Red Gambit: Book One of the Harvesters Series

by Luke R. Mitchell

  “Oh, shit,” she murmured as darkness closed around her.

  Eighteen

  Whoever said chivalry was dead was probably right.

  Sure, Jarek was doing his best to protect a quickly fading Rachel, but if that meant she had to take another tranq or two to cover him as he hauled her up the steps and into Alaric’s cabin, so be it. He couldn’t very well help either of them if he went down too, could he?

  Long live the pragmatists.

  Once they were inside with the storm door shut behind them, he yanked a dart from Rachel’s lower back and another from her lovely little rump. He searched around the dark room for options to their current predicament. There weren’t many. Luckily, having an AI on board your getaway ship was a decent ace in the hole.

  He set Rachel down on the table. “Hostiles, Al. Rachel’s been hit with a tranq.”

  “Oh dear,” Al said. “Shall I come for you, sir?”

  Jarek bit down the urge to immediately reply hell yes, he should come for him. Instead, he took a glance out the closest window, keeping low. To the left, across the street, shadows moved—six, no, maybe eight of them. More appeared as their predecessors spilled across the street and fanned out into the yard and the small lot that separated Alaric’s cabin from the town jail.

  Who the hell were these guys? More marauders, coming to spring their men free? No, they were too organized, and the tranquilizers didn’t fit that picture.

  It didn’t matter who they were right now. What mattered was getting out. A pickup would be messy at best with that many men out there, but it wasn’t like tromping through the woods in the dark with Rachel slung over his shoulder would be a much better idea. These guys were equipped with tranq guns; what if they were packing infrared specs too?

  He’d take his chances here. If it all went ass over teakettle, at least he’d go down in a blaze of glory instead of tripping on a shrub and breaking his neck in the woods.

  “Okay. Save us, Mr. Robot.”

  Al’s reply was lost beneath the voice calling, “Come on out, Slater. It doesn’t have to get messy. Yet.”

  Was that …? It couldn’t be.

  He peered through the window again and caught sight of the silhouette. He groped for the leftmost switch beside the door, picking at random. Light poured out from the porch.

  There was a glint of red, and his stomach fell to the floor as Seth Mosen materialized in the light of the front yard.

  “Don’t leave us waiting, Slater. I see you in there.”

  He ducked away from the window and dropped down beside the table, lightly slapping at Rachel’s cheek for some response. No luck. He choked down a dry swallow and glanced back at the window, briefly wondering if any of the townsfolk would dare to step in.

  Not good. This was not good.

  He took a steadying breath and called out, “Seth Mosen, as I live and breathe … Didn’t I put a bullet in that big old head of yours?”

  “Mosen?” Al said in his ear. “Oh dear. Hold on, sir.”

  “Busy week,” Mosen called. “Couldn’t spare the time to go dying.”

  Jesus, did he sound that cheesy when he was making his own wisecracks? He crossed the room and grabbed Alaric’s coat from the rack. No, he decided as he threw on the battered long coat, he was definitely craftier at practiced nonchalance. Way craftier.

  None of that remotely explained how the hell Mosen was still breathing. But that was a problem for later, when they weren’t pinned down by the Reds, as was the question of just how the hell they’d even found them here, though he had a sinking feeling that Pryce’s abduction had played a role in the latter.

  He moved back to the window and pinched the coat’s sleeve experimentally. It probably wouldn’t stop a tranq dart, but it was certainly better than his Henley.

  “You know,” he called, “in my experience, it’s better if only one of us tries the wise-guy routine. Things get confusing way too fast otherwise.”

  A movement from the tree line behind the jail drew his attention to the right.

  “Son of a bitch,” he murmured as the slinking shadow drew close enough to resolve into the figure of Alaric Weston.

  “Sir?”

  “Alaric’s back,” he said. “This might be a hairy one, Al.”

  “When has it ever not been, sir?”

  Fair point.

  Mosen was just finishing some line or another about how he’d just have to beat the wise-guy out of him. What to do, what to—

  “Seth.”

  Jarek froze at the sound of Alaric’s voice in the quiet night. It wasn’t the commanding, surly tone he’d heard him use before. Somehow, in that one word, he thought he heard fragility.

  Mosen turned toward the voice, a more substantial red glow flickering in his eyes, and Jarek’s breath caught as a string of thoughts fell into congruent order. Seth is dead, Alaric had shouted at him. Seth. Pryce’s story about what the raknoth had done to Alaric’s family, what they’d done to his son …

  For the second time in as many minutes, Jarek found himself staring down an impossible conclusion.

  “Father,” Mosen called, his voice strong but his tone flat.

  “Hold up a second, Al,” Jarek said.

  Alaric was walking into the open yard, hands not quite held up but clearly removed from the revolvers at his hips.

  “Alaric’s—shit, never mind for now. Just tell Michael to be ready and get your ass down here when I give the signal. Code word: party. Or rave.”

  “Acknowledged, sir.”

  Outside, Alaric stopped a few feet away from Mosen. His usual stony expression looked as if it might melt and ooze off his face at any moment. Mosen’s back was turned toward Jarek, so Jarek couldn’t see his reaction as Alaric slowly reached out a hand.

  Judging from Alaric’s expression, it wasn’t good.

  He cracked the window to listen.

  “—have they done to you?”

  “Given me gifts beyond anything you could ever hope to, Father. I’ve become far more than I could have been as your son.”

  “Those aren’t your words,” Alaric said. “They’re his. That’s the Overlord talking.”

  Mosen tilted his head back and let out a high, bitter laugh.

  The situation clearly wasn’t improving. He’d better make his move.

  He holstered his gun and gave Rachel one last hopeful shake. Aside from the tiny groan that rumbled out of her, there was no response.

  “And this is why I work alone,” he said as he gathered up the sleeping arcanist and hauled her back onto his left shoulder. He turned for the door, brushing the long coat open to draw his gun back out.

  Opening the door with Rachel slung over one shoulder and a pistol in his free hand wasn’t particularly graceful, but he managed. “Howdy, boys! Long time no see.”

  He didn’t bother training his gun on Mosen. There was the itty-bitty chance that Alaric wouldn’t take kindly to it, and there was also the concern of Mosen’s underlings and their potentially twitchy trigger fingers—not to mention the whole part where a bullet to the head apparently wasn’t such a big deal for Mosen.

  Instead, he sidled to the edge of the porch where Rachel had left her staff and bent down as best he could to snag the end of it with the fingers of his gun hand. He managed to awkwardly transfer the staff from his overly full right hand to his left, which was slung across Rachel’s legs just beneath her butt.

  That accomplished, he gave himself a satisfied nod and looked out to meet the gaping faces of the Reds beholding him in all his damsel-toting, cowboy-ninja-wizard glory.

  “I think you’re a few months early on the costume,” Mosen said, turning his open back on his father.

  What would Alaric do if it came to a fight? He had a feeling he was about to find out.

  “Hey, there’s a new sheriff in town.” He glanced at Alaric. “Sorry, I’ve just always wanted to say that. How was your walk, cowboy?”

  Alaric glared at him. “Lots to think abo
ut.”

  “Uh-huh, I bet. Probably lots to talk about too,” he added, gesturing between the two of them with his gun hand. The movement wasn’t a threatening one, but every one of the Reds gripped their guns—several of them not tranquilizers—more tightly and somehow seemed to aim harder at him. “Like how Seth’s big, scary boss kicked in Jay Pryce’s door earlier today.”

  He felt hard anger creeping onto his face.

  Alaric’s expression darkened as well, if such a thing were possible.

  Mosen smiled at Jarek. “Your fault for involving him, Slater.”

  “You hurt Pryce?” Alaric said, his expression regaining some of that stoic stoniness.

  “What do you care?” Mosen said. “You left those people behind, remember? And if you do care somewhere in there, then his blood’s on your hands just as much as it’s on Slater’s.” Mosen met Jarek’s eyes. “And there’s going to be a lot more if we don’t get the nest back.”

  Was Mosen toying with him? Most likely, he simply figured telling Jarek didn’t matter at this point, and that meant their conversation was on a clock—and probably a short one, at that.

  “Ah, yes. The old end-is-nigh rave.” He jostled Rachel higher on his shoulder. “Speaking of ends, what’s the deal with the tranqs, Mosen? You guys going soft on us?”

  Mosen’s expression soured a shade. “The Overlord himself ordered that the arcanist be captured and brought to him. He made no such order for you, which brings me back to business.” His smile returned in full force as he gestured toward the porch. “Take the arcanist.”

  The Reds started forward only to duck backward in alarm as Al brought the ship roaring down from the hilltop. Even at full power, the ship’s motors weren’t particularly loud, but the cacophony of blaring horns and alarm sounds that Al sent through the loudspeaker was plenty to send them scrambling for cover for a few mad moments.

  Jarek was ready. As soon as the racket hit, he shuffled down the steps, raising his weapon. Gaping mouths snapped shut as the men brought their own weapons back up. He shot one down and nicked another as Al swiveled the ship around and brought the opening hatch down above him.

  He glanced over his shoulder to see another Red drawing a bead on him. The man dropped dead with a neat hole in his forehead as Alaric made up his own mind.

  The ship was only ten feet from the ground now. Michael appeared on the ramp and opened fire with the rifle he’d had the good sense to grab from Jarek’s locker. He wasn’t a crack shot, but he hit one shooter off the bat and gave the rest another reason to seek cover.

  Jarek stumbled to a knee and almost dropped Rachel as a lance of fire grazed his calf, but then the ship settled down between him and the shooter. Michael slung the rifle and took Rachel from him.

  He tossed her staff after them just as Mosen bellowed “Bring the ships!” and hurled Alaric at the small tool shed nearby. Alaric hit the wood with a hard, cracking thud and bounced to the ground.

  Mosen paid him little attention. “Bravo team, move in! Now!”

  Then he turned with literal red fury in his eyes and leaped toward Jarek.

  A little over ten yards lay between them. Jarek could’ve covered the distance in Fela, but it was a leap that no human could have made from a dead start.

  Mosen made it all the same.

  Jarek opened fire as Mosen flew through the air. Judging from Mosen’s aggravated growl, at least one of the shots found their mark. Jarek tucked and rolled to the side as Mosen crashed down where he’d just been.

  He rose on a stinging leg, then ducked Mosen’s savage haymaker. Sensing an impending backhand, he pushed back but staggered as his calf protested.

  Pain exploded across his right cheek as Mosen’s fist impacted and knocked him spinning to the ground, bell thoroughly rung. He raised the gun he’d managed to hold onto and tried to shake his vision straight as Mosen stalked toward him.

  He fired once. Twice. The second shot must’ve found Mosen’s torso, his dazed brain insisted, but it didn’t stop him from sweeping in and kicking the gun from Jarek’s hand.

  The pain that shot through his fingers was like a splash of water in the face. His leg growled in protest, but he managed to bring it up in time to kick aside the stomp Mosen aimed at his stomach. In reply, he planted his good leg against Mosen’s chest and drove it home.

  Strong as Mosen was, Jarek had all the leverage at that angle. Mosen took several stumbling steps backward, just managing to keep his balance.

  Jarek would’ve been lying if he said he’d been planning what happened next.

  Al lifted the ship by a few feet and yawed it around clockwise.

  Jarek gathered his strength and shouted: “Fore!”

  The ship’s ramp smashed into Mosen’s shoulder. It wasn’t moving tremendously fast, but the sheer mass of the ramp and the ship behind it was enough to send Mosen bouncing across the yard like a ragdoll, superhuman abilities or no.

  A dozen different pains stabbed through Jarek as he pulled himself to his feet. “Thanks, Mr. Robot.”

  “Incoming ships, sir,” Al said. “I suggest we leave immediately.”

  Across the yard, Michael was pulling Alaric to his feet. They made for the ship, Alaric stumbling along as Michael fired a few suppressing shots at the Reds who were playing against Al’s ship-sized cover to line up a shot. One of them succeeded, and Michael cried out and dropped his gun.

  Michael’s cry seemed to snap Alaric out of his stupor. He raised his remaining revolver and gunned down the shooter. They staggered on and reached the ship’s ramp at the same time as Jarek.

  Mosen was stirring off to the left.

  Jarek limped up the ramp, helping Alaric and Michael do the same. “Get us out of here, Al.”

  The ramp began to rise beneath their feet as the ship lifted off the ground. Al’s voice came through the speakers: “I recommend everyone secure themselves. I anticipate mild turbulence in the immediate future.”

  Several bullets clanged off of the hull, and they all hit the deck as the ramp sealed shut and Al rocketed them away from Deadwood and into the empty night.

  Nineteen

  As peaceful as the greenery and mountain air of Deadwood had been, Jarek couldn’t say he was sad to leave the place behind, not once that fresh mountain air had given way to the scent of gunpowder and blood, and once that peace had—well, that part went without saying.

  They nursed their collective wounds on the return trip to Newark. No one had been fatally injured, but that was far from saying they were in good shape. Funny enough, the first to fall had come through much more smoothly than the rest of them. He’d be sure to make ample fun of Rachel later for sleeping through the entire fight, but for now, he kind of wished he could’ve done the same.

  He glanced through the cockpit door at her peaceful form and smiled. She was just so cute when she was all conked out on tranqs.

  Alaric and Michael sat with him in the cockpit. There wasn’t much to be done for Alaric’s injuries. Given how hard he’d hit that wall, Jarek worried about internal bleeding, but they weren’t exactly equipped to even check for that, much less do anything about it. Luckily, Alaric was a tough old bastard.

  Michael’s gunshot wound, they’d done their best with. Jarek had held him while Alaric had dug the bullet out. “Dug” was definitely an appropriate choice of words. It had been a bit of a butcher job. Thankfully, they’d loaded the kid up with some pain meds before they’d gotten started to ease the process.

  At first, he’d been worried about the potency of the drugs, as old as they were, but judging from the glazed look in Michael’s eyes and the easy smile on his mouth, they’d worked just fine. Of course, the kid was probably also a lightweight, given his disdain for alcohol.

  His own bright collection of battle favors didn’t really merit any specific care, though there was plenty of grating pain to go around. Even by his standards, this much fighting in twenty-four hours was excessive.

  “Can we go any higher?” Mich
ael asked for the fourth time.

  “It’s all good, Mikey. We lost ’em, remember? No one’s gonna see us up here.” He finished the last of four sutures on Michael’s arm, wrapped the area up tight, and began cleaning everything up.

  “How are you holding up?” he added to Alaric.

  For a brief moment, Alaric looked lost—utterly, hopelessly without direction. Then he seemed to remember where he was, and dark anger began to creep over his face.

  “Too soon,” Jarek murmured. “Fair enough.”

  He backed out of the cockpit, his cheeks warming as he thought about the things he’d said to Alaric earlier that day—not to mention the fact that he’d unknowingly shot the guy’s son last night. And what the hell gave with that? Was Seth a Weston or a Mosen? Had he changed his name after everything that had happened?

  At least Jarek hadn’t accidentally killed Alaric’s son. That wouldn’t have made things any simpler. Not that having Mosen around made things simple—for anyone.

  Was he an asshole for thinking that? Probably. Okay, definitely. Maybe.

  He liked to think his heart was in the right place when it mattered, but sometimes he wished he was more adept at helping people without resorting to the gun or the sword. The internal threats—those were the tricky ones.

  Alaric’s situation with Seth was about as messed up as they came. And then there was the small contingent of Reds they’d left behind in his town. He’d been waiting for Alaric to go into a fit of rage and insist they return him to his people, but he hadn’t. Maybe because he realized the Reds would almost certainly be chasing after them instead of sticking around in Deadwood.

  Then again, for all Jarek knew, Alaric might simply be quiet right now because he’d had a nervous breakdown or some kind of stroke. How would he know? The guy was a steel trap.

  He started putting away the medical supplies Pryce had given him a few years back.

  Pryce.

  That poor old lovable bastard.

  If it wasn’t for Pryce, he wouldn’t have even lived long enough to earn that ridiculous nickname. Pryce had helped Jarek a hundred times through the years, maybe more. He’d never thought twice about it.

  And now—