Butterfly Stomp Waltz

Chapter 23

23

The two men are just distractions. They’re wearing breathing gear beneath those Battletech cosplay outfits. Bullets from those massive NATO assault rifles would mess up Noah’s party room, after all. They can stand there ignoring our popguns, hoping to keep our attention away from the poison gas they’re pumping into the room.

“Incoming,” Bradley says.

I lunge forward from my crouch, trying to get my face to the linoleum—fast.

The bulletproof sliding glass door to the outside gives this loud dull thud, like it’s been slapped by a giant hand.

Both armored men jerk and turn to look.

Then the whole door shudders and dissolves into a rainfall of heavy sticky glass with a sound like pouring nails.

Create bulletproof glass? Some bright boy will create bullets specifically to trash it.

Rob’s gun is back in his hand. He’s hopping backwards, away from the armored guards.

I hit the sweaty tile, my face sliding on the slick textured linoleum, and put my hands over my head.

Without the glass door in the way, this time I hear a double crack of rifle fire from outside. There’s barely a pause, then another double crack.

I roll sideways, coming up on my feet in half a heartbeat, pistol aimed at the two armored men.

Rob’s next to me, his .45 in his hand. From the corner of my eye I see Jacka, head and shoulders above the bar, his machine pistol propped on the gleaming copper to cover the door leading into the house.

The two armored men stand still for a breath.

Their rifles sag.

Their shoulders slump.

Then they simultaneously sink towards the floor and topple in a metallic clatter.

Bloody mush oozes out from between gaps in the armor.

Bradley’s duffel was so heavy for a reason.

Bulletproof armor is great against handguns. But not against a high-power sniper rifle with armor-piercing high-explosive rounds meant to punch through tanks. The only thing the armor does for you then is confine the tiny explosions so they shatter only your flesh and bones.

Rob glances at the men. His lips are tight, his jaw clenched, but his face a little pale. He looks as old and tired as he claims to be. “Jacka, cover the exterior. Beaks, inner door.”

Fresh night air drifts in through the shattered pool door, but I still yank the respirator mask from my bag and tuck it over my mouth and nose. Who knows how much gas they poured into this place? Is it still coming, or did a third thug turn the spigot off?

If so, we’d find out soon.

The door leading further into the house has an alarm keypad with a fingerprint reader. I pop the cover off to expose the circuitry, but there’s no brains on this side of the wall.

We need to move. Fast.

We could go out and have Bradley blow us a hole into the living room. But that’s giving Noah a great big egress. The idea is to trap him in the building with us. I don’t care how rich you are, you’ll hesitate to blow up your own home.

I’ll have to do this the old-fashioned way.

The closest thug lies crumpled in a ball, so I go to the one who’s spread-eagle on his face. The armor’s sleeves are attached to the torso with heavy, dull brass buckles. As I yank at the buckles I debate: do I get all the armor off the body, or do I just strip the arm and drag him armor and all?

With a hard shove of my thumbs and an involuntary grunt, I unsnap the armor’s buckles and the debate gets settled for me.

The thug’s arm isn’t actually attached to his torso any more. His—her?—chest is just this horrific steaming stinking slurry.

My stomach twists. To try to fend off the bile I whisper, “Damn, Bradley.” There’s an arm up in the sleeve, but I have to pin the armored sleeve beneath my armpit to work on the wrist buckles.

My rising gorge urges me to hurry. If I wait too long, the body will start to cool. Noah might be reworking the security even now. Modern thumbprint sensors include temperature checks. Luckily, the sensor on my door doesn’t have the little hood that means it also checks for a pulse.

One shot each would have done it. But Bradley’s too professional to not double-tap.

Rob glances at me like he wants to help, but his gun is trained on the inner door. As it should be. Jacka’s attention doesn’t flicker from the outer door.

I weasel the arm out of the suit. It’s a bloody mess, shredded from the bicep up, but it still feels hot. Maybe the explosive shock heated the body. The forearm is hairy and muscular, the fingers are long and flat and heavy. The nails are trimmed irregularly. I want to say it’s a man’s hand.

The whole room is plastic and chrome. There’s nothing to wipe the thumb on.

I use my pant leg, right above my boot, stomach quavering the whole time.

But when I press the thumb to the sensor, the red light turns green.