Alex spanned four steps with one leap and emerged aft of the main deck lounge. Ahead of her, she could see four men around the Sikorsky. They were removing the tethers for escape.

Mad with rage and combat hormones, she shouted at the top of her voice, "Lockheart!"

The men didn't stop what they were doing, except one. He stood and returned her stare.

"Lockheart!"

She dropped her SMG by her side, one hand found and depressed the bicep actuator. Warm liquid dripped from her fingers. A chilling shock coursed through her spine as a voltage aligned the molecules of the liquid into hardened polymers.

Lockheart saw the blades from his distance and tapped one of his men on the shoulder while the others continued working to release the gyrodyne. Lockheart's bodyguard stepped forward, producing a pistol from his jacket. Walking toward her, he fired off repeated rounds, one striking Alex on the shoulder. The shot may have jerked her torso back but she didn't flinch, combat steroids couching her pain.

Instead, she sprinted toward them, uncaring of the rounds slicing through the air inches from her torso and head. Then she did a thing only a Cerberus could do. Alex leaped high in the air as if she were in lunar gravity. Her feet could have stood on a regulation basketball hoop. For an instant, the shooter watched in shocked amazement, his eyes bulbous, forgetting why he was there.

She didn't. She stuck her landing, rolled and plunged all ten talons into his abdomen. The man heaved and pitched forward, groaning his death knell.

She tossed him aside. And faced Lockheart.

The Sandman didn't cower as she'd hoped.

"A Cerberus at last," Lockheart said, impressed yet unflinching. "You must be the famous Alexis Marlboro, hard to kill."

"You killed my lover," Alex said calmly, her plunging wet eyes locked onto his. Her teeth gnashed and grind. "Fed her to acid." She panted, moving closer. "I will tear you apart."

Knowing it was futile to escape, his men had stopped working on the heli and had produced their guns. But no one fired.

"Drop your weapons," Papa's voice bellowed from behind Alex. He, Rotter, and Warchild came out of the club lounge compartment at the same time, their SMGs facing down Lockheart's group. Lockheart's men did as ordered.

Cornered and alone, Lockheart retreated a few paces. "I have the Program. I have Carnivora. Kill me and you will all die."

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

"Take it to hell." She gave him an infernal grin for someone with nothing to lose. Her arms lifted, clawed hands poised toward Lockheart.

Just then, something from behind her, something large and heavy, tackled her. She crashed to the ground with this mass atop her back. In a split second, she realized it was Warchild.

Warchild -- you motherfu --.

She struggled but he pinned her and splayed her arms to keep her lethal claws at bay. He groped her left arm and found the button beneath her skin. As his fingers depressed the mechanical trigger, her claws dematerialized into liquid, spilling onto the wooden deck.

She screamed murder at him. But he wasn't alone. Worse, Papa and Rotter stood by letting this happened. Traitors!

"I can't let you kill him," Warchild said as if his explanation would soothe her rage. "He's got the ace and we need it."

"Fuck you!"

"Calm the hell down."

"I'll calm when he dies. Let me have him!"

"I'm glad someone's sensible," Lockheart said while looking down at her, an amused grin on his face.

"You shut up," Papa snapped, training his submachine gun on him. "I wouldn't mind killing you myself . . . But you're gonna give up the chip."

Lockheart glanced at a subdued Alex.

"A trade then. Your life for Carnivora," Papa said. "You can get in that boat and disappear to wherever you crawled out from."

"Do as he says," Warchild groaned, holding Alex still.

"Not on your life," Lockheart said. "I came here to make a deal with Gulf-Con and that's what I'm going to do."

"Then we all die."

"Get off me, asshole," Alex hissed, the bullet wound in her shoulder squeezed and bled.

At that moment, the earbuds of every Cerberus buzzed.

"Cactus One-Five on approach for pickup."

Zero time.

"Problem solved," Rotter said while covering Lockheart's men. "We take him with us and sort it out later."

"Sort what? You think I carry it with me?"

"Absolutely," Papa sneered. "You were scurrying out of here like a rat with cheese."

Lockheart laughed. "You think the drive is on this ship? You are denser than I give you credit for."

Papa looked at Rotter, a duped expression on his face. Warchild craned his neck at them both, confused. One thing for sure, even without the ace, Lockheart had the winning hand.

A second squawk sounded, "Straydog, One-Five, be advised we have a bogey vectoring your way --"

The link went dead.

"Say again One-Five," Papa cued the radio but only static returned. He looked skyward into the black sky and saw nothing. Then they heard a low whine, distinct enough over the moderate blow. Alex and those of Cerberus knew the familiar sound, something they had heard before, had even ridden in one -- a stealth dropship.

A search beam from above, brighter than the sun, hammered their vision. And from the black sky, an armored assault squad crashed onto the deck along the aft section, a dozen, maybe more. Half the force went to take the ship's interior, the other half secured the helipad and everyone on it.

Beams of fork lightning struck several of Lockheart's men. They fell in violent spasms until they were exhausted and became still. One charge hit Lockheart in the chest and he keeled over in a fit of seizures. They were hit by military tasers, more robust than the commercial kinds, designed to achieve immediate neuromuscular incapacitation.

Papa glanced back at Rotter. A thought passed between them, Alex saw. Before she could say a word, a charge hit Warchild on his back, putting him and Alex into tremulous convulsions. Before blacking out, Alex saw them sprinting toward the port side of the ship to swan dive three stories into the black water.