Toward the Brink (Book 3) Read Online Free
period since the firing had ceased, the foamers had advanced markedly. The final four soldiers were about to jump onto the ramp when they were pulled back by the rabid mob.
Foamers threw themselves from all sides onto the rectangular ramp and scurried into the main cabin, green ooze dripping from their mouths. Fear and panic ensued, and soldiers fired wildly in the general direction of the rest of the transport plane. One burst of fire hit the operator of the rear door, who fell against the activation switch, setting the door back down again.
----
“ G et up , old man, get up!” Holmes grabbed Etheridge by the shoulder of his parka. “You lot, come with me.” He waved to the ten camouflaged men who had formed a protective circle around him and Etheridge.
“Where we headed, Holmes? What are you—?”
“Shut the fuck up or I’ll leave you here!” Holmes pulled the man he had once admired by the scruff of his shirt collar. The soldiers didn’t argue. They had heard the battle outside: the firing, the screams, the dying. If this was a chance to get out, they weren’t about to jeopardize it.
“Take him.” Holmes pushed Etheridge to one of the soldiers. He knew the solider about as well as he knew the prime minister of Moldova.
Holmes moved toward the side exit door just behind the cockpit on the left side. He gave the twenty or so members of the once all-powerful Chamber a quick glance as they huddled together as far from the rear door as possible.
“Wait, you can’t leave us here,” one called when he saw Holmes’s intention.
“Cowards!” Holmes lambasted them. “You caused all of this, and now you can suffer the consequences.”
He moved toward the cabin door, stopped, and then turned back. He pointed to the rear of the plane. “But at least you won’t have to suffer long.”
Holmes turned to the soldiers. “As soon as we go out this door, we’re going to make a run for that other plane at the edge of the runway and—”
“P-Plane? What other plane?” An inebriated Etheridge interrupted Holmes.
“No stopping no matter what, okay?” Holmes ignored the interruption, but then stared Etheridge in the face. “And if you fall down, you’ll stay there, understand?”
Holmes reached inside his jacket, took out his pistol, and slipped the magazine out. It was full, but it didn’t hurt to double-check. He pulled the slide back and put a round into the chamber—God, how that word was no longer his favorite. If they didn’t make it to the other plane and there were too many foamers, then surely a bullet to the head would be preferable to death by foamer.
That was how Holmes had reasoned most of his life: what was preferable. And what once had been preferable might not be now.
“Yes indeed, the times they are a changin ’,” he whispered as he grabbed the door lock.
----
R ed-eyed , disheveled beasts rushed up the ramp and into the belly of the C-17. Automatic gunfire mowed down the first bunch that made it inside the cabin proper. Green foam sprayed over the last of the armed men as they made their final stand. The goo reacted at once, and the soldiers coughed, gagged, and stumbled. When the last round had been fired, the feasting began.
“Don’t look back, don’t look back,” Holmes ordered. The sound alone from the rear of the plane was bad enough.
A blast of cold air came in the instant the side door of the C-17 was opened. Six armed bodyguards were sent through, dragging a barely upright Etheridge, and then Holmes halted the remainder.
“You have side arms on you?” he demanded. When two of men answered in the affirmative, Holmes instructed that they hand them over to the thirty or so members of the Chamber who cowered against the side of the fuselage near the cockpit. He had his doubts any would have what it took to put the barrel inside their mouth and pull the trigger. Even if the alternative was to be shredded by foamers, Holmes believed they would choose that over the
Foamers threw themselves from all sides onto the rectangular ramp and scurried into the main cabin, green ooze dripping from their mouths. Fear and panic ensued, and soldiers fired wildly in the general direction of the rest of the transport plane. One burst of fire hit the operator of the rear door, who fell against the activation switch, setting the door back down again.
----
“ G et up , old man, get up!” Holmes grabbed Etheridge by the shoulder of his parka. “You lot, come with me.” He waved to the ten camouflaged men who had formed a protective circle around him and Etheridge.
“Where we headed, Holmes? What are you—?”
“Shut the fuck up or I’ll leave you here!” Holmes pulled the man he had once admired by the scruff of his shirt collar. The soldiers didn’t argue. They had heard the battle outside: the firing, the screams, the dying. If this was a chance to get out, they weren’t about to jeopardize it.
“Take him.” Holmes pushed Etheridge to one of the soldiers. He knew the solider about as well as he knew the prime minister of Moldova.
Holmes moved toward the side exit door just behind the cockpit on the left side. He gave the twenty or so members of the once all-powerful Chamber a quick glance as they huddled together as far from the rear door as possible.
“Wait, you can’t leave us here,” one called when he saw Holmes’s intention.
“Cowards!” Holmes lambasted them. “You caused all of this, and now you can suffer the consequences.”
He moved toward the cabin door, stopped, and then turned back. He pointed to the rear of the plane. “But at least you won’t have to suffer long.”
Holmes turned to the soldiers. “As soon as we go out this door, we’re going to make a run for that other plane at the edge of the runway and—”
“P-Plane? What other plane?” An inebriated Etheridge interrupted Holmes.
“No stopping no matter what, okay?” Holmes ignored the interruption, but then stared Etheridge in the face. “And if you fall down, you’ll stay there, understand?”
Holmes reached inside his jacket, took out his pistol, and slipped the magazine out. It was full, but it didn’t hurt to double-check. He pulled the slide back and put a round into the chamber—God, how that word was no longer his favorite. If they didn’t make it to the other plane and there were too many foamers, then surely a bullet to the head would be preferable to death by foamer.
That was how Holmes had reasoned most of his life: what was preferable. And what once had been preferable might not be now.
“Yes indeed, the times they are a changin ’,” he whispered as he grabbed the door lock.
----
R ed-eyed , disheveled beasts rushed up the ramp and into the belly of the C-17. Automatic gunfire mowed down the first bunch that made it inside the cabin proper. Green foam sprayed over the last of the armed men as they made their final stand. The goo reacted at once, and the soldiers coughed, gagged, and stumbled. When the last round had been fired, the feasting began.
“Don’t look back, don’t look back,” Holmes ordered. The sound alone from the rear of the plane was bad enough.
A blast of cold air came in the instant the side door of the C-17 was opened. Six armed bodyguards were sent through, dragging a barely upright Etheridge, and then Holmes halted the remainder.
“You have side arms on you?” he demanded. When two of men answered in the affirmative, Holmes instructed that they hand them over to the thirty or so members of the Chamber who cowered against the side of the fuselage near the cockpit. He had his doubts any would have what it took to put the barrel inside their mouth and pull the trigger. Even if the alternative was to be shredded by foamers, Holmes believed they would choose that over the
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