Halo_ The Fall of Reach - Eric Nylund [36]
John kicked the door in.
He took in the entire situation at a glance. He was standing on the threshold of a sumptuous apartment. There was a wet bar boasting shelves of amber-filled bottles. A large, round bed dominated the corner, decorated with shimmering silk sheets. Windows on all sides had sheer white curtains—John’s helmet automatically compensated for the glare. Red carpet covered the floor. The crate with the cigars and champagne sat in the center of the room. It was black and armored, sealed tight against the vacuum of space.
There were three men standing behind the armored crate, and one man crouched behind them. Colonel Robert Watts—their “package.”
John didn’t have a clear shot. If he missed, he could hit the Colonel.
The three men, however, didn’t have that problem. They fired.
John dove to his left. He caught three rounds in his side—knocking the breath from his body. One bullet penetrated his black suit. He felt it ping off his ribs and pain slashed through him like a red-hot razor.
He ignored the wound and rolled to his feet. He had a clear line of fire. He squeezed the trigger once—a three-round burst caught the center guard in the forehead.
Sam and Fred wheeled around the door frame, Sam high, Fred low. Their silenced weapons coughed and the remaining pair of guards went down.
Watts remained behind the crate. He brandished his pistol. “Stop!” he screamed. “My men are coming. You think I’m alone? You’re all dead. Drop your weapons.”
John crawled to the wet bar and crouched there. He willed the pain inside his stomach to go away. He signaled Sam and Fred and held up two fingers, then pointed the fingers over his head.
Sam and Fred fired a burst of rounds over Watts. He ducked.
John vaulted over the bar and leaped onto his quarry. He grabbed the pistol and wrenched it out of his hand, breaking the man’s index finger and thumb. John snaked his arm around Watts’s neck and choked the struggling man into near-unconsciousness.
Kelly and Linda entered. Kelly took out a syringe and injected Watts—enough polypseudomorphine to keep him sedated for the better part of a day.
Fred fell back to cover the elevator. Sam entered and crouched by the windows, watching the street below for any signs of trouble.
Kelly went to John and peeled back his black suit. Her gloves were slick with his blood. “The bullet is still inside,” she said, and bit her lower lip. “There’s a lot of internal bleeding. Hang on.” She dug a tiny bottle from her belt and inserted the nozzle into the bullet hole. “This might sting a little.”
The self-sealing biofoam filled John’s abdominal cavity. It also stung like a hundred ants crawling through his innards. She pulled the bottle out and taped up the hole. “You’re good for a few hours,” she said, and then gave him a hand up.
John felt shaky, but he’d make it. The foam would keep him from bleeding to death and stave off the shock . . . for a while, at least.
“Incoming vehicles,” Sam announced. “Six men entering the building. Two taking up position
outside . . . but just the front.” “Get our package inside that crate and seal it up,” John ordered. He left the room, got his duffel, and went to the balcony. He secured a rope and tossed it down twelve
stories into the alley. He rappelled down, took a second to scan the alley for threats, then clicked his
throat mike once—the all-clear signal. Kelly snapped a descent rig on the crate and pushed it off the balcony. It zipped down the line and thudded to a halt at the bottom.
A moment later the rest of the team glided down the rope. They quickly donned their coveralls. Sam and Fred carried the crate as they entered the adjacent
building. They exited on the street a half block down and walked as quickly as they could back to the docks. Dozens of uniformed men ran from the dock toward the city. No one challenged them. They reentered the now-deserted public showers. “Everyone check