Machine-gun fire rang out from the other weapon turrets. Judging from the muzzle angles, they were aiming at boats.
But how had Horn and his men gotten past security?
She considered throwing her dagger at Moreto to stop her, but the woman was already too far away. When she got to the machine-gun nest, she kept running, right over the edge.
More explosions rocked the airship. The skinwalkers’ bullets were hammering the machine-gun nests across the northern edge of the rooftop.
Magnolia hunched down in the nest where Moreto had leaped, just as tracer rounds nearly took off her head. On all fours, Magnolia climbed over the two dead militia soldiers. Her hands slopped into the blood pooling around their mangled corpses.
One of the men grabbed her.
“Help me,” he mumbled, gripping a spurting wound.
Another blast went off behind her as a second machine-gun nest vanished in smoke. Most of the sky people had retreated toward the elevator, but they couldn’t all go down at once.
She spotted Michael and Layla waiting to get on behind Cole and Bernie. Rodger was running toward her with a rifle.
When Magnolia turned back to the injured soldier, his eyes had closed in shock.
“Rodge, help me!” she yelled.
He climbed into the nest and pressed on the man’s belly while Magnolia risked a glance over the sandbags.
Another flurry of rounds forced her down. The spray then chopped into the machine-gun position to her right, blowing one of the soldiers backward in a spray of red mist.
She picked up a dropped assault rifle and moved closer to the edge for a better look.
“Mags, be careful!” Rodger shouted.
Now she saw why the militia hadn’t detected the skinwalkers’ vessels.
Three hundred yards out, a submarine had surfaced.
Another shell exploded behind her, followed by a chorus of screams. Ducking, she turned. A projectile had hit the elevator cage. It had been packed with people frantic to get off the rig.
Twisted metal and smoldering bodies lay strewn under a pall of smoke.
“Mom! Dad!” Rodger shouted.
A force suddenly slammed into Magnolia, knocking her backward. She managed to bring up her hand to shield her face as a scorching wall of fire washed over her and Rodger.
FIFTEEN
“Layla!” Michael screamed.
His voice sounded faint. Everything did. Dense smoke filled his lungs and burned his eyes, blocking his view of the carnage. Coughing and retching, he crawled across the deck, searching frantically for his best friend and mother of his unborn child.
Hot, twisted metal stung his hand. He reached out for Layla. How could she just be gone?
His mind filled with morbid thoughts, and he pushed them away. He wiped away blood that had dripped into his eye. More seeped down the back of his head, but he ignored the injury.
All that mattered was finding Layla.
He shouted her name again, then broke into another deep, guttural cough. The strain sent spots swarming in his vision.
He moved on his knees, feeling with his hands. The robotic fingers hit something, and he reached over with his real hand to check a body wet to the touch. Warm, slick blood dripped off his fingers.
The smoke cleared enough to reveal the body of a Cazador scribe. Imulah was a few feet away, sprawled on his back but breathing. He rolled over and coughed violently, drooling blood.
As the smoke dissipated, Michael saw more bodies.
Closest were a male and female, both blown down in the blast. Somehow, they were still holding hands. The woman was facing him, sort of. He couldn’t tell who she was, because a hunk of shrapnel stuck out where her nose should be. Then he saw the clock tattoo on the arm of the man holding her dead hand.
“No,” Michael choked.
The bodies were Bernie and Cole Mintel. He was checking Cole for a pulse when movement came through the wall of swirling black.
Militia soldiers swarmed the roof to help the wounded. Sergeant Wynn helped Michael to his feet. He said something, but Michael still couldn’t hear much.
“Layla!” he shouted. “Have to find Layla! Have you seen Layla?”
Wynn shook his head, and Michael pushed away from him to search the crowd of wounded staggering away from the debris field.
“layla!” Michael yelled.
He turned in all directions, disoriented from the smoke that still swirled around the blast zone.
How could he have lost her when she had been right by his side at the elevator cage?
Medics and civilians rushed by him to render aid. His heart hammered as if it were trying to break free. He turned in a full circle, stopping at the sight of a woman with her arm around a militia soldier.
Seeing her short hair, he staggered toward the thickest part of the smoke, screaming, “Layla!”
And then he saw her, standing on the deck, a hand on her stomach, blood streaking down her chin.
Layla sobbed, her lips quivering.
He ran over and wrapped her in his arms. They embraced, both of them coughing as they tried to speak.
Still half dazed, Michael guided her away from the twisted metal and body parts. He heard faint screams and, over them, more distant gunfire and an explosion, then another noise. It sounded like the blast of thrusters.
He looked to the sky as Discovery pulled away from the capitol tower, rising into the clouds. Two missiles streaked after it, but there were no blasts to indicate it had been hit.
Michael led Layla to the gardens, not stopping until they were free of the smoke. Several injured people sat with their backs against the square-sided planters while medics worked on them.
“Here,” Michael said. He got her to sit on a bench and then bent down to look her over. Tears rolled down her ashen face, and blood trickled from a gash on her chin.
“Are you okay?” he asked her. “Does anything hurt?”
He couldn’t hear her answer, but she shook her head. To which question, though?
She arched her back, wincing.
“You fell on your back?”
A nod.
Better, maybe, than falling on her belly.
“Tin! Layla!” said a voice that Michael could actually hear.
He turned toward the scene of chaos. A phalanx of militia soldiers shielded the king.
Ton and Victor led the escort over to the gardens, holding metal shields in a defensive position.
“We have to get off the roof,” X said.
Victor pointed and led the way.
Michael took Layla’s hand and followed through the extensive gardens. There were no cages to take them down to the lower decks—just ladders. He didn’t like the idea of her climbing down, but they had no choice if they wanted to get off the rooftop.
Victor waved the group toward the two exit ladders. On the right ladder, more medics and civilians worked to lower the incapacitated, while any injured who could walk used the other. Imulah and another scribe were being helped onto the rungs.
A dull ringing lingered in Michael’s ears, but by the time Victor made it to the back of the line, he was hearing better.
“We have to get the king down!” someone yelled. “The submarine went under, and no telling when it’ll come back.”
“Get the others down first!” X shouted.
Submarine… With Layla’s hand in his, Michael cautiously approached the ladders. He stopped a few feet back to look at the water but didn’t see any enemy craft.
The small line inched forward as more people climbed down to the lower levels.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Michael asked Layla yet again.
“I… I think so,” she said. “Bernie and Cole… They took most of the blast, I think. They knocked me down during the explosion.”