Page 115 of Delta

I laugh at this. "She what?"

"She broke his neck with her legs. It made a sound like this." He jerks his head up and to the side with cracking noise. "And then he died."

Bryn shakes her head at his reenactment. "I wish he hadn't seen that."

I grin at her. "Proper mankiller, you are."

"Unfortunately, yes."

"Turns me on, watching you kill people,” I tell her. "I'm a sick fucko like that."

She's about to respond when Harris's voice fills my ear. "Ready?"

I exhale sharply, work to my feet, ignoring the scream of pain from my arm. Times like this, all you can do is gut through the suck.

I undo my vest, awkwardly shrug it off and drape it one-handed over Bryn. She starts to protest, but I ignore it and tighten it to create as proper a fit as possible. I replace the mag in my pistol, rack the slide, and shove it behind my waistband at my back. Curl an arm around the boy, crouched, feet braced to sprint.

"Bryn, you're going first. Spray the fuckers down, yeah? If there was ever a time to spray-and-pray, this is it, love. We'll be right behind you." I don't give her a chance to argue. "Harris, we're ready. On your order."

"On three," he says. I hold up three fingers for Bryn and the boy, waiting, pulling down a finger each time Harris counts. "One…two…three!"

On three, I scoop the boy into my good arm and sprint. Bryn is already through the door, carbine spraying rounds across the battlefield, thunking into the truck bodies, keeping their heads down. Gunfire crackles from the wings, muzzle-bursts flashing in blinding yellow stars from the darkness like sunfire blossoms as Chico's RMI operators lay down an enfilade across the enemy position. I hear several grunts and cries of pain as RMI bullets find targets.

Bryn spots a tango rising from behind a brick column and puts rounds into his chest, knocking him backward; his vest stops them, but he's in pain, groaning, gasping, gagging. I know the feeling. Bryn finishes him off as we pass him, cratering his skull with a single shot on the run. I have the boy, Ren, clamped against my chest one-armed; his legs are locked around my waist, his arms around my neck. Something hot sizzles across the back of my neck, leaving a scorching line of pain.

Bryn's rifle cracks in staccato bursts. From our line, muzzles flash, putting down suppressive fire even as RMI keeps up the withering enfilade from the wings.

We're almost there—just a few more meters to go. With the enemy behind us, Bryn breaks into a flat-out sprint to reach the cover of the Suburban, immediately spinning and dropping into a crouch to fire over the bonnet, her rounds whickering shudderingly close past my ear.

Each step takes an eternity, now, for some reason. Wait, I know what's happening—something bad. I'm about to enter a world of shit. I've been here, before. I dunno, why, but every so often, when shit really hits the fan, things slow down. I feel the iron sights on my back as a prickle of awareness.

Six feet—two meters. I'm fucking there. Not now, goddammit.

That old bitch, instinct or gut feeling or seventh sense…she's nasty. Insistent. Telling me to toss the boy.

Just do it, Rush. Throw him.

Fuck if I know why, but I don't argue with her.

I see that seven foot tall monster, Thresh, rising to his full, massive stature, his M4 looking like a kid’s toy in his giant paws. "THRESH!" It's a desperate shout.

I hurl the kid like a rugby ball with every last ounce of strength in my arms, the injured one screaming in protest as I force it to do my bidding.

Thresh's eyes go wide. He drops the rifle and moves with lightning speed, a man of his gargantuan size shouldn’t be capable of, snagging the boy out of midair.

BAMBAMBAMBAM!

Bullets walk up the concrete, hit the bonnet of the SUV.

BAMABAMABAMBAM!

Return fire from our side is a deadly barrage, but it's too late.

God kicks me again, the bastard. Right in the back. The hot hammer slams into me once, twice, three times, hurling me forward. I hit concrete on my bad arm, but that's nothing against the breathless scorching agony radiating through me. For a moment, I think it’ll be okay—I’m wearing a vest. And then I remember—no, I’m not.

Well, fuck.

I see Thresh moving—whirling in place, curling his mammoth torso around Ren. I see the rounds hit his back, dimpling the vest, rocking him forward. The big fucker barely moves, doesn't make a sound. I took one ricochet to the chest and couldn’t breathe for five fucking minutes. That goddamned ogre took three to the back and seems unaffected.