Alaric had that part right, at least. It was a pretty damn big world, and screwing with the raknoth was purely optional. Hell, maybe those scaly bastards just wanted to be left alone themselves. Maybe they blew the whole world up trying to find some peace and quiet. Who knew?
“So what,” Michael called as Jarek ascended the boarding ramp, “we’re just going to hang out here and wait?”
“Unless you have a better idea.” He grabbed the cleaning kit from his locker and pushed past Michael down the ramp. “Then yeah, I guess that’s the plan for now.”
He went around to the side of the ship and sat down, leaning back against a landing strut.
“Just leave it, Michael,” he heard Rachel say in a low voice.
Apparently the advice didn’t jibe with Michael’s current mood, because the kid came stomping down the ramp and around the ship to square off in front of him, arms crossed and dark jaw set.
Jarek calmly laid out a cloth and began disassembling his pistols.
“So what were you thinking?” Michael said after several seconds of idle huffing and puffing.
“Well, I don’t want ’em getting all rusty and whatnot,” Jarek said, not looking up. “Glocks are pretty good, but—”
“Dammit, Jarek. This isn’t a game, man. You know what could happen.”
He looked up at Michael. “I really don’t. Aside from me not getting back what’s mine. You don’t either, Mikey, so why don’t you hop off that high horse and relax in the grass with the rest of us for a few minutes?”
“Boys,” Rachel called, her tone that of an admonishing elementary school teacher.
“No, Rache, I’m sick of this jerk screwing with everyone and refusing to take any of this seriously just because he’s mortified at the thought of actually giving a crap about anything other than himself and his damn suit.” By the end, Michael was basically shouting.
Jarek let the bitter amusement seething in his chest creep onto his face. Apparently, Michael had been hoping he’d kowtow like a reverent, scolded puppy.
“This is why you’re alone, man!” Michael cried. “I know it bothers you. It has to bother you.” He regained some composure before he continued. “I’m fighting for something I believe in. You can mock that all you want, but until you find the courage to stand up for something yourself, even if it’s not perfect, you’re never gonna be happy, man. You’re just gonna be this bitter wiseass who’s too afraid to even open up long enough to—what? What’s so freaking funny?”
Jarek tried to stifle the laughter that had threatened to bubble out during Michael’s tirade, but he only half succeeded.
Michael’s hands curled into fists.
“I’m sorry.” Jarek dropped the pistol frame to the cloth with the rest of the parts and raised his hands in a pacifying gesture. “You’re totally right. You’ve clearly had a lot more experience than me with how the world works. Maybe you could show me a thing or two. Like where are these unicorns I keep hearing about? And those fields where there’s always sunshine and rainbows?”
Michael’s mouth drew so tight Jarek thought his head might simply suck into his mouth like a vacuum and invert.
“Just give a shit about something, will you?” Michael said.
He stormed off to go do something on the ship—probably sleep, if the flight over had been any indication.
Jarek looked over to find Rachel frowning at him from the corner of the ship.
“Kids, right?”
“You’re an asshole,” she said, turning to join Michael on the ship.
He nodded to himself and resumed cleaning his weapons.
An asshole he may be, but at least he wasn’t a naive little shit. The more he thought about what Michael had said, the more irritated he felt. Michael was a smart kid and he had a good heart, but he had no fucking idea what he was talking about. He didn’t know where Jarek had been, what he’d been through. How could he? More than that, he was too damn young to appreciate just how much he didn’t know.
He’d been like Michael once. Ten years ago, back when he’d thought he was going to return peace and prosperity to the world, starting with Boston.
Boston, believe it or not, had yet to enter its new golden age, and his naivety had earned him little more than hard lessons about the depravity of men, some serious scars, and that stupid freaking nickname. From the carnage, the Soldier of Charity had risen, wise enough to know that even the most well-intentioned of rulers had to shit somewhere.
He finished reassembling one clean pistol and slid it into his right holster.
Now, without Fela, he was just another schmuck—a particularly crafty, resilient one, maybe, but a schmuck all the same. Reason five-thousand and . . . whatever.
He didn’t hear much from the other two for the next few hours. After cleaning his guns and oiling his sword, he stood for a stretch and found that Michael had indeed fallen asleep (in his cot, no less, the not-so-little bastard), and Rachel had returned to working on her second catcher.
He went back outside to occupy himself with a holo game until he grew too antsy.
Would Alaric be back by now? Who knew? The better question was how they were going to salvage things enough to get the ex-freedom-fighter back on board.
“Why didn’t you tell me to pump the brakes back there?”
“Because I thought you were right about him, believe it or not,” Al said in his earpiece.
“Man, that ship computer must really be bogging you down if you’re finding yourself agreeing with me.”
“I’m still not sure we were wrong, sir. You did resort to high-pressure tactics. He may simply require some time to reorient.”
“That or he’s busy carving my name in the bullet right now.”
“Don’t tell me you’re afraid, sir.”
“Not of Alaric.”
Just of the crushing thought of never finding Fela. But he didn’t have to say that part. Al knew.
“We should send Michael,” Jarek said after a while. “Assuming his watchdog will let him off to play on his own for an hour or two.”
“I’m not so sure about that, sir. I think you might still get through to Alaric if you two can make peace.”
Over his dead body, most likely.
“Yeeeah. Or we send Michael first.”
Al sighed. “Or that.”
Playing make-up was all well and good, but he was pretty sure he’d surpassed even the leader of those marauders on Alaric’s People I’d Like to Murder list. Much as the kid’s high-and-mighty attitude was starting to irk him, Michael probably had the best chance at reaching Alaric.
He was standing to go pitch the idea to the others when his comm buzzed against his wrist.
It was Pryce.
News? Another broadcast from the Reds, maybe?
He accepted the call and waited as the feed struggled to establish through Deadwood’s abysmal net coverage. Really, it was actually kind of impressive there was a signal at all this far away from major civilization. As it was, the holo sputtered with a few slow frames of aliased garbage before his comm automatically dropped the call to audio only.
“—arek!” Pryce’s voice crackled through.
“Pryce. What—”
“Shut up and listen! No time. They’re here.”
He froze. “Who?”
“The Reds. They’re coming for me. Must have tracked you here. You need to get Alaric and get out of there. No telling if they—”
There was a heavy thud, coupled with a sound of groaning metal. Was that Pryce’s door? Or maybe the steel security hatch at top of the staircase? Shit, why couldn’t his stupid comm find the signal to establish a video link?
A second thud, this one accompanied by a sharp crack and followed by voices and the squealing protest of metal hinges. Rustling sounds. The roar of a shotgun blast.
His insides shriveled, his mind whirling. There was nothing he could do. Not a damn thing. Only listen.
Another shotgun blast, and then someone
said in a raspy baritone, “There is no need for that, Jay Pryce. You are not the one I am looking for.”
“Move your ass, son,” Pryce murmured. Then he cut the call.
An icy fist held Jarek’s gut and refused to let go as the second voice registered in his mind. It was the same voice from the broadcast last night.
The fucking Red King had just kicked in Pryce’s door. And it was his fault.
His jaw trembled.
It had to be his fault. What other possible explanation was there? Pryce had said it himself: the son of a bitch must’ve tracked him and the others to the shop. He’d been careful to avoid being spotted, but it wasn’t impossible they’d been followed. Or maybe the raknoth had simply sniffed out their trail; he’d heard stories about their predatory prowess.
It didn’t matter now. Pryce was in trouble.
“Al.” His voice croaked out of his parched mouth.
“I’m here, sir,” Al said.
The earth felt unsteady beneath his feet. First Fela, now Pryce. How could this be happening?
He had to do something.
But what?
“What do we do?”
“We need to find and access that safe house, sir.” Al’s voice was steady. It grounded him enough to think.
If the Red King wanted Pryce dead, there was nothing he could do about it at the moment. It would take him at least three hours to get back to Newark. The only chance he had of helping Pryce was if the King wanted the old man alive for something.
That seemed like a real possibility.
It wasn’t any mystery what the King was after. He wanted that damn egg of his back, and probably their three heads on a platter at this point. Killing Pryce wouldn’t get him what he wanted. No. Chances were good the raknoth intended either to torture information out of Pryce or to use him as a bartering chip to get Jarek and the others to play ball and give him what he wanted.
If Pryce made it through the next five minutes, getting him back would likely mean a fight with the Red King or turning over the device, which would also probably mean a fight. If it came to that, he was pretty certain Fela was his only real chance against a raknoth. Either way, they needed to get into that damn safe house.
Which meant they needed that damn cowboy.
He looked at the ship, machinations of trickery and kidnap flashing through his mind. Rachel had appeared at the corner of the ship. She watched him with a worried expression. Michael stepped off the ramp to join her.
“Was that . . .” she asked.
He nodded, heat rising in his chest and throat.
“What?” Michael said, looking back and forth between them. “What just happened?”
“They took Pryce,” Rachel said, her eyes still locked with his. “The Reds?”
He nodded again, the heat bubbling over into deep anger.
“How did they . . .” Michael said quietly. “Oh, no.”
Jarek slung his sword over his shoulder, scooped up the cleaning kit, and pushed past them onto the ship.
“They want the nest,” Michael said from the ramp behind as he stowed the kit and reloaded his mags. “They’ll try to use Pryce to get to us. Dammit.”
He didn’t bother answering. He turned to leave. Rachel stood in his way, hazel eyes staring up at him with intensity.
“What are you gonna do?”
“Find Weston,” he said. “What’s it look like?”
She searched his face, objections clearly hanging on her tongue.
“They were friends once, him and Pryce,” he said. “Or something like it. He’ll wanna help.”
“And if he doesn’t?”
He shrugged. “I’ll bring him back after we’re done in Newark.”
She traded a look with Michael, whose dark forehead was crinkled with apprehension.
“Jarek,” she said. “I don’t—”
“Do whatever you want.” He pushed past them and down the ramp. “Just don’t get in my way.”
One way or another, Alaric Weston was returning to Newark with them tonight.
17
Somewhere along the line, something had gone fatally wrong.
Just a week ago, Rachel had been safe in Unity, keeping her head down with the best of them. She’d been worried about the wayward brother who hadn’t returned her calls for several days, sure, but things had been good—stable, predictable, uncomplicated. Boring. Boring was good.
But then the world had walked up and shot Boring in the head.
Michael had continued to not return her calls. Worry had won out. For good reason, too; Michael had been in big-league Trouble with a capital T. From there, every step she’d taken had led her further away from the cooling body of her old friend Boring.
Part of her wanted nothing more than to be back in Unity, safe and bored. Maybe Michael didn’t even need her here. Even if she hadn’t been around to help, she had a feeling Jarek would have found a way to pull Michael out of the Red Fortress. The guy didn’t seem to do well taking no for an answer.
As long as Michael had something that he wanted, Jarek would fight to keep him safe, even if only as an insurance policy.
Much as that last thought should have made her skin crawl, it didn’t. Maybe largely because she wasn’t sure she believed it anymore.
Despite having watched Jarek efficiently cut and gun down god knew how many men in less than twenty-four hours, she wasn’t so sure Jarek was the cold, hardened mercenary he pretended to be.
He was perfectly capable of killing; there wasn’t a hair of doubt about that. And he was beyond rough around the edges. But there was something else there at his center.
After everything she’d seen, she was starting to think Jarek Slater might actually be one of the good guys, as far as good guys went these days. And right now, he was alone and, she was almost certain, terrified for Pryce.
Poor Pryce.
“I’m going after him.”
She was almost surprised to hear herself finally say it after thinking about it for the better part of an hour.
Michael looked up from the cot where he’d been sitting with his face buried in his hands. “What?”
“It’s been like three hours,” she said. “Pryce is running out of time if he isn’t already . . . you know.”
Michael frowned at her. “Since when do you care about Pryce?”
She reached for the ceiling with an eyebrow. “Seriously?”
“You’ve been trying to get away from this thing from the start.” He looked out of the open ship hatch. “What’s changed now?”
“What’s changed now is that another good man’s been pulled into this bullshit. I don’t want Pryce getting hurt because of us.”
“Are you sure it’s Pryce you’re worried about? You sure it’s not Jarek?”
Instinctively, she reached for his mind with her extended senses, just as she’d always done when they’d bickered over the years. She’d never pushed too far, but brushing against the exterior—testing the emotional waters, so to speak—had always been by far the fastest and most effective way she knew to understand how her brother was feeling and to empathize with him.
But that had been then.
Now, the tendrils of her mind met a rigid wall of nothingness, a product of the gift the Resistance had stamped him with upon his initiation.
Frustration swelled through her.
“Jesus.” She grabbed her staff and turned to face him from the top of the ramp. “You know what?”
Did she even know what? She wanted to say that he shouldn’t have dragged her into this if he didn’t want her taking sides and deciding to care, but he hadn’t really dragged her in, had he? Sure, his being in danger had heavily weighted her choices, but they had been her choices every step of the way.
And now she was making another.
“I’m going.”
Michael stood. “Hold up, I’ll—”
“You stay. Let me deal with one moody child at a time, please.”
&nbs
p; She stalked off into the cool country air and the dwindling daylight, trying to ignore the little voice pointing out that there were in fact three moody children in their party right just now.
Dusk was thickening the sky like an ethereal curtain as she reached the tree line and began the descent to Alaric’s cabin. Among the trees, it was dark enough to need to flick on her comm light to get down the hillside and back out under the slim crescent moon and the few stars that were making their appearance above.
A few townsfolk headed here or there by car or foot in the street, but for the most part, Deadwood was quiet. Alaric’s cabin was dark inside, and Jarek was sitting on the front porch.
He didn’t move as she approached. Maybe she’d made a mistake in coming here, but . . . No. No, she was a grown-ass woman, and she could sit on whatever porch she pleased. So she did, lowering herself down to the smooth wood next to a still-silent Jarek.
“No Alaric?” she said.
He gave a small shake of his head.
She sat still, enjoying the chirping of crickets and the whisper of a cool breeze as it rustled the greenery around them in the slowly fading light. It was actually kind of relaxing, life-or-death troubles aside.
After a few minutes of silence, Jarek finally turned to look at her. She could almost feel the heaviness resting on him. For a second, he looked as if he’d say something, but then he turned his aimless gaze back out to the country evening.
She reached out in the gathering darkness to find his hand. It was an impulsive move, and certainly not a romantic gesture. Just human touch—a quiet, warm reminder that he wasn’t alone, even if the war raging inside of him was solely his own.
His eyes flicked toward her, though his head remained fixed forward. She sensed more than saw his mouth beginning to open.
“Shut up,” she said quietly. “Just . . .”
Wordlessly, he turned his hand over so that his palm met hers. She swallowed as his fingers intertwined with hers, welcoming the growing cover of darkness as he squeezed her hand and heat flowed into her cheeks.
It wasn’t a romantic gesture, she reminded herself. Never mind what her pulse said.
The Complete Harvesters Series Page 15
