Discarded

by Mark A. Ciccone

  ‘Nor was the camp you flew it onto,’ Greg said, deadpan. ‘Still, you’re the designated pilot among us, so I suppose we can make do.’

  She flipped him off and continued her circuit around the craft. Greg turned back to Caswell, serious again. ‘You’re welcome to join us, you know. Where we’re headed, you’d be in a lot more demand than here.’

  Caswell smiled thinly. ‘Thanks, but no. Way I see it, you’re taking this bucket at gunpoint from some old man. They’ll rake me over the coals to say otherwise, but I’ve been well-roasted before. Best I can do is make them waste time here.’

  ‘Doubt they’ll be in the mood to,’ Leah cut in. ‘You might be good, but you haven’t seen what they’re throwing at us. If there’s nowhere else you’ve got secure enough to go under, there’re plenty of people where we’re going who’d welcome somebody with your skill-set.’

  ‘No.’ Casual before, Caswell’s voice now had the snap of command. ‘I’m through running. If they want to end me here, fine. Shady work aside, this place hasn’t been a bad retirement spot, and I’m not leaving it easy.’

  To that, Greg could only nod. Caswell nodded back, his features solemn and proud. Turning to Cayden now, the older man hesitated, then stepped forward and wrapped both arms around his old trainee in a tight bearhug. Cayden returned the motion. Separating, both men shared a long, unreadable look. Caswell stepped back a little, coughing gently. ‘Come on. Let’s roll this sucker out.’

  Greg started to speak, but Cayden’s hand shot out, gripping his shoulder. ‘Hold it,’ the older Golem rumbled. His head was tilted, in the direction of the field. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘What—’ Greg stopped, as a new sound reached his ears. He strained to listen. Then he heard it: rotors – at least four. Cold fire lanced through his veins. ‘Choppers.’

  He flung the two duffels to Leah. She dumped them through the side window of the plane onto the rear seats. Together they grabbed one of the wing supports. A quick glance showed Cayden doing the same with the other. Caswell ran to the other end of the tarmac exit, and tapped furiously at the door controls.

  The two metal slabs began sliding open, an inch at a time. Caswell worked the keypad again, then slapped the control box, muttering a curse. Greg pulled, the muscles in his arms and shoulders bunching and swelling. Compared to the vault door in D.C., the plane was almost as light as a mountain bike, but still unwieldy, and there was little room for quick manoeuvre. The metal itself was also slippery, maybe from the stealth material.

  Despite this, they had the plane’s nose lined up with the doors by the time a sizeable gap had appeared. Changing position, Greg readied himself to push alongside Leah, when the sound of rotors outside rose to a crescendo behind him. He looked up through the gap in time to see two planes appear above the building, flying at a slow clip toward the end of the north-facing runway. They were ungainly grey craft, with large bellies and no visible armament. Two sets of massive rotors blurred at the end of either wing. Ospreys.

  Crouching low, he shoved at the craft with all his strength. Leah and Cayden matched the effort. Wheels rumbling, the GreyWitch rolled out maybe twenty yards, its tail just clearing the exit. ‘One more, and you’re good to lower the wings!’ Caswell called out.

  Whipping his gaze back toward the runway, Greg saw one Osprey bank away, following the perimeter of the field in a wide arc to the southeast. The second made a sharper turn, angling to face the hangar, exit ramp lowering. Dropping the first half of the circle. Its altitude dropped like a meteor – one hundred feet, then seventy-five, then fifty. At this range, the thunder of the engines was titanic. No time for a last push– gotta get in the air now.

  The Osprey roared directly over the hangar, missing its roof by mere feet. Three man-sized objects dropped from the bulky craft’s ramp. Greg ducked reflexively, half-deafened. He grabbed the wing support and pulled himself upright. The objects struck the tarmac, feet first; the impacts rattled through his boots. A cloud of dust rose from each. All three were crouched and hunched over, like men at prayer.

  After one or two heartbeats, they unbent at the knees and waist, rising to their full six-foot-plus height. The closest one – the tallest of the three, with buzz-cut black hair – extended his arms to both sides. Foot-long blades dropped from his sleeves. Where he stood, it wasn’t hard to make out the pale, nearly-healed scars on his face. The other two – one blond, the second brown-haired – held .45s. All three eyed the group with relaxed alertness.

  Letting go of the strut, Greg reached for his own weapons. A hand seized his jacket: Leah. She jerked her head, towards Cayden’s side of the plane. He looked in that direction to see the older Golem, sans jacket, stepping purposefully toward the trio. His knife flashed in one hand – an older, extendable version of theirs, almost a machete like that of his opponents’. Every line and movement in his body exuded calm, and total awareness.

  The trio let Cayden approach. When he was a few feet away from the lead man, he came to a halt, knife hand hanging limp. They stared at each other. A hint of scorn was plain beneath the leader’s silver-framed visor glasses. Greg willed his legs to move, to rush out and help, but found he couldn’t. Leah’s tiny sips of breath beside him told him she was in the same state.

  A deafening blast rang out to Greg’s left. He was crouching low, gun and pistol ready, before the next two shots rang out. The blond Brown Coat staggered backward and crashed on his side, three gaping, bloody holes in his shirt. Twisting around to track them, Greg saw Caswell standing halfway around the door’s edge, a smoking old-model .45 clenched in both hands.

  The other two Brown Coats burst into motion. Black Hair charged Cayden, a spinning blur of flashing blades. Brown Hair ducked and rolled to his right, gun tracking toward the door as he came to one knee, in front of his fallen partner.

  Without a second’s thought, Greg pushed off hard from the floor, back-flipping through the exit. Bullets sparked and whizzed past him; one tugged at the back of his jacket, like someone trying to get his attention. He came to a halt on both feet, halfway behind the door. His pistol barked, once, twice. Brown Hair went flat, firing back as the shots passed over him. Ducking, he glanced to the other side. Leah was already behind the GreyWitch’s tail, gun and knife in hand.

  Watching her movements, Greg almost missed Brown Hair springing to his feet again. The other man broke into a sprint around GreyWitch for the left-hand door, firing a shot with every second step. Two rounds snapped past Greg’s head, and he dove to the left. A line of fire traced itself across his right thigh, making him hiss in pain. He looked down to see a neat tear in the pants and clinger fabric. First blades, now bullets?

  He landed on all fours, handspringing forward to get clear of the gap. Two bounding strides brought him up against the door, just behind Caswell. The old trainer cast him a grim look, not saying a word. He didn’t need to. With those three blocking the tarmac, it was a matter of seconds before their partners in the other Osprey landed and swarmed them from behind. Pistol in one hand, knife in the other, Greg crouched for the roll back out to the tarmac, ignoring the pain in his leg. Fast and slick, straight to the plane. Then –

  Shots rang out, from the other side of the hangar. Turning, he saw Leah dashing for the cockpit, Walther blazing. Lightning-fast, a trio of shots answered her, but she was behind the plane’s body by then, and the bullets bounced off the bulletproof windows. Her head ducked out of sight, then reappeared in the pilot’s seat, headset on. She waved frantically at him. Come on! she mouthed.

  Before he could make a move, Caswell made it for him. With a primal grunt, the older man pushed off from the door and charged for the plane, twisting at the waist to level his weapon. Brown Hair sprang forward, knife carving for the ex-sergeant’s face. The .45 bucked and roared. The shot punched into Brown Hair’s gut dead-centre, and he pitched over backward like he’d been struck with a sledgehammer. As he fell, his own gun discharged. Caswell grunted in pain, grabbing his shoulder. The .45 c
lattered to the floor. His loping stride turned into an awkward shamble.

  With inhuman agility, Brown Hair pushed off the ground with both hands, landing on his feet right between Greg and the plane. Blood dripped copiously from the chest wound, but he didn’t seem to notice. Scowling, he raised his gun hand, aiming for Caswell’s head.

  He got no further than that, as Greg lunged out from behind the door. Brown Hair whirled, knife flashing, but the Golem was already ducking below the swing. He slashed up and left, ripping a long gash through the top of Brown Hair’s shirt, and cutting clean through his jaw. The follow-up slice parted both cheeks and tore away several teeth and a hunk of nose.

  Blood spurted in every direction. Brown Hair roared in pain, staggering backward with his gun hand clapped over the wounds. When he lowered it, the ragged Maltese cross made by the cuts was plain to see. Snarling like a wounded wolf, he started to lunge forward again, as Greg took aim. Without breaking stride, he dove low, smashing his head and shoulders into the Golem’s gut and toppling him to the floor.

  ‘Whuff!’ Greg grunted. His attacker pinned him in a scissor hold with both legs, and clamped his now-free hand on Greg’s left wrist, shaking the gun away with brute strength. Several floating ribs cracked, sending jolts of electric fire through his chest; he gasped and choked at the pain. His knife hand lashed up, but Brown Hair’s fist crumpled his forearm, sending the blade skittering across the floor.

  Grinning grotesquely, the taller man raised his own dagger then jerked once more, almost dropping the blade. He leapt off Greg, and spun around, moving rapidly out of sight. Dazed, Greg could see the hilt of a knife – his knife – protruding from the attacker’s shoulder. Looking to his left, he saw Caswell slumped against the plane’s tail, one arm still extended in a throwing gesture. Brown Hair was striding toward him, knife raised.

  Greg lurched up, seizing his fallen pistol. Aiming as best he could, he twitched the trigger, again and again. Four of the bullets tore into Brown Hair’s upper back. His twist around was cut short by the next three smashing into his arm and both shoulders. The last struck him near the back of the head, exiting in a vivid spray of red and bone. With a hitching grunt, he toppled. A twitch or two, and he was still.

  Coughing, Greg sat up higher, awkwardly getting his feet under him. Looking Cayden’s way, he froze. Black Hair was dancing a lightning circle around the older Golem, blades darting in and out like scorpion tails. Cayden was ducking and jerking with an artist’s grace, avoiding nearly every cut, his own knife blurring in only occasional jabs or slashes. Black Hair’s clothes were rent with every strike, and his face was a mask of blood from innumerable cuts. Cayden’s were barely touched. Droplets of red sparkled in the air like rain, but the bulky attacker kept coming. A new motion to the left caught Greg’s eye. Blond Hair had pushed himself up to one knee, one hand reaching beneath his jacket. As Greg watched, he drew a silvery pistol – twin to the one he’d carried in Chicago – and took careful aim at Cayden.

  Greg leapt forward, yanked his knife from Brown Hair’s back with his good left hand, and hurled it underhanded. The blade plunged into Blond Hair’s neck, burying itself almost to the hilt. The attacker let out a gobbling shout, red spraying from his lips. He crumpled to the ground once again, clawing at the knife with his free hand. The other squeezed the trigger – as his partner stepped into the line of fire.

  Black Hair jerked. A glint of silver was visible against his back. In that split second, Cayden ducked a last swing, and plunged his knife into his opponent’s gut. Blood exploded over the older Golem’s face and chest, giving him a demonic look. Solemn and unblinking, he pulled the blade free, grabbed the other man’s jacket, and swiped it across his throat with surgical speed. When Black Hair staggered back, the gash yawned like a toothless second mouth, dripping red. Choking, the attacker fell face first to the tarmac, a dark puddle already forming beneath him. Within moments, all was quiet.

  Greg half-limped, half-trotted to Blond Hair’s side, fighting away the agony in his chest and arm. When he tugged his knife free, he saw the unconscious man’s carotid was still moving, feebly. The gunshot wounds were still open, but starting to close and heal over. Shoving his dismay aside, he placed the knife tip at the man’s temple. His free hand formed into a fist at the butt of the weapon. Gotta make sure… if that’s even possible with these bastards.

  A bearlike hand closed on his healing arm, bringing him up short. He turned to see Cayden’s bloodstained visage. ‘No time,’ the older Golem said tonelessly. ‘Contingent of Rangers is landing at the far end of the field. They’ll be here in less than a minute.’

  Greg cast another look at Blond Hair. Slowly, he took the blade away, wiping it on the fallen man’s jacket. He paused. For just a moment, at the angle he was kneeling, there seemed to be something strange about the man’s face, beneath the new injuries and old scars. Something familiar –

  Somewhere far behind him, he heard shouts, and the clomp of running boots: the other half of the Osprey contingent, now landed. He shelved the thought, and stood up, looking back to the hangar. Cayden was already by the GreyWitch, bent over Caswell’s crumpled form. Moving closer, he saw the two men clasp hands, before Cayden picked the older man up like a child and carried him to a spot by the edge of the door. Face still expressionless, the older Golem trotted to the rear of the plane, placing both hands on the tail. A sharp grunt of effort, and the craft rolled the last few necessary yards. Greg looked Caswell’s way, and saw that he was sitting calmly upright, one hand clenched against his shoulder. The other held a small, square metal device. He had just enough time to register it as a remote when the old sergeant closed his fist.

  A whooshing roar of flame billowed out from behind either of the hangar doors, engulfing the corners of the structure. Seconds later, another blast erupted, this one from the two Cessnas. Within ten seconds, the entire space was ablaze. Incendiary bombs, Greg realised belatedly. Probably had them in place for when and if the Army or the Feds ever showed. Now it would delay the rest of the strike force and deny them any readily available transport beside their Ospreys.

  Watching the inferno, he noticed Cayden out of the corner of his eye, trotting back to Caswell’s side. The two men stared at each other, not saying a word. Caswell extended a hand. Cayden took it, pumping once in a firm handshake. Pulling gently away, he jogged back to the front of the plane.

  Greg was at his side a moment later. Climbing inside, the older Golem murmured, ‘Said he wasn’t in any shape to fly, that he’d keep them occupied. No point arguing, not with that.’

  He jabbed a finger at the last word. Turning, Greg saw Blond Hair was groggily pushing up to all fours, coughing and spitting red. The stab to the neck was already healed, and the chest wounds closed. A few seconds more, and he’d be fighting ready.

  ‘Greg. Greg?’ He shook himself, and met Leah’s gaze. She held out the copilot’s headset. Without a word he took it, ducking and rolling under the plane to reach the other side. The engine started up with a soft cough and buzz as he climbed in, and they began taxiing before the door fully closed.

  The cockpit itself was surprisingly roomy. There was a sizeable gap between his and Leah’s seats, almost as large as that in a sedan. The rear seat could accommodate two, rather than the typical one. Cayden was staring fixedly out the window as he strapped in. When they swung onto the main runway, Greg could see the burning hangar in full. Two massive figures in brown were standing over a third limp form, the glint of their blades plain to see. Just beyond, he could see several tinier forms, in light grey uniforms, moving at a fast walk from either side of the building.

  The engine rose to a loud hum. Acceleration pressed him back in his seat, wrenching his gaze away. A faint lurch, and they were clear of the ground, gaining speed and altitude by the second. He stole a glance back at Cayden. The older man was sitting ramrod straight, staring at nothing.

  Unsure what to say, Greg sat forward. When the craft banked, turning westward, he
looked out the window again. The grey-clad specks were fanning out, likely to search the entire complex. The attackers were still standing over their fallen team member, completely motionless. Two new figures – one in a brown jacket like the attackers, the other in uniform – approached them. Their handlers? Or something else altogether?

  The plane banked again, causing the hangar to drop behind them. Greg turned away from the window. They’d find out soon enough – all too soon. He glanced in the rearview. Cayden hadn’t budged an inch. His eyes shone, with tears or anger. Plainly, for him, the next time couldn’t come soon enough.

  Chapter 10

  The fire in the main hangar was already starting to die down, thanks to the backdraft from the chopper and the Ospreys. Hargrove’s eyes smarted from the smoke. He hawked and spat to one side, trying to clear the taste from his mouth. Three Ranger techs in HAZMAT suits were combing over the less-damaged plane wrecks, checking for more explosives or other, salvageable evidence. The hangar itself was only lightly damaged, but the aircraft were all write-offs.

  He studied the scene for a few more moments, taking in all the devastation. Then he pivoted and strode toward the building a few yards away: the main security office. Two of his guards – one blond, the other black-haired – stood by the door, .45s out. Their clothes were torn and bloodied beneath the coats. Both of their faces bore ugly, jagged gashes, still not fully closed. And all this had been from one of the targets – a new one, by their reports. The third guard – the brown-haired one – had already been carried back to Hargrove’s chopper; there was nothing to be done there.

  He fought the urge to punch the office door as he halted before it; with his tightly bottled anger, he’d probably take it clean off the hinges. More than twenty years of gruelling work, and now he was a man – an immensely important man – down. Status? he pulsed, almost biting the word off.