me from the building, his hand on my neck to keep me under the firefight raging between Hans’s leftover commandos and the ETF. The cop handed me off to another cop who passed my shaking body to an EMT who looked electrified watching the fighting. Adrenaline junkies can be like that. No one noticed me as a slipped away towards the harbor. From what I could see, the ETF was winning.
Chapter 8
Thrice Down the Rabbit Hole
It’s a brisk walk to the National Yacht Club, just under an hour if you are trying to look inconspicuous in the middle of a terrorist incident. Especially if it’s the second terrorist incident you’ve inflicted in the public in the span of a week. Section 22 would find me soon. So there would need to be a radical change in direction. Cassandra’s phone would have to go. My identity had to be obscured and more than that, they had to be thrown off the scent. I knew where to go next and had seen Toronto as the logical jumping off point. But Cassandra’s presence had been unexpected, strategically confusing even. Why had she come? Who the hell was Zeus? He was important, that much was clear from their body language, and his total command of the latest Generation.