Red Gambit: Book One of the Harvesters Series

by Luke R. Mitchell

  She snorted and offered her hand.

  He got a hand beneath himself and stood without her aid, in part out of principle but also because his weight and Fela’s combined approached four hundred pounds.

  She didn’t move back to give him space.

  He met her gaze until Al pointedly cleared his throat.

  “They’re gone, Al?” he asked, still looking at Rachel.

  “Affirmative, sir.” Al spoke through Fela’s speakers so the others could hear. “Returning to the Red Fortress, judging by their exit vector.”

  He looked over to Pryce. “You okay, old man?”

  “Alive,” Pryce said, his face a few shades paler than normal. “And enlightened.”

  “Hallelujah.”

  Michael and Lea were busy double-checking the downed Reds. Michael looked up and met his eyes with a wary expression.

  “You skipped out on your big mission to the port?” Jarek asked.

  “I, uh …” Michael scratched at his dark hair. “This was more important.”

  Jarek stared at him for a pensive beat, anger and irritation and gratitude all warring for dominance. “Well doesn’t that just warm the c—”

  “How’d you know about the port?” Rachel asked.

  Shit. They didn’t know.

  “Reds spotted the Resistance team there. Heard it on the comms.”

  “What?” Michael said.

  “You thought you guys scared them off just now?”

  Rachel exchanged a tense look with Michael.

  “We need to get over there,” Michael said.

  “Probably not a good idea,” Jarek said. “You know, unless by ‘good,’ you mean ‘suicidal.’ Then it’s probably a great idea. You kids have fun with that.”

  “Seriously?” Rachel said. “This coming from the same Jarek Slater who got himself imprisoned in the Red Fortress just to have a chat with my brother? From the same guy who didn’t think twice about taking on a bunch of armed marauders to save some random-ass people in the mountains? Soldier of Charity, my ass.”

  He jabbed a finger at Michael violently enough that Michael twitched despite being far out of his reach. “They stole my suit. This little bastard had the nerve to let me run my ass around looking for it when he knew damn well they’d had it for weeks. And, in case anyone forgot, motherfuckers shot at me for taking it back. Like thirty minutes ago—again, in case anyone forgot.”

  “Come on,” she said. “You weren’t exactly being gentle on your way out.”

  “If Jarek held grudges at everyone who’d ever taken a few shots at him,” Pryce said, surprising all of them, “he wouldn’t have any friends at all.”

  Brimming anger flashed red hot. “I don’t have any friends,” Jarek snapped.

  It wasn’t just anger. It was a sense of betrayal—that old hot weight of embarrassment at having allowed himself to trust, even just a little bit. It was something he’d never planned to feel again.

  “Whose side are you on anyway, ya old bastard?” he added to Pryce, feeling slightly guilty about his previous comment.

  Pryce held up his hands in peace. Jarek looked back at Rachel. “Look, I appreciate you saving Pryce’s bacon—”

  “And yours,” she said.

  He turned to Michael. “There might even be a splash of gratitude in here for you too, Mikey, underneath all the voices telling me to kick your ass. But I didn’t sign up for this. I held my end of the deal. I’ve got Fela. Pryce is safe.” He splayed his hands. “Game over.”

  “And what about Alaric and all the other men and women at the port?” Michael said. “You’re okay with them dying when you might be able to do something about it?”

  “They all made their choices. People die, Mikey. I can’t protect every crazy bastard out there.”

  “And the nest,” Michael said. “You can’t just be okay with the Red King getting his hands on—”

  “On what? A giant egg that might as well be his favorite lawn ornament for all we know about it? Not worth dying for. Not my fight.”

  Michael took a step closer. “How can you—”

  “Michael,” Rachel said. “You two go get the skipper ready.”

  Michael clearly struggled with the argument brimming on his lips, but he nodded to Pryce, gestured to Lea, and left.

  Pryce called his thanks after them. He gave an uncertain glance at Rachel and Jarek, then crossed to the small sea of fallen tools and began the considerable task of clearing the chaos, making an effort to look as busy as possible.

  Jarek held Rachel’s stern gaze for several seconds before she said, “So nothing matters, and the world is all hopeless shit. Fine. But here you are, duking it out with a small army to save one man.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “You talk a good game, dude, but all signs point to the terrifying fact that you might give half a fuck.”

  “Who said I didn’t?”

  There was a flicker of frustration or maybe even hurt in her eyes. “You didn’t have to come here alone.”

  “And you don’t have to go to the ports,” he said, waving an armored hand at her. “It’s gonna be a death trap over there, and what’s the freaking point? You brought your brother home safe. You’ve done enough.”

  “That doesn’t do much good to the people who are about to die out there. I don’t know about you, but it seems like the past fifteen years have been a pretty good lesson that doing enough isn’t really enough anymore.”

  “We can’t trust the Resistance to be the answer,” he said. “Clearly, they can’t be trusted. None of them can. And we don’t need them. We can find people who need help, and we can help them.”

  “And what the hell does it look like I’m doing right now?”

  He bit back the retort on his tongue. Her eyes softened, and he realized he was reaching to sweep a rogue strand of wavy, dirty-blond hair from the side of her face. She caught his hand before it got there, a small, tired smile in her eyes.

  “Don’t go,” he said. “The Red King is too strong.”

  She gently pushed his hand away. “We make our own choices, and we live with them. I don’t need Jarek Slater to save me.”

  He searched her face. “You’re …”

  She watched him, one eyebrow slightly arched in expectation.

  He didn’t even know what he was trying to say. Where was this doubt coming from?

  “… just so pretty when you’re serious.”

  Her eyes fell along with the rest of her face. Nice one, asshole.

  It hurt to watch.

  She glanced at Pryce, who was only marginally keeping up the charade of reordering his tools.

  “Goodbye, Jarek.”

  He watched her go, clenching and unclenching his jaw, reminding himself to despise the Resistance—to remember that Michael had betrayed him and that he didn’t owe Rachel or Alaric a damn thing.

  Fela’s auditory sensors relayed the sounds from outside as their ride powered up, lifted off, and faded away into the night. A distant clap of thunder rumbled through the silence it left behind. A few seconds later, rain began to patter down, easily audible through the impromptu doorway the Red King had gifted to Pryce’s wall.

  He walked over in silence to help Pryce start cleaning up.

  This wasn’t his fight. He wasn’t sure there was even a reason it should be anyone else’s. But it absolutely wasn’t his.

  But maybe, if he was being honest, those were his friends—the closest thing he had to friends outside of Pryce and Al, at least.

  They’d set their mission aside to come help him and Pryce, hadn’t they? And Rachel … She hadn’t faltered for a second when he’d asked her for help.

  And he’d just let her walk away without a peep.

  Shit.

  He’d meant what he said: he couldn’t trust the Resistance. He’d never make that kind of mistake again.

  But maybe this wasn’t about trusting the Resistance. Maybe this was about trusting Rachel. Maybe it was about setti
ng aside his grievances with the Resistance (and with organized outfits of all shapes and sizes, for that matter) to do what he could to make sure a few good people made it through the night.

  “Fuck.” He began to chuckle.

  “Sir?”

  Pryce was watching him, the concern in his eyes brightening into amusement as Jarek’s chuckle strengthened.

  “What a crock of shit,” Jarek said, looking out through the hole the Red King had rammed through the wall. The rain was picking up now. “Of course they need Jarek Slater to save them.”

  The ghost of a smile touched Pryce’s lips. “Feeling charitable, are we?”

  Al settled the ship just outside of the Red King’s improvised door in silent invitation.

  Jarek shook his head and grinned despite himself as he started toward the ship. “I really need to get myself a new nickname.”

  Twenty-Six

  The only thing worse than a tense skipper ride toward serious danger was a tense skipper ride toward serious danger in the rain. Rachel huddled down behind Lea, who huddled behind Michael, who in turn huddled over the handlebars behind the small windshield as best he could. It didn’t do any of them much good. Drops of rain pelted their exposed skin like pellets, and by the time they were nearing the port, they were all worried, afraid, and soaked to the bone.

  What Rachel wouldn’t have given for a warm bed and a few hours of sleep right then. It was, what, three in the morning now? She’d barely had a moment to breathe since she’d stepped into that dingy pub two days ago. To say she was on her last legs was putting it mildly.

  Through the darkness ahead, she could just make out the shapes of warehouses and abandoned shipping containers. She clung to Lea and leaned into the turn as Michael slowed the skipper and veered away from the main road into the graveyard of rusted metal shells. The containers loomed on either side, row after row of them, a dull monotony of unwanted scrap that faded into the darkness at the edges of the skipper’s lights.

  She’d half expected to arrive at the scene to find a raging battle in progress, but other than the hum of motors and the patter of rain, the night was quiet. They passed the field of shipping containers and rounded the corner into the wide lane that separated the two rows of buildings beyond.

  The warehouse buildings were large and rectangular with high windows and slanted metal roofs, drab both from age and by design. Luckily, the three trucks lined up outside the third building on the left were a clear enough indicator where they could expect to find Alaric and the others. Unluckily, their presence also meant the Reds, probably only minutes behind them now, would have just as easy of a time finding them.

  A few of the nine or ten Resistance troops by the trucks trained weapons in their direction as they approached, but they quickly stood down at a gesture from a stocky guy with a thick beard, apparently the first one to recognize Michael and Lea. Michael set the skipper down by the warehouse behind the line of trucks.

  Their bearded friend approached with a weary look. “Daniels, Carver. We weren’t expecting company.”

  “I hate to tell you,” Michael said, “but I think we’re about to get a lot more. We got a tip that the Reds spotted you here. They can’t be far behind us.”

  The soldier looked between the three of them as if searching for some indication that they were playing a sick joke. “Shit.” He jutted his chin toward the corner of the adjacent building. “You better go tell the warehouse crew to hurry it up, then.”

  Michael nodded, and they made for the warehouse as the bearded soldier began rallying the troops.

  The door at the corner of the warehouse hung ajar, providing a spooky glimpse into the nearly complete darkness inside. Rachel exchanged a short look with Michael and Lea, then tapped on her comm light and stepped into the darkness.

  The door creaked a faint greeting, sending a little jolt of anxious energy through her chest. She reminded herself of the clearly more pressing matter of the approaching Reds and set off through the dark, following the flickers of light she spotted within.

  The warehouse was surprisingly intact inside. She hadn’t exactly toured many warehouses in her life, but this one looked exactly like she assumed they all must: crates and boxes in abundant supply, some arranged in an orderly fashion on large metal shelves, others stacked neatly on top of white plastic pallets. The most obvious sign of the place’s age was the layer of dust that covered pretty much everything, thick enough that it was readily visible under the shine of her light.

  Rain on the building’s metal roof masked the sound of their footsteps, and their lights gave life to an entire city of dancing shadows. Despite everything, she had to suppress a smile when Michael jumped at one of the flickering apparitions. Then she jumped herself as lightning flashed through the grimy windows. Thunder followed, close and powerful.

  They reached a row of storage bays on the south wall around the midpoint of the warehouse. Each bay was guarded by a dull brown bay door and an access panel. The second door from the left had been hauled open. Light and voices poured from inside.

  An odd sensation tingled at the edge of her mind, vaguely resembling a telepathic presence. It grew with each step until the small storage space came into view.

  The room looked like a safe house, complete with a cot, rations, weapons, and other supplies. In the back corner, Alaric and two Resistance men were at work maneuvering something large and gray onto a red dolly.

  There it was—the mysterious nest everyone was ready to kill each other over (though it wasn’t as if the Reds and the Resistance had needed a reason to do that before). The egg-like device was mostly smooth but for a round panel at the top and a small base that let it stand on a level surface. She was sure this was the source of the odd telepathic presence. She was also sure she didn’t like it.

  Alaric turned at their entrance, his hand drifting toward the revolver at his hip in favor of the rifle slung across his back. He relaxed when his eyes found them.

  At least until Michael blurted, “We need to get the nest out of here. Now.”

  Alaric went alert, searching their faces. “Reds?”

  “Sounds like they saw you on the way over,” Lea said. “We need to get this out of here now.”

  Michael was already beside the odd device, reaching to help. He bent down to grab the nest’s base and pressed his palm to its smooth surface along the way. As soon as he touched it, Michael gave a tiny shudder, and the vague telepathic presence stirred.

  Rachel sprang forward and tugged him back. “What the shit was that?” Her voice sounded tight.

  He glanced back at her with a deep frown furrowed into his brow. Before he could say anything, the rhythmic clacking of rapidly approaching boots drew their attention to the bay door. A young man appeared there, panting and red in the face, and Rachel knew they were already too late.

  “They’re here,” the runner said between breaths. “Three big trucks of ’em.”

  Gunshots from the front of the warehouse confirmed his warning, not quite as loud as the thunderclap had been, but loud enough.

  Everyone looked to Alaric for direction. Nobody seemed to remember he’d left the Resistance; he was still Commander Weston to them.

  “Let’s go,” he said. He pointed to the two men with the dolly. “You two bring the nest up front. We’ll keep ’em busy. You”—he pointed to the red-faced guy who’d brought the message—“get word back to HQ. Tell them to send the ship. No point trying to keep a low profile now.”

  Then Alaric was moving out of the room at a jog. She fell in beside him, and Michael and Lea followed.

  Three trucks of Reds. She wasn’t sure how big the trucks were, but that didn’t sound so bad. Not yet. Five or ten minutes from now, when the rest of them started showing up, it would probably be a different story. They needed to be out of here by then, although she wasn’t entirely sure how the Resistance could hope to shake pursuit in those clunky trucks of theirs. That was probably why Alaric had called for a ship.


  Too bad Jarek hadn’t brought his. She silently cursed him for being a small-minded child. But that didn’t matter now. She would do what she could to get Michael and the others out of this safely. That was all she could do.

  The sound of fighting picked up as they approached the front of the warehouse. What had begun as a few tentative shots in the dark night had built to a steady stream of automatic weapons trading choirs of man-made thunder back and forth in the rain.

  The Resistance troops had moved the trucks to form a line of rudimentary cover near the warehouse door. Twenty-five yards to the right, the Reds were slowly advancing in three big, dark trucks—the same blocky transports she’d seen in front of the Red Fortress. The trucks looked as if they could carry at least ten men each, and there were at least a dozen men already on the pavement, firing at the Resistance line.

  “The drivers!” someone cried. “Hit the drivers!”

  Several shots slammed into the enemy windshields and confirmed that they were bulletproof.

  Alaric moved to the center of the Resistance line without hesitation.

  “Keep her close to you,” Rachel yelled to Michael, tilting her head toward Lea.

  Michael nodded, his hand drifting to the bullet catcher she’d made damn sure was clipped to his belt. He moved to the right side of the line with Lea. Rachel slid in next to Alaric to put him in her sphere of protection.

  The fighting was furious. Thunder rumbled. Guns roared. Hundreds of bullets slammed into the trucks and the pavement and the warehouse behind them. Between the racket, the rain, and the headlights beaming straight into their faces, she could barely tell what was going on. If not for the floodlights the Resistance troops had thrown on top of the trucks facing the enemy line, she would’ve been blind.

  Every bullet made her cringe. She’d found out in Deadwood just how lousy cars were as cover, and the Resistance truck line was no different. The people directly around her and Michael might’ve been safe enough thanks to the catchers, but the others weren’t. Two men in their line had already slumped down against the trucks, clutching at wounds.

  She had to do something.