“We’ve killed their toys. They’ll be coming now.” Just then, the remaining two pairs of disciples charged into the scene from opposite directions. They had been converging on the rendezvous point just as the latest explosion sounded. Abraham’s smile told them everything as they ground to a halt. In silence, the seven surviving disciples fanned out in a spread across the width of Duke of Gloucester Street.
McCracken checked his 9-mm pistols — each loaded with a fresh clip of Sal Belamo’s Splats — one last time before sliding out from the cover of the Capitol.
“You knew this was coming,” he said to Wareagle.
“I knew something was. Hanbelachia, Blainey, for both of us.”
“Sorry to disappoint you, Indian, but once we draw them out, we give Obie Seven back there a ring.”
“Yes, Blainey,” Wareagle said in the tone he always used when the spirits had his other ear.
“Let’s move, Indian.”
They approached Duke of Gloucester Street the long way around, from the back of the Capitol Building. They walked side by side, steps in perfect unison. McCracken handled his pair of pistols loaded with Splats. Wareagle grasped one in his right hand, while his left held fast to a crossbow. Both had donned bulletproof vests, but neither expected them to do much good against the kind of firepower the disciples were wielding, not to mention the aim they were capable of.
“We’re almost to Duke of Gloucester Street, Professor,” Blaine said into the microphone concealed beneath the lapel of his jacket.
“Obie Seven’s ready on your signal.”
“Make sure he doesn’t roll until I give the word.”
“As you wish.”
They reached the eastern edge of Duke of Gloucester Street and stopped dead. There, spread across the street two hundred yards before them, were the seven remaining disciples; Abraham was in the very center. “Just like an old-fashioned gunfight, Indian.”
“That’s what they were hoping for, Blainey.”
“Well, let’s give it to them.” They started walking.
“How far before they start firing, Johnny?”
“Seventy-five yards.”
“We’ll walk fifty — then call for Obie Seven. He takes out four or five more of them, we clean up the rest.” Wareagle said nothing.
“Steady,” ordered Abraham, just loud enough for the three disciples flanking him on either side to hear. “No one fires until I say so.”
Several of the others shifted uneasily, and he sensed their impatience.
“We’ve got what we want,” he offered as explanation. “But we’ve got to be sure this time.”
James spoke with his eye glued to the long-range sight on his rifle. “I can hit them from here. Head shots. Neat and clean.”
“Wait,” Abraham said suddenly. “They wouldn’t be doing this if they didn’t want us to respond precisely as we are. We’ve…missed something.”
“We couldn’t have. There’s nothing,” another voice shot back.
“We should open fire now!” a third insisted.
“Not until we’re sure. Not until we’ve all got shots.”
“You know what they’re doing, don’t you?” Patty Hunsecker said accusingly to Sal Belamo as he struggled for a view of what was transpiring on Duke of Gloucester Street.
“Lady, I don’t know—”
“You do! I know you do! They’re sacrificing themselves, using themselves as bait. To draw those…things out, so Ainsley’s monstrosity can finish them off.”
Belamo tilted his head toward the area beyond. “The real monstrosities are those Frankensteins out there. And MacBalls knows the key is makin’ sure they don’t get outta here.”
“He didn’t take you with him,” Patty said abruptly.
“Huh?”
“If he really thought he had a chance, he’d have taken you.”
There was a brief crackle of static before the soft echo of McCracken’s voice rose from Sal’s walkie-talkie.
“It’s show time, boys,” Blaine called. “Send the big fella in.”
“With pleasure,” Ainsley said.
The professor’s attempted activation of Obie Seven, though, brought the most feared phrase possible flashing across his monitor: NOT PROCESSING.
“Yo, Professor,” Sal Belamo yelled to him, “he’s not going anywhere.”
“No,” Ainsley said, mostly to himself, as he worked the keyboard desperately, “he isn’t.”
“MacBalls!” Blaine heard Sal Belamo yell into his ear. “You guys got to pull out. The big guy ain’t ready for his walk.”
“What the fuck’s going on?”
“I can’t get him on line!” Ainsley screeched. “His programming won’t accept the sequence!”
“Get outta there, boss.”
The flurry of fire from the disciples began just as Blaine and Johnny dived toward opposite sides of Duke of Gloucester Street.
“After them!” Abraham screamed above the booming reports from their weapons.
The disciples took off in seven separate directions, certain to catch their quarries in the spread. They could smell victory now, the taste of it as welcome as blood.
They liked the taste.
McCracken and Wareagle’s only chance for survival was to separate, splinter the opposing forces, and buy themselves the time it took for Ainsley to get Obie Seven working.
Fucking thing must have blown a fuse! McCracken thought to himself, going for a little humor.
But the humor swiftly vanished as something else occurred to him. This unexpected breakdown not only forced Johnny and him into flight, it also left Patty, Sal, and Ainsley exposed back at the Capitol. If the disciples chose to concentrate their efforts toward that end, three corpses would greet Blaine…if he managed to stay alive and get back there. No, he told himself, the disciples would only be thinking in terms of Wareagle and himself for the moment. Their vision was sharp but narrow. With Blaine and Johnny in their sights now, they would sweep the rest of Williamsburg only after their two primary targets had been dispatched.
All the more reason to stay alive.
Blaine headed south briefly, hit Francis Street and swung west, keeping to the cover of buildings as best he could.
“You read me, Sal?”
“Still fucked at this end, boss.”
“Don’t break radio silence, no matter what. Let me have the first word. Talk to you soon.”
“Roger.”
Blaine kept moving. He knew the disciples would be circling in an attempt to enclose him. His two major priorities were to draw them away from the Capitol on Williamsburg’s eastern perimeter and find safe haven for himself until Ainsley got Obie Seven back on line. He moved quickly, using the buildings for cover and darting between them only after being certain none of the disciples were about. He heard their footsteps on several occasions, but was fortunate enough to be near heavy concentrations of bushes or a hefty porch that provided concealment each time.
He ended up amid a thick nest of buildings between Colonial and Botetourt streets. Plenty of places to find cover that would make the disciples spend extra time trying to locate him. He would hold off using his pistols for as long as he could, since using them would alert them to his location, and Blaine was not in the self-sacrificing mood.