Tasìa's eyes focused on the display.

  "What are you waiting for?" asked Lodi, sounding anxious. She needed him to keep his cool.

  "Determining who is the gallo puntero amongst the six of them," Tasìa said in a soft, calm tone. "As soon as we head in, he will orchestrate the response. If we take him out, it gives us an advantage."

  She placed her thumb on the ground by the holographic projection of one Al-Majhul operator to adjust the perspective so she could see through an extrapolation based upon his eye view.

  "This one is the only one with a sightline on the doorway and all four of the other operators."

  Tasìa grimaced to herself. If she was still jacked into the Modality, she would not be terribly concerned about their response to her breach. She would have vector calculated the ricochet of a flashbang right into his rubber mask-covered face from where she currently stood and, in a split instant, drilled a .357 bullet into his forehead.

  But she now had to assume the Al-Majhul's reflexes were on equal footing with her own, and they would light her up in the split second she threw herself through the entranceway.

  If she tossed a couple of flashbangs through the doorway, she also assumed they were experienced enough in combat to know it was meant as a distraction and keep their fire focused on the breach entry point.

  Their setup was designed to buy Fiona time. What made the double agent worth their risk?

  A question for later.

  Alright, mis perdedores, it's time.

  "Lodi, do you have good reflexes?"

  He blinked rapidly with his eyebrows raised.

  "You want me to . . ."

  Tasìa shook her head. Annebél winked at her as the brawler stifled a chuckle. Gertrod appeared worried for his more active brother but stayed fixed to the wounded one's side, hand balled in hand to keep the later brother calm.

  "You're staying put. When I'm in, I want you and Annebél to lay down suppressed fire straight through the doorway to keep the operators bound to the other side, so they can't pick me off from a distance. But right now, I am going to count to five; when you anticipate my 'three,' hit that disengage button on the bottom left of the screen."

  "Got it," he said with a nod.

  "One . . . Two . . . Three . . . Four . . . Five."

  With a sudden burst run, Tasìa dove in as her 50 Split probe smashed on the floor deeper in the pumphouse, echoing in a loud clang from behind the six Al-Majhul operators.

  She rolled into her dive onto the cement floor and squat jumped up as she eyed her target. He was recovering quickly from the distraction.

  She would have to delay that shot.

  Tasìa kicked the floor with her right boot and twisted to the left. The gallo puntero got off two shots, aiming at the floor where she was just at with his Strykrr ten-gauge heavy carbine.

  She kicked the floor again with the heels of her Veronicas to get airborne, thrusting straight back; it helped her line up the aim of her .357 Colt Clastic before she took the top of the gallo puntero's cranium off.

  To her right, a steady stream of live rounds slammed the air. It almost entirely obscured the sound of another gun being fired off.

  Asphalt chipped off the floor in an arch that sought her out.

  Fuck!

  Now she heard the distinct rattle of a full-auto AK-47 smacking the air.

  Tasìa scrambled. She had memorized the layout from the holographic display and dove behind a set dozen fifty-five-gallon drums holding industrial lubricant.

  Full auto fire from three rifles ripped into the barrels. Tops hinged off, and white gel splattered through indentures that grew in size as bullets ceaselessly ripped into the drums.

  She knew from experience with the machine lubricant brand that it burned like hell on contact and could permanently disfigure her if the barrels collapsed above her.

  Tasìa rolled away, but remaining in line, from the barrels to avoid exposure. It was her only option. They would be ready for her attempt to lunge out of cover if she chose that path of action.

  In fact, the stomp of boots gave away the position of one operator who was moving up to spot her. This one had not considered she would roll towards the entrance wall away from them, for there was nothing that would provide her with cover there.

  Clad in a long gray leather jacket and filter mask just like the gallo she shot, the Al-Majhul operative leaned against a long horizontal window.

  Tasìa had a good view of his side profile. The filter mask was strapped to the kind of Kevlar combat torso armor that was custom molded to a soldier's physique.

  The filter mask was more heavily constructed than that of the gallo puntero's own. Customarily, expeditionary pointmen traded off an increase in vulnerability for greater sighting capability in their choice of headgear.

  The .357 Colt Clastic revolver would only be effective against points of vulnerability that the need for mobility created—boots at the ankles, back of the knees, inner elbows, and the sides of the throat on the neck swivel.

  Modality-driven Tasìa could make the shot with no problem, but in her current condition, her odds were slim.

  Tasìa switched out the .357 for the .50 Split. Reluctant she was to use the explosive drones, as she only had two left in her inventory, and the explosion type that remained in her inventory created a wave burst of chemical burning shrapnel that could damage equipment vital to the pumphouse operation.

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  But nonaction would get her killed in a few seconds as the fifty-five gallon drums were teetering on collapse, exposing her to live fire.

  She had a plan.

  Tasìa kicked against the wall, pushing herself momentously out of cover where at least the one forward operative could put eyeballs on her, but her distance away from the barrels surprised him.

  Tasìa aimed for the left side of his throat; she got a bead locked, but then her tits bumped the ground and threw her rifle barrel to point up towards the long-vaulted ceiling.

  Well, shit on me!

  That kind of miscalculation would not have occurred under the influence of the Modality, she told herself.

  The Al-Majhul operator shot his AK-47 into the air above her before stopping to countermand the heavy recoil. He lowered his aim to exact his sights on her. To her eyes witnessing this, it appeared he was trained to use the weapon primarily for suppressive fire, but the Al-Majhul operator's muscle memory worked against him in this instance.

  While this occurred, and now with little choice about it, Tasìa drew the 50 Split in a downward arch even with the floor and shot at the operator's boots. The .50 caliber projectile shattered through the hard armor and forced him to slam into the floor.

  He screamed with a deep and long-held yelp.

  Tasìa took a second shot that shattered the window. She would take her chance and dive into the control room.

  The barrels finally ruptured with the shimmery pearlescent gel, now near smoothly fluid from the barrage of gunfire, cascading on the floor in a pool that spread out quickly.

  Bullets from the other Al-Majhul operators sought her out once more.

  Tasìa flipped the load-out switch to dummy mode and triggered the under barrel. The drone disc smacked the pool of lubricant gel and exploded on impact.

  She spread herself low against the floor as metal debris from the barrels flew in all directions. Micro ball bearings from the drone slammed onto the downed operative's face mask and chest guard before exploding.

  Remarkably, the armored assembly remained intact. Still, the Al-Majhul operator clasped at his head with one hand. The other gripped at grooves in the concrete surface to balance his mad, spastic scramble against the floor.

  His left boot dangled, suggesting mere muscle tendons kept it from severing completely.

  As debris rained down, the four remaining uninjured operators had taken cover.

  Tasìa took advantage of this. She ran towards the broken window and used the crotch of the downed operative to launch herself into the control room, only to find her head slamming against the window panel, knocking her momentarily senseless.

  The 50 Split flipped loose on the floor and bounced away from her.

  The Al-Majhul operator, in spite of his discomfort, had managed to grip her foot with his free hand. Tasìa tried to twist away from his grip, unsuccessfully, for that moment she still lacked both strength and full cognition.

  As she writhed in struggle, he used his free hand to remove her stiletto. Soon that was followed by a white heat that surged up her left buttock. The stab wound released a hold on her senses with outstanding clarity.

  Tasìa turned to assess just how fucked she was now.

  He was going to attempt a coup de grace slash at her femoral artery that would kill her through quick bleed out. She fought against the grip he held on her right shin, but his strength was much more than her own.

  From sheer fear, Tasìa's unfiltered adrenaline set in. It felt crude compared to a Modality-directed surge, but time did slow, moving in a jitter forward.

  His right arm was set now in high arch with the stiletto bearing down on her. The outstretched profile exposed a nail-length slit in his mask at the jaw level where a still fizzing chemical burn had leaked into it from the micro-explosions.

  Tasìa arched her torso, steadied with abdominal muscles only. With the .357 Colt Clastic raised, Tasìa put three rounds through the weakened materials into the side of the operator's face.

  Flesh, enamel, and synthetic materials twirled out from the other side of it. With a turn of her head, Tasìa dodged the stiletto that shot out of his hand.

  He jerked with a wolvish howl in a foreign language, calling to the four others. His head turned away from her protectively even as he still kept a grip on her leg.

  While feeding the .357 Colt Clastic's chamber, Tasìa glanced around with her eyes stinging from anxiety and heat induced sweat.

  She had grown so use to controling her pore output through regulated breathing biofeedback during fights and other stressful situations, Tasìa found the sweat a startling presence.

  Blue flames prevented the other operators from approaching, but she could see through the haze of heat that one of them squatted with a long rifle drawn.

  The left side of his jacket had been shredded from a previous encounter with Lodi and Annebél's suppressive fire.

  The long rifle's redlaser dot crawled searchingly towards her. Fortunately, his proximity to the blue flames was closer than her own, and its heat haze handicapped his otherwise natural advantage.

  Tasìa emptied the .357 at the blur that was the shooter. None of the rounds must have penetrated through his armor, as he merely doubled back to recalibrate his aim further away from the flames.

  The howls of the operator who grappled her leg and held her down weakened to a soft stir, but his strong grip remained.

  As her own nose itched from a possible break with the smell of blood heavy in her nostrils, blood also trickled down from breaks in his filter mask to soak down his chest. Tasìa wondered if the heavily fortified mask was all that kept his jaw from falling off his face.

  Silly notion! He had taken the rounds into the side of his face, but he still called out to his team. Miraculously, he was still in the fight.

  Tasìa grabbed another moonclip while taking the split instant to decide what was her best course of action -- to counter the sharpshooter or take out her hand-to-hand adversary, when Annebél made the decision for her.

  An ancient Gallic war cry yelp Ceasar himself would have recognized belted from the redhead's lungs at the entranceway. It was followed by a barrage of shotgun blasts that caused the sharpshooter to stumble and retreat towards cover.

  The downed operator that held her by the leg had his back towards her, clearly gambling on the other Al-Majhul operators success in finishing her off.

  Unfortunately for him, at this point, it was a miscalculation.

  She pulled her torso all the way up with her ab muscles, and, with the Clastic barrel leveled merely an inch away, Tasìa put another three into the nape of his neck.

  He let go and slumped onto the floor.

  As she wiggled out from underneath the Al-Maghul, another operator tried to light her up, but the bullets popped off the downed operator's Kevlar body armor.

  LED lights flowed up the side of the armor's sleeve embed, indicating the downed operator's vitals were low, and the module now injected a stim feed of epinephrine, synthetic adrenaline.

  He didn't so much as twitch as a reaction.

  In one move, Tasìa raised up, and she threw herself into the broken window under a hail of bullets.

  When she rolled on her buttocks to complete the dive, the pain where she was stabbed flared up. Tasìa leapt to her feet in a squat to avoid any more pressure on the wound.

  As she gathered her breath, blood nearly gagged her. Blood was draining out from her sinus cavities. Tasìa spat out what she could.

  Holy shit! All of that trouble and only two down. This does not bode well for my future as a gunslinger adventuress.

  Tasìa shook her head, not letting her mood drift into the mire of defeatism.

  Whatever doubts she had, she needed to get back in the game before they picked her off due to her inaction.

  The control room door creaking open made her twist backwards in a one-eighty spin with her hand going for her fanny pack.

  He stood there; his right hand clasped the broken window pane, ignoring glass shards that dug into his combat gloves. He hopped on one leg, dragging the other foot by the thread of tendons forward.

  His mask had cracked and split apart on the side of his face where the .357 rounds had seared through. His right eye socket was missing its top ridge.

  She didn't freeze, but he was just faster with the stim of epinephrine pumping in his veins. The operator threw a left fist in her face, and she slammed on her back against the wooden floor of the control room.

  Tasìa saw nothing but a squinched-up red that lit up her vision. She still managed to get off a flashbang that caused the world to boom loud around her. Now, engulfed in white light, Tasìa turned away, but not in time to avoid being blinded a second time.

  A long-winded, tight squeal with intermittent drive heaves came from above her as her sight slowly returned. The Al-Majhul operator clutched at his chest before he fell at her feet.