He counted at least a dozen.

“What are they?” Jason asked.

Harrington answered. “Trouble.”

5:09 P.M.

Gray lay on his stomach in pitch-darkness, an unnerving experience considering the harsh life found in this hellish landscape. A few yards off, Kowalski breathed heavily, plainly not any happier.

After climbing the trestles to the bridge, Gray had insisted they go dark, clicking off his IR illuminator. He didn’t want to alert the approaching CAAT of their presence on this side of the river. The two of them crawled blindly on their hands and knees until they found a cluster of rocks twenty yards from the bridge, then went into hiding. They also coated their bodies with algal muck to reduce their body heat signatures.

In the darkness, creatures skittered across his skin or buzzed around his face, likely drawn by the smell of his sweat and the blood dripping from his scalp. Some bit; others stung. He did his best to swipe them away.

Luckily they didn’t have long to wait.

The CAAT came blazing forward, brightly enough that Gray shifted his night-vision goggles off his eyes.

The treads tore across the terrain, skidding slightly as the vehicle made a sharp turn at the bridge, stopping at the river’s edge.

After a moment, the cabin door on the passenger side popped open. A figure climbed out and rolled expertly over the treads, dropping lightly to the ground. He lifted a set of night-vision goggles and stared down at the river, then across to the other side.

“Got three targets!” the man shouted in a British accent. “On the move . . . headed toward the Back Door.”

The driver swore. “Bloody bastards got nine lives.”

The commando outside studied the river. “Sir, the current looks too treacherous to risk the CAAT. Could pull us under.”

“Understood.” The driver sounded like the squad leader, his words flavored with a distinct Scottish brogue. He called to another teammate. “Cooper, grab the AWM. Clean this mess up.”

Gray tensed. AWM likely stood for Arctic Warfare Magnum, a cold-weather version of a common British sniper rifle. They were planning on picking the others off.

Gray waited until a second man exited the same door. Once on the ground, the commando slapped a box magazine into his rifle and lifted the rifle to his shoulder, adjusting the sight.

“No worries, sir,” he announced. “They’re all out in the open. Easy shots all around.”

Same here.

“Now,” Gray whispered, leaping forward.

Kowalski fired from his right side. His machine gun chattered and rounds ripped through the sniper’s chest. Even before his body fell, Kowalski swung his gun and took out the commando at the bridge, blasting him into the river.

Gray sprinted to the CAAT and lunged at the open door. He fired his DSR point-blank into the confined space of the vehicle’s cabin, a deafening barrage of sonic bullets.

As cries erupted inside, he rolled into the interior.

Before Gray could stop him, the driver bailed out the far side, plainly dazed, but with enough wits about him to expect such a follow-up attack. Another wasn’t so quick. Gray planted a dagger through the man’s throat and twisted. As he yanked the blade free, the man choked, clawing at his neck, then collapsed.

Gray searched the remainder of the cabin.

Empty.

So only the four.

Through the windshield, he saw the squad leader sprinting along the riverbank, smartly keeping the CAAT’s bulk between him and where Kowalski was firing. While running, the commando struggled to free a radio.

If he reached his superior, alerted him of the attack, any hope of using the CAAT as a Trojan horse to get close to Wright would be gone.

Gray jumped out the driver’s door and lifted his rifle, but he knew the distance was too great to do much good. Likewise, Kowalski came charging around the back of the CAAT, machine gun in his arms, dragging a belt of rounds.

The squad leader already had the radio to his lips.

Too late.

Then something dark snapped out of the river, wrapped around the man’s waist, and yanked him off the bank. He vanished into the water with a thrashing splash.

Gray had recognized that pincer-lined tentacle. The gunfire—both sonic and regular—must have drawn the beast to the shoreline here. Apparently giving that monster a hot foot earlier had not only shocked it but also pissed it off.

Even in Hell, revenge is sweet.

5:11 P.M.

Jason ran alongside Stella and her father. He had heard the firefight break out across the river, but he dared not take his focus off the closing pack of predators in order to check on Gray and Kowalski.

With the DSR locked to his shoulder, he shielded Stella and her father. He took potshots at the beasts, but the sonic rounds only seemed to scatter the pack temporarily, buying them an extra few seconds. Worst of all, the power meter on the side of his rifle had flickered into the red as he fired repeatedly.

Almost out of juice.

“I’ll lead them off,” Jason gasped, his boots heavy with mud and algae. “You two make for the Back Door.”

He slowed, waving them toward the far wall.

“Go, father.” Stella pushed the professor forward, while slipping out a knife from her belt. “I’ll help Jason.”

“We stay together,” Harrington said, stopping with them, breathing heavily. “Leox depilis are like their African lion counterparts. They try to split off the weak. And besides, I don’t think I could run the rest of the way. We’ll make our stand here.”

Jason fired another shot, hitting the lead Leox, which reacted as if struck in the snout with a baseball bat. The others jerked to the left and right, slowing until their assaulted pack member could recover his senses.

Must be the leader.

By now, Jason had gotten a good look at them. Their muscular shoulders stood waist-high, their hairless skin oiled in black, almost iridescent under the IR beam’s glow. Their heads were wolfishly long, with jaws hinged near the back of their skulls, allowing them to open their dagger-lined maws disturbingly wide, reminding him of photos of the now-extinct thylacine, the Tasmanian tiger.

A hair-raising howl burst from the throat of the pack leader, plainly a challenge. Apparently, in this dark world, the louder you shouted, the bigger your balls.

The pack closed ranks to either side, stalking more cautiously forward now, preparing to close the last of the distance.

Jason lifted his rifle, which slowed the leader.

Smart . . . he recognizes the threat.

Jason’s only hope was that at closer range the sonic weapon would do more harm, encourage the pack to go after easier prey. A glance to his rifle’s power meter suggested he had only one shot left, so he had better make it count, which meant letting the pack get as close as possible before firing.

Tags: James Rollins Sigma Force Thriller
Source: readsnovelonline.net