Callsign: Bishop (Erik Somers) (Chesspocalypse #5)

Bishop paused for a moment to pick up the bottle and look at it. The liquid inside was perfectly clear, and could easily be mistaken for water. In fact, it probably was water. Water infected with Manifold’s new and improved ergot. If someone were to drink it, say, someone who didn’t know what the biohazard symbol meant, they would be in for a nasty shock.

“You coming, B?” CJ shouted from the exit.

“Right behind you,” he replied. He shoved the bottle into his pack and ran to the ladder. When he reached the top, CJ was waiting for him.

“What kept you?” CJ asked.

“Later,” Bishop said. “Where is that chopper?”

“Right there,” CJ pointed.

Ilias was wrong. The helicopter wasn’t ten kilometers out.

It was hovering right over their bikes.

***

Ilias squatted behind the four wheeler, his eye glued to the scope. He could make out the pilot’s head through the helicopter’s portside window. So far, they hadn’t paid him very much attention. He was just an old man, after all. They wouldn’t be the first people to underestimate him, and probably not the last, either. He lined up the scope and looked for a reference to judge the wind. The backwash from the helicopter made a wind check impossible, however. He would have to wing it.

So be it.

He lined up the scope again, putting the pilot’s head right in his crosshairs, and his finger pressed down on the trigger.

***

It all happened in a matter of seconds, but to Massai the time slowed to a crawl. The first bullet pinged into the cockpit from behind and exited the windshield only slightly to the left of Devan’s head. Massai immediately opened the aircraft’s portside door and returned fire with his pistol, a Sig 1911. After his first few shots, the bullets seemed to come from everywhere at once.

Devan screamed, while Ahmad opened the door on the other side and propped his rifle against the seat. Massai didn’t have time to watch him, but he knew Ahmad would take his time and aim well. He was as good with that rifle as anyone. If Massai could cover him on this side, Ahmad could make a shot that counted.

The sound of shots mixed with the ping of bullets as they tore through the interior of the helicopter, but Massai kept his eyes on the two men taking cover behind the old Manifold facility. They worked in tandem; one would pop out and fire off a few rounds while the other hid behind the concrete cylinder, then they would switch. Massai found himself hiding behind the helicopter’s doorframe more often than not, but he managed to keep up a steady stream of return fire, even if he wasn’t able to aim for each shot.

Because of their tactics, his opponents had more time to aim. Their shots clattered around the interior of the helicopter with an accuracy that Massai feared would prove too much to overcome. Eventually someone inside the helicopter would get hit, or a bullet would pierce the gas tank, and that would be it.

Behind him, Ahmad’s rifle boomed. Even with the sound of gunshots all around, the rifle sounded like a cannon in the confines of the Bell 206.

“The man by the four-wheeler is down,” Ahmad said.

Massai barely heard him over the ringing in his ears.

“Good,” Massai said. “That just leaves Somers and The Joker.”

“Pull us around,” Ahmad said to Devan. “Take us around the cylinder so we can get a better shot.”

“Are you insane?” Devan shouted. “They are shooting at us.”

“And we are shooting at them,” Massai said. “Let us hope we are better shots than they are.”

“What if you aren’t?” Devan asked.

“Then I hope you are ready to meet Allah,” Ahmad said.

***

Bishop stepped out from behind the cylinder and took another shot, sending several rounds through the windshield of the helicopter but not scoring any hits to the pilot or either of the gunmen, who must have been reloading because they did not shoot back.

As soon as he ducked back behind the concrete, shots rang out again, and after a moment he heard CJ’s grunt of pain.

“Damn!” CJ said. “The guy with the rifle is good!”

“You hurt bad?” Bishop asked.

“Just a scratch.”

“We need to move,” Bishop said. “Sooner or later they are going to fly that thing around the concrete and try to get us from a different angle. Draw their fire. I’ll get to the bikes.”

“Draw their fire?” CJ said, sounding aghast. “What the hell do you think—” A shot rang out and sent him ducking. The concrete just above his head exploded as a high caliber round struck home. Had the bullet found its target, CJ’s head would have been reduced to gore.

Bishop sprinted out from behind the cylinder and made a beeline for the Big Wheel. Behind him, CJ shouted at the helicopter and started firing. Almost immediately, shots rang out from the chopper. Bishop waited for the sand at his feet to erupt with slugs as they tried to cut him down. He reminded himself that he couldn’t regenerate if he got shot, so he made sure to run in a random zigzag pattern, ducking into a roll every now and then to throw off the shooter’s aim.