The Complete Harvesters Series

by Luke R. Mitchell

  “Get in!” Pryce cried.

  “Now, sir!” Al said.

  Jarek snapped back to the moment with a curse, closed his gaping mouth, and sent five more shots down the alleyway before he ran and dove into the bed of the pickup.

  Pryce might have hit the pedal before Jarek actually touched down on the truck bed. The acceleration sent him rolling. Al guided Fela’s arms to catch him just before he slammed into the tailgate, and they shot off with a screeching of tires, leaving nothing behind but a thin cloud of white smoke drifting lazily into the night air.

  12

  Of all the pains in his ass, Jarek decided the worst was probably the bullet—although technically it was bullets, and, also technically, it had been a through-and-through at the meat of his left thigh. It was close enough.

  According to Pryce, the second bullet hadn’t done all that much damage. He said it looked like it almost hadn’t even made it through the vest. The observation didn’t do much to quell the riot of pain his back was hosting in the aftermath of Pryce digging the bullet out.

  The leg wound, Pryce had cleaned, disinfected, and stitched up with startling efficiency. Apparently it wasn’t the man’s first time applying emergency medical care.

  “You’re lucky your AI was keeping tabs on you,” Pryce said as he moved on to the smaller cuts and scrapes Jarek had accumulated in his mad dash to escape the building bullet-free. He paused at his work, leaning around to make eye contact with Jarek. “You’d be dead right now otherwise. You understand that, yes?”

  “Yeah, sure…” He hissed as Pryce swiped disinfectant over a scrape on his arm with entirely more force than necessary. “Agh! Shit, old man! Am I in trouble here or something?”

  “That’s a rather naive question coming from a teenager who just ran guns blazing from a squad of trained killers. They’re not just going to drop it and frolic back to Boston, you know.”

  Jarek ran a hand through the back of his hair, wincing at the parade of pain the movement sent marching through a dozen locations in his body. “Yeah,” he said, breathing through the pain. “I’m aware.”

  “And I doubt any of them would know about me or, more importantly, where to find me,” Pryce continued, “but just so you know, if they come kill us, I’m gonna kick your whippersnapper ass.”

  He couldn’t help but laugh at that, though the act caused enough pain to put a quick end to it. Pryce was smiling too, if only a little.

  “Tell me, son,” Pryce said as he grabbed a small light from his apron and shined it alternately in each of Jarek’s eyes, “what the hell got you caught up in this kind of mess to start with? And how did you come by an actual AI? I’d wager that might be the only one on the planet.”

  “I dunno,” Jarek said, “they probably have some over in Japan. I mean, have you ever seen—oww!” he cried as Pryce gave him a delicate slap on the top of the head. “Some health care professional you are.”

  Pryce shrugged. “You don’t appear to have a concussion.”

  Jarek blew out a short chuckle then turned back to the question. What had gotten him this mess? In a way, it had all started with Rose, but it had been his first day with Mark that had started him off on the grand journey to help people as an Iron Eagle. As well as that had turned out… And now Mark was dead.

  An aching burn rose in the back of his throat. “I don’t know. I guess I met Mark and thought I could help people like he did. Make the world better and all that. Somehow I missed the part where they were all completely full of shit. I guess I wanted to miss it.”

  “Mark was a decent fellow,” Pryce said. “As far as decent fellows go these days. I’m sure the Catastrophe stretched him thin, just like everyone else.”

  Jarek looked at him. “Is this the part where you tell me that you’re also smuggling hookers and coke, or running a sweatshop or something?”

  “Oh no,” Pryce said, shaking his head. “I’m just pointing out that it’s far from the first time in history that good people have agreed to deplorable things out of some hope that they might still serve the greater good.”

  “Seems to me those people aren’t so good then—just assholes taking advantage of people that can’t protect themselves.”

  Pryce studied him for a long moment. “I’m sorry about Mark.”

  Jarek shrugged and managed to keep the quiver out of his voice as he said, “He was your friend too.”

  Pryce said nothing. Silence stretched between them until Pryce shifted and said, “And what about the AI?”

  Jarek looked over at Fela’s collapsed form then stood to strip down to his underwear. Every movement made him wince. “Why don’t you just ask him?” he said as he turned to slide his feet into the open legs of the exosuit.

  Once he was situated, Fela came to life to enclose him in her protective embrace. He breathed a sigh of relief at the strength and surety of Fela’s power holding him upright, then cringed as Al shifted the suit’s internal membrane to provide compression to Jarek’s most grievous wounds.

  Pryce was staring at the suit with wonder in his eyes. “What do I call you?”

  “My name is Alfred, sir,” Al said, Fela’s speakers adding a metallic tinge to his light English accent.

  “But everyone calls him Al,” Jarek said. “And by everyone, I mean me, because no one really knows about him, so congrats on that honor, by the way.”

  “I had little choice but to reveal myself, sir,” Al said. “I’m just grateful that Mr. Pryce responded so gracefully to an exosuit coming to life and telling him to drive it across town. I can’t thank you enough for all of your help, sir.”

  It took Jarek a second to understand that the second ‘sir’ was directed at Pryce—one of the problems of conversing with someone who couldn’t use body language.

  “Oh, it’s no problem, Alfred,” Pryce said. He circled Fela, poking and prodding. “This is just incredible… It’s a pleasure to meet you.” He leaned around to glance at Jarek’s face. “Both of you, I suppose.”

  Jarek snorted.

  “I’m every bit as pleased, sir,” Al said. “I went from speaking with several of the world’s finest minds throughout my creation to speaking with no one but Jarek for the past five years.”

  “Hey! What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

  Al sniffed. “Oh nothing, sir. It’s just nice to speak to a new face.”

  Pryce’s smile sobered as he glanced toward the front of the shop. “So what’s your plan, son?”

  Jarek considered that for a few seconds. Conner wouldn’t think twice about killing him now, and Jarek didn’t exactly have an armada of allies waiting for him elsewhere. Running should have been the only smart option—preferably with the addition of never looking back. When it came down to it, though, running wasn’t really an option at all—not after what he’d seen that night.

  “We have to stop them. Tonight.”

  “I strongly suggest we find someplace to rest and recover, sir,” Al said. Jarek winced as the AI increased the compression on his left thigh to demonstrate just how strong his suggestion was.

  “You’re in no condition to be fighting,” Pryce said. “Much less on your own against men like them. I don’t mind patching you up, but I’m not about to go get in a firefight with the Iron Eagles.”

  “I wouldn’t ask you to,” Jarek said. “And I know now’s not exactly the perfect time, but you guys weren’t there. You didn’t see those girls. You didn’t see the way Conner…” He shook his head against the building pressure of hot tears. “I have to stop him.”

  “But sir,” Al said, “if we—”

  “If we wait, it’ll be too late, Al. Those girls will be long gone to god knows where, and Conner will be sitting at the evil little heart of his fortress. It has to be tonight.” He paused. “I don’t want to ignore your advice, buddy. I know that’s part of what got us here. But I don’t see another way…”

  Al was silent for a while. Jarek had never been clear whether the AI actually require
d time to process these kinds of things or if he arrived at a conclusion in milliseconds and merely waited long enough for that conclusion to seem human and sincere.

  Either way, the sigh Al let out several seconds later sounded sincere enough.

  “What did you have in mind, sir?”

  13

  If he’d had the time and resources to properly plan for such an occasion, Jarek probably would have laid traps—maybe a spike strip to cripple the lead truck and some remotely detonated bombs to take out the escorts, easy-peasy.

  He hadn’t had the time. Or the resources.

  As he stood on the rooftop watching the Iron Eagles’ convoy roll up in the street below, all he had was two loaded mags for his SIG, a single hand grenade, and the simple sword strapped to his back—all courtesy of Pryce’s oddly diverse stockpile.

  At least Pryce had referred to the sword as a loan. That kind of implied that Jarek could return it when he came through this whole thing alive (and decidedly not dead).

  All he needed now was an eloquent, safe, well-formed plan to bring the convoy to a stop.

  In lieu of that, Jarek decided to go with Plan B: exosuit wrecking ball.

  “Alright,” he said, his mouth suddenly dry as the truck drew near. “Time to kill the bossman.”

  Jarek closed his faceplate and leapt straight for the hood of the moving truck fifteen feet below, gun in hand. As the faded red hood rushed up to meet him, some part of his mind expected it would simply implode under the awesome force of his impact, killing the truck immediately.

  It didn’t.

  “Account for velocity!” Al cried in his ear. “You have to—”

  Before Al could explain himself, the truck decided to show Jarek in more practical terms.

  Fela broke the worst of the impact, but pain still cascaded through his abused body as he slammed into the semi’s hood with a loud thump and a groan of bending metal. The world turned in a confusing blur, then glass shattered as the truck’s forward movement carried Jarek into the windshield. Fela’s iron grip was the only thing that kept the gun in his hand as he crashed through to land in the truck’s cab, awkwardly folded between two Iron Eagles.

  Screeching brakes joined a steady stream of curses, and Jarek’s arm reflexively shot out to keep him from slamming into the dashboard as the truck pulled to a rough halt.

  “It’s Slater!” Greg yelled into his comm.

  “Hey, guys,” Jarek said, grunting through the waves of pain racking his body in the wake of the violent tumble.

  Greg yanked his sidearm free and pointed it at Jarek. Jarek gritted his teeth and shot him.

  At a warning from Al, Jarek threw his right elbow behind him just as the driver yanked a knife free of its sheath. The blow wasn’t well-placed, but with Fela’s strength behind it, it slammed the guy into the driver-side door hard enough to leave him dazed. Jarek righted himself and slammed the driver’s head into the steering wheel, then he killed the truck’s engine and pulled the keys from the ignition.

  He clambered out through the space where the windshield had been, pitched the keys into the dark, then turned and hopped on top of the semi’s short trailer.

  Judging from their angles, the two SUVs escorting the truck had slid to abrupt halts when Jarek had made his debut as a wrecking ball. Doors flew open as Jarek came into view and the remaining Iron Eagles hastened to come kill the little brat who’d eluded them and come back to ruin their nice convoy.

  “Might I recommend the grenade, sir?” Al said.

  A cold grin touched Jarek’s lips. “You may.”

  He plucked the old hand grenade out of the pouch on his belt and pulled the pin. Hopefully the thing was still functional.

  Six men piled out of the SUVs—three from each. Weapons raised toward Jarek as he covered the length of the trailer in a few bounding strides. On the last step, he sent the live grenade sailing for the SUV fifteen yards off to the right with a flick of his wrist then gathered himself to leap for the SUV ten yards off to the left.

  Gunfire split the night air as he flew toward the second SUV. Jarek raised a protective arm as bullets pelted into Fela’s armor. He squeezed off a few wild shots and briefly glimpsed Conner skirting around the front of the SUV, and then the vehicle’s roof rushed up to meet him. Armored or no, the SUV’s metal paneling still crumpled several inches inward as Fela’s mass slammed against it.

  Jarek dug armored fingers into the roof to keep from sliding off the end, then he rolled off the SUV to the left to come down on top of the gunman who’d been firing from behind the backseat door.

  A sonorous blast roared out from behind just as Jarek landed on the guy—the grenade, he registered through the buzzing thrum of adrenaline. They hit the ground hard, Jarek coming down on top. Something that wasn’t his snapped under Fela’s weight with a crunch that was sickeningly clear thanks to Fela’s auditory sensors.

  Jarek whipped around, raising his SIG as the queasy feeling in his stomach threatened to overwhelm him. There was Stetson by the open driver’s door, trying to shake his head clear after the explosion. Jarek aimed through the open backseat door and squeezed the trigger three times.

  Two shots went wide. The third sent Stetson staggering back, clutching at his left shoulder.

  Jarek leapt on the opportunity, throwing himself over the SUV and crashing down on top of Stetson on the other side.

  To his credit, Stetson put up a fight even after Fela’s considerable bulk smashed him into the asphalt. Jarek caught the bulldog’s fist and threw a punch of his own. Queasiness yanked at his stomach again as bone gave way to his fist and Stetson’s eye socket caved in, but there was something stronger—some primal satisfaction at triumphing over his enemy, at beating someone who wanted to hurt him.

  He raised his fist again, only tangentially aware of the cry pouring out of his own mouth, and then—

  “Slater.”

  Jarek froze at the commanding tone of Conner’s voice. He looked up. Conner stood at the back of the semi’s open trailer with his gun resting against the right temple of one of their handcuffed prisoners, human shield style.

  “Step away from Stetson,” he said, his voice steady and calm.

  Jarek did. When his steps angled toward the semi, Conner warned him off by digging the muzzle of his pistol into the young brunette’s head until she gave a muffled squeal of terror through her gag.

  “Simmons,” Conner called, “take Slater’s weapon.”

  Jarek turned with a shock. Simmons approached from the other SUV. He’d survived the grenade’s explosion—though not with impunity judging from the way he limped over from the smoking vehicle to yank the SIG from Jarek’s hand.

  “Sir,” Al said quietly into Jarek’s ear, “the SUV’s battery.”

  Jarek blinked his acknowledgment. Thanks to Fela’s sensors, he’d already smelled it—the odd, pungent aroma of burning electronics. An exploding battery probably wouldn’t be particularly devastating at this range, but if he could just stall long enough, it’d make a great distraction.

  Conner was in no mood for stalling. “Out of the armor, kid. You have five seconds, or I kill her. Five.”

  Jarek’s stomach tightened.

  “Four.”

  He swallowed, acutely aware of Simmons’ point-blank SMG beside him.

  “Three.”

  The girl struggled in Conner’s grasp, sobbing hysterically behind her gag.

  “Two.”

  “Okay!” Jarek cried, throwing his hands up. “Okay, I’m coming out.”

  “Sir,” Al said.

  “Slowly,” Jarek said back, so quietly that he didn’t even hear the word himself. Al did.

  The click of Fela’s faceplate unlocking seemed particularly loud in the tense silence that had fallen, broken now only by the crackling fire licking its way through the SUV behind. Everyone watched as slowly, slowly, the faceplate began to slide open.

  “Let’s go,” Conner said with a small wave of his gun.

 
; A series of clicks ran down the front of Fela’s torso, and that too began to creep open, slowly revealing vulnerable flesh.

  The satisfied smirk that crossed Conner’s face was the only warning Jarek had before Conner whipped his gun toward him, finger tight on the trigger.

  “Now,” Jarek said, growling the word as he threw his arms up to shield his body and pivoted to launch a wild kick at Simmons. A crack and low boom rang out from the burning SUV, not quite drowning out the sound of gunshots as Conner opened fire.

  Red-hot pain screamed through his left side and a concussive wave of heat buffeted him as his foot connected. The kick sent Simmons flying ten yards through the air to crumple in a slack heap. Jarek staggered back, his shoulder awash in fiery pain as Fela snapped closed around him. Had he been shot?

  No time. There was no time to think now.

  With a hoarse cry, Jarek threw himself across the six or seven yards that separated him from Conner.

  Conner fired off two shots—one of which slammed into his faceplate and set his entire brain ringing—but then Jarek was catching onto Conner’s gun hand, dragging him down as he fell. The girl came along for the ride—there was nothing to be done about it.

  They all hit the ground together. Jarek grabbed at Conner’s other hand, squeezed until he felt bones break, then pulled it away from the girl, who promptly rolled off of Conner and away from them as best as she could.

  Conner snarled and got a boot up to deliver a hard kick to Jarek’s head. Armor or no, getting shot and kicked in the head wasn’t a pleasant experience. Jarek gnashed his teeth, a growl boiling in his throat and spilling over into a wordless yell as he grabbed Conner by the tactical vest and rolled to throw him away from the truck.

  Conner crashed messily to the pavement several yards away. Jarek rose slowly to his feet, pain roaring through his every fiber. Dark spots swam in his vision, languid and inviting.

  “Al,” he said, his voice a soft croak. “Losing blood.”

  Jarek closed his eyes and lost himself in a fresh sea of pain as Fela’s membrane shifted to clamp down against the upper left surface of his chest.