“I’m on it.”
True draws her pistol.
“No, True,” Guiying pleads. “I will go to them and—”
“You can’t stop this,” True tells her. “They’ll kill you. They’ll kill us too. No witnesses.”
Staying low, she moves to back up Shaw. He’s got his Triple-Y braced against his shoulder. Peering down the sights, he leans out just far enough to fire.
Three seconds, three shots. True’s ears are ringing. From the end of the street, a human howl of pain to rival the siren.
“Top of the hill,” Colt says.
“Top of the hill!” True shouts. Still bent low, she swivels, pistol ready, and sees the expeditionary SUV rocking on its suspension as it finishes a hard turn into the street. She is in motion and vulnerable when Guiying shoves her, sending her reeling into the smooth wood of the open door.
A thump of impact. A jolt of pain in her shoulder. She draws a sharp breath acrid with the taste of toxic smoke.
Guiying steps past her. Steps out of the passage shouting, “Do not shoot!” The command swiftly repeated in Chinese, and then in Arabic.
True’s gaze connects with Shaw. She shares his shock, but only for a fraction of a second, and then he’s in motion. It’s instinct. His inherent nature. A remembrance of who he used to be. With the Triple-Y in his right hand, he steps after Guiying, hooks his left arm around her waist, and hauls her back toward shelter—a heroic effort interrupted by a blast of heat and steam.
True’s eyes squeeze shut against the shock wave. Her brain registers a wet popping noise, easily audible over the wail of the civil defense siren. And Shaw starts screaming.
Fuck, she thinks, smelling a stink of burned flesh even before she opens her eyes. Fuck, fuck, fuck. She doesn’t need to look to know the laser tagged him. Colt is talking to her but she’s not listening.
She grits her teeth and thinks, Do what needs to be done.
She hasn’t forgotten the expeditionary, charging down between the parked cars. She swivels again toward the street, fires two shots at the windshield to discourage it. To her surprise, white stars of damage appear in the glass. Not bulletproof? The driver brakes hard. He looks as surprised as she is. The assholes probably bought the damn thing thirty minutes ago from a used car lot.
So she’s gained a few seconds. She pockets the pistol and goes to her knees, letting the parked cars hide her from the soldiers in the truck. That’s when she sees Guiying—and realizes Shaw was not the laser’s only victim. The blast must have hit both of them, but Shaw didn’t take the worst of it. He’s still alive, still screaming.
Shock stops True cold as she stares at what’s left of Li Guiying. The roboticist’s upper body has been disintegrated by the laser’s fierce energy. Her lower torso and legs are all that’s recognizable.
Questions crowd True’s brain: Did Kai Yun hit her on purpose? Did they mean to erase her existence? Or was Shaw the target and Guiying’s death a mistake?
Process it later, True chides herself. No choice.
Praying the laser will need time to recharge, she reaches out over the blasted remains, reaches into the sunlight, far enough to scoop up Shaw’s Triple-Y from where it’s fallen into the street. She scrambles back and stands up, bringing it to her shoulder. The expeditionary is retreating fast. She hits it anyway with a double burst across the windshield as it reaches the top of the block and backs out of sight.
“What do we got, Dad?” she murmurs as the siren continues to wail.
“Street is clear for the moment. It’s not going to last.”
“Roger that.”
Dreading what she will find, she turns at last to look at Shaw.
He’s down and writhing on the threshold. His AR visor is cast aside along with his earpiece. Guiying’s body must have shielded him but he’s still hit bad.
His left shoulder is burned to the bone. True can see the shoulder joint past a two-inch-diameter gouge where a bite has been taken out of his thin protective vest and the flesh beneath vaporized. But the wound is much bigger than that, much worse, because the surrounding muscle has been cooked by the heat. The damaged tissue is already swelling and weeping fluids. The gouge continues across his chest. It burned through his shirt, leaving it smoldering, and scarred the lightly armored vest underneath. The vest’s cloth covering is smoldering too.
She locks down her revulsion, her horror. No time for it. Assess the situation.
He has fallen over the threshold, partway outside, and is surely visible from overhead. Yet the laser hasn’t fired again. Possible the UAV is out of position or the laser might still be recharging, gathering power for a direct strike. Or maybe Kai Yun has decided they want to recover him alive, question him on his relation with Li Guiying.
They better hurry up, she thinks.
Already his screams are subsiding into an inarticulate bleating growl. True thinks maybe it’s a fatal wound, whether he gets help or not.
Two seconds have gone to observation and assessment. Seconds she regrets, and tries to make up for now.
She slings the Triple-Y, digs her fingers around the waist of his pants, grabs his good arm at the elbow, and drags him back into the shelter of the passage so he can’t be hit again. He’s got to be at least a hundred eighty pounds, but the smooth floor tiles and her adrenaline let her do it.
He fights her. He claws at the floor with his right hand, kicking, sputtering syllables that might be parts of curses.
Meanwhile, from up the street, competing with Shaw, competing with the siren, competing with the ringing in her ears and the cacophony in her head, a voice shouts in Arabic-accented English that she needs to come out. And another layer of sound beyond that: the fierce roar of a jet engine growing rapidly louder, closer.
The Arkinson? Maybe. She hopes Shaw wasn’t piloting it. She hopes it’s autonomous.
Shaw goes still—they both do—as a jet streaks in, so close its roaring engine overwhelms the siren and shakes the building’s masonry. True drops belly-down beside Shaw as an autocannon hammers the street, kicking up concrete chips that pelt the passageway. Then the jet sweeps away.
True sits up again, shoulders heaving as she catches her breath. Sweat salts her skin. She registers these sensations along with the smell of burned flesh, and the dust-dry odor of broken concrete, and the acrid taste of jet wash. She turns to look at Shaw. He’s on his back, eyes half open. His breathing is rapid and shallow. He’s not moaning anymore.
Bad signs, she thinks.
“Dad, if you’re still there, give me a sitrep. What’s out there?”
She reaches for Shaw’s pack, thinking she saw a med kit in there when she was getting the extra magazine.
Colt says, “Street’s still clear.”
“Can you see the Arkinson?”
“I’m a fucking worm on the ground! I’m lucky I can see anything.”
She tries to sound soothing. “I know.”
She finds the med kit. Pulls out the wound packing. He’s not bleeding much, but she’ll need to stabilize the joint, cover the injury to keep it clean.
Colt says, “Girl, this might be your only chance to run.”
“Not going to happen,” she tells him. She makes that promise to Shaw, speaking into his ear to ensure he hears: “You were there for Diego. I’m here for you. I won’t leave you.”
To her surprise, he speaks, gruff words forced past his pain. “She dead?”
“Yes. I’m sorry. I saw what you did. You tried to save her.”
“Fucking stupid,” he whispers. “What the fuck was I thinking?”