Ghost Ship

FIFTY-THREE

As the chaos outside grew, Kurt and Calista found themselves in a running battle with the rest of Brèvard’s men. They’d made it down one hall, with Kurt laying down a suppressing fire to keep those behind them at bay, only to run smack into a second group coming the other way.

Now, halfway to the control room, they were caught in cross fire, with shots coming at them from both ends of the hall.

“Get behind me,” Kurt said to Calista as he returned fire. “You should have given me a gun,” she said.

“I had my reasons,” Kurt said.

“How do those reasons sound now?”

“Not as good as they did back then,” he admitted. With little cover beyond an old wooden credenza, Kurt had to keep up a steady rate of fire to keep their enemies back. A blue digital counter on the top of the gun told him the status of his ammo. It hit zero rather quickly and he changed clips.

Realizing they had to get out of this battle before he used up the second clip, he began shooting out the lights one by one until the central section of the hall was bathed in shadows. In response, their attackers hit the main switch and doused the rest of the hall in darkness, which only helped his plan.

Kurt retreated along the wall, found a door, and kicked it open.

“Get inside,” he said.

Calista did as ordered as more bullets skipped off the marble floor. Hoping to trick the two groups into shooting each other, Kurt fired a half dozen shots along one length of the hall and then loosed a few more back the other way.

As soon as he’d finished, he stepped backward and shut the door. As it closed, he heard volleys being fired from both sides. For a little while at least they would have trouble distinguishing between their own shots and Kurt’s, but he knew all he’d done was buy him and Calista some time.

As Kurt plotted their next move, Calista was busy shoving a large couch up against the door and wedging the arm under the handle.

“Not a bad idea,” he said.

“How long do you think we have?” she asked, pulling a dresser against the couch.

“They’ll figure out pretty quickly that I’m no longer firing at them,” he said. “But it’ll take a minute or two before they get up the courage to rush down the hall.”

“And then what?”

Before Kurt could answer, the scream of a rocket sounded outside the building. As Kurt turned, he saw the white flare of another missile ripping its way into the night.

“Sebastian,” Calista said. “Always another trick up his sleeve. Those are Acosta’s. He was the arms dealer.”

Kurt made a quick but grim assessment. “We have to stop this. Or none of us will leave here alive.”

“We have to get to the control room,” she said. “It’s all operated from there.”

They would never make it by charging down the hall, not even with the railgun blazing and the Kevlar armor to protect the most vital parts of Kurt’s body. There had to be another way.

“What else is on this floor?” he asked.

“Nothing,” she said, “just more rooms like this. As if we were going to hold court someday.”

An idea came to him. “It just might work,” he said to himself.

He moved up to the wall, felt along it, and then began to punch holes in the plasterboard with his fist. It was fairly standard, a wood-and-drywall construction. He found the studs and then stepped back and with measured precision pointed the railgun at a section of wall, blasting a vertical line of eight shots from top to bottom.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“I prefer to stay in adjoining rooms,” he said. With a run of several steps, he crashed into the perforated section of the wall, smashing through it with his shoulder and plowing into the space next door.

Calista followed. And, in quick succession, they had done the same to the next three rooms.

Had he been using a standard rifle, Kurt might have expected the teams of men outside to hear him, but the railgun made no sound. The only noise was the projectiles flying through the plaster, a sound that reminded Kurt of an overzealous librarian energetically using a three-hole punch.

“This is the last room,” Calista said.

Kurt checked the railgun. The counter on the top told him he had ten shells left. Ten shells. Just in case, he unzipped the diagonal pocket across his chest that held the old Colt revolver.

Hoping there would be no more resistance, he moved to the door, pulled it open a crack, and looked back down the hall. Their enemies had converged on the door to the room he and Calista had entered and were trying to break it down.

“Get ready,” he said.

As the men down the hall blasted their way through the barricade she’d built and forced their way into the room, Kurt pulled his own door wide and dashed quietly across the hall and onto the stairwell. Calista was right behind him.

“Two levels up,” she said.

Kurt raced up the flight, moving so quickly that he was skipping stairs.

As he neared the final turn, a trio of men came rushing down in the other direction. Kurt had no choice. He pulled the trigger. The iron shells went right through the first man and into the second, cutting them both down. They fell backward, knocking the third man to the floor, who opened fire with his Uzi submachine gun.

Several shells hit Kurt’s chest plate, knocking him backward. He was fairly certain that at least one shell hit Calista because she screamed and tumbled down the stairs.

Lying on his back, Kurt hit the lower trigger and sent the prongs of the Taser blasting into the man’s neck. He snapped into a prone position as the electricity surged through his body and he began to shake.

Kurt held the trigger and kept the electricity flowing as he got to his feet, ran forward, and kicked the man in the face like he was trying to punt a football out of the stadium. The man’s head snapped back and he lay still.

With the situation in hand, Kurt grabbed the Uzi and dropped back to where Calista had fallen.

“You’ve been hit.”

“My leg,” she said.

Kurt pulled her up onto the landing. She’d taken a bullet to the thigh. It was bleeding, but not enough to suggest it had hit an artery. He took off her belt and wrapped it around her leg as a tourniquet.

“I think it’s broken,” she said. She tried to stand, but even with his help she couldn’t put any weight on it.

“Just go,” she said. “They’ll be coming up here soon enough. You’ll need me to watch your back.”

Kurt hesitated and then handed her the Uzi. He figured she’d earned it at this point.

“Don’t let him live,” she said. “He has no right.”

Without answering, Kurt propped her up against the wall, where she’d have some cover and a good angle to fire at anyone who came her way.

“Don’t go anywhere,” he said. “I’ll be back for you.”

“That’s what they all say,” she replied.

He turned and raced up the stairs, finally arriving at the upper landing. A solid-steel door blocked him. It was bolted shut.

Kurt checked his ammo. Seven shells left. He hoped it would be enough.

Stepping back, he opened fire on the lock. The iron projectiles tore it apart like armor-piercing rounds. The door burst open under the onslaught and Kurt rushed in.

He saw two guards, took one of them out, and then dove for cover as the other one started firing.

Scrambling across the floor as the man unleashed a hail of shells, Kurt rolled and fired back. The lethal shot blasted through one of Sebastian’s computers and killed the last of Sebastian’s bodyguards instantly.

Kurt stood and looked for Sienna. He spotted her at the back of the room. Sebastian had her up against his body and was holding a nickel-plated automatic to her temple.