Tinman was moving forward as well, and from a shadowy corner, the saw roared to life again as one of the surviving Russians ran at them in a mad dash, wielding the bulky machine.
Hex pivoted fifteen degrees and ended the chainsaw massacre before it started. The man dropped to the ground, still holding on to the machine. The blade showered sparks when it collided with the concrete floor before grinding to a halt.
Hex turned back to Gernot, who was now heading for the door. He’d taken a rifle from one of the dead soldiers and fired back wildly. It was more for cover than actual aim, but Hex was hit. He rocked back from the gut shot into his body armor, and then another in the chest. He barely seemed to notice, but still retreated behind one of the concrete pillars in the room.
Blake noticed how smoothly Hex was moving. He remembered his scuffle with the commando in the hallway of The Knotty Beaver so long ago, remembered shackling Hex’s ankle to the door, and afterwards, seeing Hex gingerly test the pained ankle as he supported himself on parallel bars in the rec room at Wallace’s New York location. Now the man seemed unbothered by his injury. Then Blake remembered. Oh yes … of course. That hadn’t happened in this timeline.
It was down to the last Russian commando now; he chose self-preservation and ran for the exit as well.
Hex broke from cover, bringing his pistol around for another shot. Gernot saw what was coming and snatched the fleeing soldier, holding him in place as a human shield just as Hex pulled the trigger.
The unfortunate man’s body gave a spasm when the bullet hit, and he seized, arms contorting in a strange position. Gernot still held the shaking man upright, dragging him backward as he drew closer to the door. But the commando was dead weight now, the heels of his boots scraping the floor as Gernot pulled him along.
Gernot seemed to realize his friend, the bullet catcher, was no longer useful. He let go of the man, but not before snatching something from the soldier’s belt as a parting gift. He passed through the entryway and tossed the item into the center of the room. It soared through the air, bounced on the ground, and rolled to a stop in the midst of the group.
Then Gernot was gone, and all eyes flew to the small object on the floor. Everyone in the room mentally counted to three.
64
Loc, Clock, and Two Smoking Barrels
Who was to say this wasn’t how it was supposed to be? That this had already been preordained by a higher power. Was it not all just a construct of moments that flowed in the correct line and pacing? Had it not been written, that this is what would come to pass? That it all boiled down to a series of unchanging events? Or was it all predestined from the beginning?
Each man in the room held their own beliefs, reactions or thoughts. Blake’s and Ethan’s were mirrors of one another: We’re fucked!
Tinman was in the corner of the room, still near the dead soldier with the power saw. Too far to do anything for anyone other than himself.
Jackman was torn between duty and choice. The grenade was positioned between the two tables. If it went off now, both Tannors were forfeit. Or he would have to make a choice to save one over the other — but which? The time constraints permitted only one.
It was Hex who seemed to give the least amount of thought to the situation, and yet he gave the most. Or had it just been instinct? With the amount of time given only enough to save one, Hex made a different choice. He chose to save all.
But was it a choice of free will or God’s will? He’d always taken the most risk on missions. He believed, as he’d said before, “You can’t change shit.” Why? Was it foolish thinking? Did he believe this had happened before? An endless cycle of repetition that couldn’t be changed regardless of the route chosen?
In the end, none of that mattered. All that did was what happened next.
Hex leapt over the table that held Ethan. Time seemed to slow to a crawl as the man who held the great curse landed squarely atop the grenade a half-second before it exploded.
There was a concussive thud as explosive materials collided against Hex’s torso, ripping into his chest armor with fatal vengeance. Covering the grenade absorbed the blast but not the sound, and Blake’s eardrums rang from the piercing shriek of the detonation.
Still strapped to the table, he was unable to cover his ears. He opened and closed his jaw to clear the buzzing that was making his head spin.
Slow seconds passed and normal sounds returned to him with clarity: the crackling of boots stepping on busted concrete, and Jackman shouting commands into the microphone inside his facemask.
When Blake opened his eyes he saw Reaper kneeling at Hex’s side, checking for a pulse that he knew would not be there. He spoke into the headset again. “Zodiac, Priest, Worm. Hex is down. Repeat Hex is down.”
A muted yell of response filtered out from Jackman’s earpiece, but Blake couldn’t distinguish whose voice it was.
Jackman barked back, “No. He isn’t ambulatory. We’ve got a KIA. Call it in, Worm.”
Blake knew what that meant, and he saw Ethan had registered the same information. Killed in Action. A demonstration of pure sacrifice had just been made on everyone’s behalf. Blake had witnessed this before and it never ceased to bring him spiritually to his knees. He gave a silent prayer of thanks to Hex.
Hex’s words from what seemed like eons ago came to him again, “You die, and you die alone.” At this very moment Blake couldn’t disagree with that more; Ethan, Tinman, Jackman, and Blake were all here with the fallen soldier.
As Tinman removed the surgical tubing and cut the straps that held Ethan, he gave quick glances at the door in expectation of a Russian counter-attack. When the last binding was sliced clean, Tinman stowed his knife in the sheath attached to his chest and placed one of his side arms on the table for Ethan. He kept the entrance covered with his rifle as he moved sideways to Blake’s table. In a quick motion, the knife was back out. He cut Blake free, keeping his hold on the rifle and his gaze on the front of the room as he worked. Then he went to the door.
Blake sat up, pushed off the ties — felt the tingling in his fingers as blood rushed back — and held his hand out for a weapon. Jackman was at his side then, handing a nasty looking handgun to Blake.
Crouching on one knee, Tinman stared down the sights of his weapon, waiting for intruders. “Where are we regrouping, sir?”
Jackman at first seemed deaf to the question, but he glanced at his watch and answered, “We’re not.” His voice was an echo behind the mask. “Time is running out. They’re going to jump.” He gestured to the gun Blake now held. “That has a thirty round mag, it’s fully automatic and rounds can go quick. Don’t waste them.”
Then the head commando bent over Hex again, removing the sidearm holster and ammunition from the dead man’s undamaged lower body. Hex’s rifle had been blown to pieces, and Jackman kicked it aside in a fit of savage frustration at losing one of his men. Then his military bearing returned, and he calmed instantly. He went to Blake and strapped the weapon and ammo pouches around his waist.
“That was smart work you did with the tracker. How’d you pull that off?” Jackman said, not looking at Blake as he fastened the straps.
Blake tapped his jaw. “I had it implanted in a fake molar. When we were taken, I pulled it out and stuck it inside my leg wound. For a second there, I thought it hadn’t worked.”