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

I cough and collect my beanie cap from the ground, dusting it off before putting it back on my head like I haven’t got a care in the world. It’s an act, of course. The living freight train looks like he could tear my head clean off. I just don’t want him to expect a fight.

I add a stagger to my step, moving slowly away from him. I place a hand on my arm like its hurt and am momentarily surprised to find it warm with blood. As he closes the distance, I realize that a lot of my act is easy to pull off because it’s not an act at all. I’m shot, cut and beaten.

Shit.

As he winds up for a punch, I shake off my weariness and step forward, kicking out hard, aiming for his nuts. I connect hard, but not with the soft flesh between his legs. I look down and find his hand wrapped around my foot. He caught my kick.

As he raises his other hand, I see his eyes go to my knee. He’s going to break my freaking leg. Unable to do anything else, I try to duplicate a move I saw in a kung-fu movie once. I jump up and kick with my other leg, aiming for his head. The kick misses, but the sudden twist frees me from his grasp.

I stagger quickly to my feet, but then he’s on me, throwing hammer punches. I do my best to block the blows, but he connects with my shoulder, numbing the arm. As my defense falls, he does the opposite of what I expect. Instead of bashing in my face, he sweep kicks my legs out from under me, sending me hard to my back. My fall is broken by a twisted root that digs into my ribs and further pushes the air from my lungs.

This guy is big, fast and knows how to fight. At my best, I might not be able to take him, and right now I am so far from my best, it’s silly.

But I am not alone.

Shickt.

I recognize the sound a moment before the big man does, and I grin.

Collins strikes before the man can turn around, bringing the telescopic steel baton hard against his left arm. The strike would have broken most people’s arms, but the meat surrounding this guy’s bones protects him. Doesn’t stop it from hurting, though.

“Argh!” the man shouts, spinning around and swinging a punch that would knock out a horse.

Collins avoids the strike, leaning just out of range—the mark of a confident fighter.

I remember the calluses on her knuckles and see the look of loathing in her eyes. Whatever happened in Collins’s past to make her train in hand-to-hand combat to the point where her fingers tell the tale, it’s coming to the surface. Then she lets it loose.

Collins swings twice, striking the man’s arm in the same spot, and then a little higher up, on the clavicle, which breaks, audibly. The man howls, but lets out a punch of his own. Collins leans back, dulling the blow, but it still connects with her shoulder. She moves with the strike, spinning away. But the man presses forward, swinging again. Using the momentum of her spin, Collins brings the club around and whips it into the man’s wrist.

The combined force of both strikes shatters the man’s forearm, but it also knocks the club out of Collins’s hands.

She’s far from weaponless. While the man staggers away, she pulls a can of mace from her belt and sharp-shoots the liquid fire into his eyes. Then she’s on top of him, throwing punches, elbows and knees to every part of his body. He’s on the ropes, but this man is hardcore. Despite all the injuries, he kicks out hard and fast, catching Collins in the side of the head. She goes down hard.

The man stumbles over to her prone body. After balancing himself, he lifts up his leg. One good stomp could shatter her skull. But the man has made the same mistake twice.

Collins is not alone.

I bring the metal baton against the back of the man’s neck as hard as I can. He crumples in on himself, spine shattered, control removed. He falls next to Collins who wakes and rolls away, getting back to her feet, ready to fight. When she sees the man on the ground, she lets her pain show. She holds her head and winces. I’d like to hold her. Take a look. Tell her she’ll be okay. But I can’t. There isn’t time. These three were definitely not acting on their own. There will be more and we need to be long gone by the time they arrive.

I look back to the slope and see my backpack at the base. “Get the pack. I’ll try to find the guns.” She grunts her agreement and we separate. It takes a minute for me to scale the slope, but once I’m at the top I quickly find our weapons, and the big man’s—a sound suppressed M9 Beretta, preferred sidearm of the U.S. Army. If these guys are Special Ops, they’re probably Rangers. That doesn’t really mean the man is a Ranger—no way he could ‘roid up while on the job—but it’s possible he used to be in the Army’s employ.

Distant voices echo through the forest. They’re looking for us.

I hobble down the hill, feeling like an old man, and pause at the big guy’s body.

“No I.D. on him,” Collins says. “Couldn’t find any tattoos, either.”

I reach my hand out to her. “iPhone.”