“That dog’s still on the hunt… oh shit, looks like he’s going to pounce! Better hop the fence, dude!”
The pit bull pounced, all right, jaws extended, teeth flashing in the light of the front porch, going right for the newcomer’s left wrist-then let go as soon as he clamped on. They watched the dog shake his head, bark, growl again, and then leap for the stranger’s left ankle. The same thing happened-the dog bit but did not hold on. At this angle they could see that the guy was holding a small backpack in his right hand. A third leap, and this time the dog clamped down hard on the fingers of the guy’s left hand. The force of the bite jerked him around to the left and downward-but then, as casually as swatting a mosquito, the stranger slapped the dog on the side of his head. They heard him yelp in pain and saw him knocked to the ground as if he’d been hit with a baseball bat. Weird. The slap didn’t look that forceful.
“And the dog is down!” one of the surveillance officers proclaimed. “Ha! Never saw a pit bull run with its tail between its legs like that before! What’d he use on the dog-a Vulcan nerve pinch or something?”
“Mace, probably,” said another officer.
“I didn’t see him spray. Anyway, sometimes badass dogs like pit bulls aren’t affected by pepper spray. He’s a lucky bastard, though. He might be cranked up already, and the pain is going to hit him full force when the dope wears off. Hope the crank is worth it. Maybe we can just go and pick this guy up and see how his hand is doing, and ask him what he did to that dog.”
“I don’t really give a shit,” said the head surveillance officer. “Wonder what he’s got in the backpack? He just set another bag down by the front door. His hands are clear. Maybe this is a delivery.”
“Through the front door? Yeah, like Domino’s or something-your crank delivered in thirty minutes or less or it’s-”
A huge explosion rocked the van. The cops’ heads flew back as if they had been stabbed in the eyes, the brilliant flash temporarily blinding them. “Shit, what the hell was that?” one officer shouted, trying to rub the flash out of his eyes. “He set off a bomb?”
“Sure as hell did!” said another officer. “Looks like he tried to plant it, but it went off before he could get away.” He scrambled for his handheld radio, hoping it was set to the right channel because he couldn’t see the selector knob if it wasn’t. “KMA, Special Unit Four-Four, roll backup, fire and bomb squad on our location for a nine-two-seven bomb explosion. Notify all units of nine-nine-four circumstances, repeat, nine-nine-four circumstances.” The sergeant in charge of the south area sector got on the radio and repeated the 994 call, reminding everyone responding to the call to use bomb threat procedures: no radio, MDT, or cellphone calls within two blocks of the scene.
It took several long moments before the cops in the van could get the use of their eyes back. When they finally peered through their telephoto lenses, they could see the stranger lying on his back, blown about ten feet away by the force of the blast. “Looks like the biker got a faceful,” one officer said. “I hope the ambulance guys bring spatulas-they’re gonna need…”
He stopped, and his jaw dropped in disbelief. The stranger who had planted the bomb and looked as if he had been smashed flat by the explosion struggled to his feet and a moment later was standing in the blown-apart doorway of the crank house.
Patrick heard the dog’s bark through his sound amplification system and he even picked up the sound of its pads racing across the muddy grass from the backyard, but he didn’t actually notice the pit bull until it grabbed his wrist, then his ankle, then leaped for the fingers of his left hand. There was no pain, but the sight of the big dog latched onto his hand frightened him. All he’d meant to do was dislodge the jaws, but the sound he heard when his other hand hit the poor creature’s head was sickening. The dog yelped and dropped to the ground, blood oozing from his ears.
Sons of bitches, Patrick cursed into his helmet, sending a dog out to fight their battles! He fought to suppress the anger spreading through his head but he was furious. He hurled the backpack full of explosives against the door, selected the short-range FM channel to the detonator, and keyed the transmit switch.
At the explosion just a few feet in front of him, the light-sensitive visor in the helmet instantly dimmed so the flash wouldn’t blind him, and the environmental system inside the suit began circulating more coolant to drench the blast of heat. But the blast pushed him back and off his feet, and when he opened his eyes, the rage that had seared into his head was burning red-hot throughout his body. He moved his arms, then legs, then torso-everything worked fine, no pain anywhere. A quick systems check: battery already down by half, to four hours remaining. It had been at six hours just before he approached the door, so the blast must’ve sapped a lot of juice. Everything else reported normal.
The explosion had blown open the door, taken out some of the wall to the left and right of it, and cut off all power in the house, but there was enough light from outside for Patrick to realize he was in a living room, with the kitchen visible beyond. The place was a pigsty-the explosion didn’t help, of course, but it had to have been unfit for human habitation before that. Garbage was scattered everywhere, and he could make out spray-painted graffiti on the walls.
A tall, lean figure dressed like a commando or special-operations infantryman in a black combat suit, balaclava, and combat harness rounded the corner of the hallway to the left, leveled a small automatic machine pistol at Patrick, and fired. He rocked backward as the triple-round burst hit him, more from surprise than pain or the impact of the bullets, since all he felt were the powerful electric shocks coursing all across his body. Damn, Patrick swore, I thought that problem was fixed! The electric current blurred his vision, and when he rocked back, he stumbled against a piece of debris and sank down against the wall.
“Stirb, du Teufel!” he heard the commando shout. He pointed the gun right at Patrick’s head and fired again.
This time, Patrick felt the impact of the blast against the helmet-but it was a love tap compared to the surge of electricity that shot through his body. The pain was exquisite, as if every nerve ending was firing like the spark plugs in a race car-but most of all it felt so goddamn good…
The commando looked as though he were seeing a ghost rise out of a gravesite. “Wer bist du?” he shouted.
Patrick charged, forearms up. The commando screamed and fell backward into the tiny kitchen. In rage, Patrick bent over him, grabbed his face in his left hand, and pushed his head against the floor. His fingers felt like steel spikes. He ripped off the balaclava and saw a young, fair, chiseled face staring at him in terror. “The drugs,” Patrick said through his electronic helmet. “Where did you get the drugs?”
“Drogen? Ich weiss nichts!” the soldier cried. “Lass mich los!”
“Who the hell are you?” Patrick demanded. “Are you a German? Deutsch?” There was no answer. “Who are you? Do you work for the Major? Kommandeur? Der Major?”
The look on the soldier’s face gave him his answer. He had struck home at last.
“Where is the Major?” Patrick racked his brain for remnants of his German-it had been years since he’d used it. “Vere… no, shit, wo ist der Major, asshole?”
“I will not answer!” the soldier said in broken English, and in a flash pulled a knife from a boot sheath with his left hand and shot it toward Patrick’s chest. Patrick caught his wrist, but not in time to stop the thrust, only slow it…
… and the knife blade inched toward the suit, touched it, then pierced it.