An Armageddon Duology (32 page)

T
he pouring rain
clattered angrily on the metal roof, the storm winds shaking the thin walls of the warehouse. Daylight faded, dimmed further by the clouds, still just managing to illuminate the interior through the high windows. The air tasted of mildew and rot, chased by a metallic tang. A low rumble shook the long structure, momentarily interrupting conversation within. Two figures stood perched atop a large, moveable platform.

“I can’t reach anyone,” Cohen said, flipping her phone closed with a snap. “Looks like we’ve lost all cellular. We’re blind here.”

Savas nodded, examining the readout on a small control unit. “Not completely blind,” he muttered. “As long as the power holds.”

Cohen limped over to Savas and wrapped an arm over his shoulders. “Frank got the motion sensors up?”

“Yeah,” Savas said, turning toward her. There was another roll of thunder. “We’ll at least get some advance notice.”

“Crunch time, Johnny-boy.” She ran her fingers through his hair. “I’m starting to get a little tired of the world ending around us.”

He kissed her, cupping his hand behind her head. Her breath was warm in the frigid air of the unheated warehouse. A cloud escaped his mouth as he pulled away. “Don’t ever say I didn’t show you an exciting time, girl.”

“Just don’t make me climb any more ladders until this damned leg is healed.”

A shout from across the expanse of the building brought them back to their surroundings. Their eyes caught sight of a figure slamming shut the main door, water dripping from his muscular form. Miller jogged back toward their position, an automatic rifle in one arm.

“Motion detectors mounted and signaling,” he called.

The space within was long abandoned. Decaying, discarded crates the size of trucks littered the floor. The ex-marine dodged back and forth, zig-zagging as he approached. The detritus provided the perfect cover for their needs. Fawkes and his mercenaries would need to expose themselves several times in order to get near.

Savas and Cohen looked down from a raised, metallic platform. Once used by a supervisor directing the traffic in the warehouse during better years, it now served an unintended strategic purpose. They had positioned several crates facing the entrance. Together with the advantage of height, the cover would ensure that only an elite commando force of some number would make it through. Whatever they would face, they were sure to do it much hurt.

Miller finished scaling the ladder and dropped heavily onto the platform, water scattering and dripping through the metallic mesh of the platform floor. He scanned the interior of the building and grunted.

“Of course, they could try blasting or cutting their way through any number of weak points in this flimsy structure. But I think that’s giving them too much credit and time to plan. And only if they had the numbers.” He pointed to the main entrance. “My money is on the front door. John and I can take positions on opposite sides of this platform—there and there. Rebecca, we could use your gun, but we can’t trust that hacker. Keep it trained on her the entire time. We’re vulnerable from behind.”

Cohen smiled. “Good plan. I refuse to move this leg again.” She turned behind them, looking down on the bound form of Poison. The hacker glared back. “Sorry about the cuffs.”

“Fuck you Feds. Maybe I should help him kill you.”

Savas crouched down beside her. “We don’t know that you won’t, Poison. Try to see it from our angle. There isn’t much trust going around when it comes to Fawkes and Anonymous.”

“He’s not Anonymous. Not anymore.”

“Who’s to say? He claims he is. He’s sprung several traps on us, tried to kill us. We can’t assume you’re on our side.”

“Why would I be here?”

“Maybe the bait is to hook
us
.”

She scowled at him but remained silent. At that moment, the monitor on the floor of the platform began to beep. Miller scooped it into his hands, glaring downward.

“They’re here. Barely time to prepare. Ten yards in front of the door. We’ve got seconds.”

Cohen leaned into one of the crutches, holding her firearm pointed at the platform near Poison’s feet. She stared intensely at the other woman. Miller and Savas shook the platform as they rushed to the opposite corners, crouching behind wooden crates and aiming their weapons toward the door.

Miller called to Savas. “If they throw frags, look away until the blast. Then back and focus.”

His anticipation proved correct. The door to the warehouse was slung open, the rusted metal screaming like something dying. Several black shapes outside hurled objects into the warehouse. Savas and Miller turned their heads as the grenades exploded, the sound rivaling the thunder outside. They recovered quickly and reoriented, training their guns on the men rushing inside. And opened fire.

T
he incoming soldiers
were dropped quickly, their position impossible to defend. They barely had time to size up their enemy and the layout before rounds from one or both of the FBI men cut them down. Their lack of strategy made it clear they hadn’t expected this sort of resistance.

Four bodies lay within a twenty-foot radius of the main door. There was no further motion from outside. The smoke of spent ammunition rose as a fog around the top of the platform. Savas started to rise, but Miller held up his hand.

“Not yet!”

“You think there are more?”

“Maybe this was a feint. Stay low.”

“But Fawkes isn’t there!” hissed Savas.

“We don’t know that. Can’t see their faces.”

“He’s not there,” said Poison, looking down on the corpses. “He’s no Johnny Rambo.”

“Don’t shoot!”

A cry rang across the warehouse.

“
That’s
Fawkes,” said Poison.

Miller peered over the crate in the failing light. He strapped on a set of night vision goggles and adjusted them.

“I don’t see anything, John. He’s still outside.”

“Fawkes!” cried Savas. “If that’s you, come in with both hands high in the air!”

There was a pause. “No way! You’ll shoot me!”

“Paranoid to the end,” whispered Poison.

“That’s not our plan!” yelled Savas again. “You’re useless dead. We need you to fix this shit!”

Another pause. “Is she there? Poison?”

Savas made to speak again but was cut off by the girl.

“Fuck yeah, you piece of shit! All this is because of you! And you
bugged
me, you fucktard? Seriously?”

A dark form ambled into the warehouse from the door, his head covered by a hood. His hands raised above him.

“Turn around,” called Savas. Fawkes obeyed. “Now close the door. All the way.”

Fawkes grasped the handle of the sliding door and yanked. At first it didn’t move and he lost his balance. After several hard pulls and better planting his feet, he managed to scrape it across the floor to the staccato bursts of metal on cement. A fifth jerk slammed it shut.

“Now back around with your hands high.” Fawkes complied and Savas stood slowly and turned to Miller. “I’m going to bring him up. He tries anything, end him.”

Cohen turned to Poison as Savas descended. “Will he try something?”

The hacker shook her head. “Are you kidding? He wasn’t even good at first person shooters. Your man’s safe.”

Miller watched tensely as Savas reached the hacker. Fawkes offered no resistance, walking slowly in front of the FBI man. Savas pushed him forward with his gun, and the pair navigated the obstacle course toward the platform. Finally, the Fawkes scaled the ladder as Miller trained his weapon downward. The pair reached the platform without incident.

Poison laughed. “You still have the fucking mask.
Seriously
.”

Fawkes stood shivering in a wet trench coat, water beading and running along its contours. Contrasting the black of the fabric was a white mask—the goateed, smirking visage that had come to haunt too many of their nightmares.

“Fawkes,” Savas said, stepping forward. “Miller, the extra set of cuffs?”

Miller handed Savas the restraints and he bound Fawkes’ hands behind him.

Fawkes looked to Poison. His voice was heavily muffled. “Looks like they’re still treating you well.”

“So that’s it? That’s all you had left to come rescue me?” The masked man said nothing. “What a sad way to go out, Fawkes.”

“It doesn’t matter anymore. They can’t stop things now.”

Cohen kept her weapon at the ready, her eyes on Poison as she spoke. “I wouldn’t count on that, Fawkes. We have a plan to stop you.”

“You mean the little bald girl in the cellar?” The mask laughed. “I have a larger team taking care of her now. That’s over.”

“You son of a bitch,” Miller said, advancing on the man.

Savas held him back with his arm. “It will be hard on you if something happens to them.”

“Gonna be hard on all of us soon, Special Agent. But really it was the only way.”

“Only way to what, you sick bastard!” hissed Miller, a fire in his eyes.

“Can’t tell you or you’d just laugh. But really, it’s for the best. The things you don’t know and can’t believe—well, it’s like a mountain. The lies you live, the truths you hold that really hold you mockingly. Your ideals and systems.
All lies
. You are slaves to masters that count on your good intentions and low intelligence. There is a world order you don’t understand and can’t perceive.”

Savas looked at Poison. “Is this the genius you mentioned? This nutcase?”

“Low intelligence?” Poison scoffed. “You know, they played you from the start, you dumb ass. And you bought it! You took it all in your little shark mouth and they reeled you in! All those torture videos? Interrogation scripts? They were faked!”

“I know.”

“What do you mean, you know?”

“Players play the players because the play demands it.”

“John—” began Cohen.

“Okay, enough of this crap,” said Savas. “Let’s see what you really look like.”

Cohen furrowed her brows. “John, wait a minute. Something’s not right.”

He ignored her and grasped the bottom of the mask. Looking through the eye-slits, he stared inside. “Anonymous no more, Fawkes.”

He pulled. The mask didn’t move.

“What the hell?”

Reaching around, he yanked the hood back, revealing a head covered in black leather straps. The Guy Fawkes mask was fixed tightly to it, concealing a bulk beneath it.

“Gas mask!” cried Miller.

But it was too late. Fawkes squeezed his shoulder blades together and there was a click, followed by the sound of two metal canisters crashing and ringing on the platform surface.

They exploded.

F
red Simon was blown backward
and slammed into a wall, dropping to the ground unconscious. Debris flew across the room, smashing into the racks of computers, pocketing the overturned table, and coating everything with a thick layer of dust. Within seconds, several armed men stormed through the hole breached in the doorway, crawling over the pile of rubble from the collapsed wall, trying to get their bearings in an enclosed space choked with smoke.

Gunshots blasted from behind the table and one of the men staggered, grabbing his chest. He fell to the ground. The second began a spray of automatic fire aimed wildly in the direction of the table, but a series of shots by two weapons behind it struck him four, five, and six times. He lurched forward, falling to his knees with a scream, and rolled over on his side moaning.

As two more men burst through the opening a chaos of weapons’ discharge erupted. The NSA man beside Rideout screamed and clutched his face, blood squirting from between his fingers. He rolled on the ground, howling. Rideout slumped behind the table, blood flowing from the right side of his chest, eyes swimming. His gun dropped to the ground with a clank.

Another mercenary had fallen, but two more stepped in to take his place. The invaders advanced slowly, unimpeded. The NSA man with the wrench shook behind the server racks, his pants moist around the crotch. Several feet from him Lightfoote worked like a woman possessed, ignoring the chaos.

The three soldiers stepped forward cautiously, converging on the table and the forms of the bodies behind it. Rideout glanced upward but didn’t move his head, energy evanescing from his body. They looked down on him and the flailing NSA man. Two returned their attention to the rest of the room, hunting for targets. The other fired several shots into the screaming figure. The cries ceased. He turned toward Rideout and aimed.

A series of shots roared from behind them, bullets bursting through the man’s mouth and throat. As Rideout watched him fall, the two beside him spun around, firing at the bloodied shape of Simon. The old CIA man managed to empty his weapon, wounding one in the stomach, even as the assailants killed him. Simon fell against the wall, bullet holes and blood decorating the surface behind him. He slid slowly to the ground, his chest a mass of wounds, his eyes blank. He lay still.

The other NSA man dropped the wrench and walked out, falling to his knees.

“Don’t shoot! I surrender! I’m not part of this group! I’m from the NSA! Please, don’t kill me!” Tears stained his face as he trembled before the soldiers.

“Where’s the girl?” rasped one.

“She’s here. Right behind me! At the terminal!”

The soldier fired into his head, and the programmer fell. The mercenary raced forward, his companion stumbling behind, bent nearly double with his wound soaking his clothes.

The first soldier leapt around the stacks of computers and opened fire at the terminal against the wall. The chassis exploded into fragments, the continued discharge blowing it and the monitor to pieces. He ejected the magazine and reached for another.

A pair of feet swung down from the piping above, catching him square in the face. The impact snapped his head back sharply, and his arms and legs went slack before he dropped to the ground.

Lightfoote landed like a cougar, crouched low to absorb the momentum, her arm splayed to the side along the floor. The remaining soldier staggered toward her, movements sluggish and jerky, gunshots blasting wildly from the barrel of his weapon to pock the walls harmlessly.

Bright silver flashed through the air and the soldier’s head snapped to the side as the wrench slammed into his jaw with a heavy crunch of bone. His body continued to the side and toppled over. Both soldiers now unconscious.

Lightfoote leaped beside them and bludgeoned each in the head. Satisfied, she raced beside Rideout, her gaze lingering a moment on the body of Simon across the room. “JP! You there?” She slapped his face.

His eyes struggled to open, a gasp escaping his mouth. “Oh, God, Angel. Shit, this hurts!”

Lightfoote pulled off her shirt, revealing a tight sports bra. She pressed the shirt against the wound, eliciting a scream from Rideout.

She shouted over him. “JP! Listen. Here, this arm works.” She pulled one of his hands to the shirt. “Stay with me! Keep some pressure there. I’m running up to get a medkit. Slow the bleeding!”

He nodded and his arm tensed against his chest. He inhaled sharply. “Angel, wait,” he gasped as she turned to leave.

“What?”

Rideout stared at the blasted computers. Every terminal was destroyed. “The worm?” he managed.

She crouched beside him and kissed him on the cheek. Sweat dripped from her shoulders and arms. His blood glimmered in streaks across her scalp.

“Launched. Gone!” She smiled. “You did good. Now shut up and don’t die on me.”