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We raced down the sidewalk in a single-file line. Our weapons were jammed against our shoulders, barrels pointed at the ground in front of us.
Tate took point.
He had a Spas-12. It was a devastating shotgun at short range. The weapon would likely prove to be a good choice in a small apartment building and in the narrow streets.
The rest of us had M4 rifles, except Manning, who had her high-powered monster.
People noticed us when we were about fifty feet from the SUV.
The anger baking off their minds turned to fear at the sight of our guns and our black masks. They scattered out of the way, many running to the other side of the street.
I didn’t like being on foot in the middle of a riot. One that had started because of violence propagated against the American people. They were pissed that citizens were being killed and the government hadn’t responded in a way they found acceptable.
So seeing a group dressed like us made them think we were terrorists. In their eyes, we were responsible for everything that had happened over the past year. Say what you would about Americans, but when they thought something bad was about to go down, there was always someone who would step up and try to stop it.
Their emotions pulsated in my mind as we hurried toward the parking garage.
People feared us. They hated us.
Several of them thought we were riot-control officers, which made them even angrier. There was nothing rioters hated more than someone trying to control them.
A man with a bandana tied around his mouth and nose stepped out from behind a set of stone stairs leading into a brownstone. None of us had seen him right away as our attention was on the crowd in front of us.
He threw a wild punch that connected with the side of Briggs’ watermelon of a head. The big Texan was running in front of me and never saw it coming.
A grunt escaped him as he stumbled a step to his left, but he managed to stay on his feet. He must have had concrete in his skull to take a punch like that without even falling over.
Rather than open fire, I dropped the M4 that was clipped to my tactical vest. It dropped down in front of me, swinging against my side as I engaged the rioter.
He saw me coming and spun around.
It didn’t matter.
I jabbed him in nose with my left hand, then landed a straight teep kick square in his chest. He flew backward like he’d taken a twelve-gauge shell to the sternum.
Seeing the way I’d dropped the guy scared off a few others who were getting froggy and thinking about jumping.
Briggs watched the man collapse to the sidewalk before looking back and giving me a nod.
I hoped that had bought me at least a modicum of respect from the Texan. I didn’t want these guys worried I’d get them killed. They wouldn’t operate at optimal efficiency if they were concerned about their six o’clock during the entire mission.
Tate reached the front of the parking garage and cut through the entrance.
People moved out of the way as if he were Moses parting the Red Sea.
“Pigs!” someone shouted.
Oink oink, I thought.
The crowd closed in around the entrance as we moved inside, though they didn’t follow us. Judging by their mood, I didn’t think it would be long though. They were looking to destroy things, and we were suddenly high on their list of grievances.
“Easy now,” Drew said in our earpieces. “Don’t engage unless necessary. We don’t need to make things worse.”
“Tell that to them,” Huxx replied.
Those were the first words he’d said in a long time. Unlike me, he didn’t run his mouth when he was nervous or scared. He focused.
A few rioters were vandalizing cars inside the parking garage. One had a piece of rebar that he used to smash out the windows of a Mercedes. It was a damn shame seeing a jackass deface a work of art like that.
Tate moved past the vandals without so much as a second glance.
The idiots stopped smashing stuff as we ran by, shocked expressions on their faces. They watched us without saying a word. Even through the fog of emotions pressing in on my mind, I could feel the anxiety coming from the man with the rebar.
He thought we were going to shoot him for smashing up the Mercedes.
I didn’t want to shoot him, but I wouldn’t have minded tap dancing on his kidneys for a bit.
“Manning.” Tate stopped in front of a staircase with a glowing EXIT sign above it. “Radio in when you’re in position. Don’t fuck this up.”
Bree paused long enough to look all of us in the eyes. “I’ve got your backs.”
Then she ran through the door and disappeared up the staircase.
“I want you in the middle.” Tate turned his gaze on me. He wasn’t breathing hard, but sweat glistened under his eyes. “If you so much as point that rifle anywhere near my back, I’ll—”
“Yeah, yeah.” I gestured toward the other side of the garage. “Let’s get this over with. I’ve got a thirty pack of swill with my name on it in my room.”
“Quiet.” Huxx held a fist up. “Hear that?”
The quiet pops of distant gunfire reached us.
“Shit.” Briggs adjusted his vest. “Any chance that’s just rioters and not Smith’s men?”
“Give me a second.” I closed my eyes.
After two deep breaths, I lowered my mental defenses.
A flood of thoughts and foreign voices washed over me. I fought against a tidal wave of anger and fear, searching for the distinct impressions of Smith’s goons.
Every time I’d encountered them, their presence had been obvious because they were blank spots in an otherwise painted canvas. Their minds were voids of nothingness that I couldn’t penetrate.
While their ability to fight off my telepathy kept me from gathering any kind of useful information from them, it also allowed me to know when they were present. In crowds as large as the one surrounding us, I would have never been able to unearth their locations if they were like everyone else. It would have been the equivalent of finding a needle in a haystack. As it stood, they were closer to a metal pipe in said haystack. I just had to dig around a little bit to find it.
My eyes popped open. “There are five of them in the building ahead.”
Huxx, Briggs, and Tate gaped at me.
“Bullshit.” Tate stepped forward. “I told you not to bring that—”
“You can argue with me later.” I pointed at the building. “Those gunshots are coming from someone.”
“Where are you?” Drew asked. “It’s taking you too long to get to the other side of the garage.”
Tate watched me a moment before using his microphone. “Exiting the garage now. Manning is on her way to the roof.”
“Affirmative.”
“Remember, the objectives are the woman and the silver object that is probably a flash drive.” Tate jammed the butt of his shotgun against his shoulder again. “If we can snag one of these bastards safely, we’ll do it, but don’t stick your necks out for it.”
“Let’s have some fun,” Briggs said.
We ran to the other end of the garage and plunged into the street.