Artemis Fowl_ The Arctic Incident - Eoin Colfer [50]
They went, straight through the white heart of the flame. Trouble heard the filaments in his suit pop as they tried to cope with the heat. Boiling tar sucked at his boots, melting the rubber soles.
Then they were through, stumbling towards the double doors. Trouble scrubbed the soot from his visor. His men were waiting, huddled behind riot shields. Two paramedic warlocks had their gloves off, ready to lay on hands.
Ten metres to go.
On they ran.
The goblins found range. A hail of charges sang through the air around them, pulverizing what was left of the Emporium’s shop front. Trouble’s crown lurched forward as a slug flattened itself against his helmet. More charges. Lower down. A tight grouping between his shoulder blades. The sandwich board held.
The impact lifted the captain like a kite, slapping him into his brother, and carrying them both through the decimated double doors. They were instantly hauled behind a wall of riot shields.
‘Grub,’ gasped Captain Kelp, through the pain and noise and soot. ‘Is he OK?’
‘Fine,’ answered the senior warlock paramedic, rolling Trouble on to his stomach. ‘Your back on the other hand, is going to have some lovely bruises in the morning.’
Captain Kelp waved the warlock away. ‘Any word from the commander?’
The warlock shook his head. ‘Nothing. Root is missing in action and Cudgeon has been reinstated as commander. Even worse, now they’re saying Foaly is behind this whole thing.’
Trouble paled, and it wasn’t from the pain in his back. ‘Foaly! It can’t be true.’
Trouble ground his teeth in frustration. Foaly and the commander. He had no choice, he would have to do it. The one thing he had nightmares about.
Captain Kelp struggled up on to one elbow. The air above their heads was alive with the buzz of Softnose bursts. It was only a matter of time before they were completely overrun. It had to be done.
Trouble took a breath. ‘OK, people. Listen up. Retreat to Police Plaza.’
The troops froze. Even Grub caught himself in mid-sob. Retreat?
‘You heard me!’ snarled Trouble. ‘Retreat. We can’t hold the streets without arms. Now move it out.’
The LEP shuffled to the service entrance, unaccustomed to losing. Call it retreat, call it a tactical manoeuvre. It was still running away. And who would have thought that order would ever come out of Trouble Kelp’s mouth?
ARCTIC SHUTTLE PORT
Artemis and his fellow travellers took shelter in the shuttle port. Holly made the journey slung over Butler’s shoulder. She protested loudly for several minutes until the commander ordered her to shut up.
‘You’ve just had major magical surgery,’ he pointed out. ‘So just stay quiet and do your exercises.’ It was vital that Holly manipulate her finger constantly for the next hour or so to ensure the right tendons got reconnected. It was very important she move her index finger the way she intended to use it later, especially as she would be firing a weapon.
They huddled around a glow cube in the deserted departure lounge.
‘Any water?’ asked Holly. ‘I feel dehydrated after that healing.’
Root winked, something that didn’t happen very often. ‘Here’s a little trick I learned in the field.’ He popped a flat-nosed shell from a clip in his belt. It seemed to be made from perspex and filled with clear liquid.
‘You won’t get much of a drink from that,’ commented Butler.
‘More than you’d think. This is a Hydrosion shell: a miniature fire extinguisher. The water is compressed into a tiny space. You fire it into the heart of a fire and the impact reverses the compressor. Half a litre of water is blasted at the flames. More effective than a hundred litres poured. We call them Fizzers.’
‘Very good,’ said Artemis drily. ‘If you could use your weapons.’
‘Don’t need ‘em,’ said Root, drawing a large knife. ‘Manual works just as well.’
He pointed the shell’s flat tip at the mouth of a canteen and popped the lid. A fizzing spray jetted into the container.
‘There you are, Captain. Never let it be said I don’t look after my officers.’
‘Clever,’ admitted Artemis.
‘And the best thing is,’ said the commander, pocketing