“All this,” muttered Hess, and didn’t finish the rest out loud. For a couple of legionnaires.
He wasn’t supposed to be here.
Hess’s mission was over. But that was only what Nether Ops command had had to say. According to Hess… his only way out from under his charges was to finally get Tyrus Rechs. By himself if that’s what it took.
Then… all would be forgiven.
He walked down the ramp of the prefab landing pad and made his way toward the OIC on duty. He had enough of a bogus story that no one could really check it out. Nether Ops had taught him how to do that much. It would give him a little working room. Nether Ops had basically told him that in so many words left unspoken.
Hadn’t they?
Yes. They must have. Because Hess knew of other agents who had failed and had paid for it with their lives. Because there’s no place to put someone who knows too much except the dirt. And Hess was still alive. Which meant… all would be forgiven.
35
Tyrus Rechs knew well what the scatterblaster death-gripped between his claws, because that’s what they felt like, the claws of a wild beast howling at the moon, did to the body.
At close range and tight quarters, it tore flesh to shreds. Because of its overpowered nature even armor didn’t stand up well. The scatterblaster was both a professional’s weapon… and an amateur’s. It was an equalizer. It made whoever was employing one a force to be reckoned with. The weapon was unforgiving and not to be taken lightly when encountered. In the hands of Tyrus Rechs it became a tool of fury and vengeance. And he became a kind of angel of death.
A narrow warren of tight quarters was a perfect hunting ground for someone like Tyrus Rechs. Especially with that weapon.
The lives of a leej and a marine were on the line. The link to finding them was in there, in Basement Six, according to good actionable intel. The basement had gone dark after the initial capture, according to the kid. Now it was active once more. Information would be found there.
And the kid Rechs tailed went in there. At a minimum, that meant someone more important than the little puke was inside. That’s how it worked.
Rechs was going to use the scatterblaster to force his way to the leejes. No. Leej. There’s just one left now.
He stowed the weapon on his back.
Observation of the location indicated that while it surely contained pros who would be treated accordingly… the location was also filled with amateurs and pretenders who misguidedly thought they were pros themselves. Affirmation by association.
Rechs liked to avoid needless loss of life among those types… when he could. But there would be pros in there. Shooters with blasters capable of using them regardless of the amateurs that might get in the way. Mixing both made things messy, if one cared. Which always worked best for the other side because they didn’t seem to care. Just wanted to ignore classifications and let the coroners sort the dead. There was an argument to be made for both approaches.
But Rechs had learned that you lived with your actions. And he’d lived a long time. It was easier to do things you weren’t going to have a hard time living with.
And the scatterblaster wasn’t selective or discriminatory. Firing blasts in a wide cone, it shredded anyone who managed to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Down sight from Tyrus Rechs was always a bad place to be. Tight corridors made things worse. There wouldn’t be room to discriminate in there.
Also, he had to take this Rattclopp alive.
And time was running out. Had already run out for the leej named Beers.
Rechs pulled a stun baton from the tactical bag and gave it a deft flick. The slender baton extended out two lengths and popped a blue spark, indicating its readiness for action.
The bounty hunter crossed the street, passing a few streaming clusters of resisters on their way to the next flashpoint in the riot carnival. Off the street and on the curb with just ten meters to the set of stairs that led down into the warren known as Basement Six, Rechs pulled the hand cannon off his hip holster. A targeting synch from the powerful weapon appeared in his HUD.
He selected single-fire.
Accuracy for effect.
He rounded the steps leading down to the basement and saw two large Soshies on the landing below. The Savage-era armor immediately identified, graphed, and outlined the weapons they were carrying. Subcompact blasters in hand. A pistol for each inside the jacket. One with a holdout as well.
But Rechs didn’t need the armor’s weapons scanning to see they were pros. He knew by the way they carried the subcompacts and the LCEs each one strapped. Load-carrying equipment with actual military-grade equipment fastened on. Flashbangs, charge-pack carriers, even blast deflectors across their chests. No seamball bats, imitation katanas, hoverbike locks, or neon-green paracord carabiners with dangling, sticker-covered water bottles attached.
Rechs shot them both in the chest with little flair and almost zero interval. You can be a pro… but surprise is surprise.
He didn’t need to finesse this first contact. He just needed to make sure both were down so he could violate their secret bunker system. The hand cannon boomed powerfully in rapid succession as Rechs put the fifty-caliber slugs into them. The blast-deflector carriers across their chests did little to mitigate the effects, as those armor systems were intended for something much less powerful. Not old-school dumb slugs of depleted uranium, chemically propelled.
Both
