Better to Beg Forgiveness (34 page)

Everyone ducked, but it withdrew.

"Sorry," he said with a slight expression of embarrassment. "Getting used to it. Let's go."

Alex nodded. "Aramis, move."

Elke lit an incendiary above the pile of computers and other gear. The bright jet started scorching straight down through them, and would continue through the puddle of plastic until it hit the table and carpet, setting them on fire.

Aramis wasn't thrilled at being point, and really ticked about the reference to "autonomous mobile biological mine clearing device, single use," that Jason made. Still, it was his job and he was suited for it. He just determined that he would be such a badass on point they had to credit him. Aramis had reluctantly left the bulky Viper behind for the mere firepower of a carbine. Damn, he wanted to take that bitch, but it was too bulky and too massive for this. Bart was the support fire.

Of course, being good would mean he'd be stuck on this detail. If he failed, either he'd be dead, or not trusted for anything more complex, and stuck on this detail.

"Goddamit, I am not the plucky comic relief," he muttered.

"But you do it so well," Bart commented.

Bart was strapped into the Medusa. Even on him the bastard looked huge. The sensor eyes poked over his shoulders and around his visored head. The straps met across his chest and pulled even at his shoulders. The man was a carved chunk of granite, and the device was a strain. It made him that much larger and the quarters tighter.

"Everyone ready?" Alex asked from behind. A chorus of "Ready" came back on air.

"Good," he continued. "Jason, please go over the carbine with Bal and check his gear. Bal, follow along with us. If one of us points you somewhere, move and expect that we will catch up. Remember, I want you just to point that weapon to your right and spray if we do. We're going to waste some ammo to make a lot of noise and get through the crowd. Then we can use finesse."

"I understand." He nodded and looked a mix of agitated and eager.

"Ready, and go."

No one noticeably moved. Aramis waited that interminable half second as pressure built behind him, then the goose on his ass told him they were ready.

"Go!" he snapped and shoved the door.

He swung right, that being the shorter section of passage. Nothing. Bart had the left. Nothing. There were sounds of looting and vandalism elsewhere, and shooting in long bursts from locals, and short, controlled bursts from the military. There were no sides anymore. Anyone with any brains was vacating, and anyone stupid was fighting for personal gain.

"Elevator is working!" Jason said. He was still unscrewing the control panel and prepared to take control if there was a problem, and Elke had a hand in a pocket of her vest that indicated she was prepared to blow a hole in the floor so they could rappel. She grunted and heaved for breath with the extra explosives, her regular gear and her share of Bart's gear he couldn't carry with the Medusa.

"You okay there, Elke?" Aramis asked.

He really was trying to be concerned, but she looked at his face and snarled.

"I can carry it. Get on with your job," she snapped. Her face was hard.

"Easy, and will do." No need to fight. Then he thought that
easy
might come across wrong. Fuckit. He'd do his job, she'd do hers. She'd been good enough so far.

The power failed, leaving them in near darkness.

"Elevator is not working," Jason said needlessly. He had an H&K, a slung carbine, some archaic relic he must mean to use as a dump gun, and a rocket launcher. Aramis didn't say anything, but he didn't need a reiteration of the danger. His pulse went through the roof and nausea tickled at him. He slipped down his goggles, but even thermal only showed the immediate bodies, looking ghostly and ethereal.

"All right, we go through the palace," Alex said. "Could mean some rappelling. What does the map look like?" Alex clattered under a carbine, two Bushies to dump and a pair of pistols. Even Shaman had extra weapons.

Elke sounded icily calm as she projected a dull green map on the wall from her camera. He found that irritating.

She said, "With the stairwell down, they will be funneled in both directions. We should retreat toward the rear, north on this floor. That will be of less interest to the looters. To reach the Informal we will have to go back through the left center of the building."

"Aramis, lead the way rear, we'll reconsider as we go. I prefer to avoid the vehicles. Bound to be surrounded early."

"Concur," Jason said. "Might have to proceed on foot."

Aramis tensed up. That was one thing with a hefty paycheck to offset things, or some kind of government sanction. Even if the reasons weren't great, you knew you had some moral support. But this now was a fight for survival, and they didn't have any friends. He had his pulse under control, sort of, maybe 130 a minute now, and the tunnel vision was gone. He figured that was from training. The nausea and sweats were still there, though, and worse.

So he stepped back out of the elevator and along the hall. The grand stairway was still venting dust, and the crowd below could be heard smashing and stealing, breaking, tearing, and throwing.

That was the part that ticked him off the most. Much of the décor didn't appeal to him at all, but he recognized it for its historical and artistic value. Stealing it would make sense, for people with no money or no food. Though there weren't many outlets to sell it. Destroying it . . . Scat-flinging monkeys behaved better.

It was pitch black, and there was little thermal. He took careful, flat steps, skating forward. He fumbled and clicked on an IR diode just as someone else did, and they had plenty of light for them. Bishwanath was silent, allowing himself to be led, and a glance showed him to be radiating tremendous heat, flushed with panic reaction.

That someone else was as shaken as he, was reassuring to Aramis, and he got some additional semblance of control.

Turn right, down the long corridor that led back. The initial security assessment had led to choosing a smaller apartment and office for Bishwanath. Back here was the official residence for the President, which was open and broad.

No damage yet, no indication of anyone present. On the other hand, the Recon guys were the best the Army had, and there was every possibility they were setting up an ambush that would kill them all. Plucky comic relief? No, he was point, to trip said ambush while the rest pulled Bishwanath back. Lowest ranking, least trained individual. That was him.

Fuck, it sucked.

There were noises, but telling the rustle of gear behind apart from the clash and thud below or the potential faint sounds of impending death from an assault team nearby was impossible. His earbuds couldn't resolve anything like that, and his own senses hadn't had time to learn it all yet. Still, the rest of the team were behind him, so the front was his only concern.

They passed into the broad, open plain of the Presentation Room. The soft earth tones were all harsh green in this artificial glow, fuzzy and dark toward the edges, the pool of vision fading into a black nothingness. No heat sources, no obvious threats. A line of brightness flooded from under the doors ahead.

They skittered along, silent apart from breathing and the swish of gear on fabric.

Aramis's pulse hammered at the sight of heat distortion, but it was just that—heat, rising from somewhere below.

The door was heavy wood, double, a lovely piece of carving. None of that showed in this enhancement.

He flipped up his goggles as he reached the door, felt the team stack behind him, then turned the handle gently, just enough to let pressure off. He used his foot as a pressure guide, waiting to feel the slip where the latch released just a little . . . there.

He pulled it open and was through, hearing it slam against the frame behind, the seven of them boiling through.

Nothing.

He realized it was likely there would be nothing on this floor. He was stressing over the initial stages, before contact was even made. Cursing himself, he led the way on.

Through the official suites, now largely bare or abandoned to dust, to a back service stairwell that led down to servants' quarters on the third floor.

Those stairs were narrow, tight, and had small landings. Aramis was first, and an effective shield for the rest of them—he filled the space almost completely. Behind him, Bart swore in German. The man was large enough it had to be awkward, and more so in gear.

Then they were on the ground floor.

"Standing by on doors," Jason said. These were the inside doors to the large gallery that was the reception area for the Informal.

"Go," said Alex.

"Opening."

The doors slid open and five muzzles poked out. Bart lurked back with the Medusa, and Bishwanath was in the middle for safety. There were figures at a distance, but no one nearby worth worrying about. Ahead was the large hole Elke had just blown in the wall. No one was coming in that way. Yet.

"Risk exiting there?" Alex asked. "Or out back and go around?"

"Shorter is better," Aramis said. "I vote for speed."

"I do," Bart said.

Alex looked around, met Aramis's eyes again, and said, "Go, Aramis."

He did. Straight ahead at a lope, weapon at high ready, fake to the right, and kick off to the left through the gap.

The crowd outside wasn't stacked deep. They were milling about, aimlessly, drunk and stoned and largely just there for the sheeplike feeling of being part of something. There were still dust and haze from Elke's blast, and the people here seemed reluctant to push the issue until things settled more. The dozen shredded bodies right outside might have had something to do with that. There were a handful of people sitting on the broad patio, snoozing, talking, eating, and they were perfect targets, but the goal right now was to move. Aramis cleared them in a leap and panned around. There was Bart, the rest, and a confused-looking, scattered crowd.

He ran as straight as possible, individuals unconsciously moving out of his way. He dodged around clusters and groups, all of whom stared in surprise. So far, no one had made any hostile moves. Most of this crowd didn't intend direct violence.

Behind him, there was some surprise at Bart's appearance, though few realized exactly what he carried, other than a large weapon. Behind him was the entourage guarding Bal.

A glance indicated there was nothing bigger than a rifle in sight. There could be a few small support weapons in windows, but on the whole, not bad. The explosions were from the occasional badly aimed rocket, cars driving by and dropping packs, or, of all things, a group of guys crimping caps to commercial blasting blocks with their
teeth
and throwing them. Insane. Inefficient.

He still didn't have a target, which was good. Outside it was hazy but bright, and the mob was spread out but large. Their small cluster was not noticeable, but would be sooner or later.

They had less than twenty-five minutes for three kilometers. That was a respectable run, with Bal who was fit, but medicated and not young, and with all the gear, especially the monster Bart was carrying, and for Elke, who was, face it, female and smaller in the upper body. She could pass Corporate standards for fitness, yes. Aramis was able to destroy the standards.

Screw that. He was busy dodging lazy bodies, milling freaks, trying hard not to breathe. The haze of pot and other drugs was only part of it. Under that, these fuckers
stank
. Sweat, decay. Shit. These people needed running water so they could bathe.

"Crowd moving!" sounded in his headset, from Jason, as carbine fire sounded to right and rear.

Here we go . . . 

Bart was straining but happy. Loads sucked when they were just cargo. When it was this much firepower it wasn't too bad.

He heard the call from Jason, and the burst. A glance that way showed the threat to be behind. He wasn't about to turn unless he was needed. Behind them was good. Eventually, that would be a problem, but for now, it could be ignored. These savages could not shoot well enough to matter. He had the Medusa live but his finger on the freeze button.

The exchange turned into a short trade of fire, quickly left behind, but it drew attention. Ahead, people were looking toward them. Likely none of them would recognize Bish— Bal, but they'd see a group that was a challenge and want to fight. A typical tribal response. They'd back off once beaten, but that would draw more attention to heavier armed groups.

His shoulders wrenched in pain. At some point, he'd have to abandon this bitch. Meantime, he wanted to use it, because otherwise it was annoying encumbrance to no gain. Besides, it was firepower and he could use it indiscriminately.

He shouldn't have worried. Up ahead, they'd been seen. Whether they were perceived as Army, contractor, faction, or challenge was irrelevant. Shouts and points and frenzied dancing presaged a swarm heading their way. Aramis was already on it.

"Threat at front-front right!" he shouted. Bart heard him in his ears and phones both, and the short burst fired at the closest member of the party, though "closest" was still fifty meters, but closing at a run each way.

Bart sighted the group through the viewfinder, zoomed in close enough to avoid most civilians, and let loose. Medusa selected a frag grenade, whipped the barrel over his shoulder, and fired. He heard a bang and a hole appeared in the crowd.

The ersatz squad closed up, providing interlocking fire in all directions. The carbines split among each side and rear, allowing the Medusa's firepower up front now.

The rear was still mostly secure. So far. No reports, no fire, nothing triggering the rear sensors on the Medusa. He concentrated on the front, peripherally aware of the sides.

It wasn't a straight running collision. Both sides waded through a crowd, and that crowd was starting to sense a threat. That made them a hindrance. There was a technical term for that in executive protection.
Soft cover.
You couldn't have any qualms about using stupid locals as sandbags. At least there were a lot of them if it came to that.