James Axler - Cradle Of Destiny

“Sinclair,” Kane called out, getting her thoughts refocused.

As if it were a code word, a post-hypnotic suggestion trigger, Sinclair reached down to her security torch and swept it out of its spot on her utility belt. Kane saw consortium mercenaries rush down the corridor to hem them in, Calico machine guns held in firing position for the moment that the chamber door hissed aside.

Sinclair focused the lens of her flashlight on the hallway, then thumbed the panic button on the side. Kane ducked his face behind his shoulder, and the normally nonreflective shadowsuit was painted with a brilliant blue-white glow.

The trio of consortium gunmen in the hall let out grunts of pain as their eyeballs were seared by the brilliant burst of light pulsing from the torch. Sinclair had been on the other end of the lens, so she knew that the only thing residing in their optic nerves was an orange halo around a void of nothingness. The effect would last for as long as ten seconds, an eternity when it came to close-quarters combat, but they wouldn’t feel long-term effects, depending on how mercifully Kane and Sinclair treated them.

She turned off the light and was hot on Kane’s heels as the two Cerberus warriors charged the gun-wielding blinded men. The former Magistrate skipped the first of the millennialists, leaving him for Sinclair to deal with as he fell upon the two at the rear. It wasn’t a case of macho posturing on Kane’s part; it was simply the fact that he had the arm reach to engage the gunmen quickly, simultaneously if he moved correctly.

Sinclair drew her collapsible ASP baton, snapping it open with a flick of the wrist. The harsh snap of the telescoping steel tubing caused her target to “look” in the direction of the sound, despite the fact that all he could see was an all-consuming fireball. She whipped the tip of the baton around like a scythe, lashing it across the millennialist’s knees. The sudden impact knocked his feet from beneath him, and Sinclair pivoted the top section up and chopped it hard on his neck, just over his jugular.

That particular shot was a stunner. The blood vessel transmitted hydrostatic force back into his brain, not enough to rupture anything vital, but the sudden rush of fluid was overwhelming enough to interrupt the raider’s consciousness.

Sinclair looked up in time to see Kane using the toppling form of one of the consortium mercenaries as a brace to swing both feet up, one boot cracking the man’s jaw, the other spearing his breastbone. The millennial gunman’s head rebounded off the wall, and then he crashed face-first into the floor, a numb, groaning sack of insensate thug. Kane landed on the balls of his feet as his “support” folded to the ground, landing on his knees and vomiting. Kane turned and jammed a knife-hard hand into the stunned gunman’s neck, ending his suffering for the time being.

“Sinclair, make sure he doesn’t choke,” Kane ordered, gathering up the unconscious men’s firearms.

Sinclair knelt next to the man, dragging his head from the puddle he’d made after Kane struck him hard in the sternum and groin. She left him lying on his side, then took a rag from one of his pockets to clear the remaining bile from his mouth. He wouldn’t choke. It might be a waste of time, especially since these three hired guns may have been responsible for the deaths of a Tiger of Heaven sentry on the island. If they were murderers, their heads would roll.

Still, the Tigers of Heaven had a stringent code of justice, and the samurai were loath to kill incapacitated opponents, just like the Cerberus warriors. There was time for ruthless slaying ability, but cold-blooded murder didn’t live in the hearts of the two societies.

“He’ll live,” Sinclair announced.

“If he deserves to,” Kane replied, voice low and grim. The Sin Eater hissed into his hand, lightning swift. “These three are our last free lunch for a while.”

“I didn’t sign on for an easy time,” Sinclair answered, drawing the Beretta from her hip holster. She took a moment to affix a suppressor to the extended barrel. Kane latched a stealth module, a squared, vented device as opposed to the round pipe on her Beretta, onto the nose of his Sin Eater, as well. Neither gun would be whisper quiet—the enemy would definitely know that firearms went off—but they wouldn’t give away their positions so easily due to the alteration of the weapons’ acoustics.

“Bry, tell me you’ve cracked the security cameras,” Kane said into his Commtact.

“I have, but the millennialists are staying out of sight,” Bry answered. “These guys aren’t stupid…oh, my God… Grant!”

Sinclair could see Kane stiffen at the alarm in Bry’s voice. Then the Cerberus warrior exploded into motion, and she had to push herself to keep up with Kane.

GRANT AND SHIZUKA MOVED like shadowy wraiths among the corridors of the Operation Chronos laboratories. They had barely ducked out of sight when a group of millennialist gunmen hurried to the hall where they’d entered the base. They avoided notice, and as soon as they were out of earshot, Shizuka got on the radio to her Tigers of Heaven allies. The samurai would deal with the millennialists, bringing them down swiftly and silently.

The two people had the option of going right at the commander who had taken control of the installation, but the fear for the safety of the hostages, if there were any, kept them moving with silence and speed. They had to verify any captives the millennialists had taken and insure their safety. Grant thought of the difference between the consortium and Cerberus. The consortium would sacrifice their hired guns, cutting and running or blasting the facility to oblivion in a scorched-earth campaign. Grant, however, couldn’t write off an ally. These were friends, and if there was one thing that the ex-Magistrate had developed, it was loyalty to the people of New Edo, enough that he’d risk his life for them as readily as he did for his family at the Cerberus redoubt.

Grant frowned, deepening the angle of his gunslinger’s mustache as he mentally reviewed the map of the Operation Chronos labs. When he spoke to Shizuka, it was softer than a whisper. “Two places where they could be holding people.”

Shizuka nodded. “Specimen storage and the temporal dilator itself.”

“They save ammo by tossing the hostages…where?”

“When,” Shizuka corrected. “Prehuman times. The nuclear winter after skydark. Lots of eras would be fatal to modern humans.”

Grant sneered. “It’s scary that we can imagine the actions of sociopaths.”

“We’ve encountered enough to expect the worst,” Shizuka answered.

“I’ll scout specimen storage,” Grant said. “Call me and wait if you see anyone.”

Shizuka nodded and disappeared. Grant didn’t worry about her. If the Japanese woman didn’t want to be noticed, she wouldn’t be. And he had stressed that they were only doing a reconnaissance, not taking action. That didn’t mean either of them would sit still if a hostage was threatened with death, but the two of them were in contact with each other. One call for help, and the other would be with them in a heartbeat.

Grant slunk down the hall to specimen storage, where the scientists who ran Operation Chronos had deposited time-trawled people and animals, like the raptors that they had just encountered, and even larger creatures like the carnotaurus they had met on one of their first visits to Thunder Isle. The trawl could easily accommodate the one-ton, fifteen-foot-long predator with the unusual, almost demonic horns adorning its broad, powerful skull. Temporal disorientation made it easier for the Chronos whitecoats to control even the strongest of beasts.

The population of prehistoric animals on the island indicated that the scientists were prolific in their efforts. The breadth of specimen containment’s cells was another clue, a dozen cages of various sizes. On quiet feet, Grant looked into the darkened prison, listening for signs of habitation.