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Zoya said, “That ground bot is probably at the top of the stairs by now.”
Court dropped to his knees and reached for the door lock.
“What are you doing?” Zoya asked.
“I’m going to shoot it.” He added, “They’re not bulletproof.”
Court cracked open the door and looked across the room. Through the smoke from the burning curtains and at least four canisters fired by the robot, he could see the device at the top of the stairs. As he watched, it fired another smoke canister forward. It landed on the now-burning sofa where Fitzroy had been sitting minutes earlier.
Court didn’t see the flying drone now, nor did he hear it, and he knew the smoke would obscure his view of this ground robot in seconds, so he raised his Glock 26. Aiming in on the front of the robot, he fired a perfect shot right between the two cameras there that looked like eyes.
The machine rocked back a few inches, then recovered and swiveled on its rear hip joints, slewing the rifle barrel towards him.
Shit. Court flattened himself on the ground, and the door splintered and shattered above him. He rolled to his left, in the opposite direction of Zoya, who was also flat on the floor, and two more booming gunshots cracked off from the stairs. Books shredded on the shelves, the desk took a direct hit, and then Zoya kicked a foot out to slam the door shut.
He and Zoya stared at each other, just ten feet or so apart. He shrugged. “I take that back. They might be bulletproof.”
Zoya said, “We need a plan, Court!”
The buzzing of the hexacopter returned, but this time the sound came from out the window to the courtyard.
As the two of them listened, the gunfire outside stopped, and then the popping and hissing of canisters resumed. At least two more smoke grenades bounced around the great room, and Court knew the black smoke from them combined with the black smoke of the raging curtain and sofa fire would make seeing the enemy utterly impossible for his naked eyes.
Something occurred to him. “It’s using a lot of concealment, and it wouldn’t be doing that if it wasn’t worried about getting shot.”
“Meaning?” Fitzroy asked from across the room.
Zoya answered for Court. “Their main housing might be armored against handgun calibers, but there’s no way it can carry heavy armor, and the shoulder and hip joints looked exposed to me.”
Court added, “We need to just hit them with the right weapon in the right place to take them down.”
Zoya shook her head. “But that means taking careful aim, and it will see you before you—”
Court said, “When you don’t have time for careful aim, you use a damn shotgun.”
She cocked her head. “You got a shotgun in your pants?”
“There’s one down at the courtyard, right out this window. And I saw another on a sentry out by the pool. He’s probably dead by now.” He motioned to the door back to the great room, the only access to the rear of the property. “If we can get to the twelve-gauges and then unload on those things, we might just make it out of here.”
Zoya shook her head. “Do I have to remind you there are at least two flying drones out there, too? We’ve got four enemy that we know of. I might be able to drop to the courtyard, get into the veranda, scoop up the shotgun, and get back inside somewhere, but there’s no way you can go out through the great room and make it through those burning curtains, out onto the balcony, and down to that shotgun before you’re targeted by one of those machines.”
Court thought it over. “You just said it. The curtains are on fire. If the machines can only see with thermals through the smoke, maybe I can use the heat of the fire to mask my movements.”
Zoya looked out again to the courtyard; it was completely concealed with smoke now. She said, “I don’t have a fire.”
“No,” he admitted, “you don’t. Can you make it?”
She nodded, not entirely confidently.
Court shook his head now. “No, forget it. I’ll go for the one in the courtyard.”
Now Zoya rose up. “I can do it. There are two ground bots; it’s going to take us both.”
Court crawled back over to Fitzroy, the hissing sounds of smoke grenades loud behind him in the great room.
“How you doing?” he asked.
Fitzroy’s ashen face was smeared with even more blood, his dress shirt soaked red at the neck and shoulder. He’d taken an envelope and a pen and he was in the process of putting the pen in Tudor’s right hand.
