“Ashley,” the fat man said. “You weren’t supposed to—”
The thunderous crack of the gun firing drowned out the man’s voice. The bullet covered the distance between the gun and Gordon’s head before the sound reached their ears. The impact knocked him back, throwing him into the room’s back wall, which cracked from the strain.
Gordon’s head lolled forward.
The bullet fell away, clattering to the floor.
“Get out of here!” the woman named Ashley shouted.
Gordon raised his head, glowering at the woman with his yellow eyes. A sneer formed on his lips. “I like a woman who can fight.”
He shoved himself away from the wall and charged across the room.
The gun fired six more times before he reached her. He felt the impacts as little more than punches from an old lady. He reached for the woman, not intending to kill her. The other two were no doubt already running, so he’d need this one alive.
Before his hand reached her face, she ducked down and tightened into a ball. Gordon’s foot struck her, eliciting a cry of pain, but he hadn’t kicked her, he’d simply tripped over her. He sprawled forward, off balance, headed for the large windows.
He glanced through the glass and caught sight of the battle outside. Hudson was still on the run. Still hopelessly outmatched. But then five Apache attack helicopters roared past overhead. They would only aggravate his child. The fools hadn’t learned anything.
Gordon’s eyes returned to the glass. Like all good soldiers, he thought several steps ahead. He knew he was going to break through the window and fall four stories. But he also knew he’d survive the fall, recover quickly and have no problem cutting off the three fleeing FC-P agents. The first thing he’d do was rip the fat man’s spine out. That would take the fight out of the other two.
His face struck the glass first.
It didn’t break.
Instead, his flesh folded inwards, compressing the thick bones of his face. As momentum carried the rest of his body forward, the pressure on his face grew. Something popped and then crunched, and for the first time in a year, Gordon felt pain.
He put his hand up to his nose. The flesh felt looser. Warm fluid covered his fingertips. He couldn’t make out the color against his charcoal flesh. But he knew what it was. Blood. The bitch had actually hurt him.
He thrashed out an arm, obliterating a workstation with one strike. He turned toward the woman, who he expected to find on the floor, clutching her side in pain. She was gone. As were the other two. His plan was falling apart.
“No!” he screamed and charged toward the stairwell. When he reached the top, he leapt out over the stairs, compressed his body into a ball and struck the wall. Unlike the windows, this part of the house had not been reinforced. He broke through wood and plaster like a wrecking ball.
His fall was broken by the crunch of a car roof folding in. His body struck hard, face down. The car compressed loudly, and then all at once, it exploded into flames. The searing heat surprised Gordon, but it didn’t harm him. When he stood in the flames and stepped through the curtain of smoke, he was very glad to see three sets of stunned eyes staring at him.
Ignoring the flames flickering over his chest, Gordon grinned and said. “Let’s try that again.”
12
I hold my finger down, launching all thirty-eight rockets. It might be a little excessive, but the rockets aren’t smart. They can’t lock on to targets. They just fly straight until they hit something and explode. And sometimes they don’t even fly straight. Considering the amount of firepower I’ve just launched, the rockets don’t make much noise. They just kind of whoosh away, swirling trails of smoke. There’s so many of them twisting through the air, the sight reminds me of those Robotech cartoons I used to watch when I was a kid...and a few years ago. The twisting streaks of white are almost beautiful.
“Holy shit,” the whispered curse comes through my headset. One of the helicopter pilots commenting on what I’ve just done, which serves to remind me about what I’ve just done.
“Where is the car?” I ask, shouting into my headset.
“They’re away!” someone replies.
“Up!” I shout to Woodstock, even as he pulls us higher into the air and to the side. It’s like a backwards rollercoaster ride, but I hardly notice. All of my attention is on the now-small streaks of white, headed for Scrion’s underside.
The Kaiju has just leapt up, exposing the three orange membranes.
The first rocket strikes with an orange explosion that sounds like a distant firework. But nothing happens. The rocket struck high, between Scrion’s neck and armor planting. I don’t think it even noticed the impact.
But it’s sure as hell going to. It’s easy to see now, as Scrion rises and the rockets continue to strike—