Reparation: A Christopher Wren Thriller by Mike Grist & Michael John Grist

Author:Mike Grist & Michael John Grist [Grist, Mike]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Mike Grist
Published: 2019-09-23T16:00:00+00:00

27. ROOFTOP

The roof itself lurched a clear foot down with the impact below; a wooden support strut torn out with a resounding crack. Wren felt the backwash of a bullet brush his temple as he lurched sideways and into a shoulder-punishing roll over dew-damp tarpaper.

Another shot tore up the roof nearby as he rose to his feet, catching glimpses of surging violence: twin shooters silhouetted above the dark lip of the building's façade in the north and southwest corners, and beyond them the charging headlights of Hellion's reduced cavalry beneath the startled moon, racing a pinball track between their smoking, fallen fellows.

A second almighty crack jolted the building as Hellion hit it again, and Wren staggered sideways but managed to keep his feet. The roof juddered and buckled along a fault line around the southwest corner as the structure began to tip. The tarpaper roofing strained and tore, and Wren scrambled up a steepening slope away from the split, chased by gunfire until a third impact came and wrenched the southwest corner of the building clear away.

The sniper there screamed then was gone; tumbled beneath Hellion's roaring wheels. Wren slammed into the building's lip as the northeast corner rocked backward. Timber cracked and collapsed, dragging the center of the roof down with it. More impacts came from below, horns blaring, gunfire sparks igniting across the surrounding rooftops like lighters flaring up at a concert; Wren had seconds only before it all collapsed.

He swung up the shotgun, four shells in the port and no time to reload. The broken roof boards bent underfoot as he charged the sole remaining figure on the northwest corner, shouting at the top of his lungs.

Four shots in a second; two punched through the wooden lip, one through the figure's chest and one near-severing his leg at the knee, then Wren was at the trembling edge and leaping. One second he sailed through the air, vehicles stampeding twenty feet below like the running of the bulls, then he hit the corner of the nearest building hard in his chest. His left foot caught his weight against the wall, the shotgun clattered away to the dirt below, then he was over the edge and zigzagging along the roof, Glock in his hand and picking out targets.

"Take out their supports," he shouted into the night.

"Already on it," B4cksl4cker responded instantly, and five steps along Wren felt the hit below, jolting the roof. The wild buzzing of spiraling electric vehicles now focused into an angry wave of wasps ramming buildings just one step ahead.

He fired three into center mass of a sniper at the building's corner, then hit the edge and was airborne again. Alejandro was somewhere below still surfing his Mini and firing calmly, supporting Wren from below. A second and a half and he hit the next roof smoother this time, landing on his feet and keeping up the sprint; two figures in a machine-gun nest circled with sandbags at the corner stared at his approach.

One yanked

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