The three guards had never heard of a man named Barack, but Henry's tone was so self-assured that they were inclined to believe him. Besides, his hands were empty and held high. He was no threat.
One of the guards lowered his rifle. "The letter. Give it to me. I'll take it up."
"Of course," Henry said, slowly lowering his hands. "It's in my coat."
Halfway down, his hands blurred.
Two 15-centimeter throwing knives flew from his sleeves, crossing the seven meters in an instant and burying themselves in the throats of the two guards who still had their rifles raised.
His hands moved again, four more knives flying in a deadly swarm, two for each of the first two men's hearts, and two for the third man's throat and chest.
Ignoring the three collapsing bodies, Henry dismounted, moved the barricade, and looted the guards, taking their weapons and money pouches. He pulled the six knives from their bodies, wiped the blood from the blades, and then dragged the corpses into the woods.
He remounted and continued up the road. After a few more bends, the path widened, the next three hundred meters illuminated by gas lamps on either side. At the far end, behind another barricade, stood a five-meter-high granite guardhouse, a Gatling gun mounted on its roof, five sentries keeping watch. Five more guards were positioned on the ground behind the barricade.
They had been on duty for hours with no sign of trouble, and they had grown lax. They heard the sound of a lone horse and assumed it was one of their own, returning with a message.
Henry leaped from his horse, storing the animal in his space as his "One of One Thousand" Winchester appeared in his hands.
The guards saw the horse vanish into thin air. They stared, dumbfounded, their minds unable to process the impossible sight.
It was the last thing they ever saw.
Crack! Crack! Crack!
The five sentries in the guardhouse, exposed and silhouetted against the light, were all hit, three of them tumbling from the roof.
The five guards on the ground finally snapped out of their shock and raised their own rifles. But in their haste, at this range, their shots went wide. Five more shots from Henry's rifle, and they were all down.
He sprinted forward, pulling aside the barricade. It took him nearly two minutes to reach the guardhouse, pausing only to put a final bullet in two of the wounded men.
Beyond the guardhouse, the road turned again. Just as he reached the corner, the warning flared in his mind. He slowed, then carefully peered around the edge.
Before him was a massive, fifty-by-two-hundred-meter plaza, leading to a grand Irish-style manor house. The estate was surrounded by a three-meter-high dry-stone wall. Ten guards patrolled the main gate. The entire plaza was lit by over forty gas lamps, turning the night into a hazy, artificial day.
And this time, there were four Gatling guns—two in watchtowers flanking the main gate, and two more positioned in the center of the plaza on either side of the road.
All of them were manned, their barrels aimed directly at his position.
This was a paranoid level of defense.
Henry knew that if he stepped out to shoot the lamps, he would be caught in the crossfire of four machine guns and ten rifles. Even with his speed, it would take him at least twenty seconds to shoot out all forty lamps. In that time, the four Gatling guns could unleash a storm of over four hundred bullets. Even if only fifteen percent of them hit him, it would be enough to completely drain his shields.
The risk was too high, the reward too low. And for all he knew, they had signal flares. A charge across the open plaza would be suicide.
He walked back to the guardhouse, collected the eight bodies, then returned to the corner and pulled on his mask. He took one of the corpses and hurled it out into the open.
BANG-BANG-BANG!
DAK-DAK-DAK-DAK-DAK!
A deafening roar of rifle and machine-gun fire tore the body to shreds.
Half a minute later, the shooting stopped. He threw another body. The guns roared again.
He threw a third. This time, the gunfire was less intense. They were starting to catch on. He could hear their curses, and the sound of a commander shouting orders.
He threw a fourth. The machine guns were silent. Only a few rifles fired.
He stepped out, fired four shots in two seconds, and dropped four of the gate guards. He didn't aim for the head; a wounded man was often a greater burden on the enemy's morale. Then he ducked back behind the corner.
The Gatling guns roared to life, chewing up the rock face where he had just been standing.
When they stopped, he threw another body. The guns roared again, then fell silent as the gunners realized they'd been duped.
He stepped out again, fired four more shots, and dropped two more guards who hadn't found good cover. Then he ducked back and began to reload.
Inside the manor, the guard commander, a man named Cian, ordered thirty of his cavalry to mount up, while another fifty riflemen took up positions behind the stone walls, waiting. He didn't know what he was facing, but he knew that whoever had taken out his first ten sentinels so quickly was no ordinary foe.
This time, when the machine guns fell silent, Henry didn't throw another body. He leaped out from behind the corner, raised his rifle, and fired, not at the gate, but at the machine-gunner in the watchtower 120 meters away on the right side of the road.
At that range, his aim was perfect. The bullet went straight through the gunner's eye. He then shifted his aim and took out the gunner in the tower on the left.
Two shots, three seconds, two machine guns silenced. The two Gatling guns at the main gate opened up, their bullets screaming toward him. But it took them 0.6 seconds to cross the distance. By the time they arrived, Henry, with his superhuman agility, was already safely back behind the corner.