Blood & Tacos #2 by Josh Stallings, Ray Banks, Andrew Nette, Frank Larnerd, Jimmy Callaway

magazine was empty. Before I could reload, a swipe from machine
man’s metal hand twisted the barrel to one side like it was made of cheap
plastic. Another swing knocked the gun from my hands.
    The monster stepped toward me, raised his deadly appendage. I dodged the blow.
The spiked ball missed my head by inches, tore a chunk from the nearest metal
vat. Steam hissed angrily from the gash. The Oriental walked through the boiling
vapour without flinching. Whatever surgical procedure he’d undergone had
obviously robbed him of any sensitivity to pain.
    As he walked machine man swung his metal attachment from side to side. Although
I easily avoided each blow, I could feel myself tiring, while machine man, powered
by an inhuman energy, showed no sign of slowing.
    In an effort to lose my attacker and buy a few moments to regroup, I ducked
between two steel vats, ran straight into a metal trolley loaded with glass
beakers and technical equipment, tripped over it and hurtled forwards.
    I don’t know how long I lay stunned on the ground. I heard the crunch
of glass underfoot, felt one of my legs latched into a vice-like grip. The Oriental
dragged me along the floor like a carcass being delivered to the butcher’s
block.
    He stopped in front of the damaged vat, released my leg. I waited for the spiked
metal ball to reduce me to hamburger like it had O’Connell. Instead, machine
man picked me up by the neck and lifted my face towards the jet of steam escaping
from the jagged hole in the metal.
    I tried to prise his grip off me with both hands, but it was like trying to
manipulate concrete. The skin on my face burned as it neared the boiling steam.
    "Halt."
    The harsh female voice echoed through the laboratory. Machine man let go. I
rolled, came up in a combat stance.
    A tall, athletic-looking Asian woman stood on the mezzanine above me. She was
clad in tight-fitting khaki cheongsam. Her long black hair was tied in a bun
underneath a khaki Mao cap.
    The Oriental giant stood still, stared at me, an attack dog awaiting his master’s
next command.
    She threw back her head and laughed. "I can tell what you are thinking,
imperialist scum." Her dark eyes narrowed as she looked at me. "You
think it is not possible Scorpion is a woman."
    I had to give the reds points for cunning. No wonder Bannister and his people
had had so little success locating Scorpion. I stared at the creamy white skin
of the leg protruding from the split in her dress, the blood red lips, the pistol
in the holster nestled in the curve of her hip, as I figured out my next move.
    "For decades we have spilt blood in the struggle against capitalism.
Then we realised, it would be simpler if we used the West’s own decadent
craving for narcotics against itself. In this laboratory are the means to make
that plan a reality, as your paymasters will soon realise."
    Scorpion looked around the room proudly before returning her gaze to me. "Lefebvre
was a fool to lead you here, but you will not live to brag of your discovery."
    She barked something in Mandarin. As if a switch had been flicked, the machine
man resumed his slow advance towards me. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Scorpion
lick her lips in anticipation as he swung his metal fist.
    I dove. The deadly wrecking ball sailed over my head, struck another vat. This
time the metal fist remained lodged in the hole. The Oriental emitted a moist
grunting sound as he tugged, a confused expression on his face, but he couldn’t
dislodge himself.
    Scorpion shrieked in anger, undid the clasp on her holster to reach for her
gun. With no time to go for my pistol, I grasped one of my boomerangs and threw.
She raised a hand to shield her face. The boomerang struck, severing it clean
off at the wrist. Her lips trembled as she stared at the blood spurting from
the severed stump.
    I quickly switched my gaze to machine man, still straining to free himself.
I