Mark Stone - The Judas Line

Cain had told me that every a magi could only Create a finite number of golems. A Twelve Word magus, he said, could conceivably Create up to fifteen or twenty, but not all at once. Apparently the golems would become progressively weaker if the earlier ones weren’t destroyed.

I had made two, using Create as well as certain herbs, the crafting requiring both Botanical and Word Magic. It was a sign of his trust that Cain had let me know which herbs to use.

Maggie and Alan raced like track stars, weapons at the ready, in the path of the golems, which had burst through the front doors. The heavy tempered glass shattered like thin ice at the impact of the speeding automatons.

The next five hundred feet of our descent passed quicker than I could’ve imagined as the rooftops of the city grew huge. My altimeter was ready to spring my chute at twelve hundred feet.

To my right, Cain’s chute deployed and he shot out of sight.

I hoped mine deployed or I’d discover firsthand what the term ‘road pizza’ meant. Once again images from below spooled into the back of my mind:

The Dagger Men in the lobby looked up in shock as flesh toned mannequins leapt with obscene grace across marble tile, two jumping twenty feet straight up to clear the railing to the upper lobby. The other two ran straight for the human guards, who let go with twin Mac-10s they had slung under their armpits. Bullets streaked out of the roaring weapons, many missing, gouging the priceless floor, but many hit the golems, shredding soft leather skin, bouncing off of steel skeletons.

They were still firing, taking turns changing clips, when the golems tore into them. One golem grabbed an arm-crushing ulna and radius like rotten wood-and ripped it off at the shoulder. The Sicarius screamed once before fainting dead away to lie in widening pool of her own blood.

The second gunman was more fortunate; the golem that attacked him merely rammed an iron fist through the bones of his face, bursting the eyeballs before the metal hand gripped the brain and squeezed . Dagger Man and weapon dropped to the floor.

An elevator door pinged and six more Sicarii joined the fight. One golem was knocked back fifteen feet by Force, landing high in a chandelier; the other was swarmed under four Strength-enhanced assassins who tore it limb from limb. A storm of rounds nearly decapitated the one jumping at them from the chandelier, which was already falling to the black and white marble floor.

From the upper lobby, the first two golems landed among the six assassins like deranged clockwork beasts, rending and tearing. The final screaming assassin mercifully fell to the rain of bullets fired by Maggie and Alan, who watched from the dubious safety of the shattered doorway.

My chute deployed, rapidly slowing my fall. Only a few hundred feet to go. Thermals from the buildings slung me to and fro, but I managed to stay on point, guiding the chute toward the helipad on the roof of the hotel.

A hundred feet from my target and I saw a guard walking the perimeter of the pad. I knew right then that he’d see me before my feet touched down. Hoping against hope, I spoke Strength, trailing an ammonia stench through the cold night air.

Twenty feet and I pulled the quick release on my harness, dropping hard on the center of the pad, my Strength-enhanced legs absorbing much of the force, but I felt an ankle twist and snap sickeningly, shooting fire up my leg as I rolled.

I looked up, 45 at the ready, only to see the guard with his weapon, an M16A4, I dimly noted, pointed at my face. I was about to die. The scene from below and inside would take me to the grave:

Two golems scampered up the elevator shaft the Sicarii had used; the damaged one (missing an arm and a head half-blown away) took the stairwell, followed by Maggie and Alan, who quickly lagged behind the nimble construct. The fourth golem lay scattered in pieces on the blood- and brain-soaked marble in the lobby.

“If … I wanted … aerobics…” panted Maggie as she passed another floor. “I would’ve … joined … a gym.”

“Just … move your lard ass, woman.” Alan puffed. His voice sounded raspy and ragged, as if he’d been gargling with broken glass.

“I … am going to … kick your butt …when we are through here … assface.”

From above came the sound of screaming and gunfire. And more screaming. Something wet and blobby fell past them to spatter down below.

“What … was that?” Alan asked, not bothering to look.

Maggie kept her eyes on the stairs. One after the other … then a landing then more steps. “Something … important to somebody.”

I would’ve closed my eyes, but the barrel of the rife held me hypnotized. The guard’s finger tightened.

Bullets landed all around, one grazing my calf. Quite a few did more than graze the guard, who crumpled in a heap, blood pooling around his lifeless body.

Looking up, I saw Cain drift the last few feet to the helipad, a Mac-10 in one hand and harness release in the other. As his feet touched down, he yanked the release and chute and harness disappeared into the night, carried away on the cold New York wind.

“It appears as though you should consider exercising more caution while approaching the enemy,” Cain said. “Are you well?”

The grating pain, the pressure , in my ankle gave way to blessed relief as I moaned a Healing. The bones of my ankle ground together and shifted, re-aligning themselves. “Fine, fine,” I said, rising when the last vestiges of pain melted away.

The roof access point was locked with an electronic keypad and card slot, but a quick search of the guard revealed a key card. A quick swipe and we were heading down a stairwell.

Cain pulled alongside at the first landing down, a door marked 55 in front of us. “Here?”

“No. Main access will be at the first floor of these three-story suites. Julian has his ‘offices’ there and that’s where Mike and the Primal will be.”

“The Primal will be in a safe, a lockbox?” The black goggles were gone and he once again sported his mirrored Glaciers, looking like a black ops commando ready for a skiing holiday.

I shook my head. “No. Julian will have the Primal on him at all times. With Boris on hand and his own slew of Words, it’s safer than any lock box.” The molecular knife was a conspicuous lump in my hip pocket. “Let’s go.”

54 … 53. The door opened with the key card revealing a long hallway carpeted in burgundy cut pile. A Sicarius in a black skintight one piece turned at the sound of the door opening. As my silenced pistol appeared in hand as if by magic, I had just enough time to think about how ridiculous those one-piece outfits were before two quick shots dropped him hard to the floor, bleeding from throat and skull.

I knew him. Another cousin, distant, a real asshole named Ulric known for such brutality that he made Burke look like an altar boy. His death brought no remorse, no sadness. The world was better off without him in it.

But there would be others, I knew, others who I did like and who would die, maybe by my hand. It was a sobering thought.

“It falls upon you to lead the way, my young friend.”

“Just keep those Words and that gun handy and watch my back. Things are about to become real interesting.” Once again, I thought of the other two inside:

“Why do the steps end here?” Alan complained, staring at a bloody door half torn from the hinges. Sounds of fighting came from beyond. A body lay on the landing, torn to shreds. “We’re not high enough.”

“Security,” Maggie panted. “Staggered stairs, no through-access from top to bottom.” Without another word she reached past Alan and grabbed the door handle, tearing the door totally free from the remaining hinge.