Better to Beg Forgiveness (29 page)

Horace realized he was going to be administering a lot of aid before this was over.

"What do we do?" Jason asked. "Sit and wait? Drive on? Call for the Army?"

"Stand by. Conference," Alex said.

He conferred by encrypted phone for security. Meanwhile, Horace watched the crowd gather its small wits and great anger and swarm back in. They were close to each vehicle and beat on them like drums. The limo rocked with pounding noises, and Alex had to shout, and demand that the other speakers shout, even with the soundproofing and armor. Bishwanath was silent, motionless apart from a quiver, and wide-eyed.

Then flaming fuel was dumped on the hood.

A quick whoosh from the vehicle's engine fire suppression system stopped that, but it was only an indicator of how much worse things were going to be.

They sat for eighteen minutes by Horace's watch, sweat dripping despite the air-conditioning, watching the crowd close in. Some had even licked the glass obscenely. Now several were urinating on the car. Horace decided there was a strong danger of brutality and rape if the cars were breached, and it wouldn't just be Elke.

This wasn't a simple riot. It was a massive uprising. There weren't that many firearms in this immediate area, but there were thrown rocks, sticks, spears of wood or pipe with machined metal heads, flails made from plumbing pipe joints and chain, shields of plywood and sheet metal . . . it looked like something from a medieval documentary.

The Recon troops atop their vehicles were nervous. This was something they were trained for, but at present lacked the equipment for. The Hate Truck couldn't handle more than a couple of hundred at most, and there were
thousands
of rebels here. Even if they emptied their weapons, there'd still be over a thousand, assuming perfect accuracy.

"There are no nearby units," Alex said, sounding amazed and disgusted. "Between the uprising out west, the battle in the north side, and some attacks on the base, no one can get here in the next thirty minutes."

"How inconvenient," Horace said. "Do we think it's accidental?"

"Weilhung does," Alex sighed. "He said no schedule was changed. He thinks and I agree that it's a combination of piss poor planning, a fear of doing anything to the poor people, and plain old apathy."

The radio spoke, "We're going after gunmen and major threats. You're in charge of the kitchen. Confirm."

"Roger, Mama, good luck." He looked around. "We retreat toward the palace. On foot and through obstacles if needed."

"Roger that."

He looked at Horace and Jason while dialing the others in on air. Then he faced Bishwanath. "Sir, we're going to pop smoke—gas—again. We're going to dismount, after it's thinned out but probably before it's all gone, so we're going masked. Then we're going back to the palace with you in the middle. Would you like a weapon?"

Bishwanath shook his head. "I would greatly appreciate one, but if it comes down to that, history will treat me badly enough as it is."

"That's an interesting choice, sir," Jason said. He didn't push the issue. Horace wasn't going to call him an idealistic bloody idiot, but the thought did come to mind.

"I'm waiting for the right position in the crowd, based on what Recon shows of the route back the way we came. Also, they're going to toss gas back along that line. Recon will also dismount and act as support and decoys."

"Roger." "Understood."

Bishwanath nodded and said, "Thank you for your efforts." He sounded very fatalistic.

"We're not dead yet, sir," Alex said with a grin. He didn't look up from the screen, though, where he was monitoring movement.

Horace checked his kit and shouldered it, and checked his weapons. He grabbed a spare magazine for his off hand to speed reloads, and set everything down while he donned his protective mask. Those would hinder visibility and breathing, thus increasing the likelihood of casualties. Casualties on their side. There were definitely going to be casualties on the other side.

With everyone ready, it came down to waiting again. This time, it was much shorter. In only forty-five seconds, Alex said, "On three."

Gas whooshed out and sent the crowd leaping back in a crush into itself, as he said, "One."

"Two," and Horace clutched the door handle, foot up and ready to kick, then . . . 

"Three."

He pulled and kicked, leaned out and dumped one of the cheap H&Ks into the ground, moving the burst toward the crowd but around downed rioters, who were clutching at faces and throats and strangling on saliva. No need to add to the body count.

He drew Bishwanath out as Jason bounded over the top and jumped down next to them with a grunt. Then Alex was with them and the others from the front limo, with Rahul. Rahul wore military body armor, a submachine gun, and a huge grin inside his mask.

"It is time for some payback," he said.

The gas shells were still bursting along the road, clearing a corridor for them to advance. They started at once, not waiting for the Recon element.

He realized in seconds that the mask was going to make him one of the casualties. He simply couldn't draw enough air in. With the crowd back and disoriented, he reached up and loosened a chin strap until he could feel cool air blowing past his chin. He'd open his jaw to block the flow if he caught a whiff of gas, and this was only an irritant, not full-blown incapacitating agent.

Aramis was scared. There was a very real possibility of being ripped to pieces, literally. That wasn't glamorous and would be very painful. They were on their own, with the Recon unit forming up behind them to make its own advance.

He, Bart, and Elke were advancing from their limo, with Rahul bounding alongside, a broad man who'd make a broad bullet stop. He seemed decent.

"Shoulder to shoulder assholes," Jason said on air, apparently not caring if he was heard. "Makes targeting easy."

"Yeah, I figure anyone in this mix is a hostile," Alex said.

Needing to say something, Aramis said, "Let's hope they figure that out."

"I'll keep them distracted," Elke said.

"Elke, if you're handling demo, can I get the shotgun?" Aramis asked. He wanted a bigger gun, dammit.

"Sure," she agreed. "Standard shot, frag, breacher, and recon loads are in the cassette."

"Got it," he said, taking it as she unslung it. "More firepower now, and maybe we'll need less later."

The mob retreated slightly, forming a ring around the line of gas and daring each other, shouting, building to a frenzy. Soon they'd attack, and if there was no way through or backup, it would get really ugly.

They made a hundred meters, the gas effect and the threat of death working to keep the riot back. Once in a while, a wiggling victim on the ground would try to tackle one of them and earn a vicious but professional kick. Most of the crowd was male, mostly younger, almost all underfed. One on one, even ten on one, no problem. Aramis moved at a moderate jog at this pace, which was frustratingly slow; he wanted to sprint, but their speed was predicated by the capabilities of their principal. Elke carefully tossed bombs that were definitely loud, all concussion. Anyone within a few meters jerked and shied from her toys.

Aramis shot past the head of someone who was getting too aggressive with his club waving. The shotgun beat his shoulder, and he idly wondered what the heavy shot would do when it fell from the sky? Likely less than a carbine round would.

He'd have to watch his ammo. The shotgun cassette held twenty, and Elke would not want it left behind. She was very enamored of it.

He'd gotten used to Boblight, but with gas and the mask, it looked quite a bit more orange. It wasn't close to red, but it seemed to indicate a bloodiness anyway. Weird. His mental state couldn't be helping. He made sure he wasn't tunneling; his vision was clear.

Calm
, he urged himself.

They thumped over the ground, eating up distance. While their footwear looked like classy dress shoes from a distance, they were very agile military boots underneath. Those were one of the expenses they had to cover out of pocket, but it was well worth it. After this, however, they were all going to be scuffed and ugly. Jason already had marred his with blood. Aramis's mind hit him again, wondering about suing the asshole who dared bleed on his expensive shoes. It was a cruel but entertaining thought.

The bubbles were eerie. Chanting, screaming people throwing stuff, most of it falling short, though he did have to dodge a brickbat or two, and then this safe zone with just a few on the ground, now slowly recovering and standing. One rose not too far ahead, and Aramis leaned over, thrust out his fist and bashed the shotgun butt into his face. Down he went again.

But the bubbles were collapsing quickly, and they were nearing maximum range that those shells could reach. The vehicle crews should be bailing out now, hopefully, and would be en route as a mass formation.

Whose worthless fucking idea had it been to dispense with air cover and support elements? It was as if they wanted Bishwanath dead.

Did they?

Then they were approaching the wall, because the gate was blocked. Not only was there the entry control barricade the military had, there was that crowd of rioters. Alex led the way straight to the wall, but the safe zone was getting smaller. Rapidly. Elke kept tossing explosives, but there was a practical limit being reached.

The bodies were moving in, some topless, some in work clothes, a guy who almost made a really good-looking girl wearing a dress, which meant Aramis was going to have to scrub his brain out again.

Jason and Bart pulled out canisters of tear gas, but even the military grade stuff they carried was good for no more than twenty full shots.

"Think I can open a hole if I have a few seconds," Elke said.

Bart said, "I've got the grenade launcher, too."

"How about it, boss?" Aramis asked Alex.

"Yeah, good idea. Elke, blow a channel, and we'll hold on the far side."

Elke dodged under Bart's arm and got ready to throw another downsized grenade. She hated that. This called for shaped charges and frag to shred people into a state of fear, but they had to be nice. She didn't like the mask and the exertion was rough.

Someone shot far too close to her. She tracked the shot, identified the man, and pulled a premade device off her harness. Leaning back, she pitched it like a baseball. The device was a plastic missile with fins to stabilize it and it corkscrewed in to a perfect impact on his chest, where it blew bloody gobbets out the back.

Now
that
was sexy, she thought.

"What the hell was that?" Aramis shouted next to her.

"Father Christmas brought him bullets for Christmas," she said. "He brought
me
Composition G."

"I swear, Elke," Aramis returned as he fired another slug and she tossed her next flash charge, "you like that stuff far too much. Do you make dildos out of it?"

"No, it's too soft and oily, and toxic," she said to annoy him, admitting she had considered it once. "Or I wouldn't need men."

Aramis moved in front of her and kept shooting. She was glad of it. He was eager to use the shotgun, and it was visible and loud. That was the primary thing. Not bodies. Fear. She drew a breaching charge from her ruck, pinned it on the wall where it would do the most good and shifted sideways. There was no good place for cover, and this was going to hurt.

"We need a few meters lateral so they can blow," she said.

Aramis shouted, "Elke, all I've got is the recon rounds. Do we need recon? Can I use them as slugs?"

Leaning back, she said, "They'll work as slugs. Not quite as much impact, but they'll be fine against unarmored skinnies." She bent to skate a flat pack under the crowd's feet where it would cause some nasty lacerations.

"Roger," he said.

"And move!" Alex ordered.

Up, light suppressing fire all around, skip forward. Ensure the rear, which was now their left side, stayed back so they weren't squashed. Dammit, a good series of real blasts and bursts would have sent the survivors running.

"
Fire in the
—" Elke said, with the
hole
drowned by the detonation. The thick wall collapsed into a heap that wasn't much easier to cross. It had been built to take explosive. Alex and Jason raised their grenade launchers and shot into the pile. Two clattering booms, a substantial slump of rubble, and the hole was crossable.

Turn and run, with Aramis shooting right past her shoulder. Bishwanath was urged through the hole by Bart and Rahul. All looked a bit stunned. Bart and Rahul must have been up close and protecting the President with their armor and bulk . . . and Rahul had the umbrella opened. Smart man. He tossed it at someone, who clutched at it as some kind of trophy, waving it madly.

Aramis must have hit someone center mass. Her glasses lit up with the ghost image from the slug's camera. She saw a gawpy mess in thermal, with pulsing waves that had to be an internal organ of some description. The image overlaid the real scene in front of her.

"Oh, I did not need to see that," she said, shaking off nausea and wiping her hand over the switch that cut imagery.

Then they were through and into the palace grounds.

Skinnies were pouring over the wall, disregarding the wire. Nor did the voltage seem to bother them. They were pouring in several places . . . bad. Very bad.

"Into the hutch!" Alex shouted, pointing at a maintenance shed with a lovely, carved façade and neat landscaping.

Bart shoved Bishwanath in and they fanned out to protect it. Alex screamed to Weilhung.

"Dammit, we're in this location, mark. Lethal force is essential, and that's for you. We're already using it! I need a path to the building or a squad on my location now with support weapons. Move! Over."

Elke shot one with her pistol. There weren't a lot advancing yet. They did respect the weapons the team held, but they were growing in number. It was easy, she reflected, for those in the rear to be brave with the lives of those in front. And hurled rocks were always unafraid. She dodged a brick torn from the wall.