Halo_ First Strike - Eric S. Nylund [141]
John wasn't so sure of that. The name Brute didn't sound promising. He also wondered why there now seemed to be more than one Cortana in the station's system—but that could wait. They had to keep moving now that they had revealed their position. He waved Blue Team forward.
John took point. He moved up to the next column in the middle of the building. Fred and Will stepped over to the columns on either side behind John. Grace had their backs.
There was a flicker on his motion sensor—just ahead. It vanished.
John held up his hand. Blue Team froze.
His motion detector was clear ... but there had been something there. He pulled out a frag grenade. The transient contact was back—a shadow moved around the
same pillar John used for cover. It moved faster than an Elite— as fast as John. He fired his rifle point blank into the shadowy silhouette. It didn't slow—it only howled with rage. Will and Fred fired three-round bursts from their rifles into the creature. It flinched with each bullet impact. Three explosions detonated behind them. Grace's biosign alarm shrilled and flashed on John's heads-up display.
"Ambush!" Will cried out.
The creature Cortana had called a "Brute" stepped from the shadows and faced John. It was taller than an Elite—wider and more muscular. Its mouth was lined with razor-sharp teeth, and its red eyes burned with hate. Its blue-gray skin was riddled with bullet holes.
The Brute tackled John, knocking his weapon from his grasp.
Even with his MJOLNIR armor, John was not as strong as the alien.
It pounded on him with bare fists—broke through his shielding, grabbed his neck, and squeezed.
Red flashes played across John's vision. He began to black out.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
1751 hours, September 13,2552 (revised date,Military Calendar)\Aboard Covenant battle station
Unyielding Hierophant.
John struggled and tried to pry the hands from his throat. The tendons in the Brute's forearms were solid bands of steel—and the creature was so determined to rip John's head off that a full clip from a rifle into its chest hadn't even slowed it down.
Behind him, John felt another explosion thunder though the stone floor, followed by the staccato rattle of rifle fire.
Blue Team was busy with another threat. He was on his own.
John blinked. The darkness dimming the edge of his vision wouldn't clear.
John watched his shield bar flicker and sluggishly recharge. If it built up enough repulsive force, he might have a chance to wriggle out of the Brute's grasp. If he tried too quickly, though, the Brute wouldn't lose its grip and could pound his shield flat again.
The Brute bellowed, and globules of spittle spattered onto the Chief's visor. It leaned closer, screwing its massive hands tighter around his throat.
John's vision narrowed. His windpipe swelled, and he gagged.
Shields were at one quarter charge. It'd have to be enough.
John had been in similar death-grip holds before—endless hours of training on the wrestling mats with his teammates and martial arts specialists provided by Chief Mendez. There were ways to escape a larger, stronger opponent. And there were always countermoves to those escapes. And countermoves to those counters. It was like a game of chess, except the pieces were arms and legs, torque and your center of mass ... and most importantly your mind.
He pulled his knees to his chest, and tucked his torso toward his pelvis at the same time. He twisted ninety degrees and shot out both legs and arms, and uncoiled his body. The maneuver was called "shrimping."
John's head slipped from the Brute's grasp.
He used the monster's split second of disorientation to scramble onto its back. John brought his elbow down on the base of the Brute's neck. He swept out its elbow, wrenched the joint around, and pushed it as far as it would go—far past the point any human's or Elite's would have snapped. John scissored his legs wide and pushed against the floor, leveraging his body to keep the Brute pinned.
It growled and pushed itself and John up with its one free arm.
"No. You. Don't."