Last Man Standing

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Coyote scanned the monitors as she reminisced. The past was a minefield, fraught with mistakes and littered with broken threads that should be left well alone; scattered strands that led to the discovery of monsters, and she had learned to bury it as efficiently as a fresh kill… and yet — shards remained.

Shaking that off, Coyote acknowledged her computer genius, SaBo or Salami Bob, as he pointed to a monitor filled with colorful graphics.

“Signal went out there, about five minutes ago. I’ve been crushing these signals all night, monitoring the harmless calls, but the gunfire over at the train station produced a huge spike. Something went out.” He turned to her. “The cops will respond.”

Coyote drew a breath, standing to her full six feet. With long black hair, a well-defined face, and what appeared to be a curvy frame, she was often mistaken for a soft touch. There was a time when she’d enjoyed teaching people the errors of their ways. These days, she merely killed them.

Coyote had become disillusioned through time. If the old urges hadn’t still controlled her desires, albeit with lesser frequency and insistence now, she would have already resolved to just fade away. Rock stars and movie stars did it best; they shone like comets for a short while and then faded right out, and you were always left wondering what had happened to them.

But Coyote could have done it too.

“We knew this would happen,” SaBo said. “We never had a hope of smothering every signal and landline.”

Coyote said nothing, merely waving her second-in-command over. “The cop station,” she said. “Do it now.”

“And the fire station?” he asked with a grin and a Southern twang. “They’re dead on beside each other.”

“I know.” Coyote silenced him with a stare. But the man’s query made sense. Better to silence both local emergency services at the same time. “Do it.”

SaBo tapped a CCTV screen. “I see some other local responders,” he said. “Possibly off-duty cops responding to the call.”

Coyote didn’t hesitate. “That’s it then. Put the main plan into action. Destroy the local cell towers and put a cordon on all incoming roads. Send our eyes and ears out everywhere. Activate the escape plan. We’re fully invested now, gentlemen. Hope you’re ready for it.”

SaBo looked a bit green. Her second favored her with his brightest grin yet.

“Locked in tight,” he said, and strode away. Coyote watched him go, wondering if she would have to kill him later, and then turned her attention to the screen.

“Watch what happens…” SaBo used one of the high-definition monitors to zoom in on the police station.

The Sunnyvale police station was a small two-story building, relatively innocuous, that sat behind a flat, wide parking area. Trees grew close to its back and sides. The windows were wide, some of them sporting the newest law-enforcement slogans. Figures could be seen passing by the brightly lit frontage on both levels. Squad cars sat outside, ready to go.

The first thing the police knew about the assault was when two missiles smashed through the windows and exploded inside the building, one at ground level and one on the first floor. A third was fired, but detonated against the outer wall, its shooter receiving a death glare from his captain for his inadequacy. The RPG attack had been timed to occur seconds before a mercenary team assaulted the building, spreading quickly inside to corner their prey, to overcome them through sheer violent intent and force, and prevent any communications from reaching the outside. The mercenary leader had also found this kind of initial brutal attack often led to fewer casualties.

Of course all this was merely minimization, not prevention. Nobody on earth could stop this news getting out. But the Coyote only needed nineteen more hours.

The mercs wounded where they had to and locked up those that surrendered. The flames that licked around the offices were soon extinguished. The communications room was destroyed, though nobody could tell if a secret alarm had been tripped or some other method of silent contact had been utilized by the officers during the assault. The mercenaries took down the police and fire stations in less than half an hour, but it was fair to say the town’s authorities had never seen the like of this before. Salvos of gunfire ripped walls apart, brought ceilings down, smashed windows and even squad cars outside. Broad, ruthless, well-protected men smashed skulls and faces, brooking no debate. The closest a cop came to real injury was when two mercs chose to dangle him out of a window in retaliation for throwing a punch, but then those mercs were reprimanded by their leader who was heard to say, “Not yet.”

Local responders, en route to the station or the source of the emergency call itself were captured or shot down, depending on manpower. SaBo did his best to show Coyote every altercation and his best was very good.

“The only trouble we’ll have now will be from the residents that live near those two stations,” SaBo said. He pointed to the wrecked buildings, the clear cries that were slowly dying down, the groups of mercs still running rampant through the parking areas.

“For now,” Coyote said. “In this kind of situation, trouble starts to escalate and, like a tidal wave, it will only stop when it crushes us into the ground.”

“I’ll try not to be here for that,” SaBo said, coughing. “Can’t swim.”

“You’re here until I say otherwise,” Coyote said. “But fear not, I don’t intend to sacrifice you. I’ve always considered mercenaries expendable, not computer geeks.”

SaBo bowed down.

Coyote turned her attention back to the tournament. “What’s happening now?”