“Roger that, Solo.”
“I’ll see if I can get the truck started. Hold your positions.”
“Will do.”
Slayne closed the door and hurried to the cab. The door was unlocked. He climbed in but left the door open. The key wasn’t in the ignition, as he’d hoped it might be.
He checked behind the visors, in the glove compartment, and under the seat.
He debated trying to hotwire the truck.
“What the dickens are you doing in there, mister?”
The Aryan was short and stocky with close-cropped hair and a beard streaked with tobacco stains. He held a shotgun in his left hand, muzzle pointed at the ground.
“Looking for the key,” Slayne said. “You wouldn’t happen to have it, would you?”
“What? No. I’d guess Mr. Croft or Hardin has it. Mr.
Croft seems to think that van in the back is special. He gave orders that no one is to go near it without his say so.”
“Where can I find them?”
The man bobbed his chin at the building. “At the meeting.
Where else?” He blinked. “Wait a minute. Who the hell are you?”
Slayne smiled. “You can call me Solo with your dying breath if you want.” He whipped the MP5 up and around and triggered a three-round burst into the Aryan’s chest. A moment later his earpiece crackled.
“Solo. I saw that. I’m coming over.”
“Hold your position, Ricco. No one has noticed. We’re still good.”
Slayne climbed down. Bending, he slid his hands under the dead man’s shoulders and dragged him toward the trailer, intending to shove him underneath and out of sight.
“Solo! You have five unfriendlies coming up on the other side.
They’re almost on top of you.”
Slayne peered under the trailer and saw boots and shoes. He had no time to hide the body. Unfurling, he turned just as the Aryans came around the end of the trailer. He triggered two bursts and the first two men fell. The others darted back. He backed up, too, toward the cab.
“This is Ricco. I’m on my way.”
A head popped out. Slayne fired, but the man ducked from sight. He saw Montoya racing from the east end of the parking lot, and it hit him that he hadn’t heard from the other member of their Triad in several minutes.
“Thor, do you copy?”
There was no answer.
“Thor, answer me.”
Still no response.
Slayne swore, and almost didn’t hear the patter of running feet coming around the front of the cab. He whirled and let the Aryan have a burst full in the face.
“Solo!” Ricco reported. “One of them has a walkie-talkie!”
Slayne could guess what the man was doing: alerting those inside the factory and requesting reinforcements. The situation threatened to go from bad to FUBAR.
“Hurry, Ricco.”
“Almost there.”
Just then double doors at the front of the factory burst open and out spilled a swarm of two-legged hornets. Slayne’s immediate thought was: This is bad.
Soren Anderson reached the west side of the parking lot. He stood at the fence for all of thirty seconds and then did what he wasn’t supposed to do. He wedged Mjolnir under the power belt, jumped up, and caught hold of the bar at the top of the fence.
Another moment, and he was up and over and crouched on the other side.
Hundreds of yards away was the truck. Slayne was almost to it.
Soren unlimbered Mjolnir and headed for the factory. He noticed a side door, but when he got there it was locked. Farther on was a window. Someone had cracked it open a few inches.
Raising it all the way, he slipped over the sill and found himself in a small office. He moved to a door and listened. All he heard were voices from deeper in the factory.
Soren eased out the doorway. A dark hall led to a stairwell at one end and toward the voices at the other end. He chose the stairwell. At the landing he hesitated. Should he go up or down?
His gut said to go down.
The basement consisted of another hallway with doors on both sides. Soren went from one to the next, opening them and poking in his head. The first room contained boxes and crates. The next had shelves lined with medical supplies. The third was crammed with K rations.
Soren decided the building was some sort of supply depot. He opened the fourth door and nearly gagged. The reek was abominable. Urine and worse. It was pitch black. He saw nothing to show the room was in use and went to close the door.
Someone groaned.
Soren pushed the door all the way open. He held Mjolnir in front of him and switched it to its lowest power setting but didn’t press the rune to fire. There was a hum and the weapon’s head glowed just enough for him to see a pile of rags in the middle of the floor. As he looked, the pile of rags moved.
It was a black man. He had been terribly, brutally beaten. One eye was swollen shut, the other a slit. His nose was bent, his lips were pulped. His body was even worse. He was bound, wrists and ankles.
Soren sank to one knee and gently touched the man’s shoulder.
“Are you Ben Thomas?”
The slit of an eye twitched. The pulped lips moved. “Yes,” he croaked.
“Odin has guided me to you so that I may save you.”
“Odin?” A dry gourd rattled in the apparition’s throat. “It’s finally happened. I’ve gone nuts.”
“The world is insane, friend Thomas, not you.” Soren pried at the knots. “The human race has had its own Ragnarok. But we will rise anew, and the Ancient Way will be strong again.” He had removed both ropes and was slipping his arm under Thomas to lift him when he heard footsteps in the
