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The man was fussing with the hinge action on the launcher. He looked up. He and Evan were at the edge of the plaza, no more than six feet apart, the crowd swirling around them.
The guy said, “Shit,” an instant before Evan jabbed him in the solar plexus with the umbrella post. He flew back, smashing into a trash can, the launcher clattering away.
A projectile glanced off Evan’s side, spinning him in a half turn and sending a flame of nerve pain through his underarm.
Six men closing in from behind.
Evan hauled himself upright, ARES 1911 in hand. His Woolrich tactical shirt rippled open in the front, the discreet magnets beneath the false buttons parted from when he’d drawn straight through the shirt from his appendix holster.
But his pursuers were shooting less-lethal.
And he didn’t know who they were. They could be cops, FBI, a sanctioned squad from State.
The First Commandment:Assume nothing.
The magnet buttons found their mates, clapping together, the shirt zipping itself back into place over Evan’s torso. He swungthe sights, aimed at the metal links of a dangling cafeteria sign, pressed the trigger.
And missed.
A fraction of a second’s hitch of disbelief.
It was a wide-open shot, twenty or so feet with nothing between him and the target. No brisk wind, no shadows, no distracting reflections. He was moving, sure, but not spinning. He’d been trained to shoot left- and right-handed, off a roll, emerging from water, upside down, in free fall.
Orphan X was not a perfect shooter like Tommy Stojack, his nine-fingered armorer. He missed plenty of shots. But this was not a shot he missed.
Ever.
A significant if minuscule degradation of his shooting reflexes.
An eighth of a second had passed, maybe less.
He could afford no time for reflection. Being rattled was a luxury for later.
Reset the trigger. Sight picture. Smooth, clean press.
He fired again at one of the chains holding the dangling sign, and the round sparked as it severed the link. The sign swung down, scythelike, slamming one of his pursuers in the side of the head. He tumbled into his partner, spilling them both over a table, which toppled accommodatingly.
A trailing pair of operators with matching weapons filled the space the others had just occupied; the effect was uncanny, as if the same men had been set upright again, a couple of bowling pins. They were aiming imperfectly, their jarring steps making their muzzles bounce.
Evan ran toward them but notatthem. As their projectiles blasted overhead, he veered hard to the side, slanting toward the wall at the last instant. Jumping to stab a boot three feet up into the concrete wall for traction, he kicked off for momentum and wound up for a left cross. His fist struck the lead man across the jaw, snapping his head around and sending him sprawling into his partner.
Four men now on the ground at Evan’s feet, blinking up at himand scrabbling toward their weapons. A projectile clipped off his shoulder, ripping a flap of his shirt up like an epaulet. The round punched through the cafeteria window, shattering the sneeze guard at the salad bar.
He ran.
Cutting through the crowd, head low, ducking and weaving to chart an imperfect line toward the stairwell into the parking structure. Now it was easier to spot his pursuers; they were the only ones runningtowardhim.
He leapt over an upturned table, rolled into a graceless somersault, and popped up, finding himself face-to-face with the guy who’d sported the hospital gown. The coaster-size bore of the weapon stared straight at Evan. A round fired at this proximity would cave in his skull.
The man jerked the weapon lower to aim at Evan’s chest. Evan gave the descending barrel a heel strike, accelerating its trajectory so it whipped down to point at the man’s foot.
The trigger clicked, the projectile launching with afooomp. The man gave a high-pitched scream, grabbed for his shredded sneaker, and hopped on one foot. Evan swept past him, catching the 40-millimeter launcher as it tumbled from his grip.
Spinning, he got off thigh shots to the nearest two men before the three behind them readied to launch a volley his way.
Evan do-si-do-ed with the hopping operator, getting behind him just in time for the guy to take three rounds to the spine. He jiggled in Evan’s grip, face twisted in anguish.
Evan said, “Sorry,” and let him fall away.
