Szy'm'czyk works smoothly and swiftly, dropping the Carrien we picked out. Sure enough, the others wake up with blood in their noses and lunch on their minds, tearing into the corpses with a sickening frenzy. Even better, some of them squabble over the food and get into peripheral fights.
'Knight, go.'
He makes a smooth leap across the yawning pit, his attitude jets whining. The Carrien barely pause in their feeding frenzy - good. Knight lands square on the hanging corpse, gripping the chains with one hand as he deftly slices the Oyster's dummy cord and catches the laptop before it falls. He gives us the thumbs up and jumps back towards us.
That's when the shit hits the fan. Literally, I think; the Silverback's jets sputter and die, best guess is the air intakes sucked something in while we were slogging through the sewers and it's just gummed the works. Knight drops like a stone.
'Shit!' I make a snap decision. 'Fred, with me. You two, cover us!'
Without waiting to see if Fred is following I leap from the ledge. There is a moment of perfect silence as hang time catches up with me; then I land in a fighting crouch amidst a horde of screaming Carrien.
When outnumbered, keep moving. Trip the nearest, spin, stamp kick to knock back one closing in. Fred has landed as well; he is liquid, lightning death, flowing through the forms with a grace you might not expect from a Stormer. Cripple many rather than kill few. Weight shift, slip inside a blow; take the arm, snap it with the other hand. Straight-finger jab into the throat of another, back kick for space, keep moving. Duck the spray of blood and brains as a Carrien's head explodes.
A moment to breathe. Szy'm'czyk's shooting is a thing of beauty and a joy forever. Cool, unflustered, she takes a half-second to aim each shot. It's all she needs; even with the short-barrelled GAG and a silencer, she's hitting heads every time. Crucify is practically frothing at the mouth as he sends charge after charge of raw ebb energy through his flintlock, blasting Carrien indiscriminately. He and I are going to have to discuss targeting priorities.
If we live through this.
The press swells towards us again. Elbow to the nose, the long upper jaw driving back into the brain like a bone dagger. Neck lock, use it as a fulcrum for a swinging kick attack. Snap the neck. Keep moving. Spin and sweep, jump the fallen body, kick into the forehead of the one behind it.
Crucify has switched to his Gunhead, he must be running low on flux. I curse, ducking, as his indiscriminate fire rakes across the fight.
'Trouble,' Szy'm'czyk says suddenly over the radio. 'Carrien closing from behind.'
Never rains but it pours. Snap decision. 'Get down here. We'll have to punch through the other side.'
'Acknowledged.' Out of the corner of my eye I see her draw that old, long sword from its back scabbard and leap into the fray with Crucify right behind her, claws sprouting from his hands.
Punch, swivel, punch again. Weight shift, elbow strike behind, swivel and take the opportunity for a neck strike to finish that one. Knight erupts from the boiling mass of Carriens that engulfed him, spitting curses and slicing an interestingly elongated elbow blade through the chest of the nearest enemy. That's supposed to be a climbing spike - somebody's had his armour modified.
Crucify makes a long roll forwards, snatching up the Chopper. With a dull fwap, a Carrien's chest practically disintegrates.
'Fucking YES!' Crucify howls with grim delight, triggering the weapon again.
'Close up, cover each other's backs,' I order. Even Crucify doesn't jib at the command. We must be in it deep.
Strike, shift as a clawed punch shoots for my face, trap the arm, snap it. Pause. The Carriens pull back, sniffing the air and baying quietly. 'What the fuck?' Crucify says, but he's not quite suicidal enough to charge them.
'Oh Christ, look!' Knight points at the sewer pipes; there are Carrien backed up in them like rush hour traffic.
'What they waiting for?' Fred asks, the barest hint of nervousness colouring his deep voice.
Movement catches my eye. 'At a guess - that.'
The Carrien that moves through the press is tall, and the light of an unholy intelligence burns in its eyes. It halts out of arm's reach, a feral, gaping grin on its long-muzzled face. 'Ssssloperatives.'
'It can talk?!' Knight yelps. The Carrien laughs, an ugly sound. It raises its hand, and the other Carriens practically sit up and beg. How is it doing that?
'Any lassst requessstsss?' the Carrien asks slyly. If you're going to go. 'Yeah. Make the world a prettier place - go blow your brains out.'
It snarls, and waves its arm at us. The huge pack of Carriens charges, slavering, and I make the only decision I can.
And jump into the outflow.
The rain runs down my face; through the deathsuit's helmet I feel it like a cold finger tracing random designs on my cheeks. My breath rasps in my ears as we run, racing the sunset. The Wall looms large ahead of us, I can even see the reflected glimmers of the Shivers patrolling its top.
'Where. are. the gates?' Knight pants.
'Little. to the right,' I manage. Christ, and I thought I was fit.
'Carriens on our six.' Szy'm'czyk. Bloody Shaktar could have the courtesy to at least pretend to be winded.
'How. many?'
'Do not ask.'
Fucking wonderful. Gamble. Flipping the radio to a Shiver frequency, I play the only card I can think of. 'Op squad.' What? A stray memory rolls through my mind. 'Op squad. Morituri. inbound to. gate four. Request. immediate assistance.' Nos morituri salutant. We, who are about to die, salute you.
And then God tells me he exists. With the high whine of turbofans, a Kilcopter crests the broken skyscraper ahead of us like some avenging angel, seven inch rockets flaring from the pods hanging from its sides. The screams of the Carriens are almost drowned in the explosions. The Kilcopter banks overhead, autocannon chattering a steady stream of lead like the pouring rain.
'Somebody call for an assist?' comes a voice over the radio.
'Nice. timing,' I pant.
'You were lucky. We were just inbound from a patrol. Looks like your playmates are off to find someone else to play with. You guys need a lift?'
Next time some Op badmouths Shivers around me, I'm going to punch his lights out.
Gilbert White opens the Oyster and boots it up. He is silent for a long moment as he scrolls through the data. Then he snaps the laptop shut and puts on that insincere smile.
'Excellent,' he says. 'This is exactly what we were looking for. Payment with be transferred immediately.' He keeps smiling, but there is a change in the atmosphere as he says 'Did you happen to check the data?'
I look him in the eye. 'Census figures aren't of any interest to an op squad.'
He nods slowly. I think we understand each other. 'I understand your video record of the BPN has been passed to Cloak Division for analysis.' Passed my arse; they 'requested' we turn it over. What are they interested in? 'On the other hand, your squad retrieved a few items during this BPN. I think I can swing it for you to keep them - let us call it a performance bonus, a little something to make up for the lost media opportunity.'
A keeping-your-mouth-shut bonus is what he means. Yeah, we understand each other. 'That would be most generous.' Translated: sure, you do that. We both know it's a bribe.
The plastic smile clicks on and off again. 'A pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Gabriel.'
Yeah. Whatever. I go through the formalities. I just want to get some sleep.
It's a long journey back to my apartment. On the way, I see a public screen. Morton and Chauncey are announcing their surprise new Contract Killer for the upcoming season. His name is Snake Eyes. I know that ugly dog-face. I stand and stare at the screen for a long time. Then I take out the Blitzer.
'Any last requests?'
I leave the smoking screen sizzling its electric death throes in the rain and walk away.