Page 61 of Salt Kiss
“Goran,” I say as the elevators tick down. “Tell me what I’m walking into.”
“Still just the two. They finished dicking with the electronic lock and are walking through the doors now. If they go anywhere near the servers, it’ll trigger the weight sensors and the security doors, and they’ll be trapped. There’s a clear line of sight from the vestibule into the server room, so if they’re paying any attention, they’ll know you’re there right away.”
“Got it,” I reply. The elevator bobs to a stop on the server room floor. It dings and then opens.
“Good luck, kid,” he says, and then I’m in the corner of the elevator, carefully angling myself into the space, gun first.
Nothing.
Jacket still over my arm, I creep forward, the blue light of the vestibule glinting off the glass doors, which are currently gaping wide.
“They haven’t triggered the sensors,” I say quietly to Goran.
“They’re on the far wall, sticking to the edges of the room,” Goran says. “It’s weird. It’s like they know not to—”
A shot cracks into the glass just behind me, and I duck into the server room, the heat coming off the machines already pulling blood to my skin. Adrenaline beats through me like a drum.
“Sorry about that,” Goran says. “I didn’t see him moving until just now. He’s using the last row of servers as cover, but he’s staying on the edge. His friend is still moving away from the main door...actually, now they’re both moving away. Fucking weird.”
There are really only two reasons to move away rather than engage: to avoid fighting or to trap me. And I really, really don’t want to walk into a trap. Especially since I suspect the trap is the room itself, with its waiting aluminum cage.
I crouch and creep forward until I can see straight down an aisle between two banks of servers. Their lights blink and flash, making it hard to detect anything past the first few rows.
“They’re not moving now,” Goran says. “Everything upstairs seems to be stable, although we’re still nowhere near evacuated. So I can’t send you help, but you can take your time. Keep them pinned in place until I can send reinforcements.”
I’m relieved to hear that it’s stable upstairs—that Mark is okay without me—but something about this whole moment feels wrong. Like these guys aren’t interested in the servers at all.
So why come down here?
I creep to the next aisle, and it’s a mistake. Several gunshots ring out, going into the concrete wall where I was just crouching a second ago, one hitting a server inside its glass case and sending chunks of glass and metal and plastic everywhere. Sparks spit.
I use the cover to move to the next aisle, and then I see the second man just around the corner.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” I call. “Just set down your gun.”
He spins, already shooting at me, and oh well, it was worth a try. I run right toward him, not interested in our slow-motion game of Duck, Duck, Goose anymore, and as he’s adjusting his aim, I fling the jacket I’m carrying over my arm at his face.
In the moment it takes him to bat it away, I shoot him in the knee, like I did Sims. Unlike Sims, though, he drops his hands to catch himself as he pitches sideways, and for a moment, I think it’s going to be fine. I’ll go over there and kick his weapon away, his buddy will surrender, and by then Goran will have sent the team down—
Gunshots come from behind me, and I only move out of the way just in time, my foot almost grazing the grated floor of the central server area. Not wanting to risk the aluminum trap, I fling myself the opposite direction, turn as I do, and shoot.
It’s all luck, what happens next. I’m moving, he’s moving, it’s dim and hot and lights are blinking everywhere. But my first shot punches into his shoulder and the second, fired right after the first, drills into his temple.
The first guy, the one I just shot in the knee—that’s not luck though. I hear him move, and years of combat take over. I turn back, and by the time I see his own gun lifting, I’m squeezing the trigger.
And it’s over.
“Tristan, you okay?” I hear Goran’s voice ask. Even though it’s right there in my ear, it feels a million miles away.
The adrenaline makes everything hyperreal, so vivid that time itself feels like syrup sliding down the tines of a fork, and I’m kneeling next to the first dead man before I even really catch up to what’s happened. I’ve taken his gun, I’m searching his pockets, and—
There’s nothing. Nothing at all.
He’s wearing tactical clothing, gray and black, with all the labels removed. His pockets are empty, and he’s got nothing clipped to his belt save for a knife and a few extra magazines. And I don’t recognize him. He’s got a ruddy, broken face like a bar brawler, with hair the color of Oklahoma mud.
I’d remember him if I had seen him.
The other guy is the same story—tactical clothes with no labels, carrying nothing save for a knife and some ammo.
