He ran down a gully and burst out onto the road around the bend from the battle zone, swapping in a new drum for his shotgun. A Fixer in full armor came out of nowhere and swatted the weapon from his hand, and the brutal impact was so intense that it sent Bunny sprawling.

The Fixer laughed loudly and wickedly, and as Bunny scrambled to his feet, he saw that the man’s eyes were turning a weird and dangerous red. R-33 was already at work, sending that deadly mix of chemicals that powered him up and drove him to madness and rage.

“Oh shit!” cried Bunny as the man charged at him, raising an AK-47. Bunny dived for cover, rolled, and came up with his handgun in a two-handed grip, firing center mass. The bullets barely staggered the Fixer, who burned through half a mag trying to kill him. But Bunny was moving, using trees as cover, letting their trunks soak up the rounds as he took running potshots, hoping to get a head shot.

On the far side of the truck, Mia was running low at the bottom of a rain gutter, swapping a new magazine in, and then coming up at an angle that put one of the semi’s double rear tires between her and the shooters. She saw a foot sticking out past the tires and blew it off with a three-round burst.

As she ran, there was a sound that made her blood run cold. It was a mechanical noise like a hydraulic loader powering up. A moment later, one of the crates burst apart as a K-110 fighting machine rose up. It spun toward her, and the six barrels of the minigun whined as they spun, sending a barrage of death at Mia.

CHAPTER 163

EAST TEXAS CONVENTION CENTER

LABORDE, TEXAS

I glanced around the room, and suddenly everything looked like a threat.

All those big men in concealing rain slickers and cowboy hats—were they Fixers? Were they with the New Founding Fathers? The swirling crowds held umbrellas that I knew from spy craft could conceal guns and knives. I knew the attendees had come in through metal detectors, but I also knew how subtle Santoro was in his long game. There was every chance he could have applied his cruel techniques of coercion to force them to allow Kuga’s killers in through security. Hell, maybe the event staff itself was under Santoro’s thumb. I’d learned the hard way that no one is safe from that little murderous bastard.

My thoughts were so tangled that I was not paying sufficient attention to the droning voice over the PA system, but the sudden applause smacked me back to full awareness. I turned to see lines of well-dressed men and women filing out of doors on either side of the dais. Local and state police, along with a mix of Secret Service agents, stood facing the crowd, eyes watching.