Black Ops

by Alan Baxter

  To his surprise, the Exemplar halted her attack. Still, he could feel her hovering over him.

  “Speak your last, Avan, while you still have the breath to do so.”

  “I would die on my feet,” he said, barely able to get his tongue to form the words, “not like this.”

  He heard Jacquial mutter a curse but the knight drowned her out. “Then stand, Prodigy. Stand and meet your last moment as a warrior. Avraxas will have your soul but, by all means, meet your end on your feet if it eases your passing.”

  Gryl drew his knees beneath him, his face cradled in the crook of his arm. Out of sight of the Exemplar and her men, Gryl bit down and ripped a chunk of meat from his forearm nearest his wound, sealing it inside his mouth with a sour grimace. When at last he managed to stand, the floor slippery with his claret, he straightened and met the cold gaze of the Exemplar as best he could.

  “Any last words?”

  Gryl shook his head, wiping the blood from his mouth.

  Jacquial loosed a bitter, “Noooooo,” and continued her futile efforts to pry the bars from the wall, motes of gray dust her only reward.

  The knight stepped forward and aimed her blade at Gryl’s heart, cruelty slowing her hand, the need to make him suffer apparent. It was what he’d hoped for.

  The prodigy slumped the moment the sword came at him and the thrust that would have ended his life pierced his shoulder instead. He screamed and dug his hand beneath the knight’s gorget and clasped the rim of her breastplate, tugging at it with all his might. She cursed and shoved him away, ripping her sword loose and sending him tumbling to his back. He stayed where he fell as the Exemplar examined herself.

  The woman chuckled after seeing he’d done nothing more than smear his life’s blood down her chest. “Your last act of defiance was to sully my armor?” she asked. “I expected more from you, though I know I shouldn’t have. You aren’t the first of your kind to die at my hand but I’d hoped for a challenge this time around. The empress believed you were different for some reason, assured me of it, in fact.” The Exemplar advanced. “I’m sorry to have to report otherwise.”

  Gryl grinned and met her stare. “Perhaps you should have listened more closely to your master.”

  She raised her blade, ready to deliver the final blow, only to have a tremble rattle her frame and stay her hand. Her eyes went wide behind the slits of her helm, her free hand clanging against her breastplate as if hoping to break its shell. “What have you done?”

  Gryl said nothing.

  A hiss sounded beneath her armor and the exemplar gasped, stumbling and slamming her back into the cell. Wisps of black smoke billowed up through her helmet, spilling from the eye slits. Jacquial pulled the knight’s sword arm through the bars and bent it backward, leveraging it against the bars and jerking downward. There was a sharp snap, the sound of a tree branch giving way, and the exemplar shrieked while the guild lord pinned her in place on the ground before the cell.

  The knights who’d stood at the doorway in arrogant complacence came alive and burst into the dungeon. Gryl, using his blood to grease his passage, slid across the floor and grabbed the dagger the Exemplar had forced from his hand. He clasped trembling fingers about its hilt and batted the woman’s flailing arm aside. As quick as he could, he slit the leather clasps on the side of her breastplate and rolled away.

  “Lift her,” he shouted.

  Jacquial did as ordered, not questioning his intentions. She ignored the woman’s screams and yanked the knight to her feet by her shattered shoulder. Her blade clattered to the floor. The Exemplar’s cuirass fell away as she was pulled upward, exposing the charred cavity of her torso, scored and blackened by the magic of the scars Gryl had slipped beneath her armor. Fire burned in the well of her chest.

  The flames, not beholden to the laws of nature, erupted outward as soon as the steel carapace holding it in place was removed, a geyser of fiery energy spewing forth. The knights at the front of the charge caught the burst head on. They were dead before they could even scream. Like candles tossed in a campfire, the men withered and melted, flesh running in steaming rivulets, spreading their remnants over the floor. The tabards of those behind them caught fire, driving the knights back, the men struggling to keep the flames from spreading and taking hold.

  Jacquial shoved the scorched remains of the Exemplar after them once they’d retreated, the fire gnawing at her insides and lapping at the floor where she fell.

  “Not to sound ungrateful, but you didn’t happen to grab the keys off the guard before you set the place alight, did you?” the lord asked.

  Gryl glanced to the doorway and groaned at seeing the waxen outline of what had been the sentry guarding the cell. “I… did not.” The only entrance to the cellar engulfed in supernatural fire that would burn for days before exhausting itself, he turned to Jacquial and let out a weary sigh. “I meant to rescue you, if that counts for anything.”

  “Definitely the thought that counts,” she answered, offering up a weak chuckle. “Still, all said and done, I’d be far more grateful if you actually pulled it off, you know. I’m needy like that.”

  The heat prickled Gryl’s skin, smoke stinging his throat, as he looked for another way out. His gaze fell on the Exemplar’s breastplate, his mind churning as to how he could use it.

  “The sword!” He spun and pointed at the thin white blade laying inside Jacquial’s cell. “Pass it to me.”

  She scrambled over and grabbed the weapon, handing it to Gryl through the bars. Flames snapping at his back, he ran a hand across the same sigil the knight had when she’d cleaved through his blade and willed it to life. It replied without hesitation, the sword quivering in his grasp.

  “Stand back,” he said, barely waiting for Jacquial to comply before he struck the bars of her cell. The sword cut through the iron as if it were parchment. Gryl swallowed his thrill at seeing the severed bar and struck again and again and again, cutting a hole in the cell door. He squeezed through to join the lord inside, doing his best to ignore the sharp edges that scraped skin from his wounded body.

  “Uh, the idea was for us to escape, not to imprison yourself alongside me.”

  Gryl chuckled and gestured toward the narrow windows set high on the back wall. The bars gleamed in the moonlight. “I found the key but I think it best you turn the lock. I’m a bit winded.” He handed her the blade, still vibrating in his palm.

  Jacquial grinned. “Forgot about those.”

  She snatched the sword and went to work. Once she’d rid the window of its bars, Jacquial climbed through and helped Gryl to follow, pulling him through the slim opening. They crept across the moist grass, staying low to avoid the blackened roil of smoke spilling from the dungeon, the prodigy clutching to her to keep from falling over.

  Jacquial stopped after a moment and stared at the red-orange tongues licking at the cell they’d just abandoned. “What is it with you and fire?”

  “Not everyone had toys to play with, you know.” He chuckled and nudged her toward the wall. “This way. We’ve a slaver to collect.”

  Jacquial nodded and handed him the runesworn's blade. “Here. You may need this.”

  He took it, gazing at the flickering metal. "I think I know just where to put this."

  "I thought you might." A flicker of a smile broke through the soot smeared across her lips.

  They set off over the wall as Mallister's manse burned behind them, lighting their way.

  GROUND ZERO

  An Alpha Unit Story

  Kirsten Cross

  “MIND THE GAP! MIND THE GAP!”

  The perfectly enunciated voice boomed through the station. Authoritative, masculine, and tinged with a fat dollop of ‘don’t fuck with me’ undertones, it had cowed an entire generation of commuters into compliance. You could practically hear it pronounce the exclamation marks. But it was almost drowned out b
y the teeth-clenching squealing of brakes and the pulse of stale air that always announced the arrival of a tube train at Highgate station. Waiting commuters got shotblasted by a cloud of dust and grit as the train burst out of a pitch-black tunnel and into the fluorescent glare of Platform Two. It sounded like a king-sized tin of thundery whoop-ass had been given a damn good shake and then opened in a confined space, accompanied by all the screaming, tormented souls of Hell.

  The train squawked to a halt with all the grace of a car in a crusher, as metal wheels with metal brakes made contact on metal rails. It even threw up a few sparks for effect. Doors hissed open and a high-pitched bleep ticked down the seconds before exiting or entering the carriage would become much more of a challenge than it already was. A surge of humanity broke onto the shoreline of the carriage like well-dressed flotsam and flowed into the garishly bright interior, where the fittest and fastest plonked their arses into still-warm seats.

  Alpha Unit moved with the flow of the mob, guiding a couple of stubborn civvies out of the way through the careful application of subtle but painful pressure to various points on the body, carefully disguised under the cover of a crowd crush. Each team member knew exactly where they needed to be. They’d planned this dekko just as meticulously as if it were a live-rounds assault. This particular theatre, though, was packed full of non-combatants. And that was always a problem.

  Subtlety was the name of the game today. Black ops didn’t always have to be flash-bang-wallop, gun-toting mayhem. Sometimes, it could be a sneaky-peaky before things got up close and personal with the organophosphor rounds later on. It’s all very well kicking in metaphorical doors, but Alpha Team knew it helped to know which damn doors to kick before you started lacing up your boots.

  They had basic kit with them, stowed in the large holdall Gary Parks carried. They hadn’t really come for a fight, but it paid to have at least a little bit of kit with you, just in case. They’d come to find out just how bad the Highgate infestation had become, and how much of a threat this particular nest of Taints were to the local food source. Or ‘Northern Line commuters’, as the poor, unfortunate bastards were known.

  The four-man team positioned themselves strategically throughout the carriage. Gary Parks, in a very real sense of the word, ‘occupied’ the space next to the far exit. He entertained himself for a few seconds by staring intensely at a scrawny little skinhead sporting a piss-poor home-made ‘White Power’ tattoo. The skinhead, now nose-to-nose with a huge black man encroaching on his ‘personal space’, suddenly looked like he felt very alone in the world.

  Yolanda Jaeger propped herself in a corner by the central doors. From here she could see both Gary Parks and the other end of the carriage, occupied by Colby Flynn and the interminable Micky Cox – master of electronics and generalised mayhem. The Unit’s former SAS and REME make-it-happen guy was currently staring at a smartphone like a good little commuter.

  Three of the team blended in relatively seamlessly with the surrounding hoi polloi. Gary Parks, however, looked like a rhino gatecrashing a tea party.

  “For chrissake, Gary, try to look a bit more commuter-y, will you?” Yolanda hissed into a Bluetooth device. The smartphone revolution meant appearing to talk to yourself was now part of digital life, making it almost impossible to tell the nutjobs from a crack team of SF soldiers on a dekko. Of course, there were those who claimed the two were not mutually exclusive.

  Gary responded to Yolanda’s comment, avoiding any obvious eye contact as per oppo protocol. “As opposed to what, exactly, boss?”

  “As opposed to a bag of footballs in a suit. Damn it man, I can see the outline of your Glock from here – and no, Micky, before you chip in your five-pennyworth, that is not a euphemism! Seriously, Gary, didn’t the QM have anything that actually fitted you?”

  Colby Flynn's voice crackled over the comms. “Yol, c'mon, cut him some slack. His tailor sure as hell can’t.”

  “Fuck off.” Gary frowned at the skinhead, who assumed the comment was meant for him and did everything he possibly could to comply.

  Colby grinned and notched it up a turn. “Seriously. The poor guy’s a medical freak. He gets his underpants from Marquees-R-Us, you know.”

  Gary’s frown turned into a full-power scowl. “Come down here and say that to my kneecaps, puny little man.” He forgot ops protocol for a second and glowered up the carriage towards the definitely-not-puny Colby Flynn.

  Flynn simply grinned back and flipped Gary the finger. “Hulk smash!”

  “Fuck… off!”

  Yolanda stopped the banter in its tracks. “Gentlemen, cease and desist, please. Gary, quit intimidating the racist, would you? There’s a good chap. Flynn, eyes on, you reprobate, and stop tormenting the giant man in the bad suit. Micky, are we ready?”

  “Ready, boss. I’m plugged into the train’s electronic control system. I’ve by-passed the safety protocols and remotely disengaged the Dead Man’s Handle. Should be pretty straightforward to interrupt the power.”

  “I’m so very, very proud of you, you clever boy. A simple ‘yes boss’ would have sufficed. Just kill the damn power on my mark.” Yolanda pressed closer to the door to try and cancel out the reflection of the carriage interior. She peered out into the darkness as it blurred past the windows. “Three, two, one, mark!”

  Micky stabbed at his smartphone and the tube train squealed, slowed, and finally juddered to a halt. A few seconds later a nasally voice mumbled over the tannoy. “Good morning ladies and gentlemen, this is your driver speaking. We seem to have suffered some kind of electrical malfunction. No need to worry, we should have you moving again in a few minutes. Thank you.” A rousing chorus of very British tutting clicked through the carriage in response.

  Yolanda checked the carriage and then spoke into the Bluetooth again. “Now the lights if you would, please, Mick.”

  Micky stabbed at the smartphone again, and frowned. The carriage lights stayed resolutely on. Yolanda turned and raised an eyebrow in Micky’s direction. “In your own time, Mister Cox.”

  “Trying, boss. Let me rotate the frequency, see if I can hit the sweet spot.”

  “Micky, I genuinely don’t care what you rotate, just get those bloody lights turned out.”

  The lights flickered and then went out, and the only illumination in the carriage came from dozens of smartphone screens. London’s hardy commuters again clicked and tutted their annoyance like a pod of angry dolphins. In between signal dropouts they relentlessly carried on tweeting, texting and facetiming, unaware they were witnesses to a black op happening right in front of their noses.

  “Anything?” Yolanda ignored the winter-wonderland twinkle of smartphone backlights and stared out into the gloom. The tunnel was much wider here, with columns, arches and walkways intersecting the various lines. This was a major junction, and they were also very close to the old abandoned Highgate tunnels.

  Perfect Taint territory.

  “We’ve got movement.” Gary’s deep voice came through the comms. “Yep, they’re out there all right. They’re taking the bait. Cheeky little fuckers, too. Didn’t expect ‘em to be this close.”

  “Flynn?”

  “Nothing this end… wait, nope, scratch that. We’ve got action here too, Yol. And they’re moving in.”

  “Wait out. Remember this is recon only. We are not to engage, repeat, not to engage unless absolutely necessary.”

  Micky Cox’s voice chimed in. “And by absolutely necessary, boss, you mean…”

  “If they clamber on board and start eating commuters, what the bloody hell do you think I mean, Mick?”

  “Judging by the amount of eyeshine out there, that’s a deffo probable in the very near future, Yol. Twelve o’clock. I count at least five, possibly six.” All the earlier brevity had evaporated from Colby’s gravely voice, replaced by a much more serious tone.

  “A minimum of six her
e too, boss.” Gary glared out into the darkness.

  Yolanda cursed. “Oh, bollocks! I bloody knew this was gonna go sideways. Wait out.” She slid her right hand slowly back underneath her jacket, and her fingers curled around the butt of the adapted Glock. The object of this operation was to assess a possible nest and see just how close they were willing to get to the trains as they passed through the tunnel. Okay, it meant using a train full of commuters as bait, but it was a necessary part of the operation.

  And now it looked like they had their answer.

  Bloody close.

  A scrabbling outside the doors made Yolanda tighten her grip on the Glock and flip the safety catch to ‘off’.

  Okay. Make that too fucking close.

  A swarm of hungry and emboldened Taints were now just inches away from the commuters, separated from ‘lunch’ by nothing but a flimsy metal door. The genetically enhanced vampires with a less-than sunny disposition and a voracious appetite were single-minded, relentless and fearless. Their exceptional strength and speed meant the doors on a thirty-year-old tube train would pose no problem for their venom-tipped fingers. If one of them got purchase on a gap and put their shoulder into it, they could have the doors open in a heartbeat.

  So effectively, all that stood between biblical carnage and a tube full of commuters was a thin metal shell, four Special Ops soldiers with a very limited supply of ammo, and the good will of the Northern Line gods.

  Yolanda prepared to repel borders by shooting an organophosphor round into the face of the first bastard that came through the door. That would definitely catch the commuters’ attention, and would instantly turn what was supposed to be a low-key surveillance operation into a Twitterverse ‘trending’ topic. And that would not please the Colonel. It pretty much defeated the whole ‘black ops’ ethos if the damn thing immediately got its own hashtag and went viral.

  Further up the carriage, Flynn had eyes-on with a Taint of his own. The drooling, snarling mutant was worrying away at the outside of the carriage. The scrabbling of talon against metal caught the attention of a young woman and she looked up from her smartphone. Colby gave her a friendly smile and nodded towards the door. “Rats.”