Chaos Unbound (The Metis Files Book 2)

by Brian S. Leon

  I backed up quickly toward the shattered wall while the Strigoi frantically pressed back farther into the stall for protection from the light. With no other option, I stepped out of the barn backward, keeping an eye on the retreating vampire, only to get smacked hard across the back. It jarred me, knocking me forward onto one knee. The blow didn’t hurt, but it did startle the hell out of me. When I turned around, the crowd—thralls of the vampires and townspeople—surrounded me.

  Chapter 26

  Under no real influence of the vampires beyond fear or some twisted sense of generational loyalty, the townsfolk of Coronini had been guarding the Liuntika Strigoi for hundreds of years. But thralls or not, they were still human, and I didn’t want to hurt them if I didn’t have to.

  I took a few quick steps forward, pushing the unsteady crowd farther into the field. Once we were far enough away from the building, the villagers completely encircled me, armed with a variety of farming implements and a few old shotguns. I was disappointed that there were no pitchforks or burning torches, but I still had a pretty good feeling how Frankenstein’s monster felt.

  One of the men with a shotgun finally racked a shell, and I attacked. Roaring, I stepped fast and hard to my right then planted an elbow into the face of a man armed with a hoe. Spinning to my left, I planted the pommel of my sword into the gut of the next and continued circling. I hacked through the next villager’s rake and heel-kicked him about three yards.

  Startled by my roar and sudden attack, most of the townspeople remained frozen, but a few stumbled backward. I pressed my advantage and quickly crossed the circle toward another man armed with a shotgun. His eyes grew wide as I threw both swords into the ground. I jumped straight at him, grabbed the barrel of the gun, and forced it up before it went off. Ramming the gun back down at the man, I smashed its butt into his chin. He let go of the gun and fell to the ground, grasping his face. I swung the gun like a bat, hitting the nearest man across the neck and head, then threw the gun at another man, who was caught completely off guard. The instant I let the gun go, I drew both of my sidearms and pointed them at two random people of the five that were still standing. The remaining crowd absolutely froze.

  “What we have here,” I said, “is a failure to communicate…”

  Clearly, no one else spoke English, because no one laughed. No one said anything or even moved until one guy, for some reason beyond my comprehension, suddenly tried to reach for my swords stuck in the ground about five feet away from me.

  “Ah, ah, ah,” I said, chiding the young man. “No touchy.” I covered the five feet toward my swords fast enough to beat the kid easily then brought one of my guns down on his head lightly with a dull thud. The kid collapsed. Damn. I holstered the Glock as I knelt by his prone form to see if he was still alive. He wasn’t breathing, and I could find no sign of a pulse. Before I could even stand, the remaining four villagers screamed and attacked me as a group, swinging at me with fists and broken handles. One guy even grabbed one of my swords. That’s it. I’m done being Mr. Nice Guy.

  I grabbed one attacker by his shirt and threw him aside then shot the villager holding my sword as he raised the blade above his head. I stood and brought my elbow around, catching another person square in the face. Hard. He fell to the ground motionless, and the loud report of the gun stopped the remaining attacker in mid swing. From around the corner of the barn, two more villagers appeared carrying AK-47s.

  “That’s enough!” I screamed. I do not have time for this.

  Everyone jerked with a start at my shout, but the two new gunmen kept approaching. One began shouting in a language I didn’t understand. The more he shouted, the louder and more insistent he became, inciting the others to become more aggressive again, as well. Still, their hands quivered as they inched closer.

  Part of me wanted to make a break for it and leave the simple but deluded people alive. With AK-47s in the mix, I’d probably end up taking a few errant rounds in the legs or arms, maybe even my head as I ran. Even if I made it, they would probably chase me. Though they couldn’t keep up with me, I didn’t need to watch my back as I tried to catch up with Duma and the Hanner Brid—who were who knew how far ahead of me.

  I quickly fired three rounds, center mass, at the verbal gunman. At least one hit him in the upper chest while one splintered the wooden shoulder stock of his rifle. As the second gunman turned toward his wounded companion, I put two rounds into his thigh and pulled my Sig. He twisted as he fell, inadvertently firing as he screamed in pain. His errant volley hit the last upright attacker in the back, killing him instantly. The villager I’d thrown aside rolled onto his back and raised his empty hands in surrender. For a second, I contemplated shooting him.

  I put away my guns and sheathed my swords as the wounded villagers writhed on the ground around me. Then the barn collapsed. I took off sprinting as fast as I could.

  Way across the field, on the other side of the ditch we’d used as an entry point, was a blur I assumed to be Duma. The low scrub blocked my view, but I kept running, pulling the sniper rifle I took from the Half Breed’s arsenal off my shoulder to get it ready. Even at full speed, which I couldn’t maintain for long, I would never come close to catching up with Duma or the Half Breed, but if I stood any chance of following them, I had to clear that ditch—fast.

  I recalled that the map we’d used to plan our assault showed clear fields for several miles to the north, but there was also a heavily forested area in the hills to the east. The idea of losing them in the forest caused me to bear down and push myself harder.

  I charged through the scrub brush and small trees around the ditch without slowing and took several nasty scrapes to the face from errant branches for the effort. Emerging from the other side of the thicket, I saw several figures standing in a loose group about a thousand yards ahead of me, but I was too far out to make out any details of what was happening.

  Confused, I threw myself into a straight-leg slide. I skidded along the grass and dirt, fishing in a vest pocket to grab one of the modified shells I’d taken for the rifle, unsure if it had a full magazine in it or not. The group was too focused on whatever was going on within it to notice me. The moment I came to a stop, I opened the bolt, slid the cartridge in, and closed it. I pulled myself up to sit cross-legged, resting the back of my elbows on the front part of my raised knees to steady my aim as I peered through the riflescope.

  The Hanner Brid’s distinctive brown aura flashed around him along one side of the group. The rest of the group, including Duma, faced the Half Breed. Duma’s back was to me. The Hanner Brid was roughly six feet tall, and based on his size through the scope, I judged the distance at roughly nine hundred yards. Given the distance and the fact that I had no idea about windage, a shot at that distance would be tough, to say the least. But that didn’t bother me nearly as much as what I was seeing.

  Five of the other figures were dressed in the familiar long dark coats of the Dreaichbard. Spread out loosely, they faced the Half Breed, who was using someone as a shield. Duma stood between the Hanner Brid and me, blocking my view of the hostage. Everyone was still. For the first time, I could see that the Hanner Brid shared Duma’s pale coloration, though his hair was significantly shorter and more golden than white.

  After a moment, the Hanner Brid’s aura pulsed again, and the Dreaichbard dropped their weapons and stepped back. Duma shook his head as if clearing cobwebs. Giving up his weapons under any conditions was against his nature, and I hoped his previous experiences might help him resist.

  Finally, the Hanner Brid backed up just far enough that I could see he had Belphoebe by the throat. He also had the silenced .22 aimed at Duma. With that gun, he’d have to hit Duma in the head to kill him instantly, but I had little doubt he could do that with the short distance between them.

  Everything I’d learned working with snipers over the years flooded into my head at once. The
only sure kill shot is one to the head—especially in a hostage situation. A person can still move for as long as ten seconds after a shot directly to the heart. A sniper’s target on a head is a line that goes roughly from ear to ear, which is about seven inches on a person. However, the sweet spot is dead in the middle of that line, right behind the eyes. So seven inches actually becomes two inches, and that makes a functional head shot downright impossible beyond about two hundred yards. At my range, without a good wind reading and a hostage covering most of my target, I would be lucky not to hit Belphoebe—and killing her wouldn’t help my case even if I handed them the real culprit.

  I had one chance. If I could make it to the tree line less than two hundred yards behind them without being seen, I could get close enough to take the shot. The forest lay about three hundred yards to my right. I only hoped that Duma could keep things cool and focused on him while I closed the distance.

  I crouched and ran. Staying low, I covered ground far more slowly than I would have liked. The crossing seemed to take forever, but I made it in under two minutes, and nothing changed with the standoff. Duma still had his knives in hand, shaking his head like a wet dog, and the Hanner Brid still clutched Belphoebe. The Dreaichbard, however, were all kneeling. I couldn’t see her face from my position behind them, but I could only imagine that she was either furious or unconscious.

  I made my way through the forest until I was as close to directly behind the psychotic asshole as I could get. I knelt, leaning against a tree, and brought the rifle up to my shoulder. I was three hundred yards out.

  Despite the shorter distance, a definite head shot would still be a struggle, so I aimed at the largest target: the Hanner Brid’s mid-upper back. I hoped Duma could duck out of the bastard’s line of fire fast enough. Given a choice between Duma and Belphoebe, I wasn’t as concerned about her—consequences or no. I flipped the rifle’s safety off, took a few slow deep breaths, and then squeezed the trigger.

  Through the scope, I watched the Hanner Brid lurch forward and Duma suddenly jerk upright then fall over. I threw the rifle aside and ran toward them as fast as I could move my already-weary legs. The Dreaichbard began getting to their feet until an incoherent bellow arose from the group followed by the same odd aura flash enveloping the assassin. My heart almost stopped when the Demon Fae not only didn’t collapse but barely even faltered.

  The guardsmen quickly reassumed their kneeling positions, and the Hanner Brid righted himself, still clutching Belphoebe by her neck. Holy Hell. Once upright, he threw Belphoebe over his shoulder like a rag doll into a fireman’s carry. After shooting me a glare, his face contorted into an expression of pain and fury, he glanced back toward the village of Coronini then took off running away from the town. I headed straight for Duma and the kneeling Dreaichbard while an angry mob of people crossed into the field from Coronini. In addition, two large old Soviet-era six-wheeled trucks loaded with even more people were barreling up the DN57, in our direction.

  By the time I made it to Duma, he was struggling to get to his feet, clutching at his chest near his left arm. He appeared more stunned than injured.

  “Come on, get up,” I said, grabbing his uninjured arm. “We gotta get outta here, and I mean now.”

  Duma grunted, then he noticed the coming onslaught. “Holy shit! The villagers are really pissed off! Screw the Hanner Brid—we gotta get outta here.”

  He snagged his knives, and we took off for the river, a few hundred yards in front of us. I had no doubt the villagers were after Duma and me rather than the Hanner Brid, and there was no way we could pursue him with the villagers on our tail. Our best shot was to escape then somehow head him off.

  “What did you do?”

  “Shot some of them, destroyed that barn, shit like that,” I said to Duma as I ran. “Move it, guys, or you’re never gonna see Pheebs again,” I said as we sprinted past the befuddled Dreaichbard. I could only imagine he’d taken her as added insurance against the Dreaichbard and me taking potshots at him as he ran. Several of the guardsmen were still on their knees, while others were stumbling to their feet like newborn babies. All of them glanced around stiffly, as if they were unsure what to do. Elite guards, my ass. For a half a heartbeat, I contemplated helping them then came to my senses. There was no way I was going to get myself killed helping those guys out.

  I wasn’t as worried about the people on foot as I was about the trucks. The vehicles were big and had a top speed of about forty miles an hour, but even at that speed, it was going to be damn close for us. Automatic gunfire erupted from the throng of villagers behind us, though we were still well out of their range. We raced across the DN57 and headed toward a boat dock with a building on it. Over my shoulder, I could see that the Dreaichbard were closing on us quickly.

  Probably need to rethink that last notion about them. In front of us, three people came out of the small structure at the base of the dock. And they were armed with rifles.

  “Split up!” I yelled to Duma, who clutched at his arm and wasn’t running as fast as he usually did.

  He veered to the left, and I went right as we neared the dock. One of the three gunmen began firing at Duma while the other two targeted me. A few bullets whizzed by, but none struck home. Luckily, we ran fast enough to make an unskilled marksman’s job all but impossible.

  Once we hit the edge of the clearing around the dock, Duma changed directions back toward the building. I ran straight at the nearest gunman firing at me. The guy panicked, dropped his weapon, stumbled, then collided with the other gunman shooting at me, taking them both out. Duma hit the third gunman, trailing a spray of crimson behind him as the man collapsed. I didn’t have time to protest, nor did I care to at that point.

  Legs aching, I pushed myself to the dock. A few yards downstream, Duma dove in. I did the same then swam hard. Onshore, all hell broke loose, but I wasn’t about to stop to look. Working my arms and kicking my booted feet, I felt the full effect of my exhaustion. The weight of my gear made treading water in the rapidly increasing current much harder. I ditched the SCAR-H near the main channel, where the current picked us up and swept us toward our meeting point near the ruined fortress.

  I had flashbacks of “drownproofing” while I was in Basic Underwater Demolition/SEAL training: the instructors wrestling with us, trying to pull us under while our hands were tied. I’d spent hours treading water while holding heavy weights, learning to keep my head above water no matter what. I relaxed and focused only on keeping my face above the water, using my arms only occasionally like flippers to raise my head enough to breathe as I drifted. Before long, I recognized the ruined fortifications on the banks above the river.

  Apparently, our escapades had taken us far enough upstream that the current carried us almost right up to Golubac across the river. I dragged myself onto the shallow flats along the Danube’s western edge, underneath the walls of the fortress. As Duma and I sat in the shallows, both too exhausted to speak and numb from the cold, I could feel the rumble of boat engines vibrating through the water before I could hear them.

  When Gheorghe pulled up, I flopped onto the deck like a bag of rice then lay there with my eyes closed until Duma pressed a cold plastic bottle into my hand. I sat up, crossing my arms over my knees, as Duma collapsed next to me with a groan.

  “Where’s the nearest gate through the Ways?” I asked, feeling battered but elated to have survived our jaunt into vampire central.

  “Ow! Damn,” Duma said, clutching his shoulder. “The spot upriver where we met Gheorghe, which is exactly where I would head if I were him. There’s no way he can beat us there by land, so we’ve got him unless he has a boat somewhere.”

  “Excellent, have Gheorghe get us there as fast as he can.” I pointed the bottle at Duma’s shoulder. “You okay?”

  “Through and through. Will be in a few days.”

  “We’re going
to catch this fucker,” I said then cracked open the bottle of water and chugged it.

  Trying to put myself in the Hanner Brid’s position, I could only imagine he would dump Belphoebe’s added weight as soon as he assumed he was clear. Keeping her longer than that made no tactical sense. If we were lucky, we would intercept him, with or without Belphoebe, at the Ways. Otherwise, I hoped something in the papers I’d taken from his hidey-hole would give us another place to search for him.

  Duma said something to Gheorghe, then the smuggler brought us a pair of blankets and a small paper sack before heading back to the helm, where he gunned the engines. The Peri dug into the bag and pulled out a couple of candy bars and several apples. I took the candy; he ate the apples.

  Rule Number One when on an operation of any kind is always eat and sleep whenever possible. I had a little time, so I rested. It wasn’t really optional, especially when combined with the resonant thrum of the engines below deck. The sound was positively hypnotic even though I could have slept directly on the engines without any problem. It probably would have been warmer.

  Chapter 27

  I woke up with a start. Duma was standing next to Gheorghe at the helm, munching on another apple. Still wrapped in the blanket, I walked over.

  “Not that I expected it, but no sign of him so far,” Duma shouted over the wind. “We got another hour or so to go yet, though.”