A/n - I couldn't fit quite enough violence into the last chapter so I thought I'd let you have a peek at the next one. Enjoy!

The explosive must have been placed inside the door. The opposite end was secured to the skirting board in plain sight. He was fortunate that he was positioned where he was, otherwise he'd have no chance. Nevertheless, getting himself out of his fix was going to be tricky.

He eased himself down into an awkward crouch, setting his weapon down and using that hand to steady himself. In this position he was able to reach around the doorjamb to locate the explosive charge. It was some kind of claymore, placed to blow the wall out and paste him and his insides across the opposite wall. He felt around to locate the trigger mechanism where the wire went in. He reasoned he had a chance, at least.

He cast about for the tools he would need, spotting a rusty nail kicked against the skirting boards. He had to stretch to reach it, the sweat dripping from his brow sounded like the report of artillery to his adrenaline enhanced senses. With this in hand he took a wad of gum out of his mouth and reached around, pressing it gingerly into the hole. The nail followed it, wedging the wire in place.

Crunch time.

With his free hand he reached back for his wire cutters, placing the steel blades against the metal weave.

He took a deep breath, prayed it wouldn't be his last, and squeezed. The wire twanged. The tell tale click of the trigger mechanism never came. Shopal took another breath.

Picking up his weapon he moved past the trap, now wary for backup plans. The rifle's whispering report increased in volume. Straining his ears he thought he could make out two distinct signatures, suggesting that both men were hiding somewhere up ahead.

The next door along hung slightly ajar. Shopal inched it a little wider open, his movements slow and controlled. A wedge of light slashed the corridor, a hunched shadow clearly visible within it. He peeped around the jamb, ready to duck back if he was seen. The shooter was huddled at the window, his rifle shouldered, the strap wrapped around his arm to brace it place. He was sighting and firing in an efficient, professional rhythm, laying down lethal bursts of accurate, long-range fire.

The angle he was at allowed Shopal to ease the door wider still, revealing that the second gunman had occupied a room further along, adjoining this one. He was out of sight; that could play in Shopal's favour, but then again it might work against him.

He stealthily removed the pin from a fragmentation grenade, cooking it for three seconds before tossing it through the adjoining door. His sudden burst of motion drew the nearer man's attention and he rose to his feet, turning to repulse this unexpected attack.

But Shopal was ready for him. His lascarbine snapped three times, not penetrating the man's body-armour but knocking him backwards with the force. Knocked off balance the man's return fire went wild, punching holes in the ceiling as he staggered back. The merc's buttocks hit the windowsill and his momentum carried him over. Four storeys is a long way to fall, especially when you go headfirst.

Even as the man toppled Shopal's grenade went off. A cloud of plaster dust billowed from the door. Shopal dived for cover just in case, wrapping his fingers around a second grenade. His caution rewarded him when the second gunman unloaded a clip through the partition wall between them. The high-powered rounds carried on, penetrating the cheap wooden dresser Shopal hunched behind and only missing him by a hair's breadth.

The surprise caused Shopal to jump, leaving him staring at a grenade that was suddenly and forlornly bereft of a pin.

xxx

Arines and Paddy worked their way through their building, sweeping for shooters. There were two stairwells at opposite ends of the same hallway. They each took a stair and synchronised their ascent, sweeping every room they could gain access to. On the third floor Arines got involved in a brief exchange of fire, stone chips exploded from the wall of the stairwell, embedding in his left cheek. His return fire perforated the flakboard wall but he couldn't tell if he'd hit anything.

Someone was crying out inside the apartment, a woman perhaps, along with the keening of a child. They'd have to go carefully to winkle this guy out. Arines didn't want any innocent blood on his hands.

Paddy worked his way along the corridor from the opposite direction, keeping close to the wall nearest the shooter to reduce his exposure as best he could, while Arines put a few controlled bursts through the wall to keep the merc ducking.

Then came the clincher.

They'd been issued with a limited supply of suppression grenades. The advantage of these over the more readily available smoke grenades was that they should render the target blind but not the guy throwing them, as long as they were used properly. Arines took one of these precious articles from his webbing and cooked it off, tossing it through and turning away as they'd been trained to. The only indication that it had gone off was a dull crack, at which point the two men stormed the room.

Arines went left, the shooter rearing up before him, clutching his face. He put a double tap in the merc's face and sending him flying backwards through a door to slump lifeless in a steel bathtub. The woman he'd heard was curled in the corner of the little bathroom, curled around a small child and just as scared of Arines as she had been of the merc.

'Clear up!' he called.

'Clear down!'

'It's alright, madam, you're safe now.'

The woman only whimpered and curled closer around her child. Arines reached down to drag the dead merc out into the living room and left them to recover. They were collecting up quite a bit of hi-tech weaponry as they went along. Much of it was far more suitable to their present task than their own equipment.

'Come on,' he growled, stripping the merc's gear. 'I'm pretty sure we're far from done here.'

xxx

Shopal tossed the pineapple in a sudden panic, diving for cover behind a battered old setee. The detonation lifted the flimsy furniture and slammed him onto his face, smoke and debris billowing overhead. Shrapnel burrowed into the wall and floor all around him but somehow he emerged unscathed. Then he had to go and roll over onto his back, which resulted in a bolt of pain lancing up from his right buttock. He barely managed to resist crying out.

'Frikkin' amateur!' he swore under his breath, scrambling to his feet and reaching back to prise the chunk of hot metal from his rump while simultaneously covering the doorway.

He hobbled to cover, his ability to remain stealthy somewhat impaired.

'You still in there, frak-face?'

There was no answer. Moving forward and leaning against the jamb he took his combat knife out and eased it into the open. The reflection on the blade was hazy and indistinct, but he could just about make out that the merc was slumped on his back, his weapon thrown out to one side.

Shouldering his carbine Shopal moved out into the room. It was the guy from the game. He didn't move. His eyes were glassy and the floor was pooled with blood where he'd bled out. A piece of his first grenade had severed a vital artery in the dude's groin.

'Looks like my luck is holding up,' Shopal remarked, prodding Surly with his boot. 'Too bad for you, Mac!'

He picked up the man's rifle. It was a sweet one, with a long, matt-black body and folding wire stock with an integral recoil shock absorber. The barrel was short, specifically designed to receive the thick tube of the muzzle-suppressor. No flash and very little sound, the weapon of a dedicated infiltrator. The sight was expensive too, with infra red and night-fighting filter settings, precision rangefinder and a moulded rubber cushion that would allow the shooter to keep his eye on the sight when sniping.

It was a nice trophy. Shopal fumbled around for the man's reloads. He took the man's cash too. After all, he wouldn't need it any more and most of had belonged to Shopal anyway only a half hour before. This done he moved to the window, crouching down behind the sill and taking a good look at what was happening out in the street.

Three blocks south the Paenar were bogged down in the middle of the street, coming under heavy fire. Down below him he could make out the other three members of the team they'd followed in. Kerns was down with a bullet through the shoulder. Hassan was pinned, unable to get to his partner.

'Time to see what this baby can do.'

Shopal settled the stock into his shoulder, setting the ROF selector to single-shot. He picked out the guy that was keeping Hassan pinned. From this angle the dude was visible from the shoulders up, whereas Hassan might only be able to see the muzzle of his gun.

The rifle's recoil was minimal, a satisfying thud soaked up by the shock absorbers. The bullet threw up a spout of dust as it ricocheted from the asphalt. Shopal resighted, adjusting the rangefinder. At this range the wind wouldn't be a factor, which could only be a good thing as Shopal was no sniper.

His second shot gave rise to a cloud of red mist. The gunman hadn't spotted the first shot. If he had he might have had the sense to duck back. Shopal smiled a wicked smile and sighted on the second man. Just as he had the guy zeroed the merc turned his head and noticed that his buddy was down. Shopal's third shot tore through his sternum just as he spun to his feet. It spoiled the perfect headshot he'd been gunning for but dropped him nevertheless.

The third man got away, disappearing into a bolthole in the side of the nearest building. Shopal remained in place as Hassan worked his way over to Kerns to administer some triage, but the last of the gunmen didn't reappear so Shopal made his way back down to ground level.

'There's a body over there, go get his gear then we'll work our way up the street.'

xxx

The fire coming down on them had slackened off a little. Nevertheless the Praetorians were still bogged down, their return fire next to useless against a well-concealed enemy.

Hale had hunkered down in the shelter of the flatbed truck, the vox horn once again pressed to his ear.

'I'm telling you sir, there is no way forward. We can't get our attackers zeroed and we're coming under heavy fire…'

'Your orders stand, lieutenant,' came the calm and self-assured voice of the tactical officer.

'There won't be enough of us left to hold the depot at this rate. At least send us some reinforcements, sir…' as he said this his platoon sergeant slapped him on the shoulder and shouted "They're already here!". Hale turned to see an Armageddon pattern Chimera rolling up behind their position. The multilaser turret was blazing away at the building down the left hand side of the street. The officer turned back to the vox.

'Scratch that, it appears our reinforcements have just arrived.'

'What reinforcements,' asked the operator, but the Praetorian had already dropped the horn back onto its stirrup.

The Chimera sloughed to a halt, tearing up the asphalt with the grinding of its tracks. The rear door slammed open and a squad of plain clothed troopers piled out, led by a shaven-headed man with a long vertical scar on his left cheek.

'Who's in charge here?' he bellowed, completely unperturbed by the enemy fire lancing down on their position.

'Lieutenant Hale, sir, I'm in command of this column.'

The man rounded on him, an expression of cold fury on his face.

'And what kind of a defensive position do you call this? Get your men off the street, lieutenant!'

Hale was conditioned to follow orders, it didn't even register that this man was not a Praetorian. He reacted as instructed, waving his men into the building on the left hand side of the street. Scarface turned and waved the Chimera forward, it shoved the supply trucks out of the way to gain a forward position in the column where the enemy fire was coming down heaviest. It formed an effective barrier in front of the wounded Praetorians, small arms fire could do nothing more than mar the paintwork.

'Get your wounded mounted up, Hale. My friends here will run them back to the infirmary.'

'Yes, sir! Thank you, sir.' He had no idea what rank the man held, but he would have called him anything at that point.

'Don't thank me yet, Lieutenant, we've still got plenty of heads to crack.'

xxx

The fighting was savage. Hale's men followed the Orrax as they stormed their way through the tenement buildings. He studied their techniques as closely as he could, seeing how they sealed off all the ground floor exits and covered the first floor windows with teams outside, ensconced in heavy cover.

Faced with no place to go the mercenaries would generally surrender. He saw more than a couple of them beaten into unconsciousness after they'd winged or killed an Orrax soldier. Somehow, despite his intimate knowledge of the Rules of War, he couldn't bring himself to blame these men. He felt like wringing a few necks himself.

He stuck close to the Orrax Major, awed at the man's forceful personality. Hale's men obeyed his orders because they were well drilled, raised from their formative years in the military traditions of the Praetorian, techniques that Hale was rapidly coming to realise were obsolete. The Orrax were known to be criminals, drawn from population centres throughout the sector. He had imagined they would be reluctant and unruly, insubordinate riffraff with little motivation.

What he saw was in stark contrast to this assumption. The Orrax men were surly and uncouth, to be sure, scruffy in appearance, often sporting hair that was longer than regulation and with manifold tattoos. Many also wore facial hair, a thing that had no place in the Praetorian military. But they were far from insubordinate.

When they moved through the streets they would overlap in twos, one pair covering the advance of the other until they reached a secure position, allowing the covering team to leapfrog forward. They kept low to the ground, presenting less of a target to potential enemies. Their return fire was controlled and deadly accurate, forcing enemy shooters to duck back, occasionally bringing them screaming from their elevated vantage points to smack wetly on the pavement. They instinctively knew where the enemy would be hiding, stuffing grenades through cracks in the walls and flushing them out of their boltholes. When they assaulted a room they did so without hesitation and with maximum prejudice, driven by the rush of adrenaline.

The man in charge, Major Corgan, hardly needed to direct them. They'd been schooled to use their brains in conjunction with their other senses. When he was required to bark out orders, the Orrax men jumped to it. He never had to repeat himself or explain himself. In some ways they were more disciplined than Hale's own troops and he was left with no illusions as to their effectiveness.

He followed Corgan as they swept through a sprawling habitation complex. He struggled to keep up. In his haste he nearly tripped over the corpse of a dead mercenary. The distraction almost caused him to overshoot the Major's new position. The hard-faced officer caught hold of his uniform at the neck and dragged him back as bullets ripped through the air close to his head.

A grenade went in and they followed the explosion through, gunning down a dazed merc and sending civilians screaming in all directions.

Hale nearly lost his bearings as they emerged into an overgrown garden in between habs. He'd lost sight of the Orrax and headed cautiously in the direction of gunfire. Suddenly a figure loomed out of the greenery. He raised his as yet unfired pistol to defend himself but his shot went wild. The figure swore at him, batting the pistol aside.

'Watch where you're pointing that thing, Paenarse!'

It was one of the Orrax. They'd bound white bands around the barrels of their weapons to differentiate themselves from the mercs. In his panic he'd not only missed his target but also the indicator that this man was friendly.

'Sorry,' Hale muttered as the man charged past.

He followed on, catching up with the Major at the foot of a broad mezzanine stairwell. A withering hail of gunfire tore the upper balustrades apart as the Orrax covered their ascending fire team. It was a wonder that they hadn't killed any civilians yet with all this indiscriminate fire.

'Major, aren't you concerned about hitting innocents?'

'I suppose if you were a civvy you'd be venturing out to buy groceries or something?'

'I suppose not, but…'

'This is a war, Lieutenant, casualties will occur on both sides and in between. If we stop to think about it we die. Besides, you'll find that most civilians have a stronger sense of self-preservation than any soldier. They'll keep their heads down.'

The fight was moving on up the stairwell. Major Corgan followed his men, adding his own weapon to the weight of fire. Hale snapped off a couple of shots, just to feel like he was contributing.

'Where are your men, Lieutenant Hale?'

The Praetorian cast about, not seeing a single green uniform.

'Uh, I seem to have become separated from my unit, Major.'

The look on the man's face caused Hale's cheeks to flush with shame. He'd taken his eye off the ball in his haste to keep up with his allies. Nevertheless, he kept on Corgan's heels like a lost puppy, not knowing what else he could do.

They piled up the stairs and onto the fifth floor. The Major clasped hands with a large, bearded man. His face was scratched and oozing blood onto his collar but he was otherwise fit for the fight.

'Glad you finally caught up,' he said. 'We've managed to contain about five of them on the floor above. They've been keeping us at bay but we should be able to storm them now that we've got the bodies to do it.'

'They won't surrender?'

'Apparently not.'

Corgan turned to Hale.

'You ever killed a man, Lieutenant?'

Hale shook his head, his eyes going wide.

'Then now's your chance. I'm gonna put a smoke grenade up these stairs then you, me and Arines here are gonna do a sweep. Got it?'

He nodded, numbness seeping through his limbs.

'And watch what you're shooting at. When one of us says "thunder" the other says "clap", understood?'

'Yes, sir. Thunder clap!'

Corgan turned away and tossed a canister up into the hallway above them. It clattered to stillness before it cracked open with a loud report. A hissing sound echoed down the stairwell. Other than this everything had gone eerily quiet. Hale couldn't meet the eyes of the hardened veterans surrounding him. He felt small and overexposed. He checked his pistol, hands shaking. When Corgan didn't give the word straight away he checked it again, just to be sure.

'GO!'

The two men hared on up the stairs. Hale followed a second behind them. They split two ways, carbines held at hip level, ready to pulverise any resistance they met. He followed the lumbering silhouette of Arines, whose indistinct arm waved at him to cover a door on the left.

To Hale the doorway might just have easily been a portal to the netherworld. Smoke filled the corridor and the room beyond. It cloyed in the back of his throat and dampened his senses.

He stepped through the door. Something crunched underfoot. If it didn't kill him he didn't care. In a near crouch he advanced into what he thought might be the middle of a large living room. Furniture loomed around him, seeming twice the size as it should be, while at the same time lacking any detail. He felt cut adrift, with only the comforting weight of his laspistol to connect him to the real world.

There was shooting off to his left. He whirled, pointing his weapon inertly in that direction. Silence engulfed him again. Her got an itch between his shoulder blades and spun again, his finger almost clenching on the trigger in pure terror.

He felt too exposed. He moved towards where the wall must be, reassured by its solidity against his shoulder blades. He slid along, finding the corner of the room occupied by a wooden dresser full of cheap crockery that was, nevertheless, displayed as though it was expensive antique china. He moved onto the adjoining wall, finding a door. He moved through. The smoke wasn't quite as thick here, the world contracted womblike around him.

More gunfire, closer to hand now, the distinctive snap-crack of a lascarbine. Most of the mercs used solid slug weaponry so this must be Arines. He slid a little further into the room.

Suddenly a silhouette materialised out of the smoke, a figure with his back to Hale, holding a weapon at the hip. Hale froze, unable to tell whether it was friend or foe.

The figure fired his weapon, the chatter of a silenced automatic ripping through the near silence.

He was hostile.

Hale reacted.

His las-bolt entered the man's head through the base of the skull and the merc dropped lifeless to the floor.

'Thunder!' came the gruff voice of Arines.

'Clap!'

'Clear at this end!' came the more distant voice of the Major.

'Clear over here, too. The rest must have found a way up to the roof,' Arines replied. Corgan stalked into the room, his carbine at his side.

'Then we find a way up there ourselves.'

Hale moved over to a metal door in the corner of the room.

'What about in here?' he asked as he reached for the handle.

'Wait!' Corgan bellowed, but it was too late. Hale heard the click of a trigger mechanism, the hiss of propellant, and then the door exploded outward, throwing him against a wall. He bounced onto his face, surrounded by smoke and heat, dust and rubble. There was a metallic taste in his mouth, he must have gotten a piece of the door in there. Then he coughed, alarmed to see the floorboards spattered with red.

'Oh!' he heard, one of his allies standing nearby. He tried to ask for help but his mouth wouldn't work. 'That's bad!'

'MEDIC!!!'

Hale fought through the shell-shock. All he found on the other side was a world of pain.