The Last Sanctuary Omnibus

by Kyla Stone

“Tell my sister—” Silas’s voice faltered for a moment. He scrubbed ash and dirt off his face with the back of his hand. He gave Micah a wry smile. “Never mind. She knows.”

  In a heartbeat, he was gone, running full tilt at the soldiers and screaming at the top of his lungs. The soldiers kept firing their pulse guns uselessly. A few just looked at their weapons, confused. Several shouted angrily, pointing at the Phantom. They threw their fried pulse guns aside.

  Silas leapt into the fray, a spinning, whirling dervish of bullets. Soldiers fell around him like sacks of flour. When his rifle ran out, he hurled it at a soldier, knocking him to the ground. He pounced on him, blade in hand, and stabbed him in the stomach.

  A soldier behind Silas jerked a handgun from the holster at his waist. Micah shot him before he could pull the trigger. Silas turned, leaned down, and grasped the handgun from the dying soldier’s twitching hand. In one fluid motion, he spun and took out two more soldiers closing in on him.

  Several soldiers took cover behind a concrete barrier. At least two of them had handguns. They peered over the top and side, popping off shots at Silas. Micah took several slow, calming breaths, braced his rifle against the side of one of the Humvee’s wheels, and adjusted the zoom on his scope. “Come on, come on.”

  A soldier’s head popped up. Micah shot him in the face. He ignored the sickening wrench in his gut, the bitter taste of shame on his tongue. There was no time for empathy now.

  Silas whirled and took out the second shooter before he could get off another shot.

  One soldier discarded his pulse gun, jumped over the concrete barrier, and raced for a semi-automatic rifle lying next to a dead Patriot several yards away.

  Micah aimed and fired a five-shot burst, but in the smoke and haze and swirling snow, the bullets sailed harmlessly over the soldier’s head. The soldier grabbed the rifle and ran toward Silas, who had his back turned. He was busy hacking his way toward the metal door leading to the rampart.

  “Silas!” Micah screamed.

  Silas ducked. A bullet grazed the side of his head. Micah saw blood.

  He sucked in his breath. How badly was Silas hurt? There was no time to worry. A precious second passed. The soldier aimed at Silas, about to take the kill shot.

  Micah fired again. The first bullet smashed the soldier’s helmet. The second and third hit him in the small of his back. He went down.

  Micah peered around the Humvee’s wheel well, searching frantically for Silas. There were so many bodies. So much blood. He couldn’t see through all the smoke, dust, and snow.

  “Watch out!” Hogan cried from far behind him.

  Micah jerked back behind the vehicle as a pulse blast struck the hood above his head. A cannon blast rattled his teeth. He edged the muzzle of his rifle around the front grill and looked through the scope.

  A lone figure stood in the swirling smoke. The figure was stained with dirt and blood. It leaned down, grabbed a downed soldier, who was moving slowly, mortally wounded but alive. The figure dragged the soldier to the door, lifted him with one arm, and slapped his palm against the biometric scanner.

  The door swung open.

  The figure turned, flashed Micah the finger, and slipped inside.

  26

  Amelia

  “Offer these people the vaccine,” Amelia said to President Sloane, forcing her voice to remain calm, controlled. “That’s what they want. You can end this right now.”

  Sloane’s lip curled. Gone was the sweet but authoritative grandmotherly vibe. Her expression was hard as stone, her eyes vicious. “I wouldn’t give the cure to those terrorists if it’s the last thing I do.”

  “You turned them into this. You made regular people desperate. You caused this.”

  President Sloane raised her chin. “I have only had the best interests of my people at heart.”

  “Wrong answer.”

  “No, dear. You’re the one who’s wrong. My only concern has always been the citizens of this great country. I love them like my own children. Unlike your father.”

  “You knew about the vidfeed. You let Micah and Silas break into the network and release Declan’s confession.”

  President Sloane offered a slick, oily smile. “Of course, dear. Nothing happens in the Sanctuary that I’m not aware of. Nothing.”

  Amelia sucked in her breath.

  President Sloane made a flicking motion with her finger. A blur of movement streaked out of the corner of her eye.

  She didn’t even have a chance to feel afraid.

  Bale lunged at her. Two hundred and fifty pounds of muscle plowed into her, knocking her off her feet and sending her sprawling against the tile floor. Sparks of pain exploded against her skull. Her gun skittered away.

  Bale’s enormous hands closed around her throat. It felt like he was cracking her bones, snapping tendons, crushing her windpipe. She couldn’t breathe. She punched his arms and chest with her fists. It was as useless and futile as striking a mountain.

  “My dearest girl.” President Sloane squatted down beside her. “I didn’t want this. I never wanted this. I tried so hard to help you. I treated you like a princess. I gave you everything. And this is how you repay me? With betrayal?” She shook her head and clucked her tongue. “Bad blood begets bad blood. You are your father’s daughter. He betrayed me, too. Somehow, he got to you.”

  Bale lessened his vice-like grip on her neck only enough for her to stay conscious, so she could hear every poisonous word. She heaved a raw, strangled breath. Darkness hovered at the corners of her vision.

  Sloane tilted her head, her eyes filled with pity. “This never had to happen.”

  “I—know—what—you—are,” Amelia rasped.

  Sloane’s face hardened. “You’re just a child. You don’t know what it takes to lead.”

  “I know—what you did.”

  President Sloane sniffed. “We only did what we had to do. The Coalition could only do so much behind the scenes. It wasn’t enough. It wasn’t working. The country was falling to pieces. State and federal governments pulling their police and military resources out of rural town after rural town. Abandoning them to the thugs and gangs and warlords—to the terrorists.

  “The inefficient handling of the crop blight crisis. The bungling of the bat-flu epidemic. Something had to be done. New leadership had to arise, or there would be nothing to fight for but ashes.

  “Revolution is always bloody, my girl. The people were almost ready to beg us to take over. To give them the promise of safety they were desperate for. To return America to her former state, a bastion of power and strength and glory. Almost, but not quite.”

  Bale’s fingers were steel talons gripping Amelia’s throat. She clawed at his hands, ripped at his flesh, but there was no give. He simply stared at her impassively. Neither empathy nor pleasure shone in his dark, beady eyes.

  She was nothing to him. Her life was nothing. Neutralizing threats was his job. She was simply a threat to dispose of.

  “So you see,” Sloane continued, “we had to show the people what they needed. They needed us. They needed safety, unity, strength. They needed a savior. The Coalition did what we had to do. The Hydra virus was a means to an end. There are always unexpected, unfortunate side effects. In this case, the collateral damage was steeper than anticipated. But this country is nothing if not resilient.”

  Her lips formed a cold, calculating smile. “We will save not only this country, but the world. And we will rule over it all. All because of you, Amelia. America thanks you for your service.”

  Sloane rose gracefully to her feet. Her heels clicked across the tile floor. Amelia watched her stride toward the door with dimming vision. A sickening sensation spread up her arms, flooded her belly.

  Sloane paused, half-turning. “We have dozens of samples of her blood and tissue. The girl is no longer an asset.” She spoke as if from a great distance. “Kill her.”

  27

  Gabriel

  Gabriel raced across the sq
uare in a crouch to make himself less of a target. He dodged between transports, the burning husks of fallen drones, and smoking buildings. He almost slipped several times on the thin layer of snow filming the flattened grass. The veil of falling snow only made it more difficult to see. The bitter cold stung his face and throat.

  He took cover behind a parked transport, squatting behind the front right tire to slap in a fresh magazine. He wasn’t headed for the capitol. He was headed for BioGen.

  He knew Amelia. He knew she would rather die than hide away while her friends risked their lives. She’d told Micah that Sloane was the key. It didn’t matter what she’d promised Micah; Gabriel knew she’d gone after Sloane herself.

  “Sir!”

  He half-turned, gun rising, heart in his throat. A young guy—Gabriel vaguely remembered him from the Patriots’ compound, Bao Nguyen—limped toward him, blood leaking from a bullet wound in his thigh. He was in the open, far too exposed.

  “Get behind cover!” Gabriel shouted.

  Gunfire erupted to his right. A dozen figures materialized in the haze. Enemy soldiers rushed toward them.

  Gabriel whirled and popped off several shots. Three soldiers crumpled. He fired another short burst, taking down two soldiers invading his western flank.

  Incoming fire drove him back behind cover.

  Nguyen still stood there, in the middle of the battlefield, stunned and frozen.

  “Nguyen!” he shouted, gesturing wildly. “Duck!”

  Gunshots cracked through the air.

  Nguyen’s head snapped back. He dropped to the ground, a bullet drilled into his forehead.

  Nguyen lay awkwardly, one leg bent beneath him, the other thrust out at a strange angle, his mouth agape, a trail of blood trickling bright red and slick down his chin.

  Gabriel didn’t have time to mourn, to even feel anything but dull despair throbbing at the back of his skull. Amelia needed him. If he didn’t get out of here, he’d be next.

  He released a volley of firepower, driving the enemy soldiers back behind a concrete barrier. They ducked their heads, seeking cover. It was his chance.

  Adrenaline shot through him. He took off running, moving deeper into the interior, toward the square.

  He dashed past the bodies crumpled on the ground. A civilian in his twenties writhed in agony, his femur broken, the white shard of bone puncturing through his thigh from the inside. A soldier slumped forward, groaning and clutching her face, a four-inch gash over the bridge of her nose, slashing across her cheek and eye.

  He didn’t let his gaze land for more than an instant on anything. If he allowed the true horror of it all to sink in, it would overwhelm him. He’d be done for.

  Finally, the marble steps of BioGen’s headquarters appeared, the building rising out of the eerie mix of swirling smoke and falling snow.

  Gabriel sprinted up the steps and slammed through the glass doors. He raced through the expansive lobby and into the stairwell, taking the stairs three at a time instead of wasting time with the elevator.

  He was already forced to waste precious seconds as he paused at each floor, opening the stairwell’s steel-reinforced door, edging around the corner and straining for sound over the thrumming of the blood in his ears, searching for any sign of Amelia. He didn’t know what floor she’d be on. He wasn’t even entirely sure she was here.

  On the sixth floor, he caught the sound of distant voices. Not Amelia’s, but close enough. Odds were, if he found President Sloane, he’d find her.

  He closed the stairwell door silently behind him and crept down the sterile white corridor. He paused at a holomap on the wall. There were several labs, patient rooms, and private offices. Too many to try and figure out the correct one from a map. He’d just have to play it by ear.

  Gun in the ready position, he approached the first set of doors to his right. He did a quick visual search, clearing each room before moving on. He turned a corner, passing windows looking into a lab—he glimpsed steel counters filled with glass tubes and vials and instruments he didn’t know the names of.

  A noise to his right drew his attention.

  An opened office door, Declan Black’s name emblazoned on a gold placard. As he drew closer, a pair of feet sprawled on the floor appeared in the gap between the door and the wall. Both feet bare, nails painted a glittery crimson, blood crusting the big toe. Scarlet fabric shimmered over slim, pale white shins.

  Amelia.

  He inched forward, moving carefully, silently, even as every cell in his body screamed at him to race blindly inside and save her.

  Amelia’s legs were moving, frantically scrabbling for purchase against the smooth tile floor. A figure hunched over her, straddling her torso with huge, tree-trunk thighs. A man with a massive back and muscled shoulders. Even facing away, Gabriel knew he would be a formidable opponent.

  “The girl is no longer an asset.” President Sloane’s voice came from inside the office. “Kill her.”

  Adrenaline shot through his veins. He had no choice. A second could mean the difference between life and death. He lunged forward.

  He glimpsed bare white walls, a mahogany conference table surrounded by high-backed chairs, an integrated computer desk, a half-dozen holoports and screens. President Sloane froze in midstride. Her head jerked up as he burst into the room, her eyes wide and startled.

  The man kneeling over Amelia wore a black tuxedo—one of the president’s security detail. His meaty hands were wrapped around Amelia’s throat.

  “Bale!” President Sloane screamed.

  Gabriel didn’t have time to aim. Using his considerable momentum, he lowered his shoulder like a battering ram and crashed into Amelia’s attacker. The surprise assault was enough to knock the man sideways, off Amelia.

  Bale was on his feet, his pulse gun already drawn before Gabriel had fully regained his balance. The man was a beast. Massive, hulking, oozing malevolence, his eyes glacial cold. The man had fifty pounds of solid muscle on him, maybe more.

  He was bigger, stronger, and likely better trained than Gabriel. Speed, timing, and luck were Gabriel’s only assets now.

  The president ran for the doorway. “Kill him!”

  “Run!” Gabriel screamed at Amelia as he threw himself behind the mahogany table. Amelia scrambled to her hands and knees, clutching her throat with one hand, coughing violently. She crawled for the doorway, for safety.

  Bale aimed at Gabriel and fired the pulse gun three times in rapid succession. Holes the size of fists appeared in the wall behind Gabriel, spraying him with fine dust. The acrid stench of burnt gypsum filled his nostrils.

  Gabriel dropped to the floor and fired beneath the table. A potted plant exploded a foot to the right of Bale’s thigh. He shot again, but Bale had already ducked behind the desk. Gabriel got off a short blast of five shots. But the desk was rock solid. It was made of a diamondglass polymer, as tough as bullet-proof armor.

  His own barrier offered much less protection. A pulse blast pulverized an office chair a few feet from Gabriel’s face. Heat from the pulse of white-hot energy scalded his skin.

  Amelia was somewhere in the hallway, wounded and defenseless. President Sloane could order any of her minions to take Amelia out. They would do it without a moment’s hesitation. He had to neutralize this guy fast and get to her.

  On his knees, keeping his head low, he edged around the table. Five yards from where he hid to the office doorway. No one to cover him but himself.

  He peered between two chairs to get another look at the desk. The muzzle of Bale’s pulse gun appeared. Gabriel shot twice more, forcing Bale back behind cover.

  He checked his ammo. Empty. He dropped the rifle and drew his handgun from its holster. It was also empty, but he had one more mag. He ejected the clip, grabbed the last spare from his tactical vest, and slapped it in.

  Here goes nothing. With a sharp intake of breath, he launched himself at the doorway, right arm angled across his body as he shot wildly in Bale’s direction.<
br />
  Gabriel hurtled through the door just as a pulse blast punched the wall above the door frame. He skidded to a halt, turned swiftly, and grasped the door handle. As Bale came running behind him, Gabriel threw himself against the door with all his might, slamming the reinforced steel into the man’s face.

  The door met Bale’s skull with a sickening thud. Bale staggered back. The gun clattered to the floor.

  Gabriel ran out the door. Thirty yards down the hallway to the right, Amelia leaned against the wall just before the door to the stairwell, her head back, gasping for breath. He dashed toward her.

  “Go!” he shouted.

  She looked at him, glassy eyes widening in fear. Her gaze flicked over his shoulder.

  Gabriel twisted just as a blur of motion collided into him. Bale struck him like a battering ram, sending them both crashing against the door opposite Amelia’s cowering form.

  The door gave way. They toppled into the lab, sprawled half on top of each other. Gabriel’s gun sailed out of his hands.

  Gabriel rolled to his feet in an instant, but so did Bale. They crouched, circling each other, fists raised, sizing each other up.

  Gabriel’s vision spun, disorienting him for a moment. Where was his gun? He glimpsed rows of pristine, stainless steel counters. Glass cabinets filled with vials and tubes, bottles of pills, powders, injectors, and containers of sludgy, strangely-colored liquids. Against the far wall stood shelves of glass cages full of mice.

  The opened door was directly to his left. Beyond it, the hallway, the right leading to the stairwell, the left to the balcony overlooking the lobby. He didn’t see the gun anywhere. It must have slid across the floor behind one of the counters, out of sight.

  A med-bot whirred at a counter next to him, inserting vials into a centrifuge. It beeped at him. Gabriel seized the thing, lifted it high over his head, and hurled it at Bale.

  Bale dodged it with surprisingly fluid grace for his massive size. The bot struck the wall and bounced off. It spun awkwardly, emitting a harsh, mechanical buzz, and drifted in a haphazard zigzag pattern out into the hallway.