“How fast are the wolves?”
“You want to use them as bait?”
“A distraction. We need something with body heat and a heartbeat to anchor the illusion. If they can buy us thirty seconds, they can disengage. The constructs will not leave the grounds. Woodward wouldn’t want to open himself up to the liability of accidentally injuring civilians.”
He felt a small pang of guilt. Before leaving MII, he had picked up the backpack he usually carried on covert missions. It waited in the backseat now, and inside it were fivebouncers, small robotic gadgets designed specifically to mislead targeting sensors. The first set was a gift from Linus Duncan, but now MII bought them on a regular basis. They could use thebouncersto misdirect the constructs, but he didn’t want to. He had a feeling they would need them, especially if things went to shit. And in his experience, things could always go to shit.
Diana frowned. “Sending the wolves against that many constructs means certain death.”
“What if I reduce their numbers?”
“How?”
He turned back to the small parking lot where the Yukon waited. The rear hatch rose at his touch. He keyed the combination into the reinforced locker in the back. The top popped up half an inch. He grasped the panel, pulled it toward him until it slid free, set it aside, and retrieved a portable rocket launcher.
Diana looked at the collection of firearms, grenades, and ammo boxes inside the locker. Her mouth hung open.
For some reason, he felt ridiculously pleased with himself.
She turned and pointed at the contents of the locker.
He hid a grin and shrugged.
“Were you planning on taking over a small country?”
“I anticipated complications.”
The shock in her eyes was so satisfying. He almost told her that MII had at least three of these vehicles, same loadout, same armor and run-flat tires, in every satellite office. Dallas, San Antonio, Austin, OKC, Amarillo, Los Angeles, Chicago, Atlanta… This one had come from Austin. Magic, no magic, Minor or Prime, bullets didn’t care.
Instead, he kept his expression casual. “Would you like to pick something out? I can recommend a suitable firearm…”
She reached into the cargo area and pulled out a tactical short sword. She hefted the broad black blade and spun it in her hand like it weighed nothing.
Augustine smiled. She grinned back, and it was all teeth.
[ 7 ]
The PGM-210, nicknamed the Lance, was a step-up from the FGM-148 Javelin. The pinnacle of portable “fire-and-forget” anti-tank weaponry, it spat out guided Archangel missiles—tandem-charge warheads with official ranges of two point eight kilometers. In practice, a skilled user could take out targets up to four kilometers away.
It was only eight hundred meters between them and the target below. Augustine planted himself, sitting cross-legged in the dirt, the Lance resting on his shoulder.
“3…2...1…”
Diana had asked him to give her a count. The wolves didn’t react well to sudden loud noises.
“Fire.”
He squeezed the trigger.
The Lance spat the warhead with a crack. The small missile rocketed toward the compound, its fire trail lighting up the night. The little artificial star fell in the middle of the construct huddle and exploded.
BOOM!
A plume of dark smoke erupted.
The tops of the towers split, and twin turrets rose up, turning.
“Fire.”
