20


Impossibly strong hands grabbed the back of my coat, yanking me backward. I knew the KFA armor enhanced strength through the efficient use of tension and leverage points in the subnormal layers. It didn’t make a wearer superhuman. That came from the cybernetics limb replacements each of us had volunteered to accept.
I twisted free then dodged sideways, looking for a way to counterattack. The auto-shotguns were clamped next to the ammunition canister on his back to keep his hands free. If I stayed close to him, he probably wouldn't be able to use them on me.
The resurrected version of Byron Thane, if that was who this was, growled at me from inside the distinctive helmet mask that resembled the demon graffiti he used to draw on everything.
Years ago, he had started painting a skull across his visor with one-way paint he could see through. The terrifying visage was well known in the Reaper community. Our helmets had been fully interfaced with hundreds of micro cameras instead of looking through a face-shield.
Unable to continue the tradition with the mask, he’d painted something similar on his chest plate—a serrated ribcage instead of a skull.
Something wasn’t right. My gut told me this had been done specifically for me, because to anyone else, it would just look like scary battle art. Only another Reaper would know the significance of what this was—and I was the last Reaper. Or so I’d thought.
The paint was too fresh and the design a little too crisp. Byron Thane had been a sloppy artist, throwing his creativity on whatever “canvas” he chose with reckless abandon.
“I thought you were dead. How did you get off that rooftop?” I asked.
The three eyes flashed but he didn’t answer and instead tried to grab me, keeping his right hand back so he could draw one of his weapons or deliver a powerful thrust punch.
I parried the strike and moved out of his line of attack. Aiming a roundhouse kick at his knee, I stopped the last second, realizing I would miss because he was already moving in anticipation of the blow.
“Who the hell are you?” I demanded as we circled each other.
His answer was a digitized voice that sounded a lot like the man I remembered. He’d chosen settings to make himself scarier, when I knew the helmet mask was capable of transmitting his voice with crystal clear clarity.
“You know me,” he growled ominously.
I backed up a step to give myself room. If I went much farther, I’d have no chance of reaching the van and trying to save Elise. She was banging around in there, probably trying to wiggle free of her restraints or throw herself bodily out of the cargo door.
The girl didn't know how to quit. Even when she had been alone on a moon-sized prison station surrounded by murderers and rapists, she’d resisted with courage and a powerful rage to rival any soldier.
The Reaper tensed for another attack, but I beat him to it, hitting him with words more powerful than his MMG.
“You shouldn’t have engaged that sniper,” I said.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.
I knew he wasn’t the same man I’d trained with, but I also didn’t know the truth of him. I continued the lie, pretending he was the person he claimed to be. “We were a team, but you did your own thing. Got yourself killed,” I said.
“Do I look dead to you?” he blurted, the mask distorting his voice.
“We all knew you were the best marksman in the Corps, but you were standing and firing from the shoulder while the enemy sniper engaged you from a prone position with known range markers,” I elaborated.
Every detail I shared caused another pause. My conclusion about this stranger grew firmer the more we talked. I was also stalling, hoping for an opportunity to win. And that meant grabbing Elise and getting out of here with both of us alive.
I wasn’t sure how to make that happen. The police were surrounding us. Citizens were clearing away from the area. My situation wasn’t exactly improving, but since it couldn’t get any worse, I was keen to keep playing the game.
And I wanted to know who this asshole was. What was his problem? How did he know so much about me?
He rolled his shoulders, sidestepping once again to seek an advantage for his next attack.
I suddenly realized something about his arms.
“I could just blow you in half with this,” he said, gesturing at the MMG.
“You could,” I said, even more certain of what I had seen. Both of his arms were cybernetic, which explained why he’d been able to yank me out of the van so easily. If he had two arms full of hardware, I was betting he had added infrastructure to his spinal column and core to support the extra weight and torque the Reaper arms would exert.
“Put down your weapons, we have you surrounded,” a voice shouted over the intercom. “This is the Zag City Defense Force. Surrender immediately.”
“Don’t you remember anything from our training?” I asked. “Public shootouts never end well.”
The Reaper who was posing as Byron Thane cursed, then spun away, lunging into the van and hauling Elise out by her hair.
“You there, put the girl down!” the Defense Force commander ordered.
Elise, still bound hand and foot, twisted in his grip, screaming through the gag Olathe was biting into her face.
I rushed the Reaper from the side, hoping to catch him distracted, but he turned and kicked me in the gut, hurling me backward and driving the air from my lungs.
I rolled to a stop and struggled to my feet. “Fuck,” I grunted. “You’re gonna pay for that.”
The stranger laughed, backing away from my pathetic attempts to fight back. He hoisted Elise almost gingerly onto his shoulder, his mouth moving as he whispered something to her.
“Did he just apologize to her?” I asked.
“Yes. He was very polite. Almost chivalrous,” X-37 confirmed.
Briggs and Crank came to their feet, then moved forward as a team. The unit’s commander threatened to deploy more gas and call in air support.
Waves of pain and disorientation crippled me once the stranger Reaper sprinted away from me. The imposter had reactivated the ROS. At this range, my teeth vibrated from the powerful signal it sent out.
Byron Thane ran toward the weakest section of the police containment, breaking through easily. Briggs and Crank altered course, heading straight for me. I turned and surrendered to the Defense Force team.
Looking back at the Union commandoes, I gave Briggs and Crank the finger right before the cops handcuffed me. “Fuck off, Briggs.”
“Don’t antagonize them, sir,” the cop said.
“You’re right,” I said. “They can dish it out but can’t take it.”