by Myke Cole
“How is their temperament?”
She shrugged. “They’re Golds, sir. I’d describe their temperament as ‘blender.’”
“Fair enough. Have them readied.”
“What’s the op, sir?”
“We’re going to send a message to our friends down the hill. They need a bit more convincing before they cooperate.”
“That may be a bit more convincing than you wanted, sir.”
“I just want them as a last resort. I’m going to hit that station from the opposite side of town. Personally, with my bodyguard.”
He could hear the sharp intake of breath as she began to protest, the sudden contraction of the muscles in her throat as she remembered what had become of her last attempt. She froze, stammered, finally formed coherent words. “Yes, sir.”
“I also need you to assemble a squad and move them up-country. No Golds; beating hearts only. Press west along the lakeshore. There’s a town out that way, no?”
“Enterprise, sir. But that’s over a day’s walk. Closer to two.”
“Well, then make sure they pack for an overnight stay. I want them to drum out every trapper, miner, and drifter in their path. Question them about Lived-With-The-Wolves. See if they can find where the old man is living.”
“Sir, we only have a platoon; losing a squad is going to leave us light.”
“Oh, we’ll muddle along fine, I’m sure. I’m afraid my negotiations with this woman may become . . . protracted, and I want to make sure we’re not leaving any stones unturned.”
He could tell she wanted to argue by the tension in her jaw, and he gave her a moment to, eager to see if she could summon the nerve. But in the end, she only swallowed and looked at him, dipping her chin deferentially. And that, my dear, is why you are not cut out to be reborn.
He turned back to the Golds. Kill now, he said. No kill woman talk. He mimed the woman hefting the jar of TATP. Kill woman talk, no live, yes? If they killed the sheriff, they would never be put in living bodies.
Quetzalcoatl and Xolotl exchanged a glance, spoke quietly in their own language, then turned back to him. Yes. They nodded. He would have to hope they understood.
“You’re going back in now, sir?” Mark asked.
“I am, and I’m going to give these two fine fellows some scraps as a reward for their obedience.”
“I’ll post the snipers again.”
“Do as you like,” the Director said. “I’ve got a feeling our dear sheriff is going to have her hands full.”
The Director set off at a trot, leading the Golds across the hillside. He would approach the barricade from the opposite side. It wouldn’t surprise him if she had pickets posted who would spot his approach, but he had gotten nearly up to the barricade the last time before he was spotted.
He knew the plan was risky. Just because the Golds appeared to understand him didn’t mean they actually did, or that they could restrain their predatory lust once the killing started. He didn’t doubt he could beat them into compliance, but that didn’t mean one of them wouldn’t be able to take out a potential intel source before he did. It was a risk he’d have to take.
Fort Resolution was so small that they were able to circle to the town’s opposite side in just a few minutes, descending the hill at a crouch.
Some of the houses had open doors and windows, signs of a hurried exit. That was good. Frightened townsfolk might put pressure on the sheriff to come to terms.
He passed the town’s municipal building. The Gold Mark had sent had shattered the glass double doors in front. He could see the frozen trunk of a dead man in the wreckage, hand trailing in the glass fragments. There might have been some lucky survivors, but judging from the smell of frozen blood in the air, he doubted it.
At last, trucks and ATVs began to appear, parked to either side of the track to the station, forcing the Director and his bodyguard into a narrow chute.
The Director slowed as he approached the corner of the municipal building. Once he rounded it, he would be in view of the station and any shooters the sheriff may have positioned to cover this approach. He looked around but could see no heat signatures around him. He dialed his hearing in, listening for breathing or shifting feet. There was only the soft crunching of the snow as they moved along.
Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.
Click.
The Director grabbed the Golds’ elbows and launched himself to the side as the shrieking of a metal spring sounded beneath the snow. Xolotl came easily, but Quetzalcoatl jerked in his grip, pinned to the spot. The Director held on for a moment, realized that Quetzalcoatl was stuck fast. He let go and slammed into the side of one of the trucks, turning to face Quetzalcoatl, who had fallen on its side.
Its foot was stuck in a massive bear trap, rusty jaws sunk deep into the ruin of its leg. The giant metal semicircles were so big, they had closed halfway up the creature’s shin, shattering the bone and driving so deep that they nearly met. The Director could already tell that Quetzalcoatl’s pristine state was finished, its leg held together by little more than a few strands of bone and gristle.
He looked around at the cars again, realized that the vehicles weren’t parked randomly. It was an effort to narrow the approach to the station, to funnel a prospective attacker into a narrow front that would force them to walk over a line of traps. He looked at the pit where the trap had been buried, saw the smooth white snow beside it. Enough for another two traps side by side before the tire of a parked truck closed off the rest of the way.
“You clever bitch,” the Director whispered. He let go of Xolotl and turned to Quetzalcoatl, which was trying to push itself up to its feet, failing. He pushed it back down into the snow. Any movement would damage the leg further.
Quetzalcoatl said something angrily, and the Director felt Xolotl’s hand on his shoulder, shrugged it off. Help, he managed in the harsh phonemes of their language. Xolotl stiffened, released him, but stayed close by.
The Director ran his finger over the jaws, looking for a seam he could use to pry them apart. He knew right away that it was useless. The trap’s torsion had been tuned to its absolute maximum, and the teeth had been hastily filed down to create as smooth a cutting plane as possible. Trappers aimed to fix their prey in place with as little damage as possible. This trap had been adjusted to amputate a foot. The hunter’s tool was now a weapon of war.
The Director glanced over his shoulder at Xolotl. Cut.
Xolotl leaned in close, nodded. The leg was almost completely severed. The techs might be able to reattach and reinforce it, but it would be easier just to give the creature a prosthetic if they wanted to return it to service.
Xolotl said something to Quetzalcoatl, who sat up and took a closer look at the trap before uttering something that was clearly a curse. The Gold grabbed the broken leg as close to the jaws as it could and twisted the two halves apart. Even with its strength, it took some doing, but after a moment, it was able to tear the leg off below the knee and toss the ruined limb into the snow. Quetzalcoatl flipped onto its stomach and rose on its one good knee, then it crawled forward a few feet. It would be able to move slowly, at least. Go, it said.
Burning rage threatened to overwhelm the Director. Not only had that woman been unafraid of him, she had outsmarted him, managed to do real damage to the operational capacity of one of his assets. This was becoming personal.
No. You are a professional. Nothing is personal. You just need to focus. He was intending to rattle her, to attack her morale, and the opposite was happening. He looked down at Quetzalcoatl attempting to crawl forward, reached out and grabbed its shoulder, hauling it back.
It sat up, snarling at him. Kill, it said. Kill, kill, kill, now.
No, he said. Soon.
He held up a hand when Xolotl stepped forward. The truck nearest to them was an old seventies model with a narrow chrome bumper, and t
he Director sheared it off with a quick jerk of his hands. He probed one end in the snow until the traps leapt up with a loud clang of metal, sending sparks flying. He dropped the bumper, listening to the echoes of the scraping metal attenuate throughout the town. He had most certainly been heard, but that was all right. He looked up at Xolotl and nodded; the Gold considered, nodded back.
He looked down at Quetzalcoatl, wondering if he should scrub the mission. At last, he decided against it. The Gold would look even more horrifying crawling toward the enemy, and he could only imagine how furious it must be. Tricked and injured by humans. If that had happened to him and he’d been denied vengeance, he’d go mad. Even if he only had Xolotl with him, it would be more than enough to flush the defenders out. He had underestimated Sheriff Plante’s resourcefulness, but a clever human was still a human.
The first round sparked off Xolotl’s crown the moment they turned the corner. The track to the station was an open lane of fire. The Director could see at least three humans sheltering behind the engine block of one of the barricade trucks, muzzles flashing. Another round kicked up a spray of snow at his feet. The speed of the impact and size of the snow plume told him this was high-powered ammunition. The kind you’d use to bring down bear or elk. It couldn’t stop them, but it could do serious damage.
They would need to close the distance in a hurry. Xolotl didn’t need any urging; it glanced down at the crown knocked off its head and resting in the snow, and launched itself forward. The Director followed, zigzagging to the opposite side of the track. There were a few trucks scattered across the wide plaza in front of the municipal building. It looked almost haphazard, but the Director was wise to the sheriff’s tricks now, could see that the vehicles formed islands the defenders could use for cover, that would force an attacker to slow down as they negotiated them.
A living attacker, anyway. The Director vaulted lightly over the first vehicle. Xolotl merely dropped its shoulder and smashed into a truck’s passenger door, knocking the vehicle out of its way in a scream of metal and shattering glass.
There was a low boom, and the Director felt the tiny pellets of a shotgun shell tear through his shoulder. He tensed his legs to compensate for the force of the blast, kept himself upright. He could feel the cold air infiltrating through a hole in his hood where one of the metal balls had pierced his neck. More damage to a body that couldn’t be healed. He cursed inwardly. Someone would pay for that. He caught a glance of the walrus who had stood at the sheriff’s shoulder earlier. He was racking the slide of a smoking police shotgun. The Director pivoted in his direction, placing a hand on the hood of the first truck in the barricade and leaping over it. There were two men and a woman on the other side. They ducked as the Director sailed over their heads, their fear stink so strong that he could smell it easily even through their thick winter clothes.
One of them, an older woman with her hair in a tangled gray bun, held what looked like a pressure washer, long hose connecting to a silver tank on her back. The Director could smell the gasoline, the gelling agents, the pressurized CO2, and was already turning even as he completed his arc and began to descend. This must be the flamethrower the sheriff had spoken of. He had hoped to ignore the defenders at the barricade and make a push to reach the sheriff immediately, but he couldn’t leave this weapon in his backfield.
As if in answer, the woman leveled the tube and spat a gout of flame at him. He dodged it easily, but the spattering droplets still landed on his shoulder, the viscous liquid adhering, setting the cloth ablaze. The man beside her, a fat goliath with a purple nose, levelled a huge revolver at the Director, one of the .357 high-powered jobs you could use to hunt big game, and fired. The Director dove forward, dodging under a round big and powerful enough to take his head off.
He caught the man about his waist and drove him into the truck’s side hard enough to sink him into the metal a solid six inches, shattering his spine. The man coughed blood and collapsed, and the Director turned, rabbit punching the woman. It was a weak blow for him, but still it snapped her head to the side, spitting teeth. She pirouetted slowly, unconscious, her finger fixed on the trigger, spraying liquid fire in a dazzling arc that set the next truck alight and turned two of the defenders into howling human torches.
The Director stripped off his burning jacket. The shirt beneath was scorched and ragged, showing his gray-white skin through the rents, but at least it wasn’t burning. How long had it been since he’d seen his own skin? Months at least, maybe even a year. He had no need to look at himself. The jellied gasoline had blackened his shoulder but spared his bicep and the tattoo he’d gotten when he’d first graduated from SEAL Qualification Training in Kodiak. It showed an eagle perched on a trident before an anchor, a flintlock clutched in one talon. He was surprised at the spike of emotion the sight of it stirred in him, how glad he was it had not been harmed. He was beyond it now, beyond all awards and honors, metal gewgaws to give him an air of invincibility. He was invincible, and no symbol would ever change that.
The burning truck suddenly sprang into the air, slamming against the building’s side before landing on its back. Xolotl plowed past it, making toward the unconscious flamethrower woman. It reached her, howling, hammering her with its fists like some mad gorilla, gold eyes blazing. Within moments, her head was a compact mush, her blood mixing with the slowly spreading pool of jellied gasoline.
There was a crack, and a round whined off the barricade’s edge. More defenders, farther back, drawing a bead on him. The Director turned, snatched at Xolotl’s arm. They needed to get into the building before the sheriff could flee. They had killed at least four and shattered the barricade as if it had been made of spun glass. That was a fine start.
Xolotl snarled, snatching its arm away, burying its face in the ruins of the woman’s head, its own crowned again, this time with gore. He knew better than to try to force the issue. The creature was furious at the injury done to its brother, at the humans who had dared to knock the crown from its head. There was nothing for it but to let it slake its lust until it calmed enough to reenter the fight. Besides, it wouldn’t do for the defenders to be seeing infighting.
He heard a crackling of flame, the gentle flexion of metal under pressure, smelled the sudden shift from oxygen to CO2. The burning truck. He launched himself backward as the burning vehicle detonated, had just enough time to see the fireball expand, shifting from red to orange to white, black edges enveloping Xolotl, before he turned facedown and sprawled in the snow, a wave of heat sweeping over his back. Screams, the pattering of falling debris. Something soft and thick thumped against his head and bounced off.
And then it was over. The post-blast quiet was stark, the gunfire and shouts replaced by the gentle crackling of flames and the gusting wind. The Director turned, propped himself up on one elbow.
The blast had bowled the truck back through the barricade, sending two more vehicles tumbling on their sides. They had, mercifully, not ignited. The building’s side burned brightly, and he could hear the shouts of the defenders now as they raced to put it out.
Xolotl was a smoking ruin just beyond the mostly vaporized corpse of the woman with the flamethrower. Its arm lay a few feet distant, burning brightly. The Director patted his hands over his body, snuffing out a half dozen small flames kindled on the remains of his charred shirt. He tested his feet, found he could stand.
Farther down the track, Quetzalcoatl still crawled along, too far away and moving too slowly to be of any use.
Damn it. In just a few moments, he’d lost his two best Golds, one destroyed, one rendered combat-ineffective. His own body had been damaged. Was it worth it? He judged the fire slowly consuming the building’s side and decided it was. With their defenses smashed, the defenders would already be in a panic. He turned to circle the building. He’d find a window and leap in while they were distracted fighting the fire.
He heard the cough of a two-stroke engine, t
he roar of an accelerator rolled all the way open. Snow spraying. The Director raced past the window to the building’s corner. A snowmobile was in full flight, the walrus clinging to the handle bars, expertly muscling it through the cars drawn up on the building’s opposite side. The walrus dumped the clutch, threw his bulk against the handlebars to keep the bucking nose down, wiped his goggles clear of spraying snow.
The Director paused. He should let the man go. He had pickets posted around the town’s edge for just such contingencies. They should be able to find and put a stop to a fat lump of a man on a snowmobile loud enough to be heard across the Bering Strait.
The walrus ripped a thick piece of purple plastic from under his parka and began shouting into it. The Director could hear the vibrations of the VHF signal distorting his voice through the engine’s roar. It didn’t matter; the signal was jammed for at least fifteen hundred meters around the hamlet, and one of the Director’s snipers would have put a round through him long before he breached that range.
Stupid but brave. He had balls, this walrus. Maybe it was a lesson he took from the sheriff. The Director remembered the man, steady as a rock, sending a shotgun blast into his side as he leapt over the barricade of trucks. He was the first human to have harmed the Director since he died.
Before the Director knew what he was doing, he was racing after the snowmobile, magical strength lengthening his strides.
He told himself it was because the man might have the information he needed, that the sight of him taking down a man fleeing on a snowmobile with the throttle wide open would illustrate the futility of resistance. He told himself if he couldn’t be permitted a little fun in his new state, then what was the point? But he knew that it was all sizzle. The steak was this: this was a man who had shot him and lived. The first human to mark his body since he had stopped breathing. Like the sheriff, this walrus had looked at him and not been afraid. This was vengeance, plain and simple.
