The Complete Harvesters Series

by Luke R. Mitchell

  Jarek stared at it all, mouth agape. Who the hell was this guy? And what did he do with all this stuff?

  “Intriguing…” Al said in his ear.

  Pryce was watching Jarek with an amused smile. “So this is my humble work space,” he said, holding his arms out and looking around with loving pride in his eyes.

  He looked back at Jarek and shrugged. “Personally, I wouldn’t be hasty to ditch armor like this if I were on my way to meet someone in your line of work, but if it’ll help, you’re welcome to leave it here.”

  It wasn’t anything he and Al hadn’t already been over a million times. Leaving Fela behind was a risk in more ways than one, but probably not a terrible one. It was just a meeting, after all, and Conner needed to know he was willing to play ball. Besides, he’d have Mark to watch his back if anything went wrong.

  As if he’d been reading Jarek’s mind, Mark said, “I’ve got the kid’s back. We’ll make sure he gets back here in one piece.” He shrugged. “It’s just a meeting—should be fine.”

  “Should be,” Pryce echoed, his eyes far away for a second. “Well,” he said, snapping out of it with a clap of his hands, “there’s nothing to worry about then!”

  Five minutes later, Jarek had swapped Fela’s secure embrace for the lightly armored pants and shirt he’d brought along. On Al’s demand (though Jarek didn’t hate the idea himself), he left a line on his wrist comm open with Fela’s comms so that Al would be able to hear Jarek and speak to him through his earpiece if need be.

  Mark had gone to use the bathroom when Pryce turned to Jarek with a serious look and said, “Son, I don’t know what you two have gotten yourselves into, but I hope you’ll be careful and trust that little voice in your head if it tells you to get out.”

  Jarek’s heart beat faster as he met Pryce’s gaze, but he managed to keep his expression neutral. He wasn’t talking about Al, was he? There was no way he could have deduced the AI’s presence…

  Mark returned before Jarek could think of anything to say.

  It was time.

  “I’ll be fine here, sir,” Al said softly in his ear as Jarek gave Fela one last long look. “Just promise me you’ll listen to him.”

  They said bye to Pryce and turned to leave.

  10

  Several of the Iron Eagles eyed Jarek curiously as he and Mark climbed out of their SUV and approached their huddle. Most of his brothers had rarely if ever seen him outside of Fela. They probably thought he looked like a damn child.

  Conner turned to glance between them. “It’s taken care of?”

  Mark nodded. “Secure enough for now.”

  “Good,” Conner said, handing Jarek an old SIG handgun—already loaded, judging from the weight. “Gear up then.”

  Jarek and Mark went to grab their vests from the back of the SUV. Next to Fela’s embrace, the armor left Jarek somehow feeling both naked and restricted simultaneously.

  “Christ,” Mark said, studying Jarek with a dark scowl. “It’s a lot easier to realize you’re a child soldier when you’re not in that exosuit.”

  As much time as they’d spent together, Mark rarely saw Jarek outside of Fela either. Rose had pretty much been the only one.

  Jarek swallowed against the aching that formed in the back of his throat at the thought of Rose. Now wasn’t the time.

  He shrugged. “Feel free to alert child services.”

  Mark’s mouth drew into a tight line. He turned to close the SUV hatch and then motioned that they should rejoin the group. Jarek followed him, frowning at whatever bug had crawled its way up Mark’s ass. Did his age really bother Mark that much?

  As they waited for Conner and Stetson to wrap up their own private discussion, five of the Iron Eagles passed the time with a titillating conversation about the sixth’s mother. Neither Mark nor Jarek saw fit to interject themselves into the fun.

  Finally, Conner and Stetson wrapped up and came to join them.

  Conner clapped Jarek on the shoulder. “Let’s hit it, people. No reason to expect any trouble, but keep your eyes open. Smitty, Rogers, Gomez—you guys are on ride duty when we get there.”

  The Iron Eagles acknowledged their order, and everyone loaded into their respective vehicles. A low, steady growl rumbled through the lot as the old gas-guzzling semi they’d brought along to carry munitions back to Boston wheezed to life. Conner’s go-ahead crackled through the comms, and the Iron Eagles rolled out.

  Fifteen minutes later, they pulled up outside of a dingy-looking joint with a sign that read “Rakrath” in sloppy scarlet letters. Inside, the place was a rat’s nest parading as a pub. It wasn’t the kind of place Jarek would’ve chosen to spend his leisure time, but the locale also wasn’t particularly surprising, considering. Those who’d managed to survive the Catastrophe and maintain business as arms dealers didn’t exactly belong to the tribe of shiny happy people. That tribe had gone extinct when the bombs fell.

  A roomful of rough-looking faces turned to inspect the Iron Eagles as they walked in. The air was hazy with smoke, and an archaic jukebox warbled out a tune from the past century. Several eyes lingered on Jarek in particular. He wiped his suddenly sweaty palms off and focused on Conner. The attention was probably little more than curiosity. There weren’t exactly gaggles of teenagers running around in there.

  Ahead, a gorilla of a man with a buzzed head and a tattered maroon suit rose to greet Conner and Stetson.

  “Tom,” Conner said, nodding at the burly man.

  “Mr. Conner,” Tom said in a thick English accent. “You’ll wanna be seein’ them then?”

  Conner gestured for Tom to lead the way, and they followed the big guy through the gauntlet of stares, smokes, and unpleasant odors to a small, slightly-less-dingy back room. An assortment of non-perishables and various alcohols lined a few dusty shelves, and a door in the corner of the room looked to lead out to the back alley.

  Tom opened another door to reveal a descending stairway. Conner waved them through, and Jarek followed the Iron Eagles down to the Rakrath’s basement.

  If the back room had been a step above the bar on the cleanliness scale, the basement was unquestionably several steps below. Scents of mildew and stagnant wetness came to Jarek in unpleasant wafts as he descended to the plain concrete floor at the bottom of the stairs. Most of the basement was shrouded in darkness.

  Jarek nearly jumped out of his skin when a rattling sound jangled out of the darkness. He brought his breathing under control. There was another sound. Were those chains jangling in the dark? His stomach turned uneasily. Something was wrong here.

  Ahead, Stetson continued into the darkness, unperturbed by the sounds. Jarek tensed as a muffled but unmistakably human whimper drifted out of the darkness. What the hell was going on here?

  “The lights, please, Tom,” Conner said from behind Jarek.

  “O’course, sir,” Tom said, shambling through the dark to the closest wall.

  Click.

  Fluorescent lights snapped to life in the dank space, casting shaky illumination onto moist, mold-streaked walls and the assorted clutter of the Rakrath’s basement—crates and shelves of this and that, some spare stools and a table, and… Jarek’s breath caught in his throat.

  A dozen women huddled against the back wall, each gagged and bound in chains.

  Most of them must have been in their mid twenties or early thirties, but a few looked as young as Jarek.

  His stomach lurched at the way they cowered against the sudden light. Most of them sported sickly purple bruises on their cuffed ankles and wrists. A few carried bruises on their faces as well. Their clothes were inhumanely dirty, and in several cases shredded to undignified tatters.

  Jarek’s heart raced, every muscle in his body tensed. He’d already taken several unconscious steps toward the ragged prisoners when the unmistakable sound of a gun hammer being cocked clicked through the silence behind him, cold and crisp. Only then did he realize that, despite the abhorrent sight in front of them, every
man in the room was watching him.

  He turned slowly to face the gun he imagined he’d find pointed at his face, but it wasn’t—not yet, at least.

  “What is this?” Jarek said, his voice barely a whisper.

  Conner’s expression was carved from a glacial formation as he slowly raised his weapon.

  “It’s decision time, kid.”

  11

  What is this? In retrospect, it had been a stupid question.

  “What is it, sir?” Al said quietly in Jarek’s earpiece, his voice tense. “Do you need me?”

  The sound of the gun hammer being cocked brought it all crashing down on Jarek—a sudden, inescapable truth that had been there all along.

  This was Al being right and Jarek being wrong. This was him learning his lesson for putting his trust in Conner and the Iron Eagles.

  This was Jarek about to die for his mistake.

  And he did need Al, more than ever.

  He looked at Mark, who avoided meeting his eyes, his expression tense and anxious and, above all, guilty.

  Icy cold crept through Jarek’s stomach. He was going to be sick.

  “So what?” Jarek said, turning to meet Conner’s stony gaze. “You’re into human trafficking now?” His voice sounded flat to his own ears.

  Conner’s impassive expression finally gave way to a cold, predatory grin. “We’re”—he waved his gun, searching for the words—“expanding the scope of the operation. We need to know if you’re in.”

  “And you wanted my answer when I wasn’t bulletproof…”

  Conner only shrugged, his grin not wavering.

  “This expanded scope involves them?” Jarek said, tilting his head in the direction of the imprisoned women.

  Conner nodded.

  “Then I’m clearly not in, Al,” Jarek said. Was that enough? Too much?

  “Right you are, sir,” Al said, almost immediately. “I’m on my way.”

  There might have been the spark of a frown in Conner’s eyes, but then he blew out a long sigh and shook his head.

  “Look, kid,” he said, “I get it. I understand… Here’s the thing: there are some bad motherfuckers running around out there. You’ve heard the stories about the vamps. I’ve seen them. The stories are true, and someday, one of those assholes is gonna walk in and literally eat us for breakfast. What we need”—he waved his gun toward Jarek—“is a countermeasure.”

  Jarek glared at him. “You want my suit.”

  Conner held his hands up. “All I want is your suit on our side. I need to know we have insurance for the day the vamps come knocking. If you want to be the guy inside the suit, that’s still your call.”

  Jarek glanced back at the chained, battered women and around at the Iron Eagles before turning back to Conner. “I’m not sure you understand how the whole ‘enticing offer’ thing works.”

  Conner smiled. “Maybe you’re not understanding the offer. You can either live with this side of the operation”—he pointed the gun at Jarek’s head—“or you can’t.”

  Mark took a step toward Conner, his hand hovering near his own holstered sidearm as he spoke for the first time. “You said you wouldn’t hurt him. Conner, if he—”

  Conner dropped his left hand from the gun long enough to gesture for silence, his dark eyes never leaving Jarek. Mark bit back his words with a dark frown, his eyes flicking between Conner and Jarek.

  Jarek looked at Mark. “You knew.” He tilted his head back toward the women. “You knew about all of it?”

  Mark said nothing, but the shame etched across his features told Jarek everything he needed to know.

  A dull ache joined the ice in the pit of his stomach.

  “I don’t get it,” Jarek said, more loudly this time. He looked around at the Iron Eagles as the aching in his gut crept up to the back of his throat. “We were doing a good thing for the world, goddammit…” He shook his head, hot tears fighting their way into his eyes. “Why are you doing this? What is this even? What, they’re supposed to be sex slaves or something? Are you gonna start peddling drugs too?”

  One of the men behind him kicked one of the crates with the toe of his boot, smiling.

  “Jesus Christ,” Jarek croaked. “I thought we were helping people. I thought…” he trailed off, bowing his head as the tears spilled over.

  “Helpful, Greg,” Conner said, shaking his head at the man who’d kicked the crate before fixing his attention back on Jarek. “Look, we can’t make a living being champions for the poor and the weak. We’re soldiers of fortune, kid, not charity.”

  Jarek looked up to meet Conner’s gaze for a long moment before dropping his eyes again. “All those homesteads… You stole them from the families you found there, didn’t you? That’s what we were doing yesterday… It wasn’t an accident.”

  Conner smiled a humorless smile, his dark eyes frosty. “You’re a smart kid, Jarek. It’s why I’ve been so patient with you. But you’re soft.” He gripped his weapon with two hands again, taking aim. “Time’s up. Choose.”

  “Conner,” Mark said, one hand raised toward the man and the other resting on the grip of his sidearm. “Just let him go, man. I know where the—”

  A roll of the eyes was the only warning Conner gave before he turned his weapon on Mark and pulled the trigger three times.

  “No!” Jarek yelled, throwing himself at Conner. A strong pair of arms clamped around him from behind before he’d moved more than a few inches.

  “Easy there, kid,” he heard Stetson’s low voice growl into his ear.

  “Sir?!” Al said.

  “Mark!” Jarek said, struggling against Stetson’s grip. Mark had fallen to one knee. His left hand was a bloody mess where one of the shots had found him, but Jarek thought his vest had caught the other two. He could still make it.

  At least, that’s what Jarek thought until Conner walked over and stuck his gun to the side of Mark’s head.

  “Wait!” Jarek cried. He couldn’t lose Mark, lies or no. “Wait, wait… I’ll—I can…” He held his hands up, taking a deep breath.

  “Hold on, sir,” Al whispered. “Two minutes.”

  “Just let us go,” Jarek said when he had enough control to speak. “You don’t need to—”

  “Uh-uh,” Conner said, shaking his head and giving his gun a tiny shake next to Mark’s temple. “Choose.”

  Jarek looked down to meet Mark’s eyes, his heart racing in his throat as the finality of the situation truly began to dawn on him.

  Mark shot him a weak smile, his eyes flicking downward. “I’m sorry, kid.”

  That’s when Jarek realized Mark was holding a flashbang.

  He didn’t know when or how Mark had slipped the weapon from his belt—he hadn’t even been aware he’d been carrying it—but it didn’t really matter.

  Jarek burned the location of the stairs into his mind. Mark threw the live flashbang into the middle of the room.

  Conner pulled the trigger.

  Jarek’s scream was lost to the echo of the thunderous gunshot and the proceeding crash of the flashbang. A blinding flash of white light burned the room from sight. Jarek didn’t think; he threw the most savage elbow he could into Stetson’s ribs and tore in the direction of the stairs with every bit of strength in his body.

  He stumbled out of Stetson’s grasp and lowered his shoulder in preparation for Conner, who’d stood between him and the stairs.

  Either Jarek had misjudged or Conner had moved. Jarek’s lowered shoulder met thin air, and he nearly lost his balance. A moment later, his right shoulder slammed into something too hard and unyielding to be a person. He cried out, jolting waves of pain radiating from his shoulder as he fell forward. His hands shot blindly out only to slam into something hard and shaped… like stairs! Run, you idiot!

  Jarek’s vision began resolving back into rough outlines and shapes as he scrambled up steps, yelling, “Al!”

  “Almost there, sir. Get outside if you can.”

  A hand grabbed at his
ankle. He kicked, and his boot met something that felt an awful lot like a face. Jarek scrambled forward without looking back.

  A second later, gunshots cracked out, oddly muffled in his ringing ears. Jarek stumbled as something pelted into his back, but he kept scrambling.

  More gunshots, and there was a sudden lance of red-hot pain in his left leg, but he kept scrambling.

  Jarek reached the top of the stairs with a wordless cry, ripping his SIG free from its holster as he barreled for the back door. Maybe it was the gun or the yelling, or maybe it was just the crazed look in Jarek’s eye, but the bartender who’d come back to check on all the racket pressed himself flat against the wall and raised his hands as Jarek stormed past.

  Jarek bowled through the door and praised the stars as he spilled out into an alleyway. He turned left toward the closer end and took off. The fire in his left leg grew worse with every step, but slowing down wasn’t an option. “Back alley, Al!”

  The door he’d come through shot open a second later with a thump and a loud crash. Jarek spun around just long enough to fire off four shots in the general direction of the door, then he turned and ran again as someone returned fire.

  “North or south end, sir?”

  Boots pounded out into the alleyway behind him, and more gunshots rang out. Two bullets pelted into his back, and a second fiery pain joined the one in his leg as one of the shots pierced the abused vest. He cried out, stumbling, but managed to keep his feet.

  “I don’t know which fucking end, Al!”

  Jarek reached the end of the alley, took cover, and sent a pair of blind shots back toward his pursuers. They returned the favor, and he winced away from the corner as chunks of brick dust peppered the side of his face.

  Just then an old, dark blue pickup truck came flying around the corner of the building across the alley with a screech of rubber on pavement. The truck accelerated out of the turn and then slid to halt as it reached Jarek a second later. Fela was hunkered down in the truck bed.