Project Hyperion (A Kaiju Thriller) (Kaiju #4)

The hairs on the back of my neck spring up. Something’s off.

I look closer, taking in all the details. He’s sitting in his rocking chair, facing toward us, not rocking. His eyes are open, but he hasn’t acknowledged our approach, despite the fact that he’s eager to find out what’s going on in his woods. The bright orange can of Moxie is on the porch next to him, but it’s on its side. Brown fluid drips from the deck floor to the staircase’s top step. No way an old guy would let a spill like that go. It’d get sticky. Attract ants.

That’s when I see the hole in his forehead. It’s small. 9mm probably. Hard to see. But it’s there and Mr. Johnson is very dead. Probably his wife, too. And since we never heard a gunshot, that means the hit was sound-suppressed.

Definitely pros. Given how fast they got to Mr. Johnson, the shooter must have been sent the moment I uttered the man’s name. The Royals fan was wearing a mic. These guys are organized and deadly, and we’re about to be next.

I do my best to hide my fury, slide up closer to Collins and wrap my arm around her waist. She tenses and I know I’m a second away from getting pummeled, so I speak fast and serious, “Johnson’s dead.”

She starts to look, but I stop her with a growled, “Don’t look!” I force myself to calm and say, “Put your arm around me. Lean your head on my shoulder.”

She listens and I whisper through a big phony smile. “In ten seconds, I’m going to shove you into the woods to our left. Run like hell until you can’t see the road, then turn a sharp right and make for the Watson’s cabin.”

She nuzzles into me. “What are you going to do?”

“I’ll be right behind you. Your car is compromised. We need to get to Betty. Ready?”

I feel her body tense under my hand. “Go.”

I thrust her to the left and she hits full speed by the time she reaches the side of the road. I’m on her heels, picking up speed fast.

The bullets start flying before I make it five steps.





9



My hand goes to the side of my head as a flash of pain nearly knocks me to the ground. I’m sure my hand will come away bloody, but it doesn’t. Not shot, just still hungover. The coffee and painkiller quick fix works well if you’re kicking back and taking it easy, not so much if you’re sprinting through the woods while unknown assailants are trying to blow your head off. Of course, those things also make the pain easier to ignore. Despite the white hot agony ping-ponging through my head, I do not want to die.

I run flat out, as fast as I can, bunny-hopping bushes, rocks and fallen trees. When there isn’t an obstacle to leap, I zigzag like a slalom skier. I probably look ridiculous, but the idea is to not get shot. Moving unpredictably is my best bet at throwing off their aim. Even with all the chaotic movements, I’m pretty damn fast. But Collins—the woman must be part greyhound. Not only am I not gaining on her, but she’s actually leaving me in the dust.

Bullets tear through a tree as I pass. I duck my head instinctively, but don’t slow and don’t look back. Any delay and I’m screwed. Which means that making a quick getaway in Betty is out of the question. Even if the truck started on the first try, it would be close. The driver’s side door faces the road and contrary to what is seen in movies, bullets make short work of car doors. More than that, Betty takes a good minute to get going. These guys could casually stroll up to the truck and tap on the glass before popping me in the face.

“Collins!” I shout. “No time for Betty. Just get the backpack out of the flatbed and keep on going.”

She doesn’t nod or reply in any way, but I’m sure she’s heard me.

I hear a coughing sound behind me. Bullets tear into the earth around my feet. Pain, like a bee sting, flares in my right thigh. I’ve been shot, but I don’t fall to the ground, so it’s not bad. But their improving aim and the fact that I can now hear the sound-suppressed gunfire means they’re closing in.

The cabin emerges through the thick forest. Collins forks right, heading for Betty. I watch as she clears the trees, picks up even more speed—which seems impossible—and leaps into Betty’s flatbed. Without missing a beat, Collins leans over, snags the backpack and hurtles out the far side. A string of holes appear in the truck’s side, each punctuated by a metallic punching sound.

Sorry, Betty.