Butterfly Stomp Waltz

Chapter 22

22

I immediately drop to the ground and roll towards the bar. I know Rob and Jacka are moving, all in accordance with the plan, then my back knocks a plastic chair aside and I roll to a knee, scanning the room from a crouch. I have my .38 semi-auto firmly clenched in one gloved hand, the other hand raised defensively. The stench of pool chlorine and old booze burns my sinuses.

My night vision goggles transform the pool room into shades of green. Rob and Jacka are back to back, weapons drawn. Jacka has a stubby machine pistol, a little plastic box that can fire a thousand high-velocity shards a minute. Rob’s more old-school, with a .45 semi-auto freakishly extended with an oversize magazine and a cigar-shaped silencer.

The outside door slides shut with a click.

The ceiling can lights burst into life.

My night vision goggles flare white. They’re software-driven so they can’t actually blind me, but the change is still as shocking as any abrupt light in a dark room. I can’t help reflexively crouching a little further.

The two bathroom doors swing open.

An armored man tromps out of each.

Bulletproof armor isn’t very useful, most of the time. No matter how much endurance training you do, standing out in the hot sun wearing a two-hundred-pound human-sized turtle shell will put you down in half an hour. Forget marching in it.

But if you’re going to trap people in a room and shoot them, full body armor’s great. It’s huge. It’s black. It’ll stop any handgun and most rifles.

I can’t see through the mirrored faceplates.

Rob’s pistol barks twice.

The armored figure on the left rocks just a little with the impact.

Jacka doesn’t even try to shoot. Flechettes are fantastic against someone in street clothes, but they won’t even scratch this stuff. Instead, he lunges to the side, making for the questionable shelter of the bar.

The two armored men have old-fashioned NATO FN-FAL assault rifles, both ready to fire. The FAL is a great big beast of a weapon. My bulletproof vest won’t give it much more trouble than tissue paper. One speaks in a mechanically filtered voice. “Freeze! Move and we shoot.”

Jacka doesn’t slow, but reaches the bar and dives behind it.

The armored men still don’t shoot.

I have my .38 reflexively lined up on the crotch of the second armored figure. I know the round can’t get through that armor, but still have to fight to keep from squeezing the trigger.

Why aren’t they shooting?

“We’re not going to hurt you,” the other one buzzes.

Rob holds his pose a beat, pistol aimed at the men.

Then he relaxes his grip on his gun.

Lets it spin around his finger.

We’re caught.

My mind churns. I’ve never been caught before, not like this. They knew we were coming. Hidden cameras? Infra-red sensors picked us up as we moved in? I’m trying to come up with an idea that doesn’t lead to getting filled with holes, but I’m so tense, so adrenalized, that I can’t hardly think. Noah is upstairs. And he’s laughing at us. I’m not going down like this, these bastards killed Deke, I am not giving up—

“Gun down, lady,” one of the armored men says. His voice is strangely muffled. “You can’t get away.” He sounds like he’s wearing something other than that big bulletproof helmet.

And the stink of pool chemicals is getting stronger—

He’s wearing a respirator.

“Gas,” I snarl.