Depraved by Trent Evans

Chapter 43

Creeping through a nighttime Old Vickers had been spooky enough, knowing what was coming, but when they’d finally rolled up to the outer perimeter wall of the headquarters building, the soaring skyscrapers of New Vickers glittering in the distance, it was the first time Jon felt real trepidation.

A lot could still go wrong, and they hadn’t even made it inside the security cordon.

“You’re sure they won’t see us in here?” Anson’s voice was little more than a murmur, reflecting the high tension they all felt.

“The EM field will baffle their sensor arrays just as it did Gamma’s. I’ve always run it when approaching headquarters. Discretion was important. Sometimes my passengers were… VIPs. Their security auto-sentries will be expecting it, so unless they have some green human supervisor on station tonight, it should be okay.”

He was glad none of his three companions pressed to know more about the passengers he’d brought into the headquarters building in the past.

Even the memory was hard for him now. Recounting any of it… would have been much worse.

“Is that it? In the distance?” Lyssa pointed from behind Jon’s seat.

“Yes, that’s where we need to be.”

Like a hulking fortress, the building looming up beyond the wall of the security cordon resembled a prison more than the administrative and command hub of the TSS forces in New Vickers.

For some of Jon’s past “VIPs”… a prison was a very apt description of what awaited them.

Spotlights bathed the rover suddenly, coursing slowly over it several times.

“Just be calm,” Jon said, smoothly. “They’re scanning us in IFR too—but it won’t show them anything.”

What he didn’t tell them was that alongside those spotlights in coaxial mounts were 30 mm chain guns, firing depleted uranium sabots—more than sufficient to make a serious mess of even Jon’s rover if they turned their fire upon it.

Then the lights switched off… and that was when they saw the weaponry atop the gatehouse.

“Holy shit,” Tom muttered. “Chain guns?”

“Turn us into fucking Swiss cheese,” Lyssa said.

“All the more reason not to give them any reason to do so.” Anson glanced back. “Stay cool. Lyssa, be ready. We see something suitable, you’re up.”

“Aye, Cap—er, General.”

Tom and Anson both chuckled at that.

The heavy gates drew up into the gatehouse, and Jon eased the rover through, moving away at a decent pace, but suitably… unhurried.

The roadway was on a slow, rolling hill down toward the building ahead, largely bare of vegetation other than some scrub, the ground somewhat rocky.

“How big is the cordon?” Anson asked.

“Just under two kilometers between the security walls and headquarters.”

Tom whistled. “That’s, uh, quite a gap.”

“They like to have plenty of warning whenever someone approaches.”

“Works for me,” Lyssa murmured.

Once they were completely out of range of the gatehouse, Anson began to scan the area along their route.

“There,” he said, pointing. “You see that sagebrush, Lyss? Should be good defilade if you can use those rocks right next to it.”

“Roger that.” Lyssa unwrapped the blanket shrouding the barrel of her sniper rifle.

“Stopping at this point is going to be a dead giveaway, so I’m going to just slow it down.” Jon looked back at her. “You’re going to have to roll out. Sorry.”

“Been asked to do worse,” she said, patting him on the shoulder when she was ready, opening Jon’s door enough to drop out.

“See you boys on the other side,” she said, grunting as she hopped out and hit the ground, rolling to a stop.

Though it was very nearly full dark, in his rearview mirror, he could see her hop to her feet, and instantly angle off back up the slight hill, toward a cluster of brush and a tiny, weathered outcropping of rock about forty meters off the right side of the roadway.

“She’ll cover us on our way back out,” Anson murmured. “She’s our rally if shit goes sideways.”

Jon knew though that if it got to that point, they were all dead. And in very short order.

The headquarters building loomed low and squat, truly massive as they drew near it. There was a huge opening at ground level that looked almost like a hangar.

“That’s where I’ve got to go—but I can’t risk the rover in there. Highly likely the rover would be searched if I leave it in there. Already have guards there, as you can see.”

Which meant the last fifty meters or so, he had to walk.

“Got it,” Anson said. “The squawk will sound three times when he’s executed the upload. Norton said make sure we’re on the H-band on RF and we’ll hear it plain as fucking day.”

Anson drew his sidearm, his rifle tucked down alongside his right leg in the foot well of the passenger side.

The mag accelerator on Tom’s rifle spooled up with the characteristic subtle whine. “Get back here—and fast.”

“That’s my plan,” Jon said, lying.

The chances of him even making it back to the rover alive were slim to none.

But his teammates didn’t have to know that—they would just have to figure out how the fuck to get back out of there.

A part of the mission their plan never really had a good solution for, other than them hoping to sneak right back out the way they’d come.

Which itself was a virtual impossibility considering what he was about to do.

There was nothing for it though—getting the upload into the Director was all that mattered now.

“This shouldn’t take long—unless they shoot me.” He grinned at them, hoping a little levity would ease their nerves a bit.

“Try and not let them do that,” Anson said, with a nod. “Now, get going.”

Moving at a brisk walk, he went over the schematic in his head again. It was a surprisingly easy path to the Director, but it was going to pass through two security cordons inside the building.

The headquarters building, like many TSS installations, had two concentric rings of security—the first to deter those who simply didn’t belong. The second to stop those who definitely didn’t belong, but needed much stiffer incentives to be deterred.

That second ring… was going to be tough.

First, he had to get in the damned building.

As he expected, the knot of TSS troops—internal security service, judging by their uniforms, and use of auto-pistols rather than rifles—had watched him the entire time on his walk in. They approached him, four of them in all, but not with any urgency, clearly seeing his TSS military grays.

“Identification, please,” one of the TSS barked, their visors concealing the upper parts of their faces.

“Right here,” Jon said, cheerfully—drawing his sidearm and opening fire. He was fast enough that he was able to drop the three in the front immediately.

Diving to the side with a yell, the fourth got off a shot—which struck Jon squarely in the chest.

It staggered him for a moment, the impact like a hammer blow right to his sternum—the range only being about ten meters—but the ceramic plate held nicely.

He sprayed the now prone man with several shots, leaving him lying in a rapidly enlarging pool of blood. “Here we go,” he whispered.

The gunshots would have raised alarms at nearby security stations, but it would take a short while before any teams converged on the area.

He hoped it would be just enough time for him to get inside to do what he needed to do.

Through a door, and down a long corridor, the lighting provided by a clear trench running down the center of the floor, and mirrored by a trench running along the center of the ceiling.

First a right, then a left—the first security station was ahead.

If Norton’s recollection was good, it would be an automated glass door, and two security personnel, one of whom would have a rifle and body armor.

Jon reloaded his sidearm, and unslung the rifle across his back, spinning the suppressor onto the end of the barrel.

He knew this would be likely observed in real time by the security station, but he turned another right, and was upon it.

Surprisingly, he seemed to have caught them unawares, the rifle-armed soldier with his weapon actually slung across one shoulder.

Jon calmly walked up, pressed the gun to the back of the man’s helmet, and fired.

What he hadn’t expected was the other officer, supposedly unarmed per Norton’s memory, to pop up from behind the desk flanking the right side of the glass barrier door and begin firing an automatic rifle.

The roar of it was deafening, the flash dazzling him for a split second.

Thankfully, the clearly panicked man, screaming as he pulled the trigger was a terrible shot, spraying bullets over Jon’s head and peppering the wall behind him.

He lunged and crashed through the glass door, shards flying everywhere, hot pain blooming at his elbow where one piece cut into his flesh.

Rolling and hopping up to one knee, he fired twice into the man’s chest as he was desperately trying to bring his rifle back around to shoot at Jon once more. He was dead before he hit the floor.

Down two more corridors, and taking one last right turn, he faced the second cordon—and just beyond it, through one more set of doors, was the Director’s room.

Incredibly, this second station, which was another glass security door—this time with steel mesh embedded inside—and not one, but two heavily-armed soldiers, didn’t appear to have been fully at alert, despite the fact they had to have heard the gunshots.

He laid down a cluster of shots with his suppressed rifle, catching the first soldier just under the bottom of his visor, a spray of bone, blood, and gray matter splattering against his partner, who seemed to have the unfortunate luck of having his gun jam at that moment.

Jon shot him down, too, with two rifle bullets through his side, before the man cleared the jam.

As he stepped up to place the charge on the security door, he heard the sound of boots behind him, and just as the roar of automatic rifle fire sounded, he rolled to the right and swung his own rifle around, cutting down both men with multiple gunshots to the legs.

They screamed, writhing in agony on the hallway floor, but he set the timer on the door before trotting back toward them, putting a bullet in each man, putting them out of their misery.

Ducking inside a doorway in that same hall, he counted. “3…2…1.”

With a shrieking blast, the charge went off, the shock wave momentarily knocking the breath from his lungs.

Gathering himself, he swung back out into the hall, acrid white smoke filling the air, the twin doors in tatters, twisted wire hanging from either wall all that was left of them.

“Faster,” he growled, sprinting down the hallway, bursting through the last set of doors so hard, one of them tore from its hinges, hanging at a crazed angle out into the hallway.

Then he was inside the Director chamber. But rather than what he expected, some massive whole-room supernode, what consisted of the Director wasn’t much more than a single workstation console connected to a tall frame of linked processors, a cable the thickness of a man’s arm running up into the ceiling from the top of the console.

Norton said that was the signal path to the transmitter that would issue the Protocol to all of the HKUs.

He found the drive, and inserted the disc, the interface popping to life instantly on the screen, a simple button display that read:

EXECUTE

It seemed to be working exactly as Norton had promised. Though he scarcely dared indulge it, Jon began to have hope he might indeed make it out of there alive after all.

His finger was poised exactly over the button on the screen when he heard the clapping.

“My Gods, Rexall, you do know how to make a mess of the place.”

He knew that voice.

Wheeling around, he leveled the rifle—only to find both of Kaman’s elite guards already had theirs pointed at him.

“You might get one,” Kaman murmured, inclining his head, as he stopped clapping. “But you won’t get two. Drop your weapons, Jon.” Kaman drew his sidearm, clasped in his left hand, though he kept it—for now—pointed at the floor.

Jon scanned both guards, their featureless inky black masks revealing nothing but deadly intent. He knew what the elite personal guard were capable of in a fight, but he also knew even they were still no match for an HKU.

Kaman was right, though—there was no way even he was fast enough to drop both of them before they killed him. Their rifles were notorious, overpowered, firing flechettes and sabots both, ensuring no matter the target, they were going to bring it down.

Even a Ravager.

“I wonder though… what are you up to, HKU? I’d assumed you’d finally brought me Wyndham’s little cunt for me. A bit late, perhaps, but I was willing to… overlook your tardiness.” Kaman frowned then, looking back toward the wrecked security station. “But… you killed my men. Why, Jon?” Kaman raised his pistol then. “Couldn’t we have just… talked it out?”

He guessed there was perhaps one chance in a million he could kill both guards without Kaman shooting him dead.

But nobody ever accused Jon Rexall of giving a shit about his chances.

He lunged, lightning quick toward the guard on the right, tossing one of his sidearms at the mask of the one on the left. It struck him cleanly, and he recoiled, firing wildly up into the ceiling.

Jon fired at the guard on the right, just as his rifle flashed.

He was surprised at the lack of immediate pain as the round tore a hole through his right shoulder, but he reacted in almost petulant disappointment that that arm instantly ceased to obey the commands from his brain.

Fortunately, Jon’s single shot passed just beneath the chin guard of his steel alloy mask—and clean through the guard’s neck.

The man crumpled to his knees making a ghastly gargling, choking noise as his hands flew to his throat, his rifle clattering against the tiles.

Jon spun left, slapping the gun from Kaman’s hand, then kicking him squarely in the mid-section, the loathsome TSS leader stumbling backward, and falling to the floor.

Two searing impacts against his side staggered him, then a third against his chest plate thundered against him, the shock sending his ears ringing, his awareness suddenly in slow-motion, sounds garbling as the deafening roar of the rifle signaled he’d just sustained what he suspected—even in that millisecond of time—were killing shots.

On pure adrenaline then, he wrapped a hand around the burning hot barrel, wrenching the weapon from the guard’s hands, just as another shot grazed his right thigh.

Jon gripped the gun with both hands, and in an instant, drove the butt of the weapon into the guard’s steel mask. The metal didn’t hold though, crumpling inward. The guard toppled over, unconscious.

Fuzziness just beginning to appear at the corners of his vision, he stood over the prone guard, and with three swift cracks of the rifle butt, caved in the upper part of his face, blood spreading almost instantly upon the gray-white tiles.

“We can… we can… talk this over…” Kaman said, wheezing as he dragged himself to his feet, one hand on his chest, another reaching out as if he meant to fend Jon off. “Don’t… don’t do this.”

Jon Rexall had no intention of doing anything other than what his mission demanded, but at that moment, when he realized what this single man—this loathsome monster of a human being—had done to both him, and the thousands of others like him…

What Kaman had made of him?

Jon decided that, this one time, adding another objective to his mission parameters… wasn’t such a bad thing after all.

In two steps, he was upon him, and swinging his left arm back, his right hanging limply at his side… he drove the heel of his hand up into Kaman’s nose.

Blood sprayed from his nostrils, and his eyes instantly rolled back, his legs going rigid. Kaman dropped where he stood, then keeled over on one side.

With the edge of his hand, he struck with brutal force under his nose again, Kaman’s form jerking, then he hit him once more, even harder, with a sickening crunch.

The hated leader’s body went utterly—and permanently—still.

His vision was graying then, his left boot warm, and wet, no doubt beginning to saturate with blood.

There wasn’t much time.

Extreme fatigue threatened to fell him right there, and he dropped to his knees, shuffling on them to the console. Suddenly so tired it was an effort just to raise his arm, he pressed his finger to the screen, the button Execute going from red to green.

His fingertip left a crazed, bloody print on the screen.

And then Jon collapsed to the floor, rolling over onto his back. “Yulia… Yulia… it’s done,” he whispered.

He hadn’t ever wondered what death would be like, despite how many times he’d dealt it out over the years.

Now, he welcomed it.

The pain in his left side was blindingly intense then, as if the adrenaline he’d been running on had finally been fully tapped.

His vision was swimming, his tongue beginning to numb at the tip. Vaguely, he could hear the klaxons of alarms somewhere else in the building.

He hoped it was a harbinger of what was to come for the TSS forces arrayed against the rebellion.

Then he saw something that made him suspect he’d already lost consciousness. “Anson?”

The general’s face peered down at him. “Soldier, you did good.”

“How’d… how’d you… find me?”

Tom’s face appeared then. “We followed the bodies, Jon.”

His awareness bled away for a moment, the sounds of their voices growing garbled. Then he came to again, just as Tom slung him over his shoulder, grunting.

“Shit, you’re heavy! I can’t believe I’m doing this for a fucking Ravager.”

“We gotta go!” Anson barked.

Jon was too tired to raise his head, so his view was filled entirely by the floor tiles, in places swimming with blood, as they hauled him back out the way they’d come.

“Stop! No!” a voice yelled somewhere behind them, and Anson’s rifle opened up, the sound ringing in Jon’s ears.

A shocked scream, then a cry of abject, terrified pain, the sound of it receding behind them.

“Good shot… General,” Tom grunted.

“Keep going, Tom!”

“I’m trying, dammit. This fucker’s a pantload!”

Jon heard many more shots: some incoming, but most from Anson.

As they emerged out into the bay, Anson yelled. “I’m out!”

“He’s bleeding… pretty bad,” Tom said, grunting as Jon began to slip from his shoulders. “I gotta set him down. Help me with him!”

Jon found himself between the two men, feet half-dragging, half-stumbling, his arms across their shoulders.

The snap-snap of bullets whizzing by sounded then.

“Faster!” Anson yelled.

Jon looked back to see their pursuers, just as they emerged out from onto the ground, making their way back up the slight hill toward the rover.

There were at least five TSS troopers, not more than fifty meters behind them, one or two stopping for a moment to stand and fire, before running after them again. Even more soldiers were pouring out of the building behind them.

There was no way they were going to make the rover before the three of them were cut down by gunfire.

Then one of the pursuing troopers dropped to his knees, clutching his chest. Another spun around, blood spraying from his neck as he toppled to the ground.

The loud cracks from ahead were heard a heartbeat later.

“Go, Lyssa!” Anson bellowed.

More rifle shots cracked, several in a row, a gurgling scream sounding from somewhere behind them.

A bullet struck Jon square in the back, and he thought he might pass out from the force of it, dull pain exploding through his torso, leaving him gasping with the impact.

But his vest held.

“That was fucking close,” Anson snarled. “We’re gonna get killed out here in the open like this!”

Lyssa’s smooth voice sounded on the squad frequency. “My talent may be limitless, boys, but my ammo isn’t. Get your asses up here!”

Jon smiled even as his consciousness threatened to slip away.

Finally, they made the rover, and Jon slipped into the passenger seat. He weakly strapped himself in as Anson squeezed in behind him. Tom hopped in the driver’s seat.

“You know how to drive this thing?” Anson asked.

Tom chuckled. “Jon gave me a few pointers. Just enough to be dangerous.”

The engines roared to life, and the rover took off.

They stopped to pick up Lyssa just as she fired off her last few rounds, the blue-white smoke from her rifle thick in the air, the acrid scent of it following her inside as she squeezed in behind the driver’s seat.

The rover picked up speed, Jon’s head lolling, his awareness very fuzzy now.

“Hang on, Rexall,” Anson said, packing gauze in against his side, just under the lower edge of his ballistics vest.

“How bad is it?” Lyssa asked, the rover creaking as it jounced over a rough patch in the pavement.

“Two lateral entries, lower left. Can’t find any exits,” Anson said, coolly. “His vest took most of ‘em, but he’s lost a shitload of blood.”

Even in his compromised state, Jon could pick up on the tightness in the general’s voice.

He knew the wounds were fatal.

They came up over the last rise, and Tom cursed, braking the rover to a tire squealing stop.

The gate was closed, the spotlights sweeping toward them, numerous TSS troops and a pair of tracked assault vehicles rolling their way.

They were trapped.

“E…RS,” Jon said, struggling to stay conscious.

“What? You mean this?” Tom flipped the cover from the ERS button. “What the fuck does this do?”

“Escape rocket…system.” Jon coughed, forcing a smile as he looked at Tom. “Hit that, and we can… jump… out of here.”

“How far?” Anson said at his ear, still packing gauze against his side. “Jon… how far?”

“A kilometer, or so…” He winced, the pain searing now, lancing up into his chest and down into his pelvis. “Give or take…”

“Good enough for me,” Tom said, tightening his harness. “Hold on to your asses!” Tom’s fist slammed down on the button.

“What the fuck are you do—oh shiitttt!” Anson’s voice bellowed, the rover leaping into the air as the escape rockets shrieked to life.

The brutal acceleration threw them violently down into their seats, the rover arcing high over the top of the security cordon, red and green tracers licking up toward them through the inky night.

“See ya later, you TSS fucks!” Tom shouted.

Then Jon slipped into silent blackness.