“Liar!” The gun arm came up.
St. George kicked the tire into the air and smacked it toward Cerberus. The M2 thundered and scraps of black rubber rained down on the parking lot. Big Blue’s windshield shattered.
It had given St. George time to step back to the stack. He flung two more tires like thick Frisbees, then pulled another one out of the pile and hurled it, too. He remembered reading years ago about people being killed at racetracks when tires came off at high speed and flew into the stands. He was pretty sure he was throwing them at least that hard.
Cerberus targeted the first two tires and annihilated them with bursts from the big gun. The third one slammed the battlesuit in the side of the chest hard enough to make it twist at the waist. The next one hit it in the shoulder. Then one struck the barrel of the M2 and knocked it down.
St. George threw tire after tire. They slammed into the armored titan and bounced off into the garden or toward the Melrose gate. One or two shot straight back and hit the short wall in front of St. George. It was like a brutal game of dodgeball. They weren’t forcing the armored titan back, but they were stopping it from doing anything else.
He was pulling his punches. He knew it wasn’t Danielle in the battlesuit, but he still knew it was hers. Part of her, almost. He didn’t want to damage it.
He threw his last tire. “Agent Smith,” he shouted.
Across the parking lot he saw Christian perk up. The battlesuit did, too. He’d caught Gibbs’s attention.
“You remember Agent John Smith,” St. George called out to Cerberus. “The one who tricked all of you. The one who killed Colonel Shelly.”
The titan straightened up and lowered its arms. All the men and women from Project Krypton remembered Smith. He’d used them all, killed their commanding officer, and then bragged about it.
“Smith is here, Gibbs,” said St. George. “He’s trying to take control here just like he did out at the base.”
The gun arm came back up. “I’m sorry if you’re being influenced, sir,” said Cerberus, “but it’s my duty to protect the citizens and government, and right now you’re an immediate threat.”
St. George shook his head. “I’m not the one being influenced, Lieutenant.”
“What?”
“I’m not the one he’s trying to control.”
The titan’s M2 drifted down from St. George’s face to his chest. The loose ammo belt waved back and forth on the battlesuit’s other arm like a banner.
“Just tell me how Smith works,” said St. George. “Just think for a minute. You were out there. You remember how he did it.”
“Lieutenant Gibbs,” shouted Christian. “You’re not listening to him, are you?”
The armored skull turned to look at her, and St. George saw the titan’s stance shift. “No, ma’am,” said Cerberus. The battlesuit turned back and the M2 came back up.
St. George flew into the air as the rounds chewed up the wall and smashed into Big Blue’s engine block. The front of the truck sagged. He was pretty sure it would never move again.
He tried to swoop around the titan and the gun arm tracked him. Another burst fired off with the deafening sound of a bass drum. The rounds almost missed him. Two of them hit him in the thigh, one cracked into his kneecap. He wobbled in the sky just long enough for a second burst to knock him back. He hit a palm tree and dropped out of the air. A yellow parking pylon, one of a dozen or so that still studded the area, caught him in the hip as he fell and flipped him onto his back.
He saw the steel fist plunging down at him and rolled out of the way. It cracked the pavement behind him. Cerberus shifted and tried to stomp, but St. George managed to focus enough to throw himself up to his feet.
The gun arm came up and blasted away. He leaped out of the way and it traced a path after him. He heard the rounds hit concrete, glass, and wood. Screams echoed across the lot. St. George stopped dodging and blocked the last two bursts with his aching ribs. The rounds tore his shirt and leather jacket to shreds.
“Jesus, Gibbs,” he coughed when the barrage stopped. “There’s people everywhere! Civilians!”
The lieutenant growled and ignored him. Another punch came swinging around. St. George set his leg back to brace himself and managed to catch the fist with both hands. The impact made him slide back a foot.
Sorry, Danielle, he thought.
The gauntlet had three fingers and a thumb. Each one was as thick as a soda can. He grabbed the thumb and the farthest finger and twisted.
There was a squeal of metal and a few sparks as the steel hand tore apart. Cerberus yanked away, but it was too late. St. George let the two digits hit the ground. One of the remaining fingers hung at a strange angle and twitched. The other one kept flexing as Gibbs held it up to check damage. “Son of a bitch,” muttered the lieutenant.
The broken hand slammed into St. George’s face. The two remaining fingers grabbed his head in an awkward pinch. He reached up to grab them and the stunners fired up again.
His muscles tensed. This time he felt it in his tongue and teeth and eyes. His eyelids twitched. The finger-claw tightened on his skull and lifted him off the ground. He reached up, tried to shake himself loose, but couldn’t grab hard enough.
He felt the muzzle of the M2 settle against his stomach and a moment later he was punched in the gut a dozen times. At point-blank range the sound itself was a weapon. The barrel rose and the furious rounds battered their way up his chest. Then the impacts tore him free from the damaged fingers and he tumbled away.
St. George staggered back but managed not to fall over. He took in
