by Allan Cole
Moon and Rhodes had replied with overpowering return fire. The chainguns spitting out lead bullets like death-dealing hailstones and the missile— along with its battery of DeathSpirits— had been blown to pieces.
The same thing had happened to the men and rebel fiends who had fired upon the UWP vessels.
Tanya didn’t know how many pirates had died during the brief engagement. No one had counted them yet, nor did she think anyone would have time. She certainly had no interest in such figures, since her sole concern was the whereabouts of the three fugitives she sought: Kriegworm, Billy Ivanov and Old Scratch.
So far, none of the pirates had confessed that they’d seen them. But Tanya knew they were lying. When she’d asked the question her cop’s senses read the lies in the shifty gazes and body language the prisoners displayed.
She needed to get the truth out of them damned fast, but wasn’t certain how to go about it. There wasn’t any time for individual interrogation. Torture was a possibility, although it was forbidden under the UWP charter.
Still, some rogue cops had been known to torture their suspects. Tanya had never considered using those tactics. She thought torture not only inhumane, but believed the answers gained were unreliable.
Even so, time was so short and the stakes were so high that for the first time in her career, Tanya was contemplating what had once been unthinkable.
As she flipped through her mental book of black ops torture methods, she suddenly caught a metal flash winking at the wrist of one the prisoners.
Tanya stalked over to the man. She remembered that he was one of the pirates who’d glowered at her.
“You!” she growled. “What’s that you’ve got?” She pointed at the antique gold Rolex on his wrist.
The felon gave her a gap-toothed grin. “What’s it look like to youse, major? Just me watch, is all.”
“Where’d you get it?” she demanded.
The felon shrugged. “Can’t say as I remember,” he said.
“Let’s see if I can jog your sorry-assed excuse for a memory, then,” Tanya said.
She stepped back. “Drop your pants!” Tanya ordered.
The pirate turned pale. “What does youse want me to do that for?” he gulped.
Tanya slipped her combat knife from its sheath. “Seemed as good a time as any,” she said, “to add to my collection. You should see it— six pickle jars packed to the brim and a seventh two-thirds full.”
The pirate took a step backward, but one of the marines prodded him forward with his bayonet.
“You heard the major,” the marine said. “Drop your pants, bub!”
The pirate started crying. “Okay, okay,” he blubbered. “I’ll tell youse what youse wanna know.”
Tanya sighed. “Damn!” she said. “Another chance gone.”
Then she grinned, running her thumb along the knife blade. “Of course, I can always hope, can’t I?” she said. “Maybe you’ll lie to me. I’d like that. I really, really, would.”
The pirate started talking just as fast as he could.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
The problem is that I’m too hyped for this job, Davyd thought.
Man, did that sound familiar. But he’d felt like that from the very beginning of the game. The three kills test … the infamous generalisimo … the apprentice assassin …
Not so long ago, but so damned far away. Far, far, goddamned away!
Shit, he should’ve killed the little S.O.B. for freezing and almost spoiling the mission. If only out of mercy so that someday he wouldn’t have to face what Davyd was facing now.
Davyd swallowed. An old habit: he never spat. Saliva was a precious tool for those bastards who called themselves “wizards.”
He hated those sons of bitches, but he’d never been dumb enough to ignore a clear and present danger. Can’t leave spit hanging around for the wizards to gather up and hunt you down and barbecue your lily white with their spells.
Davyd’s solo command post for this job was a sewer drain. And just now he was sitting absolutely motionless, filthy water swirling around him; thick, foul odors testing his rebreather to the max.
Good old Vlad had fallen for his little ploy. Davyd had strewn the trail with dead men like the fairy tale kids had scattered crumbs when they were on their way to the witch’s big damned gingerbread house.
Okay, so he’d drawn Vlad out. Gotten him to look for the gingerbread house. But this house was full of the blood and blasted bones of Vlad’s comrades.
And he’d known from the start that the Russian couldn’t resist trying to make Davyd pay for his crimes.
Like Odysseus Corps, the Church Of The Sword was intent on revenging any perceived wrongs. And Davyd had spent ten centuries making them mad as hell.
Pity he had to pull that trick on Vlad. Not a bad guy, when you got to know him.
Then Davyd realized that Vlad was the only person he’d known throughout his entire Odysseus-prolonged life. They’d met as very young men. They’d been the best their respective countries had to offer in the military pentathlon. And they’d gone head-to-head in a pre-Olympics match.
Vlad had equaled Davyd in every event. Dead even in the pistol shoot, hitting target after target for hours. Finally, after a record length of time, Vlad had missed a shot and Davyd had been declared the victor.
But then Vlad had evened the score by winning the fencing contest. Again, it had been such a close contest that both knew mere chance had made Vlad the victor. And that it would very well turn out differently if they fought a second time.
Their scores remained equal in the three other events: swimming, plus cross-country running and horseback riding.
In the end, it had been a tie and they were both awarded a gold medal.
Afterwards, they’d both gotten very drunk toasting each other for displaying such skill and sportsmanship. And they had been looking forward to meeting again in the 2004 Olympics. But their respective leaders had other plans for Vlad and Davyd that were less than Olympian.
Much less.
Now— a thousand years later— they were about to meet in another competition. Except this time it was a death match. And the only toasting that would be done would be Davyd drinking Vlad’s soul to hell after he’d killed him.
Too bad, but that’s the way it had to be.
Watch yourself, Kells, Davyd suddenly warned himself. You’re getting soft on the guy. The very thought triggered a flood of angry juices into the American’s veins.
And just like that, Vlad was transformed from a nice guy into a cunning, hated enemy.
He took pleasure as reviewed how he’d won the first, most difficult round. This gave him a better than average chance of accomplishing his mission.
Jesus, he’d already pinned Vlad’s ass to the ground so he could blow it away at his leisure.
Gridded the war-mongering Rooskie creep in super tight coordinates with his gremlin box and now all he had to do was move on in and … boom!
Goodbye Comrade Vlad— and hello to many blissful tomorrows as Davyd slept in his shimmering magic tube for a century or more. Hardening his soul to all the men he’d had to kill just to get to this fateful moment.
Despair crept in behind that thought, but Davyd quickly shooed it away. He had to be alert. Guilt free, like Father Zorza had said. Put the asshole down for God, Country and the Odysseus Corps.
But it wouldn’t be easy.
Vlad had surprised the holy hell out of Davyd even as he was chalking up the first round as his own.
That clever President killing S.O.B. had nearly turned the effing tables on him with his little game. Using that Hound device to locate him. A device that had sounded exactly like Tanya!
And oh, shit, and oh dear, Davyd had thought he was in trouble then. The Tanya device had nearly thrown him for a loop.
As soon as Davyd had heard her voice through the gremlin box his mind had gone into freeze mode. Mooning over her mental image like a schoolboy as Vlad got ready t
o toast his ass big time.
The Russian was clever, he had to give him that. And one helluva cheat, playing the Tanya card like that.
Still, Davyd had managed to shake him off and now he was sitting in the cat bird’s seat.
At that thought, Davyd grinned ruefully and looked down at the chilly water, thick with particles he didn’t even want to think about. Cold water running between his legs and getting his ass wet.
Some seat!
Regardless, he’d managed to break Vlad’s grip just in time and now Davyd was ahead in the important opening of the deadly game they were playing.
It was only a one-step lead, but it was a precious step.
He’d located Vlad— up in that tower room in the little hotel. But Vlad didn’t have the faintest idea where Davyd was.
Oh sure, he knew Davyd was close. But what of it? All Vlad could do was sit and wait for Davyd to come to him and deal out the Death Card.
Actually, in most cases Vlad’s decision would’ve been damned smart. Holing up was the best thing to do. Davyd had done it many times himself.
Letting an artful enemy come to him while he prepared the ground.
But that tactic wouldn’t work on Davyd Kells, who was a deep believer in the Odysseus Corps’ motto: “Kill with the first blow!”
True, The Church of the Sword was cunning when it came to defense. However, there was no denying that a skilled attacker always has the advantage. This had been so since the days of Alexander. And Davyd was an ardent student of Alexander.
However, the last thing he wanted to do was fool himself into thinking his victory over Vlad was already in his pocket. That Rooskie was too damned good.
Davyd must not underestimate him.
Also, that first damned mistake was not Vlad’s fault, he grudgingly admitted. The Hound had failed him. Giving Vlad away even as it had tracked Davyd.
Davyd had his own Odysseus Corps version of the Hound. But he’d decided not to use it, fearing it would behave exactly as Vlad’s had done. Putting out so much magical energy that the device revealed its presence to his prey. Which is what had happened to Vlad. In spades, pal, in spades.
Instead, Davyd had turned his own mocking and swearing hound spirit to a passive waiting mode. And now he was damned glad he’d done so. The poor thing had been knocked into a coma when it had come up against Vlad’s Tanya-voiced snooper.
Didn’t matter. Davyd had dodged one psychological bullet and was more than ready for the next one.
He had all the weapons he needed. With luck, his duel with Vlad would be over in less than an hour.
The actual fight itself shouldn’t take longer than thirty seconds.
That’s how these matters usually unfolded. Maneuvering for a long period of time. Then a blazingly quick exchange and someone would be dead.
Davyd remembered that he’d gone through that sort of thing before with Vlad aboard the Borodino. The memory of that incident worried him for a minute, then he put it aside.
It was different this time. On the Borodino, Vlad had the advantage because he was on his own turf, backed by hundreds of soldiers.
But this was neutral ground. And the fight would be between the two of them, with no help lurking in the background.
It didn’t matter that Vlad believed he was choosing the battle field once again by holing up in that tower. Keep on thinking that, pal. Because I sure as hell have a big surprise for you.
The main thing was that Davyd had to keep his cool and not deviate from his plan.
One shot and then Vlad would be dead.
Maybe two.
But don’t think about that.
Jesus, the guy was good!
Breathe deep. Breathe long.
He’s good. But not as good as you are.
Okay fine? Okay goddamned sure?
All Davyd had to do was keep his focus. Chill out, Kells. Chill out.
Davyd closed his eyes, centering himself. Thinking how nice the wait was. Making himself enjoy the anticipation. Imagining the shot. Yeah, pressing the trigger nice and slow and sweet.
And …
Okay, so in reality the wait wasn’t so nice.
It was cold in the sewer and the stench was awful even filtered through his rebreather. However, to Davyd such discomforts didn’t matter. He’d suffered through worse conditions in his thousand-year career as a killer.
So he ran Father Zorza’s orders through his mind over and over again until they turned into a sort of litany. Almost like a spellcasting chant.
Zorza’s orders had been simple: Make Odysseus Corps proud and kill that Rooskie bastard. Hero of the RGF. Assassin supreme. Etcetera, etcetera.
Davyd liked that “etcetera” business.
A good word to repeat … “etcetera, etcetera.”
As he relaxed, he sighed. Calmly considering the game that was about to begin.
Okay, it really wasn’t going to be that easy.
Hell, until a few hours ago he hadn’t even known how he was going to kill the guy.
But now …
But now …
Davyd smiled in the darkness. Killing Vlad was going to be a supreme delight.
This was no fat-assed Generalisimo, for crying out loud. A guy you could take out in your sleep.
Vlad was a goddamned tiger, man. A tiger with a human’s cunning brain. And no matter how well-armed Davyd was, no matter how well prepared, in the end they’d face each other as equals.
One stone-age man against the other.
To hell with the magic.
To hell with the special weapons.
Flint knife to flint knife was how it was going play out.
Yeah, and maybe fists against fists …
But, Jesus, what about Tanya?!
Ah, shit, where the hell did that thought come from?
Tanya!
Staring at him.
Measuring him.
Who did she love: Davyd or Vlad?
Okay, okay, okay. That was all stupid stuff. Not to be considered. Get thee behind me, Tanya Lawson!
But still … But still …
Davyd gritted his teeth. Forcing himself to think: Who the hell cares about Tanya Lawson? I’ve had plenty of women in my time. And I’ll have more. Lots more. Blondes, brunettes, redheads … you name it.
And to hell with Tanya Lawson.
Because, my friend, if keep worrying about that woman Vlad will eat your lunch.
Concentrating, Davyd got his killing edge back. His blood was hot, his nerves singing with hunter’s joy. But deep within the ghost of Tanya still haunted him.
Then the little green lights on his gremlin box flashed into life. And the little spirit said, “It’s time, boss!”
Davyd rose, ready to get on with it.
Now go-go-go, Kells, he thought.
For Odysseus Corps and— like the little motor spirit said:
For Godblessamerica!
* * *
He’s near, Vlad suddenly realized. He’s even closer than I expected. He’s really good!
Well, now it’s time for absolute calm. Calm as a stone. Imagine that stone: old … covered with green moss … embedded in the turf … motionless … without self awareness … a remnant of a forgotten age.
Yes, that’s how calm he’d be.
The Hound caught the scent of the approaching enemy. And Davyd’s soundless steps boomed loud in the astral void because his battle desire was too great. Davyd Kells wanted to kill Vlad Projogin too much. And that was a big mistake.
For despite all of Kells’ cloaking spells and masking fiends, his desire rang through. Especially after Vlad’s preparations.
The walls of his tower room were freshly painted with strange runes. And there were several pentagrams and hexagrams scattered among the runes.
Black candles stood at the vertices of a star with five points. A six-pointed star had bowls of incense placed at each ray. Thirteen small pieces of brown birch bark had been set in the center of a design fi
lled with lines written in old Russian.
These were spell chants created when there was no Empire, no Federation. When America itself was nothing but a vast unexplored continent. When Europe was a dozen small kingdoms.
When Grand Duke Yaroslav’s daughter, Anna, became the queen of France because of an old Kiev tradition: the daughter of a strong ruler marries a weak one. A time when Kiev’s power stretched from the Baltic to the Black Seas.
The ancient spells had been collected by the Church Of The Sword long ago and kept a carefully guarded secret. It was Vlad’s hope that Davyd would be fooled by those powerful old spells.
Kells had expected to face something like the Hound: a tremendously evil weapon; the offspring of some grim wizard’s mind. But not these old and odd chants from half-forgotten times.
Vlad’s trap was well prepared and now all he had to do was wait for Kells to trigger it.
Davyd’s footsteps came closer.
And closer.
Come on, you Amer bastard, Vlad thought.
Come on!
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
From his hilltop vantage point, Infeligo watched the rebel villagers go about their daily business. Several fiends were fishing in the river. A group of softskin women fetched water along a path that led to the communal cooking pot set up in the center of the village.
The human boy and the Engine Devil were squatting near the pot, scooping up food from big wooden bowls. All around them were many other fiends and softskins; some were eating, while others were engaged in tool and clothing making.
Using a spell of magnification, he could see them all quite clearly. Down to the color of the thread the village tailors were using.
Infeligo had half a mind to just go down the hill and kill all the villagers and capture the boy and the Engine Devil.
His ship was hidden at the bottom of a lake about five miles away. Once he’d captured Old Scratch and Billy Ivanov all he had to do was mentos order the ship up, put the two fugitives aboard, then head home.
He’d leave the interrogation of the softskin boy and Engine Devil to Apollion, who was highly skilled in the arts of torture. They’d soon break and then the traitor’s identity would be revealed.
Infeligo was especially looking forward to what would happen after that. He hated all of his colleagues equally, so it didn’t matter who the villain was.
