Loralynn Kennakris 2: The Morning Which Breaks Read Online Free PDF Page A

either side of the mezzanine; the window to the right overlooked the compound and the building’s flat second-story roof, the one on the left some sloping ground outside the compound to the east. Going out the east window gave him the best chance of linking up with Bravo but the terrain was open that way—too open for them to have much of a chance. Whoever they were up against—it couldn’t just be Mankho’s people and probably not even Lacaille’s meager military; their ground forces were no better than glorified cops—there were way too many of them and they were way too well equipped. But dropping into the compound might be worse.
    Carson scurried to the right-hand window in an almost inhuman crouch, remarkably low to the floor. Moments later he was back, skidding the last few feet. “Compound’s full of runnin’ fucks but I saw three fireteams coverin’ this building. There’s most of a company forming up by the gate and I think they’re settin’ up mortars.”
    Shit . “You see anything uptown?” His use of the codename for Bravo’s position was reflexive.
    “Not really. Just some flashes. Could be they’re sendin’ up seekers.”
    Shit , he repeated inwardly, eyes not leaving the stairwell. They couldn’t go out the windows; remaining in the building bought them less than nothing. That left the—“Roof?”
    “Crack it?” Carson asked. Gomez had no idea how thick it was or exactly what it was made of, but it looked like plasticrete, which was not designed to be blast-proof. And armor-glass was tough stuff. Two charges, though—all that he and Carson had between them—wouldn’t do it. “We’ll need the charges Mates had.”
    “I’ll get ‘em,” Carson said without hesitation.
    Gomez jerked his head sideways. “Go.”
    It took Carson a full minute longer to retrieve the charges than it should have and as he returned, he shut the door with exaggerated care. Crawling up to Gomez, he handed over Mates’ charges without a word. Gomez didn’t ask what the delay had been. Nor did he ask if Carson still had his trauma kit. All he said was, “We gotta clear that stairwell.”
    “You want me to do it?” Carson’s voice was strangely tight. “Bad angle for grenades.”
    “No,” Gomez answered, his tone clipped. If only he had a couple of APS mines—if only he had a lot of things . . . “We’ll lob it.”
    “Will it arm?”
    “We’ll find out.” Grenades were armed by launch shock—it made them safer to handle—but he thought a good hard rap might do the trick. Gomez selected an HE variant and set it to a five - second delay, wishing he could risk using an incendiary. But in this confined space—a space they had to occupy for at least another few minutes . . . bad idea . He ejected the grenade into his hand. “Ready?”
    Carson nodded. Gomez swung the grenade in an overhand arc and slammed it against the bare floor as hard as he could. The arming ring blinked red.
    “Sweet!”
    Allowing himself the trace of a grin, Gomez hooked it towards the stairwell. It bounced off the far wall and rattled down the steps. Two seconds later a fiery jet erupted through the opening. The whole building shook and then the stairwell collapsed in a fountain of dust and smoking debris.
    “That oughta choke the bastards,” Carson cackled as they climbed the walls. For a few minutes maybe , Gomez thought as he placed his charges. Carson placed his as well, making a rough square a meter and a half on each side, a little out from the corner. They pulled back and Gomez set them off with a typical dull, flat pop. Cracks appeared, chips rained down. That was all. Swearing, Gomez pulled the plasma knife from his thigh pocket and probed the widest crevice, a good arm’s length out. The ceiling was plasticrete, a good fifteen centimeters thick; it sparked and smoked as the blade burned into it. More chips flew and then chunks began to fall. Carson had his knife out too, prying at a fissure nearer the wall,