Perception Fault. James Axler
that big blaster, J.B.?” Ryan shouted, seeing the other mil wag begin to pull away from them. His question was answered a moment later by a long burst of bullets from up top that chewed into the back of the Hummer in front of them, blowing off the spare tire and punching large holes into the armored top. The squat wag slewed from side-to-side, but kept going, so J.B. aimed another two-second burst at the left rear corner. The cluster of shells disintegrated the armored fender and continued into the tire, blowing it apart in a cloud of flying rubber. The driver lost control of his vehicle, which swerved around in a 180-degree turn and stalled.
Suddenly face-to-face with the coldheart through his side door window, Ryan scrambled to draw his Sig Sauer and aim it at the wheelman, who was just as frantically lining up his own blaster. A single shot cracked out, and the enemy driver’s head snapped back, a small hole appearing in his forehead. If anyone else was inside the wag, they were staying put behind the armored doors.
Ryan reholstered his blaster and hit the gas. “Thanks, Mildred.”
“No problem. Now let’s get that woman.”
Squinting through the dust-covered windshield, Ryan spotted the second mil wag pulling alongside the woman, who tried to dodge away, but was grabbed by a man in the rear passenger seat who drew the kicking, screaming woman into the back. “Nuking hell, they got her!”
“Well, then, my dear Ryan, I suggest that we get her back.” With a feral grin, Doc had his LeMat drawn and ready, and seemed to be fully in the moment. “Tallyho!”
“Tallyho indeed, whatever the fuck that means.” Ryan goosed the accelerator, and the ancient mil wag, as if sensing his urgency, now leaped forward, straining to catch up to the vehicle ahead of them.
“J.B., can you take them out without hitting anyone in the rear?” Ryan shouted.
“Ask me to shoot off their hats without mussin’ their hair, why don’t ya!” J.B. yelled back. “This is a machine gun, not a bastard scalpel!”
“All right, all right, we’ll do it the hard way.” Ryan heard sniggering from the passenger seat and glanced over to find both Jak and Doc apparently sharing a private joke. “Want to tell me what’s so bastard funny?”
“You said…hit anyone…in rear,” Jak got out between chortles. Doc’s laugh grated on Ryan’s nerves, as well, but he ignored it and concentrated on getting closer to the wag ahead of them.
“Shut your mouths and look sharp—mebbe snipers above.”
His words sobered the two up, and they returned to watching the surrounding countryside as it blurred past. They’d left the long hillside behind now, and were jouncing through a series of smaller foothills, the wag’s engine growling as it powered up one side and down another. Ryan followed them into a narrow valley, where there was barely enough room for both vehicles to drive side-by-side.
“Watch it, Ryan, could be a trap,” J.B. called down from the top.
“Better keep that longblaster ready then, shouldn’t you?” he yelled back.
“Hope your plan to get her out of there is better than the one that got us into this,” the Armorer shouted, holding on to his beloved fedora with one hand.
“Better, no, crazy, yeah!”
A few hundred yards ahead, Ryan spotted what he was looking for. “J.B., keep a lookout behind us! Jak, give Doc the shotgun!”
The albino teen frowned at the order. “What, why?”
“’Cause you’re going to take the wheel in a few seconds. Now hand it over!”
Dumping the blaster into Doc’s lap, Jak prepared to move over and take command.
“Doc, just point and shoot to keep that turret gunner’s head down. And for fuck’s sake, don’t drop it!” For once Ryan was pleased that fléchette rounds were in the shotgun, as they wouldn’t penetrate the armor. “Now!”
The old man stuck his face and upper body out of the window, his long hair swirling around his face like a demented, blaster-toting prophet. He unloaded on the back of the mil wag as Ryan mashed the pedal to the floor, drawing a burst of speed from the ancient machine he would have thought impossible a few moments ago.
The two mil wags hit the widened plain at the same time, Ryan having pulled them abreast of the other Hummer. “Take it, Jak!” Ryan said, waiting until he felt the teen’s foot stomp down on the gas pedal before releasing it and handing over the wheel, as well. There was a slight sway as Jak maneuvered himself into the driver’s seat, but the 4x4 steadied soon enough, and Ryan pushed the driver’s door open, pulling himself up and out using the hinges of the door as steps.
Krysty leaned forward. “Lover, what the hell are you doing?”
Ryan glanced back at her, but didn’t stop. “Back in a sec.”
Before she could protest further, he stepped out onto the roof and let the door slam shut under him. J.B. had his back turned, sniping with the .50-caliber blaster as best he could at the far-off mob of green shirts streaming down the hill like rows of ants. Ryan didn’t spare him a second glance, as his attention was focused on the dull brown mil wag slowly pulling away from his own vehicle. The hot, dry wind whipped at his face, making him squint as he watched the other wag come closer.
Only a couple yards separated them, and as Ryan gauged his timing, Jak drifted slowly right, bringing the back of the mil wag to within a yard of their front bumper. Doc let loose one more blast from the autoshotgun at the turret, ruffling the hair of the man inside, who had just started to poke his head back up.
It was now or never.
Ryan took two large steps across the hood of the Hummer and leaped into space.
Chapter Seven
The trip across seemed to be over in a second and stretch on forever at the same time. Ryan felt the brief, strange sensation of weightlessness for a moment, and didn’t dare look down at the ground blurring underneath him, but kept his eye on the prize—the rim of the turret atop the mil wag he was sailing toward.
He hit the slanted back of the Hummer feet-first and threw himself forward, straining to reach the metal lip before he slid off. His fingers locked onto the raised edge just as the gunner inside poked his head up to see what had landed on the back of his ride. Eyes widening in surprise, he yanked a knife from an upside-down sheath on his web gear and thrust it at Ryan’s face.
Jerking his head aside, Ryan grabbed the man’s wrist and pulled it toward him, twisting at the same time until the man’s fingers popped open, and the blade clattered free, skittering away to fall to the ground. He turned back to the coldheart in time to take a blow to the side of his head from the man’s wild swing. The green shirt cocked his free hand back for another punch, but as he brought his fist forward, Ryan blocked it with his left hand, then pulled the guy forward, head-butting him in the face. Drawing back his head, Ryan drove it forward again, cracking his adversary in the mouth this time, and drawing blood from his mashed lips.
His lower face crushed into a red smear, the man sagged from the blows, giving Ryan time to pull his own blade and drive it into the man’s heart, stilling him for good. Removing the blade and pulling his feet up under him, Ryan dragged the body from the turret and tossed him over the side, then drew his Sig Sauer and paused for a moment. As he expected, a shadow appeared in the turret as another man poked his head up, blaster in hand, to see what was going on. The moment Ryan saw him, he jumped feet-first into the open space.
Seeing the combat boots aimed straight at his face, the coldheart tried to pull back into the recesses of the passenger compartment while aiming his blaster at the intruder. He accomplished neither, and his gun hand was caught underneath the heavy rubber soles, which crushed it to the deck with the snap of several broken wrist bones. The man howled in pain, giving Ryan a perfect target—his wide-open mouth. One bullet later, brains splashed against the rear door, and the coldheart stopped screaming permanently.