Author's note : Sorry about the delay, everyone. This site was acting up.

Chapter summary : The Stunticons set out for revenge, but not all goes as planned.

anon_decepticon and QoS/mdperera

Thanks also to Kookaburra 1701 for her support and input!


Chapter 29 : Road Warriors

Drag Strip's pulse thudded in his ears.

It felt good to be on a mission again, especially one where he would be fighting – and, of course, winning. His former frame had been a racecar, but racing was only a different kind of competition, and he had been created as a warrior.

Granted, he usually looked better while in combat, but he couldn't risk getting the Perfect Blazer torn or stained. He smoothed out a crease in the denim jacket he had put on instead. The only thing that bothered him was that he still didn't have a weapon. He'd once made the mistake of asking Wildrider to buy him some of the incapacitating aerosol spray the woman who worked in the deli had tried to use on him. Wildrider had come home with a can of air freshener.

Still, he could probably find one. The rest of the team all had weapons or wheels they had taken from humans who had attacked them. Drag Strip just hated to be the last one in that regard, the one left out.

The cab drove on, although he could tell the driver was nervous. Motormaster wasn't exactly hiding the shotgun at his side, and Breakdown kept tapping his fingers against the door handle in a nervous habit. Behind them and constantly visible in the rear-view mirror was the glowing dot of the headlight on Wildrider's motorbike.

The highway unrolled beneath the cab's wheels as the city began to fall behind them. Even the gaudy neon signs grew fewer and farther apart, and the weak glow of the streetlights only made the night seem darker in comparison.

"Take the next exit," Motormaster said.

The cab driver glanced at Motormaster out of the corner of his eye, but did as he was told, slewing the wheel. Motormaster had all the directions, but gave them out one by one, and Drag Strip knew that anything other than immediate obedience would have resulted in him flinging the driver out onto the highway and steering the cab himself. The driver seemed to have realized that too, because he obeyed with alacrity.

Motormaster halted the cab when they were twenty yards from the warehouse, and the driver took off at speed. Wildrider slammed on the brakes and slewed to a halt in front of them.

For a moment there was no sound except for the purr of the RC30's engine. Wildrider twisted his hands back and forth on the bike's handles, but Motormaster didn't seem to notice the fidgeting. He only looked around with an evaluating predator's gaze that slowly settled on the warehouse.

To Drag Strip, it was nothing more than a dark block in the distance, small and indistinct. None of the windows were even lit. Motormaster rested the barrel of the shotgun on his shoulder.

"We're going in," he said. "As quiet as we can, at first." He turned to Wildrider. "You. Keep your distance, got it? Drive in only if you hear a fight in progress."

"Sure, boss," Wildrider said, then leaned close to Drag Strip and spoke in a stage whisper. "Start a fight real quick, okay?"

Drag Strip had only a split-second's warning as Motormaster's grip turned the shotgun's stock into a pivot. Then the rest of the weapon swung in an arc so fast that it was a blur. Drag Strip jerked back, but Wildrider didn't have his reflexes. The barrel hissed down bare inches from his face. Drag Strip wasn't sure whether Motormaster had aimed to miss or not, but Wildrider didn't look as though he wanted to find out.

Without taking any further notice of him, Motormaster shouldered the gun again and strode away. The other Stunticons fell in, and as they covered the distance to the warehouse Drag Strip realized that he and Dead End had taken up their usual flanking positions, with Breakdown in front. He had felt pretty good about coaxing an interface out of Dead End in the 'rack that morning, but having the team almost complete and heading out on a mission felt even better.

As they drew closer, he saw a couple of cars, an SUV and another motorbike parked to one side of the warehouse. Drag Strip glanced at the row of windows on what looked like the uppermost floor, but none of them were lit. The place had a closed, deserted look – apart from the vehicles parked outside.

And behind a fence, he realized, although that didn't stop them for long. The fence was ten feet tall, but Motormaster simply stood beside it and Dead End cupped his hands. Drag Strip stepped in them and used the lift to get a foot on Motormaster's shoulder, giving him enough height to grab the top of the fence. Sometimes there were advantages to being the lightest of the team.

A door creaked open. The rest of the Stunticons dropped at once, and Drag Strip froze. He felt horribly exposed, and all he could think was that it was over before it had even begun. But a moment later he saw two humans emerge from the front of the warehouse, trailing cigarette smoke that he could smell even from that distance. They didn't look back as they retrieved their vehicles – a car and the motorbike – and after they drove away Motormaster got to his feet again.

"Should we wait until more of them leave?" Breakdown said.

Even in the near-darkness, Drag Strip saw Motormaster's face twist into a scowl. He felt impatient too. He certainly couldn't wait where he was, perched ten feet off the ground and all but straddling a wire fence. It was distinctly uncomfortable.

"If you want to stay here 'cause you're damaged, that's fine," he said. "The rest of us can go in without you."

Breakdown didn't say anything more, but he needed Dead End's help to surmount the fence, even with Drag Strip giving him a hand from above. Drag Strip got both of them down on the other side, then caught the shotgun when it was tossed up to him. Motormaster clambered up as well, the fence swaying and distorting a little beneath his weight, and thudded down.

"Where they came from," he said softly, and the four of them moved to the wide double door at the front of the warehouse. Drag Strip and Breakdown took up positions on either side of it. Dead End drew his gun and fired twice at the handles of the doors.

Drag Strip heard a soft phut-phut. Wood splintered and metal crunched, but there was no other sound. Motormaster took hold of the ruined handles and yanked on them. When the doors shuddered but didn't open completely, he simply backed up and rammed one shoulder against them. The doors flew open.

Motormaster flung himself to one side and took the shotgun from Drag Strip. The other Stunticons moved away from the doors with speed as well, but no one seemed eager to plunge into the dimness of the warehouse. Drag Strip wished he had brought a flashlight. He would definitely have been the first in that case.

"It's too quiet," Breakdown whispered.

"Wow," Drag Strip said. "I guess that's why you're the scout, Breaks – nothing gets past you."

Breakdown actually hit him – or tried to, since he had to use his uninjured arm. Drag Strip dodged just in time, and Motormaster's snarl made it clear that any further fisticuffs would be punished. "Don't you get it?" Breakdown said. "We shot our way in, but there's no alarm system. Whoever owns this place doesn't want any attention drawn to it."

Motormaster shouldered the shotgun. "Enough yapping. Fan out, keep each other in sight and find out what the frag is being stored here. There's plenty of slag around. I want to know what it is."

Drag Strip couldn't help agreeing that there was a lot of slag. He made his way cautiously past a few stacks of crates so tall that there was no way to see what might be inside them, and it was too dark to read anything that might have been stencilled on their sides. On either side of him, footsteps scuffed softly on the bare floor, but he heard nothing else other than his own breathing. And it was dark in the warehouse – the only light seemed to come from a skylight above, hardly ade—

His hip collided with something and he stopped, breath hissing between his teeth more in worry than pain. The last thing he needed was a mountain of crates collapsing on his head. But when he reached out he felt cloth covering a smooth expanse. Curiously, he tugged at the cloth and it slid away. Drag Strip ran his hands over a flat rectangular surface, then felt the knobbly carved legs beneath.

"A table?" he said aloud.

"I found an armchair," Dead End said from nearby. Drag Strip didn't need to look in that direction to know that Dead End would be sitting in it.

Motormaster approached from behind them, his steps ominously slow and deliberate. "These crates are full of human trash," he said. "Breakdown! What's this all about?"

"Yeah." Drag Strip had expected to infiltrate a secret human base, not a place of storage. "I thought there'd at least be something valuable here."

Breakdown poked his head around the side of a stack of boxes. "I don't know," he said. "Maybe these are valuable. Maybe they're antic furniture."

Motormaster glowered at him. "And what the frag are we supposed to with 'em? Carry 'em out on our backs?"

Before Breakdown could answer, a door swung open close to them. As they all stiffened, a ray of light – bright as a headlamp in the near-darkness – appeared, sweeping slowly from side to side. The furniture and crates blocked them from sight, but they wouldn't do so for long – Drag Strip could tell from the brisk footsteps coming their way.

"Cover." The single whispered word from Motormaster was enough; Drag Strip slid beneath the table and Dead End grabbed the shotgun tossed to him before he ducked behind what looked like a massive bookcase. Breakdown had vanished so quickly that Drag Strip couldn't see where he had gone. Motormaster snatched up the cloth which had covered the table and replaced it, but made no attempt to hide as the feet of two humans – all Drag Strip could see from beneath the table – came into sight.

They stopped at once when they saw Motormaster. Drag Strip tensed. If they had guns…

"You here for the match?" one of them said.

What match? Drag Strip wondered, but Motormaster only said, "Yeah." From the guarded tone of his voice, it was clear he didn't know what they were talking about either.

"Well, you're too late!" The human sounded irritated. "It's already fini—"

"Wait a sec," the other human said. The beam of the flashlight moved a little, vertically, as though scoping Motormaster out, and Drag Strip realized the two humans were standing a good six or seven feet away from him. "How'd you get in?"

"Door was open."

"Huh. Shouldn't have been." That was the first human, and as he started to walk past Motormaster the pale edge of the light's glow moved as well. Which meant the second one, the one still standing, was the one with the gun. Drag Strip couldn't see much, but he knew that Motormaster would never have just remained there if he hadn't had a weapon trained on him.

What do I do now? The human moved past Motormaster, along the length of the table, clearly going to check on the warehouse's perimeter defenses. If only we still had internal comms! Drag Strip felt wound tighter than a spring. He didn't have orders, didn't have anything except his superior skills and intelligence… and the element of surprise.

That settled it. He flung an arm out and his fingers closed around the human's ankle. He yanked hard sideways.

The human fell with a shout. The flashlight struck the floor and spun away, but as he scrambled out from under the table Drag Strip thought he heard another heavy thud nearby. Motormaster can look after himself, he thought as he kicked the prone human. His boot connected, but the human managed to roll away from him and scramble up – straight into Motormaster's waiting arms.

Drag Strip made a dive for the flashlight. Even though its glass was cracked, it still seemed to be functional, and he shone the beam in the human's face as he had seen people do on TV. Dead End, he saw, had crept up behind the other human and struck while the man's attention had been on Motormaster, and was now searching the unconscious human's pockets, with pauses every now and then to wipe his fingers clean.

Both of the humans wore the same uniforms – dark grey and black jackets with the word SECURITY in bright yellow on the front. Drag Strip's lip curled. More like insecurity, considering their performance, he thought.

Motormaster had pinned the human's arms behind his back and seemed to be twisting them in new and unusual angles, judging from the expression on the human's face. Drag Strip grinned. It was actually kind of fun to watch Motormaster do that to someone who wasn't part of their team, especially a human on the opposing side. Drag Strip had never before seen the security guard, but it didn't matter – he had been punished for what Ominsky's operatives had done, so he was prepared to savor every drop of revenge.

"Start talking." Motormaster's voice was a low hiss beside the human's ear, eliciting a flinch.

"Wh—what do you want to know?"

Motormaster gave a sharp jerk of his head and Breakdown came up from behind so that the human couldn't see him. "Doesn't look as though anyone heard," he said quietly. "All right, you. This place isn't just a warehouse, is it?"

"No…" The human's eyes swiveled as if trying to see as much as possible, and Drag Strip could tell he was wondering who they were, and how much they knew.

Breakdown's relief was just as evident. "So where's the auction?"

"The what?"

"He means action," Dead End said, also from behind.

The small lump in the human's throat bobbed as he swallowed. "Uh… downstairs. Where we came from."

"Is Ominsky there?" Motormaster said softly.

The human shook his head. "He don't pick up the cash… he sends one of his people to do it…"

Cash? Drag Strip liked the sound of that. "How much cash?"

"Never mind that," Motormaster said. "How many more sacks of roadkill are down there?"

The human seemed to take a moment to process that. "S-six, seven maybe."

Motormaster smiled, and although the light gleamed off the angle of his jaw, it didn't seem to reflect off his eyes at all. He tilted his head at Dead End in a go-ahead gesture, and Dead End's hand came up, holding the gun with the attachment to its barrel – the one which muffled the report.

The human could not have seen any of that, but the sudden silence was enough. "Please," he began. "Please, I won't say anything, just let me—"

Dead End fired at point-blank range. Drag Strip jerked back just in time to avoid his jacket being splattered, and even then he didn't think his clothes had escaped completely. He brushed ineffectually at them with one hand, annoyed at the stains but relieved that he hadn't worn the Perfect Blazer. Motormaster let the human's body drop and crossed the distance to the door the human had indicated. There was a sign on it.

EMERGENCY EXIT ONLY

Do Not Open - Alarm Will Sound

A sneer twisting his mouth, Motormaster grasped the handle and yanked the door open. No alarm sounded. A staircase leading down twisted to the left and no one was visible from their vantage point, but Drag Strip could see that the basement below was lit, pungent with cigarette smoke and a faint odor of stale food. He heard voices talking, and someone laughed loudly as Motormaster started down the stairs.

Drag Strip followed fast. He was intrigued by the contrast between the basement and the dark, quiet, motionless – dull! – façade of the warehouse, and whatever was downstairs appealed to him more than wandering about through a maze of furniture. He descended with such speed that he nearly bumped into Motormaster, who hissed a warning and elbowed him in the ribs, hard. Drag Strip barely felt it as he stared over the banister at the room below.

It was spacious – not enough to have accommodated Motormaster in alt-mode, but far larger than their living-room – and a wide black square had been painted on the bare floor. The paint and the floor itself were scuffed and filthy, with dried dark stains here and there. A human almost as large as Motormaster sat on a stool to one side of it, swigging from a beer bottle, but Drag Strip's attention was drawn to two other humans beyond the black square.

They were making neat piles of banknotes – one small and the other stacked high. When Motormaster stopped in his tracks, Drag Strip knew he had seen it too. The larger wad of notes was wrapped with a rubber band, and as he watched one of the humans took it with him and disappeared down a narrow corridor.

Drag Strip felt disappointed, but the sight had evidently galvanized Motormaster to action. He took the remaining stairs two at a time, and everyone in the room below froze, staring at him.

Not that the big lump of slag would be out of place among that lot, Drag Strip thought. Most of the eight humans had muscles bulging out of their T-shirts or frayed jeans, and one had a tattoo of a snake biting his bicep. Drag Strip had no idea what the point of that was. Did the human think that something so obviously fake made him look intimidating?

"Who the hell are you?" another human demanded. He was sitting at a table scattered with cards, and around it other humans were already on their feet. Smoke coiled up from an ashtray in the center of the table as if from the barrel of a gun.

Motormaster's own gun, Drag Strip realized, was nowhere in evidence. He heard the door above swing shut but didn't glance upward; if he did that, the humans would know someone else was on the stairs, pressed close against the door. He put a hand on the banister and sauntered downstairs as well.

"We're here for the match," Motormaster said casually. He pulled his shirt off over his head, exposing the white T-shirt he wore beneath. Showoff, Drag Strip thought. Well, go ahead – show the humans you can sweat along with the best of them.

"The match?" The human who had been gulping his beer set down the half-empty bottle and dragged a large hand across the back of his mouth. "Who's fightin'? You or the pretty-boy?"

"Pretty boy?" Drag Strip said. He had been very pretty in alt-mode and he was no less so now, but somehow he didn't think it had been meant as a compliment. The rest of the humans laughed.

All except one, the human who had reemerged from the corridor and stood watching them, arms folded. He no longer seemed to have the money he had counted out, but what bothered Drag Strip more was his cold perusal of them both.

"I've never seen either of you here before," he said. "And you're way too late for the match. Just who are you?"

"Someone with money to bet," Motormaster said, and reached slowly into his back pocket. Drag Strip didn't miss how the other humans tensed, watching the movement, and one or two seemed to be reaching for concealed weapons. But Motormaster, instead of even bringing up his hand to show them his money, flicked his wrist sharply sideways.

A burst of banknotes flew through the air, scattering over the black square, and all the humans glanced at them. Instantly Dead End threw the shotgun down – and Drag Strip had to duck to avoid it slamming into his head. Motormaster snatched it out of the air and had it in position before the humans could do more than freeze in shock.

"Don't any of you slaggers move. And keep your hands up, where I can see 'em." The shotgun's range wasn't wide enough to cover all the humans, but Motormaster was hardly alone. Not only was Drag Strip more than sufficient backup – cool and poised and competent as always – but Dead End and Breakdown joined them in the next moment. The humans stayed motionless except for raising their hands, but two of them glanced at the corridor.

Drag Strip was beginning to be intrigued about that. Could all the money the humans had clearly bet on previous matches be stored just a few yards away? Motormaster had come to his senses that morning and demanded that Drag Strip return the cash he had thrown at Dead End the night before, and Drag Strip had had no choice but to surrender it. He liked the idea of getting more to take its place – money Motormaster wouldn't know about, and therefore wouldn't be able to steal.

But for the time being, there were still eight humans to deal with. Breakdown and Dead End both had guns trained on them, though, in addition to Motormaster's shotgun, and the humans had their hands up, so Drag Strip doubted it would take long. He hoped Motormaster would hurry up and finish them off quickly.

"You lot at the table," Motormaster said. "Move towards the black square."

They began a reluctant shuffle, and Drag Strip knew why – they could tell Motormaster was simply herding them together, probably to deactivate them en masse. One of them refused to move until Dead End aimed a desultory shot at him; after that all the humans gathered more or less together.

"What do they do down here?" Breakdown said curiously.

"Fight, obviously." Drag Strip tilted his chin in the direction of the square. "I'm guessing that's their magnificent arena."

"Ugh." Dead End wrinkled his nose. "I wouldn't fight here. The floor is filthy."

"Shut the frag up." Motormaster never looked away from the humans, and his voice was even less pleasant when he addressed them.

"Where's Ominsky?" he said.

The humans exchanged nervous glances, and finally one of them, from the back of the small crowd, spoke up, his voice so faint and halting that Drag Strip had to strain to catch the words. "He's not here… but I can show you where his office is."

"Get out here, then," Motormaster said irritably, and the other humans moved aside. The one who had spoken took two steps forward and stumbled, going to his knees, hands coming down to catch himself.

With a cat-quick movement he drew a small gun from inside his boot and fired.

Everything seemed to happen at once then. Motormaster jerked reflexively to one side and fired back at the same time. It ruined his aim, but with a shotgun he hardly needed a targeting lock – the mass of humans was too close.

Four of them ate the brunt of the blast, but the others leaped aside in time. One of them even snatched up the half-full beer bottle and flung it. Drag Strip threw himself forward, well below the range of either gunfire or makeshift missiles, and slammed bodily into one of the humans who seemed to be trying to escape. The human struck the floor, and since the flashlight was still in Drag Strip's hand, he shoved it deep into the human's open mouth.

That broke the flashlight for good. To be on the safe side, though, Drag Strip hit the human between the eyes with it, wincing as the vibrations of the impact raced up his arm.

He struggled to his feet, the useless flashlight still in his hand, and looked around. Motormaster had expended the shotgun's ammunition and was now using the weapon as a club against two humans – one had another bottle, this one broken, and the other was trying to batter Motormaster down with a stool. Breakdown fired on another human who was scrambling up the stairs. The human staggered, crumpled and fell over the banister. Dead End was clutching one arm, but continued to fire selectively with the other and seemed undamaged otherwise.

Drag Strip turned and strode into the quiet dark corridor.

Except it became a little less quiet as he neared its end – a closed door. He thought he heard soft furtive movements behind the door. Slag, he still didn't have a gun. But he could hardly go back for one now, especially if whoever was there might use the opportunity to escape. Is Ominsky's office behind that door? Drag Strip would have liked it to be Ominsky, but at that moment he would have settled for anyone.

He flung the door open, slid sideways into the room to put his back to the wall, and then saw who was inside. The human had been half-bent over a desk, stuffing papers into a battered case, but now she froze, staring at him. Drag Strip felt his mouth drop open.

It was the woman who had come to their apartment – Mandy whoever – except now she didn't look one-tenth as fresh-faced or shy. Her hair was black now, and her low-cut blouse even more revealing thanks to her posture, though she straightened up slowly.

"Don't move," Drag Strip said at once. "I'm not alone here."

Mandy glanced at the door, then back at him. "I guess you'll want to call for help before you deal with me."

That wasn't the impression Drag Strip had intended to convey. "Step away from the desk," he said, and when Mandy obeyed, he strode forward. Establishing his command of the newly acquired territory, he decided, plus it gave him an opportunity to see what she had been doing.

The desk itself was unremarkable – nothing was on it except for a few papers, Mandy's briefcase and a pot containing a few pens and a letter-opener, all of which Drag Strip took in with one swift glance. Really, if he hadn't been such a superb warrior and racer, he might have replaced Breakdown as the team's scout. He felt sure he could see some neatly bound stacks of banknotes beneath the papers Mandy had been stuffing into the briefcase as well, and that made him smile.

He glanced back and saw at once that something was different. Mandy now had her hands behind her back, in a pose that might have looked subservient if he hadn't known she was sneakier than Mirage and a bigger liar than Starscream. "Put your hands up," he said sharply.

She brought her hands up. There was a gun in the right one.

Drag Strip acted through sheer reflex. He flung the flashlight and threw himself aside just as she fired. Even then he barely escaped. Heat scorched along his left cheek, and for a moment all he could think was, Did she just shoot me in the face? That would ruin his good looks.

Then he and Mandy's gun struck the floor at once. She had dropped it as the flashlight struck her hand, but before either of them could reach the weapon, it slid underneath the large desk. Mandy dropped to her knees and stuck a hand beneath the desk, groping for the gun, but the sides of the desk were less than an inch off the floor.

Drag Strip was on his feet at once, hardly feeling any injury in the surge of battle rage that welled up in him. Mandy looked up at him, eyes wide.

"Please don't hurt me," she whispered. She clasped her hands just beneath her breasts and tried to move back, though since the desk was behind her, she only ended up sitting on the floor. Drag Strip grinned and advanced. "Please—"

He reached down, intending to grab her arm and haul her to her feet, then drag her back for Motormaster to question. Or do something else to.

And her leg, bent before her, straightened like an energy-whip snapping out. Her heel slammed into Drag Strip's knee.

Pain drove up Drag Strip's leg. He staggered back a pace and just managed to regain his balance. Mandy jumped up, slammed her briefcase shut and flipped the locks closed.

Drag Strip aimed a punch at her. Mandy spun to face him and threw up a forearm, blocking the blow. Her other arm swung the briefcase at his head.

It was a glancing strike at best – the briefcase was unwieldy and had never been designed for use as a weapon – but the corner of the case was metal and actually hurt when it clipped his ear. His anger turned to a fury so great it nearly blinded him. No human had ever gotten the better of him like that.

He feinted with his right hand – making her duck to avoid him – and threw a left hook with all his strength behind it. Mandy caught his fist and yanked it towards her. Drag Strip's damaged knee failed him and he jolted forward. Before he could recover, Mandy released him, pivoted and kicked him hard in the stomach.

The force of the kick sent him reeling backward, and his shoulders struck a shelf on the wall. Packets of cigarettes rained down. Almost doubled-up and struggling to breathe, he pushed away from the wall just as Mandy gripped the briefcase's handle with both hands and swung it again. That time it hit the side of Drag Strip's head. He dropped to his knees and the inside of his skull rang as if his head had been a bell.

She's too good, he thought in a daze. Blood trickled through his hair. I'm going to lo—

Mandy kicked him again and Drag Strip crumpled to the floor. He tried to get an arm up over his face, but moving anything hurt too much and he heard Mandy move away. Something tapped quickly and he blinked his vision clear. He kept the rest of his frame motionless, realizing that if she knew he was still alive, she would probably continue slagging him.

Mandy had tucked the receiver of a phone between her ear and shoulder, turning so she could watch the door. "I'm at the club," she said. "We've just been hit. Send some backup."

Drag Strip's fuel pump slammed in his chest. If one human had been enough to subdue him, he didn't want to see what the backup would do. Get up, he thought frantically, move, do something! He tried to lever himself up on one trembling elbow, but the only effect was that he simply thudded back to the floor.

Mandy shot him a look and dropped out of sight. Startled, Drag Strip wondered what she was doing. Then the desk shuddered, shifting back a few inches, and he realized she was trying to retrieve her gun.

And he hadn't even shouted – not for help, because he hadn't thought he needed any, but to warn the other Stunticons. He tried to scream now, but he could barely breathe.

I'm going to die.