I make it about six yards. Something flares past me, grounds to my left. A massive shock runs up my leg, lifts me into the air like a rag doll. I somersault in the air. The world spins. I come down on my back.
Corrugated aluminum does not a comfortable landing make.
I roll over, groan. Blood dribbles from my mouth. I don’t know what I bit. Maybe everything.
“Arthur, what are you—?” Felicity is yelling at my back. But I can see Jasmine. I have to get to Jasmine. I stagger up and forwards. I half hurdle, half dry hump another girder. I roll. Another blast of something or other. I’m bucked up into the air like a lightning-powered donkey kicked me in the gut. I fly with all the grace of a sack of potatoes.
That may be slander from the sack’s point of view.
I’m out of cover now, an open stretch of metal between Jasmine and me. Even the walls have dropped away. Jasmine’s shouting something, waving at me, but my ears are ringing, and I can’t hear a word.
I make it to my feet, stumble forward. A flash of white light to my side. A Russian appears. I spin. A fist comes at me, connects on my jaw, sends me sprawling backwards.
Not this again.
Another flash. A boot to my midriff, floors me properly this time.
God, I hate teleporters.
The air above my head is shredded by bullets. I turn, groggy. Felicity is emptying a clip into the air around me, buying me time.
Goddamn, she looks hot right now.
I need to focus. Jasmine. I need to get to Jasmine.
I roll, get to my knees. She’s just yards away.
A flash of light. The Russian. Leo. His straw-blond mane wild. His face a picture of pure spite. He stands over Jasmine.
I launch myself at him, as hard and as fast as my shaking legs will propel me.
Lightning lances from a nearby wire, slams into Leo, through him, plunges down. Jasmine arcs her back, screaming. Her howl bubbles up out of frying lungs. I am in the air, caught in midair. Closer, closer, time a fraying piece of string. And I am going to kill—A flash of light. The Russian, Leo, disappears. Nothing. Thin air that I sail through. My hands clutching no throat, tearing at nothing.
I slam onto the metal next to Jasmine.
Next to Jasmine’s corpse.
No.
No. No, it can’t be. I shake my head, try to negate reality.
She’s barely recognizable, blackened, twisted, caught in the final convulsions of agony.
No.
I pull the gun from its holster. And fuck these people. Fuck them all. Fuck my shitty shooting. Fuck water-soaked bullets. I am going to execute every last one of these motherfuckers.
I pull the trigger. Nothing. I slide back the action on my pistol, watch the sodden round spill down. I fire again. Nothing. I eject that bullet. Again. Again. Damp rounds litter the air around me. Lightning sears the air. The wail of sirens rises. Again. Again. One bullet flies out of the gun. I see the dust it kicks up against the wall some of the Russians are crouching behind. Again. Nothing. Again. Nothing.
Fuck this gun. Fuck this shit. Fuck those fucking Russians.
I wrestle the sword from its sheath. I remember the howl of agony on Joseph Punin’s face. I am looking forward to seeing that expression again.
I stride forward, over the metal roof, over the mud, into the swirling, rising water of the Thames. And fuck cover. Fuck bullets. Fuck magic. I don’t care if they hit me, I am coming for them.
She was just a child.
Jesus, she was just… Jesus.
The police sirens are a banshee howl now. A keening wail of grief given up by the world for Jasmine. I am fighting the current, fighting reality, fighting for vengeance.
A policeman bellows, his message lost in my rage and the static from the bullhorn.
A flash of light. Another. Another. The Russians retreating, driven back, and away.
“No!” I scream at them. “No!” Stay and fight me, you fuckers. Stay and let me carve out your hearts.
But they’re gone. The police are here. Men and women in black, armed-response uniforms—thick padded vests and faceless helmets. They level rifles at me.
I stand in the river, and raise my hands, and I weep.