by Cary Caffrey
Relying on pure instinct, Sigrid marked her course and headed directly for the tunnel. The fact that her charge took her directly through the burning walls of the marquis's palace didn't matter. Her PCM highlighted the weakest points in the walls eroded by the fires, and Sigrid ran, crashing her way through.
Plaster and wood gave way as she burst through one burning wall, charging into the next. She ran through an abandoned office and then through a suite beyond. A more sturdy-looking brick facade loomed ahead of her, though she was hardly about to let that stop her. Like a battering ram, she slammed through the third-story wall of the palace, hurling herself into the night, more than twenty meters above the frozen concrete of the courtyard below. The ground rushed quickly up to greet her. Sigrid hit hard, tucking and rolling along, only to come up amongst a squad of completely startled soldiers.
They were Independents—the enemy—but Sigrid didn't have time for them. Without breaking her stride, she snagged a brace of grenades from the belt of the soldier closest to her. Popping the tabs, she dropped them at her feet. Her PCM marked the three-second countdown while three great leaping strides took her out of the blast radius. She never looked back. Somewhere up ahead of her was Harry Jones.
The only way in and out of the palace was the winding switchback road they'd taken here. It led all the way down the mountain and out through the town of Portillo. Sigrid made for it, running hard, only stopping as she came to the edge of a rocky cliff.
Crouching on the edge, she had a perfect view of the road below. The single, narrow trail was cluttered with Cabal forces. Troop carriers, trucks and tanks jammed the road. They were making slow progress, nudging their way toward the battle on the hilltop above. The roar of their engines, the shouted commands of men and women, and the clatter of heavy tracks across the tarmac filled the air.
All the vehicles were moving in the same direction—all of them, except the lone black sedan that wound its way downward. It passed directly beneath her less than three hundred meters away. The twin flags that flapped on its hood marked it as the marquis's personal car, but Sigrid knew better. It was Jones. He was clearing the last of the traffic and accelerating quickly away.
Hurling herself from the cliff, Sigrid launched herself downward. Skidding, sliding and kicking up a great number of rocks, she ran plowing down the mountainside. But as fast as she was, there were some things beyond even her. She was on foot and Jones was in that car. She wasn't going to make it. He was going to escape.
"Jaffer! Are you there? Can you hear me?"
"Sigrid? For God's sake! What the hell's going on up there?"
"No time. Jaffer, I need your help."
~ - ~
For more than half an hour Jaffer had paced the length of the cargo dock. With little to do but wait, he'd run an impressive rut into the snow-covered tarmac of the cargo docks. His frustration exploded when the first of the bombs went off, only getting worse as the tanks started rolling past him as they headed for the villa. Even the work crew had fled in panic. But Jaffer was still stuck here.
At least, he had been.
His frustration ended with that call. Sigrid was alive and she needed their help. Finally, they had a job. They had a mission.
"Listen up!" Jaffer bellowed. "Knuckle up! We're on deck!"
Instantly, Marta, Tomás and Angel were alert. Marta kicked off the wall where she'd been leaning. She spat out the well-chewed toothpick she'd worried into a series of saliva-soaked splinters.
"What's the op?"
Jaffer flashed her a wicked grin. "Something I think you'll enjoy. Demolitions. Grab what's left of the C47 and come with me."
"I'll load it on my rig."
Jaffer grabbed her arm before she could run off. "Sorry, sweetheart, but we're taking my rig. And don't worry, you'll be thanking me later."
"Why? What are you going to do?"
"We're sealing the tunnel. We're going to bring this whole mountain down."
~ - ~
While the black sedan had no choice but to follow the winding switchbacks, Sigrid—running barefoot—was free to head straight down the mountainside. Sliding down the steep embankment, with the light fabric of her dress flapping in the wind, Sigrid charged across the road, leaping over the barrier on the far side, only to hurl herself down yet again. With each turn of the switchback road, the bright lights of Jones's sedan swept around, coming toward her only to speed past her again and again.
Twice the car passed only meters from her, and twice she'd stopped to unload round after round from her recoilless into its side. But the sleek sedan had been designed to carry VIPs in its cocooned safety, and her ballistic rounds skipped harmlessly across its armored sides and windows. Even the tires were protected behind heavy ablative panels. Each round left burning scorch marks and gouged out deep indentations, but the sedan kept rolling, undaunted.
Twice, her thumb caressed the button that would switch over to the explosive rounds, or even the armor-piercing incendiaries, but she stopped herself. She couldn't risk killing him. She needed him alive.
Somehow she was keeping pace, if barely, but it wouldn't be long before the car reached the bottom. If it did, there was nothing but open straights and the gates, and then the tunnel beyond that. If Jones made it there, he was as good as gone. All she could do now was run. Run, and hope Jaffer understood her message.
The sedan was entering the last of the switchbacks. It was a wide, sweeping horseshoe turn that took him far out and away from her. If she could make it to the bottom first…
Sigrid didn't slow. Half sliding, half falling, she continued her suicidal pace. Each of her skidding footfalls sent bucketfuls of loose shale and rock tumbling after her. The sharp rocks carved into her bare feet, but she didn't care. She only had one thought: reach the bottom first and cut off Harry Jones.
Leaping over the last of the protective barriers, she tumbled the last ten meters, hitting rather than landing on the snow-covered tarmac. She rose on blood-soaked feet—just in time to see the sedan exit the turn's apex to come charging her way. Less than a kilometer separated them. He was closing fast.
Behind her was an intersection. A single traffic light hung suspended, rocking back and forth in the wind as its red eye blinked into the darkness, casting muted shadows. Beyond that, less than two hundred meters distant, was the towering presence of the perimeter wall. The gates to the enclave stood open, unguarded. The black maw of the tunnel loomed just beyond that.
And blast it if there was no sign of Jaffer.
Without Jaffer, the only thing standing between Harry Jones and freedom was her. Stolen memories or no, there was no way in hell she was letting him escape. She couldn't. It ended here tonight. Dialing in the armor-piercing incendiaries, Sigrid planted her feet wide and raised the recoilless high.
And Harry Jones stopped.
Blinding headlights fell over her and her optics compensated instantly to the glare. The sedan came to a skidding, weaving stop, not six hundred meters from her. What was he waiting for?
For a moment the two of them stood there, facing off against each other. Sigrid, barefoot and barelegged, her recoilless raised high; Jones in his car, shielded behind the blackened armored windscreen.
But that moment was shattered. Engines whined, screaming under full throttle. Powering up, the four spiked tires spun fiercely, digging in. Streams of ice and dirt shot out behind it, and the sedan leapt forward.
But Harry Jones wasn't running. Escape wasn't his plan. He was running for her. He was going to run her down.
Sigrid didn't care. Standing her ground, she waited.
The sedan closed the distance between them, accelerating quickly to more than two hundred kilometers per hour. At one hundred meters Sigrid opened fire. The windscreen shattered first, collapsing under the barrage of ordnance. Eight more of the armor-piercing slugs tore through the engine cowling, ripping the front grill apart. Four explosive rounds followed, blasting apart the primary guidance controller. Unable
to steer, the sedan swerved wildly, first away from her, then back toward her. Out of control, it hit the median, launching itself high into the air.
Sigrid ducked as it passed directly over her head. It flew more than thirty meters only to land hard on its belly, its suspension collapsing under its weight. It spun violently, pinwheeling across the ice. The throttle must have jammed wide open, because the sedan continued on, still accelerating. The back end wagged back and forth, fishtailing violently. Veering off the road, it plowed down into the ditch only to launch itself out the other side, cannoning itself into the perimeter wall.
The sedan was a crumpled mess. Its nose was jammed up in the air. One of the front wheels—still under full power—spun wildly on its axle. The car wasn't going anywhere. Dead or alive, it was over. She had him.
A persistent chirping from her PCM drew her attention down. The recoilless in her hand was empty. Sigrid cast the weapon aside and started toward the sedan at a jog.
It was snowing again, and large flakes drifted down around her to fall on her hair and her shoulders. The wind was calm. There were no tanks or soldiers to get in her way. The single traffic lamp rocked back and forth in the wind, its red beacon flashing purposefully.
As calm as the world was around her, Sigrid's heart beat a driving rhythm in her chest. After all these years—years both lost and remembered—less than half a kilometer separated her from her confrontation with Harry Jones.
She had covered less than a quarter of the distance when the door to the sedan was thrown open. Harry Jones stepped out. He looked dazed, shaken, and he staggered twice before reaching back through the open door. From inside the car he withdrew what looked like a long metallic tube more than twenty-two centimeters in diameter. Sigrid skidded to a halt. She could only stand there gaping as Harry Jones, struggling under the weight, raised the shoulder-mounted missile launcher to his shoulder and promptly fired.
Unguided, hurled along by the gasses expelled behind it, the high-powered rocket blasted toward her—and there was absolutely nothing she could do about it.
Sigrid was designed to withstand a great deal of punishment, but surviving a direct assault by a .127 megagram-equivalent explosive device wasn't one of them. As fast as she could run, she couldn't outrun this rocket. There was nothing for her to do but watch and wait for quick, if fiery death.
But it didn't mean she wasn't going to try. Launching herself sideways, she ran.
She was halfway through the intersection and running for her very life when the blast of an air horn sounded directly behind her. It was close and coming closer—and coming at her very fast. Sigrid was forced to dive out of the way as Jaffer's rig came barreling past. The rig was running hot, on full overboost at well over 254 kilometers per hour. It cut directly across her path, shielding her from the incoming ordnance and taking the hit that was meant for her. The RPG caught the third carrier in the train, blowing it apart and lifting the massive intermodal container high into the air.
It was a desperate maneuver, and while it saved Sigrid, the rig was doomed. Out of control, Jaffer's truck, along with its entire train of carriers, careened through the intersection. Hurled along by the incredible momentum of its mass tonnage, there was simply no way for it to stop. The road was covered in a thick layer of ice, and the weaving, fishtailing train of containers made it impossible to steer.
But the gates ahead were open. For a moment, she thought he might make it and somehow steer the rig through them, but it wasn't to be. The cab hit first, crashing into the supporting pillar of the security gates. Sigrid could only stare in horror as the cargo train collapsed like an accordion behind it. One container piled into the next. The sound of bending metal was horrifying, but not so terrible as the sight of the cab. The front end was smashed and mangled beyond recognition, buried under a pile of bent carbon and steel.
Eight explosions shattered the brief silence that followed. Each of the containers had been rigged with the last of their stores of C47. Four of the containers blew apart instantly, raining shrapnel down around her. The second four took the entire perimeter wall down and the gates with them.
"Jaffer!"
Sigrid sprinted toward the inferno, hurling herself at it. Jaffer's entire rig was in flames. Her friend was in there and she had to get him out. She saw his outline, revealed through her optics, strapped into the mangled remains of the cockpit, struggling to undo the safety harnesses. Black smoke poured through the windows of the cab. Paint peeled away, burning off and leaving only the blackened metal underneath. The stench of toxic chemicals set afire attacked each and every one of her sensors, but the incredible heat was worse.
Twice she tried to approach, desperate to get her friend out of there. She reached for the door. The skin on her hand and arm blistered and burned, threatening to peel away; flames and driving heat drove her back. She couldn't get to him.
"Jaffer! Jaffer, Goddamn you!"
No life signs came from the cab. There was nothing left.
Jaffer was gone.
~ - ~
The low rumbling of heavy, studded wheels sounded behind her. Sigrid turned to see Marta's rig on approach. Unlike Jaffer's wild charge, Marta came in slow, maneuvering carefully across the icy road. The great cargo rig towered above her, dwarfing her, stopping only inches from her side. The doors opened and Marta leapt down, followed closely by Tomás and then Angel behind him.
Sigrid's heart was stuck in her throat. How on Earth could she tell his friends that Jaffer was dead, and all because of her. It was her idea to load the rig with high explosives—her idea to seal the tunnel. Instead, all she'd achieved was the death of her friend.
She couldn't bring herself to tell them. But they saw it in her face and in her eyes as they filled with tears. They knew.
"Jaffer!" Marta called. Sigrid tried to stop her, grabbing hold of her arm, but Marta broke free, running toward the flames. Tomás passed her more slowly. His hand rested on her shoulder before he walked past as well.
Angel remained behind. He looked on in shock, as if unable to believe what he was seeing. "Jaffer…?"
Sigrid shook her head. "He's gone." Though she still couldn't believe it. Jaffer had had to know he couldn't have survived. Yet he'd sacrificed himself for her just the same.
And there was still the matter of Harry Jones. She hadn't forgotten him.
Turning away from the rig, she walked toward him. Harry Jones might have escaped the explosion, but he wasn't going to escape her. He was lying huddled in the shelter of the wrecked sedan, only meters from the carnage that had taken Jaffer's life. The heat was incredible, even here. The fires were spreading and threatening to spread over the both of them. Part of her wanted to let him cook. But a colder, more sober part of herself reminded her, she still needed him alive.
One of his arms was broken and he clutched it to his chest. He was bleeding from several wounds in his legs and chest. One of his eyes was swollen shut and bloodied. Good, Sigrid thought. She might need him alive, but if he was hurting, well, that was fine too.
Coughing up smoke, his one good eye came up to meet hers.
"Ms. Novak, always a pleasure."
"A pleasure?" Coldly, she looked down at him. "I'm afraid I'm not privy to any pleasures we may have shared, Mr. Jones. Or have you forgotten? You stole my memories."
"No, I haven't forgotten. I have always enjoyed our…conversations. It's a shame I can't share them with you now. You always had so much to say regarding our affairs."
He was baiting her and she knew it, though she wasn't going to bite. "Another friend of mine is dead tonight because of you. Your wife is dead."
"Yes." He looked away from her, shielding his eye from the blowing smoke, or perhaps from her. "She is, at that."
"I should kill you for what you did."
"Yet you haven't. Why is that, Ms. Novak? Why haven't you killed me? I didn't think mercy was your style."
The thinly veiled jab wasn't lost on her. She knew what atrocities she
was accused of. The Night Witch was a murderess, and she wasn't known for leaving survivors behind to tell the tale.
"It's not mercy, Mr. Jones. It's commerce. I've been offered a trade. Your life, Mr. Jones. Your life for my memories."
The news genuinely appeared to surprise him and his demeanor changed dramatically. His eyebrows shot up and his back arched in attention. If this was an act, he was doing a damn fine job.
"An interesting trade," Harry Jones said. "If it can be believed. And who, exactly, offered you this trade, if I might ask?"
"Don't you know?" Sigrid watched him carefully—very carefully. "I was hoping you could tell me."
"Truth be told, Ms. Novak, I can think of any number of people who might make that offer. There are a great many people who would love to get their hands on me. I'm sure even you can appreciate that."
"Yes, Mr. Jones, I can. I'm sure your enemies are legion."
"Perhaps. But it doesn't matter. You're being lied to, Ms. Novak. The only person who can return your memories is dead. You killed her. No, I'm sorry, but your memories are gone. No one can bring them back. Not anymore."
Sigrid waited. She took great care as she sifted through the data. Each phrase, each syllable was analyzed and cross-referenced, then measured against his blush response, blood pressure, even the smallest twitch in his pale skin. Jones had fooled her before, but he wasn't fooling her now. It was subtle, barely traceable, but the telltales were there: a micro-spike in his heart rate; a shift in his voice pattern, imperceptible to the human ear, though not to hers. Harry Jones, the master manipulator, had slipped. And he was lying.
"Thank you, Mr. Jones."
"For what?"
"For telling me what I needed to know—that my memories can be returned. I think I'll take that trade, after all. Thank you for finally telling me the truth."
