The Suns of Liberty (Book 2): Revolution by Michael Ivan Lowell Page A

could bleed out.
    “What the...?”  It all
happened so fast that neither Watson nor Kent could tell just what had befallen
their mates. But they both knew it wasn't good.
    “Shoot him!” screamed Watson.
    Both men opened fire, but by this
time the Revolution was in a full sprint toward them. A bullet grazed
Revolution's shoulder—didn't even slow him down. Watson fired point-blank right
into his metal-clad, star-laden chest. He saw the spark and glint of the bullet
as it bounced right off, just like all the stories had said. Watson ducked out
of instinct, not knowing where the ricocheting projectile might fly.
    Revolution spun and kicked Kent
straight in the head. The speed of the movement and the titanium of his boot
cracked the tall officer’s skull in an instant. The servos in his leg armor
reacted immediately to the direction and pressure his leg applied to them. The
speed at which he moved was hard for Watson to even see. Let alone follow.
    Inside his HUD, Revolution clocked
the move at forty miles per hour.
    Watson raised his gun to fire
again but Revolution was already on him. He'd moved so fast that Watson hadn’t
seen him grab a whip out of his silver belt. And before the stunned officer's
mind could focus, Revolution slung the whip directly at him, all the while
spinning to minimize the impact of any gunfire Watson might send his way. This
was not to protect himself—their guns couldn’t begin to penetrate the T-O4
shell. It was to protect the teens and hopefully send the shells zooming off
safely into the street. As it happened, Watson didn't even get off another
shot.
    The lash of the whip burned into a
brilliant yellow-green. Yet another spectacle to distract and disorient this
thirty-year vet of Boston's worst streets. But nothing had prepared him for
this.
    The glowing whip curled toward
Waton's Glock and constricted around it. One simple pull aided by mechanically
enhanced strength and Watson's firearm went flinging across the alleyway,
clanging into the shadowed gutter.  
    Watson was dumbstruck. He'd not
lost the will to fight back, he was mostly just trying to catch up, but the
effect was the same. His arms flew up in front of his face in an instantly
defensive pose. He saw Revolution complete his impossibly fast spin. The whip
wrapped back up under his cloak and into the belt he wore at his midsection.
All like choreography.
    The officer gasped. And that's
when it hit him. A shuriken that is.
    Slicing deep into the midsection
of his back. Missing his spine, or any vital organs, by less than an inch.
Watson screamed in pain and tried to reach the source of his agony, but it was
situated most cruelly in the middle of his back below his shoulder blades. His
reach was no good. The burning pain stung him with fire.
    Adrenaline will kick in at times
like these, and Watson, somehow, spinning like a cat chasing its tail,
stretched his arms, further, further, painfully further. Until his fingertips
sliced over razor-sharp metal, and then, as he grasped his now bleeding hand,
he knew what was eating into him.
    And it was impossible. He had
watched the Revolution the whole time. His hands had never moved. There had
been no time for him to make his throw.
    He dropped to his knees, belching
a line of drool onto his uniform. He just peered up at his attacker, his eyes
begging for mercy.
    “How...how did you?  I was
looking right at you!” Watson nearly sobbed. No longer the tyrant of the night,
he had been reduced to a pleading child. And the Revolution smiled behind his
mask. Watson was right. He’d not thrown a thing. It was another of his closely
held secrets...
    Finally, Watson’s assailant spoke
again.
    “I throw a hell of a curveball.”
And with that Watson saw one more impossible feat before he lost consciousness.
    In one fluid motion Revolution
spun a set of nunchaku from somewhere behind his cloak directly into
Watson's forehead with a sickening crack that was so fast his brain was