Eli had informed us that sleeping gas didn’t exist, but the military had something that worked short-term on humans. He’d be using that on the building. I didn’t ask what it was or where he got it, and he didn’t volunteer. I vaguely recalled that the Russians had tried something on a theater full of people once and managed to kill most of them. I just hoped the U.S. military stuff worked better.
Thanks to Derek’s suppliers and the truck that had followed us up here, we were all dressed in night camo with Kevlar vests, combat boots, utility belts, shooting gloves—the kind with the knuckles and fingertips bare—ear protectors that doubled as radio receivers, and enough gear to start a small war. Bruiser had guns holstered everywhere and carried the pump shotgun borrowed from Esmee. Wrassler had a totally illegal, fully automatic, compact machine gun and enough magazines to shoot for fifteen minutes at full auto. Enough ammo to melt the barrel of his gun, assuming the heat buildup from firing didn’t jam it first, which was all too likely.
I had all my blades and stakes—including two new, longer, special-made ones—in sheaths and loops, and my Walthers holstered at my spine and under my left arm. One was loaded with silver for vamps and the other with standard ammo. My M4 Benelli was loaded for vamp with seven silver fléchette rounds, and I had another seven in special loops in a thigh pouch. But if I needed to reload, I would likely be dead before I could finish. The shotgun was slung at the ready and strapped in place under my right arm. The positioning was Wrassler’s idea, and though I’d never fought with the M4 strapped there, it felt good. I wouldn’t have to pull the shotgun from its spine sheath and ready it for firing. I just had to stabilize, point, and shoot. The webbing left me room to maneuver the weapon enough to aim and fire, and was relatively easy to pull free for full manual positioning.
“Com check,” Derek said over the radio. Instantly, we could hear the helo in the radio system background. He called our names or monikers out one at a time, and when he said, “Legs,” I replied, “Got ’em.” Everyone laughed. It was hard to see his expression with the mask in the way, but I thought Bruiser’s eyes were twinkling.
“Canisters?” Eli asked Bruiser and me.
I touched the three canisters at my belt; they were marked CS. It was the new pressurized colloidal silver stuff for use on vamps and I didn’t know how they would work. No one did. When the canister was activated, it would spew an ionized silver mist into the air. Every time vamps took a breath—if they did before it dissipated—they’d get a lungful. It wouldn’t mean instant death, but it might slow them down and poison them.
“On my go,” Eli said. This was his gig. I had no training for paramilitary raids. My combat style was more along the lines of stake ’em and run. Eli pulled his mask off, grabbed a black mesh bag, and slid out of the car. He disappeared into an alley at a fast jog.
He had reconnoitered the alley earlier and found some old wood back stairs on the two-story building adjacent to the three-story one, housing our target. He was going to ascend the steps of the two-story building, make his way to the roof, toss a grapnel across to the adjacent walled roof, and then haul himself up to the roof next door. The last part was an eighteen-foot climb. Which I would like to see, but I wasn’t part of the roof assault.
Six minutes later he said, “I’m in. Gas is a go.” Which meant in six minutes he had climbed up the fire escape, then to the roof adjacent, found an access for the air conditioner, removed its air intake panel, and started the gas. Go, Rangers, go, army.
Based on estimated cubic feet, Eli had calculated the number of canisters needed to knock out the building, and how long it would take. Then he added two canisters. Waiting sucked. I looked at the time. Sunset was in fourteen minutes. In fourteen minutes, the vamps could take an attack into the streets. We were cutting it close.
I could hear the helo’s rotors beating the air. The helo got closer, the noise louder. Leo’s helicopter wasn’t a sleek, modern, quiet-operating model, but an older helo, a refurbished Vietnam Era Bell Huey, with heavy armament and retrofitted with lots of modern bells and whistles. I was pretty sure that most of the bells were not entirely legal, and owning the whistles was likely a felony but well worth the risk. If we had to shoot the vamps with missiles, the helo had the capability, I thought dryly.
The helo was directly overhead, the tail rotor over the alley. Dark blobs dropped out—Derek Lee and his buddies. I wondered if Angel Tit was among them, and knew he must be, the Tequila Boys as well. There were too many men for just the Vodka Boys cadre. I wondered which one was Rick.
If I thought it was weird to have so many men I was interested in all in one place, my inner cat was just happy about it.
“Go. Go. Go,” Eli said over the com, and Bruiser, Wrassler, and I leaped from the limo. Because of his injury, Wrassler’s job was to cover the back entrance and make sure no one got away or came in to help the bad guys. Bruiser and I raced through the alley for the frontal assault, my breathing doing that whole Darth Vader wheeze inside the mask. I pulled on Beast’s speed to keep up with him. We rounded the front together, and sent two women screaming away. I had a glimpse of a sleeping baby in a backpack.