Codename: Night Witch

by Cary Caffrey

  With nowhere to turn and no time to stop, the speeding limousine crashed nose-first into the oncoming truck. The two vehicles came together in a violent explosion of kinetic energy that sent the limousine spinning a full ten-eighty degrees.

  Tomás slammed on the brakes, swerving hard over to avoid getting caught up in the deadly collision and sending Jaffer, Marta and even Sigrid tumbling forward. Sigrid pulled herself from the floor, cursing and pledging to wear her safety belt from here on out.

  "Is everyone all right?"

  There were nods and mumbles of yes as they examined their bruises.

  Sigrid glanced out the front window. Nothing was moving. The entire front of the limousine was a mangled mess, crushed beyond recognition. The heavy lorry, on the other hand, looked intact and no worse for it, other than an impressive dent along its front grill. By some miracle, the occupants of the limousine were still alive. Sigrid caught the barest traces of their life signs. They were low, but they were there, and they were alive.

  Throwing the door of the van aside, she leapt out into the street. She was ready to rush to their aid, when the rear door to the truck was thrown open. Five men climbed out. They were dressed in black suits. And they were armed.

  Jaffer grabbed her arm and pulled her back. "Wait. Don't."

  One of the men turned and looked their way. Seeing them, he took four steps toward them, and while he wasn't aiming his weapon, not directly, his intention was clear: back off!

  His companions moved swiftly toward the crippled limousine. One of them walked up to the driver's side window, raised his weapon and fired. Armor-piercing rounds tore through the heavy, plated glass, killing the driver inside. It was a straight execution. Brutal and abrupt. Another of the armed men moved quickly to the passenger door. The door was bent and mangled and refused to open. More rounds were fired, and that window was shattered as well.

  The two men reached in through the broken window. From inside, they pulled out the woman. She was young, only a teenager. She was unconscious and bleeding from a large wound in her forehead. Grabbing hold of her ankles and wrists, they carried her between them. Her white cocktail dress was smeared with blood, and her head hung limp as they whisked her to the waiting lorry.

  "Rape gangs?" Tomás asked.

  "Slavers," Marta said. "Maybe. Could be Syndicate boys."

  "It's worse," Sigrid said, for she knew exactly what they were. This accident wasn't some random coming together. This was a targeted hit. "Those are freelancers."

  "Freelancers?" Jaffer said, and his brows twisted together. "Forget it. There's no freelancers operating around these parts."

  "They're freelancers, trust me." She was sure of it. She'd had her own run-ins with the free operatives. They were soldiers, but unlike mercenaries, freelancers weren't bound by guild law. They didn't care about sanctions or permits. Money was all they cared about. In the eyes of a real mercenary, freelancers were scum.

  The last of the armed men boarded the lorry and slammed its doors shut. As it pulled away, its rear wheels rolled over what was left of the wrecked limousine, crushing its remains beneath its wheels.

  "We can't just leave her!" Marta said.

  "Don't worry," Sigrid said. "We won't."

  CHAPTER NINE

  White Knights

  Sigrid leapt for the van, making for the driver's seat. She grabbed Tomás by the scruff of his shirt and had him half out of his seat before he realized what was happening.

  "Whoa there, sweetheart! Hang on. Just what the hell do you think you're doing?"

  "I'm sorry, Tomás. I'm going to need your van."

  "Hell you say. It's my van. I'll drive."

  Behind her, she heard the door of the van slam shut. She turned to see Jaffer and Marta scrambling back in.

  "You, all of you, out!" Sigrid ordered. "I'm going after her."

  "And what you need to realize," Jaffer said, "is that so are we."

  "Blast it, Jaffer, we don't have time for this!"

  The lorry was making a hasty escape and was already out of sight. She was tracking it with her PCM, but if it got too far away, she'd lose it for good.

  "You're right," Jaffer said. "We don't."

  "Those aren't jackers, Jaffer. Those are freelancers. They're trained killers."

  From the folds of her coat, Marta drew a long-barreled sidearm, gleaming and silver. "Didn't Jaffer tell you, sweetheart? So are we."

  In the dark of the van, Sigrid looked from one trucker to the next. They all had the same knowing grin plastered on their faces.

  "We served," Angel said. "All of us. CTF Naval Forces. Two tours."

  "Served?" Marta said. "Angel, you were a cook. The only thing you served was breakfast."

  "Yeah, and you were an engineer, and we both took the same combat training."

  "Sorry, kid," Jaffer said, taking his seat. "Looks like you're stuck with us."

  Sigrid had to hang on as Tomás threw the van back into gear, speeding off after the freelancers. At least he let her guide him, as she was still tracking them, and within minutes they had caught up. By this time, the freelancers' destination was clear. They were making for the southern gates and the flat lands beyond.

  "Do we have a plan for this?" Angel said.

  "I do," Sigrid said. She had her hand on the door and she slid it fully open, letting in a blast of rushing wind and noise. Stepping out onto the running board, she drew her sidearm and chambered a round. "Get me in close, Tomás. As close as you can."

  Tomás grinned and nodded. He floored the throttle, sending them hurtling forward at even greater speeds. The lorry was less than a hundred meters ahead of them, and they were closing fast. Sigrid saw its red taillights flash as the larger truck weaved back and forth in front of them.

  Marta, who was standing at her side and clinging to the door rail, scanned Sigrid with a curious if bemused look. A sudden blast of air whipped at her hair and she pulled it back from her face, and she had to shout to be heard over the rushing noise. "So, you're just going to, what, leap aboard and ask them to give that girl back? That's your plan?"

  Sigrid scratched her head with the muzzle of her recoilless. As a matter of fact, that was her plan exactly. "I've been told I can be rather persuasive."

  The driver of the lorry must have seen them coming up on them. He swerved hard over, once, then twice, crashing against them and nearly running them from the road and into the wall of a darkened warehouse. The van plowed headlong into a series of stacked crates, crashing through to the other side. Tomás was forced to back off, but only for a moment. Sigrid saw the wild determination in his eyes as he brought the van charging back alongside, renewing the chase.

  The fleeing lorry increased its pace, but Tomás kept hard on its tail. Sigrid waited. When they were within four meters, she leapt.

  For a brief instant she was intensely aware of the ground rushing by beneath her and then the lorry as she crashed against it. Her outstretched fingers caught the lip of the truck's roof. Finding a foothold was more problematic, and she was very nearly thrown clear as the back wheels found a particularly large pothole and she was bounced high, heel over backside.

  For a moment, she hung there, clinging by her fingertips and struggling to catch her breath. Her toe found a loose rivet, and she clambered her way up onto the roof. With her legs and arms spread wide apart for balance, she turned back long enough to make sure the van was safely away. She was aboard and riding atop the freelancers' lorry. Now, it was time to save the girl.

  Her thermal optics highlighted the five slavers in the back. Two more men rode up front. She aimed her recoilless and fired, only to see the bullets rattle harmlessly off the rooftop.

  Blast.

  The truck was surprisingly well shielded. The panels were bolstered with ablative plating—too much for her stolen 12 mm. All she needed was one simple gas grenade and this whole affair would be over. She determined then to raid an arms depot the first chance she got, and get herself a proper kit. />
  Well, if she couldn't blast her way in, perhaps there might be another way?

  In their haste, the freelancers hadn't thought to lock the truck's rear door. The handle wasn't easy to reach, and she had to lie flat on her stomach, making herself as wide as possible as she eased her torso over the edge. Twice she was nearly bounced from the roof when the driver plowed over a curb and then through a retaining barrier. It was all she could do to hang on harder with her outstretched toes.

  Leaning over and down, Sigrid reached out with her fingers and threw open the latch. The rear door swung wildly open, nearly knocking her from her upside-down perch.

  She almost didn't see the fist that came hurtling toward her face.

  Jerking her head to the side, she dodged the blow. Off balance, the freelancer teetered on the edge, his arms windmilling frantically. His fingers grasped for purchase that wasn't there. All Sigrid had to do was give him a gentle nudge. The man fell straight out the back, where he tumbled painfully across the pavement. One down. Six more to go.

  Grasping the lip of the roof, Sigrid kicked her heels over her head and swung down into the back of the lorry. She came in fast, launching herself like a missile into their midst. One freelancer was unlucky enough to get in her way and her feet hit him solidly in the chest. The force of the blow was enough to crack several ribs and send him hurtling into two more of his comrades, bowling them over.

  Letting her momentum carry her forward, Sigrid tumbled and rolled, coming up on one knee and with her sidearm already in her hand.

  But rather than the furious faces of the surviving freelancers, Sigrid was greeted by something else. The body of the captured girl was at her feet. Unconscious, she lay there bound and gagged. She was injured. Her arm was broken and she was bleeding from a gaping wound in her forehead. But that wasn't what gave her pause or drew her focus from the battle.

  There were other captives here. Three more girls sat staring at her with wild eyes. Their arms were bound behind their backs and thick tape had been drawn across their mouths and wrapped around their heads. And there was something about them, something terribly familiar—

  The alarm blasting in her HUD screamed for her attention. It was her PCM, desperately alerting her to the danger and calling her back to battle.

  Sigrid dived to the side, hurling herself against the opposite wall, but not fast enough to avoid the blast of the shotgun. Four of the shell's lead pellets ripped through her stomach and chest, tearing into her as much as they tore her open.

  Eighteen new alarms flashed in her HUD, strobes of brilliant amber and red. Sigrid didn't remember firing her weapon. One shot took out the freelancer with the shotgun; a second round killed the man climbing in from the cab. The shot caught him between his eyes, sending him cartwheeling over backwards to crash into the dash. Only the driver remained—the driver, and these four strange girls.

  It was a struggle just to get to her knees. The simple act of breathing hurt and there seemed a tremendous amount of blood, down her side and all the way down her legs. The pain was crippling, but Sigrid had no choice but to ignore it. Silencing the alarms, she did her best to crawl her way to the front of the truck.

  She pushed the door to the cab open with a crash, practically tumbling into the driving compartment. The driver saw her and roared his rage. He reached for the sidearm holstered at his side—only to find her recoilless pressed against his temple.

  Sigrid could have pulled the trigger. Goodness knows the scum deserved it. He was a freelancer, after all, and he'd show her no mercy if the tables were turned. But the rage she'd felt only moments ago was gone. In its place she felt only disgust.

  "Get out."

  Nodding in earnest, he unbuckled his harness, opened the door and threw himself into the night. She doubted he could survive the fall. Not at these speeds. But at the moment she didn't much care.

  Half delirious, she crawled rather than slid into the driver's seat. She had to swerve quickly or else collide with the support beams of a water tower, and then again to avoid a row of refuse containers. But even with both feet on the brake pedal, she couldn't slow in time to stop from crashing through the large double doors of a warehouse that came hurtling towards her.

  The plasteel doors of the warehouse buckled and burst apart as the lorry plowed into them. It was all she could do to hold the wheel, fighting for control as much as to stay conscious. The warehouse's far wall was only meters ahead. She spun the wheel hard, skidding in a complete hundred-and-eighty-degree slide before coming to a stop.

  For a moment, she simply sat there listening to the hiss of the truck's overtaxed engines. She pressed a hand to her side, wincing and cursing her foolishness for letting herself get shot. She'd allowed herself to be distracted. And it was all because of those girls.

  Extracting herself from the seat was difficult. Using the seat back and the wall for support, Sigrid lurched, dragged and heaved herself into the back of the lorry. The girls were alive, thank goodness. The freelancers, not so much.

  The man she'd kicked in the chest had expired, dying from his injuries. One of the men pinned under him was dead as well; though not from anything Sigrid had done. It was the girls. They had done this. They had strangled him while he'd lain on the floor unconscious.

  The last of the freelancers was still alive, though the smallest of the girls was kneeling on his neck. Her hands were still bound behind her back, but she was on him and twisting with her knee, applying all the pressure she could. Though she stopped when she saw Sigrid and stared at her in the most peculiar way.

  Half kneeling, half collapsing beside them, Sigrid used the knife from her belt to cut her free.

  "Are you hurt? Can you walk?"

  The girl nodded.

  Sigrid passed her the knife. "Here. Free the others."

  The young woman from the limousine was in rougher shape. The wound in her forehead continued to bleed freely. Sigrid tore a long scrap of cloth from the shirt of a dead freelancer, wrapping it tightly about her head and applying as much pressure as she dared. This girl needed medical attention and quickly.

  Grimacing and nearly passing out from the pain, Sigrid reached down and scooped the girl up in her arms. It was at that moment that something extraordinary happened.

  On Alcyone, thirty-two very unique and special girls had been chosen for the Academy program. Identifying and locating those thirty-two girls had taken decades of research and cost the Kimura Corporation untold billions of dollars.

  One in sixteen million. That was what Dr. Garrett had told her. That was how rare an occurrence it was to find a girl with the correct genetic structure.

  Sigrid had it. Suko had it.

  And so did the young girl in her arms.

  And so did the others, as well.

  Sigrid's eyes widened as she scanned them. The data was incontrovertible. They were all of them exactly like her.

  Freed from their bonds, the girls came to kneel in a circle around her. Could they sense it too? Did they know?

  Looking down at the bodies of the dead freelancers, Sigrid finally understood. These men weren't on some run to pick up slaves. They were bounty hunters, and these girls were their prey. These girls were worth millions. Any corporate researcher in the Federation would kill to get their hands on them. Sigrid might have just saved their lives, but those lives—as they'd come to know them—were over. They were going to be pursued and hunted for the rest of their lives, and they would never, ever be safe. She couldn't allow them to remain in the Crossroads. Not even on Earth. She had to get them back to New Alcyone, the only place they would ever be truly safe.

  Outside came the loud squeal of tires as Tomás's van pulled up. The doors were thrown open and Jaffer leapt out, rushing toward her. Struggling to her feet, Sigrid stumbled to him with the girl held in her arms.

  But Jaffer and the truckers weren't the only ones to arrive. Two armored personnel carriers roared toward them, along with a military ambulance—and one black seda
n. The four vehicles pulled up just outside the warehouse. Two platoons of Dalair mercenaries spread out, taking up positions around her.

  Barely conscious, Sigrid knew she couldn't fight them. It was all she could do to keep from dropping the girl, holding her in one arm while raising her recoilless in the other.

  "Sigrid, wait!"

  Jaffer stepped in front of her wavering pistol, blocking her shot—and nearly getting shot for his troubles.

  "It's all right. We called them!"

  "You?"

  From the sedan stepped a familiar face. It was the port master, Franco Alvarez, and he was striding calmly towards her.

  "We'll take it from here, Ms. Rodriguez," the port master said. He gestured to his men, and four EMTs rushed forward to retrieve the girl from her arms.

  For a moment, Sigrid clung to her, but with Jaffer's help they pried the girl from her fingers. "They're only here to help. I promise."

  Too weak to fight, Sigrid let her slip from her arms into the waiting hands of the EMTs.

  "Take care of our hero, as well," Franco said, with a nod to Sigrid. "See that she gets the best of care."

  "Hero?" Sigrid asked, then winced as one of the EMTs started cutting away her shirt to gain access to her wounds. "What the hell are you talking about, Franco? I'm no hero."

  "Aren't you?" The port master leaned forward, leering meaningfully. "And how else would you describe the woman who just saved the magistrate's daughter?"

  "Magistrate's…?"

  "Yes, Ms. Rodriguez. That girl you just saved? She is none other than Lady Roos Van de Berg. Heir to the Consortium and all the Free Southern Territories."

  CHAPTER TEN

  A Girl For Hire

  Sigrid awoke with a jolt. For the briefest of moments she managed to forget where she was, and she rose in a panic, casting off her sheets only to tangle herself in the many medical telltales and probes attached to her head and torso. Medical monitors, instruments and bedpans—everything within reach of her flailing arms was sent clattering to the floor.