We pile into the chopper. I throw a headset on and shout to Woodstock. “Get us the hell out of here!”
The chopper lifts away from the apartment building roof just as I hear someone say, “Missiles away.”
“Down!” I shout.
We roll to the right and drop over the side of the apartment building’s eastern side. Looking up, through the chopper’s side window, I see missiles rip by, trailing streaks of white. We level out at two hundred feet, and I turn my gaze right in time to see the missiles—at least thirty of them—close in on their target.
Before the first missile strikes, I think, at least they’re not aiming for her chest. All those orange membranes would be impossible to miss. The problem with aiming for her back is that the thick, spike covered carapace is her most well defended side. The missiles are little more than paintballs fired at a bulletproof vest.
The first missile strikes with a burst of orange flame. If Nemesis feels it, she doesn’t show it. The rest of the missiles strike at roughly the same time, generating enough energy to shove her forward. She stumbles in the water, but stays upright. Then she cranes her head around, spotting the jets.
The roar that follows, angry and earth-shaking, confirms my fears. Despite our little bonding moment, the goddess of vengeance won’t let the attack go unpunished.
“Missiles away,” I hear, just seconds before another barrage streaks past. If she turns around...
“Moab ETA, two minutes,” someone says. “Continue stall action.”
Stall action?
“They’re pinning her down for some reason,” I say.
“MOAB,” Woodstock says. “Mother of all bombs.”
Holy shit. He’s right. The MOAB acronym actually stands for Massive Ordnance Air Blast. It’s a vacuum bomb equivalent to eleven tons of TNT. The largest non-nuclear weapon in the U.S. arsenal that basically melts everything inside a nearly one mile radius. Right now, that’s Boston harbor and maybe a smidge of the North End, which has already been destroyed. Oh yeah, and us.
Anticipating my order—get the fuck out of here—Woodstock tilts us forward and sends Betty to the North. We don’t make it far.
Alessi leans forward, poking her head into the cockpit. “Katsu is still down there!”
I think for just a moment, and I come to a conclusion. “There isn’t time for a pick up.”
“Jon!” Collins says. “You can’t just—”
“I’m not leaving him,” I say. “But you’re not coming.”
Before she can argue, I grip Woodstock’s arm. “Get them out of here and don’t come back.”
He nods. A good soldier.
I glance to the back, find Collins’s confused eyes and say, “Love you.” Then I throw open the side door and jump.
If Collins replies, I don’t hear her. The roar of rushing air, of missiles and of Nemesis, fills my ears. Vibrates my very bones. Things are about to get very loud around here.
I pull the ripcord for my base-jumping parachute after just one second of freefall. Another second longer and the chute wouldn’t have time to deploy. It’s a close call already. The black fabric unfurls, catches the air and arrests my fall just thirty feet from the ground. I land hard, shouting in pain, as my legs fold beneath my weight.
After pulling myself free from the chute, I hobble to my feet. I’m standing by what remains of the New England Aquarium. I strike out to the west, heading for the back of the apartment building, where Endo should have touched down. I realize he might not be there. He could have bugged out. I could be risking my life for nothing. That he didn’t check in with Alessi is what concerns me, though.
The pain in my leg increases with each limping step. I press my hand against the limb, covering the wound, and I feel the warm tacky wetness of blood. A lot of blood. Moving is probably a bad idea, but at this point, I don’t have a choice. As I reach the end of the wharf, upon which the aquarium was built, I shout, “Endo!”
The lack of reply doesn’t slow me down. I’ve got just over a minute before the mother of all bombs turns me to dust. I turn left and spot a billowing black shape. “Endo!” I hurry forward. The parachute is tangled with a mass of ruined outdoor tables with blue umbrellas. “Endo!”
A groan. Movement. I yank away the chute and find him lying amid the debris. His face is covered in blood. “Came down too fast,” he says and glances up. “Hit the building.”
I glance up. A seven story, concrete building looms above us. He must have bounced off the building and fallen into the tables. “Can you move?”
“I’d prefer an ambulance,” he says.
“Either get up or all you’re going to get is dead.”
“Nemesis?”
I turn my eyes skyward, find the black triangle of a stealth bomber high above and point it out. “MOAB.”