And that’s why a machine gun is no substitute for someone who can actually shoot, Henry told the Gemini soldiers silently as he and Danny ran down the alley to the next building. This one was a lot larger than the liquor store and more substantial, not as easy to destroy with an M134. Henry shot out the lock but just as he opened the door there was a second shot. Danny cried out in pain and fell to her knees with a ragged, bloody hole in one thigh.
Henry looked back toward the liquor store and saw one of the soldiers had dragged himself up on the side of a garbage can and was taking aim, about to fire again.
Henry let out a wordless yell of rage and put a round through the guy’s forehead before dragging Danny through the door.
Junior’s shoulder hurt like hell. Rolling out of the Jeep had partially reopened the gunshot wound. He could thank the ham-handed medic on the plane for that.
He’d told her to just get the goddam bullet out and close up the hole but she’d tried to insist he get undressed and put on scrubs. He’d had no intention of letting his father see him in scrubs. The medic had kept arguing with him about hygiene this and sterile that and he’d finally gotten so frustrated he’d removed the goddam bullet himself with his combat knife. Then he’d told her if she didn’t want to close the incision he could handle that, too, with a sewing needle and some dental floss.
For a moment, he thought she might go off on him; instead, she gave a resigned sigh and told him to take his shirt off—just his shirt, he could put it back on later—and lie down. Even though she used glue instead of stitches, she had injected his shoulder with lidocaine before he could tell her not to. She gave him a couple of other injections she claimed were antibiotics but Junior knew there was something extra in them; he could feel analgesics at work.
The medic had probably thought she was doing him a favor. In fact, the drugs had screwed up his sensory control. The painkillers were starting to wear off and his usual techniques for managing pain weren’t working as well as usual. And of course she hadn’t given him any extra pills for later, expecting him to march over to the infirmary and see the doctor right after they landed as if he were some delicate flower of a civilian who needed to be hospitalized for a mere flesh wound!
Still, he probably shouldn’t have parkoured his way up to the roof of the Masonic Hall with his shoulder in that condition. But he knew his father would be up there watching everything and it was the only way to get to him without some bodyguard tipping him off in advance.
It wasn’t really that the pain was too much—he had managed to get the better of it so it was now background noise rather than a blaring siren. But it had put him in a foul mood, too foul to tolerate his so-called father’s son-I-love-you horseshit. Especially not after that RPG.
Just the sight of Verris standing there looking down on Glennville like he was a heroic general overseeing a battle to decide the fate of the world made Junior want to kick his ass.
Fuck it, he thought and drew his sidearm. “Stand your men down, Pop,” he said. “Now.”
Verris turned, saw the gun in Junior’s hand, and looked positively delighted. “You did the right thing,” Verris told him happily. “Getting away from Brogan—”
“I did the cowardly thing!” Junior shouted at him. “And it makes me sick!”
His so-called father shook his head. “I was asking too much of you,” he said in a soothing, reasonable tone. His father was handling him again; it made Junior want to punch him. “I see that now. But that doesn’t mean you—”
“He deserved better than a missile fired at his car, Pop!” Junior said angrily. “They all did!”
“ It doesn’t matter what he deserves. He has to die,” said Verris, his voice still relentlessly reasonable but with an undertone that suggested Junior was starting to try his patience.
“Are you gonna call these clowns off?” Junior demanded. His shoulder was throbbing like a second heart, pumping angry pain all through him.
“No,” his father said. “But you can. All you have to do is fire that sidearm and take command.” He spread his arms; there was a radio in his left hand.
What. The. Fuck? Junior looked from Verris to the radio and back again. Was his father telling him to shoot him—kill him? Junior had thought he might have to fight Verris and subdue him. But kill him? Was this really what his father wanted? It didn’t make any sense.
Over the years, Verris had been harsh, rigid, immovable, domineering, tyrannical, and sometimes unforgiving, but everything had always made sense—granted, a very twisted kind of sense, like Verris wanting him to kill Henry. That was pretty demented—the whole clone thing was batshit—but he had always been able to follow his father’s thinking. Not now, though; he didn’t get this at all.
Verris spread his arms a little wider: I’m the target, shoot me. “Well?” he said.
Junior had never done anything that didn’t make sense to him and he wasn’t going to start now. He holstered his weapon.
Verris’s hopeful expression turned to disappointment. Junior decided he could live with that. If this was his idea of being a good father, God only knew what the man thought a bad one would do.
But he could show Verris that a good soldier could do the right thing without shooting his own CO. Junior approached him slowly and reached for the radio he was still holding out to one side.
Verris seemed to move impossibly fast as he reached around Junior, put his free hand inside the back of his shirt and yanked hard, pulling him down onto the gravel surface of the roof.
“I don’t think so,” he said, stepping back from him easily, lightly, almost as if he were dancing.
Junior pushed himself to his feet, trying to ignore his screaming shoulder and the feel of blood oozing from the wound, which had opened a little more.
“A loving, dedicated, present father,” Junior said, making it an accusation.
Verris darted forward and gave him a hard right that rattled his teeth. Junior staggered back a few steps but managed to stay on his feet. Before he could get his fists up, however, Verris pounced again and got both hands around his throat. Junior returned the favor.
It was like grabbing a handful of writhing snakes made of cartilage and muscle, all fighting to get away from him. The old man was in exceptional condition and crazy-strong—his fingers felt like steel bands. If he couldn’t break away, his dedicated, loving, present father was going to crush his throat, and then maybe pitch his body off the roof.
His vision started to dim. If he fell over, Verris would land on top and that would be the end. Fortunately, his sense of balance was still functioning—he let his hands fall away, then stamped hard on Verris’s instep while simultaneously punching both the man’s forearms upward, breaking his hold. His father staggered back and they locked eyes.
Felt that, didn’t you, Junior thought at him. Come at me again, you’ll feel worse.
But Verris didn’t come at him. He gave a short laugh and pointedly turned his back to look down at the street again, letting him know he was too busy to waste any more time teaching him a lesson he should have already learned.
Junior lowered his head and charged. The two of them went down hard, their bodies plowing a shallow trench in the gravel. Junior felt a hot spike of pain in his shoulder and clenched his teeth, refusing to cry out. Verris twisted around underneath him, grabbed him, and dug his thumb into the wound.