Zzzap summoned his strength, focused, and fired a blast that just missed the speeding vehicle. He was close enough to ignite the gas tank and melt one of the rear tires, but the Humvee kept moving. The tire made it veer off to the side, and the hood ended up aimed right at the battlesuit.
If Danielle had been in the armor, it would’ve been no contest. She knew the suit and what it could do. She’d thrown cars, punched through engine blocks, and pulled apart buildings. She could’ve side-stepped and grabbed the Humvee as it sped by and either hurled it into the air or torn it apart.
Lieutenant Gibbs knew a simulator. He wasn’t used to the armor’s smooth responses. He’d already forgotten there was over a thousand pounds of battlesuit protecting him from the outside world. He acted out of instinct. A big vehicle was rushing at him. He tried to leap out of the way.
The burning transport hit the Cerberus battlesuit in the hip. The titan spun, crashed into the building a few feet from Danielle and Cesar, and collapsed in the dirt. Part of the wall crumbled, and a chunk of concrete and plaster hit the ground inches from Danielle’s sneaker.
The Humvee veered off to the right, carried by its own momentum. Legion spun the wheel and kept the pedal pressed to the floor. They heard him laugh as he rushed by.
The front corner of the vehicle hit the fence and ripped through the first layer of chainlink without slowing down. It crushed a pair of ex-soldiers wandering between the barricades and broke through the second fence. A section of chainlink twenty feet long tore loose, crumpled, and fell. One of the Humvee’s tires ripped open on the stiff wires and exploded, but the vehicle lurched on and struck one of the outer poles by the watch tower. The engine roared, the tires spun in the dirt, and with its dying breath the flaming vehicle pushed the pole over.
The fence sagged on either side and knocked down the exes pressed against it. It sprang back up for a moment, then dropped to the ground with a crash of metal. Close to thirty exes were pinned under it when it fell. Twice as many moved for the opening.
Fucking son of a bitch, said Zzzap.
*
Truman stumbled out of the crater in the wall, tripped over one of the dead soldiers, and crashed to the floor. By the time he hit the tiles, St. George had put down Franklin with a strike to the forehead. The hero glared at Captain Freedom across the lobby. “Did you actually think you could take me in a fist fight? Even all together?”
Kennedy tried to hit him with her rifle stock. He took the weapon away from her and broke it in half. The ammo box fell open and the belt spooled out across the floor. She drove three punches into his jaw and felt her knuckles crack on the last one.
“I mean, do you guys have any clue how far out of my league you are?” He caught Jefferson’s punch against his palm and gave the knuckles a sharp twist. They all heard the bones splinter and snap along the arm. The soldier screamed and dropped back even as the hero batted away a kick from Kennedy. “A group of first graders would have a better chance of taking out Mike Tyson. If I didn’t need you to monologue about where Stealth—”
Freedom’s double-handed blow caught St. George across the cheek. He closed in, slammed some fast punches into the hero’s stomach, and then swung his elbow up to catch him in the chin. St George staggered back into the wall. The captain moved forward and swung a backhand that sounded like a gunshot when it connected. He brought the hand back around in a punch that could dent steel.
St. George grabbed the larger man’s wrist. The punch stopped dead in the air.
“Okay,” said the hero, ribbons of smoke streaming from his nostrils. “That’s enough.” He straightened up off the wall, still holding the wrist.
Freedom stumbled back. He tried to twist his arm around, a simple break to free his hand and get control back, but the hero’s fingers were like stone. The captain twisted his free arm around and threw his weight into an elbow that connected with the middle of St. George’s forearm.
The arm was like stone, too.
Jefferson drew his SOCOM pistol left-handed and emptied the magazine at St. George. The rounds thudded and spun off his side and shoulders. The last three slapped his temple. The bullets clattered on the tile floor.
Stone.
Kennedy leaped onto his back. She got a chokehold across his neck and threw her weight onto her arm. He reached up with his free hand and swung her over onto Truman’s unconscious form.
Freedom battered at the stone arm and threw a kick into the hero’s stomach. It was like hitting a wall, and he knocked himself off balance. He would’ve fallen over if not for the iron grip on his wrist. He flailed at St. George’s chest for a moment and righted himself.
“I’m used to having to pull my punches with people,” said St, George, “so you got in a couple good shots back at the Mount. But don’t confuse catching me off guard once with being stronger than me.” He moved Freedom’s arm back and forth, and the huge officer was dragged back and forth after it.