Necropolis. James Axler

and his build, dropped the Panther he’d ambushed, and dashed with all the speed and power of the wolf he was often described as, overtaking the next of the Mashona slave masters, leaping at the last moment. Kane clamped his hand over the man’s face, and all his weight pushed the man backward to the ground. There was the ugly grind of steel on bone as Kane thrust nine inches of blade through the gunman’s sternum, slicing his heart in half.

      Grant turned toward the last of his targets, drawing and nocking even as he was aware of Kane’s victory. The third of the militiamen had heard the rustle of silent, brutal combat, and he’d pulled his rifle from where it hung on its sling, swinging it into position. Grant took this into consideration for where he aimed, and he let fly.

      Grant hit the would-be killer on the bridge of his nose. The arrow punched through the relatively fragile bones around the nasal cavity. That target was specific; Grant’s Magistrate training had kicked in and reminded him that an enemy with his finger on the trigger would be unstoppable with anything but a “fatal triangle” hit. The triangle formed by the eyes and the nose were not only the weakest part of the human skull, but they were also directly in front of the huge cluster of nerves and brain functions that narrowed down into the spinal cord.

      The broad-head arrow destroyed that, and the third gunman was shut off instantly. His finger would never reach the trigger of his rifle; no shot would blast into the night, bringing down the rest of the slave caravan, rifles blazing. He could see Thurpa attending to a prisoner lying on the ground and Kane watching them.

      “Mission accom—”

      The crackle of a rifle discharging into the night sky cut Grant short.

      He turned and saw that Brigid and Nathan were both atop a militiaman. Though Nathan’s target was no longer struggling, he’d still managed to fire his gun.

      Yards away, the caravan quickly stirred at the burst of gunfire.

      “Kane...”

      “The prisoners have a chance. But we have to make it better for them,” Kane answered over the Commtact. “Get loud and get bloody!”

      Chapter 4

      Kane wrenched his knife from the heart of the second Panther gunman, then took a step back, looking toward Grant, who was using that weird samurai archery to dispatch yet another of the Mashonan thugs with a single shot. Kane saw the muzzle-flash and heard a Panther’s rifle. Bullets sliced into the night sky to where they wouldn’t hit anyone until they fell back to earth. Nathan had his arms wrapped around the legs of a guard, and Brigid Baptiste was on the gunman’s chest. She had her knife deep in the goon’s face, having ended his existence.

      The cacophony that the rifle produced was damage enough.

      Fortunately, all eight of the gunmen assigned to the prisoners were down, snuffed out before they could shoot at any of the chained victims. That meant anyone armed and willing to harm the helpless prisoners would be coming from the caravan camp themselves.

      “Kane...” Grant spoke over the Commtact.

      Kane spoke up; the need for stealth was gone with the echo of gunshots in the night. “The prisoners have a chance. But we have to make it better for them. Get loud and get bloody!”

      With that order, Kane reached down to his belt and unhooked a fragmentation grenade. He plucked the pin from it and hurled it toward the enemy camp as guards roused from relaxation to alertness. Some of them were fast, rushing halfway up the trail between their quarters and the prisoner area. It was these men who ran right into the flying gren, hurled by Kane with all the speed and accuracy he could muster.

      The miniature bomb struck the lead militiaman in the center of his chest. The impact knocked the wind from the gunman and caused him to stop cold. One of his fellows plowed through him, tripping them both and throwing them to the ground bracketing the high explosive, just in time for them to catch a wave of extreme overpressure and flying metal shrapnel.

      The surge of force slammed into the downed pair and the three men with them. The blast wave burst blood vessels in their bodies, killing them swiftly. It was a quick, merciful end for the men who’d been marching unarmed, naked prisoners across miles of the wilderness of Africa.

      The exploding grenade slammed the door on that approach from the column of militiamen. They now knew that someone was covering that route, and very few people were ever armed with only one grenade. At the very least, that would mean more hand bombs or firearms covering the trail between the two locations. And these militiamen weren’t stupid. The group that Kane could see beyond the explosion skidded to a sudden halt as they realized that if they cut through the bottleneck, they’d be cut down.

      As if to punctuate Kane’s unspoken point, Grant loosed an arrow, sending the high-velocity missile into one of the groups who’d stopped. The arrow sliced through a rifleman in the center of the group. The fletching disappeared into his chest before the rest of his body got the message that it had been perforated through center of mass. The man dropped an instant later, blood bursting from his lips, much to the shock of his fellow soldiers.

      Because Kane and Grant were wearing the night-black shadow suits, they were invisible to their opposition, and neither had used a weapon that gave a muzzle-flash. Grenades and arrows were good at keeping their users relatively unseen in darkness.

      Kane knew, though, that the Panthers hadn’t become such a feared enemy without learning common tricks such as flanking maneuvers. They would come at their former prisoners and the rescue party from another angle, and when that happened, Kane intended to meet them with every ounce of violence he could muster.

      Nathan Longa decided to leave Nehushtan balanced against a tree trunk. He didn’t want to inadvertently unleash a bolt of power, and he wasn’t certain how stealthy he could be with the ancient staff. Sure, the artifact had granted him superior speed and strength in the past, but he didn’t want to produce more of a spectacle than necessary. If things came to a worst-case situation, he was only a few feet away from the propped-up staff and the battle rifle he’d shed for stealth.

      Then he made a mistake as he lunged at a Mashonan gunman and clamped a hand around his mouth, stifling him swiftly. As he brought the knife around and toward the man’s heart from the front, his blade slammed into the Panther’s rifle. The thrust was a powerful one, meant to pierce his target’s breastbone and spear the heart behind it, but the frame of the gunman’s weapon deflected the force of the blow, disarming both men as they toppled to the ground.

      Then came the wrestling match: Nathan pitting his might against the disarmed gunman’s. The militiaman reached for his own knife, but Nathan chopped the edge of his hand hard against his enemy’s inner elbow, striking the cluster of muscles and nerves, which left the guard’s fingers numb and unable to hold on to any tool. Nathan suddenly saw stars, and the center of his face and left eye ached from where the militiaman head-butted him. Nathan lashed out, eliciting a grunt from his foe, finger sinking into wet, ugly tissues. Whatever cry the man would have released was superseded by unintelligible choking as the man’s eyeball burst, paralyzing his throat with terror and agony.

      Nathan heard footsteps, a solitary figure racing toward him and the Mashonan soldier, and he expected to catch a back full of lead. When no bullets came, he glanced up and saw the lithe silhouette of Brigid Baptiste rushing to his aid, knife in hand. Nathan’s distraction caused an awful turn of events. The Panther punched Nathan hard in the chest, bowling him back just enough that the thug could crawl toward his rifle.

      Nathan threw himself atop the gunman, grabbing his legs, even as Brigid Baptiste came down. The militiaman had a handful of his rifle, and he swung it upward; the stock of the weapon struck Brigid in the ribs. Her shadow suit redistributed the impact, but it slowed her, delaying her knife strike long enough for him to wriggle his finger into the trigger guard.

      Nathan tugged the man’s legs hard, jolting the muzzle of the gun away from Brigid’s body. Despite the shadow suit, at this range, with the heavy slugs in the rifle, the Cerberus archivist would have been blown to pieces by a contact gunshot.

      Nathan