David Leadbeater - Weapons of the Gods

“That motherfu—”

The rest of Hayden’s sentence was lost in growling hatred as she stalked down the aisle, reached among the fighters, took hold of the terrorist’s head by the hair and raised it up until she could look into the whites of his eyes. Then, she introduced her Glock to the spot at the bridge of his nose.

“Enjoy Hell.”

She ended the brawl with a bullet. People slumped everywhere. She cleared them back. Kinimaka, Yorgi and Smyth handled them, directing them to the rear of the carriage and then kneeling to tend the injured ones. Hayden knew they now faced the coach where their target, Joseph Berry the Dallas oil man, should be situated. The broken window to her left caught her eye and she remembered how, not long ago, the terrorists had been throwing people off the speeding train.

It was true that terrorists wore a mantle of pure evil, but what of the men that created them? What of the men that recruited and trained them? She would always put the everyday civilian’s welfare at the top of her list and aim to hurt the people that threatened them — whether that be a vile terrorist or a powerful and malicious figurehead.

She crouched carefully at the door to the next carriage, and peered through the grimy glass pane.

It was a scene from Hell.

The terrorist was standing on a seat, head and shoulders above the passengers he had forced to stand all around him. One hand held a woman by the hair, the other a gun pointed at her temple. She was sobbing, her face bloodied. Those around her were either trembling, crying or trying to look strong. He could turn the gun on them in just a few seconds.

“Do you see Berry?” Kinimaka asked. “This has to be a diversion.”

“Can’t see him,” Hayden said. “But you’re right. He’s in there. They haven’t had the chance to get the dagger off the train yet.”

“And the dagger may no longer be with Berry,” Molokai said. “I’ll handle this.” He pulled out a rifle from under his big coat.

“No.” Dahl put a hand on the man’s wrist before he brought it up into sight of the terrorist. “That asshole has half the weight of that trigger loaded already. Even a dead-center bullet could cause a reflexive reaction. It needs handling differently.”

Smyth stepped forward, hands up. “Then handle it.”

He approached the door, easing it open. Hayden followed suit and the rest spread out, similarly displayed. Dahl retreated to the broken window and quickly perched across the sill, his head stuck outside, staring down the buffeting gusts of wind.

Mad , he thought.

But necessary. He gripped the top rim of the window and hauled himself out, hanging by fingertips and ankles hooked over the sill. Next, he balanced his feet on the sill, flexed his powerful legs and lunged up toward the roof of the train. A blast of air shook him and the train as it raced toward its destination. Out here, Dahl could see approaching buildings: warehouses, homes and shopping malls. In the skies he could see several helicopters and a smudge in the air high above, a potential fighter jet.

Oh bollocks.

Would they?

Cambridge had to be passing valuable Intel along, but it all depended on the capabilities and disposition of the man in charge. It might even depend upon the suit at the top of the chain. He believed in President Coburn’s ability to do the right thing — hell, they’d fought together during the Blood King’s attack on DC — but didn’t believe certain people would let Coburn have his say.

Tempest would be engineering all this, right down to the last detail.

Who held the dagger?

Dahl heaved his body over the top, rolled and halted on top of the train. He sat up, bracing his body into the wind. He walked forward the number of paces that would have taken him to a face-to-face with the terrorist. He glanced over the side of the train.

Rails and heaps of gravel rushed by; the track’s banking beyond that. Cambridge was silent on the comms. Hayden whispered that it was now or never.

It became an orchestrated strike. At the heart of it all was the knowledge that the terrorist didn’t really want to kill the woman he held — not yet at least. She was his greatest asset. Everything in Hayden’s and Dahl’s training said that he would hesitate. Dahl gripped the side of the train with one hand, the rim of the window with the other and lowered himself down carefully, not quickly.

The movement caught the terrorist’s eye, made his head swivel over. That movement pointed the barrel of the gun away from the woman for a split second.

Hayden broke the window of a small box that triggered an alarm.

And nothing happened.

“Oh, no,”

The terrorist started to turn back toward them but Molokai and Smyth were already in full flight. They leapt across seatbacks and through the scared passengers, hitting the terrorist at chest height and propelling him back off the seat and onto the floor. The gun went off, a bullet passing harmlessly through the roof. Smyth took his hand grenade whilst Molokai fractured all the bones in his throat. They held his arms down as he died and then quickly disabled his bomb-jacket.

Hayden took control. “Stand apart,” she shouted at the mostly bewildered passengers. “Right now!”

Kinimaka and Smyth stood on the seats, covering the passengers with their own weapons. There was no time to explain; to do so would increase the overall danger. Molokai dragged Dahl inside and then they all watched with guns at the ready.

Hayden unhooked her pack from her shoulders and pulled out the GPR device. The view outside the windows changed from fields to buildings.

We’re coming into Dallas , she thought. And there’s still at least one terrorist on this train holding a bomb.

What do we do?

Drake dragged the chain from around his neck as the car sped off. The museum was safe, the old man was in hiding, and the mercs had been dispatched. Not a bad few hours’ work if he did say so himself.

“Wait,” Alicia said. “What’s that?”

“What’s what?” He was never sure if she was about to crack a joke at his expense.

“Your hands, Drakey. Look at your hands.”

“They’re bloody black bright,” he drawled. “My mum would kill me.”

“That’s not dirt.”

She was right. If anything, it was like coal dust, a covering of inferior black paint perhaps. The incoming thought made his heart leap. “Shit, this isn’t the fucking Chain of Aphrodite.”

“No,” Mai said, staring at his hands and then the chain links that were starting to flake and reveal the silver beneath. “That old man — Doukas — deceived us.”

“Bastard,” Drake swore. “But then, why should we expect anything else from a thief? Kenzie, get us back there.”

“We’ll never find him,” Mai said.

“Oh, I think we might,” Kenzie said, staring ahead through the windshield.

Drake focused. Doukas, even now, was running across the car park area in the direction of the furthest row. His face was panicked, his gait made awkward by a slight limp, and age. When he reached the front of an old gray Nissan, Kenzie swerved her car to within an inch of his knees.

Drake opened his door and stepped out. “Get in.”

His tone brooked no objections. Doukas was practically dragged into the back seat and wedged between Alicia and Drake. Kenzie backed up and then swung the wheel toward the exit.

Three mercs stood in their way, remnants of the earlier force.

“Where did these guys come from?” Luther asked.

“Probably searching the museum.” Drake told it as he saw it, but who really knew? “Doesn’t matter. Kill ’em.”