Blink: Phantom (Book 3)

11

The heat roared over him and Darien clamped his arms over his head. The unmistakable clamour of shattering glass ripped into his ears as the incendiary blast from Brock's bomb passed them and smashed into the walls of the room, crashing through every single window slit.

Luckily the heavy conveyor was a well-constructed piece of machinery and it bore the brunt of the impact. As quickly as it had come the explosion dissipated, leaving him with ringing ears and a scorched jacket, but otherwise unharmed. He rolled over, coughing at the acrid fumes left behind. Beside him Niamh was already scrambling back to her feet, unleashing a foul-mouthed tirade as she did so.

Hauling himself upright, Darien shook his head to clear the fuzz of the detonation aftermath and tried to focus, levelling his carbine at the centre of the room. His eyes flickered around the perimeter, instantly looking for the other operatives, hoping and praying all of them had reacted as swiftly as he had.

Their saving grace lay in the fact that the abandoned factory was littered with heavy machinery – plenty of things to serve as sturdy bulwarks. He saw heads pop back up and the shine of lance-carbines through the haze of smoke, one after another as they appeared from their refuges. A small shudder of relief passed through him and he shifted his gaze to where Brock had been standing.

The console the four men had been gathered around now sat as little more than a smoking pile of slag, utterly destroyed by the blast. Around it were three bodies. He could tell that two of the men were dead, but the third stirred, his agonized groan echoing out across the room. Darien's brow furrowed in confusion. Of Tannis Brock there was no sign.

Then he heard the sudden roar of gunfire. An instant later a dozen shots thudded into the body of the injured man, killing him instantly.

His eyes darted to the muzzle flash and he saw the big, dark figure leaning out from behind a six-foot long, balloon-wheeled equipment hauler. Coils of smoke wafted off the coat he wore and Darien realised that it must have been lined with some kind of fireproof material. The bomb hadn't needed to kill – only to distract.

With his companions dead, Brock took off, shoving the bulky hauler along beside him and using the long shallow cuboid as a mobile barricade as he spat bursts of fire in all directions from his gun. Twice Darien had to jerk back behind the conveyor before deciding this had gone far enough.

"Open fire!" he roared, rising up and taking aim. Brock ducked as he squeezed the trigger. Darien made a minute adjustment to his aim even as the lance kicked from its chamber, but the margins for error were tiny, and his shot ricocheted harmlessly off the lip of the hauler.

The hulking piece of machinery was picking up speed and as the other operatives started firing, Brock heaved himself up and into the protective trough, vanishing from sight. The hauler rumbled along and Darien realised with a pang of both frustration and begrudging admiration what Brock's plan was. The man had aimed the hauler at the nearest door and he was going to ride it all the way there.

"Scaffing piece of..." Niamh snarled, snapping off two ineffectual shots from her carbine. Even as she did so Darien's mind was already racing. He burst from his cover, sprinting in pursuit of the out-of-control equipment hauler as it careered towards its destination. He saw Taggs moving at a run from the opposite side of the room, jinking left and right; hurdling debris as he went. The clatter of feet began to rise in a crescendo as the other operatives followed them, realising their lances couldn't penetrate the thick hide of the hauler.

He was still a good twenty yards behind when it smashed into the doorway and overturned. He caught a glimpse of Brock's dark, smouldering silhouette before the man vanished into the hallway.