She didn’t much care for mood swings in others, and she liked them even less in herself.
But damn it, it wasn’t fair. She should have stood up to John. She should have done something about this.
And abruptly, she decided she would.
Slinging her medical bag over her shoulder, she picked up her rifle and cautiously opened the door. No one and nothing was moving out there. Listening to the deadly clatter of minigun fire and the pounding of her own heart, she headed out into the darkness.
The sounds of the distant explosions faded away, and as they did so another burst of minigun fire rattled across the cold night air. Balancing precariously on one of the skeletal seats in the overturned bus he and the others had moved into an hour ago, Barnes raised his head up through one of the glassless windows. Maybe this time there would be something out there to see.
Not yet. Wherever the Terminators were operating, whoever they were killing, they hadn’t yet made it to this part of the neighborhood. Lowering his head, he dropped back into the bus’ interior and looked at Dozer and Reynolds.
To find them looking right back at him.
“Something wrong?” he asked.
The two men glanced at each other. “Just wondering if us being here is really such a good idea,”
Dozer said.
Barnes grimaced. The man did have a point. When a team was as outnumbered and outgunned as theirs was, standard military doctrine was to stay together, taking advantage of mutual support and overlapping fields of fire. Connor had already gone out on a limb by sending David and Tunney out on their own, even if all three of those squads would eventually end up converging on the same target.
But to then split off Barnes’ squad this way, especially given how isolated they now were from everyone else, was pushing the doctrine to breaking point.
But he wasn’t going to tell Dozer that. You never second-guessed your commander in the middle of an operation. You especially didn’t second-guess John Connor. “Connor knows what he’s doing,” he told the men brusquely.
“Sounds like they’re getting closer,” Simmons murmured. He was crouched at the wide opening where the bus’ rear doors had once been, peering out into the night.
Barnes focused on the sound of the minigun bursts. Simmons was right. It wouldn’t be long now.
“We have a specific plan?” Reynolds asked.
Barnes shrugged.
“We wait till they get near Moldavia’s archway, then we blow ’em to splinters.”
“I like it,” Simmons commented dryly. “Simple, direct, and effective.”
There was a sudden sound of feet on gravel, and Pavlova ducked in beside Simmons.
“They’re coming,” she said, panting as she holstered her .45 and picked up her rifle. “I make it five T-600s, heading in from the west on the second cross street to the north.”
“Walking straight down Orozco’s throat,” Barnes growled. “Okay, take your—”
“Movement!” Simmons cut in. “Someone—human—coming around the first corner to the north.
Heading our way.”
Barnes cursed under his breath as he hurried toward the rear of the bus. One of Orozco’s people trying to make a run for it? Some lunatic ganger out for a stroll? He reached Simmons’ side—
Just as Kate Connor slipped past Simmons into the bus.
Barnes felt his mouth drop open in surprise. “What—?”
“John changed his mind,” she said, breathing a little heavily as she unslung the rifle from her shoulder. “He thought I’d be safer with you than back there alone.”
“Right,” Barnes said, gazing hard into her eyes.
But she returned his gaze steadily, and after a moment Barnes gave a little shrug. If you didn’t second-guess John Connor, you also didn’t second-guess John Connor’s wife.
“Fine,” he said, pointing to the middle of the bus. “There’s your station, right below mine and Simmons’. You’ll be on reload and backup duty.”
“Got it.” Giving a brisk nod, Kate stepped past him and headed for the pile of ammo bags.
Barnes glanced around at the others. None of them looked particularly happy that Kate had crashed the party. But somehow, none of them looked all that surprised, either. “What are you all staring at?” he growled. “Get to your stations. We’ve got some Terminators to kill.”
There was another burst of minigun fire, this one much closer than the last few had been. Orozco peered over the fountain wall toward the archway, resettling his grip on his M16.
It wouldn’t be long now.
He took a moment to look to his left, across the line of men and a few women who were crouching with him along the back side of the fountain’s wall. Half turning, he scanned the balcony, where the rest of the teams were lined up. With the building’s rear and sides blocked and booby-trapped, the main entrance was now the only way for the Terminators to get in.
This was where the war for Moldering Lost Ashes would take place.
Everyone else knew that, too. And they were scared. Some of them were scared enough to be well on the way to being terrified.
But they were still there. None of them had dropped his or her weapon and scurried away to try to find somewhere to hide.
They were good people Orozco knew as he let his eyes drift across each of their faces. It had been a privilege to live here among such people for the past two years.
It would be an honor to die among them.
A figure moved in the shadows at the very edge of the archway, and Orozco turned back to see Grimaldi hurrying across the lobby toward them. The chief rounded the fountain and dropped into cover beside Orozco.
“They’re coming,” he said as he snatched up his rifle, his own fear under tight control. “Five Terminators, heading down the street straight toward us.”
Orozco peered through the archway. He could see them now, too, dark figures moving against a slightly lighter background, striding through the shadow of the sniper nest building toward them.
“Five targets,” Orozco confirmed, resting the barrel of his M16 on the fountain wall. By all rights, he knew, he should have been the one up there at the archway, exposing himself to danger as he watched for the enemy to make its appearance. But Grimaldi had insisted that Orozco was too valuable to their defense, and had taken that duty himself.
“Remember: aim for the heads and necks,” he called softly to the rest of the fire team. “As they get closer, shift fire to hips and knees and try to cripple them. They’ll be firing, too, very hard and very fast, so keep yourselves as much under cover as you can. Grenadiers, stay under cover until they trigger the traps and I call for you. And do not light your fuses until I give the word.
“Everyone understand what you’re supposed to do?”
There was a flurry of tense acknowledgments.
“Good,” Orozco said, thumbing off the M16’s safety. “Hold your fire until they’re past the building and start across the street—we might as well take advantage of what little light is out there.”
He watched as the figures approached, lining up his sights on the head of the one in the center.
The Terminators reached the edge of the building’s shadow and stepped out into the pale moonlight, their rubber faces impassive, their right arms crooked at the elbow, their terrible miniguns pointed straight down the Ashes throat.
Holding his breath, Orozco tightened his finger on his trigger—
And without warning, a brilliant flash of light erupted in the very center of the Terminators’
formation. Two of the machines were instantly slammed flat on the ground by the impact. The other three staggered but managed to stay on their feet.