Hammer of Angels: A Novel of Shadowstorm Read Online Free PDF Page B

bullet-bot. My pistol locks on and flashes “Target Acquired” in my Eyes-Up display. I pull the trigger and return fire. My lightweight practice slugs ping off the turret’s metal shell, which signals the Training Control Center,
Ya got me, pardner
.
    Brando comms, “Next station, 60 right, fly-by.”
    I spring to my feet and pump my legs for sixty feet. I look to my right. “Fly-by” is IO slang for “don’t stop moving,” so this next part will be something extra hairy. A bright light flashes from a little house on the right side of Main Street. As I turn to riddle this target, the floor plunges out from under me. I’ve got just enough momentum to grab the far lip of this insta-pit with my free hand. Then my body smacks into the pit’s wall and knocks the wind out of me.
    I hang there for a moment, gasping. My partner comms, “Scarlet, hurry! We’ve got another station to get through and only thirty seconds to do it.”
    That’s easy for you to say, Darwin.
I pull myself out of the pit and wheeze on down the road.
    â€œOkay, last one. Three hundred straight ahead, top speed.”
    I mentally activate my sidearm’s safeties so she won’t accidentally fire as I swing my arms as fast as I can. My sneakers slap the floor and my hair blows behind me as I race up to twenty-something miles per hour. I can hit the high thirties with Madrenaline in my blood, but Brando and I are supposed to be able to complete this training sequence without using my Enhances. Each run-through is different, and I’ve screwed it up three times today. This is the closest we’ve gotten to completing it.
    Brando comms, “Twenty seconds remaining!”
    Ahead of me is a clear path to the finish line. All I need to do is jog to it and—
    Wrong.
    Three bullet-bots fall from the roof in front of me. They bounce up and down on long rubber cables. Each bot emits a thin red laser beam. All three beams point at my chest, and the bots fire a volley of rubber bullets.
    I hold Li’l Bertha in front of me while I leap away from the bouncy-bots’ bullets and laser beams. Her target indicator is blank.
    â€œDarwin, what’s happened? Why can’t my pistol get a lock?”
    â€œThey’ve got jammers. You’ll have to—”
    I charge the leftmost bot.
    â€œâ€”find a way around them.”
    The left bot locks on to me as it swings to the bottom of its arc. I throw myself at it and grab the bungee cord above its body. The bot hauls me off the ground, and I sail up toward the roof.
    I swing like Tarzan and wrap my bot’s cord around the other two cables before I drop off at the bottom of the next bounce. The bots are still live, but now they can only point in a fixed direction. I avoid the static laser beams and cross the finish line with less than a second to go.
    â€œYes!”
Brando shouts. “Made it!”
    I flop onto my back to catch my breath. The view from Camp Gaspy shows a very high, curved roof supported by metal trusses. It’s like a gargantuan airplane hangar.
    â€œTerrific,” my partner comms. “Now for the driving test.”
    Sure. Whatever.
“Gimme a minute,” I comm. It takes a minute, anyway, since he has to bring the car around.
    A vehicle coasts up next to me. I peel myself off the ground. Oh, God, I wish I could use Madrenaline. Brando switches to the passenger seat, and I hop in behind the wheel. Something must have happened to our previous training vehicle, which was a fucked-up black-and-white Dodge sedan, like a former police cruiser. This new car, a white BMW two-seater convertible, is quite a hot little number. The relatively few dents and scrapes tell me this sexy momma hasn’t seen much track time here yet. While I coast to the start line, I take in the gorgeous tan interior.
    My partner sees how impressed I am with our new wheels and says, “Drug bust.”
    Ah, of