“Ah fuck…” Tan skidded to a halt. “That was the elevator shaft.”
Was Burrstone trying to escape? No. He was trying to draw the fight downstairs, to the civilians. Roman had to get down there. Now. He sprinted to the half-open elevator doors.
“Ready to follow him down?” he asked Tan.
Tan’s grin vanished. “You know, I told you to bring rope.”
“Actually, you told me to bring a barrel of rum.”
“I still reckon it wouldn’t hurt. I would rather not be sober for when we corner this bastard.”
“Is there anything you want to be sober for?”
“Drinking. I’d like to experience that with a clear mind.”
A discordant shriek of metal resonated up the elevator shaft. Burrstone was forcefully pulling open the doors at the bottom. Roman frowned, looking down as shouts of terror echoed up the four metal walls.
“Hell of a long way to fall, Boss,” Tan muttered.
“Hell’s at the end of a lot of falls.”
Roman tucked his revolver into his belt and slotted himself through the steel doors. He reached for the ladder built into the side of the shaft, his fingers closing around one of the rusted metal rungs. Oh please, let this be the one thing in this whole damn city that isn’t about to fall apart.
He took a long breath as he hung from the first rung, realizing that climbing down the ladder would take too long. So he took the faster option: he let go. Gravity sucked him down. He dropped into the shadows like a bullet, watching the rungs pass in front of him. One second. Two seconds. He reached out and re-grabbed the ladder, and his fall came to an abrupt halt. At the impact of his sudden weight, his shoulders threatened to tear out of their sockets. A curse slipped through his clenched teeth.
He let go again. This time he waited for only one breath before stopping himself. His shoulders screamed — it felt like shards of glass were caught deep in his bones. Three falls. His hand slipped on the fourth fall and his body was thrown against the side of the shaft. White lights danced in blackness in front of him. Five falls.
The sixth took him to the floor. Roman waited a moment at the bottom of the shaft, catching his breath. Then he stepped through the broken doors and back into the hall.
Burrstone stood in the middle of the room, grinning at the chaos around him. With his scarf removed, Roman could read the black tattoo written boldly across his neck: BX77. His personal Adrenalite code — the Security Ministry would have given him the tattoo when they first discovered his… condition. Burrstone’s chest was alive with light. The blue veins extending from the centre glow throbbed rhythmically. Roman could see them getting slightly longer with each pulse. Currently, they reached his shoulders, but they would lengthen the longer he was activated — his strength constantly increasing — until they crawled over his entire body.
Burrstone effortlessly picked up a table and threw it at a handful of civilians scrambling for the door. Most managed to dodge, but one girl — one of the waitresses — was too slow, and she crumbled, her limp body assisting the now broken table in blocking the exit. Most people had already escaped, but roughly three dozen were still scattered around the room, hiding in the corners behind upturned tables. Caleb stood behind the bar, carefully watching Burstone, but not making a move. Yet.
“Truth be told, I’m not in the mood for a brawl today,” Roman said as he pulled his revolver from his belt. Burrstone turned to face him. “And my joints aren’t what they used to be. So I’m going to give you one chance to surrender. Or else I’m going to have to use your head as a battering ram.”
“Go to hell. You fucking bounty hunter.”
Roman tensed. Three yards separated them — it wouldn’t take an Adrenalite more than half a second to cross that. But Burrstone took a slow step forward, surprisingly cautious. Behind him, Caleb cleared the bar and charged, broken table leg in hand. The wood broke across the Burrstone’s skull, splinters flying. The Adrenalite barely stumbled. Burrstone spun around and swung a punch. Caleb ducked aside just in time.
Firing was too dangerous with Caleb so close, so Roman swapped the revolver for the defoxican needle and leapt forward.
Burrstone twisted to face him. His eyes focused on the needle in Roman’s hand. Caleb swung a chair into the Adrenalite’s back and Burrstone dropped to one knee, one arm swinging a blind punch behind him, the other raised to block Roman’s strike.
At the last second, Roman tossed the needle between his hands and struck with his left.
There was a blur of movement and Roman’s attack met empty air. Fuck, he’s fast. Even for an Adrenalite. Roman leapt to the side, narrowly dodging Burrstone’s counter-blow. He retaliated with a strike to the chest, but Burrstone spun out the way, regaining his feet.
Roman fell into a defensive stance, grounding himself.
Burrstone picked up a table and swung it.
The wood slammed into Roman, driving him to the ground. The next thing he knew, Burrstone was on top of him. Roman punched, but Burrstone grabbed his wrist and pinned it against the floor.
With his free hand, Roman seized a glass tankard and smashed it into Burrstone’s face. Broken glass and booze went everywhere. Burrstone’s grip loosened and Roman rolled away. Shards of glass scratched at his back. He stumbled to his feet, gasping for breath. The stench of beer and blood stung at his senses.
Sounds of fighting behind him. Caleb screamed.
He turned around. Caleb was on the ground, blood pouring from his nose, and Burrstone was charging towards Roman.
The first rule of fighting an Adrenalite — never let yourself get hit. Roman ducked, Burrstone’s fist flying above him. Turning out of the way of a kick, he retreated a step, waiting for his chance. Burrstone threw two sharp jabs. Roman whirled aside, leaving Burrstone’s flank exposed. He lashed out, defoxication needle aimed for his opponent’s shoulder. But Burrstone was too quick — in a blur, he dodged and struck back with a punch to the chest.
Pain exploded in Roman’s ribs. The room spun upside down. Tables flew past. He fell towards the wall, and with a crunch that resonated through his bones, his flight met an abrupt end.
Roman felt his world fading to black. The throbbing pain began to weaken, the shouting grew distant.
“Uh… Hey, Old man…”
It felt like a soft cushion was squashed inside Roman’s skull.
“… you think this might be a good time…”
A high-pitched voice. The voice of a boy.
“…to, you know, let me have a turn… ? Please?”
Roman hated that voice.
“Ah fuck it… Roman!”
Pain seared across his cheek, pulling Roman back to consciousness. He was crumpled against the wall with Sparks crouched over him. The boy’s thin face beamed with excitement. The tattoo on his neck was written in bold like a warning. SX37. One of his unnaturally long arms was already beginning to reach into Roman’s coat.
Roman slapped the hand away. Fear mingled with the pain, along with a sense of finality — this was it, this is was why Sparks was here. Couldn’t put off the inevitable forever.
No. Not yet, you don’t need—
Caleb’s form flew across the hall, his bulk smashing a table clean in half as he landed.
—Yeah, I think we’re pretty desperate.
He pulled out the needle filled with adrenaline. Sparks eyed it greedily, rubbing his palms together.
“You have to promise me,” Roman said. “You’re only going to fight the target. Swear it.”
“Uh-huh. Beat up the ugly bald dude. I got it.”