All That Lives Must Die - Eric Nylund [216]
Everything hurt. Fiona was cut and bleeding and a slash in her side bubbled as she tried to inhale. It felt as if she were drowning.
At least she stopped those creeps before they killed anyone . . . except, maybe, her.
She laughed. That hurt, too.
She spotted three soldiers. They’d retreated into an alley and peered at her, astonished at what she had done . . . and that she still moved. One held a radio, spoke into it, looking at her—then up at the sky—back and forth.
She didn’t want to die here. The anger that had made her so strong before, though, was nowhere to be found. All she felt was her pain and a bitter cold as shock set in.
She hallucinated that Eliot and Robert stood by her. Oh—how she wished that were true. She would have given anything for Robert to take her hand and help her up.
She got to her knees. Hallucinations or not—she wouldn’t lie here and bleed to death.
She had to defend herself. Or get back to Mr. Ma.
Or, if she couldn’t do that, she’d at least be on her feet if this was the end.
Dizzy, Fiona pushed on her knees and rose. She looked at the clouds again. A line in the sky flattened and arced toward the street.
That was a contrail made by jet engines. She squinted and saw a Korean-war era warplane: a MiG-15. They had two 23 mm cannon.
It was doing . . . what was it called? A strafing run.
Funny how her last thoughts were from the old encyclopedia-loving Fiona Post. Maybe that’s what she truly was made of after all.
That was okay. She liked that Fiona Post.
She clutched the chain in her hands. She had no regrets about what she’d done. It had been the right thing—the only thing she could have done.
Fiona stood tall and proud and faced death as it rushed at her.
56. Translation from Spanish, “excrement-eating dog.”—Editor.
62
COLLATERAL DAMAGE
Eliot hung onto the sidecar for his life.
Robert’s Harley clipped an overturned car, and then narrowly missed several people (civilians and soldiers) running from the courtyard.
He swerved around a burning pickup, and Eliot realized that their insane speed was warranted. Maybe . . . they’d even gone too slow. In the center of the courtyard, Fiona stood nose to nose with an armored tank.
Eliot blinked to make sure he saw that right.
Fiona crouched and jumped at it, lashing forward with a thick chain. The chain wrapped about the turret and muzzle.
She pulled—severed metal from metal.
The tank exploded. Inside.
Steel and titanium mushroomed out—and a dozen detonations followed and lit the courtyard—blasted the armored tank to smithereens, as well the ground for twenty feet in every direction.
Fiona tumbled through the air, bounced, rolled . . . and lay limp in the dirt.
Was she dead? He and Robert should’ve gotten there faster. Done something. A cold, hard shape took form in Eliot’s mind—a dangerous thought that if his sister was gone, a lot of people were going to pay for it . . . starting with Uncle Henry and the League.
Robert ducked but didn’t slow as molten metal and shards of stone whizzed past them.
He skidded sideways next to Fiona.
Eliot jumped out of the sidecar, guitar in hand.
Robert stayed on the bike, pulled his Glock 29, and aimed at the three soldiers huddled in the alley.
One of the soldiers spoke into a handheld radio and pointed at the sky. The other two had Kalashnikov machine guns. They looked stunned, at least for the moment.
Eliot’s reached for Lady Dawn’s strings.
Robert was faster. He shot three times—one round cratered the wall over the soldiers’ heads. Two bullets hit the Kalashnikov stocks and shattered wood.
The soldiers dropped their weapons and ran.
Fiona moved . . . got to her knees, and slowly stood.
“Are you okay?” Eliot asked, helping her up.
This had to be the stupidest thing he’d asked in weeks, because blood trickled from Fiona’s ears and nose. She ignored Eliot and looked with glazed eyes up at the sky.
. . . To the same spot where that soldier had pointed.
Eliot turned. A MiG-15 jet dived toward them on what had to be a strafing run.
Robert