Extinction Machine (3 page)

I sucked my teeth. “Okay, I want both of you ass-clowns facedown on the ground, hands on your heads, fingers laced.”

Bunny produced a fistful of plastic flexcuffs and reached a hand out to turn Spinlicker.

Then without a word or a change of expression, Agent Spinlicker lunged at Bunny.

It just happened.

There was no tensing of muscles, no sign at all. Spinlicker went from bland immobility into a full-speed attack that was so blindingly fast—so improbably fast—that Bunny was caught totally off guard.

Before I could even react, Henckhouser’s left hand whipped out and knocked my gun arm aside and he chopped at my throat with the stiffened edge of one callused hand.

Chapter Four

Shelton Aeronautics
Wolf Trap, Virginia
Thursday, October 17, 10:41 a.m.

I turned, sloppy but fast, and took the blow on my shoulder. Spinlicker pivoted and did his level best to bury his fist in my kidney. I twisted away and the punch hit at the wrong angle, skittering up my spine. Even so there was enough solid force behind the blow to knock me forward.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Bunny stagger backward into a stack of boxed computer paper. The whole stack canted and fell, hammering Bunny down to the floor. Reams of paper flew everywhere, sliding like bulky hockey pucks across the concrete floor.

Then I was too busy to look. Henckhouser drove straight at me, throwing rather conventional karate-style kicks and punches at me, but throwing them with insane force and speed. He was like Chuck Norris in his prime, and then fed a shovel full of uncut coke. I blocked, evaded, and parried as fast as I could.

Son of a bitch was dishearteningly good.

Then I saw an opening and changed the game on him. He tried to smash my nose with a back fist but I ducked directly into it so that he crunched his knuckles against my forehead. It hurt me, but it had to have done damage to him. The backfist isn’t intended as a bone breaker. He hissed in pain—the most human reaction he’d had so far—and yanked back his hand like it had been scalded. I dove into that, following the hand back, making the long reach to slap his elbow up, and then drove one mother of a straight right hand into his short ribs.

It knocked air out of him with a whoosh and he fell back in a sideways series of tiny overlapping steps. He kept his balance, though, and when I closed on him he tried to kneecap me with a low side-thrust kick.

I dropped into a crouch and used the sudden dip in weight to drive a pile-driver fist into the hard meat on the outside of his thigh. That’s usually a deal closer. You put 80 percent of your body weight into a downward punch that concentrates all that speed and mass into the surface area of two knuckles and the other guy sits down and cries for mommy. If he’s lucky, and if he has friends to help him, in two hours he’ll be able to limp out to the car. That was the basic plan, and I hit him a doozy. I think the inventor of the side-thrust kick suddenly rose from the dead and yelled ouch.

Agent Henckhouser winced.

Didn’t fall down. Didn’t burst into girlish tears.

He winced.

Balls.

And I remembered the thin Kevlar he was wearing. There are all sorts of new experimental body armor materials out there, and some of them could stop more than a bullet. Some were designed to slough off the foot pounds of impact. I had a bad feeling that Henckhouser’s longjohns were making my attacks feel like baby taps.

Shit.

He abruptly dropped, spun, caught up one of the fallen reams of computer paper and, while still moving, twisted and flung it at me with all the skill and precision of a competitive Frisbee player.

I got my arms up to block it.

The second one he threw caught me right in the gut and knocked all the air out of my lungs. I went
whooooof
and fell backward into the stacked boxes of office supplies—which tore apart as they toppled over, showering me with packs of Post-it notes, plastic boxes of pushpins, packages of pens, and rolls of toilet paper.

I was buried up to my teeth. As I began to thrash and flounder my way out, I saw that Bunny was on his knees and he had his weapon. Then there was the thunder of gunfire as he opened up on the agents. His first round went wide, but he kept firing. Henckhouser started for the open loading door, but that was Bunny’s best line of fire; so the agent shoved some stacks of boxes at him and made for the inner door. Bunny corrected his aim, but then Agent Spinlicker plowed right into him, driving him all the way across the loading bay. Bunny clubbed the agent with the gun and twisted his massive body and they were halfway into a turn when they crunched into another stack of boxes. Whatever was in the boxes was too fragile to withstand the impact and the two men collapsed into a deep, ragged hole. More cartons rained down, smashing Bunny and Spinlicker to their knees.

I was in the middle of a comedy act. The more I tried to fight my way free of the office supplies, the more of it rained down on me.

Looking dazed and hurt, Bunny still managed to swing the gun around, but Spinlicker swatted it out of his hand. The agent punched Bunny in the chest.

Bunny was six and a half feet of lean muscle and brute strength, but even so the punch half lifted him off his knees. He exhaled with a mighty
whooof
that was identical to my own.

That Kevlar underwear had to be more than protection. Those wires must be part of a muscle enhancement system. I’d read reports on those but no one had perfected the science yet. Or, so I thought.

I hate it when I’m wrong about stuff like that.

The only upside was that these guys were bozos with high-tech Underoos. Not vampires, not genetically enhanced supersoldiers. Though, at the moment that “upside” sucked ass.

Even with all the power of that blow, Bunny did not go down, and Spinlicker gaped at him. People often underestimate Bunny. Few things short of a cruise missile can put him down for the count.

With a roar, Bunny swung a roundhouse left that caught Spinlicker in the stomach and lifted the man all the way off the floor and sent him crashing against the wall. The agent’s mirrored sunglasses flew off and shattered against the cinderblock. It should have ended the fight right there, but all it did was send the agent sprawling.

“You’re making a mistake,” Spinlicker wheezed as he struggled to his feet. Blood trickled from his ear. “You have no idea what you’re dealing with.”

“Yeah, well kiss my ass,” said Bunny and threw himself at the agent, hooking a big right into his stomach and a left across his chin. Spinlicker canted sideways, but he still did not fall. Had to give the guy points for that because he didn’t have fancy superhero underwear to protect his jaw.

With a growl, Spinlicker whipped around and drove a backward heel kick into Bunny’s midsection that folded the big man in half and put him back down on his knees.

I finally kicked loose of the office junk. My own gun was buried, but I had the Tasers we’d taken from the agents and I pulled one out of my pocket and pointed it at them.

“Freeze!” I bellowed.

They did. For about a second. They stared in horror at the gun in my hand.

Then they whirled and ran for the inner door.

I pulled the trigger.

There was no blast. The gun didn’t launch any flachettes.

Instead it made a hollow and rather disappointing
tok
sound.

Suddenly a stack of boxes beside the inner door exploded in a fireball that showered everything in the room with melting packages of staples that hit us like hot bricks.

I gaped at the pistol. The tiny sound and the power of that explosion seemed to be part of two separate events rather than cause and effect. I was actually flummoxed for a moment. Not sure I’ve ever actually been flummoxed before. Thought it was just an expression.

The agents jerked open the door. “Go!” yelled Henckhouser, as he pushed Spinlicker before him.

Bunny was on his knees and he had my Beretta in his hand. “Freeze or I will kill you.”

They leaped toward the doorway.

Bunny opened fire. His first bullet hit the metal handrail, the second struck the wall, but the third punched Henckhouser between the shoulder blades and slammed him into the doorjamb.

“I said freeze!” yelled Bunny.

Top must have heard the shots because his voice was suddenly bellowing in my ear.

“Top!” I yelled. “Two hostiles coming your way. Put ’em down.”

“Hooah,” was Top’s growl of a reply.

Bunny staggered to his feet, firing, filling the room with new thunder. Rounds punched into the agents as they disappeared. I saw the impacts slew them around, stagger them.

I pulled the trigger on the clunky pistol. It
tok
ked again.

Whatever it was firing hit the metal security door as the agents dove inside the building. The door was instantly wrenched off its hinges and flung against the wall. Big pieces of it flew everywhere. One chunk struck Bunny in the chest and sent him sprawling backward.

I raced over to him, but he moaned and waved me away. “Get the fuckers,” he said with a wet groan.

Clutching the weird gun, I ran toward the open door. The frame was smeared with blood, and there was a large pool of it on the floor. Either Bunny or the flying debris had tagged one of the bastards. I quick-looked through the doorway, but the hall was empty.

“Top—talk to me,” I breathed.

No answer.

I ran down the hall, pistol held up and out. There was plenty of blood. Red footprints on the carpet. Red handprints on the wall. A long smear as if one of them had leaned against the wall for support while he ran.

“Top,” I called again.

There was a sound. A groan. I slowed to a careful walk a few yards from where the corridor opened out into a small lobby. The lobby was empty, the doors open and smeared with blood. I slammed through the door and there was Top, flat on his back outside, eyes open and blinking, mouth working like a beached trout. An impact injury, not a gunshot wound. Thank God.

He had his pistol in his hand and waved it toward the side of the building.

“Go…,” he wheezed.

In my ear I heard Bunny say, “Out back!” at the same instant I heard gunfire.

Shit.

I spun around, reentered the building, ran down the hall, jumped through the open doorway to the loading dock, barrel coming up and out, seeking a target. Bunny was on his knees, firing at the black SUV.

As I ran past him into the parking lot I squeezed the trigger over and over again, hearing that silly little
tok
sound each time, seeing bushes explode into fire and a masonry wall detonate into a cloud of dust. I got one good shot at the SUV and the rear window exploded, but the wheels spun on the blacktop; plumes of rubber smoke rose in oily columns behind the SUV as it lurched forward.

Bunny limped out and a moment later a winded Top staggered around the side of the building.

The car vanished around a corner and was gone.

Bunny said, “Jesus Christ, boss … we just got our asses handed to us.”

Chapter Five

Shelton Aeronautics
Wolf Trap, Virginia
Thursday, October 17, 10:45 a.m.

Then we turned and looked at the building. At the lights, the open door. The utter silence. The thermal scans had told us that there was a mass of heat signatures on the top floor. Bug had thought there was interference from the structure because the signatures were fading.

But that wasn’t it and as we stared up at lights we all knew what it was.

The thermals were fading because body heat diminishes after death.

Bunny said, “Oh, man…”

We didn’t want to go inside. We knew what we’d see.

We went in anyway.

I wish I could say that there were no surprises, but …

Chapter Six

Shelton Aeronautics
Wolf Trap, Virginia
Thursday, October 17, 2:19 p.m.

We called it in. Police, FBI, Homeland, the coroner’s office.

As each new team of professionals arrived on the scene, we had to flash our NSA IDs and retell the same sanitized version of the story. Then we had to take the poor bastards up and let them visit the horror show.

That’s what it was, too.

There were sixty employees at this particular Shelton Aeronautics lab. Twelve top engineers and a lot of support staff. Everyone showed up for work that day. No one was lucky enough to have the flu or a broken leg or a sick child. Sixty people clocked in.

And then Henckhouser and Spinlicker showed up and destroyed them.

There’s really no other word for it.

Destroyed.

I stood next to the Fairfax County deputy coroner for almost five minutes, neither of us speaking, both of us staring at what lay inside the big conference room. If you caught it out of the corner of your eye you’d think it was splashed with red paint. Walls, floor, ceiling.

Then, when you took a closer look, you’d understand. When you smelled the stink of copper and feces and the thousand other odors released when a body is burst apart, you’d understand.

But, like the coroner and the rest of the people there, you would not understand how.

I thought I did. The clunky little gun—the one that looked like a Taser but wasn’t—was snugged into the back of my waistband, under my coat. Bunny had the other. They were mentioned in no official report that anyone outside of the DMS would ever read. I called in a full description to Mr. Church.

An EMT looked us over, put Band-Aids on minor cuts, gave us chemical ice packs for the bruises, and made sure not to look us in the eyes. He’d been upstairs already. He was dealing with that.

The only thing the coroner said to me the whole time was, “Jesus H. Christ.”

Top, Bunny, and I got out of there four hours later. We got into my Explorer, buckled up for safety, and made our way to I-95. Church called and I put him on speaker.

“What’s the status of your team?” he asked.