Knight grabbed the AA12 automatic shotgun from the crate and slapped on a 32-round drum loaded with explosive shells. He popped back up through the hatch and judged the distance to the creature. Beck was pushing the vehicle at a quick and steady speed. The lack of vehicles and pedestrians on the road made it possible for her to do so without swerving in and out of traffic and throwing off his aim. Somehow, the beast was keeping pace.
“How much farther to the SAS camp?” he called down into the cab.
“Probably another couple of miles.”
“Radio ahead and tell them that we’re coming in hot.”
The radio at his belt squealed to life. “Knight, are you okay? We’re scared.”
He grabbed the radio from his belt and said in a flurry, “Everything’s fine. I just have to deal with a little pest problem.”
He sighted in on the beast loping along behind them, pushed out a breath and squeezed the trigger. The weapon kicked hard against his shoulder and three explosive rounds shot forward and struck the beast dead center in its chest and head. Small explosions bloomed to life and halted the creature’s momentum, driving it backward and off its feet.
But Knight knew that it wasn’t out of the fight.
“Stop the truck!” he said.
To Beck’s credit as a soldier, she didn’t question his orders, and the large, black vehicle skidded to a halt. The smell of burning rubber mixed with the aromas of gunpowder and burnt flesh filling the air.
The beast was already pulling itself from the ground, the jagged wounds in its abdomen sewing themselves shut. He sighted in again and unleashed a steady barrage of fire. The butt of the rifle hammered against his shoulder, and it took considerable strength to keep his aim from drifting skyward.
He kept the trigger pulled back until the shotgun clicked empty and the entire cylinder of explosive rounds had wreaked havoc upon the creature’s body. The small explosions blew the beast back in a bloody mess, howling in agony. Its ruined flesh lay in pieces scattered across the pavement.
The keening wail was like a hot needle in his ears. The pain had to have been beyond imagining—more than any man or beast should ever have been forced to endure. But right before his eyes, the bloody pieces of flesh began to reform outward from the creature’s core.
He shook his head and called down to Beck. “Get us out of here.”
14.
The SAS had positioned their staging area within the loading dock of a large building designed for use as a shopping mall. But all of the storefronts were bare and their signs blank. Light red bricks dotted with white bricks that came together in artistic shapes when viewed at a distance, composed the structure. It appeared to be a sizable multi-tiered complex with half of the space stretching up three stories high, plus a basement. The loading dock sat on the back half of the building in a carved out niche that opened into the basement level. Two stories of empty shops and food stands rested above the bank of waist-high doors designed for trucks to pull against and be quickly unloaded. An enormous parking lot sat behind the loading docks. There wasn’t a single car on the lot. In fact, Knight had seen no more than five vehicles since he had arrived in the city.
Beck parked in the lot close to the entrance, and they walked up a ramp and into the loading dock. Knight felt the itch on his skin of eyes staring down gun sights. Beck carried one end of his crate, and he held the other. He had given her the AA12 and strapped the FS2000 over his shoulder. He kept the weapon at his back and tried to make his movements deliberate and non-threatening. He had enough problems without worrying about a friendly-fire incident.
As they pushed through the door, the black-clad SAS soldiers swept from the shadows and fell in around them. They weren’t being overtly aggressive. Their weapons remained pointed at the floor, and they tried to make their movements seem casual. But he could plainly see that the SAS boys were ready to take the two of them down at the slightest hint of trouble. He could see their fingers coiled tightly around their weapons, and the sweat beading up on their foreheads.
An angry voice called out in a thick Scottish brogue. “Where the bloody hell’re my men, Beck? And who’s your friend?”
The man stepped out from behind a long table containing an assortment of maps and gear. He wore black BDUs and carried himself like an officer who had seen his fair share of combat—tight and efficient yet relaxed and confident. A black beret covered reddish brown hair, and the flesh on the right side of his neck was mangled from a nasty burn scar.