“That explain it, Allen?”
“Yes, Detective. What is your plan?”
“I never have one. But, maybe I can try to lure him through the crates, slow him down, find a way to get outside and into the Rotorbird and use the Suppression Rifle on him. Or, while I’m distracting him, you can take Robins’s gun and shoot him in the back.”
“Will that endanger his life?”
“Probably not, but just be sure, for your conscience’s sake, to aim for the battery. As soon as that goes down, so will he — like a brick. And be quick with your shots when you get the chance. I’d rather not get turned into paste.”
“Roger that, Detective.”
I snapped my head to the left, spotting the large glass-topped entrance on the east side of the building, about fifty feet ahead of me. I could get outside from there, but that door led right out to 11th Avenue, and the last thing I wanted was civilian casualties. Maybe I could run north and get out onto the Pier 62 park, where the Rotorbird could actually manoeuvre. I guessed we would see.
“Hey!” I yelled, standing up.
I started running as the Auger made a beeline for me. Allen remained where it was, and I soon lost sight of it while I ran between the shipping containers and small loading vehicles littering the warehouse floor. I wasn’t expecting any more adversaries, but more Red-eyes came out of the woodwork as I ran northward. They’d probably been preparing for an ambush after hearing my entrance. The sporadic fire of a Thompson deafened me. My eyes searched for the source as I held up my weapon parallel to my vision. Another Red-eye stepped out from behind me, and a moment later a thermite bullet pushed into its chest, flooring it and giving me room to breathe.
Throwing myself behind a crate, I opened the breech of my revolver, replacing the spent casings and waiting for my hearing to return. I could faintly make out the sound of automatic fire, possibly from the Red-eyes, or maybe even from Toby. It seemed the Auger’s attention was directed toward the robots, giving me a moment of respite. I pulled my leg up and grimaced as the skin burned and I felt a moist sensation along my leg. It seemed the Red-eye I’d taken down had gotten lucky and clipped me. Bastard.
I had no alcohol on me to numb the pain, but luckily for me, these racketeers were transporting more than parts. One of the boxes hit by the machine’s .45 rounds had spilled onto the ground, revealing the whiskey within. I yanked a bottle out, removed the cork with my teeth, and swallowed some of the liquor.
“Thank God …” I said to myself, moments before another Red-eye appeared. Its bullets missed me, but hit the glass bottle, causing it to crash onto the floor. I levelled my Diamondback and fired a round at the machine. “Goddamn it, come on!”
My journey north continued, and before long I had reached the doors leading to the northernmost and final warehouse along the docks. There was another set of massive metal doors ahead of me, with a smaller, man-sized door nearby. Behind me, the area between this door and the eastern doors leading to 11th Avenue was filled with Automatic parts and still-smoking guns. I wasn’t sure where Allen was, but I hoped it was okay. Toby came out from the labyrinth of boxes, walking backward at a brisk pace, putting sustained fire on the approaching Auger.
“Good job, Toby, keep it up!” I yelled.
“Not the time, Roche! I swear —”
Toby didn’t finish its sentence as the Auger grabbed it and tossed it south. Toby’s body slammed through many more boxes and landed somewhere unseen. The Auger then turned to me, his chest piece riddled with holes, his mechanically reinforced organs still functioning, and his dinner plate–sized pupils staring me down.
“Shit,” I whispered to myself.
He let out a guttural roar and sprinted toward me. I kicked open the door leading into the last warehouse, jumped inside, and slammed the door closed behind me.
I looked around. The building was empty.
I figured it must have been designed for aerial shipments, but the retractable roof had been left unfinished, leaving a large hole open to the elements. Through the opening I could see the tops of buildings and the Plate’s bulbs gleaming down at me. The sight reminded me that I was on a strict schedule.
Suddenly the Rotorbird appeared in the opening, and Sinclair skillfully lowered the aircraft through the hole until it was hovering just a few feet above the floor. High-calibre rounds might not stop the monstrosity hunting me down, but I doubted he could survive rail gun shells.
I was about halfway to the aircraft when the Auger pounded his way through the doorway, which was just a bit smaller than his massive frame. My burning thigh slowed me down a bit, but I had just enough time to crawl into the bird and grab the handles of the Suppression Rifle before the Auger reached us. He was running toward us, bellowing loudly. I eased open the breech of the gun, making sure there were three shells loaded, and then centred the rifle.
“Goodnight, asshole.”
I fired. The shells hit the floor just ahead of the Auger. The explosion hardly fazed him. He jumped through the mess of rubble and concrete, arms outstretched, and grasped the bulkhead of the Rotorbird, attempting to drag it down. Sinclair was still trying to maintain control of the bird after the recoil from the Suppressor shot, and now he had to contend with the added difficulty of the Auger trying to pile-drive the entire aircraft.
He gunned the engine as the steel underbelly of the aircraft was forced down, just centimetres from the floor. I could hear the engine revving as it struggled against the Auger’s strength. The bulkhead began to creak, the rotors spun faster and faster, and
