I was a staunch believer that nothing good ever came from bombs. They were unpredictable and dangerous. The fact that I was being forced to use one did not make me very happy.
The first floor corridor was crawling with serial killers. Using a small mirror, Patterson had counted at least two dozen. How two dozen fit in the corridor was beyond me, but I didn’t know their attack skills or formation designs. For that matter, I wasn’t sure they did. Interestingly, there were three guys in Marshals uniforms also in that corridor and they were packing guns. At least one was not a Marshal. Patterson said he had an anarchist tattoo on his neck. I had to agree, anarchists did not make good law enforcement officers.
That meant a biker gang had been hired and now at least one anarchist. It seemed unlikely that he was the only anarchists. The person or persons responsible seemed to know how to get in touch with some bad people, reinforcing the theory that it was probably a cop.
However, it couldn’t be just any cop. It had to be a cop with connections. I suddenly had some doubts about calling in Homeland Security. I wasn’t sure whether they dealt with more scum or the US Marshals, it was a bit of a toss-up.
There was a noise behind us. I turned to see one of the massive giants coming our way. We just could not seem to get a break. If we had to stop and deal with him, we would most certainly get the attention of those patrolling the hall. We needed the attention of those inside the tower though.
“On it,” Timmons told me. I nodded. He sprang to his feet, lithe and ready. My baton hung in his hand like a sword. Roberts followed him and I suddenly had an idea. I grabbed the bigger man.
“Drag him into the hallway, where you can both be seen,” I told him. He nodded.
This monster I recognized. I’d taken him down once before. Aside from his size and the fight he had put up, there was nothing terribly remarkable about him. He was cannibalistic and he didn’t require his meat cooked, which was gross, but that was a minor detail. Roberts and he locked on to each other in what looked like a Royal Rumble. Timmons swung the baton, bringing it down hard against the front lower part of Peter Lutz’s leg. Bone cracked under the sound. The big man grunted and reached out for Timmons, but Roberts kept him from grabbing the serial killer who liked to behead people.
It was hard not to watch. It was a real case of mortal combat, better than any game designer could ever had made. They pushed and shoved at each other. They landed heavy blows that would have dropped a normal person like a rock. All the while, the Tallahassee Terror, who was only half their size, moved around like a dancer, getting in blows where he could. Roberts was doing exactly what I wanted. He was dragging the large Lutz towards the corridor.
The grunting and groaning was getting the attention of others though. I could hear feet now approaching us. We prepared ourselves. Wright had two jobs, get the bomb into the hall and detonate it. The rest of us would be fighting those that came into the main hall where we were taking shelter from the bomb.
“Ready?” Eric whispered to me, obviously hearing the footsteps as well.
“Are you?” I asked my older brother. I passed him the scimitar. It would be better in his hands than in mine and I took a large hunting knife from him. I was pretty sure it was the one Deacon Priest had held against my throat earlier. It wasn’t a K-bar. It was bigger, with a stronger hilt. I would check into the maker after I got out of the Fortress. It felt good in my hand and I was beginning to find that guns were overrated since I never seemed to have one when I really needed it. “I want that back.”
“You know it’s evidence and you won’t be allowed to keep it, right?”
“Maybe,” I raised an eyebrow and took a position crouching, my shoulder touching the wall. We were all lined up and ready to go when the first man came through the opening. He was enthralled by the raging titans and failed to notice us. I sprang to my feet, knife folded against my arm, and slashed out. The blade was incredibly sharp, sliding through his flesh with ease. The wound sucked itself closed, it was so well honed that blood was unable to splatter out of it. I definitely needed one of these. I slashed a second time, oblivious to anyone except the killer in front of me.
He attempted to turn to protect himself, while aiming his gun, but failed. I was too fast, too good with a knife. My hand moved it almost completely without input from my brain. I finished him, slipping the blade between his ribs on the left side of his chest and pushing it in as far as it would go. The heart gave little resistance. I twisted it as I pulled it free. He fell in slow motion. Wide, staring eyes were already glazing over. He was dead before he hit the ground. I looked for my next victim. The calm had not completely engulfed me and the darkness wanted to be fed. I would oblige that need today.
Someone screamed, and I twisted to see who it was. The arms of one of the serial killers lay on the floor with a gun still clasped in his hands. Eric sneered at him, the scimitar dripping blood. He made an upwards motion and the blade cut through the wounded man, sending him backwards. He fell to the floor, the smell of bile and shit filling the air. I nodded my approval and caught sight of the man in the Marshals uniform with the anarchist’s tattoo. He raised his weapon to aim, but there were too many people now in the crowded hall. He fired, but someone bumped him, sending the bullets wide. Another man wearing a Marshals' uniform cried out, blood blossoming on the grey uniform.
I rushed him. He caught me with the stock of the gun as I got near. Warmth ran down my face, but it didn’t stop me. I moved, ducking under a second attempt, and found his body beneath one of my hands. I squeezed the flesh between my fingers and pulled both out and down. It wasn’t crippling, but it would hold him for a second. I kicked backwards, catching his knee with my boot. There was a satisfying popping noise, as if someone had set off a small firecracker, and he went down on one knee, struggling to regain control. My eyes found the third fake Marshal and I realized I didn’t need an anarchist. The blade slid across his throat, a warm spray of blood coating my shirt.
“Get him alive!” I shouted, pointing at the other man. He had some tattoos too and I recognized them. Worse, I recognized the man.
I dropped the body I was holding. Eric took off after him, as did I. We ran down the hallway, away from the melee. Eric was faster than I was, but we were both faster than Fred Thompson, leader of the Church of the Rising Sun. I had no idea how Satanists fit into the mix, but his presence was a giveaway that they were here. In a few strides, Eric caught up to Fred and tackled him. They both fell to the ground, fighting for supremacy. I moved up to them, grabbed Fred by the hair. I put the knife to his throat and waited. He stopped fighting. Eric slipped out from under him. Fred refused to move.
“Fred, why is the Church of the Rising Sun involved in this?” I asked very quietly.
“We were made an offer,” Fred gasped.
“What sort of offer?” I asked.
“If we did this, the SCTU would stop looking into us,” Fred said.
“We have not been looking into you,” I told him. “However, I’m guessing we should have been if it was enough of an offer to make you come here.”
“That Marshal of yours, what’s his name with the glasses, has been looking into us. Or he was until he approached me a week or so ago.”
“Hunter?” I asked.
“Yeah, that’s the one.”
“He doesn’t work for the SCTU,” Eric said. “He’s just a Marshal.” I wanted to add that he wasn’t a very good one, but didn’t. He had obviously dug up dirt on Fred and the Church that we hadn’t.
“You mean about the girl in Minnesota?” I asked.
“Yeah,” Fred confirmed.
“Eric, please make sure that Priest Fred does not get dead before we get out of here,” I told my brother. He growled, but took control of Fred. There was a loud noise, followed by a second, then a third, and a fourth. The walls shook. The floor turned to Jell-O. Instantly, I knew that the bomb on the ground floor had triggered others. If I had not been in full psychopath mode, I would have rushed to the fifth floor to check on Gabriel and Fiona. Smoke was moving like a river current across the ceiling, snaking past us. The damage would be far greater than expected. I wondered who had died in it. Eric must have wondered the same thing. He picked Fred Thompson up from the floor and we headed back towards the source of the smoke without a word to each other.