by Lee Stephen
He’d left Oleg alone.
“Bollocks!” Becan scampered back to the building and readied his assault rifle.
“Becan!” Travis said. “What are you doing?”
“Scram! Go after Jay!”
The next sound Becan heard made him go rigid. Plasma fire exploded from the back of the federal building, engulfing the lone spray of an assault rifle. A five-second ruckus of sound ensued, followed by silence. By the time Becan got to the door, it was too late.
Jerking the door open, he burst in, aiming his weapon. He thought he was prepared for the worst, but nothing prepared him for what he actually saw.
Blood was everywhere. The walls were stained with scorch marks and holes. Death pulsed through the air. But it was not human death.
A stranger was standing in the hallway, the broken bodies of six Bakma scattered around him. The man’s hands were poised to strike. His fighting stance was eager and cold. It was a stance Becan had never seen before. In one hand, the man’s knuckles were anxiously protruded. In his other, his assault rifle loomed. When he turned to the door where Becan stood, chills broke over the Irishman’s skin.
It was Oleg. The expression on his face was unfathomable, vile.
The two stared at one another for a mere second before everything about Oleg changed. The killer’s posture snapped into a kind of alarmed subordination. His butcher’s gleam transformed into innocent shock. He became the man Becan knew once again.
For several moments, they stared at each other. Then Oleg bent forward and heaved. He spoke in the same soft voice he’d always adopted. “What a rush…”
The Irishman stood motionless in the open metal door, his M-19 still in his hand. Then he lowered it. “Yeah…what a rush…”
* * *
Max pressed against the second-floor wall as a flurry of plasma flew past him. Maksim rolled forward from behind, awkwardly crouching and firing an armor-piercing round from his own hand cannon. The Bakma fled around the corner in retreat.
Lieutenant Brunner had flattened herself against the opposite wall. She barked out orders through her comm. “Shavrin, do you know the location of the safe room?”
“Yes, lieutenant.”
“There are civilians there. Retrieve them.”
A Bakma warrior emerged from the corner and fired. It narrowly missed Brunner, who countered with a shot of her own. The Bakma was struck in the side and slunk back in retreat.
Brunner was on her feet again. “Max, I am going ahead. I am taking your demolitionist with me. Make sure nothing comes from behind you.”
Max gritted his teeth and hobbled forward. “No, I’m going with you. Maksim, you stay here and cover the rear.”
“This is not the time or the place to prove you’re a man,” she snapped back. “You will do as I say.” She looked back at Maksim. “Are you ready to go?”
Maksim exchanged a conflicted look with both lieutenants.
Max growled and fired a shot in frustration. “Draggin’ bull-headed woman. You wanna play it your way, go get killed. Go with her, Frolov.”
As Maksim took to Brunner’s side, she said to Max, “You had better watch the rear well.”
“I’m watching! I’m watching! Freakin’ go!”
Brunner and Maksim charged the corner.
* * *
Scott had been leading the priests outside when the overhead sprinklers kicked on in the church. The moment he left the building, he saw why. The top of the bell tower, where the alien sniper had once been, was engulfed in flames.
He had heard the announcement about Jayden over the comm. But there was no time to think about that now. He had two dripping wet priests in the middle of a snowfall.
On the other side of the street, on an adjacent corner, stood a row of residential housing. Only one thought came to Scott’s mind: warmth. “Across the street,” he said to the priests. “Come on, move!” Grabbing one by the arm, he dragged him along.
Nicolai had been directly behind Scott until something else caught the slayer’s attention. Down the street, several blocks ahead, a canrassi lumbered around. The Nightman raised his weapon to fire.
As soon as Scott reached the first doorway, he tried the knob. It was locked. There’s no time for this. Taking a step back, he struck out with his foot and bashed the door in. Gunfire struck him immediately. He flew back through the air. It wasn’t plasma—that much was revealed by the clattering sound of metal against his armor. It was something more brutal. As Scott landed back-first in the snow, gasping for breath, he registered the way he’d been hit. The wind was completely knocked out of him. He looked into the house. Huddled in the far corner was a terrified family, shielded by an old man with a shotgun. When they saw his gleaming horns, they froze.
It took every ounce of strength to fight off his pain, after which Scott grabbed the two priests and hurled them inside. He was too winded to talk, but it didn’t matter. The family would know what to do. He heaved a rasping breath and turned to the street.
His fulcrum armor now bore a dent, though by the looks of it, no pellets had pierced it. The armor had likely saved his life. Taking another moment to fill his lungs, he lifted his head to find his teammate.
As Nicolai pressed the trigger, in the middle of the street the spider-eyed canrassi made its charge. It lasted mere moments. A hiss came from the church doorway as a smoke trail soared at the beast. The front half of the canrassi exploded. Its bloody carcass crashed to the snow.
Egor emerged from the building, smoke rising from the barrel of his hand cannon.
Scott was there moments later, and he pointed to the fire in the bell tower. “What the hell happened?”
“I had few options,” Egor answered. “That was the safest one for my life. Buildings can be replaced. I cannot.”
Svetlana appeared in his wake. Behind the sky-blue tint of her visor, she appeared overwhelmed.
Scott knew why. She was fighting alongside Nightmen for the first time. Not a Nightman who was her boyfriend, who would always show her his best side. True Nightmen. People who would burn down a church at the first inclination it might get the job done, without giving it a second of thought.
Dostoevsky and Auric arrived next. The commander wasted no time. “I will go to the warehouse to assist Captain Clarke. Auric and Egor, you will come with me.”
Svetlana’s mouth fell open. “But what about this church? Will we just let it burn?”
“We are not firefighters, Svetlana.”
“We are the fire,” Nicolai said cryptically. He was silenced by a hard look from Scott.
She shook her head in disbelief. “This is not right.”
Scott fought to stop his thoughts from becoming words. You’re surrounded by murderers. Of course it’s not right.
She set her eyes squarely on him. “Scott, this is not what righteous men do.”
Those words hit him strangely. They didn’t hit him because he felt righteous—he hadn’t felt righteous in months. They hit him because they were laced with, of all things, sincerity.
She still considers me righteous.
Dostoevsky turned to Egor. “Come. And Broll, you come, too. We will go to the captain.” The commander turned to Scott. “Remington, you have time to assist Lieutenant Axen. Travis can transport you. Will you go, or will you remain here? Whatever you choose, you will take Romanov and Voronova with you.”
Scott wrestled with his options. The wrestling match was short-lived. “Travis,” he said through the comm, “where you are?”
Svetlana turned away from him.
“We’re approaching the roof of the warehouse,” Travis answered.
That made Scott remember. Jayden. Now the Texan was forefront in his mind; now worry had time to sink in. “Ryvkin, how is Timmons?”
Several moments passed before Viktor replied. “He may have serious back injuries, lieutenant. I will get him on a stretcher.”
“How critical is time?”
“Time is always critica
l, lieutenant.”
Time was always critical. For a moment, memories of Galina flashed in his head. She was sent back to Novosibirsk, too. Not even that had saved her. Jayden was worth taking the chance again.
“Captain,” Scott said, “with your permission, I’d like Travis to take Jayden back to the base. The rest of us can hold our own here.”
“Granted, lieutenant,” Clarke answered. “Navarro, take Timmons back to base.”
Viktor interrupted the transmission. “I will go with him. Ms. Yudina can come as well if she wishes.”
“Yes!” Varvara’s voice cut in.
Clarke’s grew irritated. “Denied. We’re not sending two-thirds of our medical crew home.”
Scott switched to a private connection. “Captain, he’s right. Varvara’s useless right now. Do you think she’ll be able to concentrate here? And do you really trust her with Jayden’s life by herself?” It was a heartless comment, and the hurt look in Svetlana’s eyes showed it. But it was still true.
“Point made,” Clarke answered. The comm chatter returned to public frequency. “Very well, Ryvkin. You and Yudina may escort Timmons home.”
“Thank you, captain,” Viktor answered.
Scott looked at the church. There would be no meeting with Max’s team now. Not with the Pariah leaving the scene.
“Lieutenant,” said Nicolai, approaching him, “are we really going to try to fight this fire?”
Behind Scott’s faceplate, he was glaring. “Absolutely not.” He went back on the comm. “Travis, contact every fire department that you can. If any of them have any vehicles to spare, send them to our position.” Entire city blocks were already engulfed. There were probably fire and rescue vehicles everywhere.
“Boris is already on it.”
Scott turned to Svetlana. “In that first residential building, there are two priests. Go make sure they’re not hypothermic.”
She stared at him for a long moment, then left.
“What will we do, lieutenant?” Nicolai asked.
“We’re staying here. There could still be Bakma about. Or even canrassis.” Just like soldiers weren’t firefighters, firefighters weren’t soldiers. If a fire truck arrived, its occupants would need protection as well.
“Goronok, Broll, come,” Dostoevsky said. “We will meet up with the captain.” Egor and Auric acknowledged, and the three men left, too.
Scott and Nicolai were alone.
* * *
The moment the Pariah touched the roof, Varvara burst from its doors. She was upon Jayden in seconds. When she saw the Texan’s butchered face, she covered her mouth.
Esther was fast to turn her away. “Varya, don’t look. Jay will be fine, Viktor’s taking care of him.”
Varvara shoved her away, diving to Viktor’s side. “Will he be okay?”
“Get the spinal board and prepare the high-flow oxygen,” the slayer said. “And get him ready for hypothermic suspension!”
Varvara bolted into the ship.
At that moment, Clarke and David appeared. They emerged from the same stairwell where Viktor had been. They too were beside Jayden in seconds.
“What happened?” David asked. It was the first time in weeks he sounded concerned about anything. When he actually saw Jayden, his face became pale.
“He got shot from behind,” Viktor said, shaking his head. “I know nothing more. Esther says she saw him fall. I was in the building.”
Clarke stooped down beside them. “Did you kill those Bakma on the top floor?”
“Yes, captain. Then I heard the blast on the roof. I ran to him as fast as I could.”
“Is he going to survive?”
“I do not know the extent of his injuries,” Viktor answered. “I cannot know until we return him to base. I am taking every precaution. I am assuming this scenario is worst-case.”
Varvara returned, pushing the stretcher. Tears streamed down her face. They moved Jayden onto the bed.
Esther took David aside, where she whispered. “He’s going to be fine. We have to believe that. For Jay and for her.”
David said nothing.
The bay doors lifted as soon as Jayden was on board. Varvara whimpered and knelt by his side.
From behind, Viktor fastened his eyes on Varvara, where his gaze lingered faintly on the curves of her body. Then he reached out. Placing his hand on the back of her neck, he gently gave her a squeeze.
“He is always so careful,” she cried in Russian. “He always knows what is going on all around him.” She began to break down.
“Varya,” Viktor said softly, “I want you to hear me. He will survive. That is my promise to you. Look at me, Varya.” He placed his hand on her chin and tilted it to him. “I promise you—I will not let him die. Do you believe me?”
She stared at him for several moments, then her shimmering eyes settled back on the Texan. “Yes.”
Viktor watched her for a moment, then smiled. “That makes me glad. You stay where you are. Hold his hand. I will do everything else.”
She entwined her fingers around the Texan’s.
The Pariah took off.
7
Sunday, November 6, 0011 NE
2134 hours
At the same time
Max was alone on the second floor of the federal building. Lieutenant Brunner and Maksim had gone ahead to confront the Bakma deeper in the facility, leaving the battered technician to watch the balcony alone. Everything on the first-floor lobby was quiet.
“Missile!”
It took a moment for Max to recognize that the shout was not a part of radio traffic. It had come from directly beneath him—from one of Brunner’s men in the first floor. By the time he realized it, it was too late.
The outer entrance of the lobby exploded. The blast reached the second floor, where Max was thrown off his feet at the top of the stairs. He howled as his back hit the wall.
Bakma warriors poured into the first floor like rampaging pirates, their plasma rifles bursting with white flashes.
As flakes of ceiling and wall debris drifted down on Max, his senses fought to recalibrate. He scrambled to his feet, wincing as he stood on his wounded leg, and grabbed his assault rifle from the rubble around him. Stumbling to the rail, he looked down on the first floor.
There were too many Bakma to count. They were everywhere. Their plasma blasts engulfed the sparse EDEN operatives below. Max opened fire from above.
Becan and Oleg witnessed the entire episode from the back of the building, where they’d been waiting in the hallway that opened up into the lobby. They saw the blast. They saw the men from the Thirty-ninth get blown through the air. They saw the Bakma storm in.
Oleg swung up his assault rifle and Becan followed suit. Together, they dashed to the lobby.
Max was instantly surrounded by plasma. The white bolts crashed against the ceiling and walls. Chunks of debris flew over his head. As he dove for any cover he could find at the top of the stairs, he pulled out a grenade and flung it below.
Becan watched Max’s grenade as it exploded. It sent several Bakma flying to their deaths, but the Bakma were too spread out for a single grenade to kill them all. Of the half dozen men from the Thirty-ninth who had just been in the lobby, only three scrambled to their feet; the others were motionless heaps. The survivors fled to join Becan and Oleg in the hall, and all five men struggled to return fire.
A plasma bolt struck Becan as he was trying to reload, hitting his chest just inside his shoulder. He flew back and rolled across the floor.
Oleg was fast on the comm. “One operative down.”
“That better not be you, McCrae!” Max answered from the second floor. In response, Becan screamed in pain.
As Max scrambled to avoid plasma death, Brunner and Maksim appeared from behind.
“Max, what is happening?” Brunner asked.
“What the hell’s it look like? What about the second floor?”
“It is clear!” She and Maksim joined the defe
nse.
As soon as Max had a moment to breathe, he was back on the comm. “Strakhov, who’s down?”
“McCrae, lieutenant.”
“Veck.” He turned to Brunner. “Were any of those guys in the lobby medics?”
“No,” she answered. “Kaligan is up here.”
Moments later, one of the operatives from Shavrin’s team—the team on the opposite balcony of the second floor—toppled backward to the ground as a plasma bolt tore through his armor.
Brunner stared at the fallen operative, then gravely spoke. “That was Kaligan.”
Max snarled viciously under his breath, “Thanks, God.”
Meanwhile, Becan writhed to escape his half-melted chest plate. Finally, he fought his way free. Tugging up his jersey, he looked at his injury. The left side of his chest was still sizzling as the stench of burned flesh bit his nostrils. He growled through clenched teeth.
“McCrae,” Max shouted through the comm, “please tell me you’re alive.”
“Yes, I’m bleedin’ alive!”
Suddenly, another of the men from the Thirty-ninth was caught by a plasma bolt. He dropped like a brick.
“Veck!” Becan hollered as Oleg and the remaining two men held the hall. The Bakma had taken the lobby completely, leaving the hallway as the only EDEN-held area on the first floor. Becan crawled to the fallen man. The soldier’s chest was blown apart—he hacked violently to breathe. “This guy just got reefed pretty bad!” Becan said through the comm.
Brunner’s voice emerged. “Who is it?”
Becan read the soldier’s nametag. “Jacobsen.”
“How bad is he hurt?”
Becan stared at the wide-eyed young soldier. He wasn’t unconscious. On the contrary, he contorted with terror. Becan lurched forward to hold him down. “He needs someone now.”
