“Hell!” Overton cursed. Traces of yellow gas were seeping from the top of the doorway, and there was a definite stink of chemicals in the air. The bloody fools had to have tripped the gas canisters. Now the war wag was unreachable until the poison naturally dispersed.
“Shoot that door!” Overton commanded.
“Sir?” a sergeant asked askance. “But our men are on the other side!”
“Anybody inside the garage is dead,” the baron retorted. “Now shoot the fucking door to help vent the gas. I need that wag operational to defend the keep before Nathan and Ryan mount a serious attack. It’s our last refuge here.”
Obediently, the troops aimed their weapons and started to shoot the door to pieces, blowing away chunks of the ancient wood paneling. Soon they could see the ruin of the APC inside the garage. Suddenly, the whole ville seemed to shake from a massive explosion.
“What the hell was that?” a corporal demanded, pointing his weapon about frantically.
Feeling ill, Overton had a terrible suspicion that he knew. Rushing into the street, the man could see a huge fireball engulfing the top of the keep. Debris from the blast was spreading across the ville, body parts and furniture raining onto the fortress, burning timbers tumbling from the sky. Blocks of cracked granite plummeted downward to punch into the tiled roofs and crash resoundingly into the cobblestone streets.
“Ryan,” he said bitterly, watching the smoke ring of the blast rise into the sky, forming the classic mushroom shape of any high-temperature explosion. It was time to leave. The barracks was burned, half his troops dead, his best men trapped outside with those damn dogs, the Bradley unreachable and now the keep was obliterated.
“Back to my suites in the east wing,” Overton ordered, turning and striding away. “We must smash the radio and kill the pigeons.”
“We’ve lost?”
A fluttering piece of flaming table crashed into the street in front of them, and the blue shirts were forced to detour around the crackling obstruction.
“Lost? Corporal, you’re a jackass,” Overton stormed. “We’re simply retreating to regroup. And when we return, no more of this diplomacy shit. Everybody dies! End of discussion.”
STANDING BEHIND the columns at the front of the fortress, Dean grabbed Jak and pulled him into the building and behind a giant tapestry. Holding their weapons tight, the youths listened to a parade of boots going into the main hall and out of range.
“Who?” Jak demanded softly, peeking out from behind the heavy velvet tapestry. There was nobody in sight.
“Overton and some troops,” Dean answered excitedly. “Should we go after them? We have the element of surprise.”
“How many?” Jak demanded.
“Twelve, mebbe fifteen. But it could be more. I didn’t get a good count.
“Too many.” The albino teenager gave the boy a shove. “Get Ryan. Move!”
Pausing only a moment, Dean took off at a spirited run. When his friend was safely outside, Jak went up the stairs to the second floor and proceeded along the servants’ hallway, switching the selector switch on his Kalashnikov from single shot to full-auto.
Reaching the balcony, he peeked over the ornate railing and saw Overton crossing the dining room surrounded by a gang of his blue shirts. Jak leveled the blaster, but the chandeliers blocked a clear shot. Dashing down the hallway to another balcony, he stepped boldly into view only to find the enemy gone.
Cursing, Jak debated going after them or staying there for an ambush. It took only a moment to decide, then he lurched into action.
A WHIFF OF FRESH AIR bringing a moment of relief to her aching lungs, Krysty lifted her throbbing head from the rough floor. A yellow cloud floated in the garage, hovering a few feet off the floor like mist above a lake. Vaguely, she realized the breeze from the broken door was keeping the gas at bay. There were a hundred holes in the wood paneling, almost as if a firing squad had been using it for target practice. Had to be shrapnel damage from the C-4 explosion.
Looking for Orin, she spied the man sprawled on the floor, his clothes darkly stained. Crawling closer, Krysty checked for a pulse, but there was no question he was dead. The wounds appeared to be from bullets, not shrapnel. Whispering a quick prayer to Gaia for the brave sec man, Krysty searched wildly for the pulley rope used to open the garage door. She found it on the wall directly above the sergeant. In pure bad luck, Orin had stood to get the door open so they could escape and been shot for his struggles.