Ghosts of War (10 page)

The Ghost twisted in the air, bringing his legs together and folding his arms across his chest. He went into a steep dive, matching the raptor's trajectory, hurtling toward Ginny and the sidewalk.

The two figures streaked out of the sky like falling comets, mirror images of one another, plummeting toward the stricken Ginny. The Ghost was a dark blur riding a plume of searing orange flame, the raptor his gleaming opposite, its brass fame shimmering in the reflected moonlight.

Ginny screamed, and the sound was shrill and piercing in the empty street. She fired indiscriminately at the onrushing raptor, emptying the chambers of both guns, forgoing all sense of aim or purpose to simply shower the thing with as many bullets as she had left. They bounced off its brass chassis like pebbles pinging off a lover's window.

The Ghost could hardly breathe as he swooped low, only a few feet from the ground, and made a grab for the woman. He collided with her, bowling her off of her feet, but somehow managed to wrap his arms around her protectively, sweeping her away from the raptor. He clutched her to him triumphantly, holding her close as he spiraled up into the air, feeling her gasp in fear and amazement as they soared away into the frigid night. The wounds in his chest screamed for attention.

The raptor shrieked in frustration, its talons raking the ground in a shower of sparks where only seconds before its prey had stood rooted to the spot.

Ginny clung on to the Ghost tightly as they wound their way up and up through the sky, heading for the rooftops. He was trying to put some distance between them and the baying mechanical beasts.

The two raptors were circling now, watching to see what the Ghost would do next. The one with the damaged wings had managed to right itself, and while it was clearly struggling to maintain altitude it still posed a significant threat.

The Ghost knew he couldn't stay airborne for long, not like this. Here, he was exposed, and the extra weight of Ginny would slow him down, limiting his options. He angled his body, skimming across the rooftops of the nearby buildings, looking for a place to set Ginny down. The roof of the apartment building—the one in which he and Donovan had been standing over the body of the murdered man just a few moments earlier—looked as if it might provide some limited cover. For whatever that would be worth.

He pulled Ginny closer. “Pull that cord!” he called out to her, as they shot over the rooftop, rolling in midair to narrowly avoid slamming into a large, squat water tower.

“What? Which cord?” she shouted back in confusion. He could feel her warm breath on his cheek and smell the residue of the gin she had consumed at the party.

“By your right hand!” he said, desperately. “Just inside my coat.”

Ginny struggled in his grip, trying to free her arms. “This one?” she replied, yanking hard on the dangling cord.

The spurs of flame from the Ghost's ankle boosters guttered and died, and the Ghost held Ginny tight as they careened across the rooftop, dropping out of the sky and bouncing across the paving slabs like a stone being skipped across the surface of a lake.

The Ghost pushed Ginny's face into his shoulder to protect her head as they rolled and rebounded. His right shoulder jarred painfully against the edge of a roof light, and then they were coming to rest, inches from the edge of the building itself.

The Ghost gasped as his body lit up in pain. He'd taken a series of knocks as they'd come down, skidding to a stop by using his elbows as brakes. His trench coat was shredded, as was the fabric of his jacket beneath. But he was okay. He could live with bruises. If the raptors didn't get to him first, that was….

He looked down at Ginny, who was limp in his arms. “Are you all right?” he breathed. There was no reply. He felt suddenly hollow, as if the bottom had just been pulled out of his world. “Ginny! Are you all right?”

She stirred beneath him and looked up into his face. Their eyes met. “Yes,” she said breathlessly. “Yes, I'm all right.” Her eyes widened suddenly, and the Ghost felt her stiffen in his grip. She'd seen something over his shoulder. The raptors were coming.

The Ghost rolled again, taking Ginny with him. As he went over onto his back, he scanned the sky above them, getting a measure of the situation. The raptors were coming right for them. There wasn't going to be time….

“I'm sorry,” he said to Ginny, softly. “I'm so sorry….”

The second raptor—the one whose wings were still intact—was heading right for them, its talons flashing. Any second now…

The Ghost thrust Ginny away from him, flinging her forcefully across the rooftop, putting all of his momentum and weight behind it. She squealed in shock, striking the flagstones hard. The Ghost, on his back, raised his arm, a hopeless last gesture of defense against the mechanical monster.

There was a crack of gunfire, and the raptor suddenly changed its course, swinging around and climbing, two perfect round holes in its wing. The Ghost glanced at Ginny to find her lying on her back, two smoking pistols in her fists. His hands went instinctively to his belt, and he couldn't help but grin. She'd pulled them from his holsters while he'd been on top of her.

He scrambled to his feet, ran over to her, and helped her up.

“Thanks…” he started, but Ginny shook her head.

“No time,” she said curtly, nodding over his shoulder. The raptor was coming in for another attack. She raised the guns and snapped out another round of shots. But this time the raptor wasn't going to be dissuaded.

Behind her, the Ghost saw the other raptor—the one with the ragged wings that had dragged him across the ground—drop to a roof a few feet away. The things were trying to pin them in place.

“Get behind me!” he barked, and she did as he said, pressing her shoulders against his so that they stood back-to-back, each of them facing one of the oncoming raptors. “Concentrate your fire on its wings,” he shouted, and he felt her nod in acknowledgment. But he knew that would only work for so long. And so did the raptors.

Once they were on the rooftop, they didn't need their wings.

The Ghost palmed the trigger of his fléchette gun and released a hail of silver shards. The raptor, the one that had landed on the roof and was marching menacingly toward him with its clawed hands extended, continued undeterred. The tattered remnants of its wings fluttered in the wind, semitranslucent in the moonlight. Its red eyes glowed like the burning embers of hell.

Ginny followed his lead and started shooting again. He didn't dare take his eyes off the metal creature charging toward him, but he feared Ginny's shots would have little or no effect on the other raptor.

He couldn't fight them both at once. He couldn't protect her. But he couldn't let it happen again. He couldn't see another person he cared for torn apart because of him, because of who he was. He roared as he unleashed everything he had at the raptor, filling the sky with a snowstorm of a thousand razor-sharp fléchettes.

There was a whooshing sound from somewhere across the other side of the rooftop. Suddenly, everything was on fire. Ginny was screaming, and the Ghost's ears were ringing with the echo of an almighty explosion.

He fell to the ground, bowled over by the force of the explosion, as if a hand had shoved him firmly in the small of his back. He felt the patter of tiny, burning fragments showering down upon him and realized that the raptor—Ginny's raptor—had exploded. He was facedown in the gravel. He blinked, spitting dust.

The Ghost glanced up, suddenly remembering the other raptor. It had also been bowled over by the force of the blow, but was already picking itself up, chittering insanely as it leered at him.

The Ghost followed suit, pulling himself to his feet. His body groaned in protest. He risked a glance behind him to see Ginny on her knees, still covering her eyes with the crook of her arm. The sky was alight with a rain of burning components, and he watched them tumbling over the precipice of the building, twinkling stars falling to the sidewalk far below. Thick, black smoke curled from the ruins of the machine's torso, discarded a few feet from Ginny.

“What did you do?” he said, urgently.

Ginny peered up at him, as if only just realizing that she wasn't dead. “What? I didn't…”

Realization struck, and the Ghost swung round to catch sight of Donovan on the far side of the roof, standing over a tripod, upon which sat the stocky cylinder of the British spy's portable rocket launcher. He must have heard the commotion and come to their aid. The Ghost was just thankful he'd had the foresight to make use of the weapon cache they'd uncovered. He wondered if anything less than the explosive mortar would be enough to take one of the raptors down. He was about to find out.

The raptor leaped at him from at least ten feet away, the propellers mounted on its shoulders roaring with power as they drove it forward.

The Ghost sidestepped to avoid a swipe from its left arm, but wasn't quick enough to dodge the one that followed from the right, striking him on his upper arm and drawing blood through the ragged remains of his costume.

He struck out in response, punching it hard in the face, but his fist rebounded painfully from the brass skull and the raptor hardly seemed to notice. It let out another chittering cry and thrashed at him with both claws.

The Ghost brought his arms up, parrying the blows, and kicked out at the thing, striking it in the midriff, just below the rib cage. It staggered back under the force of the blow, but it was barely enough to halt its attack, and in seconds it was on him again, its claws scratching at his face, the bony remains of its wings beating him back.

Desperately he caught it by the arms, trying to pin it in place, but this only aided the creature, providing it with a pivot, which it used to swing its legs up so it could bury its talons in his belly. He felt the daggers tear through the thick fabric of his jacket, and he staggered back, trying to hold it at bay.

Again, the raptor capitalized on this, its propellers roaring, forcing him farther back, unable to stop his boots from sliding on the ground, unable to prevent himself from being forced farther and farther toward the edge of the roof.

He heard Donovan shouting his name, but he paid the inspector no heed, remaining focused on the raptor, on using every ounce of strength he had to push back against it, to keep its talons from rending his flesh.

He took a step back and felt the lip of the building with his heel. He only had to hold on a little longer. Just a little longer…

The raptor shrieked as it strained against him. Its engines were whining with the pressure, the blades beating at the air with a steady roar. He gazed into the creature's eyes.
Creature
was the right word for it. This was no simple machine.

The Ghost still gripped the raptor's brass, skeletal arms in his gloved fists. Its feet were wedged against his belly. He took a deep breath and stepped over the edge of the building.

He heard Ginny scream as he toppled backward, pulling the raptor down with him. The creature screeched as its shredded wings beat ineffectually at the air, trying to slow their descent. He clutched it tight, using his momentum to somersault in the air, twisting so that the raptor was beneath him.

Almost serenely, the Ghost freed one hand, allowing the raptor's free hand to rake at his chest. He reached inside his coat, his fingers closing around the ignition cord. He pulled it sharply and his rocket boosters fired, kicking them both forward, pushing them on toward the ground.

The raptor thrashed and bucked, trying to regain control, but it was trapped, its talons lodged in the fabric of the Ghost's jacket, one of its arms still clutched tightly in his left fist. Without its wings, its propellers alone were no match for the momentum and the downward thrust of his rockets.

The tarmac was fast approaching. Gritting his teeth, the Ghost released his grip on the creature's other arm, grabbing for its ankles and wrenching its talons free from his midriff. He let go, bringing his arms up and twisting his body away from the ground.

He almost miscalculated, and for a moment he thought he was going to be dashed across the street, but at the last minute he managed to pull up, the thrust of his rockets carrying him in a sharp arc across the ground and then up again, hurtling back into the sky.

The damaged raptor, however, wasn't so lucky. Freed with only seconds to spare, with no time to try to right itself and unable to spread its now-defunct wings as a brake, it slammed into the road with a terrific crash.

The Ghost veered away into the night sky, gasping for breath. He felt light-headed with the exertion; tasted the gritty, metallic tang of adrenaline on the back of his tongue. His heart was pounding in his ears.

Twisting his body, he swooped low, drifting over the site of the impact, scanning the road for any signs of the raptor.

The shattered remains of it lay scattered all over the street below: in the road, on the sidewalk, in the gutter. The raptor had fractured with the impact, spilling cogs and bits of engine housing, broken limbs and the tattered remnants of its wings. The Ghost felt relief wash over him.

He descended slowly in a plume of orange flame, still wary, still tensed and ready for whatever might happen next. Beneath him, on the sidewalk, the broken torso of the raptor still twitched and jerked maniacally, as if in the throes of death. The Ghost set himself down beside it, cutting the fuel line to his rocket canisters with a sharp pull on the cord inside his jacket.

It had been utterly smashed, dashed across the tarmac by the tremendous force of the fall. One gangly brass arm now hung limply from the aperture of its shoulder, clicking and tapping against the paving slabs with every spasm. The other limb had been lost entirely, scattered somewhere across the road. Likewise, both of its legs and one wing, reduced now to stumps and gaskets, cracked pistons and fragments of claw. The engine casings housing the turbines on its shoulders had both split apart, although one propeller still turned, futilely churning the air as if trying, ineffectually, to drag the creature away.

The Ghost dropped to his haunches, staring into the creature's up-turned face. The red lights behind its glassy eyes glowed with vehemence. Its head turned slowly toward him and its broken left arm twitched. He could sense it was still trying to get at him, even now, reduced to this. Whatever malign force was motivating it was utterly relentless.