Page 16 of Salvation for the Alien Mercenary
The plaza transformed into a lethal crossfire. Plasma bolts left molten trails through the air; kinetic rounds sparked off decorative pillars. Those strange energy weapons emitted disorienting crackles that made it hard to pinpoint their location. He fought through a wave of dizziness, his skin clammy and his vision blurring as the burning in his chest intensified.
“Davis, watch your six!”
Mira’s sharp warning snapped his focus back. He pivoted just as a hostile tried to flank him, dropping the attacker with a quick burst. The body crumpled, sliding across polished stone.
“Thanks, Mira,” he panted, leaning briefly against a shattered column. Her voice in his ear felt like the only steady thing in the chaos.
Ryke barked orders: “Covak, break right! Rann, suppress!”
The team responded in a heartbeat, moving with practiced precision. He fired methodically at the targets Mira called out, conserving ammunition, making each shot count.
“Target three o’clock, behind the pillar!”
He swung his aim accordingly, catching a hostile mid-stride. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed Rann, sheltering behind what looked like a dumpster opposite. Davis frowned as the big Latharian pilot called out warnings and shook his head. Perhaps his comms were off—because it looked like Rann was calling out warnings before the attacks materialized. Only fractions of a second, but it was enough to notice.
“Grenade incoming!” Rann shouted, diving for cover. The explosive arced through the air, detonating moments later against a decorative fountain.
Davis filed that information away—another piece in the puzzle that was Rann. The man had always been good at reading enemy tactics, but this was a level beyond.
The Reapers used the limited cover—overturned benches, kiosks, statues—fighting back-to-back. Covak roared, claws extended, hurling one hostile into another with terrifying strength.
“Davis, how are you holding up?” Covak shouted, eyes bright with battle fury. His massive frame had shifted to battle mode, skin flushed crimson, muscles bulging beneath his combat gear.
“Still kicking!”
Barely. He looked down. Fresh blood seeped through his shirt beneath the tactical vest. Shit. That was worse than he’d thought.
Ryke laid down suppressing fire with his assault cannon, the weapon’s bass thrum vibrating through the plaza.
“Cluster behind the transport, Davis!” Mira’s voice directed.
He nodded, pulling grenades from his belt. Rising to one knee, he wound back his arm and let fly. The small devices arced perfectly to land among three hostiles using the armored vehicle for cover.
Davis turned and crouched in cover as the grenades exploded, then he was moving again—to the next cover, the next target. He managed to glance around to see how the others were doing. They were holding, but the attackers were relentless, coordinated, highly trained—which made sense if this was a hit... planned, resourced, executed with military precision.
The distinct whine of repulsor engines cut through the battle noise, and he glanced up, relief flooding through him at the familiar silhouette. The heavily armed craft— their combat shuttle, the Shadow—cut through the sky, its matte black hull absorbing rather than reflecting light.
The craft descended fast, weapon pods already swiveling. Its side assault ramp started to lower, Jex riding it. His voice cut into their comm channel. “Apologies for the delay. Traffic was a bitch. Engaging hostile elements now.”
The Shadow’s forward pods erupted, pouring energy fire into the Imperials’ strongest concentration and turning their cover to shredded junk.
At the same time, Jex opened fire with the Scorperio suit’s arsenal. Micro-missiles streaked toward clustered enemies while arm-mounted cannons provided pinpoint-accurate suppressing fire.
The sudden, overwhelming firepower shattered the hostile assault. The organized military operation dissolved into desperate survival within seconds as the Reapers’ enemies dove for cover.
Davis pushed forward, using the disruption to gain a better position. He ignored the wet warmth spreading across his chest beneath his armor. He could worry about bleeding out later.
The remaining attackers broke. Four or five survivors scrambled away, disappearing down side streets and alleyways.
“Hostiles retreating, blending with civilian traffic. Request permission to pursue?” Jex sounded almost eager.
“Negative, Jex,” Ryke replied. “Secure the perimeter.”
As the immediate threat vanished, camera bots and news drones surged forward from their hiding places. The crowd that had scattered now pressed against hastily established security lines, shoving personal recording devices high to catch what remained of the action.
Davis straightened with effort and looked around. Shit. This looked bad. Real bad. Ryke, Rann, and he were bleeding and battered; Covak was splattered with blood that definitely wasn’t his; and Jex was stepping off the Shadow’s ramp in a battle suit that looked like a mobile tank. All of them were bathed in media spotlight, surrounded by destruction and bodies.
Ryke took in the smoking debris, gawking crowds, and swarming media bots, then grimaced.
