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The Ahmen lay down alongside the body of Crossfield, next to the reception desk, and waited. Like the Jaguar god that he so much admired, he was the predator king. The Archer building was his jungle. He sought shelter in its chaotic environment.
His own wireframe radar picked up the two Snakeskins as they crept along the lobby walls after entering from the opposite stairwells. They were wondering what ungodly hell they had entered. He was counting on their disorientation for his opportunity. The smoke cut off all references, all instincts. They were blind, even with the radar. He had tested the Snakeskin radar response time and knew the split-second delay it took to process the data and translate it into the wireframe display. That would be all he would need. He waited as they came closer.
He counted on the natural human reticence to confront the dead. Their humanity would provide his opportunity. For him, the dead were trophies; much like the big-game hunters of an earlier age. The glory of the hunt was ultimately the triumph of the chase and the struggle of the kill. What better way to complete the experience than to capture a trophy? A scalp, a head, a tooth, a claw. It was the way of the wild. He lay in wait among his trophies, as the two Snakeskins felt their way through the lobby towards him and his moment of opportunity.
He knew he would get an easy kill with the first man. It was always that way. No matter the size of the herd, they would all spook at the first scent of a kill. The second man would be the challenge. The Ahmen respected the killers of Jericho, hard-trained men in combat tactics. He needed them close, where he had the advantage.
His wireframe images put the first Snakeskin ten feet to his left, towards the lobby doors. The other man was farther away, behind the elevators. He had the reception desk between them, providing cover for his attack. He tensed, coiled for his leap, as the first Snakeskin turned away briefly, away from the real danger. It was always so with the prey, that moment of confusion as they sensed danger but not the direction. The mind can sometimes be too clever for the body, forcing itself to think when it should just react. This man sensed him, but did not move away. He looked away, but moved closer. Processing, watching and relying on his suit.
The Ahmen leaped over the desk, vaulting through the air. The man had time to spin and shoot, but he was late. His bullets passed by the Ahmen to his left, where he was moments ago, but not where he was now.
Mitchell had no chance to find the danger before it hit him full on and threw him to his knees. There was a knife at his throat, prying up his helmet, gouging at his neck. He tried to lever himself forward, to throw the beast from his back. He had no purchase, as the weight of the attack pressed him down. The hiss of the Snakeskin seal being broken was the final sensation he felt before the sting of sarin in his lungs. It was the last breath he took.
The Ahmen rolled away from the body, as it jerked and contracted in a spasm of dying. At the elevators, Burke heard the shots first and moved into the lobby. He heard the last gasp of Mitchell and knew the enemy was here. His radar picked up a shape moving laterally, and he fired his MP5 sub-machine gun as he ran along the wall.
“Burke to Kipling, he’s in the lobby. Closing in.”
Burke had no time for more, as bullets chipped the wall beside him. He flung himself to the floor and crawled towards the reception desk. He fired again, short bursts at the radar image. The man kept on the move, as he did. Circling ever tighter, both towards the desk.
Burke tried his best to expect the other man’s moves. There were no senses until they closed in and made contact. The touch of hand-to-hand would tell each man about the other. The only sense they could rely on. Burke had to keep him here until Kipling backed him up. Just a few more seconds would be enough.
He felt his legs give way, as something swept under them, cracking his knees out from under him. No way, where was the bastard? He fell and rolled away, twisting around to fire. A strong hand gripped his gun and twisted. He straight-armed the man, holding him off while he tried to get to his feet. Then, with a sickening crash, something hammered his visor, and he heard it crack. Thank God, the seal was intact. However, his wireframe blanked out. He was blind.
Burke had no choice but to fall back to where he figured Kipling would enter the battle. He smashed into a wall, kept moving, calling to Kipling, asking where the fuck he was.
He felt a hand on his arm, and he was about to break it when he realized it was Kipling.
“I’m here. Where is the Witch Doctor?” asked Kip, over the radio.
“By the reception desk, last time I could see. I’m blind. My computer display is fucked,” said Burke.
“Get downstairs. You can’t survive on this floor, Burke. Move everyone into the hot zone chamber. Leave this fucker to me,” said Kip, tapping Burke an all clear on his helmet.
It took Kip thirty seconds to clear the lobby and confirm that the Witch Doctor had left. Kipling was late again. The bodies of five men lay still on the lobby floor as a reminder of just how late he was. God damn this man!
From below, an explosion shook the floor.
Kipling ran towards the stairs, pushing the handle before remembering the door on the third floor, rigged to blow when opened. His memory cried out to wait, but he ran into it without thinking, more from his own frustration that anything. Maybe it was the smoke, or the dead men behind him. Whatever the reason, Kipling thought only of his overwhelming need to wrap his hands around the Witch Doctor’s throat.
The explosion threw him back across the lobby and slammed him against the steel wall ICARUS lowered to protect the innocent and contain the dying. He slid down to the floor in a crumpled mass of limbs. He had no thoughts, only the numb blackness of the mind shutting down.
Kipling lay unconscious against the steel wall, closer to death than life. A deadly cloud of poison engulfed him, with only the tough Snakeskin armor keeping him alive. Only a few minutes of oxygen remained in the suit and then it would convert to filtered air, sucking in the tiny sarin droplets still hanging in the air.