Rip felt the bullets plunk into him and stop, his enhanced body preventing the lead from going far past the skin. He rolled, pulling out his interspatial wallet in a practiced maneuver.

Reaching in, he grabbed the first gun available, a Walther semiautomatic pistol loaded with 38s.

When he came out of the roll on a knee, Rip raised the weapon to eye level and shot the first Luddite in the face.

The man went down, dropping his submachine gun. To the right, he heard Blair shoot another one.

The third man stopped. He came through the door last and had not yet fired on anyone. He blinked at the sight of the first two men, bleeding on the floor.

The man turned and ran back out the door.

“Stay here and make sure they don’t come back,” Rip said to Blair. She nodded, holding her own gun, a Webley with a thin trail of smoke drifting out of the barrel.

No one else in the room would have a gun, Rip thought. This was not an armed society. So if another terrorist ran in, she would have to be the one to deal with it. Somebody with a gun would need to stay behind.

He raced after the coward who ran away.

Rip raced down halls, glancing at open doorways as he rushed past. He did not feel too worried about an ambush. Logic dictated that the gunmen wanted to maximize casualties, and everyone of importance in Sir Brooke’s companies happened to be in that one room. Still, he glanced through all the doors as he ran past.

It’s more likely the guy will try to get away, he thought as he came to an intersection.

His sense of direction told him the main door was to the left. Pausing, he could hear footsteps running in that direction.

He painfully rubbed at his front. Four bullets had lodged just outside his ribcage. Irritably, he flicked one away that stuck out a bit.

If ever there was an edge in this world over his, enhancement would be it. But, the enhancement process was severely limited.

It’d be great if everybody could be essentially bulletproof, he thought, racing toward the front of the building. Probably change the social dynamics quite a bit, though.

He heard the door to the front of the building smash open as he drew near. Then he was in the lobby heading toward the same door.

Rip raced outside and stopped at the top of the front steps. The Luddite ran for a large black carriage, a driver at the front. The carriage door swung open and two people looked out from inside.

It would be a carriage and not a steam truck, he thought.

Carefully, Rip lined up a shot, standing in a shooter’s stance. He held his breath and squeezed the trigger, tapping into his [Weaponry] skill.

The gunman stopped at the carriage. He twirled and brought his rifle about, aiming back toward the door.

Rip squeezed ever so harder on the Walther’s trigger. He felt contact, as if gently punching through a thin layer of glass. The gun barked, jerking ever so slightly up in his hands as the bullet left the muzzle.

A red flower blossomed on the gunman’s forehead. The shot knocked him down, his gun clattering on the cobblestones.

Rip let out his breath, silently noting an uptick in his skill thanks to the implant. He lowered his gun.

Two heads popped out of the open carriage door, looking down at the body in the street. They slowly pivoted up and stared at Rip, eyes flashing in anger.

He held the Walther at waist level as he walked down the steps and slowly approached the carriage.

“You know, if you guys are really opposed to technology, you shouldn’t be using modern guns.”

He nudged the rifle with his foot, sending it sliding along the cobblestones and away from the carriage.

“Seems odd for you to use a semi-auto like that. Now, I could understand using a musket. Something muzzle-loaded. But that? That’s a modern mechanism, using modern gunpowder.”

He looked at the two in the carriage, snarling back at him. One, he now realized, was a woman.

His eyebrows went up as his lips quirked into a smile. He stopped at the body, aiming the Walther at them.

“You guys are a bunch of technological hypocrites.”

The woman turned to the man and said, “Go!”

He jumped out of the carriage in a blur. Rip’s mind barely processed what he saw. Six and a half feet of muscle moved abnormally fast.

Rip squeezed off three more rounds, his wrist jerking, trying to track the fast moving human.

The two horses reared at the sound of close gunshots, neighing loudly. The driver let the brake off and tapped their backs with his whip. They raced away, wheels clattering on the cobblestones along with their hooves. The door to the carriage bounced shut, taking the woman inside to safety.

The man stopped moving. Now he stood to the side and slightly behind Rip.

Rip pivoted, still covering him with his gun. His eyes narrowed. He did not think he had missed.

The big man stared at Rip, breathing hard. His head looked clean-shaven. A thin layer of light brown hair appeared almost blond, glinting in the sunlight. His head looked small for the size of his body, like a conical cannonball on top of massive shoulders and chest.

Rip shot off three more rounds at pointblank range, into the man’s massive center mass.

He stood there, taking the shots. Then he gave Rip a deadly smile and reached for the middle of his shirt. He ripped it open, revealing a rippling bare chest, and dropped the shirt to the street. The three bullets stuck out of his skin.

“Ah. Enhanced.”

Mentally, Rip counted up his shots and realized he had only one left. He aimed at the man’s eyes, the one vulnerable place on an enhanced person, as the shirtless man took another giant step toward him.

He squeezed the trigger, and the man made a blurring motion with his hand. He smiled that deadly grin at Rip and slowly opened his fist, showing Rip the bullet. A thin trail of vapor rose from his palm.

“You know, I’ve never actually seen that before,” Rip said. “I’m impressed.”

The big man took another step and swung a haymaker at Rip’s face. He ducked under it and took a step back.

“At least give me a name. If not, I’ll have to come up with a nickname for you, like ‘Bullet Catcher’ or something.”

The mass of muscles stepped forward again, cutting the distance between them. This time his right arm blurred out with impossible speed, the uppercut landing squarely on Rip’s jaw.

The impact made Rip step back. His eyebrows rose as he rubbed his face, feeling the bruise coming on.

“This one is named Wallace Biggin.”

Rip smiled now, despite the pain in his face.

“Seriously? I mean, ‘Biggin.’ It kind of fits you.”

Biggin frowned and swung again, his fist lashing out lightning fast.

Forewarned this time, Rip activated [Vampiric Speed]. He too blurred, moving quickly behind the man.

Still holding the Walther, he used it like a sapper, whacking the man hard as he could behind the ear.

The impact stunned Biggin, bringing him to his knees. Rip struck again and again, slamming the metal into the man’s head.

At last, Biggin slumped forward, landing face down in the street.

Rip looked at the Walther in his hand. The metal was deformed, twisted and bent from being slammed repeatedly against Biggin’s enhanced skull. It would never fire again.

“Aw, man.”

In the distance, he heard police whistles. He decided to leave Biggin to them, and headed back inside.

When he reached the conference room, no one was sitting down. Everyone stood bunched together. But the crowd parted for him, silently.

On the floor, Sir Winston Brooke’s bullet-riddled body lay in a pool of blood, his head in Blair’s lap. She looked up at Rip, her eyes lined with tears, and shook her head.