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

Jenn made the leap with her new, far more extreme, ten years younger, boy toy, but I kept my suit. I had no intention of using it, I just didn’t want Sven or whatever the hell his name was, to have it.

I never heard how well the suit worked, or if it did at all, but Jenn’s designs always seemed to get the job done. Not all of them went into production, but they never resulted in my death. So, I’m kind of putting my life in my ex-girlfriend’s hands when I reach up and slap the button on my chest.

My arms and legs suddenly snap open as the suit pressurizes and the wings stretching from my wrists to my hips, and between my legs, unfurl and catch the air.

I’m still falling, but I’ve been slowed to a much more manageable 50 mph and am no longer dropping straight down. Instead, I’m like a human-sized flying squirrel, capable of maneuvering and controlling my speed to a point.

The Clarendon building is eight hundred feet below and about a quarter mile away. I spin to face it head on, and dip my head toward the roof. Descending at a 45 degree angle, I pick up speed.

When I cut the distance in half, I spot Gordon on the roof. The hooded man is on his knees, pitched forward in a posture of defeat. Gordon stands stock-still, looking toward the skyscrapers of Boston’s South End district, otherwise known as downtown.

He’s waiting for her, I think. For Nemesis. But is he controlling her?

Doesn’t matter, I decide, my course is set. I angle toward his back, descending like a missile.

I heard about a guy in England who landed in a wingsuit without deploying a parachute, but I’m pretty sure he finished the flight by crashing into a runway full of boxes. As much as I would like to careen into Gordon’s back at 50 mph and break his spine, the collision would kill us both.

When I’m 200 feet from the top of the building, it’s time to deploy Jenn’s second design—a parachute that deploys fast enough for short jumps, or in my case, low opens. I fight against the air pulling my arm out and push the button on my chest one more time.

150 feet.

The pressure around my body snaps away, the wings retract, and for a fraction of a second, I’m free falling.

100 feet.

But then, with a burst of compressed air, the chute deploys and snaps open.

50 feet.

I’m jolted as the parachute slows my decent from 50mph to 18mph, which is still pretty quick.

10 feet.

Gordon turns around, alerted to my presence by the loud crack of the parachute unfurling and filling with air. But his shocked expression reveals he had no idea how close the sound was, or even what made it. I can’t help but let out a small smile when I pull my legs up and drive them forward like pistons, striking the confused General square in the chest and sending him flying.

As Gordon falls to his back with a loud, “oof!” I land and slap the button on my chest one last time, freeing the chute and resetting the system. The bright red and white parachute is caught by the wind and carried off the side of the building. As it flutters away, I see Woodstock’s bright red chopper drop past the top of the building. Collins is in the window, looking relieved, but is motioning for me to turn around.

I spin and find Gordon on his feet, facing me with a big smile on his face. His eyes are predatory. Hungry.

I note that the gun he was holding is no longer in his hand and see it some twenty feet behind him. My gun is buried beneath the Velcro and zippers of the wingsuit. I don’t tell him, but I think Gordon could get to his weapon before I could retrieve mine.

But he doesn’t seem interested in his weapon. His clenched fists reveal he intends to pummel me. When I remember what it felt like to punch his chest, and the way he kicked in that door, I think I’d prefer a gun fight.

“I’m impressed,” he says. His voice is deeper than I remember, rougher, too. “But you’re wasting your time. You can’t stop her.”

“I’m aware,” I say.

“Then why come for him?” His eyes flare with understanding. “You want to lead her away from the city.”

“And I’m not exactly keen on sacrificing innocent people to appease an ancient goddess of revenge.”

“Is that what she is?” he asks, and I don’t hear a trace of sarcasm in his voice.

I answer truthfully, biding time for Collins’s arrival. She won’t have any trouble getting to her gun. “Her name is Nemesis. Greek goddess of vengeance.”

“And here I thought she was an alien,” he says.

“That, too, maybe,” I confess. It’s the one explanation that makes any kind of sense to me.

“But that’s not her name,” he says.

My big internal, “Huh?”, must reveal itself on my face, because he laughs and points at the hooded man on his knees. “You don’t even know who this is, do you?”

“Help,” the hooded man says, his rolls of pale-white, flabby skin jiggling. “He’s crazy!”

Gordon backhands the man’s head, knocking him to the roof.