SINdrome Page 10

  I turned back to Larkin, who was now breathing more naturally. Her eyes still had that deer-in-headlights look to them, but at least she wasn’t screaming. Not that I’d blame her. “We’ve got to move to the kitchen, okay?” I said, trying to keep my voice as calm and certain as possible.

  She just nodded. Maybe she was in shock, but I didn’t have time to worry about that. Getting somewhere with a fighting chance was priority one. Getting the fuck out of here before the cops showed up was priority two. Larkin’s mental well-being was a distant third. “Good. Now, we’re going to move as fast as we can, but we’re going to try to stay as low as possible. A running crouch, okay?” She nodded again. “Good. Ready?”

  “Yes,” she whispered. It wasn’t much, but at least she was talking.

  “Go!” I shouted. “Go, go, go!” I put action to my words, grabbing her arm and propelling us both forward. Since I couldn’t see the shooter, I figured speed was better than stealth—not that there was much hope of stealth in the brightly lit living room anyway. We moved fast and low and, sure enough, as soon as we cleared the couch the gunfire started again. Fortunately for us, real life wasn’t like the vids, and it was a hell of a lot harder to hit a moving target than most would-be shooters realized. We only had a few feet to cover, and it looked like we were going to make it. Right up until the point where Larkin lurched, cried out, and fell into a heap on the floor.

  “Fuck!” I shouted. “Larkin’s hit.” I didn’t, however, stop moving. I grabbed her by the collar of her sweatshirt as I passed, twisting my fist harshly in the fabric. It was tight enough that I was probably choking the woman, but that didn’t matter. You could live for a much longer time without air than you could getting riddled with bullets, and while moving targets were a tough nut to crack, a body lying motionless on the floor was pretty much the definition of a sitting duck.

  Larkin was a slim woman. In normal circumstances, I could have thrown her around with just a little bit of effort. With the adrenaline of a life-or-death situation pumping hard through my system, I didn’t even feel the weight as I dragged then flung her bodily behind the counter, diving in behind her once more.

  “Jesu Christo, Campbell. I can’t see the shooter. Can’t even return fire,” Hernandez called from her position by the wall. Randomly dropping the hammer in a residential neighborhood when you had no idea of the location of the bad guy went far beyond a bad idea and into the realm of the terminally stupid. “How’s Larkin?”

  “Wait one,” was my succinct reply as I turned my attention to the woman we had come to maybe torture and whose life we were now trying desperately to save. She was looking back at me with a glassy-eyed stare, but at least she was conscious and breathing. There was a spreading stain high on her right thigh though, close to the hip. “You’re going to be fine,” I told her, not sure if I really believed it. “Probably just a flesh wound.” I glanced around the nicely appointed kitchen, then snagged a tea towel that was hanging from the oven. I pressed it against the wound. “This is going to hurt,” I said and, before she had a change to react, I pressed down. Hard.

  Larkin’s eyes went so wide I could see the whites all the way around and a little gasp of pain escaped her lips. But that was it. Tough lady. “Good,” I said. “Hold it there. I need to turn you over. Check for an exit wound. Okay?”

  Her hands moved mechanically to the towel—already darkening—and clamped it in place. “It hurts,” she whispered.

  “I bet,” I agreed. “But we can’t focus on that. Not right now. We’ve gotta get all of us out of here alive, okay?”

  “It’s Walton isn’t it? They’ve come for me.”

  “Probably.” As I said it, I placed one hand on her right hip and lifted and turned, rolling her over onto her side. “Damn,” I muttered. There was an exit wound, sure enough, just below her right buttock. A bigger, nastier wound than the entry. Either the bullet had tumbled, or the shooter had forgone jacketed rounds for something that would mushroom out more on impact. It was bleeding, but it wasn’t spurting or gushing, which meant that, with a little luck, the bullet had missed the femoral artery. Who was I kidding? If it had clipped it, she’d already be dead.

  “Do you have tape, string, anything like that here in the kitchen?” I asked, watching the blood seep out.

  She shook her head.

  “Great.” I glanced around, looking for inspiration. Larkin must have liked to cook, judging from the quality of the appliances and accoutrements that I could see. “What about plastic wrap?”

  “By the stove,” she said. “Cabinet.” Her words were getting softer, weaker. I snatched another tea towel and pressed it against the wound on the back of her leg, moving one of her hands to cover it as well.

  I duck-walked back to the stove and, sure enough, there was a small cabinet beside it. Within I found the standard array of aluminum and plastic. I grabbed the Saran Wrap and returned.

  “Shit!” Hernandez suddenly growled, and I heard her diving to the deck at the same time another volley of gunfire sounded. “They’re on the move, Campbell. You need to get the fucking lead out. We’re going to have company in a minute.”

  I dropped down beside Larkin, who was starting to look glassy-eyed. The kind of look people got before passing out from little things like shock and blood loss. Not good. I tore the roll of plastic wrap from the box. “Move your hands,” I said to the injured woman.

  She did it with a slow, mechanical motion that said she was right on the brink. I didn’t hesitate, just started to tightly wrap the wound in the plastic wrap, pressing the makeshift bandages provided by the tea towels tight against the entry and exit points. “What’s the plan here, Hernandez?” I called as I worked.

  “Larkin mobile?” was the terse reply.

  “Negative. I can carry her, but it’s going to make my aim shit.”

  “Shittier,” she replied, and I grinned even as I tied off the makeshift wound. We might be about to die, murdered by some corporate wetwork squad, but not even that would stop Hernandez from taking the easy jab at me. “From the glimpse I caught, we got a few seconds, and that’s it.”

  “Entry?”

  “Back yard, side yard. Didn’t see anyone out front.”

  Which didn’t mean they weren’t there. “Okay. Larkin’s as squared away as she’s gonna get.” I glanced around, noting a door set in the kitchen wall. Ten would get you twenty that it led to a garage. But would Larkin own her own car? Even for suburbanites, cars had fallen off the “must have” list with the introduction of driverless ride-sharing services. I thought about the neighborhood, the meticulous, Stepford nature of it. The high-powered corporate town. Keeping up with the Joneses. Yeah. She’d have a car.

  “Can you make it to me?” I asked.

  “You better cover my ass, hermano.”

  “That’s the one thing these dinky little nines you insist on carrying are good for,” I shot back. “At least I’ve got a lot of bullets to lay down some covering fire.” I drew a breath, and, in a more serious tone, said, “Ready?”

  “Ready.”

  I picked up the pistol from Larkin’s side, where I’d laid it when attending to her leg. I risked a quick glance at the woman. Her eyes were half-lidded, and her breathing was ragged, but at least she was breathing. I settled the weapon into my hands, trying to find the balance of the hunk of metal and composite, then I moved into a half-crouched position. I drew a deep breath of my own, then released it in a shouted, “Go!”

  As I spoke, I popped up, not moving fully to standing, but just enough to clear my head and shoulders over the counter top. I extended both arms before me and settled the butt of the pistol on the countertop—no need to waste a perfectly good bench rest—while I took in the first full view of the room I’d had since diving over the couch.

  The windows that had been facing the part of the sectional where Larkin had sat were now a shattered
mess of glass. There must have been more shots than I’d first realized, and from more angles, because the sliding door, too, was now riddled with bullet holes. That glass must have been made of stronger stuff, because instead of shattering, it had just spiderwebbed around the holes punched through it by the rounds. Hernandez was in motion, pushing herself to her feet against the far wall and starting a mad dash in my direction.

  I caught a flash of movement through the obstructed glass remaining in the sliding glass door. My mind had barely registered the threat before my body swiveled, almost like a tank turret, and the posts of the pistol dropped onto the shape. I pulled the trigger once, twice, a third time, three quick, but controlled, motions that took less than a second to execute. The shape on the other side of the door got much closer, and then the crash of a body falling through the stressed glass added its own crescendo to the ringing echo of gunfire. I tracked right, muzzle dipping automatically as it traversed past Hernandez, now halfway to the “strongpoint”—if it could be called that—in the kitchen.

  I caught movement outside the window, but it was gone too fast to hit. So, instead, I moved the muzzle an inch or two to the right, and put a few rounds into the window frame. The nine-millimeter could probably punch through the two by four framing, but I was firing at a downward angle, so the risk of the rounds finding a target in some unsuspecting passer-by were slim to none. It did have the desired effect of causing splinters of wood to fly out in all directions and even made some more glass fall out of the frame. Not exactly a direct hit, but hopefully enough that whoever was on the other side would keep their head down for a second more.

  That second was all I needed as Hernandez came sliding bodily across the countertop and dropped down beside me. She rolled to her knees, popped up to where she could clear the counter, and took a couple of shots of her own. The slide on her pistol locked back on an empty magazine, and she dropped back down, hand moving automatically to the mag holder at her left hip. Her reload was smooth and effortless, the result of countless hours of practice and practical experience. The weapon was back in battery in the blink of an eye.

  “Now what?” she gasped, head sweeping back and forth, trying to take in all the possible entry points.

  “Any idea how many bad guys we got?”

  She grunted. “At least three more, I think.”

  “Fuck,” was my succinct reply.

  “Yup.”

  I glanced down at Larkin. The woman had finally succumbed to either blood loss or shock, and had slipped into unconsciousness. Not great. Time was as much our enemy as the bad guys with the guns.

  “We’re going to have to try for the garage and hope that Larkin owns a car,” I said.

  Hernandez threw a quick look around the kitchen, eyes locking on to the door that I had already seen, the door that I hoped led to at least a chance at salvation. “No way to confirm?” she asked. I wasn’t sure if she was looking for confirmation that the door led to the garage, or that there was a vehicle in there we could use. I couldn’t offer much hope for either.

  “Larkin’s out,” I replied. “Don’t see any other options.”

  “Fast or slow?”

  “Fast,” I replied. “And hard.”

  “Ooooh, papi,” Hernandez said, voice dripping sarcasm.

  I snorted out a laugh. “Shut up, Hernandez. You want me to carry Larkin, or you got her?”

  It wasn’t an easy question, and I gave Hernandez a couple of precious seconds to ponder it. Larkin was a petite woman, but so was Hernandez. She’d feel the weight a lot more than I would, and be slowed by it more. But you couldn’t exactly fight while carrying a hundred-plus pounds of unconscious person, either, and if we ran into trouble, we might be better off if I was hands-free.

  “I got her,” she said. She put action to her words and shimmied over beside Larkin. I popped up once more and put another round into the frame of every entry point I could see. That left me with four rounds left in the nine. Unlike Hernandez, I didn’t have any reloads. It was hard enough carrying a pistol in your pocket without trying to cart around extra magazines. The entries still looked clear, which was both a relief and frustrating. What the fuck were they waiting for?

  I dropped back down to see Hernandez on one knee, pulling Larkin over her shoulder into a fireman’s carry. “We ready to do this?” she asked. I gave her a short nod. “Good. Spot me on the way up.” She shoved off the ground, lifting Larkin bodily and settling her across her shoulders as I added what lift and stability I could. If the bad guys had chosen that fraction of a moment to make their assault, we probably would have been dead.

  We didn’t waste time on more talk, moving for the door I was praying opened on to a garage. Hernandez had managed to manipulate the carry so that she had one arm free, and had redrawn her pistol. Mine was still in hand as I grabbed the door knob and yanked it open.

  And found myself staring full into the face of a synthetic.

  With a gun.

  Chapter 12

  I knew the man was a synthetic. I’d spent so long in their company over the past months that I had no doubts. It was something about the face, somewhat shrouded by a black cap, but otherwise visible. It was far too perfect to be human.

  My brain did a mental hiccup as it tried to resolve the synthetic in front of me with the tactical gear and sub-gun he was carrying. He seemed to be in mid-breach, as one leg was lifted and ready to plant into the lockplate, with the weapon held at the low ready. His own eyes had widened in surprise at my sudden appearance, and for a fraction of a second, we simply stared at one another. My mind couldn’t process whatever was happening here, but my instincts didn’t fail me.

  I stepped forward, turning my shoulder and body checking the synthetic. The press of my torso prevented him from bringing his weapon up, and the sudden impact, with him balanced on a single leg, sent him reeling. I had time to register that we were, in fact, in a garage, and that there were two steps down to the floor of it and then I heard the report of Hernandez’s pistol. I didn’t see any rounds impact on the synthetic who had just crashed to the floor, so I had to assume that she was firing back into the house. Looked like the bad guy I had just knocked down wasn’t the only one coming to the party.

  There was no time to screw around, to play nice, or to demand answers. The synthetic landed hard on a concrete floor and, for just a moment, appeared stunned. I put a round into his head as I rushed down the stairs. But then I stopped, as something tickled the back of my mind. Hernandez’s gun barked again, and she shouted, “Come on, Campbell! Move your ass! This puta isn’t getting any lighter.”

  I needed to move, but my brain was still churning. Shit. What was it? The synthetic—the soldier?—lying on the ground was wearing fairly standard gear that would be recognized by soldiers of almost any nation. Including, on one shoulder, the IFAK—individual first aid kit. Something clicked. “Two seconds, Hernandez,” I shouted, as I dropped to a quick knee. Some part of my brain registered that Larkin did, in fact, have a car—thank God—and that, in addition to the garage door, there was an open man-sized door through which the synthetic must have entered, but I was already tearing into the IFAK. I tossed most of the supplies away until I found a tiny squirt bottle of saline solution, used for cleaning wounds. I emptied the contents and, doing my best to ignore the disgust slowly churning in my gut, shoved the applicator tip into the edge of the head wound. I used the suction of the bottle to fill it with a couple of ounces of blood.

  “The fuck you doing?” Hernandez demanded, sending three more rounds down the hallway. “I’m almost dry, and reloading carrying this chica ain’t happening.”

  I shoved the bottle into a pocket, looked longingly at the sub-gun strapped to the corpse, and darted to the car. It was a small two-seater with a sort of half-seat, half-cargo space behind the seats. The locks were biometric, which weren’t a problem. I covered the door—me and my four bul
lets—while Hernandez pressed Larkin’s thumb against the appropriate screen. I heard the beep of the screen accepting Larkin’s thumbprint at the same time I saw a flash of movement down the hallway. I popped off two rounds. No real target, but I was hoping to at least keep heads down and the door clear.

  “I’ve got it, Campbell,” Hernandez said.

  I didn’t bother taking the time to look and confirm. I took her at her word and rushed to the door on my side of the vehicle. In my peripheral vision, I saw Hernandez leaning a bit out the window of the car, pistol extended and held rock-steady on the doorway. Then I was in the vehicle. Hernandez had already used Larkin’s unconscious hand to activate the vehicle, and the manual drive feature was on. The Walton employee was wedged unceremoniously into the tiny cargo space. I felt bad about that, particularly with the woman being injured, maybe dying, but we didn’t have a hell of a lot of choice.

  “You think they’ve made it to the front of the garage yet?” Hernandez asked.

  “No way to know,” I replied, flipping through a screen menu to try to find the garage door control. “I got one outside, and the one in here. Saw someone just a second ago, so there’s at least one still in the house. Found it,” I grunted. “Hold on…and try to stay low.”

  Hernandez managed to contort herself so that most of her body was lower than the windshield while simultaneously managing to keep her firearm trained on the door. I saw another flash of movement. Hernandez must have seen it too, as she sent a rapid-salvo of rounds down the hallway. Her slide locked back, and in less time than it took to say it, she had the weapon reloaded. “Last one,” she grunted.

  I flicked the screen, and the garage door immediately started to open. The motor was electric, smooth, and damn near silent. It also moved faster than I’d anticipated. I hadn’t been planning on waiting for the door to rise fully in any case. It took only a second or two for it to clear the bumper, and when it did, I stomped on the accelerator. The tires squealed for a moment on the smooth garage floor, but then caught and the car lurched backward. The vehicle had low clearance, but even so, there was a long, tortured screech as the roof clipped the ascending door. Then we were free, out into the darkening evening.