James Axler – The Mars Arena

Coming around the corner opening onto the area by the front desk, Ryan saw dozens of big-toothed fish lying dead in the pools of water across the floor. One of the dead boys was there, as well, staring up at the black ceiling.

Farther back, near the line of foliage that had swept into the entranceway from the atrium, three sec guards stood over two boys wearing the green-armored vests.

The sec guards made no move to harm them, but they kept their rifles ready in their hands. The boys knelt on the floor, their hands tucked behind their backs.

“All of them are dead,” one of the boys said.

“You know that for a fact?” The speaker was a grizzled man with a potbelly. His face bore the scars of past wars.

“No.”

“How many do you know rightly for a fact, boy?”

“Six,” the boy said. “Six for certain. Fish got one of them. Five others were killed by those damn monkeys.”

“Hate those fucking monkeys,” one of the other sec men said.

Not seeing anyone else around, Ryan lifted the SIG-Sauer and stepped out so he was in the clear. Without a word he shot the grizzled man through the side of the head, showering his brains over a broad-leafed fern of some type. Before the first man had time to drop, Ryan shifted his aim.

The second sec guard had his rifle up and was stitching a crooked pattern across the floor, leaving pockmarks where the bullets struck.

Shooting from instinct, Ryan put three rounds into the man’s head. The third guard had a blaster in both hands and got off two shots before Ryan could pick him up.

Both rounds slammed into Ryan with bruising force despite the armored vest, but the bullets didn’t penetrate. He shot the man four times across the crotch area. At least one of the rounds bounced off the bulletproof armor covering the man’s cock, but the force was devastating. The other three bullets gouged into his thighs.

The sec man went down screaming. He tried to maintain enough presence of mind to keep his blaster on target.

Ryan walked over, squeezing the trigger as he neared the man, and put two rounds through the man’s wide mouth.

The two boys in green body armor tried to go for the dropped weapons.

“No,” Ryan cautioned in a hard voice. “Not until we reach an understanding about what’s happening here.”

The boys froze.

Dean came forward out of the shadows.

“You know these boys?” Ryan asked his son.

Dean nodded. “Ethan Perry and Conor. Don’t remember his last name right now. If I ever knew it.”

“Who the hell is this?” Perry demanded. His features were disheveled and bloodstained, carrying a multitude of scratches.

“My dad,” Dean answered.

The smaller boy, Conor, looked up at Ryan. “You come here to get Dean out?”

“Didn’t start out that way,” Ryan replied, “but I’m aiming to see it done.”

“What about us?” Perry asked.

“Free country,” Ryan said. “If you can keep up, you can come along. If you don’t carry your weight, you get left behind.”

Both boys nodded.

“Arm yourselves,” Ryan said. “We’re pulling up stakes. Now.” He strode toward the atrium, seeing the dark outline of the entranceway framed behind the trees and plants.

Dean stayed close behind him, and the other two boys fell in, as well.

“Louis?” Conor asked.

“Dead,” Dean replied.

“Oh.”

Senses alert for any sign of danger, Ryan came to a halt at the entranceway and peered around its edge. He saw the wags heading toward the Mirage, almost obscured in the white smoke drifting off the burning building. “Fireblast,” he swore quietly.

He signaled to the boys and took off around the corner of the building, watchful of the snipers along the top of the wall on the other side. He skirted the edge of the outside swimming pool, counting on the falls streaming from the fifth floor to help cover them from easy view. He wondered where Mildred and J.B. had gone.

Hooves beat against the ground, the sound coming from the west.

Turning in that direction, Ryan watched a group of riders approach at a fast gallop, staying under the canopy of trees as much as possible. Then, under a bright shaft of moonlight, he spotted red hair on the rider of the lead horse.