Page 48 of Gamma

Several women translate in a variety of languages, and everyone looks around expectantly, but no one raises a hand.

“Shit.” She eyes me. “You’re not going to listen, are you?”

“Leave you here to fight alone?” I smirk at her. “Not fucking likely, my darling.”

The chatter of gunfire has lessened, but not ceased. I peer out of the doorway, trying to ascertain where the gunfire is coming from. I identify several starbursts from outside the fortress, but it’s impossible to determine the precise number, as they’re never in the same place twice—A1S, disguising their true numbers.

I lean farther out, watching for return fire from the fortress. I count at least four, probably more. This being a fortress, they’re going to have good cover and probably a lot of ammunition—short of a dedicated assault, they’re going to be very difficult to eradicate. And they have a direct line on the truck.

I can’t just sit here. Can’t wait for others to assume all the risk, especially not Corinna, my beloved Corinna. Injured or not, I’m going to contribute. They’re all here because of me.

“Cover me.” I point at the crumbling crenellations up top, in a particular spot I’ve seen muzzle flash. “Up there.”

“Apollo, no.” Corinna reaches for me.

I pry Yelena’s hands off me, glance down at her. “Stay here. Corinna will protect you. Okay?”

Yelena nods, otherwise silent.

“Apollo, you’re injured. What are you going to do?” She touches my face. “You need to stay with Yelena. You need to get her to safety.”

“Can you drive that?” I ask, gesturing at the giant truck.

“No, but—”

“I can.” I grip my pistol tighter. “Cover me. On three. One…two…three.”

I don’t give her a chance to argue with me—I cut hard out of the doorway, sprinting for the cover of the near wall, and slam into it. I hear her M-16 barking, hear shouts from above, and then an AK-47 chatters from the roof, and I hear ricochets zing off walls, smash into the ground behind me, in front of me. Something hot buzzes past my ear.

A pained yell, and I look up just in time to see a body toppling through space above me. I throw myself forward as the body slams into the ground with a wet crunch. I scramble to my feet and don’t look back. I hear the .50-caliber machine gun chugging, and debris rains down on me as the massive rounds chew up the ancient stonework overhead.

I’m parallel with the truck, now, and I have to leave the relative cover of the wall; no time to think. I just run. My injured arm protests the jarring, but it’s irrelevant. I feel it distantly, adrenaline suppressing pain. Something zings nearby; an angry bee nips at my ear; fingers pluck at my sleeve and then at my pant leg.

The .50-cal coughs and barks and the gunfire from the roof subsides. I reach the truck, shove the pistol into my waistband at the small of my back, and clamber awkwardly up, balancing on the step as I yank open the door. This truck is an old beast, but I’ve driven them before, in my days running a criminal enterprise; I prided myself on not simply outsourcing everything, but taking direct part in every facet of the business, from supply sourcing to transportation to delivery to direct sales.

I start it up, and it catches immediately—old it may be, but it’s a well-maintained machine. I hear and feel rounds clanging off metal. I shove the shifter into reverse, grab the wheel, and gun it. Tires skid and then bite as the enormous engine applies torque, and the vehicle rumbles backward; I turn the wheel so the rear of the truck aims at the doorway. Bullets plink off the rear quarter panel, and then the passenger door, and then the window shatters, and then rounds walk down the hood, denting the metal but not piercing.

Several different rifles speak, then, from the A1S members beyond the courtyard, as well as the .50-cal and Rin’s, covering my efforts, suppressing the enemy.

I see Rin in the side-view mirror, on one knee, firing single rounds, conserving her limited ammunition. Anh appears in the other, waving me into position, then holding her arms in an X to stop me. I throw the shifter into park and shove open the door, stand in the opening with my pistol and train it on the crenellations where the firing seems to be concentrated.

I see the top of a head, and crack off a shot at it. I miss, but the head drops down. I glance back, and catch glimpses of bodies leaving the cover of the stairwell, hear them clomping into the bed.

It takes too long, but there’s no way to rush the process.

The suppressing fire only works for so long, and then I see a rifle barrel poking over the top of the wall.

“We have to go!” I shout.

“Two more!” I hear Corinna respond. A pause. “Go!”

“You and Yelena?” I call back.

I see Corinna hanging off the rear of the truck, rifle in one hand, peering around the side, waving at me. “We’re on! Go, dammit!”

I duck into the cab behind the wheel, throw it into first and slam the gas pedal to the floor. The truck jolts forward at the sudden application of torque, the frame protesting, the engine roaring. Bullets plink, clang, smash.

I hear the .50-cal over the din, but I can spare no more attention for anything but getting this truck out of this courtyard. The mess of burning wreckage is in the way, and I have no choice but to risk going through.