“No ‘Hello, how’s it going’?” Wood asked. He looked over his shoulder at Ringgold. “Your friends came to rescue you, and they don’t even have the courtesy to say hi. That says a lot, Ms. Ringgold. A lot.”
“Let’s get this over with,” Beckham said. He staggered forward. “I’m here to end this. One way or another.”
Wood shrugged and dragged the machete’s tip against the ground, the blade screeching over metal as he walked closer to Beckham and Davis.
“I’ll get to you, Beckham, but first I’m going to deal with your friend Captain Davis here.” Wood twirled the blade again and pointed it at her throat.
“Someone give this woman a weapon,” Wood said.
The man with a gun to her back stepped around and proferred a knife half the size of the machete. Davis gripped the handle. It wasn’t fair, but she wasn’t protesting. This was the opportunity she’d been waiting for.
“You said you were fighting me,” Beckham stuttered.
Wood wagged a finger. “You’ll get your turn, shithead— but first I want to introduce you to Ryan Meyer.”
A skinny ROT soldier stepped away from Ringgold and walked toward them. He pulled his mask down, revealing a chiseled jaw, a sharp nose, and green eyes that were directed at Davis and seemed to be smoldering with rage. She studied his flushed features for a moment, trying to remember if she’d met him, but he didn’t look familiar. Was he some navy dropout, or perhaps a sailor who had served under her command?
“Ryan had a brother named Matt—a brother whom Captain Davis killed during the attack on the USS GW,” Wood said. “I’m a man of my word, and I told Ryan he would get a chance to avenge his brother.”
Wood gestured with his machete toward Davis. “So have at it, Ryan!”
Davis readied the knife and stepped back as Meyer came charging with his own blade. Still partially in shock, she hardly had enough time to jump back from his first slash. Using her elbow, she parried the attack with a smack to his chin.
Quick and steady, Rachel!
She wasn’t a knife fighter, but she had been trained in self-defense and knew enough to hold her own. Beckham, on the other hand, was too injured to fight. He reached for a knife that Wood dangled in front of him like a handler taunting a dog with a treat.
“Come on, boy,” Wood said, pulling the grip back every time Beckham got close. He swiped at the blade with his prosthetic hand, coming close before Wood yanked it back. He let out a laugh as Beckham stumbled.
Davis focused on Meyer, who stood and wiped blood from his lip. “I’m going to gut you, cun—”
Before he could say the one word she hated more than any other, she silenced him with a jab to the face. Her bare knuckles cracked his nose. Wood, still taunting Beckham to her left, let out a bellowing laugh.
“Meyer, you’ve got to—” he started to say.
This time Beckham silenced Wood with a left hook to his face. Wood fell to the ground, and Beckham jumped on top of the leader of ROT.
Meyer used the opportunity to barrel into Davis. He speared her in the stomach with his skull, knocking the air from her lungs and taking her to the ground in a tangled mess.
“Die, you bitch!” he yelled, thrusting the knife at her throat as she gasped for air. She caught his wrist with both hands and pushed upward. Then she wrapped her legs around his, trapping him.
“I’m not”—Davis began to say as she prepared to make her move—“a bitch!” she gasped. Using her boots, she twisted Meyer’s left ankle until he let out his own scream of pain. She rolled him onto his back and got her arm into position. Wrestling with the boys in high school had served her well. Her opponent was in a choke hold a few seconds later, his back to her chest, her right arm around his throat, and her other arm pinning his left arm.
Meyer tried to butt her with the back of his skull, but she moved to the side and squeezed his neck until he dropped the knife. It clanked on the ground next to her. She continued to tighten her arm around his windpipe as he flailed for the blade.
While she choked Meyer, Beckham beat Wood’s face with his prosthetic and his left hand. The ROT soldiers had circled around, but Kufman held a hand out to keep them back. They cheered on their leader and Meyer, calling Beckham and Davis every name in the book.
Wood was shielding his face with one arm and reaching for his machete with the other. His fingers grasped the blade, cutting into his flesh as he pulled the weapon across the deck.
“Beckham, watch out!” Davis yelled when Wood grabbed the handle.
He brought up his prosthetic hand just as Wood swung the machete. The blade stuck into the plastic arm like an axe in a tree. Wood used his other hand to hit Beckham in the jaw. The impact cracked and echoed, but Beckham hardly even flinched. He head-butted Wood a moment later, the crack ten times louder than Wood’s punch had been.
Beckham pushed himself off and yanked the machete out of his prosthetic hand.
“Finish him off!” Davis shouted.
Wood scrambled to his feet, the gash on his forehead dripping blood. He reached up and palmed the wound. His wide, crazed eyes roved from Davis to Beckham.
“I’m going to enjoy sending you in pieces to your bitch girlfriend, Kate Lovato,” Wood snarled.
Beckham let out a scream and swung the machete at Wood, who jumped back. Beckham stumbled forward on his prosthetic leg but remained standing.
Wood grabbed a knife that Kufman handed him. He sliced at Beckham’s left arm, the blade ripping through his shirt. Beckham landed a punch that knocked Wood on his ass.
Davis smiled at that. She focused on finishing off Meyer, who was still kicking and squirming in her grip.
“Quick and steady,” she whispered as she twisted her arm. A snap sounded, and his body went limp in her grip.
Beckham suddenly shouted in pain as Davis pushed Meyer’s heavy body off her. She had stood and was preparing to help Beckham when something hot sliced through her vest and into her gut. Her features clenched as a red-hot wave raced through her body. She squinted through the pain at Wood’s blurry face.
A few feet away, Beckham was on his knees, gripping his arm, blood sliding through his fingers. Kufman towered above him from behind, holding a glistening knife in his hands that he suddenly jabbed into Beckham’s upper back.
“No,” she choked.
Wood snapped his fingers at Davis to get her attention and tilted his head as she blinked at him.
“You stuck?” he said. “You look as if you’re stuck. Let me help you.”
Wood pulled a long blade from her gut and stepped back as Davis crashed to her knees. The pain flashed across her midsection. She reached down and cupped the wound, still staring at Beckham, who was bleeding out on the deck in front of her.
“Coward,” she managed to choke. “You’re a fucking coward.”
Wood replied, but Davis couldn’t make out the words. She focused on the skyline, searching desperately for the help that was supposed to come.
“Stop,” Beckham mumbled. He could feel his blood gushing from his body. Fast, too fast. His time on earth was limited. The last life in his bank was gone, used up like Lieutenant Jim Flathman’s. He would be joining the lieutenant in hell soon.
Davis crashed to her stomach a few feet away. Her sharp jaw smashed against the deck, her eyes locked on his. Blood flowed from her guts.
Wood stood between them, looking back and forth and back and forth again with a wide grin. He stomped the deck. “That’s what I’m talking about!”
The other ROT soldiers, including Kufman, stood with the same emotionless gazes. These men were used to seeing atrocities, and taking part in them.
Wood put on a pair of gloves and then reached out. Kufman handed him something Beckham couldn’t see. Then Wood walked over and bent down in front of Davis. She managed to spit at his boots. It was her final action, her eyes rolling up into her skull as Wood stuck her with what looked like a syringe. He moved over to Beckham next, whistling a tune.
“A few months ago, I heard a quotation—something about how in order to kill a monster you have to create one,” Wood said. He glanced back at Ringgold. “So I’m leaving that up to you now, Beckham. I’ve infected you with the hemorrhage virus, and now I’m going to throw you and Captain Davis into a prison cell with Ringgold and let you kill the traitor yourselves.”
He grinned a toothless smile, his swollen lips covering his mouth. “Oh,” he said, before rising to his feet. “Your bitch girlfriend probably told you that the hemorrhage virus helps speed up healing in the infected, so you and Captain Davis might well survive those injuries long enough to kill Ms. Ringgold. We’ll have to see. Should be fun to watch—and watch I will.”
Wood tossed the spent needle into the ocean and then put a finger on his chin as if he was in deep thought. He glanced back at Ringgold. Tears streaked down her cheeks.
“You know what?” Wood said. “I think I might just make this more interesting … I might just give her a knife. It will be a great experiment to see if she has what it takes to kill, since she seemed to be so good at ordering other people to kill my brother.”
Beckham closed his eyes for a second, thinking of Kate, Javier Riley, Horn, and everyone else. He had failed them—he’d failed them all.
“I ordered your brother shot, not President Ringgold,” he said, opening his eyes.
Wood scratched at his jaw and shrugged. “She was in charge. It’s her fault.”
Two ROT soldiers grabbed Beckham by the arms and dragged his body across the deck after a nod from Wood. Beckham tried to squirm, but he’d used up all of his energy.
“Oh, and your friend Fitzpatrick and your dog, Apollo,” Wood called out. “I just found out they’re in Paris. They’re both in for a nice surprise very soon.”
26
“Ghost One, we just got word the HVT in Paris will be a red Reaver. Repeat, the HVT is a red Reaver,” Bradley said over the comms channel. “Some soldier in Rome called the Italian Stallion and his pet mouse apparently confirmed the sighing of a Queen in Rome.”
Fitz frowned—there were more than one Queen after all. He wasn’t sure if they were all the same species, but what did it matter? The abominations all had to die.
He paused for a moment to think of the solo soldier and his pet mouse. The duo sounded like one hell of a team. He looked down at Apollo. They were a hell of a team too.
“I hope you can perform a miracle with that MK11, because we need you to turn water into wine! We’re hanging on by a thread out here!” Bradley said.
Fitz bit his lip at the news. The EUF was losing the battle on the front lines, and it wasn’t even midnight yet. EUF fighter jets and several F-16s rushed over the city, dropping their payloads before screaming away, a final act of desperation of a military running on fumes. The distant thuds added orange blooms to the scorched skyline.
“They’re destroying everything,” Rico said. She watched the explosions to the south with her face against the window.
Fitz raised a finger to silence her, but Rico kept talking. “You know there are almost eight thousand pipes in Notre-Dame’s organ?” Her eyes widened. “It’s, like, one of the most famous cathedrals in the entire world, and Dohi is about—”
“About to light it up,” Fitz said. “If you knew what was inside, you wouldn’t be complaining. Don’t forget those paratroopers back on the street.”
Rico sulked behind him, flinching at the thumps in the distance. The desk Fitz had positioned in front of the open French doors vibrated from the explosions. He pushed the scope of his MK11 back to his night-vision goggles and shifted the butt of the gun until it was in the sweet spot of his shoulder.
The vantage was perfect, providing a view of the western façade of the cathedral. Even better were the drapes on the windows that helped disguise their location. So far, the Reavers hadn’t spotted them.
If the Paris Queen was inside the cathedral, he would have the perfect shot. All they had to do was get her into view.
One shot. Just one.
The chambered round was ready to fly.
Apollo sat on his haunches behind Fitz, watching the hallway with Rico. She leveled her shotgun into the inky darkness. He trusted them both to have his back, but if the Variants found their location they were—
Don’t think that way. All it takes is one shot, Marine.
“All it takes,” Fitz whispered, “is all you got.”
Reports of the battle raging on the front lines filled his earpiece. He could picture the battle in his mind: Wormers tearing into the streets, mutated beasts emerging through the tunnels, and Reavers swooping in to pluck soldiers from their rooftop positions. Several thousand human soldiers against tens of thousands of monsters was hardly a fair fight, even with armored units, and automatic weapons, and bombs.
Maybe Stevenson was right—maybe they should have just blown the cities to pieces from the beginning. The battle for Paris was turning into Operation Liberty all over again, and Fitz had the ability to end it all.
He said a short prayer for Stevenson and the soldiers on the front lines.
Screeching tires pulled his attention to the road south and west of his position. He moved his gun’s barrel and spotted the Team Ghost logo on their MATV.
“I sure hope they know what they’re doing,” Rico whispered.
The Reavers on the cathedral took to the air, screeching in their otherworldly language. The long bony beasts plumed away from surrounding buildings, bringing their numbers to two dozen.
Tanaka drove the MATV over the curb and onto the terrace on the western side of the cathedral, passing planters stuffed with flowers and weeds.
“What the hell are you doing?” Fitz whispered. He glanced over his shoulder. “Watch our six, Apollo. Rico, you get over here. We may need your M4 in this fight.”
She walked over to the open French doors and exchanged her shotgun for the M4 resting against the wall.
The hatch on top of the MATV popped open, and Dohi emerged as the MATV barreled toward the western façade of the building. The M240 roared to life, its GAGAGAGA reverberating over the distant artillery fire.
The sound of the big gun was music to Fitz’s ears.
Rounds peppered the stones of the façade and shattered what was left of the stained-glassed windows. Dozens of Reavers took off from the other end of the cathedral, rising away from the spire. Fitz did a second count of at least thirty of the beasts before pressing his NVGs against the scope of his MK11.
“You got this, Fitz,” Rico said.
He lined up his first shot and pulled the trigger. The round streaked into a spikey back, severing the creature’s spine. Paralyzed, the Reaver fluttered back to the ground and landed on an abandoned vehicle, smashing through the windshield and setting off a car alarm.
Shots two and three of the twenty-round box magazine blew gaping holes in the wing of another creature to the southwest. The Reaver fought for altitude, but Fitz stopped its ascent with round four to the head.
“Thatta boy, Fitzie,” Rico said. She raised her rifle, but Fitz shook his head. “Not yet. We don’t want to draw their attention unless we have to.”
A Reaver flapping toward the MATV twisted in their direction. It hovered nearby, flapping its wings, and shrieked a message. All at once, six of the thirty monsters changed direction, flying right for Fitz and Rico.
Fitz aimed for the beast that had made their position.
Was this the HVT? Was this the beast that could end the battle for Paris?
Shots five and six blew gaping holes in the monster’s torso, guts and blood gushing out as the Reaver crashed to the ground. Crumpled and gasping for air, it finally died with shot seven to the forehead.
Fitz scanned the skyline, looking for any sign of a change in the Reavers’ behavior, but the abominations continued
to attack the MATV and sail toward the apartment.
“Open fire,” Fitz ordered.
Rico pushed her M4 through the open window and pulled the trigger. Spent casings from 5.56-millimeter rounds rained down on the floor, mixing with the discharged 7.62-millimeter casings already there.
Tanaka had parked the MATV in front of the cathedral, and Dohi lobbed several grenades through the shattered rose window before ducking back into the turret. The explosions blew the front doors on the right side off the building from the hinges, flames and splintered wood belching out.
Rico fired with calculated precision, keeping away the beasts soaring toward the apartment. They fanned out to avoid her wrath, and Fitz used the opportunity to scan the beasts swooping toward the MATV, looking for one that might be the HVT.
But all of the creatures looked the same—long bony bodies, leathery flesh, frayed wings, and tails whipping from their tailbones. They were moving fast too, so fast he was forced to lead them with his barrel. He maimed another Reaver and pushed the scope away to look at the MATV when it started moving again. Tanaka was gunning the engine toward the western façade.
“What the hell are they doing?” Rico asked.
Fitz licked his dry lips and pushed his mini-mic up to his mouth, but it was too late to stop Tanaka. The determined soldier rammed the middle doors of the building. The cowcatcher and armored front of the vehicle shattered the stone walls and double wooden doors.
Tanaka quickly reversed the truck, and Dohi popped out of the turret. Another three grenades sailed through the air and rolled into the building.
“Crazy sons of bitches,” Rico said.
Flames burst from the entrance, and the chime of bells rose over the roar of gunfire and cries of monsters. The ringing filled the cathedral with a peaceful song that set the Reavers screeching and frenzied. Smoke funneled out of the destroyed front entrance and out of the shattered stained-glass windows.
Extinction War Page 33
