Out of the same consideration he accessed the display panel to check on the prisoner. The old man with the bloody nose was standing in the middle of the cell, eyes closed, face and palms turned up towards the ceiling. The sensors picked up a faint, chanting-like sound emanating from him.
“Hey, shut up in there,” Stone barked into the microphone. The old man didn’t move a muscle. As Stone was about to open the door and do some disciplinary work, a voice started talking in his helmet. According to the visor, the transmission was coming in on Leader channel.
“This is Sono,” the voice said urgently. “One or more intruders have likely entered through the train station. Two of my men are missing. That means their suits could have been used to disguise. Account for all your men. If you see guards who are out of place or act suspicious — shoot first, ask questions later. This is straight from White Command. I am staying at the station to prevent any escape attempt. Sono, out.”
There was silence. Sure, stay at the subway station, Stone thought bitterly. Let someone else do the job. Just like Sono.
Suddenly, another voice spoke. “This is Talbot. A pair dressed in guard suits just stopped by the infirmary. Said Sono sent them, but Sono says he didn’t send nobody. They’re coming to the dorms. Prepare the meet and greet.”
Talbot signed off, but another voice replaced him immediately. “Stone, this is White Command. Your orders are to shoot to kill. If they are wearing guard suits, submachine gun fire will only temporarily incapacitate them. But your orders are: shoot to kill. Is that understood?”
Stone nodded, forgetting that the voice was coming on radio.
“Is that understood?” WC repeated impatiently. “Respond.”
“Yes, sir,” Stone finally said, not bothering to switch the frequency. WC could hear him on any channel.
“Good.” WC said no more.
After a momentary reflection, Stone was barking orders once again. They were not just for show this time, and the men sensed it immediately and started moving.
“All right, listen up. We have at least two incoming. You three — prone on the floor here.” He showed with his hand. “One, two, three.” The three dropped flat. Stone opened two nearest compartments on either side of the hallway and had two men get into doorways for cover. When all were in position, he nodded satisfactorily and took a knee behind them, in the middle. From the holster on his hip he pulled out an old-fashioned Desert Eagle and removed the safety. The suit would not stop a bullet from that.
In the cell, the old man chanted on.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
We were about fifty yards into the side passage when a voice in my helmet called for Pare and his status. It repeated the question four times and fell silent. Afraid that someone could now be listening in on Pare’s borrowed suit, I motioned for Paul to be silent, and we walked on carefully and hopefully quietly, hugging the corridor’s left wall.
Suddenly Paul, who had somehow ended up in the lead, halted and raised his right hand in a fist. One had only to have a brief acquaintance with police dramas to know what that meant. Sending a glance over my shoulder I pressed my back against the white wall.
In a moment Paul was leaning on the wall beside me. He raised his hand again and this time he curled only two fingers, leaving three straight. I nodded and glanced back the way we’d come from one more time. That way the hallway remained empty. But the chanting continued. It was getting stronger. There could not be a mistake.
I turned to Paul again, contemplating removing the helmet and asking him to remove his, so that we could see each other’s faces. Before I could, Paul’s hand rose up once more. Placing his thumb under the fingers, he opened and closed the palm three times, paused, turned the palm sideways, curling his fingers in and leaving the index pointing straight forward and the thumb up. That wasn’t in any of the episodes I’d seen, but I understood. Talk or shoot. It was up to me.
Only for a short time.
Hurried footsteps resounded in the hallway behind us. It seemed the squad of guards we’d passed was returning for a couple of questions.
“Go!” I shouted, forgetting the silence. “Go!”
And off went Paul. He charged around the bend, and I followed closely, screaming “Ahhh!” at the top of my lungs, drowning out the chanting that continued to grow in my head. In what I thought would be my last moments, I couldn’t come up with anything better. So much for actors being creative.
As we came around the curve, I saw that the hallway from there ran straight for about fifty feet, ending in a single silvery door. Three guards in white heard me. The hallway began to crackle with gunfire.
Paul stumbled and went down. Thinking he’d been hit I screamed louder and started shooting, still running towards the guards. One of them was thrown back against the door. Before I had the chance to cheer, something like an invisible freight train smashed into my left shoulder, tossing me back in a triple toe-loop.
Oh, that hurts, I thought to myself as I spun, watching a familiar-looking submachine gun float by me. Then, right before I lost consciousness, I saw Paul, sliding along the floor on his belly and shooting. “No more ice-cream, mister,” said my mother’s voice. “Or you will be sick.” The lights went out.
When my eyes opened Paul’s red, wet face hovered above me. His lips and eyes were moving frantically, but I couldn’t hear a thing. It was about to tell him as much, when a stab of pain woke me up better than any latte. I almost bit my tongue off.
I groaned and struggled to get up. “How long was I out?”
“Two, maybe three seconds!” he shouted in my ear. “Now fucking move!”
Through the door he pulled me into… an elevator. I twisted around, not comprehending. Outside there was the hallway and the bodies. A bunch of armed people in white ran out of the curve.
“Close, you piece of shit! Close!” Paul was shouting and shooting as bullets whizzed by, and finally, the door obeyed. Several dull thuds sent the elevator on its way up.
“Get up! Can’t rest here!” Paul shouted at me and pulled me to my feet. “We’re still alive, brother! Haha! Man, this is just like BF5, man!”
My head throbbed, but he didn’t seem capable of lowering the volume. Leaning against the wall, which was soft and orange, I shook my head. As I did, another burst of pain tore through me, almost causing me to collapse. Yes, I’m alive, I mused, but I wish a small part of me, namely from the left shoulder down the arm, was dead. Or, if that’s what dead feels like, I want no part of it at all.
“Whoa, whoa! Hold it, man! The ride will be short! I need you awake!”
I realized, absently, that he’d slapped my face. He was right, I knew, I needed to get it together, but everything else was wrong. Why were we going up? The prisoners had to be on the underground level. Yet, even as I thought that, I heard the chanting in my head, stronger than ever. We had to be on the right track. Had to be, unless there was no chanting and I was crazy. What a time to find that out, I reflected.
I brought my good hand up to my face and found no glass. Just sweat. Somewhere along the way I’d lost my helmet. Pare’s helmet, really. But who gave a damn? It felt good to touch my face.
The elevator stopped. Paul pushed me against one wall and leaned flat against the other, gun ready. The door opened. On the other side of it was a room, an office, large and empty. Inside the room only the ceiling was white. Under it, the walls were painted sea-foam, with malachite desk, spinach carpeting and viridian arm-chairs. Hideous colors all, as far as I was concerned, but after the maddening white of the underground, the room looked like it was from another, better world. It looked like we made it out alive. Beyond the window that filled the opposite wall, smoke was rising. There’s a fire out there in the Emerald City, I thought. Or emerald people are having a barbecue.