against a 12mm slug of metal.
His second shot caught another man as he raised his weapon toward him. The slug caught the man in the gut, folding him over and tipping him facedown over a dead or unconscious comrade.
The last man received a bullet in the side of his helmet at the same time a razor-fine stream of flechettes tore across his throat, melting his armor and most of his neck in a cloud of blood and metallic vapor.
Nickolai leaped down from the top of the wall, a deep growl resonating in his chest. As Kugara got up from her crouch, he asked her, “Do you have more ammo for that weapon?”
“Only one clip; I wasn’t expecting an ambush.”
“Grab a gun from them,” Nickolai said. “We need to leave.”
She reached down and grabbed a gamma laser from one of the disabled soldiers. She pulled the faceplate off the disarmed man and stared into his face. “Fuck,” she said.
Around her, about half the men groaned. The one Nickolai had gut-shot rolled over on his back and fumbled clumsily for his weapon.
“None of you move,” Nickolai growled, gun braced. He aimed, but didn’t fire. He only had four shots left in the magazine. Fortunately, the man stopped moving.
“Kugara, move!”
Kugara backed away from the man on the ground, shaking her head. “I know these guys,” she whispered. Her voice got harder. “I worked with these guys! I was part of this unit!”
“Not anymore,” Nickolai told her. He stepped forward, looking at the man who had tried to grab a gun. Nickolai’s slug had pancaked against his armor, but that was the extent of his injury. He was probably in the best shape of the men left back here. Nickolai kicked the man’s weapon away and dragged him to his feet.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Do you know this one?”
She walked over and removed the helmet, revealing a light-skinned man with graying hair and a bushy mustache.
“Wolfe?” she whispered.
“Nothing personal, Julie,” he said, keeping his eyes fixed on Nickolai.
“Lead us out of here,” Nickolai told her.
“What are you doing with him?” Kugara asked.
“He needs to answer a question or two.”
She stared at him a moment, then quietly said, “Yeah.” She backed past the fallen men, covering them with the laser. She looked around and pointed with her other hand toward a narrow accessway that ran behind a suddenly empty series of storefronts. “That way.”
Nickolai followed, pulling the stumbling Wolfe after him.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Limbo
Faith is the first casualty of economics.
A bad peace is even worse than war.
