Duncan Pryde Series

Chapter 4

As the two of them entered the elevator, Williams spoke to someone else through his comm link.

“We’re on our way down,” was all he said.

Pryde had a bad feeling about this; his instinct honed from his experience in the field told him something was wrong.

By the time they reached the ground floor he was on high alert.

Just as the elevator came to a stop, Williams took out his sidearm, already fitted with a suppressor, and turned to fire at Pryde. Seeing the move, Pryde deflected the arm as the g*n was fired. The bullet hit the side of the elevator cubicle harmlessly. Pryde elbowed Williams in the side of the head, slamming his head into the wall. Turning to him, he grabbed the g*n hand and held it against the wall as he used his other hand to grip Williams’ throat. He used a pinch with his thumb and forefinger to pinch off Williams’ oesophagus, causing him to choke as his air waves were cut off.

In desperation, the guard thrashed around trying to escape the grip on his hand so he could use his pistol. Pryde increased the pressure on the throat pinch, then when he saw Williams’ eyes start to flutter, he released and hit him with a roundhouse elbow strike, snapping his head around. He fell to the floor, lights out.

Stabbing at the button to open the doors, which Williams had shielded, clearly thinking he had the situation under control, Pryde walked out from the cubicle. The other guard was still sitting behind the reception desk and, when he heard the doors open, turned to get up.

Pryde walked toward him; the surprise on the guard’s face was evident by the startled expression.

“Thank you for your time, have a nice day,” Pryde said as he walked toward the exit.

The guard was speaking, “Yes sir, he’s leaving now,” Pryde heard him say. He continued on to the doors to the street beyond.

“Excuse me sir,” the guard said loud enough to be heard but not too strident to raise any alarms with anyone else in the lobby.

Pryde walked out the door, ignoring him, then turned up the street to where he would be able to get a ride to the space port.

There was an entrance to an underground car park he had just passed by when he heard the sound of engines approaching fast, and he turned to see three bikes emerge from the entrance.

As soon as they hit the street, they turned toward him. He saw pistols drawn and he moved just as bullets hit the ground where he was standing. Diving to the ground and rolling onto his knees, he had his own pistol drawn and returned fire.

Of the three bullets he fired back, one hit the nearest rider’s shoulder, knocking him off the bike.

The bike skidded toward him on its side and Pryde was on his feet in seconds, reaching it. He grabbed the handlebar controls, hoisted it back onto the wheels, and threw a leg over to get on board.

Twisting the accelerator grip, he turned the bike away from the others. Hunkering down over the power cell, he leaned forward as he sped down the street away from the other two riders.

Keeping his head down and weaving to avoid the bullets fired at him by those chasing, he kept his attention on the road ahead.

Traffic from other vehicles was busy; this was a busy street in a busy city so Pryde had his work cut out avoiding hitting or getting hit by another vehicle. It was in his favour, the mode of transport he had chosen, or rather stolen, as he could dodge and weave through a lot of it unscathed. Unfortunately, that went the same for the two riders chasing after him.

More bullets chased after him as the riders fired with little regard for bystanders. He was travelling in the opposite direction of where he needed to go, but it was out of necessity rather than choice. As he weaved in and out of traffic choking the street, he desperately looked for somewhere to turn.

A turn was coming up controlled by a signal system. This was his chance. Accelerating to the junction, he turned left across traffic on that side, forcing them to stop. This caused a few minor fender benders as at least two vehicles collided in their haste to avoid hitting or getting hit by the rider.

The two chasing riders were forced to slow down to navigate through the blockage caused by Pryde’s hasty turn. It took them several moments to get through and by that time they had lost considerable ground.

A glance over his shoulder and he knew how much ground he’d gained at the junction, but they were undeterred and still determined to catch him. Once they were through the blockade, they increased their speed in an effort to catch up.

Pryde knew this couldn’t continue—he had to escape. It was obvious now that Haynes either had something to do with the attack on the convoy with his design or that he knew who was. Pryde had to get that information to the right people.

As he turned down another side street, he saw the end of this road end in a ‘T’ junction. By his reasoning, if he kept left he would eventually be heading in his original direction, toward the space port.

Coming to the junction, he didn’t slow, instead throwing the bike into a tight left, skidding turn. The chasing riders opened fire as he turned. As Pryde keeled the bike over to make the turn, bullets struck the ground in front of him, stitching a path toward him. The last two bullets struck the bike’s side, and sparks from the impacts ignited the fuel cell. As the bike tipped over, Pryde rolled free just as his transport blew up.

The shockwave from the blast sent him rolling farther along the pavement as burning debris from the explosion rained down on the immediate area.

Before he could get to his feet, the two riders were within range and were firing at him once more.

It was only due to the fact that they were speeding toward him on bikes that their aim was off. Bullets pinged off the pavement, forcing Pryde to duck and move away. Reaching for his Walther Q9, he held it in a double handed grip as he aimed at the riders. He fired a three-shot salvo at the first rider. One bullet shattered the windscreen and the next two slammed into his chest, knocking him sprawling from the bike.

The second biker was aiming over the handlebars of his ride to fire. The bike was bouncing, which put off his aim. The bullets he fired hit all around Pryde, who remained calm and returned fire with a carefully aimed, three-shot salvo. The first two bullets slammed into the upper torso, rocking him back on the seat, then the last shell hit him in his right eye and took off the top of his skull, killing him. Losing control of the bike, he fell backwards, sending his ride skidding across the ground.

Pryde was on his feet and he caught the bike as it slid closer. He righted it, then mounted it, powered the engine up to top revs, and took off away from the chaos he’d caused.

As he came to the end of this street, he saw a sign informing him where the space port was, so he headed in that direction.