I burst through the stairwell door and onto an overhead catwalk. My heart jackhammers against my ribs. Everything hurts: my side where a bullet grazed me, my arm where shrapnel bit deep, the old wounds Roger stitched and braced together back at the clinic. Each breath rattles in my chest, but adrenaline drives me forward.
Below, the warehouse is a warzone of shadows and bodies. The echo of gunfire still rings in my ears. My eyes adjust to the dim light filtering from hanging lamps and emergency LEDs. High above, the rain has found its way through holes in the dilapidated roof, pattering onto the concrete floor far beneath me.
Shouts rise from down in the throne room. They're regrouping, boots scuffing as they fan out.
"He's in the rafters!" a voice barks from below. Flashlight beams slice up into the gloom, probing for me. I press my back to a rusted support column, catch my breath.
My fingers tighten around the stolen AKR-20 rifle. It's slick with sweat and someone else's blood. Five minutes ago I was as good as dead. Now I'm dangerously alive, I should be dead days ago.
Lightning flickers through a hole in the roof, illuminating the cavernous interior in a brief electric wash. In that stutter-flash, I spot movement on an opposite catwalk. A figure with a long silhouette taking position.
A sniper?
I drop to a crouch just as a high-velocity round pings off a beam inches above my head. Metal fragments rain down. They've got me pinned pretty damn quick.
I grit my teeth and crawl low, cradling the rifle. My cybernetic left arm trembles as I bear weight on it. That arm's not at full strength; I feel it lag, the fingers slow to respond as I grip the foregrip of the AKR-20.
Come on, you piece of junk. Just hold together a little longer.
Another shot cracks out, punching through sheet metal with a clang that reverberates through the rafters.
I need to move.
Staying low, I scuttle along the catwalk. The lattice of metal shakes with every step. Thirty feet below, I glimpse at least half a dozen mercs spreading out on the ground level, sweeping their weapons upward.
Muzzle flashes bloom as they spray suppressing fire, hoping to get lucky. Bullets tear through thin air, smash into ductwork, zing off pipes. One round sparks off the railing near my ankle. I pull back, heart in my throat. They're turning this catwalk into a killing box.
Up ahead, I spot an old maintenance ladder bolted to a pillar, leading further up toward the roof's skeletal support struts. Up or across? Neither is great.
Up might give me a way onto the roof, maybe an escape if there's a hatch. Across the catwalk would lead to the other side of the warehouse, maybe toward Silvio's old offices. The thought of Silvio sends a hot spike of anger through my veins. I see again the image of him thrashing against his bonds on that video screen, the gunshot, the mist of blood. My jaw clenches so hard my teeth groan. Snake-Oil wanted me to watch Silvio die.
That son of a bitch is going to pay for that… but not if I die here first.
A burst of static crackles in my HUD, dragging me back to the present. The scrambler module on my belt is still active, emitting its protective field against the netrunner who tried to fry me earlier.
How long has it been? Two, three minutes since I flipped it on? The battery indicator in my lens display is flashing amber, time's running out on that safety net. I curse under my breath. If that hacker gets through, they'll flood my neural implant with hell. I have to take them out before the scrambler fails.
I recall the brief layout I memorized years ago surveillance hub was up here on the second level catwalks, just above the throne room. If Snake-Oil's crew has a netrunner working, they're likely holed up in that hub, jacked into the system. That'll be my target. Cut off the head, or in this case, the brain.
I peer around the column. Another muzzle flash from the far catwalk, sniper's still scanning. I need to deal with him first. I inhale, then roll out from cover in one swift motion, raising the AKR-20 to my shoulder. My augmented optics calibrate on instinct, enhancing the low light just enough. There a shadow perched behind a rusted railing, the glint of a scope.
I fire a quick three-round burst. The muzzle flash lights up my position but my shots find their mark. A startled cry echoes as the sniper's silhouette jerks back, collapsing against the railing.
Almost immediately, retaliatory fire chews up the catwalk around me. I duck and sprint, using the chaos to move. Boots clang on metal as I race along the narrow walkway. The catwalk trembles under the sudden shift of weight.
Below, voices shout, "Up there! Light him up!" and a hail of bullets follows. I zigzag, hunching low. Rounds rip through sheet metal and ancient duct hoses, raining debris. A chunk of grated floor gives way under a heavy round, and I leap over the newly formed gap, landing hard on the other side. Pain lances up my bad leg. Roger's brace absorbs some, but not all. I bite back a yell.
At the catwalk's end is a junction: one path leads toward the front of the warehouse another veers back toward the center, where I suspect the surveillance hub is located. That second path is shrouded in darkness except for the faint glow of monitors through a small window. Bingo. The netrunner must be there.
I shoulder the rifle and try the direct approach. The narrow corridor of the catwalk channels me straight toward a door marked with peeling letters: "SECURITY".
Inside, I catch the flicker of multiple screens. I also hear frantic tapping someone working a deck, muttering curses. "Come on, come on… I almost have him…" They don't know I'm this close.
I flatten myself against the wall next to the door, making sure to stay out of sight. My heart thuds against my ribs. The scrambler on my belt suddenly emits a warning buzz, signal interference rising. I glimpse my HUD; a red targeting reticle is blinking. The netrunner's zeroing in on my neural link. They're close to breaking through my scramble field. A bead of sweat slides into my eye. It's now or never.
I take a breath and kick the door open, swinging the AKR-20 inside.