The Janus Syndrome | Page 3

needed extra-powerful weaponry, and had gotten it somehow.
And I was supposed to be the reinforcements.
I didn't like Area Fourteen's jokes.
At least Kerry would distract the other hit man, even if she didn't kill him. The other one was dead for sure; a punch in the throat doesn't lend itself to survival on the part of the victim.
I peered cautiously from my cover. I could barely see Kerry; she was hidden behind the seats. And the only way I could judge where the hit man was hiding was from the direction of his beams.
One of the seats flared up.
I pulled back, wondering what to do. Kerry had all the weaponry, and I couldn't risk making a break for the corpse out in the main area, if it was still there.
Somebody would have called the cops, and they'd be in easy reach of the place. And I'd be an easy target.
Kerry solved the problem with a fast group of needles. There was a yell, then a thud and clatter.
I checked, carefully. Kerry was rising from behind the burned seats, her gun held in both small hands, turning in a slow circle, scanning the area, ready to fire. She was still wearing her shoulder-bag.
The other body would be gone by now, teleported away. Enemy never leave their losers lying around.
I broke my cover and started jogging out; I'd have to retrieve my bags, join Kerry, and then get out of this place. There'd probably be more Enemy hanging around to make sure, and getting us to someplace safe so she could hand me a Bullet transporter was going to be the hard part.
As I started across the terminal building toward her, I looked down toward the entrance. A group of cops was on its way toward us, at a fast trot, guns at the ready.
I signaled Kerry with a wave; there was a parking lot behind the building, and a nearby exit. Area Fourteen was going to have to sort out the mess himself -- he'd gotten us into it, and I was damned if I was going to get screwed trying to clear it up myself.
Kerry dropped her gun back into her bag and signaled that she'd meet me on the outside. I followed her reasoning. She was closer to another exit.
She started running, and I started to change direction.
And the third man started firing.
A tight shot caught Kerry in her left shoulder, flaring her jacket up. She screamed and lost her balance, hitting the floor hard.
I had a flash of the dead dog.
People started hitting the floor again -- something I'd thought they did only in New York City -- and I skidded around, almost losing my balance, starting toward Kerry.
She made it up from the floor just in time to avoid another shot. The beam singed her jacket as she staggered away.
I dived behind the row of seats that she'd left, and rolled, flattening. Three shots struck the row, making the plastic bubble, throwing up dark, oily smoke that made my eyes tear; I gagged. Kerry was almost at the exit; as I watched, she stumbled and hit the doors with her good arm thrown out. Her aim was good enough; her hand contacted metal instead of glass, and pushed the doors open as she fell through.
She'd be safe enough on the other side, if she stayed behind concrete.
My turn now.
I came up and started running, zig-zagging. I knew where the sniper was now, behind the ticket desks, under plenty of cover. He could keep moving about to prevent being shot down before he completed his mission.
I heard sounds of firing as I closed on the doors, and blessed a couple of thousand fates. I'd forgotten the cops when Kerry had been hit; they were unwittingly creating a distraction.
I hit the door, my arms held out, and stumbled through, slipping on the damp concrete. It had been raining when I came into St. Louis; I'd been looking for the Arch, but hadn't seen much.
I rolled as I hit the concrete sidewalk, pulled into the wall, and crawled along it until I reached Kerry. I felt silly, but if anyone wanted to use me for target practice, they'd have one hell of an awkward target.
Kerry was slumped against the wall; her needlegun was back in her hand. She was using her gun hand to clutch the wound in her shoulder, which was pointless. The wound would have been instantly cauterized.
I hunkered down next to her, gently pulled her hand away from her shoulder, and took the gun from her. There was no resistance.
The beam had gone straight through, leaving a neat hole and some serious burning.
She didn't say anything; she couldn't speak. She was in agony; her skin was a dirty gray under the light reflecting from the parking area, and