by David Welch
About a hundred yards away the lead man’s head turned, fixing on him.
So much for that!
He ducked, diving behind a nearby knoll. Shots rang out, chewing up dirt. Bits of it rained down on him. He clutched his gun, listening to the men shout in Russian, directing the other two. Luckily he remembered enough Russian to figure out what they were doing. The lead man was going after Hera, the others diverting to get him.
He dashed a few feet down the slope, ducking past the knoll and aiming wildly at the lead man. He’d already made a few steps toward Hera, who was approaching a thick patch of forest. That patch spread across a valley, joining with a larger forest that ran for some distance, possibly large enough for her and the kids to vanish into.
He squeezed the trigger three times, throwing lead at the man. The mercenary was only seventy yards away now, but still well out of range of a pistol. The shots went wide, missing by yards. But they served their purpose. The man paused and dropped to one knee, turning his rifle Dionysus’ way.
He dove back behind the knoll, more bullets chewing into the dirt above him. The heaviest fire came from above, from the two men closing on him. It grew louder with every second. They were coming.
He dashed back the way he had come, crossing the grassy slope. About a hundred yards away stood an ancient-looking oak. Beyond that, another two hundred yards or so, was a glade. It was his only escape route.
Shots tore up the grass around him, closing in on his position. Instinctively he swerved, sprinting in as close to a serpentine pattern as he could. The shots went wide, but they grew louder. Every time he zigged or zagged, his pursuers got a few more steps on him. He could hear all three of them shouting now, yelling instructions to each other, all about him. Which meant Hera was in the clear, for a minute or two at least.
Nearing the tree, he broke from his zigzag path and dashed straight for the thick trunk. Shots ripped into the hardwood, spraying him with splinters. Heart pounding, he shifted his weight, ready to leap behind the tree.
A heavy thwock filled the air, and something smashed into his right arm. It hit him like a roundhouse punch, knocking him down onto the slope below the tree. Adrenaline flooded his body, blocking out the pain. Dionysus scrambled on all fours behind the tree, clutching his gun in his left hand.
He glanced at his shoulder. A jagged cut met his eyes. Several inches long, it bled freely. Pain began to lance through the arm. He swallowed back the agony.
Ricochet!
He peered up between the two main beams of the oak, seeing the mercs as they closed. They were only forty yards away. Dionysus ducked back down, a hail of bullets ripping into the trunk and passing over his head.
Breath filled his lungs, painful and heavy. His right arm was useless, and he was right-handed. But gamely he lifted the pistol and popped up between the two beams once more. In a split-second he lined up a shot and squeezed, sending a bullet into the head of one of the mercenaries. The man jerked backward, dead on his feet.
But before Dionysus could duck back down, another hammer blow struck him. A round ripped through his right shoulder, hurling him backward. He slammed against the grassy slope. Blood poured from the wound, the big arteries in his shoulder torn open. He was dimly aware of a mercenary coming around the tree, gun up and ready. Dionysus’ left hand shot up instinctively, exhausting his remaining strength. He felt his finger squeeze the trigger and saw the man lurch, grabbing at his leg and howling in pain. Dionysus’ eyes felt heavy, and the gun dropped from his hand. The remaining mercenary came around the tree, screaming something. Dionysus couldn’t tell. Every blink seemed more difficult, until eventually he stopped trying. Then came a strange coldness, then nothing.
Lenka dodged behind the thick trunk of a redwood, bullets raining down in his direction. He returned fire with a half-dozen shots from his rifle, cover fire to drive down Zeus. A scream came from his left, and he saw one of his men down, bleeding profusely from a hole in his neck.
He bit back a curse and ducked around the tree trunk for a quick look. About ten yards above them, Zeus waited. Where, he didn’t exactly know. The man had taken the high ground, and hidden himself in this glade, using the trees for cover. Lenka had followed with six others, sending three to hunt Hera.
Now they were pinned down. Zeus had only a pistol, so even with the high ground this shouldn’t have been much of a fight. But normal rules never applied with these people. The man seemed to know exactly where to aim and fire.
To Lenka’s right, ten yards away, Ruslan crouched behind another redwood. He motioned to Lenka, pointing toward a large tree fifteen feet away. Lenka nodded, and motioned for him to go.
Ruslan ran. Lenka turned and blasted away at the top of the hill, sending a half-dozen rounds along the top of the ridgeline. Ruslan lunged forward, diving behind the tree.
A single pistol shot rang out. Lenka surged backward at the sound, ducking back toward the tree. The movement saved his life, but the bullet smacked into his AR-15, knocking it out of his hands. The gun bounced down the slope, its barrel dented from the impact.
He pulled his own pistol. A barrage of fire opened up, as at least three of his men carpeted the top of the hill. Lenka sprinted up the slope for another hiding place some twenty feet away. His men poured on the fire. Then a scream filled his ears. He ignored it, diving behind the new tree, ever closer to his attacker.
Turning back, he saw that Ruslan’s face was missing. Lenka cocked his head quizzically. The trauma looked like an exit wound, as if the man were shot from—
A clatter of fire rose from below him, and another of his men screamed. Lenka fired blindly down the slope into the glade, hitting nothing. He scanned the area intently, his mind spinning as it took in the situation.
One of the enemy had gotten out of the house and was attacking from behind. Zeus had the advantage on them from above. Lenka was down to four men. Two to one wasn’t a good ratio for attacking, even against normal people. Against an immortal?
Bullets ripped into the tree, inches above his head. He darted to his right, back from where he had come. Shots rang out from above. Below, his men opened fire on a distant figure that moved from tree to tree with impressive speed.
Lenka kept running. He leapt over the body of Ruslan to the security of a broad oak. Its multiple limbs provided some cover, from above and below. His lungs screamed from the effort, and he fought the urge to cough, knowing any sound would reveal his position.
He looked down, trying to find his new attacker. His men fell back toward him, firing up the slope and down, covering their retreat. They ducked behind trees around him, staring into the glade.
A flash of movement to his left caught his eye. Forty yards away, running swiftly toward them, was a solitary form. Lenka fired a burst, missing the man as he ducked low along a creek bed. He quickly swapped out his empty magazine with practiced ease.
But the full mag gave him no comfort. The glimpse had revealed their attacker. It was Ares. Another flash of motion, and Lenka saw a spherical object coming toward them.
“Grenade!” one of the men shouted.
Lenka crouched into a ball behind the trunk of the oak. The other men dove for cover. As they dove, shots rang out. Below he saw Yevgenny jerk back, his armor struck by a half-dozen rounds. The “grenade” struck the dirt nearby and rolled down the hill, plain and gray and remarkably rock-like. Lenka cursed himself for falling for such an obvious trick. One of his men opened fire, as another one pulled Yevgenny toward a tree.
It was then that another shot rang out, from above. But it was louder, closer. The man firing at Ares jerked violently, then fell to the ground, a small hole in his temple. Lenka fired back in the direction of the sound, but too late. He spotted the large frame of Zeus as it ducked behind a tree, his rounds chewing up bark and trunk but not touching the man.
“Fall back!” Lenka yelled, the reali
ty setting in with frightening speed. He had only two men left, one severely injured. Walking backward, he spread bullets in a wide arc, slinging fire from Zeus to Ares. Yevgenny limped, falling to all fours and crawling when his injuries proved too painful. His remaining gunman gave up trying to cover Yevgenny, instead trading fire with Ares to cover his own retreat.
Lenka reached the open slope seconds before his man did. Behind them Yevgenny shrieked and was flung sideways, hit by a dozen rounds. His body armor couldn’t hold up to that, and he tumbled down the slope, smacking against a tree trunk. His body lay still.
Lenka stopped back-stepping and ran. Coughing blood with every step, he sprinted down the slope, putting as much distance as he could between himself and the glade. He knew it would take his foes a few seconds to get to the edge of the glade, during which time they’d move slowly to keep from tripping in the wooded patch. Those seconds meant yards, and he made use of them. His remaining gunman cut his own path twenty yards down the hill, running in a broad S pattern to evade fire.
But none came. Lenka did not stop to consider why, he just kept running. Far below he saw figures retreating from the house, trading fire with those remaining inside. Only four of them remained. In the distance, over the clatter of gunfire, he heard sirens.
There wasn’t much time. Soon the place would be crawling with American cops. Lenka had to get his people to their vehicles and out of here. As his mind calmed and examined the situation, a cold fury came over him. He prayed his other people had gotten lucky, and either caught Hera, or taken out some of the immortals in the house. Otherwise he’d come all this way and lost all these men for nothing.
“Dad!”
Ares paused, his gun still up. He’d seen only Lenka and one other escape the glade, but that didn’t mean there weren’t more. Even shouting for Zeus was a risk, giving his position away to any who might remain. But Ares figured it was worth the risk.
“Up here,” Zeus called from behind a redwood.
Ares found his father with pistol in hand, breathing heavily.
“They’re getting away,” Ares said, pointing toward them. “We run them down, this can end—”
“No,” Zeus said firmly, shaking his head. “At least three of them went after Hera and the kids. Dio went to try and stop them.”
“Damn,” Ares grumbled, watching Lenka run. For a middle-aged man, he had quite a sprint. Probably all adrenaline, given his sudden turn of fortune.
“I’m almost out,” Zeus said, staring up the ridge.
“Here,” Ares said, handing over his pistol. He kept his rifle in hand, and followed his father back to the top of the ridge.
“Did they get anybody in the house?” Zeus said.
“No,” Ares said. “In fact, we captured one of them.”
“Well, pray to your God that Hera was that lucky,” Zeus said.
A shape appeared on the ridge ahead of them. Two people. One limping, leaning on the shoulder of the other. They stopped, seeing the two men. The healthy one fumbled with his rifle, but never got more than a hand on it. Ares brought his rifle up and squeezed off a round. It struck the man’s head, and both enemies fell to the ground. The injured man pulled a pistol from his pocket and was about to fire when Ares shifted his aim and fired again. Three rounds struck the man in the face, dropping him instantly.
“There were three men,” Zeus said.
Ares looked at him.
“You sure?”
“Yeah,” Zeus said.
They started down the opposite slope. It wasn’t hard to follow the trail. The tall grass was disturbed in a series of lines where people had charged through. Ares pondered the situation. If there had been a third, he was either dead, or he had sent the other two back since one had been injured. Which meant he could still be out there, trying to hunt down Dionysus or Hera alone. But a darker thought filled Ares’ mind. Those two had been making their way back from the direction Hera had fled. Perhaps they’d found Hera, killed her and the kids, and had been heading back to make their escape. Hera was no pushover, but slowed down with young children, scared out of their minds?
“Over there,” said Zeus, pointing. “One of them is down.”
Ares looked over, seeing the form of the dead man amid the grass.
“No!” Zeus said, dashing off ahead of him.
Ares scanned the area, seeing what his father’s destination was. Behind a nearby oak tree, a smear of blood marred the grass. A lot of blood, from the kind of wound a person didn’t walk away from.
“Shit,” he muttered, speeding up to follow. His father disappeared around the tree. Ares closed his eyes, as if to will away what he knew awaited.
A tortured bellow broke the air. Ares sighed heavily, opening his eyes. He walked up, listening to his father. Stepping around the tree, he felt his shoulders slump, his strength sapped by what he saw.
It wasn’t Hera. It was Dionysus. The pale, motionless form of his brother lay cradled in his father’s arms. His eyes were closed, his body limp. His chest was stained red, and marred by an ugly hole below his right shoulder.
He looked away, fighting for breath. He had no questions now. Dionysus had killed the third man, and injured the second. Then they’d gotten him. Ares shook his head frantically, trying to make sense of it all. It was a futile effort. He hyperventilated, fighting to control the wave of emotion forcing its way up his chest. It was a familiar pain, but that didn’t make it any easier. It still felt like it was going to rip through his body and overwhelm him. He stumbled to the far side of the tree, sliding to the ground and resting his back against it.
“Bastards,” he heard himself whisper, unsure if he’d said the word. His right hand shook. He pulled it back from the trigger, then clenched and unclenched his fist again and again, trying to control it. He failed.
With his father roaring his grief behind him, Ares looked to the sky. He didn’t know what he expected. Some answer, maybe? Some reason to know why Dionysus had been the one to die today? Of all of them, Dio had probably done the least damage to the world. Sure, he’d caused a ruckus when drunk, damaged all sorts of property, and knocked up more than his fair share of women. But beyond that, he’d been innocuous. He’d never been a killer, never dominated with an iron fist, never burned a city to the ground. Compared to that, being a drunkard was downright angelic.
But he still lay there behind the tree. Gone. After four thousand seven hundred and ninety-six years. A single bullet had undone all of that.
Ares felt a slight consolation when he realized that Dionysus had done what he set out to do. He’d distracted the men sent after Hera. He’d killed one and convinced the other two to back off. He’d saved Bane and Melika and Hera.
Ares tried to swallow back his grief, but could not quiet his soul. Instead his inner soldier pushed him to his feet, and made him go around the tree.
“Dad, we have to find Hera,” he said, his voice devoid of emotion.
Zeus said nothing, crushed his son’s dead body against his chest.
“She’s still out there,” Ares said. “With the kids. We have to make sure they’re okay.”
To his surprise his father responded, slowly getting to his feet, Dionysus’ body still in his arms.
“I’m taking him with me,” Zeus said through his tears.
Ares knew he should object, point out that it would slow them down and endanger them should any more of Lenka’s people be around. But he said nothing. A shout broke his thoughts. Looking up the slope, he saw four figures on the ridgeline. Three had guns; one had her hands bound. It was Artemis, Desmond, Aphrodite, and their captive.
“All right,” Ares said. “The others are coming. I’m going to go find her. Meet up with me in the forest at the bottom, okay?”
Zeus nodded, subdued. He slumped back to his knees, his grieving body unable to support Dionysus’ frame any longer.
Ares forced his eyes away, and started down the slope. He didn’t look back. He couldn’t. It hurt too much.
Desmond was struck by how unpanicked he felt. Granted, he was never the type to be overwhelmed by emotions. But he figured life-and-death combat would have shaken him more. There had definitely been fear; that much was for sure. At times during the gunfight his heart had thudded against his chest as quickly as a boxer hitting one of those speed bags you sometimes saw in gyms. But it had never crossed that line, never pushed past to the point where thought and reason surrendered to pure instinct.
What also struck him was that he was using these thoughts to distract himself from the fact that he was carrying a corpse. He’d slung one of Dionysus’ arms over his shoulder, and Zeus had taken the other. Together they struggled toward the forest with the body of the big man, following Artemis. She walked ten steps ahead with her gun up and ready, pushing the captured woman before her while scanning the open wood for Ares or Hera. Behind them Aphrodite trailed, glancing nervously back up the slope.
The gunfire had died down, but sirens could now be heard on the air, muffled by the bulk of the ridge. In minutes the house would be swarming. Desmond doubted the cops would believe that Ares, armed to the teeth, was really the good guy just defending himself against a squad of insane Russian mercenaries.
“Looks clear,” Artemis said, scanning the forest. She started forward tentatively, then paused, looking toward her feet.
“There,” she said. “That’s Hera’s path. Which means Ares is probably on it too, if he hasn’t found her already.”
Desmond looked, seeing a slight disturbance in the grass growing under the canopy. It was barely visible, but he supposed to a trained tracker it might as well have been a flashing neon sign. They shifted course and followed, Artemis out front again, her eyes constantly shifting from the ground to the forest around her, her gun always trained on the back of their captive. For a half mile or so they went on like this, until they came to a small clearing.
