High above the melee, John Smith worked the bolt and fired. Again and again. Each shot hit the target. Problem was that he didn’t have nearly enough bullets.
“Shit,” he murmured to himself.
He worked the bolt and fired, worked the bolt and fired.
Then he jerked his head up as a fresh wave of gunfire erupted from above him. He rolled over and looked into the sky. John Smith smiled.
The sky was filled with TradeWinds Motor Kites. He did a quick count. Forty. No … fifty of them. From each harness a DMS agent hung suspended, one hand on the controls, the other clutching a handgun. They rained fire down on the Chosen.
“’Bout time,” said John Smith. He rolled back onto his stomach, worked the bolt, and fired.
Chapter Eighty-two
The Sea of Hope
December 21, 8:07 P.M. EST
Santoro came at me with a flurry of vicious cuts, and I backpedaled as fast as I could. Even so, I could feel the tip of that little knife ripping away my shirt. Hot lines of agony crisscrossed my chest as he lunged deeper.
He was so goddamn fast.
My back hit the wall at the turning and Santoro smiled and threw himself at me, but his own expression of triumph gave it away. I hit and dropped into a crouch and punched him in the thigh. I wanted to hit him in the nuts, but he brought his leg up. Even so, the blow knocked him back and I dove low and long and caught him around the knees and bore him down. His back hit hard and flat and it drove a whuuuh! out of him.
I curled my knees under me to propel my body forward for a downward body slam. I wanted to knock the rest of the air out of him, make him choke, and slowly beat the shit out of him.
But as I lunged, he slammed his elbow down on the crown of my head, then slammed his fist between my shoulder blades. It was the fist that held the knife, and the blade tore through my vest and skin and muscle like a dagger of pure fire.
I screamed.
Santoro released the knife and punched me across the face, once, twice, three times, and then pivoted to kick my deadweight off his legs.
I flopped over. Lines of fire radiated out from the puncture. I knew the blade was short, but it was jammed in next to my spine. My whole body twitched.
Then Santoro was on his knees, his fingers tearing at my pockets.
“Where is it?” he snarled, first in English and then, as he became more desperate, growling it in Spanish. In my daze I couldn’t quite understand what he was doing. He had me; I was completely vulnerable. All he had to do was pull out the knife and cut my throat.
Then he dug his scrabbling fingers into my left front pant pocket and I knew what he was after. The syringe.
He closed his hands around it.
And then Ghost hit him like a white thunderbolt.
Chapter Eighty-three
The Sea of Hope
December 21, 8:08 P.M. EST
Top Sims came out of the companionway with his pistol in a two-handed grip. There were scores of men in black masks. The deck was littered with the dead, but there were over a thousand civilians. Top opened fire at every balaclava he saw, going for body shots. Head shots were too risky with so many civilians. The ceramic frag bullets lived up to their reputation. The first one struck a Chosen in the back and the man seemed to explode. It was disgusting, but damn if Top didn’t like the effect, because the man next to him stopped to gape at the sudden horror. Top took him in the chest.
Then a shadow passed him and Khalid was there, firing and firing.
“Heads below!” came a yell, followed by, “Broadway! Broadway!” and “Liberty! Liberty!” as DMS agents dropped from their kites into the thick of the fight.
“Welcome to hell!” yelled Top.
THE CHOSEN FALTERED for a moment. This was not part of the plan Santoro had described. Ship’s security, some Secret Service, and a scattering of Special Forces from both sides of the Atlantic. Not this. Not men appearing out of the sky, flying on batwings.
One of the Chosen opened up with an M4, cutting three of the agents virtually in half. Then he staggered as a slender steel rod punched through his breastbone and stood out from between his shoulders. He took one staggering turning step and saw more men swarming over the rail. Men who dripped with seawater and who held weapons that looked like clip-fed crossbows.
“Goddess!” the man said, and then vomited blood as he pitched forward.
TWO DECKS DOWN, the second wave of the Goddess’s troops erupted from their cabins. These were the Kingsmen. These were the elite of the armies of the Seven Kings. They swarmed into the halls, splitting to head right and left, running with weapons at port arms. Every one of them had been in combat before. All of them were stone killers, and this was the event they had dreamed of.
They pounded up the stairs toward the main deck, ready to join the fight, knowing that they could sweep away any resistance.
Chapter Eighty-four
The Sea of Hope
December 21, 8:08 P.M. EST
Ghost and Santoro tumbled backward in a tangle of snarls and shouts and grunts. I struggled to raise my head, fighting to regain control over my arms and legs.
Santoro howled in pain as Ghost slashed him with his teeth; then he punched Ghost hard in the ribs and even from fifteen feet away I could hear bones break. A terrible sharp yelp broke from the dog’s throat.
But even that didn’t stop him. Ghost bit and tore at Santoro, ripping his left arm, drawing long lines of red down his leg.
I reached over my shoulder and grabbed the knife. It was really a small thing. Not much bigger than a nail file and probably twice as thick. I knew all the rules about not pulling a knife out of a wound. It can make the bleeding worse; it can do more damage.
Fuck it. The thing was pressing on something that was killing my legs.
I tightened my fingers around the handle and pulled. My scream was just as loud as Ghost’s as Santoro kicked him in his broken ribs.
Ghost staggered sideways. Blood soaked the fur of his side and there was blood on his muzzle. I prayed it wasn’t his. He snarled bravely at Santoro and then flopped down.
Santoro stood hunched over, his chest heaving, sweat and blood running down his face. He stared at me as I struggled to my feet, and spit on the floor between us.
“You will drown in a river of blood,” he said, his voice still filled with menace and power.
And then I knew.
He knew that I knew.
I looked at the syringe, which lay on the floor by the wall. His eyes followed mine; then he looked at me and smiled.
“Yes,” he said, confirming my worst fears. “And there is nothing you can do to stop it.”
We both dove for the syringe at the same time.
Chapter Eighty-five
The Sea of Hope
December 21, 8:09 P.M. EST
The Kingsmen fought their way up onto the deck, killing everything in their way, even some of the Chosen. They also wore balaclavas, but theirs were white and had a small golden circle on the forehead. The symbol of the Goddess.
Bunny stood with his back to the wall beside the hatchway where he had ducked out of the firefight to reload. He was on his last magazine and would have to scavenge an M4 from one of the Chosen. Suddenly gunfire tore through the hatchway, killing one DMS agent and the two civilians he was trying to protect. A swarm of men erupted from the stairway, firing wildly. They flooded past him, and he was nearly invisible to them, partially blocked by the heavy storm hatch.