The good people of Mechanical and Supply had been running and fighting for over a dozen levels Marck silently begged the men above to stop, to give them a chance to rest, but the boots and the bullets kept coming. Marck stayed away from the outer railing, away from the aim of the shooters who hounded them from the landings above with their smoothly firing rifles. Muffled shots rang out from above, followed by the piercing zing of bullets striking steel-only steel, thank God. He concentrated on this rather than the past, tried not to think of the explosion that had taken his friends, had wrecked their plans, had engulfed any chance at justice. He was a long way from the safety of the down deep-and he desperately wanted to find his wife. Marck hurried down the steps, wounded and afraid. It had gone off right in front of him, had taken his hearing as it took her life.Īnd Knox, that stout and unmovable head of Mechanical-his boss, his good friend-gone. It was the last one, the one he didn’t see coming, the one that spilled from the hands of that small gray woman from Supply. And it wasn’t the second bomb, the one Knox had lobbed deep into the heart of their enemy’s den. Not the one that had peeled open the doors of IT-he had been ready for that one, had hunkered down with the rest. The ringing in his ears drowned out most of the noise. He could barely hear the screams all around him: the wails from the wounded as they were half-dragged down the steps, the horrified cries from the curious crowds on every landing who witnessed their passage, or the shouts of promised violence from the men chasing him and the rest of his mechanics from level to level. Marck stumbled down the great stairway, his hand sliding against the cool railing, a rifle tucked under his arm, his boots slipping in blood.
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