David Robbins - Chicago Run

A door to his right hissed wide.

He went in swiftly and found an enormous, lavishly adorned lobby.

There were three military men conversing off to the left, a pair of civilians straight ahead, and a counter along the right-hand wall manned by four people.

Everyone gaped at him as he entered.

Yama snapped the Dakon II to his right shoulder and methodically squeezed off his shots, one bullet to a customer. The special dumdums fired by the rifle were amazing. Each round was programmed by a microchip to explode after penetrating several inches into any substance, whether flesh, wood, or metal.

He downed the three soldiers first, their heads bursting as if hit by buckshot and spraying brains, hair, and blood all over the thick red carpet.

The civilians started to run toward the row of elevators situated along the opposite wall.

Yama sent a dumdum into the back of each person’s head, and swiveled toward the counter without wasting the time to verify they were dead.

Two of the four at the counter had dropped from sight. The remaining pair, a man and a woman, stood with their mouths wide open, petrified by the slaughter. He sent a dumdum into the mouth of each.

Unexpectedly an alarm sounded, a strident blaring of klaxons.

He turned and walked to the elevators. Stabbing an up button, he kept his back to the wall while waiting for the car to open. It was well he did.

One of the gold doors slid to the left and in charged two police officers, service revolvers in their hands.

Yama slew both before they had an opportunity to spot him, drilling a dumdum into each man’s chest. A bell went ping and the elevator arrived.

He pivoted as the door opened, and discovered two army officers inside, both carrying briefcases. They were listening in concern to the klaxons.

Their expressions changed to utter consternation when they beheld him.

“What the hell,” one blurted out.

“Just possibly,” Yama said, and leveled the Dakon II. The rifle cracked twice, delivering a single round into each man’s heart. They were thrown back against the rear of the car, and three-inch holes blossomed in their torsos as the miniature charges detonated. Crimson drops and bits of skin spattered on Yama’s face.

He stepped into the car and hit the button for the ninth floor. On the tenth was the Minister’s office and personal suite, his destination. But taking the elevator all the way up would be foolhardy. The rebels had advised him of a rumor that the top of the shaft had been wired with explosives so the Minister, with the flick of a switch, could reduce the car and any hostile occupants to miniscule pieces when the elevator arrived on the upper floor.

Yama watched the indicator lights on the inner panel as the car climbed steadily. He passed the second, third, and fourth. On every floor the klaxons were shrieking.

Suddenly, as the car came to the fifth floor, it halted and the door opened.

Framed in the corridor were six soldiers, each armed with a Dakon II, evidently on their way downstairs, where they believed the intruder to be.

They took one look at the big man in blue and tried to bring their weapons into play.

Yama was faster. A slight motion of his right thumb switched the Dakon II’s selector lever from single to full auto, and his fingers stroked the trigger. In the confines of the elevator the blasting of the Dakon II was deafening.

All six troopers took the lethal hail of dumdums straight on, their bodies dancing and jerking as they were riddled. Behind them arose shouts and the pounding of others coming to their aid.

The instant the magazine went empty Yama punched the control panel, and the door closed and the elevator resumed its ascent. He pressed the release button on the rifle, extracted the spent magazine, and pulled a fresh one from a back pocket. The rebels had supplied him with enough ammo to wage World War Four, and he intended to avail himself of every round.

The car passed the sixth and seventh floors.

Yama detached a grenade from his belt, his eyes on the indicators. He hoped to reach the ninth without difficulty, but the car again whined to a stop on the eighth. His finger slid into the grenade’s pin, and he was about to pull it when the door folded inward to reveal a startled woman in a white laboratory smock standing there with a yellow notebook in her left hand.

She screamed.

He stepped from the car, curled his hand around the pineapple, and clipped her on the jaw with it.

The woman’s teeth crunched together and blood spurted from her mouth. She staggered rearward a few feet and collapsed.

Beyond her was a long white corridor with dozens of doors on each side.

Frozen in the act of going somewhere or other were a score of men and women similarly attired in white smocks.

Some kind of scientific research department, Yama reasoned. He wagged the Dakon II at the people in the hall and they all scattered, darting or diving through doorways. In seconds the corridor was empty.

He started to turn toward the elevator.

With another ping the door abruptly closed.

Annoyed at himself for not acting sooner, Yama saw the arrow overhead drop rapidly toward the first floor. He glanced down the corridor, wary of being shot in the back, and spied an EXIT sign halfway down.

Just what he needed.

Yama rotated and raced toward the exit, going by door after door, most slamming shut a few steps before he reached them. Those still open afforded access to unoccupied chambers. In some he saw long tables bearing various beakers and racks of vials. Other rooms contained electronic equipment.

All the time the klaxons wailed on.

He had a good dozen yards still to cover when a bearded man in an immaculate smock stepped from a room up ahead and pointed a peculiar device at him. The object consisted of a silver rod jutting from the center of a small black box. At the end of the rod was a small golden ball or globe.

Not knowing what it was and unwilling to find out the hard way, he dived onto his stomach, firing in midair.

The scientist had just squeezed the trigger on the box when a neat pattern of red holes stitched across the front of the smock and he was flung onto his back, the device flying from his limp fingers.

Yama saw a thin red beam of light shoot from the gold ball even as the man fell, and heard a sizzling sound as it shot over his head. As quickly as the light appeared, it vanished. He rose and ran to the still, bleeding scientist. Slipping the grenade into a front pocket, he picked up the device. What in the world could it be? He’d never heard of such a bizarre weapon.

There were only two buttons on the black box. One was marked FIRE, the other RECHARGE.

Intriguing but useless, Yama decided, and tossed the unique weapon to the floor. He hastened onward. For his plan to succeed, for him to keep every administrator and military official in the Central Core preoccupied for the better part of an hour, he must reach the Minister.

The EXIT door was unlocked, and he moved through it onto a wide landing. Gazing over the railing he saw the bottom far below. From down there came yelling and the clumping of heavy boots.

Yama went up, taking the steps three at a stride. He reached the ninth floor landing and halted, recalling the intelligence information relayed by the rebels. On this floor were stationed 20 or 30 seasoned troops, the Minister’s personal guard unit. He went to the door, twisted the knob slowly, and opened it a crack.

Sure enough, there were several dozen soldiers congregated near the elevator shaft, spread out so four or five troopers covered each one. An officer stood to one side, issuing instructions.

Removing the genade from his pocket, Yama set the Dakon II down and pulled the pin. Holding the safety lever flush with the serrated body, he tugged the door wider, took a stride, and heaved.