Once you’re dead, they’re all dead. Close your eyes, and just let it all go. The cruel laugh again. After all, that’s how a coward would die.
The metal bar then came down across his chest, and Alex felt the ultra-tough biological armor-plating crack. The suit held, but it wouldn’t for long.
That’s how a coward would die.
Alex’s stupor made him feel like he was tied down. He tried to roll away, but too slowly, and the next strike of the bar was across his lower back. Lightning bolts of pain shot through him.
“I’m not a coward.” Alex strained.
Then get the fuck up. On your feet, soldier… or let me take over!
The voice was now a roar as the bar came down again and again.
Fight or die — choose! The cruel voice goaded, urged, and tormented him. Alex knew who it was — The Other, drawing power from the conflict, wanting to be released, and thirsty for blood.
Alex whipped the shield around in time to stop the bar striking his head. Through the shield, the Russian, or whatever he had now become, became a blur as he used the metal bar and one huge fist to pummel down on Alex.
Alex held the shield aloft to take impact after impact. He weathered the vicious blows as each became ever more furious.
The Other wanted blood, and gave him a choice — fight or die. Anger as well as adrenaline and steroids surged through him. He pushed to his feet. “I choose to fight.”
The metal bar swung down, but instead of it striking the shield again, Alex turned his arm, and caught the bar, and held it even though the Russian tried with all his might to jerk it free.
For what seemed an age, but would have been only a second or two, the adversaries stared into each other’s eyes. Alex’s would have seemed to burn with an intensity and fury that made other men shrink back. But the HAWC saw in those inky, soulless depths something the Russian didn’t want him to see — doubt.
Alex gritted his teeth, and jerked back hard, ripping the bar free. Faster than the Russian could react, Alex swung it back at the man. The Russian held up a forearm, but the bar struck it violently, and with a wet crunch, the arm broke like a tree branch. The man howled as the hand swung down, held to the arm only by the flesh.
Alex Hunter wasn’t finished. He used both the bar and his armor-plated fist to beat at the Russian, forcing the bigger man to backpedal. Alex then swung the bar backhanded, catching the man’s chin with a sound like a bell ringing. The Russian fell back to the ground.
Yes, yes, good. Now feed me.
Alex looked down at the Russian. If those black eyes were begging for mercy, they were looking in the wrong place. The Russian started to rise.
“Yes, I will,” Alex whispered.
He swung the metal bar with such force at the man’s head that it cleaved its way all the way down to his neck.
The body juddered for a few seconds on the ground as nerves misfired, before laying still.
Alex stood looking down at the carnage, before shaking his head as though trying to dislodge an angry hornet. He needed to refocus. His vision still swam but he pulled the RG3 rifle from over his shoulder, turned and peppered the ground with the high-speed projectiles.
“Enough!” Alex roared and aimed the weapon at the face of the Russian leader.
“You have something that belongs to us.” Alex strained, as the beast inside him wanted to obliterate them all. The Russians and his HAWCs froze, eyes on him, waiting. But in the Russian faces there wasn’t fear, more amusement.
Alex grimaced for a moment, trying to pull The Other back. “Hand it over… and I’ll let you live.” Alex pointed the RG3 directly at the biggest Russian’s face — the leader, he thought. Inside his head, a voice screamed to pull the trigger.
“HAWCs, form up on me.” Alex watched as Dunsen pulled Monroe to his feet, and turned to bump armored knuckles with Casey. Then his soldiers eased back toward him, never taking their eyes off their foes, until they were at his shoulders.
They straightened, waiting. He noticed Sam was sporting cracked biological plating, and remembered his own suit taking the abnormally brutal impacts. Sam’s armor, like his own, was harder than titanium and should not have been breached by anything less than a direct hit from heavy-caliber weaponry. But the Russians had cracked them with their bare hands.
Alex scanned the faces of the impossible-looking men facing them. None wore breathing apparatus, so were sucking in the toxic air. Their heads looked misshapen, brows and jaws longer and even their arms hung lower than they should, and ending in club-like fingers. Their uniforms stretched, and he could see splits appearing across the chests and biceps of some of them. It was like they were growing right out of their clothing.
One of them went to raise his weapon. But the biggest among them, who had been fighting Sam, waved it down, and turned to face Alex.
“This is not American territory.” The voice was deep and guttural. He held a hugely muscled arm out toward the Orlando and gave Alex a sharp-toothed grin. “I claim right of salvage.” He kept his eyes on Alex and one hand on the hilt of a large Russian blade.
“Fine, keep the shuttle. Just give me the image chip; I know you’ve got it. Last chance.” Alex’s gun barrel didn’t waver.
The man looked at his team, and then down at his soldier who still had the metal bar sticking from his head. His powerful jaws worked for a moment.
“We are not afraid to die, and I think your soldiers are also not afraid to die. This is the warrior’s code.” His grin returned. “Besides, the things we have done, you and I, maybe we deserve to die.”
He raised his chin and inhaled deeply through his nose and then nodded. “I think high methane content. Maybe this gas will explode if we fire our weapons, maybe it won’t.” He looked over Alex’s shoulder to the civilians. “But will you gamble the lives of the others who are with you? Maybe they not so prepared to die, da?”
Alex’s choice was simple; he could fight and risk detonating the mountaintop, and end up killing everyone, or he could back off. If it were just the HAWCs, it’d be easy.
“I’m Captain Alex Hunter, and up here, I am the first and only law. There will be no more warnings.”
The big man stepped forward. “And I am Ivan Zlatan, and up here, I do not recognize your authority.” He lowered his brows. “In fact, little man, I do not recognize your authority anywhere.”
Alex fired the RG3 twice, putting two pencil-sized holes through the Zlatan’s shoulder. The huge man jerked to the side, grunting. But the next sound was a grating laugh. He turned back, as black blood started to weep through his uniform, but only for a few seconds before it dried.
One of the Russians brought up his gun, but Zlatan put a huge arm out and pushed it down.
“We are not so easy to kill,” Zlatan said.
“You’re already dead.” Sam joined Alex. “You know this gas you’re inhaling is toxic?”
“Not to us.” The Russian took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “We don’t need to dress like spacemen because of a little mist. I think we are tougher than you Americans.” He smiled sourly.
Sam snorted. “Yeah, you all look like crap. If you think it’s not affecting you, then you’re blind.”
“You thinking you can chance it.” Zlatan laughed corrosively again, before looking at his downed man again. “His name was Valentine Russlin; a good soldier. But not as good as me.” He looked up at Alex. “Little man, I will peel you from your suit, and break you into pieces.”