"..."
"Pervert! Let me go!"
The sudden abduction terrified Rebecca. She screamed, thrashing wildly in the Centurion's grip. She kicked and punched at the shiny black armor, her face flushed with a mix of anger and sheer terror. She wanted nothing more than to skin this overgrown bug alive.
But the giant centipede seemed to enjoy the struggle. Its faceted eyes glittered, and it let out a series of ecstatic, clicking hisses. As a true "Old Gentleman" of the insect world, it appreciated a lively captive. No one remained calm in its embrace.
"Damn it!"
"Monster! Put her down!"
On the ledge, Billy Coen watched helplessly. His face was twisted with rage. He hadn't expected the trap to be a thirty-foot biological nightmare.
Rebecca was in mortal danger. Held tight against the creature's underbelly, she was only a few feet away from its gnashing mandibles.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
Billy didn't hesitate. He emptied his magazine into the beast.
He aimed for the head, the body, the legs—anything to make it drop her.
CLANG! PING! CLANG!
But the Centurion's armor was impregnable.
The 9mm rounds sparked off the red carapace like hail hitting a tank. They didn't even scratch the paint. The exoskeleton was too thick, too hard.
HISS—!
Annoyed by the stinging, the Centurion shrieked. Its hundreds of legs churned, and it charged at Billy like a runaway train, still clutching Rebecca.
"Hah!"
Billy gritted his teeth and dove to the side.
CRASH!
The centipede slammed into the wall where Billy had been standing, shattering the concrete. Dust and debris rained down.
Billy rolled to his feet, but his gun clicked empty. He was out of ammo. The shotgun was lying in the pit, out of reach. He was powerless.
"Damn it..."
He watched as the monster stopped its rampage. It seemed to lose interest in the gnat with the pea shooter. It turned its attention back to the prize in its arms.
HISS...
The Centurion reared up, lifting Rebecca toward its mouth.
Click-click-click...
The sound of its mandibles opening and closing filled the air. It sounded like wet shears. A foul stench of rot washed over Rebecca. She stared into the abyss of its throat, visualizing her own death—torn apart, piece by piece.
She stopped struggling. Her limbs went cold.
"..."
"I don't want to die! Let me go...!"
She kicked feebly, tears pricking her eyes. But the iron grip of the centipede's legs was unbreakable.
Then...
BOOM—!!!
A sound like a cannon blast shook the room.
The shockwave hit them a split second before the sound.
A massive, golden bullet—half an inch wide—tore through the air. It spun with incredible velocity, leaving a visible white vapor trail in its wake.
It was a .50 Action Express Magnum round.
A "Hand Cannon" shell. An anti-materiel round fired from a handgun.
SPLAT!
CRUNCH...
The bullet slammed into the Centurion's head.
The armor that laughed at 9mm rounds shattered like glass. The Magnum slug punched through the carapace, the brain, and blew out the back of the skull.
Green slime and brain matter exploded outward, painting the walls.
The Centurion went rigid. The light in its red eyes vanished instantly.
THUD.
The massive body collapsed, its legs twitching in a death spasm. The grip on Rebecca loosened.
She didn't wait. She wrenched herself free, tumbling onto the slimy floor of the pool. She scrambled away, grabbed the shotgun, and scrambled up the ladder, shaking like a leaf.
Hiss...
The centipede let out a final, gurgling wheeze. It lay dead, a steaming hole in its head.
Billy and Rebecca looked toward the source of the shot.
Standing at the entrance to the chamber was a figure in a gas mask.
In his hand, held high, was a massive silver revolver.
The Smith & Wesson M500.
Rubber grip. Stainless steel frame. A barrel over eight inches long, tipped with a muzzle brake usually seen on sniper rifles.
Smoke curled lazily from the barrel.
Havel lowered the gun, blowing the smoke away.
"Sorry I'm late," he said, his voice muffled by the mask. "Traffic was murder."