Three Promises

by Bishop O'Connell

  “Yes, sir.” They exit the room and I watch as they emerge on the street moments later.

  “Step back from the window, son,” One says.

  “Sir?” I ask.

  “You’re not cleared for what you’ll see, Private,” he says.

  “What are—­” I don’t get to finish my sentence. I hear gunfire outside. I instinctively take cover, but can’t keep myself from looking back, peeking around the window. I see a group of hostiles come from around the corner and open fire. Four, I think, moved his hand in a circle and the bullets actually curve around him, striking nearby buildings. Six punches the air in front of him. Two cars are hurled through the air as if kicked by a giant, landing on the hostiles.

  “Holy shi—­!”

  “Collins, step away from the window,” One says again with all the authority of God speaking to Moses.

  I turn away. “Sorry, sir.”

  When I look up, One has pulled his hood back. He looks to be in his early fifties, which means he’s probably early forties. Military men age hard. His face bears the lines of every hard mile, and his brown hair is peppered with gray. His eyes are hard, made of military-­grade steel, just like the rest of him. I imagine this guy could take apart half a dozen men years his junior

  “This isn’t some new tech, is it, sir?” I ask.

  “I can’t answer that,” One says. “We’re called the Legion of Solomon, and you’re going to be told in your debriefing that you never saw us.”

  I nod. “Yes, sir. But how—­?”

  He doesn’t blink. “You heroically pulled your squad mates into shelter and held up here until help arrived. You’ll probably get a medal.”

  I’m not a genius, but I’m able to figure out just how much slack he’s cutting me, so I step back from the window and nod. “I understand, sir.”

  “Bloody hell, contact left!” says a clipped British voice, soon followed by Three barreling back into the room. “Sierra Novembers, sir! We’re live.”

  “What do you have?” One asks.

  “Mystics, sir, two of them,” Three says. “I caught their smell, then I saw them. They’re leading a group of about ten insurgents, all mundanes. Bloody mystics must’ve figured out how to hide from us.”

  “We need to get clear of this building. They’ll bring it down on top of us if we stay here,” One says. At that moment Four and Six come back into the room.

  “The radio?” One asks.

  “Right here, sir,” Four says holding it up.

  “Huddle up,” One says.

  Five and Seven enter the room and everyone gathers around One.

  “Here’s the deal. We’ve got incoming hostiles: two mystics, probably working in tandem, and ten mundanes, probably followers.”

  There’s a round of muttered curses from the team.

  “If there’s two in tandem,” Five says, “we might have a jinn to deal with too.”

  “We’ve dealt with them before,” One says, then turns to Two. “Get the best ward you can over the wounded.”

  Two nods.

  “Five and Six, you two get them off the ground so we can move them fast,” One says, then looks at them hard. “You make sure they don’t get hit again, you hear me? We’ve got enough angels today.”

  Both men nod.

  One continues. “Since we’re moving, the wards won’t be as strong. When they’re up, you each move one of the men. Two, you get the one on pause.” He turned to another team member. “Three, you call for a medevac, no delays. I want birds in the air before you hang up, got me? Authorization Alpha-­one-­one-­Foxtrot.”

  “Done and done,” Three says.

  I can’t stand sitting on the sidelines anymore while the grown-­ups make plans. It’s probably stupid, but I step forward. “What can I do to help, sir?”

  “This is out of your league, kid,” Seven answers. I can’t see his face, but I feel his glare.

  “Besides, you’re hurt,” Two says, more gently. “Even if you can’t feel it.”

  “Sir,” I say to One, “with all due respect, this is what’s left of my squad and I can’t just sit on my hands. What would you do in my position?”

  One takes a deep breath, then looks me up and down. After a moment he turns back to his team. “Okay. Three and Four, you’re with me. We focus on those mystics and bring them down. Hit hard and fast, don’t give them a chance to breathe.”

  “Yes, sir,” both men answer.

  “Collins.” One turns to me. “Get what ammo you can off your buddies, and keep an eye out for any loose magazines outside. Don’t spend much time scrounging, focus on the mund—­the insurgents.”

  “Yes, sir.” I pick up my rifle and check it again.

  One is saying something to the others while I check Mitchell, Johnson, and the Sarge for ammo. Johnson and Mitchell are dry, but God bless Sarge. He has four mags stuffed in various pockets.

  “Everyone ready?” One asks.

  “Hooah,” I say.

  Two, Five, and Six move over to Johnson, Mitchell, and Sarge and gesture over them. The three still forms slowly lift off the ground, stopping at about two feet.

  I stare like an idiot for a few second, remembering back to being six and playing “light as a feather, stiff as a board.” Then I push it down and get my head in the game. I have no idea what’s happening around me, but I know my buddies need me and I’m not going to let them down.

  Two, Five, and Six each draw something on the chests of the floating men. When they seem happy with whatever it is they’ve done, the three of them move toward the door. The three injured, unconscious men float behind them like tethered balloons.

  Somewhere in the back of my head I’m thinking how messed up it is that this is the best story ever and I’ll never be able to tell it to anyone.

  “Move, now!” One shouts.

  We burst from the doorway, and everything slows down.

  A group pops around the corner a few buildings down. I see nearly a dozen with AKs and two in the front wearing thawb robes. They look unarmed.

  I take aim and open fire on the ones with the AKs. I drop a ­couple before the others return fire.

  One throws his hand forward and I feel my hair stand up. There’s a cracking sound and a huge lightning bolt, at least it looks huge to me, leaps from his hand, striking one of the robed figures. The bolt sends the man flying several feet, tumbling in the air like a rag doll. The bolt then forks, hits two hostiles’ weapons, and surges through them into the men themselves. The other robed figure makes a motion, and as a fork heads for him, he deflects it into the ground.

  I take cover when the return fire starts, some of which happens to be actual fire.

  When there’s a lapse, I pop out and lay down suppressive fire of my own, though mine is strictly the 5.56-­millimeter-­copper-­alloy-­slug variety. I’m a little surprised how calm and focused I am. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not raw, but I still struggle to keep it together under fire. Not today though.

  “Go,” One says. “Get the wounded to the extraction point!”

  Three sweeps his hand out in front of him. A gust of wind blasts the ground, sending sand up and forward in a cloud.

  “Incoming!” a Legion team member shouts.

  I look up in time to see a fireball come screaming through the conjured sandstorm. I leap for cover and feel a stab of pain. Guess the horse shit is wearing off.

  There’s an explosion, the blast of it makes my landing less than graceful, and I feel heat on my back. When I turn over, the building we just left is blasted to rubble.

  One orders us back. I empty the last of my mag into the group, drop it, and load another as we back away in a covering pattern.

  When we start taking fire from a nearby building, Six steps into the street. He brings his arms up and then down quickly. I feel my stoma
ch lurch, like I’m on a roller coaster doing a loop. The building collapses like a can being crushed underfoot.

  The fight goes on like that for what feels like weeks, but is probably less than a ­couple of minutes. I take cover, fire, take cover, fire. All the while the Legion boys toss fire, lightning, air, and sometimes buildings or cars. I lose track of how often I fire, and reload, until I hit my last mag. I focus, conserving my ammo for good shots as we continue our retreat. I can’t even see the three wounded, but that’s a comfort. That means they’re behind me and closer to the extraction. The last robed figure steps out and hurls a ball of what looks to be just pulsing light. One leaps forward and sweeps his arm out. The light bounces off something and hits a building. There’s a flameless explosion and the building shatters into dust. The shockwave hits me, indirectly, but that’s enough to scramble my brain and send me ass-­over-­teakettle.

  “Drop that bastard!” One says.

  One, Three, and Four move to the street as I get my sense back. I take shots at any hostile who gives me a target.

  One makes an X out of his arms then opens them quickly as Three and Four both drive their fists into the ground. A giant hand of sand and stone reaches up from the ground and grabs the mystic. The giant fist tightens.

  Without thinking, I take aim and open fire, three quick shots. There’s a red spray as the body jerks in the earthen hand. In a moment, the hand collapses and the mystic’s body follows suit.

  Someone screams a phrase I know all too well. I take cover just as the hostiles begin their death blossom: opening fire on full auto in our general direction.

  I hear the bullets zip by and hit the wall behind me. When I look up, I see my wounded squad a few feet away, but they’re on the ground and there’s no sign of the Legion.

  Panic hits me as I realize I’m alone and hopelessly outnumbered. It might’ve started at ten, but some passersby must’ve join in because I hear what must be twenty voices screaming at me.

  “Hell with it,” I say. I pop up and fire.

  My rifle barks twice then goes silent.

  I take cover again, and try to figure out my options. It doesn’t take a genius to know I’ve run dry. I hear them in the street taking position to move on me.

  I toss my rifle and grab my side arm. It’s better than nothing, and at least I’ll go fighting. A ­couple of deep breaths to steady my nerves and I listen; I have to let them get close.

  That’s when I hear a loud barking, and I smile like a kid on Christmas at the beautiful, familiar sound of a Browning M2 .50-­caliber machine gun opening up. It’s joined by the chopping sound of Blackhawk helicopter blades.

  I look and see four Humvees rolling down the street toward me. The two in the front are laying down lines of fire. I sit on the ground, back against the wall, and start laughing. I look at Mitchell, Johnson, and Sarge. The pendants and glowing writing are gone. At this point, I’m not even sure I didn’t just imagine the whole thing.

  “Private, you hit?”

  A medic is standing over me.

  “I’m okay for now, get them in first,” I say, motioning to the three on the ground.

  In seconds, the three are on stretchers and loaded in the back of the Humvees. I go to stand and all the pain that was gone just minutes before is back, with a vengeance. In fact, I’m having trouble breathing.

  “Lie down,” another medic says to me. Still another runs up with a stretcher. I know I can’t stand so I start to do as he says. Then the pain overwhelms me and I fall over. They move quickly, getting the stretcher under me.

  All I see is dark sky and I feel myself being bounced as they load me into the Humvee. I manage to turn my head and see Mitchell on my right.

  “We’ve got them, move out,” I hear someone say. We lurch forward and speed down the road.

  “What happened?” I hear someone ask.

  “Ambush,” I say. “IEDs, RPGs, lots of fun for all.”

  “Don’t worry, brother, we got another team rolling in for the rest of the convoy. We won’t leave them out there,” the voice says.

  “How’d you hold them off?” another voice asks.

  I take a deep breath and feel stabbing pain. “I can’t tell you.”

  “It’s all right,” the first voice says. “It’s common to have holes in your memory after something like that. You saved your buddies’ lives though.”

  “Hope so” is all I can say.

  “You’ll probably get a medal out of this.”

  “That’s what I hear.” It had to have been real, right? I couldn’t have hallucinated something like that.

  “Fritzy, you hear thunder?” the voice asks.

  “I think so, but there isn’t a cloud in the sky.”

  “Man, there’s some seriously weird shit going down today,” the first voice says.

  “You got no idea,” I say too quietly for anyone to hear. I look over at Mitchell. “You’re lucky you’ll miss out on the debriefing. That’s going to be fun.”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  First and foremost, thanks to you, the readers and fans of the American Faerie Tale series. There are truly no words to express my gratitude. To the Knights of Powahatan for your continued support, friendship, and encouragement: Kenda, Mike, Dustin, Kristin, Casey, Geoff, AND Baby G. Thanks to Angela and Aubrey (The Doubleclicks) for making music that inspires, entertains, provokes thought, and redefines the word “awesome.” As always, thanks to Rebecca, my editor, even though you got off really easy this time. Thanks to my Harper Voyager Impulse colleagues, we might not be keeping each other sane, but we are keeping each other less insane.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  BISHOP O’CONNELL is the author of the American Faerie Tale series, a consultant, writer, blogger, and lover of kilts and beer, as well as a member of the Science Fiction & Fantasy Writers of America. Born in Naples, Italy while his father was stationed in Sardinia, Bishop grew up in San Diego, CA where he fell in love with the ocean and fish tacos. While wandering the country for work and school (absolutely not because he was in hiding from mind controlling bunnies), he experienced autumn in New England. Soon after, he settled in Manchester, NH, where he writes, collects swords, revels in his immortality as a critically acclaimed “visionary” of the urban fantasy genre, and is regularly chastised for making up things for his bio. He can also be found online at A Quiet Pint (aquietpint.com), where he muses philosophical on life, the universe, and everything, as well as various aspects of writing and the road to getting published.

  Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.

  Also by Bishop O’Connell

  The Stolen

  The Forgotten

  COPYRIGHT

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Lyrics to “Wonder (Wonder Woman Song)” used by permission of The Doubleclicks.

  THREE PROMISES. Copyright © 2015 by Bishop O’Connell. All rights reserved under International and Pan-­American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-­book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-­engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of Harper­Collins e-­books.

  EPub Edition DECEMBER 2015 ISBN: 9780062449849

  Print Edition ISBN: 9780062449856

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