Malenkov ran his thumb up and down the cold metal of his AK-47, pulled back the cocking handle and checked the round was still in the chamber. After serving for years in the Soviet Army, and later the Ukrainian Army, the habits of continuously checking his magazine were ingrained into him. They would never leave him, he knew, and he was glad of it. Westinghouse had never served in the military; he had no concept of discipline or need for proper preparation.
"Nikolai, is everyone in position?" he asked, speaking into the hands free microphone of his radio, pinned to his suit jacket.
"Yes. Dmitri's on the roof; Alexi and Petor have taken up positions at the left hand side of the house, and Sergei and Grigori are behind the trees to the right."
"Okay," Malenkov said to him. "Wait until he arrives, then take out his escorts. I want Westinghouse alive." He had some questions needed answering before that rodent got what he deserved. He smiled at himself as the sun bore down on them from high in the sky. The sweat on his brow was completely from the heat; he wasn't nervous. He had the advantage, and Westinghouse thought he was expecting to receive him from the trunk of a car. He'd realised immediately something was wrong when Savannah had called him: he'd given his number only to Ellison, and he'd spoken on the phone only to Ellison; he knew full well that the two of them were driving a Mercedes, not a Volvo; and it was clear to him that both things added up to mean she'd been compromised. It was a shame, he thought sadly; he'd have liked Savannah to come and work for him. She'd have been a great asset and he'd have been honoured to have a woman of such talent working for him. Still, he'd given her the answer she'd wanted; if anyone could escape he had no doubt it would be her, and if she did then it was a fair trade and their business was done.
It was sad, but such was the reality of the life he led: he'd lost many friends in his military career, and even more in his current line of work. There was nothing else but to continue and make sure he wasn't next. He knew he wouldn't be; Westinghouse wouldn't be expecting a welcome party.
He wished now he hadn't said to meet at his house; all the gunfire would attract attention and could damage his home. His wife and children were away for the day; he wouldn't risk them no matter how sure he was of the outcome.
"Someone's coming," Dmitri's voice crackled. He was on the roof with a sniper rifle, so he could see anyone approaching and report it as well as provide top cover for them.
"Everyone stand by," Malenkov ordered. He looked out from the window of his study and saw a silver car driving up the road towards them. The car kept coming steadily towards them, clearly coming to his house. It pulled up on the road at the edge of his lawn and a single man stepped outside, wearing jeans and a black shirt, open at the collar and straining against the huge muscles beneath.
"Who's this?" Malenkov asked himself. This wasn't Westinghouse or any of his known associates. Whoever he was, he was huge: a full head taller than himself and covered in hard muscle, like a bodybuilder. He stared blankly forwards with an emotionless mask of a face as he left the car and marched down the front lawn towards the house.
Nikolai opened the front door and stepped out towards the stranger. This was not the time for someone to make a random house call. One thought that crossed his mind was that this man might be from the CIA, but they usually made appointments if they wanted to see Sasha. Usually.
"What's your business here?" he demanded, standing his ground a few feet in front of the newcomer and realising just how big and foreboding he was up close. The man made him nervous, made him want to go for his pistol straight away, and made him regret leaving his Kalashnikov back inside the house.
"Sasha Malenkov?" Steroids asked, looking across at the man in front of him. His facial recognition software rejected the man: negative identity. He scanned all the windows of the house and saw nothing.
"Mr Malenkov is busy," Nikolai snapped angrily. "Go away."
Confirmation: Sasha Malenkov present at location. Steroids reached behind him and pulled out a pistol from the waistband of his trousers. Nikolai's eyes widened in horror and he went for his own weapon under his jacket, but he realised instantly he was too slow.
Two shots cracked and split Nikolai's skull in half with a fountain of blood erupting from the back of his head.
"Kill him!" Shots exploded from half a dozen locations and rounds slammed harmlessly into Steroids, pinging against his endoskeleton beneath the flesh. He immediately located five men: one on the roof, two on the left of the house and two at the right. All the men on the ground were armed with AK-47s, and he identified the roof gunner's weapon as a Dragunov.
The front door opened again and Malenkov appeared with his own Kalashnikov and opened fire. "Dmitri: Covering fire! Sergei, Grigori: advance! Flank him!"
Nervously the two men jumped up and ran from the trees whilst the others increased their rate of fire. Malenkov took aim and fired short bursts at the man, but he just absorbed them and kept coming. What the hell is going on? Even if he was wearing body armour the force of the shots would knock him down, he didn't even flinch. He pressed the com button on his radio and looked up to the roof. "Dmitri: take him out, headshot."
A shot rang out from the roof and struck Steroids' face, smacking his head backwards like a pinball and the inertia momentarily halting his advance. Malenkov stared in horror as the headshot – in the centre of his face – failed to kill the man.
Dmitri quickly chambered another round and fixed his crosshairs over the same spot on Steroid's face. The butt kicked hard into his shoulder as a second round shot out and hammered into the cyborg; again having no effect. "Shit!"
The rounds did no damage to Steroids but he spotted the shooter on the ceiling, aimed his pistol and fired twice. Dmitri screamed and rolled down the tiles, plummeting to the ground where he lay in a broken heap.
Sergei and Grigori split up and moved to flank Steroids, as Alexi kept up a steady stream of well aimed single shots. All of it was totally ineffective. Flesh was mangled by the rounds and puffs of blood erupted from the machine's body but he ignored it as might a man being hit by a pea shooter. Malenkov saw gleaming chrome exposed where the late Dmitri's shots had hit, and he thought back to Sarah Connor. Maybe she wasn't so crazy after all.
"Into the house!" Malenkov shouted at them as he pushed his front door open and stepped back inside. Splitting up outside was doing no good; perhaps they could bottleneck it and concentrate their fire more effectively indoors.
The others made a dash for the front door, forgetting fire and manouevre as their fear took a hold of them and self preservation became paramount. All of them were terrified of this... thing slaughtering them like cattle and shrugging off everything they threw at it.
Steroids watched the gangsters turn and run, and he calmly took aim and fired three times at the closest one to the door, striking him in the head twice and shoulder once.
Grigori sagged like puppet with its strings cut and fell to the ground. Alexi tripped over his corpse and went over, but Petor and Sergei jumped over him and made it to the front entrance in time to turn around and watch as Steroids, still walking closer and only a few feet away now, drew down on the youngest member of Malenkov's crew and fired four shots into his chest.
"Alexi!" Malenkov screamed out and tried to run for the door to help, knowing it was useless but not caring. Alexi was his son and heir to the family business when he would finally retire. No more.
"Sasha, we have to run," Sergei shouted at him. "The back door's our only chance."
"No," he said fiercely as he loaded another magazine into his rifle. "We kill this thing."
"I'm sorry about Alexi, but we don't stand a chance against him. He's been shot over fifty times and keeps on coming."
"Then we kill it now," he snarled and nodded and tilted his head towards the staircase. They needed the higher ground. The three of them rushed up the stairs and spread out at the balcony at the top, taking position just as the door exploded off its hinges and fell to the floor. Steroids stepped into the house, his massive shoulders just barely fitting through the doorframe with only an inch of clearing on each side. The three of them took in the shredded clothes and flesh, the metal clearly showing underneath, and a single red orb that glowed furiously and appeared to lock onto them.
"Matir Bozha," Malenkov's voice was barely a whisper as he froze in place. This thing, this... man, wasn't human. What the hell was it?
"Fire!" Sergei screamed, firing short bursts of rounds at the machine. Petor and Malenkov did the same, hoping their concentrated fire might have some effect. The AK pummelled Malenkov's shoulder as he fired round after round, aiming at the thing's chest and scoring direct hits to no avail. What was it going to take to destroy it? He shifted his weapon up a fraction of an inch and aimed at its head as Steroids raised his handgun and fired twice, catching him in the chest and shoulder. A sharp double-punch from an invisible boxer slammed into Malenkov and threw him back to the floor. He lay there, stunned, only able to watch as it started up the stairs towards them, ignoring the gunshot wounds completely.
Petor shifted his aim to the machine's weapon and fired, knocking the pistol from Steroids' hand and allowed himself a slight grin; at least he'd disarmed it: that should slow it down.
Not sharing his theory, Steroids took the stairs two at a time, undeterred by the ineffectual fire that rained down on him. Petor's gun ran dry and he immediately lifted it up above his head and started down the stairs, passing Malenkov's wounded, bleeding form. There would be time to treat his boss when this thing was dead. He roared as he swung the rifle like a club at Steroids and smashed it against his head, cracking the wooden butt down the middle and wrecking the working parts.
The T-800 stared at the man as he gaped in horror. Any blow that would crack a rifle's butt would kill a man, but it wasn't even fazed. Nothing could kill this thing. Nothing. Steroids' arm was a blur as he snatched the man by the neck and raised him up into the air. Petor struggled in his grip and kicked out at his chest to no avail, he screamed and flailed like a madman until he took a good look at Steroids: the red eye glared evilly at him. It was a soulless mechanical demon, sent from hell. He stared, mesmerised by it as the machines' grip tightened, cutting off his air and crushing his windpipe. He choked and cried and kicked out again, tears in his eyes. He felt and heard a sickening crack and then he went limp. Steroids dropped his lifeless body and continued on.
"What. The fuck. Are you?" Sergei screamed in Ukrainian at the machine as he backed up the stairs and fired uncontrolled bursts at Steroids; half of them missed his firing was so panicked and erratic. The weapon clicked empty and he dropped it immediately, pulled out his sidearm and continued pumping 9mm rounds as he stepped backwards, his eyes were wild with terror as his rounds, even at a range of a few feet, did nothing. Steroids marched up the stairs inexorably towards him, stepping up to Malenkov as he did so. The Ukrainian arms dealer tried to move out of his way, tried to reach for a weapon, but he couldn't move an inch. He could only look up in terror as Steroids lifted his foot up, pressed the sole of his shoe down on Malenkov's face and stamped hard, crushing his skull with a sickening crunch that burst blood from his ears and spilt out onto the carpet.
Sergei emptied the magazine, paused for a moment as the hulking obscenity drew even closer. He was out of his mind: everyone was dead and he was alone with this unstoppable monstrosity. He threw the gun as hard as he could and it just bounced off Steroids' face; the machine didn't even blink.
"No! Leave me alone!" Malenkov's last living associate turned and bolted away from the steps, all fight gone from him now as he focused only on fleeing, getting away from here and saving himself. He ran as fast as he could down the corridor, past all the bedrooms in the house. He never saw Steroids raise the weapon, he never saw Steroids take aim, almost casually, and he never heard the crack as he fired once. A sharp, split second pain in the back of his head, was the last thing he ever felt.
Steroids left the landing and conducted a sweep of the house, finding no other people present. The back door was open, indicating some humans had escaped; likely Malenkov's family or any non-combatant employees. The plan had been to eliminate any witnesses but the T-800 was satisfied nothing could trace the attack to Kaliba: the authorities would likely conclude Malenkov and his men had been killed by a rival gang. He pulled out the cell phone from his pocket and dialled Coleman's number. "Sasha Malenkov has been eliminated."
Everything was deathly quiet and still in the disused industrial estate just south of Downtown. It was rare anyone ever went there anyway; the place had been abandoned for a number of years and condemned, and although city planners talked of redevelopment the ideas put forward were always vetoed by some unknown source higher up in the government. As such, the only people to frequent the area were junkies, vagrants, kids who liked to explore where they shouldn't, and the occasional hooker and her trick with nowhere else to go. As such the broken bottles, used needles and spent condoms that were randomly littered throughout the complex were usually enough to put many people off going any further, which had made it perfect for Malenkov to store his arsenals in secrecy.
A vagrant sat against the wall of an old factory and swigged on the bottle of cheap vodka he'd bought with money from a stolen purse. On his lap was a syringe filled with clear liquid; he'd had to part with the last of the cash from the old lady he'd jumped. He'd not been too careless with it, mind; he could still taste the Big Mac and fries he'd eaten before seeing his dealer. Now his stomach was full and he had a fifth of vodka and enough white gold to keep him chasing the dragon all night. It was party time!
He pulled the belt out from the loops around his filthy trousers and wrapped it around his skinny bicep, pulling tightly until he saw some veins popping up. Quickly, he grabbed the syringe and pushed the needle through his skin with a shaking hand. As he depressed the plunger ecstasy washed over him like a wave. That's the shit, he sighed contentedly. The world became a brighter, better place and all his anxieties, the pain and the hardships of living rough, living purely for the next hit, were all forgotten. When it felt this good, he mused, it was worth it.
A high pitched droning sounded up above and he craned his head up to take a look. Red and blue lights blinked in the dark sky and he could make out a faint shape in the air; something sleek and large. Bright lights burst from the machine and shone down onto the ground, illuminating the shitty, rat infested industrial grounds, but also giving the man a glimpse of the flying thing. It was like no aircraft he had ever seen in his life. It didn't even look human.
"Aliens," he muttered with a grin on his face. It was a UFO, obviously. "Take me," he cried out to them. "Take me!" This world was a crock of shit. He'd bet anything that with them life would be a constant high; they must have some shit that'd make what was coursing through his veins seem like diet coke. He could make out its shape; sleek and metallic, shiny, but like an insect too. It was beautiful...
He reached up to try and touch it, all sense of spatial awareness gone and not realising over three hundred metres of air stood between him and the spaceship. Circles on its side spun and moved, and the spaceship – for that's what it had to be, he thought – pivoted at an angle and pointed its nose downwards.
Whoosh... A bright, blazing flame streaked out from under its fuselage and shot down through the air, leaving a long trail of smoke in its wake. It slammed into a large warehouse and the walls blew apart; glass shattered and concrete and steel fragmented and flew outwards. The insides started to burn brightly and thick black smoke poured into the air. A second shot followed, and a third, creating two more fireballs one after the other, completely levelling the burning warehouse.
The intense beams of light shut off and the aircraft pulled up into the sky, turned southeast and quickly shot away, disappearing into the night sky. "We're at war!" he shouted out. Aliens weren't friendly after all; they were attacking. He had to tell someone! He tried to get up but stumbled back down onto his ass. Aliens were coming to get them; ah well, he thought: it'd been a long time coming.
He never saw what the 'spaceship' had fired upon, had no clue about the large arsenal of hidden weapons inside that had been its target, and he didn't care. The world was ending, as far as he was concerned. Aliens were attacking and he was just going to sit back with the heroin in his system and half a bottle of vodka left, keep the high going and watch the fireworks.
"I'm bored," Savannah sat back on the couch and sighed. There was nothing to do in this house; no TV, no computers, no books; she couldn't even do any homework because it had all been left at home and she hadn't been back there since Mr Ellison had picked her up from school weeks ago. She'd missed so much school now; mommy was always telling her that it was important, but she hadn't said anything to Sarah about it. She didn't think Sarah would care.
"What do you want to do?" Sarah asked her, stroking the girl's flame red hair. She looked closely at Savannah and could definitely see the resemblance with her older self. Her older version had a thinner face – though that could be from years of hunger – but the same jaw, the same cheeks and the same eyes – in colour at least; the girl in front of her had eyes full of innocence, though also a slight sadness to them. She'd already gone through more than anyone her age should: losing both her parents, being relocated to live with strangers and hiding out in the desert. It was no life for her, and Sarah reflected wistfully that it had been no life for John either. Still, she'd tried to keep Savannah entertained as best as she could. She'd known they might have to use the safehouse so she'd set it up with that in mind, but she hadn't had keeping children entertained as a priority when she'd stocked it with supplies. "We could play chess again," she offered. She'd kept a set in the house because John had always played when it was just the two of them.
"I don't like chess," Savannah shook her head. Sarah had tried to teach her how to play but it was really boring. They'd played a couple of times and Sarah had let her win, which she didn't like. She knew what she wanted to do. "I want to go home," she looked down at the floor. Sarah was nice. Cameron, John and Mr Ellison had all been nice to her, but she wanted to go home.
Her words broke Sarah's heart; she knew how it felt to have to leave your old life behind and never look back. "You can't, I'm sorry. Your mom's gone."
What disturbed her even more was that there were no more tears at the mention of her mother, she just nodded sadly and looked down at the floor. Savannah had cried only the once when her older self had so tactlessly said her mom was dead, but since then she'd said nothing more about it. It broke Sarah's heart to watch as she just dealt with it, and wondered what the loss of her father and unwittingly living with a machine all that time had done to her. She was independent, for sure. She was aware the girl had made her own lunch back at Ellison's house a couple of times, and had seemed content enough on her own. She guessed with all Weaver's scheming and planning at Zeiracorp, Savannah had mostly been left to her own devices, with only a nanny to watch over her.
"What about these?" Sarah went over to a drawer and pulled out a deck of cards. "Has anyone ever taught you to play poker?"
"No," Savannah shook her head and looked at Sarah, curious as she pulled the cards out of the pack, sat down on the floor and started to shuffle them. "I'll show you," she smiled. "Let's have a game of Texas Hold'em," she said. She split the deck and started to shuffle the cards. "Wait a minute," she said, thinking out loud as much as talking to Savannah. "We can't play without chips." She looked around for something they could use as a substitute; they didn't have coins, or matches, or...
Several 9mm ammunition boxes lay on the dinner table at the other side of the room. "Perfect," she said as she got up and snatched them from the wooden top. She sat back down with Savannah, opened the two boxes and emptied them, dividing them up into two sets of twenty bullets before handing the second set to Savannah. "We'll use these as chips."
As Sarah continued to shuffle the deck she watched as Savannah sorted the haphazard pile of bullets into four neat rows of five. Tidy, Sarah noted. Very tidy, and very organised even at only seven years old. Weaver's influence, she thought. She'd seen the same thing with Cameron; the cyborg's clothes were always ironed with military precision and – back when they'd actually had a proper house and she'd had her own room – her possessions had been all placed in perfect order. Savannah must have seen how the T-1000 acted and copied it, like any child would with their mother; either that or the machine had demanded it from her, which seemed more than likely. She could imagine a machine trying to make a human more like itself.
"What we do," Sarah dealt Savannah and herself two cards each," is try to make pairs, or threes, fours, or all the same suit or five cards in order: two-three-four-five-six, for example. With me so far?"
An enthusiastic nod from her pupil confirmed she was, so Sarah continued. "I'll just show you what to do for now, so show me what cards you have." Savannah put hers down to reveal an ace and a ten, both of clubs. Sarah did the same with a king of spades and a seven of diamonds. "So what you'd do then is either check, meaning you don't want to bet anything yet, make a bet, or fold – give up." Sarah explained how to play, showing her the flop, the turn and the river cards, what to do in each round, and how to never let anyone know what cards you have, and to try and bluff if you need to. After a few practice sessions they were ready to play, and Sarah dealt them in again.
The first round they both checked and Sarah revealed the flop – a king of hearts, ace of diamonds, and a 4 of hearts. Sarah looked at her own cards: a king of spades and a queen of hearts. She picked up two bullets and tossed them onto the floor between them. Savannah hesitated for a moment, considering her cards and thinking about what Sarah had told her. She placed two of her own rounds next to Sarah's. "You've got something, do you?" she grinned, earning a slight giggle for her effort. Sarah turned over another card to reveal six of clubs – nothing interesting, she thought.
"Check," she said, not wanting to scare Savannah into folding.
"Check," Savannah repeated.
Sarah turned the river card to reveal a queen of diamonds and she suppressed a smile. A pair of queens wasn't bad, she thought. Could be better but enough to go in on. She tossed another two bullets into the pile.
Savannah once again looked at her cards and tried to remember everything. She couldn't help but grin – Sarah pretended she didn't notice – and put in five of her own. "Raise you," she said with a smile.
"I'll call that," Sarah challenged and put another three rounds in. "Let's see what you've got." She put her cards down first and watched as Savannah did the same. Two kings: clubs and diamonds. "You got me!" Sarah said in pretend shock. She couldn't help but smile back as Savannah beamed her pearly whites in victory and giggled happily. "I thought you were bluffing!" Sarah winked at her.
Car engines sounded outside in the distance and Sarah immediately snapped alert. She put down the cards, got up and started to pull the Glock off the arm of the sofa. Savannah stared up at her, fear apparent in her eyes. "What is it?" she asked nervously. She could see Sarah was afraid, and it made her even more scared.
"I don't know," Sarah said. "Turn the light off and get down behind the sofa."
Savannah nodded and without a word she hurried to the light switch and turned it off, instantly killing the bulb and immersing them in darkness. Sarah approached the window but she could hear the engines outside, getting louder as they approached, and didn't need to see anything to know they were in trouble.
"Is it John and Cameron?" Savannah asked, still nervous as she poked her head up to try and peek, even though the curtains were drawn.
"Stay down," Sarah hissed at her. "Lie on the floor!" Savannah did as she was told, fear in her eyes. Sarah slowly peeled away the curtain by a couple of inches and peered out of the window. Outside she could see three large dark 4x4s, parked still but with their lights on. The doors opened and people got out of the cars, moving tactically and holding weapons. She couldn't make out much but she saw rifles and she saw the silhouettes of their helmets as they approached. It was definitely a SWAT team, but were they feds, police, or Kaliba? Shit! "How the hell did they find us?"
She quickly counted at least fifteen men exiting the vehicles and starting to take up positions. This wasn't good; there was no way she could take all of them on. She'd get two, maybe three, before they overwhelmed her with sheer numbers. She backed away from the window and put her pistol away; that wouldn't do any good against the firepower out there. She took Savannah by the hand and pulled her phone out at the same time; she led the girl into the closet and opened the door. "Stay here," she told her. "Don't make a sound." She spotted one of the AKs propped up against the wall inside and pulled it out. Savannah got into the closet, sat down on the floor and hugged her knees tightly to her chest, looking up nervously at Sarah. "Don't make a noise or open this door until I come get you," Sarah told her.
"Okay."
She closed the door and went back into the main room, leaving Savannah in the closet. She hoped they wouldn't find Savannah if she stayed still and quiet, and they'd be so preoccupied with her they wouldn't notice. She could hear boots stomping over the ground outside, surrounding the house and getting closer. They were preparing to attack from all angles. She heard something else up in the air outside. High pitched mechanical whining, like the drone of jet engines. What the hell is that? She shrugged it off; no time to think about that now. Sarah backed into the corner of the living room and dragged the sofa with her, keeping it between her and the window. She crouched down behind it and shouldered the AK, holding the barrel just above the couch's backrest and glad she'd lined it with Kevlar.
She pulled out the Glock and laid it on the floor, and took out her cell phone. She was glad John was out but at the same time she was outmanned and outgunned completely; even though she didn't want it, she had to admit she needed some heavy duty backup. She scrolled down the short list of contacts on her phone until she found Cameron's, and pressed to dial. She needed help or at the very least to warn them.
"The number you've dialled cannot be reached, please try again later."
"Shit!" she grumbled. She tried John's and got the same result. A third call to Ellison yielded no luck and she wondered if it was them at all, maybe it wasn't the problem on their end. Could Kaliba or Skynet block her calls to stop her calling for help? She couldn't even send them a message to tell them to stay away.
The window shattered and something small and metallic flew into the kitchen, at the same time she heard wood splintering as doors were kicked open and more glass breaking as men stormed through windows elsewhere in the house. Grenade! Sarah ducked behind the couch out of instinct as the bomb bounced against the back of it, inches from her. She got down, closed her eyes and covered her ears a split second before it went off in a blinding flash of light and high pitched wailing. Even with her ears covered the sound tore through her deafeningly. After a second or two she grabbed her AK and made to get back up – covering her eyes had saved her, she reckoned. She put the barrel back over the top of the couch and saw three black clad soldiers in balaclavas and Kevlar helmets pointing assault rifles at her.
"You're surrounded!" one of them barked at her. "Drop your weapon!"
"Like hell I will," she growled back at him as she held her finger tight against the trigger; she was aiming squarely at the lead man and it would only take one more fraction of an inch to turn his heart and lungs into mincemeat.
The lead soldier stared at her, recognising her face. He'd been briefed that she might be here. "We know who you are, Sarah Connor, and we've got an unmanned drone targeting this building. If you don't surrender we'll just fall back and call in an air strike." The soldier looked at her wild, angry eyes and decided they needed a demonstration. He pressed the com button on his radio. "Romeo-One-Two to Zero-Alpha: target the ground one-hundred metres south of the building." He let go of the com and spoke once again to Sarah. "Look out the window, in three... two... one..."
Boom! Sarah watched out the window and saw a flash erupt from the ground outside, conflagrating into a fireball that threw up rocks and smoke and quickly dissipated. The explosion still echoed through the desert, slowly fading away. Shit, she cursed inwardly. They weren't lying. She couldn't fight against that.
Savannah stepped through the kitchen door, followed by another figure in black who held an M4 carbine with the barrel pointed into her back. Sarah shook her head in dismay; they'd found her easy enough. She'd hoped they'd storm in and rush her, and at least then she'd remain hidden.
"You've got three seconds or I kill her," the newcomer told Sarah, leaving her in no doubt that they were Kaliba and not the cops, if the airstrike already hadn't convinced her.
There was no hesitation: Sarah dropped the gun to the ground with a frustrated sigh. She'd been beaten and she hadn't even managed to fire a shot. It was over.
"Where's your son?" one of them asked as he turned his weapon on her. Two of them lowered their own and let their guns hang from their slings, and moved to restrain her. She didn't even try to fight back; any move she made could get Savannah killed if she did. She let them cuff her and they dragged her from behind the sofa towards the team leader.
Sarah refused to say a word, she simply stood there and stared impassively at the men, sick that they'd threaten to kill a little girl. Savannah said nothing and didn't move, but the fear in her eyes was visible for anyone to see. Tears started to form in her eyes but she was too scared to even cry.
"Where is John?" the man repeated, pointing his gun at Savannah again.
"I don't know!" Sarah snapped. "He should have been back by now."
"The rest of the house is clear," another soldier called out from elsewhere in the house. "No Weaver, no AI."
The commander got back onto his radio once more. "Zero-Alpha, this is Charlie-Zero-One: We've captured two bandits; Sarah Connor and Savannah Weaver. No sign of Catherine Weaver, John Connor, his cyborg or the AI."
"John won't come!" Sarah snapped at him.
"Alpha and Bravo units return to base with prisoners. Leave Charlie Team to wait for the other targets."
"Roger, Zero-Alpha: over and out." The commander saw Sarah's phone on the ground and pocketed it, figuring it might be useful in locating the other Connor and his associates later. He turned back to his men. "Get them loaded up into the trucks," he ordered. The soldiers frogmarched her and Savannah outside and led them towards the SUVs. They held her and Savannah in place and she looked up into the air to see the sleek, razor sharp form of the HK drone she'd seen before. But this one was different; it was bigger. Its lights illuminated the safehouse and the surrounding ground, and through the beam she could spot missiles secured under its body.
A missile shot out from under it and ploughed into the safehouse, shattering the wooden and metal structure in a massive eruption of fire and smoke that threw out hundreds of pieces of debris. Sarah just shook her head in despair; there was nothing she could do, no warning she could give, and Kaliba had all but won. John would return to a smoking ruin, with nothing left. With no money, no food, no shelter and no weapons, they were effectively finished.
The team leader turned to a tall, slender mercenary carrying an M4 with a grenade launcher. Sarah saw that behind him was another man carrying a large sniper rifle the same as Derek's, and another wielding an M-240 machine gun. The other two carried regular assault rifles but had disposable 66mm LAWs strapped to their backs. She knew what all that was for: Cameron. They knew what she was and they were planning on taking her out as well as John. "Hoskins: take up ambush positions and wait for Connor; radio in once they're eliminated."
"Sir," Hoskins nodded and turned to his men. The five of them jogged outwards, spread themselves out and took up positions in scrub bushes and behind rocks, disappearing from sight and blending into the darkness to await the rest of Team Connor.
The remaining soldiers blindfolded the pair of them and dragged Sarah inside one of the cars. They pushed her down into the back seat footwell and shoved her to the ground. The men sat on the seat behind her and put their booted feet onto her, one leather toecap rested an inch from her nose. She could smell the polish on it.
The car started up and pulled away over the rough desert road. Every rock and every bump rolled Sarah's head on the uncarpeted floor and as the vehicle picked up speed it got more violent. The vehicle went over a particularly rough patch and Sarah's head lifted up and smacked hard against the floor, nose first. With her hands cuffed behind her she had no way of stopping it and all she could do was take the punishment and try to disconnect herself from the pain.
"Savannah?" she called out to her, not knowing where the girl was and unable to see anything through the blindfold.
"Shut the fuck up!" A rifle butt slammed down into her side and caught her kidney, sending shockwaves of pain ripping through her back and doubling her up as much as was possible in the cramped space. They were finished, beaten, and the worst part was that Kaliba were waiting to ambush the others when they came back, and she had no way to warn them. Stay away, John, she begged silently. Just stay away.
The old, World War 2 era service rifle felt reassuringly heavy in Knowles' hands as he held it up in front of him. It was a good deal weightier than his G36, and hopefully, he thought, it'd also be more effective. He let go of it with his left hand and picked up a stopwatch that hung from his neck by a long loop of string. He pressed the start button and immediately dropped it, picking up an ammunition clip, fumbling with the unfamiliar motion and managed to clumsily slot it into the top of the rifle. He picked up the stopwatch again and pressed stop.
"Four seconds," he grumbled. Even though that had included dropping the stopwatch and picking it back up again, it wasn't good enough. Four seconds could be the difference between life and death. He repeated the motion several times, loading and ejecting the clip over and over, getting used to the action. He'd only ever used modern assault rifles and was so accustomed to detachable box magazines that the motion of inserting a clip into the top of the weapon just didn't feel quite right.
Finally he was satisfied he had it just about right, and loaded the clip again. He crouched down on one knee, lined up his sights and aimed carefully through the darkness at the wooden target two hundred metres away, pulled the butt tight to his shoulder, and slowly exhaled as he pulled the trigger. The shot rang out loudly and carried in the open ground, but he wasn't too bothered by it. He'd gone out into the desert, where he wouldn't be disturbed as he familiarised himself with his new purchases.
Knowles fired three more shots into the target then put the rifle down onto the ground, got up and jogged the distance to the target, which he'd made to be vaguely man-shaped. He'd hit to the right of the chest, but he'd been aiming for the centre. He went back to his firing point and adjusted the rear sight. He picked it up again, took the same position, and fired another four shots. This time when he went up to inspect his handiwork he saw he was bang on target; four bullet holes right where they were supposed to be.
More practice shots followed; from kneeling, sitting and standing positions. The prone position was the most effective, he knew, but seeing as it would likely be fast paced, close quarters, indoor combat he reckoned there wouldn't be much call for lying down; he'd instead have to use the walls and other objects as cover.
Once he was satisfied he could use the Garand comfortably and confidently, Knowles put it back onto the passenger seat of his car, pulled out a sandwich he'd bought from a gas station and started munching on it. It was supposed to be a chicken and bacon club sandwich but all he could taste was mayonnaise and salt. Not that it mattered, he thought. He'd eaten total crap before and it put some needed calories into his body; that was what counted. He'd started to work on a plan, though he knew it needed ironing out.
As he chewed on the stale bread, salty meat and cholesterol-laden mayonnaise, he looked down at a map of the region, illuminated by the flickering light from the fire he'd built. Kaliba's complex was somewhere in the region, and he'd seen the mountains where they'd been nestled in. It was remote, hard to get to and even harder to find. He didn't know the way; all he'd seen of it was when he'd stepped out of the helicopter, and nothing else. The windows had always been blacked out.
He'd gone online and done some more research, looking for the more desolate, remote, and most mountainous areas. Places tourists wouldn't venture to, where there was nothing worth much seeing. He'd spotted a few likely locations to the northeast of the Sierra Nevada range, but couldn't narrow it down. He'd seen articles about UFOs flying in the Sierra Crest region, and reckoned that was his best bet, knowing what those 'flying saucers' probably really were.
"How the hell do I get there?" he muttered with a mouth full of the last bite of his sandwich. Once he swallowed it he opened up a can of coke and took a swig. The Sierra Crest was fucking huge, he'd realised. It'd take him years to search it all on his own. Even with a helicopter or a plane he could spend days flying up and down before he found it, announcing his presence to them with an unscheduled flight. He'd thought about every possibility; he'd even considered paying for a skydiving lesson, forcing them to divert and jumping out, but it hadn't been as much unfeasible as completely nuts, and decided against it.
There was one way, he realised. Kaliba owned their own helicopters, and used them to ferry mercenaries and staff to and from their base. If he could get onto one, or at least find a way of tracking it, he could either get there or at least find out where it was. And he knew where they operated from: Oxnard airport. "That's where I go," he said to himself. First thing in the morning, he'd head there and stake the place out, and wait for them.
"Cameron, do you have any idea what 'Regent-Burke' is?" John turned to her from his previous position of staring out through the car window into the desert. The two words had rolled around in his head since Savannah had mentioned them, and he'd racked his brain trying to make sense of them.
"No," Cameron replied, still behind the wheel and driving along the uneven desert road. Neither the Lexus nor the Mercedes behind them had been built for driving on anything other than paved road surfaces, and even the dirt road had made a bumpy ride. "I could find out," she suggested. She could connect wirelessly to the internet with ease and search for Regent-Burke.
"That might be a good idea," he said, but something worried him about it. "Can Skynet track you if you do?"
"It's possible," Cameron told him honestly. She didn't want to hide anything from John. "I went online earlier," she confessed. "I accessed the US military defence network." She saw John staring at her and sensed he wasn't happy with her, but she'd done it for him. "Danny said they have combat capable drones; I wanted to even the odds."
"What did you find?" John asked, curious.
"I've gained access to all unmanned aircraft assigned to the Four-Hundred-Thirty-Second Expeditionary Air Wing at Creech air force base, Nevada."
"How many is that?" Danny asked.
"Sixty MQ-9 Reapers and a small number of prototype X-45s," she answered.
"That's a lot of aircraft," John whistled. She'd had hers and John Henry's squadron in the future, but sixty drones? Maybe they did have a chance after all. "If I asked you to," he said to Cameron. "Could you find out where Skynet and Kaliba are?"
"You want me to launch airstrikes," Cameron concluded. "I think I could find Skynet."
John frowned uncomfortably. He didn't like the sound of 'I think.' "Can you do it without risking yourself?"
"I don't know," Cameron admitted. "Skynet might trace me if I try."
"Leave it for now," he said. "Wait until we get back to the safehouse." If she couldn't do it safely he wasn't going to risk Skynet harming her; they had this other lead, this Regent-Burke, whatever it was. They could find that out and hopefully that would lead them to Kaliba. But he wouldn't risk Cameron; losing her wasn't an option.
"Ah... about that," Danny leaned forward and pointed out of the window. "Is that smoke?"
John and Cameron looked out of the windshield and sure enough, smoke was billowing into the air about a mile away, where the safehouse was located. "What the hell?" John stared into the distance, not believing what he was seeing. Cameron slowed the car down to a crawl and killed the lights. She called Ellison's cell phone and told him to do the same, and the two cars edged forwards in total darkness for another hundred yards or so before she stopped, keeping the engine idling, and remained rooted to her seat, scanning through the darkness and switching from normal vision to infrared and back again several times.
"What's going on?" John asked her nervously. He couldn't see much up ahead, it was too dark, but he could see the smoke rising up and there were small glowing fires scattered around. Something had happened. "I'm getting out," he said, opening the car door. Cameron grabbed him firmly and pulled him back in. "Let go, Cameron," he struggled against her grip. "Mom might need help." Something had happened, she could be hurt.
"Wait," Cameron ordered him.
"For what?"
"The safehouse is destroyed," she told him. "There's nothing left." She could see it had been blown to pieces and lay strewn across the area. She stared intently outward and saw a heat signature overlapping a bush, yet it was distinctly different to the small fires that burned all around. She engaged her night vision and the world appeared in a ghostly green glow as she also zoomed in and swept it again.
A deafening boom cracked through the air and the front of their car jolted violently. Metal exploded outwards and oil splattered up onto the windscreen, obscuring their vision. Cameron instantly put the Lexus into reverse and backed up fifty yards, and she could see Ellison doing the same. She threw the car into a sharp turn left and an explosion rocked the ground where they'd just been, shaking the car violently and shattering the windows. Grenade, Cameron thought. "Get out," she told John and Danny, though they were already scrambling for the doors and all three of them dived out of the vehicle. "Stay behind the car," she told them. Another shot rang out and the car shuddered again.
"We're being shot at!" Danny shouted as he took cover behind the wheel. He realised that he'd left the gun John had given him on the seat.
"I know!" John snapped back. It was pretty fucking obvious, he thought. He saw Ellison and Savannah exit the Mercedes a few yards away and take cover behind it, too. Both Cameron and John recognised the deep thunder-crack of another shot and knew what weapon it was. "That's a fifty-cal," he said to her.
"It's meant for me," she told him. There would be no need to use such a large weapon to kill just John; they knew about her, what she was, and had come prepared. Machinegun fire opened up and shattered the glass of both vehicles, accompanied by single shots from what Cameron recognised as M4 assault rifles.
She opened up the trunk of the Lexus and pulled out the three AK47s, handing one to John and holding the other two herself.
"How many are there?" Savannah shouted from behind the Mercedes, still wearing the escort's dress and holding a pistol in her hands. Cameron popped up from behind the car as shots hammered into it and whizzed all around. She saw some soldiers had broken from cover and were advancing forwards, another one was moving to their right to outflank them. "Five," she counted them. She targeted the soldier dashing to their right and fired a burst. He screamed and went down. "Four," she corrected herself. In her periphery she saw another man wielding a rocket launcher, and heard it start to launch before she could turn to engage him. "Incoming!" she shouted, diving on top of John and covering his body with hers. Danny got the message and threw himself away from the car a split second before it erupted into a fireball and flipped over from the force of the missile.
"Stay here," Cameron told John and Danny. "Stay down." John kept prone and started to fire back – as best as he could with the long magazine of the AK – as Cameron sprinted from behind their cover towards Ellison and Savannah's position. Shots zipped past as she ran and a few slammed into her, biting through flesh but nothing more. She drew close to them but didn't stop. "Here," she tossed the third rifle to Savannah, who shouldered it and started to fire back as Cameron continued her sprint to the left, all the while looking out at where the fire was coming from.
More explosions kicked up dirt and threw out clouds of smoke as grenades were launched and Cameron immediately stopped in her tracks, aimed at the offending rifleman and fired off three bursts, dropping him. The machine gun still kept going, however, and its fire was keeping the others pinned down. At the same time a soldier with another rocket launcher was pointing it at her and preparing to fire. She aimed at it but the gunner fell backwards as John's AK crackled with half a dozen rapidly fired single shots. With that threat eliminated she turned to the machine gunner and opened fire on him, splitting his skull open and silencing the automatic weapon.
"Advance!" Savannah screamed out as she fired a burst, broke from cover and dashed awkwardly twenty yards forward before dropping to her knees and loosing more shots as John moved forwards. Cameron gave them the covering fire as they moved forward and Ellison, armed only with a pistol, fired in the direction of one of the soldiers, knowing he couldn't fight automatics with only a handgun but wanting to help and figuring if his shots were even only in the vicinity of the target it could still do some good. Incoming fire, even if it wasn't hitting you, was distracting.
John and Savannah moved together, firing and advancing between them, until the latter pumped a burst into a rifleman and Cameron took aim and fired at the .50 cal sniper; her shot smashed through the glass of the scope and drilled his eye through the back of his head. Her final shot echoed through the desert as all weapons fell silent.
John ran forward to the safehouse, sprinting with everything he had until he got to the ruins. Cameron was right; there was literally nothing left; just charred, shattered wood and metal. "Mom..." he tore large sections of wall away, hoping maybe she was just hurt or unconscious. There was nothing there. She was gone, so was Savannah. John dropped to his knees and doubled over onto all fours, shaking like a leaf as tears began to run down his cheeks and sobs wracked his whole body. The whole world fell apart around him once again. "Not again," he said quietly. She'd already died once. "Please, not again."
He felt a hand on his shoulder but barely even noticed it. He couldn't think straight. His mom was dead; he'd stopped it from happening just for her to die again later. "It's my fault," he growled at himself. "I left her alone while we were all out. I killed her."
"It's not your fault," Cameron said as she crouched down behind him.
"John," Savannah stood off to one side, away from him and Cameron. "You couldn't have stopped this; if you'd been here you'd have been killed too." She didn't say it but couldn't help but fear for her younger self; there was no sign of her either.
As the two girls tried to comfort John, Ellison stood silent and Danny wandered through the remains of the house, picking at what was left. There wasn't much of anything; a few cans of food that were dented, their labels singed, but still relatively intact. A few AK magazines, mostly bent but a few still in good shape barring scratches and dents. Not much at all.
"She died for me," John muttered. So many had, past, present and future, and now his mom had died because of him. How many times he'd wished he'd never been born: this was yet another of them.
"This one's alive," Ellison called out, spotting one of the mercenaries moving and letting out a low groan. John was up like a shot, he marched over to Ellison's position and stood over the wounded man. He had a ragged hole in his chest and blood pooled all around him, he was hyperventilating and stared up at John, part afraid, part pleading. "Hel... help me," he blurted out, coughing out some of the blood that had started to pool in his lungs.
"Fuck you!" John dropped down onto his knees over the injured soldier and snarled in his face. "You fucking bastards just can't leave us alone, can you?"
"Please..." the merc reached out, begging for help.
"There's a first aid kit here," Danny came up and held a small dented white box up, one of the few things he'd found still in one piece.
"We're not wasting it on him," John said coldly, glaring at the critically injured man with pure hatred burning from his eyes.
"He won't survive," Cameron backed him up. "He's lost too much blood; we'll never get him to a hospital in time."
"Is there any morphine?" Ellison asked. "We could make him comfortable."
"Screw him," John snapped and turned back to the man on the floor. "You murdered my mother and a little girl; you don't deserve any fucking comfort." Ellison shook his head disapprovingly. John looked to Cameron and thought he could see a trace of the same thing he saw in Ellison. She said nothing though; she knew John was in charge and also that he was grieving; he wasn't himself but he needed her support, not for her to question him.
The merc's eyes widened and he burst out in a fit of coughs, struggling to clear his lungs and throat and fight through the pain. They're really gonna just watch me bleed to death? "They... they're not... dead," he coughed painfully, hoping that might earn him a point or two.
"What do you mean?" John asked him. When the man hesitated he swung back and punched him in the face, smacking the mercenary's head into the ground and knocking him into a daze. "Fucking tell me!" he shouted, teeth bared and sending flecks of spittle flying into the man's face. He punched over and over again, smashing his fist into the man's face, snapping cartilage, cracking teeth and striking him repeatedly. When John finally stopped the mercenary's face was a brutalised, bloodied pulp.
The merc spat out more blood and shards of bloodied teeth. He was in too much pain to try and lie to them. "They... they took her... both of them... our mission was to kill you all, but you weren't here; we took your mother and the girl and waited for you... you beat us, wasn't expecting that..." Pain tore through him again and he cried out, it was too much to bear. "Please... it hurts..."
John slowly got up to his feet, stood upright and stepped away from the man. "What're we going to do with him?" Ellison asked. He was working for Kaliba but he was just a hired gun, he probably didn't even know what was going on. He was the enemy but he didn't deserve this.
John whirled around, drew his Sig at the mercenary's face and pulled the trigger, blowing the back of his head away and splattering a gory mess of blood and brains all over the ground. John fired a second time, and again. He screamed out as he kept shooting the dead body until the magazine ran empty. The mercenary's head was gone; blown to pieces by his point black shots. All that was left was a bloody, pulpy mess with bits of bone scattered around and lots of blood. Even as the gun ran dry and John kept pulling the trigger, resulting in only a hollow click that didn't seem to register to him. Cameron took his arm and pulled the gun from his grasp. "I'm okay," he told her, suddenly feeling a lot calmer, clearer than before.
He caught Ellison's eye, could see the disapproval and the distaste even though the man said nothing. He could tell what the older man was thinking, but whatever. John walked away from Ellison; if he or anyone else didn't like it they were free to leave.
"I'm sorry," Cameron said to John, suddenly feeling a similar guilt to what he was. "It's my fault they have Sarah."
"What do you mean?" he looked at her, confused.
"When I hacked the defence net, Skynet must have traced me. It's the only way they could have found this location."
John shook his head. Maybe he should be mad at her but he wasn't. "It doesn't really matter now," he said, resigned. It wasn't important how it happened or why; it had happened, and there was no way of undoing it. Dwelling on it or being pissed at people wasn't going to do any good and Cameron had only been trying to help. Only one thing mattered now. "Kaliba have mom and Savannah: we're going to get them back."
A/N: 'Matir Bozha' is Ukrainian for 'mother of God.' Hope you all liked the chapter, please do let me know your thoughts.
