As Kathleen hammered the oncoming machine with the hardball ammo of her AK-47, Gaza used a knife to cut the strap off her shoulder and free the LAW. Pulling out the pin, he extended the tube to its full length. The sights popped up on the front and the firing button was uncovered.
“Watch the wash!” he warned, assuming a launching stance. Still shooting, Kathleen moved as far away from the man as she could.
Flame vomited out of the aft end of the launch tube, filling the hair salon with a strident volcano that blew everything loose across the store with hurricane force. Almost faster than they could follow, the antitank rocket streaked away from the front of the tube on a contrail of smoke and sparks, the propellant obviously weakened over the long years. It started straight for the droid, then unexpectedly veered slightly and went straight past the machine to slam into the side of a millinery shop. An explosion shook the entire building and it collapsed, a tidal wave of bricks and cinder blocks cascading outward to bury the droid. For several long moments, the man and woman waited, watching for any indication that the droid was still operational. But nothing stirred under the tonnage of assorted debris, and soon they lowered their weapons.
“Let’s move,” Gaza growled, “before another one of the damn things arrive.”
Kathleen nodded her agreement, and the two slipped out the rear door of the shop, running down a smoky alley to reach the street once more and head back toward the cable at the cliff.
PUSHING THE THIRD motorcycle to lean against the side of the APC, Allison suddenly could feel the cold, clammy hand of death squeeze her heart, and the doomie knew that death was in the immediate vicinity. Her own or somebody else’s, she wasn’t sure, as the woman had never been able to read her own future and help guide it along.
Which was why she had joined with Gaza. He was ruthless and powerful, an excellent stud in bed, and she could foresee things for him that would only bring wealth and pleasure to herself. All of the other wives had been chosen with extreme care so that they would never be rivals for his affection, such as it was. Any slut who might replace her was killed on sight.
Folding her arms, she closed both eyes and tried to open herself to the whispers of the universe. Almost immediately, the doomie felt her mind swirl with the bizarre visions of some different place, perhaps a different world. The chaos seemed to last forever, and when the vision finally cleared Allison stumbled inside the war wag and took a knife to scratch a message into one of the hard plastic seats. The doomie wasn’t sure exactly what it meant, or when the deeds would take place—this day or a hundred seasons from today. But she felt it would be soon, and was absolutely certain that this message would be her revenge, the only way Allison had of striking back at her killers after buying the farm.
Shaking off the disturbing mental images, the woman closed the rear doors of the LAV 25 and climbed into the turret, trying to find her husband in the madness below. Death came to everybody sooner or later, but the doomie had no intention of greeting the blackness with open arms. Allison planned on fighting for every second of life, every gasp of breath.
Chapter Eighteen
The companions ran along the salty desert, watching the streamers of smoke come over the top of the sand dunes when the bandaged, figures rose from the sand directly in their path.
Ryan froze at the sight, his Steyr sweeping from one member of the Core to the next. His first impulse had been to chill them on sight, but none of them was carrying those weird spears like before.
“Krysty?” J.B. asked nervously, expertly cradling the Uzi machine pistol.
“They’re not sending any mindkillers, if that’s what you mean,” the redhead replied slowly, her eyes narrowed in concentration. “At least, I don’t think so. Can’t really tell for sure.”
As if stirred by those words, the mysterious beings now all pointed in unison to the left.