by Richard Fox
“Aye aye, sir,” Hoffman said, aiming down another hallway they were passing as shapes darted across intersections in the distance. Masha and her reaction force were doing exactly what the admiral predicted. They were using their superior knowledge of the layout to get between Hoffman’s team and the exit.
“These rooms are interconnected. Move through. Find a new hallway. We can’t be where they expect us to be,” Hoffman said, still holding a rearguard position with his revolver.
“Masha will guess what you’re doing,” Valdar warned.
“Let’s hope not,” Hoffman said as they crossed a lounge and entered a foyer with cheap decorative landscaping.
Masha entered the drab foyer from the opposite direction. She fired immediately, raising her sidearm so smoothly that Hoffman might have mistaken her for a combat-trained legionnaire or Strike Marine. He knew she was deadly, but had never thought of her as a soldier.
Hoffman ducked behind a piece of vinyl-covered furniture as gauss rounds stitched a pattern near his head. He dropped to a knee and rolled to one side, then came up firing.
Max returned fire, forcing Masha back into the doorway from where she’d emerged.
"Door!" Max shouted, then went into a side passage. “Let’s get the hell out of here!”
"Right behind you!" Hoffman yelled, diving and rolling to a better position in the foyer. It looked like it had been intended to be a living room or lounge area and nothing looked sturdy enough to stop gunfire. All he could do was hide and hope she missed.
"Leaving so soon?" Masha asked, firing into the location Hoffman wanted to reach. “You know it won’t be long before Med kills your Karigole and comes to help me kill you.”
He pulled back from her suppressive fire then aimed several shots at her, unable to hit her where she hid in the doorframe. "We have the admiral. We won, admit it. If you're smart, you'll be looking for your own escape plan."
She screamed words he didn't understand and he dashed for the door to follow Max across a crisscross of sidewalks and grassy yards.
"Booker for Hammer Six, I think we see you. Look for the van," Booker said.
"I see the van," Max said, waving for Hoffman to follow him.
They rushed toward the street where Booker and the others waited with the side door open to a large maintenance van.
Masha and two legionnaires burst from the building. She fired her handgun until it was empty, cursing and spitting when her weapon ran dry, as the legionnaires stitched the van with bullets from their gauss rifles.
****
Medvedev delivered a series of straight press punches to Steuben's face and torso. Steuben took the blows, adjusting slightly and retaliating with two jabs, an uppercut that lifted Medvedev off his feet. He roared with fury.
“Why won’t you just die?” Medvedev asked, trying to hide the fact he was wounded and out of breath. “I’m not becoming a big fan of the Karigole.”
“I feel the same about your armor. Very troublesome,” Steuben growled, slamming the Ibarran into a wall, then breaking contact and rushing after Hoffman and the others.
Medvedev followed. “Running away, are you? I expected cowardice from the murdering Terrans, but not from such a respected hero of the Ember War.”
Steuben snarled curses under his breath and vowed to go back for the brute. He saw signs of a gunfight and downed Ibarrans. “Could these hallways make less sense? It’s a wonder they made it into space.”
Medvedev stomped down a parallel hallway then emerged ahead of Steuben.
“I am very weary of you,” Steuben said, then launched a fresh attack.
Steuben closed with his adversary before he could put a weapon into action, shoving the Ibarran back, then sidestepping when Medvedev recovered and rushed forward. Going with the force of the counterattack, Steuben ran Medvedev’s head into a wall.
They both fell and started wrestling. As before, they climbed to their feet—punching and kicking and trying to throw each other.
“For the Lady!” Medvedev yelled and flew at him with an enormous punch, jumping through the air to deliver it.
Steuben immediately squatted so low, he was practically sitting on the floor. At the same time, he drove his fist up, punching Medvedev between his legs.
Air whooshing from his lungs, Medvedev tumbled down the hallway then struggled to stand. “I’m wearing armor,” he said, “but that was dirty.”
Steuben rushed him, putting him on the defensive all the way to the end of the hallway.
Medvedev rallied and tried to fight back.
The end came suddenly. Steuben grabbed Medvedev by his wrist and elbow, then snapped it, bending it backward on a leverage point that looked almost too painful to witness. The big Ibarran legionnaire tried to struggle, but his voice was full of pain and he was gagging.
Steuben head-butted Medvedev, forcefully driving him toward the ground. Medvedev tried to get up and Steuben drove his knee into Medvedev’s face, knocking him unconscious.
Steuben staggered, growling fiercely.
“Steuben, what’s your status? We’re leaving!” Hoffman shouted through the primitive phone radio link.
“I am coming.” Steuben put his hands on his knees to catch his breath. “Why are you Strike Marines so impatient? Do you think this is easy, even for a Karigole?”
Static and the sound of gunfire covered the reply.
****
The van lurched to a stop.
“What’s wrong with the van?” Hoffman demanded.
“They hit something vital,” Booker shot back. “Not my fault! Where the hell is Steuben?”
“He’s on the way. Find a new van!” Hoffman ordered, then jumped out and charged Masha, shooting the two legionnaires while he was still running, the kick of the upgraded .44 Magnum feeling more and more familiar. He almost looked forward to the recoil despite its bone-crushing force.
Masha stared down her pistol at him, glancing over his shoulder as they faced off again.
The repetitive blaring of a horn told Hoffman his team had stolen a new van, but he didn’t look back. He wasn’t sure how many rounds remained in his weapon. Keeping it pointed at Masha, he stalled, hoping to see Steuben emerge from the insane asylum.
“Are we negotiating, or are you going to kill me?” she said, looking more vulnerable than Hoffman thought possible from behind her pistol.
“Just put down the weapon and—”
She fired. The bullet sliced across his cheek as he twisted reflexively, firing his own shot that went wide. She’d only grazed him, but the shot still impacted his cheekbone with the force of a hammer, staggering him backward. He lost his balance and went down. Rolling sideways and scrambling to his feet, he tried to return fire as she lit him up with her more modern weapon.
The hammer of the revolver fell, making a dry click. Out of ammo.
Casting aside the weapon, he grabbed Masha’s wrists, forcing them down.
“I will finish you with my bare hands!” she shouted
He slammed his bleeding face into hers, sending her staggering back. She looked stunned but struggled to stay on her feet against a wall.
Steuben ran out of the building. “What are you doing? Don’t we have someplace to be?”
Masha’s hand flashed past her waist and she swiped at Hoffman’s throat. The Strike Marine reared back and saw the blade blur past his eyes. He twisted and hooked a punch into Masha’s stomach, knocking air from her lungs. He struck her in the jaw and she went down in a heap, the knife still clenched in her hand.
He wiped blood from his face and looked down at the unconscious spy, then to the knife. Killing her would be quick and easy. She was a danger to him and the mission.
He reached down then stopped. The cut on his face had gone cold as blood dried around it, and he remembered Lady Ibarra’s presence. The chill of her being…and how she’d spared him back on the Breitenfeld’s flight deck.
If he killed Masha now…the killing might never stop.
<
br /> “There are more legionnaires behind me!” Steuben said, grabbing the collar of Hoffman’s jacket and shoving him toward the newly stolen van. The old van was smoking, flames growing from the engine where gauss rounds had damaged it.
Hoffman shook off the Karigole’s grip and sprinted toward his team, jumping into the open door as whoever was driving started the vehicle rolling. Steuben climbed in a second behind him.
Legionnaires poured from the insane asylum and opened fire.
"Get down!" Hoffman yelled, throwing himself over Valdar.
He couldn’t see what was happening, but he felt the vehicle go around a corner hard enough to rise up on the suspension and thought it would go up onto two wheels or maybe flip over, slamming them against the interior walls. “Who the hell’s driving this thing?”
“Garrison, sir,” Max said. “He was already in the driver seat of the first van when I reached the extraction point with the admiral. Now he thinks he’s the designated driver.”
Booker leaned out the passenger window and fired rounds at a pursuer Hoffman couldn’t see from the back of the cargo van. New holes appeared in the metal, light streaming through them like lances.
“Steuben, try to shield the admiral with your body armor,” Hoffman said.
The Karigole changed positions, putting himself between the admiral and the back of the van.
“I’m really glad to see you, Hoffman,” Valdar said.
“Likewise, sir. But we’re not out of the woods yet. We need to get to the spaceport,” Hoffman said.
“What’s the plan?” Valdar asked.
“Vehicle change, then we split the team,” Hoffman said.
“Risky, Lieutenant. But you’re the expert. I’ll trust your judgment.”
“Thank you, Admiral,” Hoffman said. “Garrison, start looking for a second vehicle and a replacement for this one if you can.”
“We left our 4x4 near a car lot. May or may not have spotted a key box that’ll make stealing vehicles a lot easier,” Garrison said.
“I guess breachers are also notorious car thieves,” Max said.
Garrison gave the comms guy a reproving look. “Come on, Max, not in front of the admiral.”
“Don’t mind me. Our priority is getting off this planet and retaking the Breitenfeld, not getting nominated for Boy Scout of the Year,” Valdar said.
Chapter 22
“Can’t you keep up with them?” Hoffman asked.
Garrison drove the passenger van like he was trying to hit as many buildings and streetlights as he could, but he made good time despite the damage he caused to the already ruined van. “They took the better vehicle. It’s not my fault the local cops throw spikes at every intersection and I have to drive over stuff. And why are they chasing us? One look at Steuben and you’d think they’d be hunting him like Bigfoot.”
"King better be on station at the spaceport," Booker said, “or we’re going to have problems.”
“Steuben took my beautiful, new-to-me-stolen-from-whoever truck. Man, that thing was nice!”
“It definitely fit your classy personality,” Booker said.
Max laughed out loud.
“Thanks, Book. I think,” Garrison said as he sped out of the city, driving in the center of the road and ignoring the lines painted on the middle of the asphalt. “Nothing like this hunk of junk.” Wind rushed into broken windows and whistled through the numerous bullet holes in the side paneling of the vehicle.
"I haven't been rescued by Strike Marines often. Is this the kind of trouble you and your team normally get up to?" Valdar asked, checking himself for gunshot wounds. “For local law enforcement, they certainly aren’t afraid to shoot first and ask questions later.”
Hoffman held one hand forward and waggled it side to side. "We’re about average on this one."
Sitting in the passenger seat with his rifle, Max turned back to face them. "Do you want the good news or the bad news?"
"Bad news first," Hoffman said.
“Now they’re chasing us in armored vehicles with full military load-out, including chain guns and at least one surface-to-air rocket launcher," Max said, his finger on a stolen radio earpiece he was using to monitor local radio traffic.
“And the good news?" Valdar asked.
"This van is much faster than expected, even if it is low on fuel and the engine’s smoking," Max said.
Valdar faced Hoffman. "Your commo tech doesn't seem worried, so I'm not worried. I'll wait until we’re on the Breitenfeld to properly express my thanks. Don't want to jinx the mission."
"Understood, sir," Hoffman said.
"You're in charge down here. Don't let me get in your way," Valdar said.
Hoffman shuffled to the rear of the van and considered opening the door to shoot at their pursuers, wishing he had Duke right now. He worried that he’d just be wasting ammunition and possibly even increasing the accuracy of the Ibarrans’ return fire. If they marked his muzzle flashes with their infrared optics, they probably wouldn't miss.
"Garrison, can you go any faster?" Hoffman asked.
"Sure, Lieutenant. But it's the corners that are going to give us problems. They built the spaceport in one of the foothill valleys. There's going to be some switchback roads. You better strap in."
Hoffman looked around, searching for a Mule harness.
Booker shook her head. "There's no seat belts back here. This is basically a utility van. Find something to hold on to and pray for the best."
Tires squealed and their speed dropped as Garrison weaved around one switchback after another. They climbed higher and higher and eventually went through a tunnel that opened into an expansive valley. The scene reminded him of Koen minus the Kesaht assault divisions.
The spaceport was small, only a few buildings near what could have been a regular airstrip. Hoffman knew what to look for and saw that the radio towers and satellite dishes were modern—and by “modern,” he meant post–Ember War technology. The attempts to camouflage these with dirt and faux parts were easily seen through if a person knew what to look for.
As Garrison raced along the highway at full speed, Hoffman and Max checked for pursuers and found they had a substantial lead at this point. He saw aircraft approaching on the horizon and assumed these were Ibarran quick-response teams.
“Put as much space between us and them as you can before we get to our objective,” Hoffman said.
“Doing my best, sir,” Garrison said.
They came to a high point in the evergreen-spotted foothills, then descended into the broad valley with the spaceport at its center where rows of military vehicles dominated the landing strip. A small collection of civilian craft occupied the opposite side of the airfield, and there were also several standalone vehicle hangars. Four guard buildings were dark at the corners of the fenced area.
King guarded a vehicle covered with a camouflage tarp. By the time Hoffman and the rest of the team got close, the tarp had been removed and the Mule was primed for takeoff. Any of the unwitting locals who saw the craft would have a pretty good chance of finding themselves in the asylum on heavy medication. If they witnessed a launch, they'd be selling their story to some hack journalists in no time.
The other prisoners they’d liberated from the asylum parked their van near the line of shuttles. The team abandoned the archaic gas-powered vehicle and made for the modern void capable craft.
Hoffman dared to hope for a moment as they hustled into the shuttle.
This mission was barely salvageable. Next time he infiltrated a low-tech, experimental world, he was going to ensure there were more contingencies for communications, supplies, and personnel.
“We have arrived!” Garrison announced, but Hoffman and the others were already piling out of the van. The breacher sprinted to get into position on the security team for the admiral.
****
“From here on out, I want team members on every side of Valdar,” Hoffman ordered. “No one gets a shot at him. If they set
up a sniper, it’s better one of us takes the hit than our principal."
Hoffman, Booker, Garrison, and Max formed a diamond around the admiral, Garrison holding the back of the admiral's jumpsuit collar. He steered the older man but also leaned across him to provide maximum coverage from anyone who might attack. The team moved quickly.
Steuben and King deployed into a protective perimeter a bit farther out, putting rounds on the lead aircraft that was responding. It was difficult to see if their rounds hit, but the craft turned abruptly and sped away in another direction. The next vehicle was larger and seemed even more determined. Even from this distance, Hoffman realized the side doors were open and legionnaires were preparing to fast-rope onto the tarmac.
"That helicopter has rockets," King advised, his radio full of background noise.
"Doesn't look like they're willing to fire them while they still have men getting ready to fast-rope," Hoffman said. "Get the admiral inside."
His team shoved Admiral Valdar into the Mule, Garrison lying over top of him to shield him on the nearest bench. The rest of the team collapsed into the Mule and it took off.
"Booker and Max, get on the guns," Hoffman ordered, moving forward to check with the pilot. The deck yawed beneath him as the pilot banked through a hard turn.
"Incoming rockets!" Booker shouted, half-strapped into the combat chair but already firing the twin-barreled gauss cannon.
Max leaned on the controls of his weapon and turned it abruptly, unleashing a stream of high-velocity munitions at the pursuing helicopter. It exploded and tumbled to the ground.
No one said anything for a long moment.
“Why don’t they just stay back? Dumbasses deserved to get shot down,” Max muttered.
"The third ground vehicle has rockets,” King barked. “Concentrate on that one!"
Max and Booker opened fire, stitching gauss rounds across the highway, running the impacts straight up the column to take out not only the pursuer, but the target King had indicated. The armored vehicles fired back with equally modern weapons. The pilot of the Mule evaded a pair of rockets but couldn't escape all the smaller rounds.
