Earth Thirst (The Arcadian Conflict) - By Mark Teppo Page 0,88
BDUs.
They're not dressed the same as the team at the penthouse, and they've got different weapons. These guys are Secutores.
Mere gets free of her captor, sees the men coming from the left, turns to run the other way, and is grabbed again by the man who had brought her down. She yanks free, takes two steps back, and goes into the pool.
It's a good distraction. I'm coming down fast, and I tighten my grip on the strap to slow my descent marginally. Timing the rapid passage of balconies, I kick off of one and let go of the strap, falling free the last ten meters. The guy who had brought Mere down is the cushion I'm aiming for.
He breaks my fall, though the impact is deathly traumatic for him. I'm up and into the midst of the other four in a heartbeat. They're trying to figure out how not to shoot each other with their silenced submachine guns as I throat punch one, shatter the kneecap of another, grab the third and throw him into the fourth. Shattered kneecap is down, and I twist his neck until I feel it snap, and then I strip his weapon from him. It's an HK MP7 and not an UMP like I expected it to be. The gun is lightweight, has a laser sight and a noise suppressor, and it shoots a smaller cartridge than the .40 S&W that the UMP carries. A better weapon for urban environments. I point the gun at the pair who are trying to get off each other, and pull the trigger. This one is set to semiautomatic fire. I have to pull the trigger again before the pair stop moving.
Mere is splashing in the water, making a lot of noise. “Are you hurt?” I call out, sweeping my gaze around the perimeter of the pool. She keeps making noise, but I hear a “no!” among all the other sounds.
I wave my gun toward the stairs at the shallow end. “Get out of the water,” I tell her.
“Come and get me,” she sputters, which makes me smile as I pad in the direction the team of four had come from. When I reach the wall surrounding the pool and peek over, looking over the manicured landscaping to the hotel parking lot, I wonder how many men Belfast has. And their transportation plans.
Nine men down, I count. If it is a twelve-man team, that leaves one to command and two to drive. Two vehicles. Six men each. I look for larger vehicles. Hummers. Luxury SUVs. Short buses. Anything that fits the profile.
My side aches, and the cut along my inner arm still hurts too. The bullets grazed me, taking a bit of flesh, but I shouldn't still be feeling pain from these wounds. I slip the magazine out of the gun and raise it to my face, sniffing at the top bullet in the stack. The chemical stink makes goose flesh race down my neck and across my back.
They've dipped their bullets in the weed killer.
The tips are dark in the light reflecting from the pool, tiny triangles atop copper jackets. I don't like these bullets, and I shove the top of the magazine in my pants pocket and with my other hand, fumble one of the bullets out of the magazine so that it falls into my pocket. I tap the base of the magazine once against the butt of the pistol and slap it back into the gun.
Out in the parking lot, a dark shape flicks its lights on twice. Behind me, I hear Mere say my name. I hear the sound of a hammer clicking back as I turn, and I make sure my finger is clear of the trigger on the MP7.
Mere is out of the pool—her dress clinging to her body, her hair wet and tangled. Standing partially behind her, his right side exposed enough that I can see the pistol in his hand, is Tony Belfast. He's wearing a dark sweater and slacks, the pants missing the numerous pockets typical of assault gear, but I have no doubt he'd be equally comfortable in that get up at a gallery opening as he is right now.
“Put it down,” he says.
I set the safety and grab the sling as I let go of the weapon. It drops and hangs a few centimeters above the ground, swaying back and forth.