We get to the end of the corridor, to the door that leads to the other set of stairs. Now I have to go up and that hurts more than going down. I'm breaking out in a sweat. I want to shoot something, so I take out the CCTV camera in the corner of the ceiling. Rowan ducks and flinches, then recovers and tries the guard's swipe card on the door's pad. It works; we're free to move ahead into the next structure.
Same arrangement as last time: I'm up against the wall on the strike-side of the door frame, Rowan stays behind the door as it opens in toward us. It's a fire-rated, heavy, metal door, so the shots that come from up the stairs ricochet into the wall and doors to my left. Rowan simply opens the door wider to let the ammo fly straight. I press myself flat against the wall, face turned toward the doorway, eyes open, and hope geometry and physics work in our favor.
The barrage lasts long enough that my initial fear and surprise gives way to an awareness of how I'm experiencing it: the silence undercut by the echoes of impact coming up through my feet and my back. I realize I can feel when one of them stops to load a fresh magazine. I'm not surprised to see the tips of the automatic weapons, instantly recognizable as TAR-21's. They were hoping to just barrel their way into us, a SWAT team without an actual team.
I drop my guns, seize the TAR closest to me, and use the butt of it to punch the guard in the face. His headgear is knocked loose and he lets go of the rifle. The other guard doesn't react quickly enough to avoid getting punched in the face, too. His gun swings around but he's lost the trigger. He'd already started to pivot toward me, so the punch sends him backwards toward the door. I step forward and pull off his headgear. The guy on the floor starts to move, brings up his foot to kick me, maybe.
"Play it!" I yell, but Rowan must have started the Loop before I even said anything, because the kick never comes. The two guards are motionless, staring. The second one makes a good door stop; Rowan steps out from her hiding spot, starts talking to the guards, I think, but her gaze is up the stairs, ever alert.
I put fresh clips in my handguns. As much as I want to take the Israeli TAR's home with me and make them my babies, I realize the handguns will work better indoors, make it a little easier to be selective about who gets a bullet. Or seven. I put the TAR's behind the door; I might be able to pick them up on our way out.
My trek up the stairs is even slower and more painful than I'd imagined. Rowan's got the speaker facing behind us, working on the people we know are actually listening. I stare at the windows of the guard booth, daring someone to pop their head above the sills.
We get to the landing at the top, backs pressed against the wall at the corner. I peer around to see Reynolds and Lucy. My heart stops but my body doesn't. It keeps moving, stepping forward from that one glance into a ready stance, both hands coming up. Reynolds is talking, his eyes on me, the gun in his hand pointed down at Lucy's bowed head. I'm not listening. I just shoot. His gun goes off but he's already flying backwards and his gun hand is already off-target.
Once I've pulled off two shots, one from each hand, I keep moving, and it doesn't seem to matter that guards are coming out of doors from each side of the hallway. I'm in the middle of a profoundly silent dance, slow and perfectly balanced, so much time to see, to react, even to enjoy the carnage I'm causing, as my dance partners fall back, bloodied, dying.
Until I get to Lucy. I kneel beside her and the pain in my calf blossoms afresh. "Put your head in my lap," I say, hoping that makes her a smaller target. It's just the two of us, in the middle of the hallway. The guards coming out of the doorways ahead of us surprise me: their hands are up. I don't see weapons. I resist the urge to shoot despite that.
"Headgear off!" I shout. They comply. Their faces immediately go slack.
Lucy's gone, too, off in the world of the Loop. I gently push her off me and try to stand. The guns in my hand slide a bit under my weight as I push down. I swear under my breath. I feel old. I'm only thirty-one.
Rowan touches my elbow. I jerk back before I know I'm reacting, then look at her with an apologetic smile. I let her help me up.
She leaves the speaker next to the group of guards at the far end of the hall and I give her one of the handguns. We check each room; she takes one side and I take the other. We shake our heads at each other when we meet up at the guard station. No one here but us. No Ben, no honey pots.
I stand guard by the stairs as Rowan checks on Reynolds. I watch her. Her face is neutral. I wonder how much shit she'll be in, having okayed his death. Like the guards, he was wearing a flak jacket, but my two shots landed in his face. There's a reason Ray paid me as much as he did.
She says something to Lucy, who walks over to me and puts her arm around me. She doesn't look at the men I shot down for her. I don't, either.
Rowan leaves the speaker behind and tucks the phone in her back pocket. She takes the second pair of handguns from my hips, checks that the clips are full. As Lucy and I follow her slowly back down the stairs, I watch her body language, the way she moves, the way she holds the weapons -- extensions of herself, of her will. There are very few people who move like that, and all of them have violent pasts.
I pause to pick up one of the TAR-21's. I give it to Lucy to carry. I want to take both but I feel more confident with the handgun.
When we get to the stairs heading up to the loading dock we take it slow. I can see my pants leg is bloody. I can feel fresh blood ooze every time I step up. After the first few steps I try to hop, leaning forward so I don't take Lucy backwards down the steps, and leaning onto her shoulders pretty hard. She doesn't bow under the pressure. Her mouth is a thin line of concentration, her eyes on my feet and the stairs.
The night air is fresh and warm but I start to shiver. We make it to the van. The silence is overwhelming. Somehow, Rowan and Lucy get me in. I think I'm helping, but maybe I'm not. I pass out.
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