Olympus Device 2: The Olympus Device Book Two (29 page)

“I’m
down to four shells for this 12-gauge,” another chimed in. “Danny’s laying here bleeding to death, and I can’t do shit about it. This sucks.”

“Just hang in there,” Shultz replied.

“There’s no place to go anyway,” someone said. “They’ve got us completely cut off. Why don’t they just come in and get it over with?”

As if on cue, Shultz spied
several of the cartel thugs rise in the distance.
Gawd, there’s a lot of them
, he thought, flicking off the safety and bringing his weapon up.

“Incoming!” screamed one of the lawmen on the other side, just before an explosion ripped through the air less than 10 feet away.

The pings and thwacks of incoming rounds began sounding off the surrounding machinery. Shultz instinctively ducked lower as bits of metal stung his flesh like a swarm of angry bees. One of his comrades began shooting – a clear sign the assault was getting close.

Shultz aligned the front post of the AR15’s sight on the closest enemy and moved his finger to the trigger. “Just a little closer, pal,” he whispered, wanting to hold off until the last possible moment to ensure a hit.

A prayer his mother had taught him began echoing inside the FBI agent’s head. Shultz whispered the words as more and more bullets impacted around him. He finished the verse and then squeezed the trigger.

A wall of earth and pavement erupted, slashing through the advancing line of attackers
. A blast wave that rocked the ground beneath the FBI team instantly followed. Soil, blacktop, and sand rose 100 feet into the air as a thunderous clap echoed past. Instinctively ducking, Shultz covered his head as an avalanche of dirt, sod and debris rained down all around the lawmen. Even after the deluge had ceased, it took Shultz a moment to clear his vision and focus. He managed to look up as the cloud started to dissipate. Where were the cartel troops? They were gone – simply vanished. A smoldering trench slowly appeared through the haze… scorched, barren earth where once his formidable foe had been standing.

His first thought was that the Air Force had dropped a bomb. He quickly scanned the sky, looking for any sign of a jet or bomber.
Maybe it was a missile
, he thought.

The
sound of gunfire overwhelmed the ringing in his ears, reminding him that the fight wasn’t over. He managed to crawl across their narrow perimeter to reinforce the other side.

There were dozens of c
artel raiders rushing the lawmen’s position. Reinvigorated, Shultz shouldered his rifle and began firing at the attackers. The trespassers were within 75 yards and closing fast on the American position.

“Who’s that?” the man beside him shouted, pointing toward a lone figure running across the lane to t
he south. Whoever it was wore a distinctive cowboy hat. Had help finally arrived?

Shultz watched in amazement as the newcomer raised what was an
odd-looking rifle. “What the hell is he doing?”

Before any answer came, the senior FBI
agent felt a sense of weightlessness as he was picked up and tossed through the air - the momentary defilement of gravity soon replaced by the bone-jarring impact with the ground. Shultz’s vision blurred grey, white squiggly lines vibrating through the void.

The world went black.

Dusty watched the last of the invaders sprint toward the main Tri-Materials building. As he had approached the battlefield, he’d noticed a large group of employees fleeing from the facility and into the adjoining field, obviously evacuating due to the raging firefight occurring immediately in front of their workplace.

He calmly dropped another ball bearing into the breach of
the rail gun and continued his deliberate trek toward the huge structure. He stepped through the area where the lawmen had been making their last stand, noting the dazed and moaning defenders strewn haphazardly across the ground. “Sorry about that,” he whispered. “They got in too close before I could take them out. But you’ll live.”

He kept walking until he was almost to the road. Now a safe distance away from the
big plant, Dusty paused, observing through the rail gun’s scope as the last of the cartel men scrambled inside. He hadn’t had a chance to ask Mitch if the facility were to blame for killing the chickens, but he had no doubt the company was responsible for the arrest and hassle of the Boyce family. Maybe even murder.

Glancing around one last time to make sure he was in the clear, Dusty then checked the green LED. One of the shortcomings of the rail gun was the
recovery time between shots. It took a while for the ultra-capacitors to recharge after each discharge. “I’ll have to work on that,” he calmly noted.

As if on command, the small dot illuminated green – ready to fire.

He adjusted the power setting, increasing the reading from 02 to 05. “That should do it,” he stated coldly.

He shouldered the weapon, centered the aiming laser, and
mumbled, “Take this job and shove it.”

He squeezed the trigger
.

For a brief
millisecond of time, it appeared as though nothing happened - almost as if the super-weapon had failed. But this was an illusion. The lower walls of the massive building expanded outward, swelling like a balloon being filled with water.

And then
the architectural integrity of the supporting walls succumbed. Chunks of structural steel and concrete accelerated outward, tossed through the air like sheets of paper blown by a strong wind. Dusty watched as entire sections of the roof rose high into the air.

Like a knife through butter, the base of the towering smoke stacks was sliced by the blast wave. They wobbled for a mome
nt and then began their long descent, eventually collapsing on top of the imploding building. The ground shuddered with their impact, more debris rising into the already darkened air.

Dusty watched as the final bits and sections of walls collapsed inward, sure none of the criminals seeking shelter inside could have survived.

He glanced around at the devastation that surrounded him, shaking his head at the waste and carnage. Bodies littered the ground, strewn in the unnatural positions of death. Scattered among the now-scrap law enforcement vehicles, a few wounded men moved, twitching or thrashing in pain. His first thought was to render aid to the causalities.

For a brief moment, Dusty considered surrendering. He and the rail gun had caused enough slaughter. It was time to end this episode of viciousness
, turmoil, and butchery. Anywhere he ran, the reaper of life was sure to follow.

“But would it stop?” he asked, surveying the
fatalities as black smoke and flame rolled across the landscape.

“No,” he whispered, “it wouldn’t stop. Another finger would find this trigger. Another man would hold this gun. Another man who might make it worse.”

He forced his mind to concentrate on the list of constructive advancements that could be gleaned from his invention. Grunting, Dusty whispered to the battlefield ghosts, “Now I need to see the positive come from my work… now more than ever. I need it just to break even for all of the evil I’ve caused.”

Agent Shultz felt like he had a bulldozer sitting on his head. Even the feeble at
tempt to roll onto his side initiated waves of torment through his abused body.

It all came rush
ing back… the firefight… the few remaining men and the retreat… struggling to hold their position until reinforcements could arrive… and then the rail gun. He conjured up the image of Durham Weathers, complete with western hat, raising the rifle-like device to his shoulder.

He managed to move, tilting his head to spit a mouth full of grit. The effort was exhausting. His mouth was full of cotton and eve
ry fiber of his being protested even the slightest movement. One leg was definitely broken. And judging from its lack of movement and unnatural positioning, he was pretty sure his left arm was going to end up in a cast as well. He fought his way through the pain, the fact that the man responsible for all of this was nearby. Or at least Shultz thought he was close. That all depended on how long he’d been out.

Several blinks cleared some of the fog, vague images
barely visible through the smoke and cordite haze that had shrouded every major battlefield since the invention of smokeless powder.

“Where are you?” Shultz whispered, his eyes searching the area.

Instead of finding Weathers, his gaze fell on a corpse lying across the field. The man’s neck was bent at a funny angle, his arms and legs at odd degrees. For some reason, the dead man’s face held Shultz’s attention, the lifeless eyes staring directly back.

For a moment, he thought he was looking at one of his fallen comrades. There was a familiarity in the cadaver’s profile… something about that face.

It then occurred to the FBI man – he was looking at Tio, one of the bureau’s most wanted men. Memorized from countless bulletins, case files and inter-agency operations conducted with the DEA, Shultz was sure. The leader of the Gulf Cartel was lying dead just 40 feet away.

“Well
, I’ll be damned,” Shultz managed to mumble. “At least something good has come from this.” 

M
oaning distracted the agent, diverting his attention back to the men who were fighting alongside him before Weathers had fired his gun. Realizing they might need medical attention, Shultz summoned all of his strength and rolled over. Nausea surged through his torso, but he somehow kept it together.

He looked up to see Dusty kneeling beside one of the fallen deputies, holding a bottle of water to
the wounded fellow’s lips.

“You’re under arrest,” Shultz managed to gasp.

Weathers looked up, the sound of a voice startling him. Shultz noticed the man’s expression was serious for just a moment, and then a grin formed on his lips.

“It’s good to see you haven’t lost your sense of humor,” Weathers replied. “Most guys are a little sour after getting their asses kicked as badly as all this,” he continued, sweeping an arm to indicate the carnage that surrounded the two men.

Shultz had to admit, the man had a point. He wasn’t capable of taking in a stray dog at the moment, and it probably showed.

“I thought about letting them kill all of you,” Dusty admitted. “It crossed my mind, if only for a moment. But I couldn’t let that happen.”

“Are they all dead?” Shultz asked, making a weak effort to look around.

“Yes, they’re all dead.”

There was a hint of sadness in the man’s voice Shultz realized, almost as if he regretted killing the invaders. “You brought this on,” the agent stated. “All of this is on you, and you know it.”

Dusty stood an
d squared his shoulders. He stepped closer, towering over the prone agent, who for a moment thought the Texan was going to finish him off.

Instead, Dusty smiled and said, “No, it’s on your head Mister FBI man. I
didn’t want any of this. My conscience is clear.”

Shultz grunted, “How can you possibly think that? You’ve left nothing but a path of destruction and death in your wake since College Station. I’m only trying to stop the killing. That’s all we’ve been trying to do.”

It was Dusty’s turn to laugh. He knelt down and handed Shultz the bottle of water before responding. “I didn’t initiate any of the gunplay, sir. It was you and your kind that fired the first shot every time. If you and your law dogs had backed off and let me be, none of this would’ve happened.”