Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 76736 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76736 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
I'm going to fucking kill Hawthorne.
15
HERO
When the first boom shakes the garage, I'm just tightening the last bolt after giving my bike a tune-up.
“What the fuck?” Viking, who's holding the light for me, snaps his head towards the open garage door. Gray smoke is billowing into the front lot from the gate.
Fuck.
The cops are here.
I throw the wrench aside and look around for a weapon. My piece is in my room, which seems like a dumb decision now. There's a baseball bat over by the stairs that Hawk likes to chase people off with when he wants to work in peace. Doubt he'll mind if I borrow it.
“Come on,” says Viking. “We need to push these fuckers back.”
There's another boom, and the fence shakes. They're trying to break down the gate.
“Let's go.” We charge out of the garage together.
From above comes a loud clank from the rooftop cover, as someone starts to open it. We don't advertise that we have water cannons, but that doesn't mean we're afraid to use them. We know how to defend ourselves.
Black canisters arch over the top of the fence and hit the asphalt with metallic clinks. After a moment of rolling, they start to spin, spewing out gas with a loud hiss.
Fuck. My eyes are starting to itch already.
The gate bursts open, and a wave of cops in riot gear come pouring in. As I run, hard pellets slam into my side like a swarm of murder hornets. Rubber bullets.
“This way!” Viking pulls me into cover behind one of the vans. Another volley slams into the side of it with a deafening rattle, right where I was standing a moment ago. Jesus fuck. “You okay?”
I look down. There's no wound, but the ache's telling me I'm going to have some fan-fucking-tastic bruises by tomorrow. “I'll be fine. Just rubber.”
“Guess Hawthorne doesn't want the PR nightmare of tallying a body count.” Viking spits.
“More like he doesn't want his daughter killed. We're just animals to put down.” The tear gas is getting thicker. “Fuck, we need to get to cover and hope they've gotten the gas masks out inside.”
Viking nods, but before he can turn, a dark shape in riot gear comes around the corner, with a baton in one hand and a riot shield in the other. He stops suddenly, like he didn't expect us to be here.
“Watch out!” I grab the shield and pull, yanking it out of the cop's hand and pulling him off balance. Viking takes the opportunity and whirls around to jam a punch into the gap between the man's helmet and the top of his vest. With a grunt, he rocks backward, right into another swarm of rubber bullets that slam into his side. It'd feel more like poetic justice if he wasn't wearing body armor.
We bound up the stairs to the front door, bullets slamming into the railing and the wall around us. Viking swears suddenly, but we make it up and throw ourselves down. As we settle around the porch railing, he rubs his ankle and continues swearing.
The whole front lot is covered in smoke now, and it's hard to see what's going on. Our guys are pulling back, coming up to the club house or retreating into the garage and the back lots. We're giving them a good showing, but we're in trouble.
“Where are the fucking cannons?” snaps Viking, looking up irritably.
The cover isn't open yet, but the clanking has stopped. Snark's swearing is so loud it carries down here even through the noise of the battle. Sounds like something's stuck, and that's a bad sign.
The front door slams open, revealing King and Eagle-eye. They're wearing gas masks, and King's got a couple more in his hand. “Get the fuck in here,” he snaps. “Get your masks on.”
In the common room are most of the guys at the compound today, and most of them wearing masks already. The sluts have made a run for it through one of the escape hatches. “Where's Wild Child?”
“Here!” He comes in from the kitchen, still pulling on his gasmask. His bright purple stripe that sticks out the top is unmistakable.
“Then what about Emily?” I glance down the hallway to her storeroom.
“It's our job to keep them out so she's safe,” says King. “Until the cannons are able to push them back.” He's got his gun in his belt, but brass knuckles on his fists. For now, we're staying non-lethal, or at least less lethal. The first person to draw will have everyone else pulling iron.
“Where's Jupiter?” I glance at Eagle-eye.
“Safe and out of the way.” Eagle-eye looks up. “Now if only those fuckers up there would get the cannons going—”
The front door bursts open, spilling in cops in riot gear. A moment later, the whole common room is chaos.
“Fuck!”
King lifts a cop off his feet and slams him into the floor. The guy doesn't get back up.