At the suit of armor, Kinnison looked through a spyhole into the corridor to make sure it was safe to leave, but saw two more armed sec men staring aghast at the dead man in the chair. The tall private shook the corpse, and the shotgun clattered to the floor, the body slumping sideways to expose bloody clothing.
“Nukeshit, this guy is aced!” he cried, backing away.
As the other guard stuffed two fingers in his mouth to whistle for more sec men, Kinnison rammed the MAC-10 into the opening and fired off a sweeping burst. Removing the blaster, he checked the results and was pleased to see the guards prone on the floor, bleeding profusely.
But even with the rapidfire behind the stone-block wall, the noise was bound to bring help. Leaving the passageway, Kinnison walked to the double doors on the throne room and peeked through the keyhole. Sure enough, Griffin the usurper was holding court with the new leaders of the island, discussing the unexpected revolt.
“How did they get out?” Baron Griffin demanded, banging a fist on the arm of the throne. “And what happened to the guards?”
An officer saluted. “We have no idea, my lord. The doors weren’t battered down or the locks shot off. It’s as if they were opened with the proper keys.”
“Kinnison,” the new baron growled. “I don’t know how, but somehow that fat bag of pus is behind this.”
“Colonel, take a squad and find out if the former baron is still in his cell,” Griffin demanded, worrying a fingernail.
“We have, my lord,” another replied. “But he’s long gone. Probably hidden deep in the jungle somewhere.”
“Not yet,” Kinnison growled as he entered the room, the chattering MAC-10 mowing down the front line of sec men and barons. The rest dived for cover behind their chairs and the food-laden buffet table.
“You!” Griffin shouted, drawing a blaster.
Swinging around the chattering machine pistol, Kinnison peppered the chancellor on the throne, tearing out gouts of wood from the arms of the chair, throwing off Griffin’s aim. His blaster barked twice, hitting nothing. Then Kinnison rode the bucking rapidfire into a tighter grouping and tore Griffin apart, blowing away his fingers, shattering an elbow, breaking his knees and removing his manhood in a barrage of hot lead. The 9 mm rounds stitched a zigzagging path across his body, the spent brass arching through the air to land tinkling on the floor.
Bleeding from a dozen locations, the mutilated man tried to rise, but instead he fell to the stone floor, twitching and choking, drowning in his own blood.
Putting a burst into the ceiling to capture everyone’s attention, Baron Kinnison slapped in his last clip and walked boldly into the room, covering the crowd with his smoking weapon. Many of the sec men had weapons out, but none dared to fire, unsure if the baron was alone or if squads of soldiers were en route to the throne room to back his play. Exactly what Kinnison had been counting on— their fear of betrayal. Like the thief frantic with worry that others would rob his stolen treasure, the traitors expected treachery from others.
“I’m the baron of this ville,” Kinnison stated loudly, glaring at them from within his swaddling bandages. “And if I don’t rule here, then nobody does. Surrender, or the island will be destroyed.”
“Can’t chill us all with only one blaster,” a captain stated grimly, his hand yanking back the hammer on his mammoth handcannon.
“Don’t need to,” Kinnison replied. “In a few minutes every Firebird on this island will launch, streak high into the sky and then curve back to blow this mansion and the ville below to pieces. The powder mills, the armory, all have been targeted. Maturo Island will burn, and nothing can stop them but my word.”
Incredibly, the fat man then tossed the blaster aside and casually walked across the room to sit in the throne.
“Swear an oath of loyalty and obedience to me,” he said, flipping over a hand, “or die. Your choice.”
“It’s a bluff,” a lieutenant said, licking dry lips.
Suddenly, there was a roar as a Firebird launched from overhead.