Extinction Machine

Chapter One Hundred Twenty-seven

VanMeer Castle

Near Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

Monday, October 21, 8:46 a.m.

I staggered back, my chest on fire. I heard another pop and another as Shelton continued to fire at me. A second round punched me in the gut. A third hit somewhere near my hip and spun me half around. His aim sucked, but I’d made it easy for him with that first shot. I’d leaned right into the helicopter.

I reeled away from him, hiding behind the front end of the chopper as he squeezed off shot after shot.

The microfiber Kevlar I had on kept those bullets from killing me, but the foot-pounds of impact, even from a small-caliber gun, smashed me. When I took a breath, two ends of a broken rib grated together in an internal shriek of white hot agony. I clamped a hand to my mouth to stifle a scream—and tasted blood.

I stared at my hand, at my arm. And down at my chest.

The Kevlar was completely intact. But there was a neat round hole one inch to the right of the arm hole. As I lifted the arm I could feel the wrongness of torn muscle and shredded flesh. Suddenly my legs buckled and I dropped to my knees. Somehow I kept hold of the pistol, but I felt like the effort of lifting it was going to take more than I had to spend.

Shit.

“Did I kill you, you son of a bitch?” yelled Shelton.

“No,” I growled back, “but thanks for trying, ass-hat.”

He actually laughed.

Weirdly, so did I.

I wasn’t entirely sure he hadn’t killed me. With each breath my lungs felt worse, wrong. Wet.

“Don’t worry about it, Mr. Shelton,” said a voice behind me. “I’ll be happy to take care of this piece of shit.”

I turned slowly. Turning fast wasn’t happening. The bullet had gone in but it hadn’t come out. Low-caliber round, must have hit bone and taken a detour deeper into my chest cavity.

Two men stood by a gate that led from the helipad to a parking area. One was tall and broad and very Italian. The other looked a little like me. Big, ropy muscles, blond hair and blue eyes. His hair was curly, though.

I sagged down, dropping my butt onto my heels, fighting my body’s desire to simply collapse.

They towered over me. Both of them held guns, barrels pointed casually down at their sides. Both of them were smiling. This was going to be easy for them and they knew it.

I looked up at Blondie.

“Erasmus Tull?” I asked.

“Yeah. Ledger?”

“Yeah.”

He smiled. “I’ve been looking forward to this.”

I sighed. “I figured.”

“You have a lot of friends at the Warehouse?”

“Yeah.”

He nodded.

“Time to join—”

I shot him in the face.

Hey, f*ck it.

Tull stayed on his feet for one full second, his eyes wide with astonishment. Then he fell backward in a boneless sprawl. Maybe I didn’t have dysentery like Harrison Ford, but seeing Tull definitely made me sick to my stomach. I figured Indiana Jones would be proud.

Tull’s friend yelled in shock, his face splashed with blood. He brought his gun up.

I could have taken him, too. In that moment of astonishment.

Except after that single shot the slide locked back on Sullivan’s gun.

The Italian guy raised his piece. He was screaming something. But I wasn’t tracking very well. The empty gun toppled from my hand.

And then the Italian exploded.

As an after echo I heard a single dry tok!

It was all very messy and immediate and for a moment the air was stained with a lingering pink mist. But as it cleared I saw Junie Flynn standing there, legs wide, both hands wrapped around a microwave pulse pistol.

“Junie,” I said.

She rushed through the gate and ran right to me and damn near bowled me over, but when she saw the blood she skidded to a stop and fell to her knees in front of me.

“Joe, oh my god, Joe … you’ve been shot.”

Her hands were everywhere, probing, touching. She pulled her sweater off and gently stuffed it inside my vest and pushed my arm down to hold it in place.

In my earbud I heard Mr. Church. “Cowboy—give me a sit-rep. Is the package still in hand?”

The package lay on the ground, covered in blood. I used my good hand to pick it up. There was a bullet drilled three quarters of the way through it. I remembered the shot that had hit my hip.

“Confirmed,” I said. “The package is in hand.”

Then I remembered the cavern.

“Listen to me, Deacon, that cavern is still open and they’re firing up the T-craft. You have to—”

“Captain,” interrupted Church, “I am channeling in a visitor.”

“Who am I on the line with?” I demanded.

There was a burst of squelch, then an unfamiliar voice said, “Captain Andrew Murray, sir, Pennsylvania Air National Guard. Requesting permission to join the party.”

Junie’s grave face blossomed into a smile.

“I hope you brought more to this pig roast than a beer bong, Captain.”

“If you have any use for a six-pack of A-10 Thunderbolts, then we’re forty miles out, coming hard, locked and loaded.”

I had to laugh. “Guess we ain’t the left-handed stepchildren no more.”

“We are acting on orders of the commander-in-chief,” said Murray.

“Captain,” I said. “There is a cavern opening on the north side of this property.” I gave the coordinates to Murray. “If anything—any craft of any kind—gets out of that cavern we are going to be at war with China before lunchtime. That is not a joke. Confirm.”

“Advise on location of your personnel, Cowboy.”

I thought of Warbride and Prankster. One old friend, one new. Both family, born as children of war.

My heart wanted to break.

“There’s no time left on the shot clock, Captain,” I said. “Pull the trigger.”

“Understood, Cowboy. Go with God and let the devil take the rest.”

Then I tapped my earbud. “Warbride, Prankster … Evac now. Repeat—evac now!”

There was no answer.

Junie touched my face. “Joe,” she said.

And then the sky was full of missiles and fire rained from heaven.