For a Few Credits More: More Stories from the Four Horsemen Universe (The Revelations Cycle Book 7)

by Chris Kennedy

  Two of Davenport’s men, Victor Cambridge and Elliot Mao, checked his systems then donned their upgraded and heavily modified MK 6 CASPers. At nine feet tall and 1,800 pounds, the Team Two veterans looked like bodyguards beside Davenport’s sleeker MK 7. Cambridge and Mao had worked for years to improve the laser resistance of their mechas. As MK 6 units went, they were well set up.

  Johnny stared for several seconds.

  “What?” Davenport said over the radio. His canopy was already sealed. “I didn’t ask them. If Nightmare and Cheeto are shadowing you, then I get my boys here to keep things even.”

  “We’re on the same side, Tactician,” Johnny said.

  “Sure. Ogres into the fight and all that,” Davenport said.

  Johnny finished his setup, casually turning to see Lamart inspecting the gear of the Besquith and the kid.

  Nightmare wore a MK 6 of such variety that only its basic shape identified its model. His natural size caused the unit to stand head and shoulders above anyone else in the OFC. His strength allowed him to carry a rocket launcher on his left shoulder—the slightly curved magazine jutting two feet above his head—and a MAC (Magnetic Accelerator Cannon) on his right shoulder, belt fed from an ammunition vault bolted to his back. Members of the OFC joked that his smaller arm-mounted weapons were only there to swat his fleas.

  Cheeto Briggs wore a MK 5 that was covered with dried blood and seemed to give Lamart fits. The mecha unit was the approximate size of the improved MK 6 design, but the similarities ended there.

  Davenport and his bodyguards laughed and shook their helmeted heads.

  “I told you to polish off that rust,” Lamart said.

  “I did, but I woke up and it was like this again,” Cheeto said. “Swear to God!”

  “You two don’t have to do this,” Johnny said.

  “The hell we don’t,” Lamart, Nightmare, and Cheeto said in unison.

  Lamart locked his judgment-filled eyes on Johnny. “When the hell did you stop doing pre-combat checks?”

  “No time for that when you’re going solo or trying to frag your XO,” Cheeto said as he bobbed his head to music playing inside the MK 5. “This hunk of junk has a great sound system. Wanna hear it?”

  “No,” Johnny said. “Where did you get that thing?”

  “Farmhouse. The cellar, actually,” Briggs said.

  Johnny led them to the Ambrose causeway when the sun was full up. That was one of the rules. A large sign of welded iron bore the words, “Challenge Bridge.” It wasn’t really a bridge, but a portion of roadway that weaved through several gatehouses. The paved surface of the road was wide enough to allow several mega tanks to drive side by side. There were ditches to the right and left full of razor wire and deep pits. Walls contained the entire “bridge” so that once an intruder ventured into the trap it was impossible to get out without retreating.

  “On my left, XO. Everyone else hang back a bit. Don’t group up,” Johnny said.

  “Jumpjets?” Davenport asked.

  “Save ‘em,” Johnny said. He looked back at the four Ogre Fist mercs who didn’t have jump jets. “And save the fuel. We may need it for something else.”

  “Roger that,” Davenport said.

  “Contact!” Johnny shouted as he charged the first machine gun battery (MGB). “I expected a little bit of parley at least.” His words tangled with the noise of running in full gear.

  The MGBs were triangulated to cover the roadway leading to the first set of towers. Johnny wished he could jump on one and tear apart the remote controlled killing machines but had already decided against using his MK 7’s jump ability.

  “Speed, Boss. Speed!” Davenport grunted.

  The two of them separated and ran faster than any of their men could follow. Johnny angled away from a marching line of green tracers. Closer and closer they came. Davenport, he saw, was pulling ahead of his threats and would reach the first MGB easily. Johnny veered toward the second part of the triangle.

  All four of the support Ogres lobbed rockets over and around him, blasting the second set of machine guns to hell. He charged through flying debris at the final part of the defensive triangle. On the run, he aimed his laser rifle, stopped for what felt like a long second, and fired a laser pulse down the barrels of the guns swinging toward him. A heartbeat later he was on the move, even though this threat was over.

  The smoke cleared.

  “Who are you and why do you challenge Bloody Ambrose?” a dry voice broadcast into their radios.

  Johnny looked at the first gate. “One of my men left something here. I want it back.”

  Silence.

  Johnny checked on his companions and breathed a sigh of relief.

  “No Ogres have entered my fortress since the contract five years ago,” Ambrose said.

  “Hey, Boss, I think I believe him,” Cheeto said.

  “You wanna go back?” Davenport snapped.

  “Shut it, XO,” Johnny said, then stepped in front of the others. “He may have been in disguise. He’s on the run and desperate.”

  Ambrose laughed but it was so dry it took a second to reach recognizable volume. “So he broke my rules, if he did in fact shelter in the Cathedral. There is a fine for that, Johnny Boss, and you’re responsible for payment.”

  Johnny cracked the knuckles of his gauntlets. “This miserable odyssey is getting expensive.”

  Davenport laughed. “You sure know how to spend money, Boss. I’ll give you that.”

  “I would have appreciated a call about a fugitive from Peacemaker justice trespassing within my walls. I could have seized the tablet and only taken a small commission,” Ambrose said.

  “Ah, man,” Cheeto Briggs groaned.

  Lamart, Cambridge, and Mao swore expansively.

  The ground fell away under Johnny and his Ogres. He landed flat on his back and spent several seconds getting to his feet. “That was new.”

  Davenport sounded like he was choking. Nightmare roared defiance in his native language. Cheeto Briggs sang, “Show me fire, fire, fire!”

  Coming out of the hole was like taking a hill under fire. Johnny trusted his heads-up display, shooting at targets he couldn’t actually see through the smoke and anti-missile chaff raining down from the first gate house. Davenport jumped to the catwalk and dropped grenades inside the towers. From Johnny’s viewpoint the explosions looked and sounded muted, but the gate opened, and the countermeasures stopped.

  “Good work, Tactician,” Johnny said.

  “Thanks, Idealist,” Davenport replied.

  Johnny gathered the six-mecha assault team in the next section of the Challenge Bridge, ordering an injury and equipment check. “Buddy system. Don’t do it yourself.”

  He went over Davenport’s gear remembering why he’d once trusted and respected the man. “Looks good. You’ve spent some money on this gear.”

  “Your CASPer is tight, Boss,” Davenport said.

  “You’re good to go, Tactician.”

  Side by side, they led the way through MGBs, mine fields, and trip wires leading to nasty traps. At the next gatehouse, Johnny and Davenport charged together, jumped, and annihilated the defenses.

  Each section of the Challenge Bridge grew harder, the explosions larger and hotter, and the number of live defenders greater.

  “Ambrose has his CASPers falling back when we push hard,” Davenport said, ducking behind a bunker Johnny and Nightmare had just cleared out.

  “For all his savage reputation, he cares about his troops. They fight and fall back knowing we can only keep this up for so long. If Bloody Ambrose is the merc I remember hearing stories about when I was a kid, he has calculated our ammunition capacity and fuel range. He isn’t worried.”

  Davenport nodded. “Cambridge and Mao, work your way around on the left flank of this roadway but don’t get pinned against the left wall.”

  “Nightmare, do you have rockets to cover them?” Johnny asked.

  “Many rockets. I am strong to carry
,” Nightmare said. “Wuff, Wuff.”

  “It’s woof, woof,” Davenport grunted. “I hate it when he does that. Stick to being the straight man, you stupid mutt.”

  “Nightmare angry,” Nightmare said. “Tactician insensitive.”

  “Use the rockets, Nightmare,” Johnny said. He worked his way closer to the next gate—the final gate he hoped—and vented his remaining jumpjet fuel on the armored hinges.

  Davenport watched but did nothing. “I see what you’re about, but I’m not sure it will burn hot enough.”

  “Just need to soften the hinges and let gravity do the rest,” Johnny said, watching his XO covertly with one of his CASPer camera feeds on his heads-up display. The merc hesitated, then approached.

  “I want you to know how much this pains me, Boss. I really love my jumpjets,” he said.

  Johnny talked without facing him. “Like you love your pinplants?”

  Silence.

  “That’s a huge investment you can’t afford on your own,” Johnny said.

  Davenport vented jumpjet fuel on the hinges as Nightmare, Cheeto, Cambridge, and Mao fought for their lives against a rocket and laser barrage from the wall turrets.

  “How many Ogres in Team Two have upgraded to pinplants without you telling me?” Johnny asked.

  “Three,” Davenport said.

  “We could have upgraded the rest of our people who are still in MK 5s or bought two additional MK 7s, maybe even an MK 8 if we could find one,” Johnny said.

  “I told you we should reward high performers,” Davenport said.

  Johnny backed away from the work. “Let’s move before Ambrose and his defenders realize what we did.”

  Davenport joined him behind a pile of debris in no man’s land. The rest of the attackers rallied behind a similar position on the opposite side of the roadway.

  “We can’t continue as a divided company,” Johnny said to Davenport.

  “I’ll take a dozen men and women and start my own merc unit,” Davenport said.

  “No,” Johnny said. “The OFC is small enough already. One of us is going to lead the Ogres, and it won’t be you.”

  “Damn it, Boss. Be reasonable,” Davenport said.

  “I could push you into the inferno we are about to send up and shoot you in the face. No one would say a word. You betrayed your commanding officer,” Johnny said.

  “I wasn’t betraying you, I was saving the OFC,” Davenport said.

  Johnny stared him down and said nothing.

  A guard reloaded a MAC with depleted uranium rounds and sprayed the area between this gatehouse and the one they had recently broken through. Nightmare and the others backed into a crater for shelter and were pinned in place.

  “Keep your head down,” Johnny said. “And follow me.” He rushed into position and aimed his laser rifle at the fuel-soaked gate hinges. It was an easy shot and soon the hinges were softening to slag as the fire raged hot and quick. “Nightmare! We attack!”

  Johnny and his Ogres charged through the gate, shooting defensive emplacements and sidestepping a maze of mines and other traps. A squad of mercs in MK 8s covered each other as they retreated by the numbers.

  The final gate opened, and Bloody Ambrose walked forward without so much as a helmet. Long white side-whiskers hung down to his barrel chest. The padded undershirt favored by CASPer drivers from an earlier age stretched over his massive gut and hung down over his muscular legs.

  “You see me?” he asked as he spread his arms wide. “Would you stand there in full CASPer regalia while I’m unarmed in the face of your unreasonable aggression?”

  Johnny opened his canopy and signaled Davenport and the others to fall back to the last point of cover. “Do I call you Bloody Ambrose?”

  The big man laughed. “Call me old and wise. Right? That’s what you need to remember.”

  Johnny waited.

  “No one has come this far across the Challenge Bridge,” Ambrose said.

  “Not really a bridge. You should rename it the Challenge Road, or No Man’s Land,” Johnny said.

  Ambrose laughed. “I’ll take it to my board of directors. You and I have business first.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Do you have any choice but to listen?” Ambrose asked.

  “No.”

  Ambrose studied him with narrowed eyes. “You seem to match your reputation. I bet you’re mad as hell on the inside.”

  “It’s been a tough day,” Johnny said, resisting the urge to look back at Davenport.

  “Then keep your mouth shut and listen,” Ambrose said. “Jessup Moran has a slate that some people think will rock the foundation of the Peacemakers. You are flat broke, and your team is feeling the strain. If you walk out of here alive, it will probably be as a solo contractor looking to join another company.”

  Johnny tilted his head to one side. “But you have a better offer, I assume. Why would you get involved now?”

  “I don’t want any part of the slate contract. Take my advice and stay clear of that. Convince Jessup to turn himself in and visit him in prison—without breaking him out of course.” Ambrose stopped to control his amusement, then began again slightly short of breath. “Oh, Johnny, I like your style, but if you’re going to work for me I need you to show greater caution.”

  “You’re offering me a job?”

  “Of course! What do you think the purpose of the Challenge Bridge is?” Ambrose put his fists on his hips. “What’s the motto of the Ogre Fist Company? I heard it once and found it amusing.”

  “Never quit, never surrender, and never use one bullet when two will do,” Johnny said.

  Ambrose smiled and nodded. “I’ll have my snipers take out Davenport.”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  Johnny turned and looked at his companions. “He’s still useful to me. I think I can bring him around to my way of thinking, remind him of why he joined the OFC in the first place.”

  Ambrose abandoned his good humor and stood like an old warrior ready to fight for the rest of his life. “War is serious business, Boss. I’m not looking for someone to guard my keep. I want someone I can mentor. Are you that person?”

  “I have a lot of debt,” Johnny said.

  “Not a problem.”

  “Every member of the OFC needs equipment upgrades.”

  “Done.”

  “Jessup needs a good lawyer for whatever he is about to face with the Peacemakers.”

  Ambrose darkened. “I’ll spend the price of one CASPer for his legal defense, but will not be associated with the case and neither will my employees.”

  “Okay,” Johnny said. “You just hired the OFC. I will bring my officers to review the contract once I set a few things in order.”

  “I can recommend a new XO,” Ambrose said.

  “I’ve already invested a lot of time and energy in this one,” Johnny said.

  “It’s your company, but remember who you work for,” Ambrose said.

  Johnny saluted and returned to his assault team.

  “What the hell was all that?” Davenport asked.

  “We have a new long-term contract. Everyone is getting equipment upgrades, but most importantly, Bloody Ambrose has agreed not to murder us where we stand,” Johnny said.

  “This isn’t how I thought it would be,” Davenport said.

  “It never is XO. Send your people back to base. You and I need to go for a walk.”

  “Are we both coming back?”

  “I’m not sure. What you did to Jessup crossed the line.”

  The color drained from Davenport’s face.

  Johnny smiled. “Now you remember why I’m running the OFC.”

  # # # # #

  LEVERAGE by Josh Hayes

  Chapter One

  Macintosh Sacobi pressed a hand against the roof of the flyer, groaning as the sleek aircraft twisted through Nemis’ skyline. He glared at the pilot to his left, and the senior Peacemaker grinned as he pushed the flyer�
�s throttle forward.

  “I said I believed you,” Mac said through gritted teeth.

  Rylin Tobias grinned, and the Lumar leveled the flyer with his lower set of hands.

  Mac relaxed slightly, taking his hand from the ceiling. Even after a year, his Peacemaker Training Officer still treated him like a rookie.

  “He’s got a pretty big head start,” Rylin said. “If we can cut him off before he makes the starport we can avoid a week in hyper.”

  “I still don’t understand why we just don’t call the Marshals,” Mac said, forcing down another groan as the flyer dipped suddenly to the right. “I can have a team there in ten minutes and lock down the whole place.”

  “And let some backwater-nobody cop take credit for bringing in Jenkin’s killer? Not going to happen. No offense.”

  Mac gritted his teeth against the jibe. He’d left the Calista Marshal Service to join the guild. Fortunately, there had been an opening in the local Peacemaker office for Mac to train here and not have to travel halfway across the galaxy to chase his dream. Unfortunately, his training officer had made it a point to remind him of his roots at every opportunity.

  Rylin leaned over, checking the street below them. “Besides, catching this asshole is bound to earn me some favor among the guild leadership. Hell, it could be the leverage I need to push right into the Regional Director’s office. I’ll be damned if anyone gets to Jessup Moran before me.”

  Mac resisted the urge to roll his eyes. A Regional position had been the only thing on Rylin’s mind for months now. Knowing how competitive it had been just to get into the guild, Mac had no illusions about how difficult it would be to move through the ranks, especially for a Lumar who wasn’t anywhere near as bright as he was brutal. Worse, within the guild hierarchy, who you were and what you’d done wasn’t nearly as important as who you knew.

  In an effort to steer off another “the whole system is flawed” tirade, Mac said, “I’d really like to know what he was doing all the way out here in the first place.”