Daniel Suarez - Daemon

Gragg looked into his HUD glasses to see multiple police cars screeching onto the street several blocks back, rack lights flashing. He crashed another one of his AutoM8s into a civilian’s subcompact, smashing it out of the way and sending it spinning up onto the sidewalk. He left a trail of destruction behind him as the police lights zigzagged between wrecked vehicles, falling behind fast. But more sirens could be heard ahead and to either side of him. They were starting to cordon him off. Choppers were no doubt en route.

He smiled to himself. More AutoM8s were streaming in to aid him. He felt the presence of over a hundred now—some more valuable than others.

Another BMW 740 screeching in from a side street suddenly joined Gragg’s car. This BMW was scarlet red. The pack expanded automatically to encompass it.

Gragg motioned with one black-gloved hand, and the electro-polymer paint of his own BMW shifted from silver to red in a matter of seconds—even as the newly arrived red BMW transformed from red to silver. Gragg’s digital ink license plates flicked from California to Oregon vanity tags that read GECCO. In a flash, his BMW went into a power slide down a side street and left the main pack behind.

Merritt was still trying to comprehend what he just saw. A decoy BMW had joined the pack, but then Loki’s BMW transformed right in front of Merritt’s eyes. Merritt leaned hard into the turn and gave chase. Loki’s car was now bright red—but he could still see the pockmarks from his earlier shots in the rear window. He cast a glance behind him to see several squad cars race past the intersection, still in pursuit of the original pack.

Merritt turned back to face Loki, then he tapped his radio button. “Major! Major, this is Merritt. Do you copy?”

The Major looked up from assembling a scoped SCAR-H sniper rifle in the passenger bay of the chopper. Merritt’s voice came over their encrypted radio frequency again, dissolving occasionally into static. “Major, this…Merritt…copy?”

The Major keyed his mic. “Go ahead, Agent Merritt.”

“Listen…police are pursuing a decoy BMW…car has…color, and is heading…” Static filled the channel.

“You’re breaking up.”

“Repeat…color. I’m giving chase.”

“You’re catching interference from the AutoM8s. Fall back, Merritt.”

“…police they’re…” At that the signal trailed off into static.

The Major dropped the handset and spoke into his chopper headset. “We still receiving Merritt’s GPS coordinates?”

The pilot nodded. “10-4, Major. Clear as a bell.”

“Then the Daemon is using GPS, too. Get me over Merritt’s twenty.”

Now out of the chase and heading through wide industrial streets, Gragg monitored a distant AutoM8’s video feed as the pack of cars he just left accelerated onto an elevated portion of the 880 Freeway, smashing cars out of their way. California Highway Patrol units took up the chase on the freeway. Gragg couldn’t help but smile. They were closing in.

He accelerated the distant AutoM8 pack toward the elevated junction with Highway 260—and the retaining wall at the steep curve. “This ought to be interesting….”

He selected the lead AutoM8 in the HUD and urged it on ahead of the others. Then he switched to video feed from a car farther back in the pack. The lead car screamed ahead like a missile, then crashed through the concrete retaining wall at a hundred miles an hour, spraying a vacant lot fifty feet below with pieces of concrete and twisted metal. The remaining pack, including the silver BMW, roared through the new gap in the wall and tumbled end over end through the air, smashing down on top of one another in a fiery wreck. The video feed turned to snow.

Done. Gragg took a deep breath and felt himself coming down off the adrenaline surge. He could imagine the police stopping to look out over a tangled pile of burning wreckage, scratching their heads, as police are wont to do. It would take them days to figure out. The nearest police car’s GPS signal was a mile away.

He did a quick postmortem: the Daemon Task Force had been neutralized. It might mean another level for him.

A motorcycle streaked up alongside his car. The rider reached out with one hand, extending a submachine gun, and fired a short burst at Gragg’s tires.

“What the hell?”

Gragg raised his gloved hands to fire the nova light, but then realized his blacked-out windows would ruin the effect. His armored windows didn’t roll down either. “Son of a bitch.”

Gragg motioned with his gloved hand and swerved the car toward the racing bike, but the bike was far more maneuverable. It ducked around to the right side of the car. Again, automatic gunfire cracked at his tires.

Gragg shook his head. “Solid rubber, asshole.”

He reached out into D-Space and started drawing from the surrounding horde—pulling dozens of remaining AutoM8s toward him. “You want to play? Then let’s play.”

Ross and a Korr lieutenant peered through the recessed postern gate. Dozens of AutoM8s crisscrossed the tarmac, circling Building Twenty-Nine. Ross looked across the barren tarmac leading to the ship channel a hundred yards away. It was the longest hundred yards he’d ever seen.

Philips sat in the corridor with several more Korr guards. A medic wound a bandage around her head to cover her injured eyes, while the others trained weapons on the short corridor behind them.

Philips looked up blindly. “What’s the situation?”

Ross and the lieutenant slammed the door with a clang and turned to face her. A roaring motorcycle engine, gunshots, and screams echoed through the interior halls.

A guard stared down the corridor. “We can’t stay here, sirs.”

“We need to run for it, Nat. Those Razorbacks appear to know the floor plan. They’re methodically clearing rooms.”

The lieutenant piped in, “They’re armored, Doctor. Light weapons don’t stop them. At least not from the front.”

She nodded gravely.

“There’s a ship channel about a hundred yards away. If we can reach that, we should be safe.”

Ross turned to the lieutenant and pointed toward what appeared to be dynamite sticks snugged into his web harness. “What are those?”

The man glanced down. “Magnesium flares. To signal the medevac chopper. The radio was down for—”

“Break ’em out. These AutoM8s probably target with infrared. Flares could distract them.”

The lieutenant pulled out six flares. He handed three to Ross. “Just twist the top off and strike them. Like this…” He pantomimed the action.

“Let’s test this.” Ross struck the flare several times before it ignited. He held it, hissing and popping in the corridor. It burned a brilliant red. “Open the door.”

One guard heaved the heavy steel door open, and Ross hurled the flare as far as he could off to the right. He and several guards watched closely as an AutoM8 swerved to avoid it. Another swung wide around it.

The lieutenant frowned. “So much for the infrared theory.”

Philips looked toward his voice. “What’s happening?”

Ross shook his head. “They’re not attracted to the flares, Nat. They’re avoiding them.”

“Then they are using infrared. They’re looking for human heat signatures. The flares must look like a raging fire.”

Ross and the lieutenant exchanged looks. Ross nodded and knelt next to her. “You’re right. We’re in business, Nat.” He removed his jacket and placed one empty sleeve in her hand, then grabbed the other one. “Don’t let go of this. I’ll guide you. We’ll use the flares to conceal our human heat signature. The tarmac is flat. Just follow me and move as fast as you can.”