“God, you’re nuts.”
“I am perfectly sane, child. Who are you, by the way?”
“My friends call me Space. I suppose a lunatic can, too.” Soren turned with Thomas cradled under one arm. Instantly, Space set down the tray and was at their side. She slid her arm around Thomas from the other side. Soren was surprised at how light the man was, and remarked as much.
“I sneak him food when I can but it’s nowhere near enough. They keep a close eye on me.” Space shifted so Ben’s head rested on her shoulder. “They have me working in the kitchen. Me! Peeling spuds and chopping carrots. It’s too damn stupid for words.”
“At least they haven’t killed either of you.”
“They’re keeping me around for breeding purposes. Their very words.” Space tenderly touched Thomas’s sunken cheek. “They’ve been trying to make Ben tell them how they can get into that vehicle of yours, but he wouldn’t. That’s the only reason he’s still breathing.”
“We’ll get you to the Home, child. You’ll be safe there.”
“Whose home? Yours? Where is it?”
“I’ll explain later. Right now we must hurry.” They carried Ben Thomas out of the room and down the hall to the stairs. His feet dragged until Soren noticed and raised him higher.
“We’ve got to take it slow, mister. If we run into any of the Aryans and they sound the alarm, you’ll be up to your armpits in racists.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll protect you.”
Space angrily stamped a foot. “Damn it. You’re not taking this serious enough. Didn’t you hear me about the big meeting?”
“Didn’t you hear me about Mjolnir?”
“Listen, nut job. You have a hammer. They have guns. Lots and lots of guns. You won’t stand a snowball’s chance in hell. Our best bet is to sneak out before they notice I’m missing and come looking for me.”
Soren was paying attention to her and not their surroundings. He realized his mistake when they came to the landing and he looked up to find five well-armed men staring at them in amazement.
“Hold it right there!” one of them barked, and leveled a rifle.
21. Brothers in Arms
Robert Montoya was within twenty yards of the trailer. He had angled across the lot to come up on it from the rear. The Aryans behind it hadn’t seen him, and their backs were to him, which made no difference. Raising the Jati-Matic, he cut loose, felling them in their tracks. Montoya started around the trailer to join Slayne. He had only taken a few steps when the front doors of the factory slammed open and out rushed more Aryans. Caught in the open, he had no choice but to dive flat and spray lead.
Slayne did the same. Their combined hailstorm drove the Aryans inside, leaving half a dozen on the ground. “Get up here, Ricco. I’ll cover you.”
Montoya didn’t hesitate. He had a lot of open space to cover, but he had confidence in Slayne. He’d seen Slayne at target practice; the man seldom missed. He ran flat out. Slayne saw a head appear in the doorway and let off a burst to discourage any attempt to shoot Montoya. He watched the windows, too, and when a shadow filled one of them, he gave the shadow some slugs to chew on.
Montoya was almost to the cab when a single shot cracked. He felt the sting of impact and his left leg was nearly knocked out from under him. Limping, he returned fire and reached Slayne’s side. Slayne downed the shooter, an Aryan who had popped out of the open doorway. “Where are you hit?”
“The calf, I think. But I can manage.” Montoya fired at a window. “What do we do? We can’t stay here.” Slayne agreed. They were too exposed. They could take cover under the trailer, but the bottom was too high off the ground. Only the tires offered any protection, and he didn’t want them shot out. He pointed at a pair of large metal trash bins at the near corner of the building. “There,” he said. “You first. I’ve got your back.”
Montoya nodded. His leg pained him with every step and he hopped more than he ran but he made good speed. The possibility of taking a round in the back lent extra incentive. No shots rang out. Slayne kept expecting the Aryans to barrel from the factory in pursuit, but either they were regrouping or they had some other tactic up their sleeve. He reminded himself these weren’t professionals. They were ordinary citizens with little if any combat training. The Warriors were almost to the bins.
That was when men poured from the double doors, all of them firing at once. Slayne and Montoya snapped off bursts but couldn’t drive the Aryans back. Montoya reached a bin and crouched. Slayne darted behind the other one so they had a wider field of fire. One Aryan was barking commands and the rest were spreading out. The smart ones flattened and fired from prone positions.
Slayne did a scan and count. There had to be thirty or more. The odds were much too high. “Grenade.” Montoya quickly leaned the Jati-Matic against the bin and slipped off his backpack. He took out an M67, pulled the grenade away from the pin, and cocked his arm. “Frag out!” he yelled, and threw the grenade in a high loop.
Then he pressed against the bin.
Slayne did the same. He counted off four seconds in his head.
The M67 went off. It had a blast radius of forty-five feet but could hurl shrapnel out to two hundred or more. There were screams and curses, and in retaliation the Aryans poured a withering firestorm into the trash bins.
Slayne could hardly get off a burst for all the slugs pinging and whining past. Montoya clipped a man running toward them and nearly had his own ear taken off. The growl of an engine caused him to glance toward the front gate and the street beyond. A pickup loaded with reinforcements was hurtling toward the factory. “Incoming hostiles!”
“I see them.”
“God, I wish I had that battle suit you showed me back at the Home. I’d lick these bastards single-handed.”
Slayne’s mouth became a grim slit. Here they were, pinned down, one of them wounded, and they were about to be flanked. They needed to get out of there, but they wouldn’t get fifty feet in the open parking lot. They needed help and they needed it now. He said out loud what he had been thinking for some time:
“Where the hell is Thor?”
Soren was in motion before the words were out of the Aryan’s mouth. He smashed Mjolnir into the man’s face and was rewarded with a crunch and a spray of scarlet. Without breaking stride, Soren swung at a second enemy and caught him on the ear. The crunch this time was louder. A third Aryan tried to draw a revolver, but Soren pivoted and slammed Mjolnir against his skull. Now there were only two. Until now they had been too stupefied to move, but they started to bring up rifles just as Soren reached them. He shattered a knee, and when the Aryan screamed and doubled over, crushed a cranium. The last man fumbled with the lever on his rifle. He looked up and bleated in stark terror, “No!” Mjolnir was a streak in Soren’s hands. He stood over the five bodies, surveying them for signs of life.
“Dear God.” Space came over, holding Ben Thomas with both arms.
“Damn, you got moves, mister. That was slick.”
“We must hurry. My friends are in trouble.” Soren could hear the sounds of a firefight out in the parking lot. “Can you keep up?”
“Don’t worry about me. I’ll be right behind you.” Space hefted Ben, who mumbled something she couldn’t make out.
“What is the shortest way out the front?”
“Down this hall and take a left and then a right and you’re there. But we’ll run into the Aryans.”
“I want to run into them.” Soren pressed the rune that activated Mjolnir. The hammer hummed to life and he felt the throb of its power. He set it to Arc, at two million volts. The gunfire grew louder. They met with no opposition, and when they rounded the last corner and he saw the open double doors, he broke into a run. “Stay back until I clear the way.”