by August Li
“Downhill,” he said.
I couldn’t think of a reason to argue, and we walked another twenty minutes or so. Up ahead was a sharp curve, and I hoped we might find something—anything—when we rounded it.
I have to remember to be careful what I wish for.
Dante froze as soon as the white van came into view, and he jerked his head toward the brush on the side of the road. As quietly as we could, we edged that way, but it was already too late.
The half dozen guys who’d been leaning against the van smoking spotted us before we could escape back into the woods. One of them pointed with the assault rifle hanging from his shoulder, and the rest came running. Ros muffled a squeal, and Dante widened his stance, hissing out, “Take her and go. I’ll hold them off.”
I didn’t get the chance to tell him how bloody ridiculous that was because before I could take a step, two of the skinheads had circled around behind us. The barrel of a rifle jabbed me in the back.
“Don’t move.”
“You. Hands up,” a lanky guy with a buzz cut and some scruff said to Dante.
“Hey, I recognize this little fuck,” said a guy with a gnarled beard and a gut like a beach ball jutting out between his suspenders. “He works for that wetback gunrunner. I think he took out some of our guys when we tried to get a hold of that first shipment.” He spat on the ground.
“What do we do with them?” asked a blond guy who might’ve been good-looking if he wasn’t a fucking Nazi.
“We have to stay here so we can call the rest of our guys if we see a hint of the cops,” said the guy with the gut. “We can tie ’em up and throw ’em in the van until we get out of here.”
“Fuck that,” said an older guy with a bunch of prison-style tattoos and what looked like a burn scar covering most of the left side of his face. His eyelid looked melted shut. I shuddered. “Put the little bitch in the van. She’s worth money. Take the other two into the woods and shoot them.”
The lanky guy pulled Ros off me, and she started sobbing. With a hoarse cry of pure pain, Dante lunged, but the blond caught him in the jaw with the butt of his gun, and he sprawled out on his back. Before he could get up, the guy had his boot on Dante’s throat. He looked down at Dante and said, “Hold still, boy. You and your friend here are getting a bullet in the head for the Aryan blood you spilled. Ain’t nothing you can do about it. But if you use some common sense and stop being a horse’s ass, I won’t do it in front of the girl.”
Dante nodded once, and then the pudgy fucker was hauling him up and marching us down an embankment and into a copse of old oak trees. The only chance we had, as far as I could see, was Ros’s magic. But she didn’t seem to have control, and besides, her spells took time to play out. We were royally fucked.
The big guy shoved Dante forward, and he stumbled. “On your knees.”
One of them poked me with a gun again, and hands closed around my shoulders and forced me down. The snow soaked my trousers instantly, and something beneath it scraped my legs. The cold metal dug into my hair while the older Nazi pressed a revolver to the back of Dante’s head. I closed my eyes because I didn’t want the last thing I saw in this world to be him dying.
Chapter Thirty-Two
PRIMAL FEAR had compelled me to take my shot with the sniper rifle when the woman in the black suit had paralyzed everyone. My companion said something about us being beyond the range of the spell, but whether it was genuine or the power of suggestion, I could feel the atrophy creeping into my muscles, and I reacted.
In doing so, I gave away our position as well as the thrall that held everyone still. I could already see a group of skinheads cautiously advancing on us, and I wouldn’t have been surprised if others were attempting to flank us from the other side. I looked up at the young man. “We can’t stay here. We have a better chance of survival if we watch each other’s backs.”
“Agreed.”
I handed him one of the Longbows. They weren’t the best choice at close range, but I had no intention of leaving them here so they could be looted and used against us. Besides, they might still be useful. This young man at least knew how to handle a weapon.
A couple hundred yards away, some people from Devereux’s crew took cover behind a crescent formed by three SUVs. Their position was not only closest to us, but also to the road away from the chateau and the semi holding my guns. I shook my head. Why would they bring that truck here? Then it occurred to me: they thought they would need it to transport the arsenal they believed I had stored here. I jutted my chin toward Devereux’s men. “Those are my friends. Make for them. I’ll cover you, and when you reach the vehicle, cover me while I run.”
He nodded once and sprinted without hesitation. It wasn’t long before the three Nazis noticed him, but I targeted the one in the center and blew his head off from two hundred yards, leaving nothing from his shoulders up. I knew some of these white supremacists came from military backgrounds, but apparently not this group, because instead of reacting, they stood frozen by what they’d seen. I made a split-second decision, and instead of aiming for the next man’s head, I put one bullet in his thigh, another in his gut. He screamed and flew back, a trickle of blood steaming where it hit the ground. My instinct proved right, and his companion dropped to assist him. I knew there was no honor in this, no creed. These men moved in packs like animals, and all their courage and bravado came from numbers. Despite their claims of superiority, the uninjured man was afraid to face me one-on-one. It was typical of his kind.
Sparing a quick glance back to Devereux’s crew, I saw my new friend had reached the others and now stretched across the hood of a black Escalade, his eye pressed to the rifle’s scope. I hoped the sense of decency I felt from him was genuine, because I had little choice except to trust him. Devereux’s people wouldn’t recognize me in my gear, and I hadn’t shared my name. I ran.
Every time my bad foot made contact with the ground, pain shot up my leg. I’d exerted myself and spent too much time in the cold. Within a few steps I was hobbling, an easy target. As much as I pushed myself, I couldn’t go any faster.
Something streaked across my back, and I barely bit back a scream at the intense burn. Acrid smoke from my smoldering parka stung my nose, and I realized what had hit me wasn’t a bullet; it was something on fire, something small but burning hot enough to penetrate the layers I wore and blister my flesh. It had come from the direction of the house. A group had gathered on the staircase, though I couldn’t see them well through the smog. Another volley of burning projectiles shot from the assembly, coming straight for me. I ducked and covered my head, trying to keep moving as best as I could.
I heard the soft whisk of a silenced shot, followed by a feminine shriek. I couldn’t look to see if my new associate had hit his target. Even if he hadn’t, the people on the staircase would scatter; they’d seek cover. Anyone would. It was instinct. It might give me a few minutes to get to safety.
I felt heat across my back again as a larger fireball sailed over me, probably missing me by mere inches. I heard it hit metal—one of the vehicles. When the Escalade caught fire, I could no longer deny that this was no ordinary flame. It had to be… somehow enhanced. As much as I didn’t even want to think the word magic, I’d never been one to deny something just because I found it inconvenient or frightening.
The people who’d been using the vehicles as cover fled, and I joined them as quickly as I could, prioritizing the threat of an explosion and pushing hard for the empty lawn behind the SUVs, alongside the road leading off the property. Adrenaline lent me enough of a burst to break the crust of that stretch of snow just before the Escalade went up with a deafening boom, shooting flames, shrapnel, and sparks into the dark sky and singeing my back. I smelled hair burning as I flopped over in the snow, trying to soothe the blisters across my shoulders and along the back of my skull.
I’d managed to hold on to my rifle.
My eyes burned and gushed as a watery silhouette approached me. I
could just make out the brown coat and striped scarf… and the extended hand. I grasped it and let myself be pulled to my feet, trying to breathe through the ensuing dizziness. The chemical air pinched my lungs when I drew it deep, and I coughed up ash.
With my head ringing like the inside of a church bell, I forced myself forward, still clutching the young man’s hand. The flames would spread to the other vehicles, and I needed to get clear of them before it happened… get to some cover if possible. My vision was still obstructed, but about a hundred yards away was a little hillock with a statue on top—a faun playing a syrinx, I saw as we got closer—and surrounded by some sort of ornamental bushes. The mound stood only about four feet high, but it would be better than nothing. My companion seemed to feel the same, and we rounded the slope just as the other two SUVs erupted, one seconds after the other, filling the air with oily smoke.
I dropped to my knees. The pain in my foot nearly brought tears to my eyes. My coat hung in strips, exposing my back to the frigid air. When I ran my hand over the back of my head, crinkled, burned hair fell out in clumps. I looked around at a dozen or so black men and a few women. Doing some quick calculations, I thought fifteen people divided by three cars meant most of them had made it to safety, even with the minor wounds most displayed, probably from shrapnel. I hoped so.
“What now?” one man asked.
“We get the fuck out of here,” said a woman with close-cropped curls. “This has gone to shit. Nothing more we can do.”
Most of the others murmured their assent, until someone asked the obvious question. “How? Walk back to Philadelphia?”
“My name is Raphael Guzman,” I said, surprised at the clarity of my voice when my throat felt scabbed over. “Some of you know me or have heard of me. I’m here for my guns, and I’m here for Louie and Devereux, if they’re still alive.” I pointed with my gun. “That semi might hold both. Either way, it can get us away from here. We need to fight our way to it and kill the Nazis defending it. It’s the only way we’re getting out of here.”
Some of them nodded, but one man said, “There’s dozens of those motherfuckers, and who knows how many more inside those containers. They’ll pick us off one by one.”
The young man who’d helped me shielded his eyes and jutted his round chin toward the truck. “Look. They’re concentrating on what’s in front of them—the people on the steps of the house and the ones off to the left, attacking from those trucks and vans. They might have a few guys guarding their goods, but they can’t spare more than that. There’s a chance they don’t know we survived the explosions, at least not all of us. If we sneak up from behind, we can catch them by surprise.”
I was impressed. This young man was sharp, he thought like a soldier, and he didn’t let the chaos around him cloud his mind. But the others didn’t look as pleased; they looked skeptical, maybe mistrustful.
“And just who the hell are you, white boy?” asked one of the women.
“My name is Emrys Rathburn, and more than that…. Well, it would take a long time to tell. Suffice it to say if these Nazis are your enemies, then I’m on your side.”
“How do we know that? You could be one of them, leading us into a trap.”
“No,” I said. “Emrys has my trust, and his point is a good one. We should go now, before we lose the element of surprise.” Something exploded, and a white pickup truck shot into the air and then landed on its side with a screech and a crunch. “We should go now, while the Irish are keeping them busy. Who has long-range weapons?”
They held up their guns, and most of them were armed for power, not distance: high-caliber revolvers, sawed-off shotguns, half a dozen Desert Eagles they’d almost certainly bought from me. In addition to the Smith & Wesson Magnum holstered by her hip, a woman with long braids pulled up into a bun held a stunning .338 Lapua. I nodded to it. “Are you accurate with that weapon?”
“Bitch, I could circumcise you from half a mile with this beauty.” She kissed the top of the scope.
“Excellent. You, me, and Emrys will start. We’ll take out as many as we can while the others circle around and flank them from the left. We’ll also serve to draw their attention. Now with this wind and the poor visibility, we’re in for a challenge. Emrys, can you do this?”
His pink tongue slid out to wet chapped lips. His distress was plain on his face as he met my gaze. “There’s… there’s no other choice, is there? No choice but to kill them. Shoot them in their backs.”
I could see that while intelligent, he had a gentle heart. I put a hand on his shoulder. “It’s them or us.”
A moment passed, and then his pretty features hardened and he looked like a completely different man. “Then it’s them. Jet’s out there somewhere. You can count on me.”
“Let’s do it.”
The three of us positioned ourselves as best we could in a less-than-ideal location, and the rest, crouched low, moved left. Anyone watching would see their dark clothing against the snow from a mile away, but it didn’t seem like any of the Nazis were watching their back—an amateurish mistake.
I tried to get one of them in my crosshairs, but my scope seemed smeared with something. I used the cuff of my jacket to wipe it, but the smudges remained, and I realized my vision was still suffering from the toxic cloud in the air. No matter. I knew what I had to do, and as I pressed my eye to the scope, I let the world beyond that tunnel disappear. The sounds of the battle receded until I heard only the slosh of my own pulse in my head. I selected a target, got him in my sights, and squeezed the trigger. I moved to the next: one, two, three. At the periphery of my vision, another man fell even as the Nazis regrouped, splitting up so some of them could face us while the rest tried to defend the truck against Moirin’s people. I swiveled where I crouched in the snow so I could concentrate on the Nazis fast approaching our position, and I took down another man with two bullets to the chest.
Just as I prepared to find another target, the rest of our group clashed with the Nazis, and Emrys’s plan succeeded. They were caught by surprise, and our people thinned them quickly from the left, carpeting the Nazis with fire to great effect. A few of our enemies were able to return fire, and I thought I saw some of the Nazis go down through the stinging membrane coating my eyes, but within minutes it was over, and ten or more Nazis littered the ground, their blood melting the snow. I knew dozens of other white supremacists were entrenched around the lawn, but we’d managed to gain the truck—the guns. It was a victory, and I clawed through my pain to get to my feet and join the others, Emrys and the woman following.
I shook my head sadly as I passed three young men who’d fallen, trying to assuage myself with the thought they had plenty of company, and I would be sending them more. The fragile neutrality I’d nurtured for so long could not go on. I needed to fight these people.
Since the others had already positioned themselves behind the semi, I hoisted myself onto the bed, opened the latch, and entered the shipping container. Dozens of wooden crates sat in neat stacks against the walls, carefully secured with heavy nylon straps. They held tens of millions of dollars’ worth of handcrafted untraceable firearms, but my attention zeroed in on the three men lying between them, and I limped over and crouched down.
Devereux’s hands had been duct-taped behind his back, and he lay on his side, both eyes swollen, lips split, and hair matted to his forehead. When I touched his shoulder, he groaned, “Raf? Merde. Didn’t… didn’t think… we’d be getting out of this one. I can’t say why they didn’t kill me. Maybe thought you’d pay to get me back. Or having me would lure you here to be killed. You must have worked some kind of a miracle.”
Miracles of a sort had been involved, but I would explain it later. I took a combat knife from my belt and freed his hands, saying, “Try not to move. I’m sure you have some broken bones.”
I checked the others. Louie was alive but unconscious, and I couldn’t wake him. The other young man, whom I didn’t recognize, was dead.
“We need to get Louie to a doctor,” Devereux wheezed.
I nodded. “We all need to get out of here. It’s a bloodbath out there, and we can’t let the authorities get these guns. Not after what they cost. Look after him. You’re safest in here for now.”
I could get everyone into the container, and its thick metal walls would do much to shield them from gunfire, but first I had to alert Moirin and her people. If we ran and left them, they would either be slaughtered by the remainder of the Nazis, subjected to who-knew-what kind of attack from the people in the chateau, or arrested.
I needed a way to signal them, and it wasn’t as if she would answer her phone. As I stumbled toward the square of light at the end of the container, I rubbed at the pain blossoming behind my temples. I couldn’t figure out what to do, how to save my people and my merchandise.
It was hard to believe that as a boy, my fondest dream had been to fight battles like this for a living.
Chapter Thirty-Three
WHEN I dropped from the bed of the truck, Emrys was waiting for me, staring down at a small phone and looking broken.
“Any word from your friend?” I asked.
He shook his head. “I tried texting them but didn’t get a reply. Which I guess isn’t a big surprise considering—” He waved his hand at the disaster around us.
“I have a similar problem.” I wouldn’t deny that I needed his help, needed his quick thinking to help me figure a way out of this. “We have to get out of here before the authorities arrive, which I can’t believe they haven’t already, but I need to get word to my associates there—” I pointed to the battered huddle of vehicles on the opposite side of the drive and closest to the house, being used as a base by Moirin and the others. Between us and them lay bodies from both sides and pockets of Nazis who showed no sign of surrender or retreat. “We need to get all those people into the container and get out of here.”
