Hell to Pay: Book Two of the Harvesters Series

by Luke R. Mitchell

  He lingered over her, holding her gaze, and for a long, breathless moment, she thought he’d kiss her again. Worse, she wanted him to. But thankfully some corner of her sane mind managed to squeeze out, “Head in the game, Tarzan. Big day tomorrow. Eye on the prize and all that.”

  He cocked a brow. “Isn’t it?”

  She forced a snort, trying to ignore the rest of the feelings swirling through her. “I never really took you for a cheese ball, but …”

  “Oh, I’m just full of surprises.” Finally, mercifully, he stood back up and broke some of the tension between them.

  “Where are you gonna sleep?”

  By way of reply, he sank to the deck and stretched out beside the cot.

  “Seriously?”

  “Bedding is kind of redundant when you have an exo with perfectly formable internal padding,” Jarek said. “Al knows how I like it.”

  “Is it too much to ask to be left out of your innuendos, sir?”

  “You know it is,” Jarek said. “Now can you be a dear and get the lights?”

  Al affected a sniff in response, and the cabin lights cut out, leaving them in nearly complete blackness. She couldn’t even see Jarek now.

  “Thanks, buddy,” he said quietly. Then, after a pregnant silence, “Guess I’ll see you bright and early, Goldilocks.”

  The fear that she’d been holding down since first boarding the ship to wait for Jarek began to creep out now, writhing its tendrils around her in the dark and weighing her down until she couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe.

  Tomorrow. What was going to happen tomorrow, she couldn’t say, but there was no option that sounded anything less than terrifying—short of Golga simply not showing up, of course. Something told her that wasn’t going to happen, though.

  Slowly, almost timidly, she reached out in the darkness and found Jarek’s hand already resting on the edge of the cot, waiting for hers. She gripped it tightly, wishing she could feel the warmth of his flesh instead of the cool smoothness of his armor.

  Jarek must have had a similar thought, because he wordlessly released her hand, and after a pair of clicks and a faint whir, a warm hand found hers and squeezed.

  She squeezed back, half a dozen thoughts hanging on the edge of her tongue. For a long time, she hung there in limbo, wanting to talk, to cry, to run. To do anything but lie there and wait for the inevitable.

  Jarek held her hand all the while, and she held his back until the silent darkness finally took her.

  Twenty-Four

  Form-adaptive, supportive internal membrane and gallant chivalry aside, when he woke, Jarek certainly didn’t feel like it was a TranqFoam mattress he’d been sleeping on. The aches and pains in his hips and back weren’t so bad next to the discomfort radiating—or not radiating, as it were—from his right arm, which was numb as a brick.

  His eyes showed him what his hand should have been able to feel: even after he’d finally managed to fall asleep, Fela had kept his arm raised up to the cot side, and his fingers were still intertwined with Rachel’s. He probably had Al to thank for that, the romantic devil.

  Thoughts of romance faded from thought as Jarek untangled his fingers from Rachel’s and peered up at the glint of dawn sunlight poking in from the cockpit windshield. The blood red glint.

  “Well that can’t be good,” he muttered, trying to shake some semblance of life back into his arm. “Talk to me, Mr. Robot”

  “A single ship did enter the stadium, sir,” Al said in his earpiece. “Roughly three hours ago. But it left quickly enough. It only appeared to be sweeping the area.”

  “Appeared to be?”

  Beside him, Rachel stirred with a moody groan.

  “That’s a lot of concrete for the scanners to see through, sir. Perhaps if you’d been more open to a certain party’s protests, I could have properly pointed out the potentially confounding detail.”

  Shit.

  “Point taken, Mr. Robot. Maybe I’ll let you have a vote next time I challenge the lord of the space vampires to a deathmatch.”

  “That would be most appreciated, sir.”

  “What is it?” Rachel asked, taking a crack at manually wiping the bleariness from her eyes. “What are you guys talking about?” She seemed to remember where they were at all at once and sat bolt upright. “Are they here?”

  “Easy, Goldilocks.” Jarek rolled to his feet and stretched his arms overhead. “Someone came and went in the night, but we’re like fifty percent sure they didn’t leave a trap for us. Maybe even sixty, if Al’s feeling cocky today.”

  “My sincerest apologies,” Al said. “Next time I’ll get my act together scan harder, sir. It’s not as if the equipment has technical limit—Oh.”

  Jarek tensed. “What?”

  “Lone ship inbound for the stadium, sir. A fairly small craft. No larger than ours.”

  “Oh.” Jarek traded a somber look with Rachel.

  Double shit.

  Technically Golga’s arrival—assuming it was indeed Golga—was good news. But somehow it didn’t make Jarek want to do the happy dance.

  “Okay.” He hefted the Big Whacker from its hanger on the side of his locker. “Game time, then.”

  He strapped on his sword and gun belt as he had a thousand times before, taking what comfort he could in the familiarity of the process. Then he turned to Rachel, who was checking something on her bullet catcher.

  She met his eyes, looking tense but steady, and Jarek decided he was damn glad she’d called his bluff. As much as he detested inviting her neck to the chopping block beside his, having her here at his side was about the most reassuring thing he could have asked for.

  “Ready?” she asked.

  “Let’s do it.” His lip twitched. “And then we can go save the day.”

  She spared him a long moment’s stare then turned and headed up to the cockpit.

  “Rain check,” he called after her. “Got it.”

  “That ship is setting down in the stadium, sir.”

  “Right. Take us up, Al.”

  Jarek stepped into the cockpit as the ship crested the adjacent buildings and the wide shape of Yankee Stadium came into view. From what he could see through the scuffed, cracked windshield, the stadium was still largely intact but for the caved-in southwestern corner, which had probably been caught in the same blast that had left several of the nearby buildings in ruins.

  Like a lot of structures these days, its walls were coated with a healthy growth of moss and beginning to crumble in places.

  Al pulled the ship to a hovering halt over the worn pavement of the parking structure across the street while they assessed the scene ahead.

  “Always wanted to see a big game here,” Jarek said.

  Rachel gave him a tired smile. “No you didn’t.”

  “No.” He smiled and shook his head. “I really didn’t. How’s it looking, Mr. Robot?”

  “I’m seeing some movement down on the ground level, sir. Looks like reinforcements.”

  “Not exactly unexpected,” Jarek said.

  “Comforting,” Rachel said, popping an earpiece over her left ear. “In case we get separated,” she added, tapping the earpiece.

  “Good call. Al, can you—”

  “I’ve already linked us, sir,” Al said. “I’ll open the channel as needed.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Robot.” He gave Rachel one last questioning look, and she nodded, mouth set in a firm line. “All right, then. Let’s take the field.”

  The ship crept forward with a quiet groan. Rachel half closed her eyes, and he realized she must be scouting with her senses

  They crested the eastern edge of the stadium, just over the scoreboard, and there was the ship—a sleek dark number, built for speed—and a lone figure in front of it with pin points of fire for eyes.

  Zar’Golga.

  Jarek’s stomach churned with apprehension and dread even as a trill of excitement shot through his chest.

  The ship drifted into the stadium.
r />   Rachel’s eyes snapped open at the same time Al spoke.

  “Oh dear. Not good.” The ship lurched to the left. “Not—”

  A thunderous boom shook the cockpit, and the next thing Jarek knew, he was flying across the cockpit toward Rachel.

  She smacked into the bulkhead ahead of him, and he just managed to get his hands up in time to catch himself before he smashed into her. His outstretched hands left dents on either side of her head.

  “Son of a bitch,” she groaned.

  The ship veered wildly downward, rolling back and forth, console alarms blaring all the while.

  “Starboard motors out,” Al called over the racket. “Stabilization limited.” The rear hatch popped open and began to descend. “Recommend you abandon ship, sir!”

  Jarek gathered himself and steadied Rachel. “Jumping legs, Goldilocks. We gotta bai—”

  The ship bucked, and he slammed a hand into the bulkhead to keep them from spilling over. “Go, go!” he barked, pushing Rachel through the doorway to the cabin and stumbling along behind her.

  The ship rocked downward, and Rachel staggered into the cot ahead.

  No time. There was no time.

  “Hold on!” he shouted. Then he scooped her up, took a few running steps, and leapt for the open rear hatch.

  They cleared the ship, and open sky stretched out around them, leaving nothing below them but thin air and the rows of stadium seats rushing by too quickly forty feet below.

  The upward momentum of Jarek’s leap died just as they cleared the seating and made it over the grassy field. Then they were properly falling.

  Jarek was preparing to toss Rachel upward as best he could to buy her an extra second or two when their flight inexplicably slowed. Or maybe not so inexplicably.

  “Jesus Christ, you’re heavy,” Rachel growled against him.

  He could have kissed her. He’d been fully prepared to take a heavy landing for the team, but even with Fela’s significant mechanical aid, the shock of impact wouldn’t have been pretty.

  Instead, they drifted down at a manageable pace and touched down jostled and disoriented but uninjured.

  Jarek drew his sword, scanning the surrounding stadium. A group of dark-clad men were emerging from the tunnels at one side of the field. Back where they’d flown in, a pair of guys were looking down at them from a perch by the scoreboard, one of them holding some manner of rocket launcher.

  “Traitorous bastards shot us down,” Rachel said behind him.

  He was about to commend her on her astute observation when Al cried, “Geronimo!” in his ear.

  He whipped around to see the ship buck drunkenly downward, still cruising forward with considerable velocity. It hit the field with a bone-jarring crash and a wrenching of strained metal and skimmed fifteen yards across the grassy field, bound straight for Zar’Golga and his dark ship.

  Golga gathered himself and sprang into a ridiculously high leap that carried him over the incoming ship-shaped missile. The raknoth landed twenty yards away from Jarek and Rachel, eyes alive with scarlet fire, and began stalking toward them, not even bothering to turn back as their ship’s prow smashed into his vessel with another sharp crash.

  “Right,” Jarek mumbled, taking in Golga properly.

  The Overlord wore no clothes, his entire body covered instead in the dark forest green scales of his raknoth hide, and he held a giant, gnarly mace leisurely over one shoulder.

  Movement to the right drew Jarek’s attention, and he glanced over to see another half dozen men emerging onto the field, led by their old raknoth pals, Toady and Slender Face.

  Jarek stepped forward to plant himself between Golga and Rachel while she faced Golga’s posse.

  This was bad. But they weren’t dead yet.

  “I’m starting to get the impression you might not plan on playing fair, Golga,” Jarek called.

  The raknoth stopped ten yards from them and studied them with those glowing red eyes, his reptilian expression unclear.

  “You have a strong history of fleeing from our engagements,” Golga said. “If we are to duel”—he hefted the giant club from his shoulder—“I will not have you scampering away from death when it comes.”

  Gulp. Jarek wanted to scoff at Golga’s choice of weapon, but the thing was huge, and the ease with which he was waving it around … How strong was this bastard? It didn’t matter. It was a fight. It was just another fight.

  “And you couldn’t just let us land first?” he called. “Dick move, man. And what gives with the backup army?” He glanced at Rachel. “Mine was a stowaway. What’s your excuse?”

  “They are here to prevent foul play on your end.”

  “Foul play like shooting an arriving party out of the damn sky?”

  “They will not interfere, only prevent the arcanist’s interference as they observe your demise,” Golga said.

  “Oh yeah? And what happens when I kill you? I don’t suppose they’re just gonna say ‘cheers’ and be on their way.”

  Golga bared a few gleaming fangs in what had to be the creepiest grin Jarek had ever seen. “They will observe your demise without interference.”

  Right. Because Zar’Golga the freaking Overlord himself was clearly not even entertaining the possibility that a puny mortal like Jarek Slater could end his ancient existence.

  It was arrogant, sure, but the weight behind that arrogance was like a mountain, and it settled firmly on top of the already substantial trepidation in his gut.

  This creature had conquered entire planets. He was thousands of years old. He was stronger, faster, more powerful than Jarek could ever hope to be.

  Jarek looked at the dark metal of his sword and reminded himself that no matter how strong and fast the bastard was, he was still flesh and blood. He could die just like the rest of them.

  He glanced back at Rachel. She clearly liked this even less than he did, but there wasn’t exactly an abundance of choices left. It wasn’t like they could get in their ship and leave.

  He gave her a small nod, and she returned it after a second with a look that assured him she wasn’t about to lay down and let either of them die, no matter what happened. It melted some of the apprehension clutching at his chest as he turned back to Zar’Golga and that giant studded club of his.

  Flesh and blood, he reminded himself.

  Scaly, strong-as-hell flesh and blood.

  “All right then, big guy.” Jarek slid his faceplate closed, took several distancing steps away from Rachel, and pointed his sword at the raknoth. “Let’s see if you know how to use that thing.”

  The scarlet fire of Zar’Golga’s eyes blazed brighter. Then he lowered the mighty club from his shoulder and charged.

  Twenty-Five

  As it turned out, Zar’Golga did know how to use that thing.

  The raknoth tore across the thick grass between him and Jarek in an unnervingly fast sprint instead of the wild leap he’d been expecting. Golga’s first swipe was entirely too fast for the massive size of his club, but he managed it all the same. Jarek scooted back and barely shifted out of the club’s path in time.

  Jarek nearly shat himself on the spot when he parried Golga’s follow-up strike and got a better feel for just how damned heavy that club was—and again when Golga pulled the deflected club back under control as if it had all the heft of a plastic wiffle bat.

  He aimed a counter at Golga’s head, but the raknoth was quick, and Jarek was rattled. Golga easily stepped under the strike and spun to deliver a horizontal club sweep that probably would have left Jarek’s torso a broken mess, Fela or no. Jarek didn’t wait around to find out.

  He leapt backward a good ten yards, buying himself a moment to breathe. Or trying to, at least.

  Goltha followed at a tireless sprint fast enough that Jarek had to tuck straight into a roll upon landing to avoid another heavy club sweep. He barely had time to think before he righted himself and found an overhand blow descending on him.

  He twisted aside, clearin
g the club’s path by a hair’s breadth, then drove Golga back with his own diagonal cut. The raknoth wasted no time pressing back in.

  Jarek turned through a mind-numbingly fast series of steps, twists, attacks, and counterattacks, reacting on pure, hardwired reflex. No matter how fast he moved, Golga was already there at the next step. Jarek needed a second to reorient, to breathe.

  But Golga pressed on, raining blow after blow with no noticeable sign of slowing.

  Jarek was off-center now—had been from the start—and was slipping further with each exchange. He couldn’t keep this up.

  Zar’Golga could.

  The raknoth fought on like a tireless, ferocious animal. If Jarek didn’t get his shit together, and fast, one of these tiny slips was going to end up snowballing into Golga knocking his head off with that ridiculous club.

  He had a brief image of Rachel watching him pummeled to a bloody mess by this red-eyed monster, her hands outstretched, her face frozen in a soundless scream.

  If Jarek didn’t get his shit together—if he gave into the tired voice telling him it was already over—then it wasn’t just his life. It was Rachel’s. It was Al’s. More likely than not, it was the Resistance and all those poor bastards getting bombed out of their homes for a second time.

  And fuck that.

  Never mind that Rachel never would have stood by and watched him die without throwing in. Never mind that he was tired and outmatched and afraid.

  They’d come here for a reason. They’d risked their lives and everything else for a shot at this vicious bastard. Between the ship going down and the shock at Golga’s raw power, Jarek had lost focus on his purpose here, but now it snapped back, clear and crisp.

  He’d come here to put down this animal before Golga destroyed them all.

  Jarek gritted his teeth and stepped into Golga’s next attack. The raknoth, having been hammering at him mercilessly for nearly a full minute, hadn’t expected that. Golga reacted quickly enough, dropping a hand from the club to reach for him, but Jarek plowed a lowered shoulder into Golga’s side before the raknoth could grab him.

  Golga hit the ground with all the mass of a full-grown grizzly bear, rocking the earth beneath Jarek, but bounced back to his feet with barely a moment’s pause, club in hand.