“Fuck you,” he said weakly. “Fuck the Office. And fuck Eric.” He took stock of the rest of him. The Battlesuit was shredded and he bled from more places than he could count. The VISOR had shielded his head but his brains felt scrambled.
If he could just sleep, for just a few minutes. No one could blame him. He did his best.
The two men would get away.
No.
He might be a complete screw up, but this was his chance. He could make things right. He was responsible for all those he killed at the Red Cross, but he could make a difference.
Eric believed in him.
He pulled a roll of black fabric tape from his medical kit and wrapped it around his foot, across the gaping holes in the flesh and bone and the remains of his boot. He covered as much as he could, the sprayed the accelerant over the tape.
It smoked as the quick-set epoxy hardened, tendrils of steam drifting up and mixing with the steam that geysered above his head.
The pain was exquisite. His heart hammered hard in his chest, then stopped.
His eyes went dark, only a pinprick of light in his vision, then a massive jolt thudded into his chest.
“I’ve activated the defibrillator in the Implant. You must seek medical attention.”
“No time for that,” he choked out. He grabbed the scalding hot steam pipe, burning his hands through the gloves, and pulled himself up, staggering forward, walking on his good foot and dragging the remains of his left.
Abdullah led Ahmed through the steam tunnel until they came to the fork. If they continued left, it would lead deeper and he had no confidence that he could find his way out, but the right tunnel led to an access door under the Hirschfeld Theater where they could easily make their way to the surface.
They had been so close, but the Americans had foiled his plan.
I will make them suffer for the innocents they have killed.
An explosion echoed down the tunnel and he knew that someone had stumbled into his hastily built trap.
Ahmed grinned. “At least you killed that American!”
He smiled and they continued forward, nearing the access hatch, until they came to a gleaming gray wall that blocked their path.
No!
Ahmed grabbed his arm. “What is this?”
“They must have walled off the door after 9/11,” Abdullah said. He took the steel bar they had used to lift the manhole cover and started beating at it, small concrete chips whizzing away, the stinging impact buzzing up his arm. “We have to break through. The door is on the other side.”
“Can we go back?”
“No, I do not know another way to the surface. We will be stuck here until they find us.” He pounded the wall and Ahmed joined in at a furious pace but they both quickly tired, gasping for air.
From down the tunnel they heard a scrape-scraping, the sound of something dragging across the tunnel floor.
“It can’t be the American,” Ahmed said, eyes wide, trembling with exhaustion.
Abdullah feared it was. “We must kill him.”
“Stay here,” Ahmed said. “You must continue the Jihad.”
Abdullah wanted to argue. He thought of brave Naseer, now dead, and of Mahbeer and Shahid, and of poor young Koshen. He nodded. “I will pray for you.”
Ahmed hugged him. “You must escape. Allah is with you.” He turned and stumbled back down the tunnel.
John struggled forward, his left foot dragging against the ground.
Scrape-scrape.
He shifted his weight to his right foot, then again dragged his left foot forward. With each footstep he thought about stopping — about the hard tunnel floor and how nice it would be to rest — then took another step forward.
Scrape-scrape.
The young Arabic man, Ahmed, stepped from the tunnel ahead. The man had dropped his PEPCO coat and was carrying a steel rod in his hands, a yard long, with a hook on one end and a ring on the other.
He stopped and stared as he realized his M11 was dozens of yards behind him. He reached down as Ahmed surged forward, but before he could pull the M11 from his left hip-holster Ahmed was on him, screaming, the metal rod catching his left hand as it pulled out the M11. The handgun went spinning through the darkened tunnel and he screamed as the impact shattered his writs.
Ahmed did not let up. He swung again and again, striking John in the head, the VISOR’s HUD flashing with every strike. He tried to throw a blow to the man’s neck, but he stumbled and his left leg exploded in pain.
The liquid armor plates absorbed much of the damage but the blows hurt more and more and he knew the plates were losing their effectiveness, no longer able to distribute the kinetic load.
With his right hand, he pulled the K-bar knife, then grabbed the man by the leg, tripping him. He pulled himself along the struggling man until he could plunge the knife into the side of the man’s neck.
The young man went rigid, then kicked wildly as John pulled the knife free and plunged it into Ahmed’s neck, again and again, as the blood spurted out in rhythm to the man’s franticly beating heart.
The young man slackened his grip, then went still.
He rolled off. It was a struggle to stand, every part of his body crying in protest, and he cursed the young man, barely out of his teens. He cursed at the unfairness of it. He cursed Abdullah. He cursed the Office.
“John,” The VISOR said, “You must seek medical attention.”
“Yeah,” he panted, head spinning. “I heard you.”
Abdullah chipped away uselessly at the concrete wall separating him from freedom. There were small pockmarks from his desperate hammering but no sign that he was about to burst through. He heard Ahmed’s screams trail off, then silence. He backed against the concrete wall, trying to will himself through it.
The man in black came forward, scrape-scraping the floor. His foot was a mess of blood and his armored suit was split and torn, pieces of armor plates hanging loose or missing. He carried a knife in one hand and the other hung limply at his side.
The man stopped in front of him, an arm’s length away, his faceless helmet staring at him, then the man dropped to his knee and pitched forward.
Abdullah’s heart soared. He lunged forward, swinging the steel rod against the man’s helmet. It bounced off and he swung at the man’s back. The man woofed and Abdullah swung again, wild with fury. “You will not kill me. Allah will protect me!”
He struck the man again and again, with all his might. “You will die,” he screamed, “for all the innocents you have murdered!”
The VISOR went crazy, alarms buzzing and shrieking. Abdullah beat him and every blow brought him closer to eternal darkness.
In a moment of clarity, between Abdullah’s screams, he knew he was going to die. Abdullah would kill him. Abdullah would escape.
He had failed.
Something inside him, the last remnants of the old John Frist, whispered in his ear. Give up. Death will bring peace.
No.
Between blows, he licked his lips and tried to speak. “No.” He choked on a mouthful of blood and tried again. “No,” he managed, louder.
Abdullah screamed with primal fury and hit him in the head so hard the VISOR went black, the on-board computer finally silenced.
Sightless, he reached out and grabbed Abdullah’s leg, pulling on it, and he felt the man go down. He heard the air woof from Abdullah, and used the opportunity to pop the clamshell open, pull the VISOR off, and smash it into Abdullah’s face.
The headband lamp went spinning from Abdullah’s head, the light dancing along the slick tunnel walls, and he saw crimson red gush from Abdullah’s nose.