All That Lives Must Die

Fiona stood tall and proud and faced death as it rushed at her.

62 COLLATERAL DAMAGE

Eliot hung onto the sidecar for his life.

Robert’s Harley clipped an overturned car, and then narrowly missed several people (civilians and soldiers) running from the courtyard.

He swerved around a burning pickup, and Eliot realized that their insane speed was warranted. Maybe. . they’d even gone too slow. In the center of the courtyard, Fiona stood nose to nose with an armored tank.

Eliot blinked to make sure he saw that right.

Fiona crouched and jumped at it, lashing forward with a thick chain. The chain wrapped about the turret and muzzle.

She pulled-severed metal from metal.

The tank exploded. Inside.

Steel and titanium mushroomed out-and a dozen detonations followed and lit the courtyard-blasted the armored tank to smithereens, as well the ground for twenty feet in every direction.

Fiona tumbled through the air, bounced, rolled. . and lay limp in the dirt.

Was she dead? He and Robert should’ve gotten there faster. Done something. A cold, hard shape took form in Eliot’s mind-a dangerous thought that if his sister was gone, a lot of people were going to pay for it. . starting with Uncle Henry and the League.

Robert ducked but didn’t slow as molten metal and shards of stone whizzed past them.

He skidded sideways next to Fiona.

Eliot jumped out of the sidecar, guitar in hand.

Robert stayed on the bike, pulled his Glock 29, and aimed at the three soldiers huddled in the alley.

One of the soldiers spoke into a handheld radio and pointed at the sky. The other two had Kalashnikov machine guns. They looked stunned, at least for the moment.

Eliot’s reached for Lady Dawn’s strings.

Robert was faster. He shot three times-one round cratered the wall over the soldiers’ heads. Two bullets hit the Kalashnikov stocks and shattered wood.

The soldiers dropped their weapons and ran.

Fiona moved. . got to her knees, and slowly stood.

“Are you okay?” Eliot asked, helping her up.

This had to be the stupidest thing he’d asked in weeks, because blood trickled from Fiona’s ears and nose. She ignored Eliot and looked with glazed eyes up at the sky.

. . To the same spot where that soldier had pointed.

Eliot turned. A MiG-15 jet dived toward them on what had to be a strafing run.

Robert stood next to Fiona and propped her with one arm. She must really have been hurt because she let him touch her, even leaned against him. She tried to raise her hands, but the chain she clutched seemed too heavy for her to lift. Robert had his Glock and frowned at it. Useless against a jet.

Eliot stepped in front of her and Robert and whispered, “I got this one.”

Fight or run-there wasn’t much of a choice.

The MiG would close in seconds, not enough time to cross the courtyard.

And there wasn’t just him and Fiona and Robert to protect; there were all those people in the church in the line of fire. Eliot was partially responsible for them, too. Not just because he wanted to save innocent people, but because he was connected to this: Uncle Henry had said the League engineered this war-Robert’s “party tip” to drive down today-and Fiona (what was she doing here?). It was too much of a coincidence. . like the League had pulled a fistful of tangled strings to trick them into coming. Why? So he and Fiona could pass another of their cruel tests?

It was like Area 51 all over again. People getting killed because of them; only this time, he’d do something to save them.

Eliot heard the roar of the jet. Felt the rumble in his bones.

Its dive leveled and it angled on a straight shot through the open street of Costa Esmeralda’s cityscape canyon.

Eliot gripped Lady Dawn, his hands sweating, and he played.

There was no time to warm up with nursery rhymes. He needed raw force-fast-enough to destroy.

He flicked out a bassy power chord, throwing the strength of his arm into it. The notes resonated from Lady Dawn’s body and shook the dust off the cobblestones and blew away smoke and ash.

The jet wobbled on its trajectory, but kept coming-and shot. Twin cannon spit fire and death at them.

Bullets sparked in the air between him and it, bouncing off a wall of sound, peppering buildings, tracers making spirals.

Nothing got through.

But as the jet streaked toward him, Eliot’s barrier shuddered and contracted-force meeting force.

Eliot needed more power.

He double-pumped the strings and danced his fingers up the scale, back and forth; wavering mirage air and water vapor flashed outward.

The MiG spun, righted, and ceased the machine gun fire.

It launched two missiles.

Lady Dawn jumped under his hands-and his fingers stepped up the register-a lightning-fast bridge, found, and held, a high C.

Out of the corner of his eyes, Eliot saw the shadows in the alleys lengthen and sharpen into slices of darkness that cut through the noontime light. . and sway as if they danced to his music.

The missiles streaked at them, hit the wall of noise, and blossomed in sparkling rosettes, shattering glass and blasting apart the steel frames of nearby office buildings.

The jet was almost on them. It shuddered, a blur, and its metal skin peeled-wingtips fluttered to pieces. The fuel tanks breached and ignited.

The pilot ejected, a plume of white smoke that arced from the craft.

But the flaming, out-of-control MiG fighter aircraft was still on course, plummeting straight at Eliot.

He let go of the single note and flicked the strings-power chord upon power chord, building upon their resonant echoes, increasing in pitch and intensity, sucked in the air from the courtyard, blasted out feedback-laden notes, waves of pressure, and lines of force that seemed to emanate through and from his body as much as Lady Dawn’s.

It was as if they were one, rocking back and forth, playing together.

Glass ruptured off every building for six blocks. Asphalt bucked and crumbled. Water mains burst and showered into the air.

The MiG-15 exploded: fire and spinning metal and burning fuel still on an impact course.

Eliot pounded on Lady Dawn as hard as he dared. . and then as hard as he could. Her strings cut into his fingertips.

Before the jet crashed into him, Eliot found the strength for one last downward power stoke.

Buildings on either side of the street shook and cracked, and two toppled over.

The tumbling wreckage of the MiG-15 detonated again-driven back as if someone had blown out a lit match.

Confetti bits of metal and trails of oily smoke drizzled down. . harmless.

Eliot exhaled. He shook out his numbed hand and arm.

“Very cool,” Robert murmured.

Fiona shook her head as if just now seeing them. “What are”-She looked back and forth between them-“you two doing here?” Her brow scrunched and her expression was a mix of confusion. . and, as she concentrated on Eliot, annoyance.

She doubled over in pain.