Кристофер Голден - The Predator - The Official Movie Novelization

She heard the guard mutter something about Jesus as she snatched up the grenade, lurched from the chair, pulled the pin with her teeth and spun toward him. The guard’s eyes went wide and he tried to take aim with his gun, but she was too close and he was too distracted, both by the grenade and the Predator dog, and he could only fumble with the barrel as she jerked her handcuffed wrist, whipping the thin wooden chair up at him. The impact caused the gun to go off, the report echoing off the walls and making the Predator dog whine. Before he could fire off another shot, Casey put the grenade down the front of the guard’s shirt and turned toward the railing of the loft, dragging the chair behind her. She knew the guard wouldn’t have time to shoot at her if he wanted to live.

As she leaped, the chair smashed against the railing and she had a flicker of a moment to fear she’d be snagged on it. Then she plummeted to the floor of the barn, hit the ground and rolled as the chair shattered on impact beside her.

Overhead, the loft exploded. Her ears buzzed, felt like they were stuffed with cotton. From the corner of her eye she saw another merc rushing at her and she pistoned to her feet, swinging the remains of the broken chair around on the handcuff chain in a single, swift motion. The shattered wood smashed the merc in the skull, nearly taking his face off. Blood sprayed out in an arc and spattered the ground as he fell.

More blood showered down from above, in a cloud of dust and dry wall and straw from the explosion in the loft. Casey staggered away, her ears still ringing. As the smoke cleared, she saw the Predator dog clumping down the steps from the loft, totally unscathed. He had something else in his mandibles this time and he dropped his new toy at her feet, still interested in fetch.

Casey had no desire to pick this new toy up, though. It was the scorched head of the guard who’d just been blown to pieces.

Hot bile burned up the back of Casey’s throat, but she managed not to puke. As she fought the urge, her ringing ears caught the sound of muffled boot steps approaching on the double. She lifted her cuffed wrist, ready to use the remains of the chair on its chain as an improvised weapon a second time. But then she saw McKenna and Nebraska hustle around the corner, both looking like they’d just survived a gang war. They were both armed, both breathing heavily.

“Hey,” McKenna said, almost casually. “Can I interest you in getting the fuck out of here?”

Casey grinned, breathless. “‘Getting the fuck out of here’ is my middle name.”

McKenna shot a sidelong glance at Nebraska. “And I thought ‘Gaylord’ was bad.”

They started to head out, then abruptly McKenna halted, grimaced, clutched his abdomen.

“Oh boy,” he muttered.

Casey looked at him in concern. “What?”

“Must be the coffee,” McKenna said apologetically. “Uh… excuse me.”

He bolted, disappearing around the corner, heading toward the barn’s exit door.

Casey turned to Nebraska, bewildered. “Where’s he going?”

Nebraska smiled and raised an eyebrow. “I think he’s about to give us a tactical advantage.”

Five minutes later McKenna was back, looking washed-out, sweaty, but no longer in gastric distress. Clearly embarrassed by what had just happened, he looked at Casey and said without preamble, “Doc, if what you’re saying is true, my son’s headed for a spaceship, and so is a ten-foot monster.”

“Eleven,” Nebraska corrected, and shrugged. “I used to be a contractor. Got an eye for measurements.”

McKenna scowled at the irrelevancy. Sensing his agitation, Casey laid a reassuring hand on his arm. “Hey,” she murmured. “We’ll get him back.”

McKenna looked anguished. “He’s just a kid, he can’t—”

“He’s not just a kid,” she interrupted firmly. “He’s a chess prodigy with an eidetic memory who decrypted Predator language. He’ll be fine.”

McKenna nodded, though not entirely convincingly, and they went outside. Looking at the RV, McKenna knew it wasn’t going to get them anywhere—not without being picked up fast. As soon as someone bothered to check on the dead bastards back at the barn, they’d put a BOLO out on the vehicle. McKenna knew they needed new transport, and hopefully the rest of the Loonies were on to that. His main priority right now, though, was to make sure they had enough firepower to survive the mission before them.

Together, he and Nebraska went through the RV, stuffing backpacks with as much ordnance as they could carry. A dozen ways to kill people—anyone who tried to get between McKenna and his son—went into those backpacks. Thanks to the lunatic gun seller who’d stocked up the RV in the first place, they also had earwig comms units, and McKenna grabbed them so they could all be linked up, whatever happened from here on in.

They had just finished loading up when a new sound made them all freeze, a whirring from over the trees. Another damn helicopter. McKenna drew a gun and glanced at Nebraska.

“Traeger coming back?” Nebraska asked.

If it is , McKenna thought, then this time there will be a firefight . All three of them hurried out of the RV and into the soft light of daybreak. They stared into the dawn sky and McKenna’s jaw dropped.

“Is that… pink?” Nebraska asked in a strained voice.

It was. And what was more, it had the Victoria’s Secret logo emblazoned proudly on the side.

“Jesus tap-dancing Christ,” McKenna said slowly.

“That what you asked for?” Nebraska asked, as Casey laughed.

McKenna shrugged. “It’ll do.”

By now the chopper had descended enough that McKenna could make out Nettles in the pilot’s seat, and Coyle waving merrily at them from the side hatch. Despite himself, a grin spread across his face as he hurried toward the helicopter. He heard Nebraska whooping behind him as the rotors slowed. The tall grass in the field bent and waved, and the door popped open and now McKenna could see Baxley and Lynch in there with Nettles and Coyle. If he’d thought these bastards were crazy before they’d somehow managed to steal a Victoria’s Secret helicopter, he thought they were twice as crazy now, but he loved the hell out of them for it.

Yes, they needed transport. But they also needed to be inconspicuous. Flying around in this thing in broad daylight was a terrible idea, but it was still better than sitting on their asses in the middle of a grassy field without any way of going after Rory.

Carrying backpacks full of weaponry, McKenna, Casey, and Nebraska climbed into the helicopter, enduring the welcoming cheers and the cocky grins of the Loonies, and moments later they were lifting off. McKenna looked down at the RV and the field and the barn that had been the last place he’d seen Rory. He promised himself it would not be his final memory of his son.

“Very inconspicuous,” he yelled, over the roar of the chopper.

“We had to kill seven Victoria’s Secret models,” Coyle said proudly.

Casey’s face went white. “Tell me you’re joking.”

“I’m joking,” Coyle replied, horrified that she’d taken him seriously. “I’d sooner piss on the Mona Lisa .”

Nettles throttled up and the chopper took on speed, careening across the sky. The landscape rushed past below as McKenna turned to Nettles.

“Anything on board we can use?”

Nettles shrugged. “We got some low-grade pyro and about three dozen promotional tote bags.”

Nebraska held up a tube of exfoliating gel. “Yeah, Predators hate this shit.”

Baxley edged over to McKenna. Almost matter-of-factly, as if he was asking where they were going to stop for lunch, he said, “Cap, we gonna die, you think? Just curious.”