James Axler – The Mars Arena

“Who?” LeMarck demanded before anyone else had time to react to the announcement.

“Don’t know.” Thoroughgood pointed through the glass down at the pit. “They came through the window of the old convention center, slid down a rope and are hauling ass.”

Connrad looked at one of his sec commanders. “Get word out to the wall guards. Tell them I want these people killed.”

The man nodded and rushed out of the room.

Hardcoe gave the same order to Thoroughgood, who promptly vanished outside again.

LeMarck felt the tension in the room suddenly increase as all the barons leaned forward with their glasses in hand. He knew they were all thinking the same thing if any of the barons had been behind the insertion of extra troops, that baron was a dead man.

The situation didn’t make for casual conversation.

LeMarck trained his own glasses on the wall by the convention center and spotted the rope immediately, then he picked up the thermographic lenses and began to search for the intruders. In seconds he had their heat signatures. Neither of them showed the special ID buttons that were in the body armor of the team members.

He grew cold inside, because he figured he knew who the intruders were, and there was no way Hardcoe wouldn’t be blamed for it. Death hovered over the room, waiting to be released. He dropped his hand to his Glock.

THE SHRILL SCREAMS and echoing thunder of blasters drew Ryan to a halt along the stairwell that led from the second floor to the first. Weak light dribbled in from the mesh windows in the doors to the emergency stairs.

“Not after us,” J.B. said quietly behind him.

Ryan eased forward, the SIG-Sauer at the ready, hammer locked back so it would take only a two-pound squeeze to touch off the first round. He peered through the scarred, metal-ribbed glass, feeling the Armorer’s breath light against the back of his neck.

The light was better outside. Scanning the scene before him, Ryan felt his hackles lift. Four of the green team were down, scattered along a couple corridors and almost buried under dozens of creatures that looked like things from a mat-trans chili nightmare.

“Dark night,” J.B. breathed.

“Back,” he told J.B. “Before these bastards get our scent.” He signaled to Owen and Mildred, backing the group up the stairs. It had been Ryan’s intention to identify the green team, isolate them from his group’s own movements and chill them if it came to that.

“Looks like the green team’s almost fresh out of members,” J.B. stated.

Just as they started up the second set of steps, something smashed into the emergency door below.

At the tail of the line, Ryan peered back at the door. A monkey’s face almost filled the rectangle, then two others popped into view, shoving the first beast away.

“Move!” Ryan ordered. “They’re onto us!”

The door rattled, the knob turning slowly. Excited monkey screams filled the space.

“Bastards can work the knobs,” Mildred said as she moved up the steps.

Ryan sighted along the length of his blaster, then put two rounds into the monkey’s face. The screams of the animals increased, quickly reaching a frenzied stage. The bullets left holes in the glass, one of them snipping through the wire mesh. More monkeys suddenly clawed at the door.

Before Ryan reached the second landing, he heard the door below open, then the rapid padding of monkey feet against the steps.

“THEY’RE MAKING FOR the Mirage!”

LeMarck looked at Connrad’s sec man. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, sir!” It was obvious the sec man was panicked, knowing it appeared that his own baron had at least a fifty percent chance of culpability in inserting extra champions. Otherwise, he’d have never responded to LeMarck’s question.

Dettwyler pulled a blaster and pointed it in Hardcoe and Connrad’s direction. “One of you two bastards is trying to pull a fast one on us. I want to know which one it is.”

Quietly and quickly, LeMarck pulled his Glock and kept it out of sight by turning his body.

“You don’t pull a blaster on me,” Connrad warned, “unless you’re going to use it.”