Why was it never easy?
Terry scarcely had time to think the question before dodging the next punch. An upper roundhouse to the head, or something approximating one, right handed. These runners never had any style, any technique to their fighting....
He feinted with his own right, and drove his left fist into the guy's ribcage.
....it was so artless, so random. They hadn't trained, hadn't learned any martial artistry, just throw as many punches as hard as you can until you knock the guy out. Or get knocked out.
Terry knocked the guy out.
But what could you really expect from synth runners? They weren't like the Jokerz, in it as much for the fun as for the profit. If beating the crap out of people was a kind of fun.
He dropped and swung out his left leg behind him, sweeping under the guy coming behind him. The guy fell backwards, letting out a groan.
"Okay," Terry thought. "Sometimes it's kinda fun."
He was reaching for the creep when he heard it. He dove for cover behind a crate, almost before identifying the sound as a plasma rifle being cocked. Blasts tore into the crate. He fired the boots, launching himself toward the ceiling.
This was supposed to have been an easy bust. He'd been tracking these synth runners for weeks, waiting to catch them at a drop-off, with a full load of their stuff. Synthetic opiate, worth at least two million creds on the street. They were one of the main distributors.
He'd waited until after the drop had been made, making sure to put a tracer on the drop-off car. Now he could catch them with the evidence, before it had been cut, and when there weren't too many of them to deal with. He knew this group, knew there would be five of them tonight, knew what kind of weapons they had. He could handle it.
He hadn't counted on the extra muscle. With a plasma gun. Cochrane Weapons Systems APH-7X-K34-something-something, shipment gone missing two weeks ago, military grade weapon, never put into service, capable of stopping a tank. Several tanks. In one hit.
Stupid, Terry thought. Of course they'll have extra protection on the night of the drop-off. He could just hear what the old man would say about this. If I tell him.
He waited in the shadows of the rafters, near one of the old-fashioned fire sprinklers, letting the thermo-scan pick up the plasma gun's signature. There it was, a great white blob, getting bigger in his field of vision--
Terry jumped out of the way of the plasma charge. A deafening explosion followed him, then another. He didn't have time to look back, and he knew what he would see if he did: sections of roof being blown away, just centimeters behind him. Their progress followed his flight. He barely had time to realize there was more than one firing. There were at least two, maybe more, up on the catwalks around the edge of the room. He pointed with his hand, sending a blade in the direction of one of the guns, knowing he hadn't had time to aim. Maybe this is more than I can handle, he thought. He started to talk to the old man over the link before remembering Bruce wasn't in the cave.
In that split second's hesitation, a plasma gun caught up with him. Or rather, fired right in front of him. The blast went off next to his ear, hurtling him into the wall. He rolled with the blow, letting the suit take as much of the damage as possible, firing the boots on instinct to slow his collapse to the floor. This wasn't going right at all. He needed help.
He called up the access code for the car he'd left hovering nearby, watching the readout on his visor. He could bring it in through the hole in the ceiling, have it take out some of the firepower.
There was only static in the visor, followed by the blinking text "CONNECTION FAILED". Equipment failure. Perfect.
I'm starting to think this just isn't my night. But there was no time to think, the guns were still firing, there was no one down here but him now, dodge, jump, the men he'd knocked out were gone, so were the drugs, get over this table, the sound of the guns firing was deafening, didn't they need to stop?, those things must be scorching by now, roll away from the blast, the guns will overheat pretty soon--
And then Terry remembered why the army had never put these rifles into service. And he had an idea.
Vaulting into position, he took aim with another blade and fired.
Not at the guns.
At the sprinkler head.
He heard the clink of metal, and then a stream of water poured over him, over the detritus on the floor, over everything. Including the guns. He heard one of the gunmen cry out in surprise as his weapon jammed, contracting from the sudden cold. He heard the noise of the gunman trying to fire one more time, the noise of its power cell overloading--
You idiot, Terry thought, don't try to fire a jammed plasma rifle--
He heard the gun clatter to the floor as the gunman threw it away, and huddled against the ground, shielding himself from the explosion.
As the sound receded from his hearing, he stood again, surveying the remains of the room. No drugs. No weapons. Thermo-scan showed everyone had fled.
Terry shook his head. Why was it never easy?
