The warehouse buildings were large and rectangular with high windows and slanted metal roofs, drab both from age and by design. Luckily, the three trucks lined up outside the third building on the left were a clear enough indicator where they could expect to find Alaric and the others. Unluckily, their presence also meant the Reds, probably only minutes behind them now, would have just as easy of a time finding them.
A few of the nine or ten Resistance troops by the trucks trained weapons in their direction as they approached, but they quickly stood down at a gesture from a stocky guy with a thick beard, apparently the first one to recognize Michael and Lea. Michael set the skipper down by the warehouse behind the line of trucks.
Their bearded friend approached with a weary look. “Daniels, Carver. We weren’t expecting company.”
“I hate to tell you,” Michael said, “but I think we’re about to get a lot more. We got a tip that the Reds spotted you here. They can’t be far behind us.”
The soldier looked between the three of them as if searching for some indication that they were playing a sick joke. “Shit.” He jutted his chin toward the corner of the adjacent building. “You better go tell the warehouse crew to hurry it up, then.”
Michael nodded, and they made for the warehouse as the bearded soldier began rallying the troops.
The door at the corner of the warehouse hung ajar, providing a spooky glimpse into the nearly complete darkness inside. Rachel exchanged a short look with Michael and Lea, then tapped on her comm light and stepped into the darkness.
The door creaked a faint greeting, sending a little jolt of anxious energy through her chest. She reminded herself of the clearly more pressing matter of the approaching Reds and set off through the dark, following the flickers of light she spotted within.
The warehouse was surprisingly intact inside. She hadn’t exactly toured many warehouses in her life, but this one looked exactly like she assumed they all must: crates and boxes in abundant supply, some arranged in an orderly fashion on large metal shelves, others stacked neatly on top of white plastic pallets. The most obvious sign of the place’s age was the layer of dust that covered pretty much everything, thick enough that it was readily visible under the shine of her light.
Rain on the building’s metal roof masked the sound of their footsteps, and their lights gave life to an entire city of dancing shadows. Despite everything, she had to suppress a smile when Michael jumped at one of the flickering apparitions. Then she jumped herself as lightning flashed through the grimy windows. Thunder followed, close and powerful.
They reached a row of storage bays on the south wall around the midpoint of the warehouse. Each bay was guarded by a dull brown bay door and an access panel. The second door from the left had been hauled open. Light and voices poured from inside.
An odd sensation tingled at the edge of her mind, vaguely resembling a telepathic presence. It grew with each step until the small storage space came into view.
The room looked like a safe house, complete with a cot, rations, weapons, and other supplies. In the back corner, Alaric and two Resistance men were at work maneuvering something large and gray onto a red dolly.
There it was—the mysterious nest everyone was ready to kill each other over (though it wasn’t as if the Reds and the Resistance had needed a reason to do that before). The egg-like device was mostly smooth but for a round panel at the top and a small base that let it stand on a level surface. She was sure this was the source of the odd telepathic presence. She was also sure she didn’t like it.
Alaric turned at their entrance, his hand drifting toward the revolver at his hip in favor of the rifle slung across his back. He relaxed when his eyes found them.
At least until Michael blurted, “We need to get the nest out of here. Now.”
Alaric went alert, searching their faces. “Reds?”
“Sounds like they saw you on the way over,” Lea said. “We need to get this out of here now.”
Michael was already beside the odd device, reaching to help. He bent down to grab the nest’s base and pressed his palm to its smooth surface along the way. As soon as he touched it, Michael gave a tiny shudder, and the vague telepathic presence stirred.
Rachel sprang forward and tugged him back. “What the shit was that?” Her voice sounded tight.
He glanced back at her with a deep frown furrowed into his brow. Before he could say anything, the rhythmic clacking of rapidly approaching boots drew their attention to the bay door. A young man appeared there, panting and red in the face, and Rachel knew they were already too late.
“They’re here,” the runner said between breaths. “Three big trucks of ’em.”
Gunshots from the front of the warehouse confirmed his warning, not quite as loud as the thunderclap had been, but loud enough.
Everyone looked to Alaric for direction. Nobody seemed to remember he’d left the Resistance; he was still Commander Weston to them.
“Let’s go,” he said. He pointed to the two men with the dolly. “You two bring the nest up front. We’ll keep ’em busy. You”—he pointed to the red-faced guy who’d brought the message—“get word back to HQ. Tell them to send the ship. No point trying to keep a low profile now.”
Then Alaric was moving out of the room at a jog. She fell in beside him, and Michael and Lea followed.
Three trucks of Reds. She wasn’t sure how big the trucks were, but that didn’t sound so bad. Not yet. Five or ten minutes from now, when the rest of them started showing up, it would probably be a different story. They needed to be out of here by then, although she wasn’t entirely sure how the Resistance could hope to shake pursuit in those clunky trucks of theirs. That was probably why Alaric had called for a ship.
Too bad Jarek hadn’t brought his. She silently cursed him for being a small-minded child. But that didn’t matter now. She would do what she could to get Michael and the others out of this safely. That was all she could do.
The sound of fighting picked up as they approached the front of the warehouse. What had begun as a few tentative shots in the dark night had built to a steady stream of automatic weapons trading choirs of man-made thunder back and forth in the rain.
The Resistance troops had moved the trucks to form a line of rudimentary cover near the warehouse door. Twenty-five yards to the right, the Reds were slowly advancing in three big, dark trucks—the same blocky transports she’d seen in front of the Red Fortress. The trucks looked as if they could carry at least ten men each, and there were at least a dozen men already on the pavement, firing at the Resistance line.
“The drivers!” someone cried. “Hit the drivers!”
Several shots slammed into the enemy windshields and confirmed that they were bulletproof.
Alaric moved to the center of the Resistance line without hesitation.
“Keep her close to you,” Rachel yelled to Michael, tilting her head toward Lea.
Michael nodded, his hand drifting to the bullet catcher she’d made damn sure was clipped to his belt. He moved to the right side of the line with Lea. Rachel slid in next to Alaric to put him in her sphere of protection.
The fighting was furious. Thunder rumbled. Guns roared. Hundreds of bullets slammed into the trucks and the pavement and the warehouse behind them. Between the racket, the rain, and the headlights beaming straight into their faces, she could barely tell what was going on. If not for the floodlights the Resistance troops had thrown on top of the trucks facing the enemy line, she would’ve been blind.
Every bullet made her cringe. She’d found out in Deadwood just how lousy cars were as cover, and the Resistance truck line was no different. The people directly around her and Michael might’ve been safe enough thanks to the catchers, but the others weren’t. Two men in their line had already slumped down against the trucks, clutching at wounds.
She had to do something.
It took clear, careful focus to shape the barrier so that it would protect the men and women behind the trucks whi
le leaving the way clear for them to return fire. Once she’d conjured the construct, it became immediately apparent how hard it was going to be to maintain.
Bullet after bullet smacked into her defenses, each one hitting like a heavy punch. Energy crackled through her body as she channeled from batteries to barrier. After the first few dozen bullets, she knew she couldn’t keep it up until the Resistance ship arrived.
But she didn’t have a choice.
She clenched her teeth. If she failed, people died—simple as that. She could do it. She had to.
“Grenades!” someone cried.
Her will nearly broke outright at the pair of dull thunks from the truck bed to her right. She snapped her eyes shut and sank deeper into her extended senses, reaching out to find the deadly little spheres that were about to blow half their line to paste.
Splitting her mind so many ways was nearly insurmountable, but somehow she held the barrier in place, locked onto the grenades, and hurled them back toward the Reds.
She opened her eyes just in time to see the grenades detonate in front of the enemy line and knock a couple of Reds from their feet. A hot rush of air surged against the barrier. Then it was gone.
A fierce cheer went up from the Resistance line.
“Well done,” Alaric said next to her.
Had it been? Then maybe fate could be kind and get that damn ship there before she had to do it again.
Even if there had been somewhere left to go, she doubted their trucks would run, given the pounding they were taking. And given the pounding she and her barrier were taking, there wouldn’t be much left for the ship to collect if it didn’t get here in the next few minutes.
A soldier from the warehouse rushed over to Alaric. The nest was ready at the warehouse entrance, and the ship would be there in less than ten minutes.
Cold dread wrapped its arms around her chest. Five minutes would be bad enough. Ten would be damn near impossible.
But a ship was coming. And they were holding. All she had to do was keep holding.
She growled wordlessly as three more pairs of headlights appeared at the far end of the row of warehouses.
“Shit,” said Alaric next to her.
“Incoming ship!” someone cried to their left.
That was it. If that was the Red King—hell, if it was even his maid—they were screwed.
The ship soared in over the left row of warehouses and slowed over the Reds. She squinted against the floodlights blazing down on their engagement and waited to glimpse their condemnation.
Some thirty feet above them, Jarek’s armored figure sprang into the open air. Rachel tensed as he came to a brutally fast landing, but he turned his momentum into a ballistic roll and sprang to his feet without missing a beat.
He moved into the ranks of the Reds with ruthless efficiency, slamming men into the trucks and batting others down with their own weapons. He kicked one Red hard enough that the guy took down two of his allies like a human missile.
Rachel looked down the Resistance line. Every face—some confused, some awed, some frightened—was turned to Jarek as he dismantled what remained of the first batch of Red forces.
She released her barrier and slumped against the truck, exhausted. From the looks of it, he hardly needed her help. Most of the Reds she could see were already on the ground, unconscious, dead, or too injured to fight. Jarek had scooped up an assault rifle and was mingling bullets with fists and kicks now that the remaining men were scattering.
But when she spotted one of the Reds yanking the pin from a hand grenade, she jolted into action. She extended a hand and focused, catching the explosive only a few feet from the soldier’s hand. He stared slack-jawed at the hovering grenade for a full second before diving away, arms covering his head.
The grenade detonated with a vicious boom, slamming his body against the pavement. She felt the shock wave as a warm gust of air on her rain-soaked face.
Jarek came flying over the truck in an impossible leap that ended with a hard kick to one Red’s sternum. He threw the Red’s partner into the side of the nearest truck hard enough to visibly rock it.
To the left, another Red was rounding the closest truck, his rifle leveled at the distracted Resistance line.
Alaric wasn’t so distracted. His rifle barked, and the Red collapsed to the pavement.
Automatic fire roared out from the other side of the Red’s truck. Rachel jumped as several slugs slammed to a halt on the field of her catcher, bringing a sudden chill made all the worse by the rain soaking through her very being. Before she could force her weary mind to respond, the Resistance line had gunned the shooter down.
And then silence—or at least what seemed like silence after the raging firefight.
Thick rain fell to the pavement. Archaic gasoline truck engines rumbled in the Reds’ now-empty trucks.
The peace was only momentary. Gunfire erupted from further down the warehouse row as the incoming Reds opened up on Jarek’s ship, which Al had been using to run interference. The ship veered up and around, heading back toward them.
“You guys can say it,” Jarek called, his voice amplified through Fela’s speakers. “You’re happy as shit to see us right now.”
Everyone stared dumbly except for maybe Alaric, who didn’t deign to dignify that with a response. Al brought the ship to hover over Jarek, and Pryce appeared on the open ramp, lugging that ridiculously large sword Jarek kept on board.
“Incoming,” he called, tossing it down.
Jarek caught the monstrous weapon with one hand. Even with Fela’s help, it couldn’t have been easy, but he absorbed the sword’s momentum smoothly and strapped the sheath to Fela’s back. “Let’s move, people! Get to the ship! We’ve got an angry green monster on the way.”
Al swung the ship around and settled it behind the Resistance line with a slight metallic groan.
Jarek easily hurdled the truck line to land behind Rachel and Alaric.
“I know you’re happy to see me,” he said, clearly to her.
Of course she was glad to see him. But she wasn’t about to say it. She rolled her eyes at Fela’s faceplate and the big, stupid grin she knew lay underneath. They had about thirty seconds before the Reds would be on them in force again, and she didn’t want to inflate his head so much that he floated away and left them to get out of there on their own.
His faceplate slid open to reveal him eyeing her with curiosity. “How many bullets did you just stop, Goldilocks?”
She must look as bad as she felt. She shrugged.
“HQ says five minutes on that ship,” someone called.
He cocked his head. “No working ships, huh, Mikey?”
Michael gave a helpless shrug. “That part was true yesterday.”
“We can’t fit everyone in your ship with the device,” Alaric said. “Gonna have to hold them until—”
A metallic thud sounded from the top of the warehouse. All eyes cut upward just as a ship soared past, blinding them with powerful floodlights. There was a second dark blur of motion above them, and then the cab of the lead Resistance truck imploded. A figure sliced down directly into the groaning metal and shattering glass, unaffected by the violence of the impact.
A figure with a single fiery-red eye.
27
Jarek had to give it to Alaric, the old cowboy was as fast as he was unshakable. While the rest of the Resistance line was busy jumping out of their skins or falling to their asses in surprise, Alaric raised his rifle in a smooth motion and unloaded the remainder of his mag on the Red King.
The carbine packed enough of a punch that the King couldn’t ignore it outright. He roared and lashed out from the twisted ruin of the truck cab. Alaric threw himself back fast enough that the swipe only caught the tip of his rifle.
Jarek darted forward as Alaric stumbled back. The bullets might not have seriously damaged the raknoth, but they’d rattled him enough that he couldn’t avoid Jarek’s flying kick.
The kick drove
the King from his perch down to the pavement on the other side of the truck, where he rolled to his feet to face them. Overhead, his ship descended and rotated to reveal several Reds aiming assault rifles at them from the open hatch in the ship’s breast.
“Hold fire!” the Red King bellowed.
That was unexpected. Jarek kept his rifle trained loosely on the King.
The raknoth looked less beastly now than he had at Pryce’s, nearly human again but for the glowing red eye. That eye seemed to be directed past him.
He followed the raknoth’s gaze to what could only be the nest, floating out of the warehouse propelled by Rachel’s raised hand.
What the hell was she—
Oh.
He turned back to the King with his best nonchalant grin.
“The nest,” the Red King said, his expression betraying his tension. “Walk away now, and we will give you the night before resuming our quarrel.”
Jarek shot Rachel a quick wink. “Is it just me, boys, or does it feel like ol’ One-Eye’s scared his baby might get caught in the crossfire? What would happen, Red? Would we get to see this doomsday you keep telling us about?”
“Jarek Slater.” The Red King growled the name as if it were a curse. “You do not comprehend the destruction you toy with.”
He spread his hands. “That’s kinda the point. You wouldn’t ask the fat kid to keep an eye on your cupcakes, would you?”
“What?”
“You know, the—ah, never mind. Not the point.”
“I tire of this game, Jarek Slater. What is your point?”
The point was that they needed to buy time until the Resistance ship showed up. The only problem was it was hard to say which side benefited more from the standstill. They needed the Resistance ship to get everyone out, but they also had to still be alive when it showed up for that to matter. Every second they stood here was another second more of the Red army could show up.
The Complete Harvesters Series Page 22
