John Shirley - Watch Dogs - Dark Clouds

No Can Do. Vehicle/Aircraft is shielded. Cannot be hacked with present techno-interface. Sorry, dude.

He wanted to shout, “Fuck!” but he crouched silently near the grill of the truck, trying to think of a plan. He had to stop this plane from leaving. If it meant he had to pull out the .45 and shoot every son of a bitch here, he had to do it. Countless lives were at stake.

Could he get the truck started—maybe smash it into the plane? Should he try to call Homeland Security? Seline had probably gotten some sort of message to them but it might be too late…

Then he heard, “All clear! Shut the hatch!”

“Shit,” Wolfe muttered, peering over the top of the truck’s hood. The ramp was clear, and beginning to go up on hydraulic lifts.

The two Graywater mercs were walking toward the front of the plane—which was warming up, its engines beginning to whine. The cargo jet was getting ready to taxi for takeoff.

There was no time to do anything…

Except what he did.

He ran for the back of the fuselage, jumped, caught the edge of the rising ramp, did a pull up, and scrambled up onto the metal lip. As he went he imagined it closing—and cutting him in half. Verrick would be pleased, and amused, standing there and looking at him dangling, dying, spitting blood…

But then he was over the steel lip, sliding down into the cargo hold of the aircraft just as the hatch finished closing. The plane jolted forward, and started out of the hangar and Wolfe was thrown forward, fell on his belly with a grunt.

The noise of the engines covered for him. The three men at the other end of the hold, buckling themselves into a short row of seats forward of the six chained-down drones, were facing away from Wolfe and they didn’t turn around. None of them looked like Verrick from here. He was probably in the cockpit with the pilot and maybe Starling.

Wolfe thought about sabotaging the drones. But that would take time, it would make noise, and there might be a short cut to get them neutralized… probably in the cockpit.

The plane was taxiing onto the runway…

Wolfe thought he was probably going to have to sneak up behind these guys and shoot two of them, one after another, rapidly, in the backs of their heads. He’d need the other one alive—he’d have to put the gun to the guy’s head, force him to talk that cockpit door open. Like any large jet, post 9/11, the cockpit would be locked from the inside to prevent hijacking.

He wasn’t looking forward to shooting two strangers in the back of their heads. He couldn’t be sure these guys knew what was going down, here. But he had to do whatever he needed to.

Including, maybe, crashing this plane with himself aboard it, if that was the only way to stop it…

The first thing that came into his mind when he thought of crashing the plane, and going down with it… was a picture of Seline.

She was just sitting on the sofa with her hair up in a towel, her feet bare, looking up at him. Very grave look in her eyes…

He’d probably never see her again.

Just get this done, Wolfe.

Wolfe drew his gun, went into a crouch, and moved alongside the drones toward the men up front. Then the plane took off, steeply and rapidly. Wolfe was thrown off balance, and slid backwards. He grabbed a frame on the bulkhead and held on—then saw that one of the men up front was unbuckling his seat belt, and getting up.

Wolfe flattened, and crawled under one of the drones.

If he tried to take this guy down right here and now, the others would become aware of it—he’d be outgunned and he’d lose the element of surprise. He needed to wait his moment.

He looked at the deck, saw that the drones were locked into some kind of railing. The plane had been retrofitted to facilitate their launching.

Wolfe watched the shoes of the man walking up toward him. The man paused by a drone, and unfastened something with a clicking sound. Then he threw the canvas off the drone. He was getting them ready for launch…

Another fine mess you’ve got yourself in, Wolfe.

The Purity mechanic uncovered the last of the drones, then turned—

“What the fuck,” the mechanic said. “Who—”

Wolfe rolled, jumped to his feet, came up face to face with the man, and cold cocked him hard on the forehead with the butt of his gun. The mechanic went down.

Wolfe turned—saw that the engine noise had once more saved him from notice. The other two weren’t looking over.

Wolfe dragged the mechanic to one of the canvas tarps, and rolled him up in it, locking him in place with its clips.

The he turned and started toward the other two…

He got within a few feet and one of the men turned to see how the mechanic was getting on. The Graywater’s eyes widened. He unhooked his seat belt and jumped up, pulling his Mack into play. Wolfe just had time to recognize the merc as the one who’d killed Doolin and Kiskel, before he shot him in the face, twice.

The other merc, a chunky man with round cheeks, was struggling to unbuckle his seat belt. In his panic he couldn’t quite get it done.

Wolfe stepped up to him and pointed the gun at his face. “You want what the other one got?”

The merc shook his head.

“What’s your name?”

“Prebo.” The name came out like a squeak.

“Okay, Prebo. Very slowly unbuckle yourself, and stand up, and drop that gun. If it looks like you’re gonna do anything else with it I’ll blow your face off your skull.”

Prebo swallowed, and nodded his head several times, fast. “Sure. Sure. You got it.” He looked at his seatbelt as if it were a complicated puzzle. He licked his lips, then he reached down and slowly unbuckled it.

Wolfe stepped back, a little unsteady in the plane’s turbulence. “Put the gun on the deck carefully and shove it toward me with your foot.”

Prebo obeyed. Wolfe picked up the gun, keeping his eyes and the .45 on Prebo.

“Now,” Wolfe said. “Look at your friend there, the one I shot.”

Prebo stared at the dead man.

“You see his face?” Wolfe asked. “See how I put one through his right eyes and the other right in his teeth? I bet if anyone does an autopsy they’ll find teeth in his brain. You see all that, Prebo?”

“Mm-hm, yes,” Prebo said, his voice still squeaky. “You don’t do what I tell you, you’re gonna look at least as bad as that when I’m done with you. Only it’s your nuts I plan to blow up into your skull. I’ll start with that. Sound good?”

Prebo blinked. “Good?”

“Not so good, right? Let’s avoid that ugliness. Just go over to the cockpit door there, and pound on it. Stand right in front of that peephole. Tell them that something’s stuck out here. Problem with the drones. You hear me?”

Prebo nodded. “You won’t shoot me?”

“Not if you obey me to the letter. Be convincing! Go on—the door!”

Prebo went to the cockpit door. Wolfe followed closely, and flatted to one side of it, and whispered, “Stand close to that peephole so they can’t see anything but you. And do what I told you!”

Prebo cleared his throat, and then banged on the door. “Uh—boss! Mr. Verrick! Um… Mr… Mr Starling? We got a problem out here with the drones! We can’t get ’em flight ready!”

Wolfe nodded and mouthed, Good.

A few seconds passed. Then the door opened—quicker than Wolfe had expected.

Wolfe grabbed Prebo by the collar and shoved him through the door, to make sure it couldn’t be shut quickly.

Then he stepped up behind Prebo and pointed the gun—right at Verrick.

Roger Verrick was just pulling a .44.

“Hold it, Verrick!” Wolfe shouted. “Don’t touch that—”

He didn’t get the word gun out because Verrick was firing his.