Project Northwoods (98 page)

Mast approached Athena, and the only thing slowing her down at this point was the waning storm of gravel on the rooftop. “You of all people shouldn’t stop this, Diane!” Athena shouted, visibly exhausted. “You know what they can do!”

“I know what you can do, too,” Mast responded. “You’re too weak to continue,” she said plainly as she closed in, bringing the distance down to a few yards.

“I will die standing for what I believe in rather than let you pass,” Athena said. Although shaky, she brought her hands up. The debris in the air lost momentum and fell to the ground with a stony rasp. “I will die for my sisters.” She stumbled to one knee, eyes blinking lazily.

“You won’t have that luxury,” Mast said, reaching her. Athena tried to punch her but ended up collapsing against the woman’s leg. The agent thwacked her pistol, hard, against the back of Athena’s head, sending her slumping to the ground. She knelt down and holstered her gun. Mast brought out a zip-tie to bind the woman’s hands together. The agent rose and pressed the button on her earpiece. “SERAPHIM commanders neutralized.”

The card maker dinged pleasantly, ejecting the plastic for Arthur to grab. “Let’s go,” he said to the others. Steven and Allison nodded as he moved between them. Allison opened the door and checked both ways. She waved them through as Arthur tapped his headset. “Mollie, we’re en route.”

Once the three of them were in the main hall, gunshots erupted, splintering the wood near them. “Shit!” Steven shouted, returning fire in the vague direction the attack had emanated from. Allison shoved her way by Arthur and opened fire.

“Fall back to the auditorium!” Arthur shouted, tapping Allison on the shoulder.

“You heard the man, Steven!” she shouted. He nodded and began walking backward as Arthur ran on ahead. “You’ll never take us alive, assholes!” she yelled above bursts of gunfire, punctuating it with a maniacal cackle.

JUDGEMENT

ARTHUR BURST INTO THE AUDITORIUM
before scrambling back to catch the door for Allison and Steven as they fired off a final burst before ducking through. The room was dark save for the safety lights following the perimeter and dim work lights illuminating the stage. Arthur turned to the others and started running down the entryway, hand on the wall. “Did anyone see who was shooting?” he asked, his eyes flicking around. He managed to pinpoint a few of the red bulbs connected to the security cameras, but nothing else.

“Not–” Steven was cut off by gunshots ripping through the door behind them. Arthur and Allison hit the ground as Arthur felt something hot and wet hit his face. “Fuck, damn it, shit!” Steven screamed as he collapsed. The goon rolled onto his back and fired a few rounds from his gun back toward the door, adding more streams of light to the darkness.

Allison and Arthur grabbed Steven and dragged him further into the darkness. Arthur readjusted his grip, gagging at the sensation of torn muscle and the damp, warm shirt. “We need to hide him,” Arthur said, coughing.

“He’s coming with us!” she shouted in return. More shots erupted from the doorway. Allison aimed her rifle one-handed and shot at the door. “He’s the only mob I have left!”

“He’ll slow us down!” Arthur yelled.

“They shot me… fucking fuckers shot my fucking arm!” Steven barked deliriously.

“We’ll park him underneath one of the consul’s tables,” Arthur whispered. “As long as you shut up, you’ll be fine.

Claymore was growing more and more frenetic as Archetype watched him, emotionless. Their patrols of the halls were dull, save for the crashes which Archetype insisted were not worth checking out and the occasional crackle of their earpieces. Claymore’s silence made the situation all the worse, preserving the tomb-like quality of the halls. The soft squeak of boots coupled with the occasional click of Archetype’s cane on the floor

The headset buzzed, and Overseer chimed in. “We have lost contact with SERAPHIM commanders and Zealot.”

“I’m on my way,” Arbiter growled over the line.

“Shit!” Claymore hissed. He spun on his heel and jogged toward the nearest staircase, still a ways away. “We have to get down there!”

“Arbiter will be more than capable of handling this situation,” Archetype said coolly.

Claymore slowed to a stop. “No disrespect, sir, but we need to get down there.” He gestured to the empty halls. “Why are we even doing this? No one’s here. You can hunt ghosts all you want, I’m joining Arbiter.” He turned again.

“Interesting choice of words, ghosts,” Archetype said smoothly, bringing Claymore to a stop. “Gunslinger tells me that you have been seeing things.”

Claymore looked over his shoulder. “She’s lying.”

“Is she?” He smiled. “Overseer, cut the camera feeds,” he said. Claymore turned to the skeletal man, squinting in disbelief

“Of course, sir,” the computer buzzed obediently.

As soon as Steven had been dragged, complaining, up a few steps and shoved underneath one of the workstations, Arthur and Allison ran down the few stairs and across the main stage. It was dangerous, but it was the fastest way to get to Overseer’s control room. Halfway across the stage, a bullet tore into Allison’s arm, her rifle falling out of her hands as she collapsed to the floor. Arthur skidded to a stop and turned, only to be greeted with more gunshots. He fell backward, looking back on Allison.

“Just go!” she yelled over the thundering chorus. Arthur debated internally whether or not he should run, but more gunfire ended the discussion. He scrambled upright and ran toward the door.

Allison rolled on her back and pulled out her sidearm, firing wildly into the dark auditorium. “Die you cowardly fucks!” she shouted as she forced herself to her feet.

Arbiter was running from Overseer’s control room, up the stairs, and to the main hallway. He would have to entrust the security of the computer to Gunslinger for now. Zealot’s inability to answer, coupled with the commanders of SERAPHIM’s silence, elicited a sense of foreboding that he hadn’t anticipated.

He erupted onto the first floor, sprinting the final stretch to the main hall. There were a few gunshots from within the Guild itself, but the more pressing matter was the army of ingrates collected outside. Rage welled up within him, twisting his stomach into knots. After all he had done for them, after everything he had sacrificed, they aligned themselves with villains because they faltered at their own strength.

The front doors stood in his way as he rounded the corner. Without stopping, he gave a battle cry and leapt, erupting through the glass and bringing himself crashing in the middle of the fray. His former comrades stumbled backward as he righted himself. The effect was familiar, a stunned horror washing over them, his presence drawing their attention like a beacon.

“What are you doing?” Claymore asked, his hands twitching.

“The more serious question is what you think you saw that night at the Fort,” Archetype said, his eyes unnervingly penetrating the other man.

“Whatever Julia said, she’s full of shit.” Claymore immediately felt the nauseating wave of heat wash over him, the same one he felt that night at the Fort, the one he had noticed when Archetype had interrogated Zombress.

He must have physically reacted, as a smile spread on Archetype’s face. “Familiar, isn’t it?” He squinted predatorily. “Only one in a few thousand is naturally resistant to psychic probing.” He rested his hands on his cane, adopting the veneer of relaxation. “The reason you were supposed to die that night.”

Claymore took a step toward him. “What are you talking about?”

“You were a tool. Not as valuable as the others, but nonetheless a useful martyr.” A shark-like smile spread on his thin lips. “Dervish should have killed you, enabling us to declare all villains rogue. But he was content on letting you live for whatever reason.” He clicked his tongue. “Villains are so unreliable.”

“You set me up!”

“Quite.”

Claymore unsheathed his sword and ran at Archetype. Faster than his frail frame seemed capable of, the older man twisted the cap off his cane, withdrew a two foot stiletto blade, and threw it into Claymore’s gut. The weapon tore into his lower spine and he face-planted, sending his sword skittering across the floor.