The Regent

by Marcus Richardson

  Denny’s eyes opened. The voice he’d heard had been no more than a whisper, barely audible. He had to think twice about what the words were…but it was unmistakably Red Eagle, his beloved grandfather.

  “Grandfather?” Denny whispered, staring into the dark abyss. What did you mean? Who’s watching me?

  After a long moment of silence, the feeling of connectedness, the energy, it all flowed away from him like the water in a stream—there for a second, then gone as you watch. The more he tried to focus, the faster it faded. He took a deep breath to clear his mind and detected a faint odor that shouldn’t have been there.

  Flowers on a summer day…a hint of wetness, like the ground after a light rain. Perfume.

  He backpedaled to the group, as slow as possible, but never turning around. He was sure of it now. Someone was out there in the shadows, watching them. A woman.

  She is watching.

  Denny shivered.

  “What is it?” Ms. Baker asked when he approached the group again.

  Denny leaned toward her, keeping his eyes on the darkness. “Someone’s out there. A woman.”

  The words had an immediate effect on Ms. Baker. She dropped into a crouch and stepped in front of Denny. “Stay behind me, sir. How do you know there’s someone out there?” she whispered.

  Seeing her act so defensively, the cop drew his pistol and looked down the tunnel to the left, the driver flanked her and took up a position on Denny’s right. Behind him, Eli moaned again about water.

  “Probably just that SEAL,” the driver muttered.

  “No, I’m right here.”

  “Fuck it, man, don’t do that to me,” the driver said through clenched teeth.

  “There’s no one out there,” Braaten said to Ms. Baker. “At least not close—they’re back there all right, but we’ve still got a little cushion. It won’t be long—”

  “I smelled perfume,” Denny said. He pointed, doubtful they could even see his gesture in the darkness. “That way.”

  They all sniffed. “All I smell is damp rocks,” the driver said.

  “I smell…” Ms. Baker said.

  “There’s nothing,” Braaten insisted.

  “Flowers,” Ms. Baker finished. “She’s here.”

  “Who?” asked the cop.

  “Jayne.”

  “Fuck me sideways,” muttered Braaten.

  “Denny, get Eli. Angus,” Ms. Baker said, her voice low but urgent. “Get us out of here. Now.”

  “Are you quite sure there’s—”

  “Just move,” she whispered.

  Denny watched her close her eyes and lift her nose, breathing slow. “I don’t know how I missed it…” she mumbled, opening her eyes again. She turned to Denny. “Sir, get Eli—unless you’re ready to leave him. Go!”

  “What do you want to do?” asked Braaten as Denny turned to Eli and hauled him to his feet.

  “Come on,” he said, “we’ve got to go, Eli.”

  “God, Denny, it hurts!”

  “Ssssh, keep quiet—put your arm over my shoulder, there…like that. See? I’ll help you walk. Just start moving, we’ve got to catch up to that cop,” he said, half helping his chief of staff and half listening to the people tasked with keeping him alive.

  “You go with them—make sure they make it to the parliament building,” Ms. Baker was saying.

  “And you?” asked Braaten and the driver at the same time.

  “I’ll handle this,” she said. She stepped away from the group and vanished without a sound.

  “God damn it,” Braaten muttered.

  “Fuck, she can disappear like that too? You guys are both crazy…” the driver said.

  18

  Stalking Prey

  Jayne smiled in the dark and watched through her next-gen night-vision goggles as Svea broke away from the group and moved purposely out into the void.

  Her hand twitched. She wanted so badly to pull the gun from its holster on her hip and end the bitch, but her tactical training wouldn’t let her give up such a prized target as the senator quite so easily.

  After watching the green-tinted form move cautiously further into the tunnel and away from her, Jayne turned her attention back to the group of fugitives. She couldn’t tell, but it looked like Braaten had taken the lead. Following him was the senator’s chief of staff, then her target himself, the junior senator from Idaho and the local celebrity. Following him and taking up a covering position at the rear of the little group was a man who carried himself well despite an injury to the shoulder. She could see the dark stain on his clothes and knew immediately he’d been shot.

  You’re the first to go, love.

  Jayne watched patiently, leaning against the cool, curved rock of a side tunnel as they shuffled by, unaware they were so close to death. The chief of staff moaned like a little girl and needed the senator to half-carry him. She turned away from the sight in disgust. From what she could see, the driver was far more injured and hadn’t said a word about it.

  A shame to waste someone of your caliber, but it’s just business, darling.

  She slowly drew her boot knife from its sheath and took aim, adjusting for the lack of depth caused by wearing night-vision goggles. She slipped the cold double-edged blade between her fingers and drew back her arm, waiting for the right moment.

  When the others had pulled ahead and the driver was directly opposite her, she shifted her foot just enough to dislodge some gravel, causing a sound that caught the driver’s attention. He paused, turning to look and Jayne let the knife fly.

  He let out a gurgled cry, dropped his weapon to throw both hands at his throat, and staggered back into the wall behind him. Jayne smirked and slipped forward, walking within arm’s reach of Braaten as he rushed back to see what had happened. She paused, now in front of the group and watched the drama unfold.

  “Jesus!” Braaten exclaimed in a whisper.

  “What happened?” the senator asked, still holding his dead-weight staffer.

  “Oh my God, it hurts,” the chief of staff moaned.

  “Hang in there—keep pressure on it,” Braaten commanded the driver, tearing his dress coat off, revealing what looked like body armor or a plate carrier. His patient had fallen to the floor and lay thrashing on the ground, his feet scrabbling in the gravel for purchase. A sickening gurgle-sucking sound wheezed from the doomed man.

  “Christ, push harder, man,” the Scottish cop said, ignoring the chief of staff as he took a knee next to Braaten. He put his phone on the ground so it bathed the two of them in an eerie soft light as they worked on the driver.

  She had to give Braaten props—it was obvious he didn’t have a trauma kit or other wound mitigation gear, but he was determined to save the man. He ripped his coat sleeve and wrapped it tight around the man’s neck, applying pressure to stop the severed arteries from spraying blood.

  Jayne had seen the knife slice into the man’s neck just to the side and slightly below his Adam’s apple. She honed that blade to scalpel sharpness and knew no matter how much pressure Braaten put on the wound, the man was destined to bleed out soon. She inhaled and smelled the delicious scent of iron in the air. Blood always excited her.

  Jayne froze. When she inhaled, the senator turned and looked right at her. It was impossible—she knew he couldn’t see anything beyond the dim glow of that cop’s phone—but there he was, standing next to the moaning chief of staff and looking right at her.

  “We’re not alone,” he warned.

  How the fuck can you see me? Jayne took a half step back, further into the side-tunnels. She moved slow as a stalking cat to avoid making any sound.

  “Of course we’re not alone!” snapped Braaten. “Someone just sliced open his fucking neck!” He turned back to his patient. “No dammit, push there—hurry, we’re losing him!”

  “I’m trying!” the cop complained.

  Jayne moved to the left a little, and the senator stared at her with those coal dark eyes of his. He was clearly watch
ing her.

  “I can’t see her…but she’s out there.”

  She watched Braaten sit back from the man on the ground, who had gone still. One foot twitched and the cop slowly pulled his hands away from the bloody mess on the ground. Braaten got up and wiped his hands on his pants, pulling his rifle from his shoulder.

  “Everyone tighten up.”

  “She’s out there,” Tecumseh said again.

  Braaten yanked back the bolt on his rifle and stepped in front of the senator. “Where?” he whispered. Jayne could barely hear him.

  “I…” The senator squinted in her direction, then shifted his eyes to the right.

  “Can you see her? Did you see her?” Braaten asked.

  The cop came up on the other side of the senator. “In this?” he asked. “Impossible.”

  Jayne exhaled, preparing to move further into the darkness.

  “There,” Tecumseh breathed, pointing right at her with his eyes closed.

  Fuck. How did you do that?

  Braaten raised his rifle at her, still moving his head left and right, trying to detect a sound. “I don’t see anything…”

  “I can’t either, but I can smell…flowers.”

  Jayne cursed. The damn perfume. She was hoping to dose Tecumseh with it when she captured him. She’d never thought his nose would be sensitive enough to detect the little she had from so far away.

  Braaten took another step, silent as a ghost. Without her night-vision goggles, Jayne would never have known he’d moved. You’re dangerous, aren’t you?

  “I don’t…wait…” He took a deep breath. “Holy shit…she’s here all right…I remember that shit from the White House.”

  Jayne took a cat-quiet step back and to the left. The White House? Braaten must have been part of the fiasco that signaled the beginning of the end for Reginald’s empire. She’d barely escaped with her life through the tunnels dug out of the presidential bunker after Barron’s execution. Jayne shivered, remembering how the tight enclosure of the hastily dug tunnel collapsed behind her when she blew the explosives. She’d thought it had killed the men chasing her, but evidently not. She’d barely escaped with her life…

  “I lost it…” Braaten murmured, shaking his head.

  Jayne frowned, watching Braaten, Tecumseh, and the cop, lift their noses and sniff, turning their heads this way and that, trying to get her scent. They’re like a goddamn pack of bloodhounds.

  Gunfire erupted down the tunnel—close enough that the muzzle flashes registered as faint echoes in her night-vision. The sound barreled up toward them like thunder in a bottle. The group—except Braaten—flinched and turned toward the noise. They shouted all at once, warning each other and in the case of the chief of staff, dropping to the ground in the fetal position.

  Jayne blessed Gregor and his oafish men—they’d completely screwed up her plans by letting Tecumseh make it to the tunnels, and she still wasn’t sure how they’d let themselves get smeared across the road by that garbage truck, but they’d saved her ass for now.

  “We’ve got to go!” the cop said, putting a hand on Braaten’s shoulder.

  Jayne held her breath and didn’t move. This was it. If he took another few steps into the tunnel, she’d be forced to act. Even with night vision, she couldn’t be sure she’d survive against that full-auto M4 shorty he carried. All he needed to do was spray and pray and she’d go down in a bloody heap. She clenched her jaw in frustration.

  A small explosion rocked the tunnel system, painfully assaulting her ears. She winced at the over-pressure, but kept her eyes locked on Braaten, who continued to look for her in the darkness. His rifle pointed just a hair to her right.

  “It’s now or never! They’re using explosives,” the cop said, stating the obvious. “They’ll bloody bring the roof down on our heads!”

  Jayne felt a trickle of dust and pebbles land on her hair and shoulders. Now she was really mad—she’d have to get her hair done all over again. It wouldn’t be seemly to appear in public with dirt in her otherwise impeccable mane.

  “Mr. Braaten, please…we need to go,” the senator said, helping his chief of staff up off the floor.

  “I don’t want to die down here!” the injured man wailed.

  Braaten clenched his jaw and looked right at Jayne before turning away. “Fine. She must be gone—otherwise someone else would be dead by now. Angus, take us out—go! Senator, you follow, I’ll bring up the rear.”

  “What about Ms. Baker?” asked Tecumseh as he shuffled past with his blubbering staffer.

  Braaten looked back down the tunnel toward the gunfight, still popping and echoing in the distance. “She’s buying us time. Let’s make sure we don’t waste it.”

  Jayne exhaled when they moved on round the bend and closed her eyes. She swallowed, then ran her hands down the front of her leather outfit, feeling the comforting forms and shapes of her body through the skin-tight material. It allowed her to move completely silent in just about any environment and virtually undetectable at night. But it constrained her chest somewhat and didn’t allow her to get a full breath.

  That was too close.

  Another flare erupted down the tunnel to the sound of gunfire. She couldn’t tell who was getting the better of that fight, but Jayne assumed it was Svea. Gregor—if he was still alive—was good, but not nearly that good.

  Another explosion rocked the tunnel system and a chunk of rock landed on her shoulder. It was time to go. She’d have to slip out a side entrance to avoid running into the senator’s party, but it would beat getting buried alive.

  She turned away from Svea and her gunfight.

  Another time, my dear. But I promise you, we’ll meet soon.

  19

  This Prey has Claws

  Danika, ears bleeding, stood over the dying man at her feet. She leveled her captured rifle at the man’s forehead. “Who sent you?” she asked, her voice ragged from the fighting, the dust, and the smoke.

  The man coughed and grinned, his face barely visible in the light from a dying fire behind her. When they’d started tossing grenades, her attackers had inadvertently set fire to a pile of rubble—broken boards and trash left by some homeless hermit. It provided the only weak light available. At this point, she was grateful for anything. The muzzle flashes had nearly blinded her during the brief but intense firefight.

  “For King and Council,” the man muttered through bloody lips. His accent was thick and Russian.

  She used the tip of her rifle to turn his face toward the light. “Gregor?”

  His eyes widened when she leaned down and showed him her face. “You!” he hissed.

  Danica smiled. “Me. Now…are you going to tell me what I want to know so I can end your suffering? Or do you want me to…practice…on you?”

  His body stiffened at her words and he coughed up blood. “I won’t be around much longer, cyka.”

  “Ah, but I will make that time seem to last forever. Or do you doubt my skills?” She applied just the slightest amount of pressure to his temple with the tip of the rifle.

  “Nyet, nyet!” he complained, wincing. He coughed again, blood smearing the side of his face as it bubbled out of his mouth. One eye closed as he looked up at her. “You know…I never thought…it would end this way.”

  “Gregor,” Danica said softly, “I never knew you for a romantic.”

  He laughed. “I always liked you better, you know?”

  “I’m touched,” she said, her voice flat.

  “Better ass…than her.”

  Danica smiled. “Thank you. Now who sent you?”

  He stared at her for a moment, then sighed, a wheezing, gurgling affair. “Promise me something first.”

  “We’ll see. What is it?”

  “Promise me you’ll take her down. She never paid me.”

  “Who?” Danica demanded, leaning in close. “Say her name. Tell me!”

  He smiled again, his teeth red. “Jayne.”

  Danica pulled the trigg
er and ended his suffering. “I promise.” She stood and stretched, inhaling the cordite and blood and smoke and dust. Around her, four other bodies lay in crumpled heaps.

  She searched Gregor, long known as one of Jayne’s favorite henchmen, and found a flashlight and his night-vision gear: a light monocle. It wasn’t the latest tech and was mil-surplus—Russian, of course—but it would get her out of the damn tunnels. She took his pistol from its holster and didn’t bother to check what kind it was; it didn’t matter. She tucked it behind her waistband at the small of her back and stood. A loud grumbling sound echoed through the tunnel and it felt like the floor trembled a little.

  Bloody hell…

  She held the monocle to her eye and took in the gray-green landscape and the bodies of Gregor’s men. A crack rumbled from further down the tunnel and more dust drifted down from the ceiling.

  Danica gave up on finding anything else of use and took Gregor’s AK, dropping the one she took off his associate during the fight. She checked the magazine—it was full. Gregor had held back, waiting for his chance to end her, and she’d taken advantage of that to end him. She’d taken her time, slipping through the shadows and finding a side tunnel that had brought her back behind his men. While they focused on driving the senator and his group forward, she took them out. It wasn’t her prettiest operation, but it worked.

  She just hadn’t expected the grenades.

  Fools. This whole tunnel system is going to collapse…

  She raced up the tunnel back toward where she’d left the group and found the driver laying on his back, his throat tied up with what looked like a coat sleeve. Blood stained the ground black all around him. Unable to figure out what happened, she started to move again when she caught a whiff of something.

  Her eyes widened and her senses sharpened. She knew that smell. She’d been trained to deliver that drug-laced perfume, the same as Jayne. It was Reginald’s personal deep state project.

  You’re here. She spun in a circle, straining to see through the monocle as her heart pounded in her chest and adrenaline raced through her body. Her fingers tingled. Jayne had been in this spot, just moments before.