by Thomas Locke
Vance and Nicolette showed this trust now, replying in turn, giving the general everything except the one item that made all the difference. Logan’s secret.
The general rose from her chair and walked to the window. She listened to them with her back to the room. When they finished, she remained where she was. “I suppose there are special requests.”
“Only three, General,” Nicolette said. “First, no one outside this room is to know of our operation.”
The commandant sputtered, “You can’t possibly suggest there are spies—”
“The subaltern is wise beyond her years,” Brodwyn said. “Next?”
“We need a space-going vessel assigned to us for the entire period.”
“Fighter?”
“No, General. Transport.”
Gerrod said, “No bombers? No backup troops? This is worse than absurd. It is suicidal.”
The general spoke to the sunset. “And third?”
Logan was the one to reply. “General, I respectfully request that your aide, Adjutant Gerrod, serve as observer.”
“Interesting. Explain.”
“He expects us to fail. If we can convince him, we have an ally at the highest ranks of our military. And something more. You trust him with your secrets. We can therefore do the same.”
The general began rocking back and forth, heel to toe. “There are elements to your plan that you are not sharing with me?”
Logan did not respond.
“I see.” The hands clasped behind her back pointed at Vance and Nicolette. “So the two of you have no problems taking orders from . . .”
“The son of a licensed slave, the child of a scullery maid,” Vance finished for her. “My dear brother the earl would be appalled at such a breach of etiquette. But that has nothing to do with our situation.”
“No?”
“General, Logan happens to be the finest warrior I have ever known.”
Nicolette added, “And we will not fail.”
5
Sean had not gone hunting in almost a year. The breakup and resulting upheaval had restricted a lot of his abilities. The same had happened to his brother. He and Dillon had not managed to communicate at thought level for over nine months. But there was nothing to be gained by worrying. Either he could manage this or he couldn’t. Sean’s hope was that the life-or-death situation Landon probably faced would be enough to punch Sean through his emotional barriers.
He shielded himself, then compressed his awareness into the core point just below his navel. He took a hard breath. Then he extended.
The separation carried the familiar instant of near-death terror, then he was out.
Hunting.
The bodiless pursuit had never come naturally to Sean. Watchers learned this as a vital component of their duties. Dillon was the first ever to have come up with this while still an initiate. Even so, Dillon’s current emotional crisis had cost him this ability as well. Another issue they did not discuss.
Sean turned his attention to the room below where his body lay and instantly sank through the bedroom floor.
The living room was filled with dense anxiety, an acrid stench Sean could almost smell with nostrils he no longer possessed. The only people seated now were the senator and the geek handling the tracking equipment. The senator’s wife stood by the empty fireplace, twisting a linen handkerchief in her hands. A man in a sweat-stained shirt held up a small whiteboard to the senator, who said into the phone, “We need a proof of life.”
The response played through speakers attached to the NSA geek’s laptop. The voice was coppery from some kind of electronic disguise. “No questions, no deals, no cops.”
The geek held up a whiteboard of his own that read, 50 seconds.
The man standing near the senator had a gold badge and gun clipped to his belt. He used his stained sleeve to clear his board and scribble again. The senator read out loud, “We understand your request. We acknowledge—”
“Twenty million dollars. Have it ready by five. Any later, the kid loses a finger. Any radio tags or dye packets in the cash, the kid loses a hand. We even smell the cops, the kid comes back in pieces.” The connection clicked off.
The geek peeled off his headphones and said, “Nothing. I got as far as a cutout in Vancouver.”
One of the cops muttered, “None of this makes sense. Why go after a senator’s nephew?”
“He’s got a point,” another said. “All this planning, why not a billionaire’s son?”
“Because it’s not about the money,” the agent with the whiteboard said. He stepped to one side so the senator’s wife could join her husband on the sofa. “The money is a test.”
“That’s good,” the senator said. “Because we don’t have twenty million dollars. Not even close.”
Sean could hear every conversation in the room. Including that of the pair of grey-suited agents tucked just beyond the open door leading to the kitchen. He heard one of them mutter softly, “The senator doesn’t have a clue.”
The other said, “We need to alert the director.”
“I already made the call. The director’s on his way back from Utah. He’s three and a half hours out. We’re ordered to wait for his arrival.”
“Three hours is too long,” the first said. “You know what the next step is. Body parts.”
His companion did not respond.
“You’re CIA. This is your call. Call the attorney general or the chief of homeland. Somebody with the chops to prep the senator and his wife.” He moved in closer and hissed, “The instant the kidnappers make a demand other than money, this becomes a threat to national security. The director won’t be in charge anymore. This will be kicked up to a whole new level. You’re just anticipating the inevitable.”
“I don’t know,” the second man fretted.
“You want the senator and his wife to get the first delivery without any warning?” He jabbed the other man in the chest. “Make the call.”
Sean knew he had stayed too long, but the next step frightened him. Even so, he knew there was nothing more to be gained here. He turned and took aim as best he could, naming his destination with all the intent of a man carving stone.
Tracking the call.
One moment Sean was in a Georgetown parlor. The next, he hovered in the front yard of a derelict farmhouse. Two of the four front windows had cardboard taped over broken glass. Grey flakes of old paint littered the weed-strewn yard. Far in the distance, beyond a strand of stumpy pine, trucks rumbled along a two-lane highway. Directly in front of him stood a man and a woman. The man was dressed in what Sean instantly classed as terrorist chic. Black knit mock turtleneck and black gabardines tucked into black lace-up boots. The black canvas belt held four holsters for his Taser, phone, knife, and gun. Black wraparound shades. Olive skin and thick black hair swept straight back. Tall, slender, aloof, dangerous.
The kidnapper unplugged his cell phone from a tablet the woman held. Her appearance was the exact opposite of the man’s—short, dumpy, multiple piercings, faded T-shirt, hiking sandals, orange socks, rust-colored hair cropped so short Sean could see her scalp.
She wound up the cable and stowed it in the pocket of her rumpled jeans. “We good?”
The kidnapper had a slight accent, but Sean could not place it. “You are certain my voice was not recognizable?”
“See for yourself.” She swiveled the tablet around. “The synthesizer worked perfectly. And the call was routed all over the globe.”
He continued to watch the distant traffic. “Go tell Bennie to prepare the first item.”
“Bennie can get squeamish over stuff like this.” She was already moving for the house. “I’ll make the cut myself.”
As soon as Sean opened his eyes, Carey spotted his alarm. “What’s the matter?”
He swung his feet to the floor and sat up. The world spun so violently he thought he was going to be sick.
“Sean, what’s—”
“No time.” He
stood too fast, sank back onto the bed, and groaned against the roller coaster behind his eyes.
John gripped his arm. “Can you walk?”
Walking was not the problem. Sean asked the professor, “Will you come with me?”
“Of course.”
Sean used John’s hand as support to stand and stay standing. “Step forward on three. One, two . . .”
Normally Sean needed a half hour or so to fully recover from a hunt. During those thirty minutes, he felt slightly disjointed, like he was still not knitted back together. He had never before transited immediately after. Shifting to the senator’s backyard left him feeling awful.
Dillon, on the other hand, looked positively giddy with excitement, which was typical for him. Nothing got Dillon’s motor running like the prospect of battle. He asked Sean, “You found Landon?”
“Yes. We have to hurry. They’re going to cut Landon.”
“I’ll take it from here, John.” Dillon replaced John’s hand with his own. “Let’s move.”
Sean warned, “I’m going to hurl.”
“Not on the uniform. They’re a pain to clean. Okay, let’s go.”
Sean swallowed hard and said to John, “Stay here. I’ll bring—”
“He’s got it, Sean,” Dillon said. “Let’s go.”
6
They arrived at the exact same point Sean had been before. Same pale washed-out sky, same weedy yard, same old house. Only this time, no kidnappers were standing in the front yard.
Sean bent over and was sick. He held his position, hands gripping his thighs, until the world stopped spinning. When he was finally able to lift his head, Dillon was already approaching the house.
Sean tried to catch up on unsteady legs but tripped over a clump of weeds and fell flat on his face. He watched from the prone position as his brother kicked in the front door.
Sean Kirrel. The last guy you want watching your back in a fight.
He staggered up the stairs and entered a tightly enclosed battlefield. The dark-suited kidnapper stood in a doorway opposite the house’s front entrance. He shouted as he fired. Dillon’s shield shimmered like water being struck by a fistful of rocks, but it held. Even so, the bullets’ impact smashed Dillon back into the corner. His shield was coated with dust and plaster from shots that had gone wide. It was like Sean stared at a filthy grey ball.
Dillon yelled, “Find him!”
It was only when the kidnapper turned his way that Sean realized he had forgotten to shield himself.
The kidnapper’s movements were smooth as falling liquid, a shift of his entire body, the two-handed grip flowing around until Sean stared straight into the barrel big as a cave, big as approaching death.
The only thing that saved him was the firing pin clicking on an empty chamber. The kidnapper cursed and slipped through the rear doorway.
The flash of near death erased Sean’s nausea and dizziness, completely replacing them with an adrenaline rush. Which was a good thing, because the woman Sean had last seen in the front yard popped through the doorway. She held a short-barrel shotgun at waist level.
Sean had not practiced any attack methods since his early days, but it was good to know he had not forgotten his lessons. He connected with the energy core, shielded himself, then extended his arms. The woman saw his empty hands and must have assumed he was trying to surrender, because she smiled as she pulled the trigger.
Sean saw the blast of fire and heard the roar. Then he was knocked backward so hard he shot back through the doorway behind him and landed in the front yard. Again.
It was only when he leapt to his feet that he realized he had managed to get off a blast of his own.
His view through the front door was out the back of the house, through several walls that no longer existed.
“Sean!”
“Yeah!”
“You okay?”
“Totally.” He climbed the front stairs and saw that his own attack had formed a trio of near-perfect circles. The door leading to the back room was gone. And most of the bathroom. Two waterspouts decorated the view of the backyard and the forest beyond. Just as Sean spotted the woman sprawled in the weeds, the lead kidnapper sprang through what was left of the door and took aim. Sean responded like he’d taken down armed bandits all his life. A mental flick of power, and the guy did a trapeze act out through yet another hole in the rear wall. Only with no net to stop his fall.
A third man spun through the wreckage, grimacing through a mask of dust and debris. Sean reinforced his shield and gripped what remained of the doorjamb.
Dillon said, “I got this.”
The third kidnapper managed to get off one shot before Dillon lifted him ten inches off the floor and compressed him. The guy struggled like he was being fit into an invisible straitjacket. The arm holding the gun was smashed into his side. His legs kicked wildly, then made no motion at all. Dillon kept compressing the guy until he emitted tight little keening noises.
Dillon walked over, lowered him, picked up a knife from the floor, and rapped the kidnapper hard in the forehead with the hilt. The guy went limp. Dillon let him fall to the ground.
Together Sean and Dillon entered the rear room to discover Landon Evans bound to a straight-backed chair with electrical tape around his chest and waist and legs. His left hand was strapped to a kitchen table. His terror mangled the words. “D-Dillon? W-what are you doing here?”
“Carey asked us to help.” Dillon checked his hand, then told Sean, “Looks like we got here in time.”
Landon leaked tears. “They were going to . . .”
“We know. But you’re safe now.” Dillon began working on the bonds. He said to Sean, “Find us some rope to tie up those dudes.”
“Don’t you have something more high-tech for that?”
“Absolutely.” Dillon freed Landon’s hand, then started on the chair. “Carbon and titanium. You got me?”
“Yes.” Such items could not be left behind when they vanished.
Sean found a thick roll of silver electrician’s tape beside what was left of the bathtub. He dried it off on his shirt, then carefully lowered himself to the ground. After he picked his way through the rubble, he used the tape to bind the kidnapper. The man coughed and tried to struggle, but his brain and limbs remained inside his barely conscious fog. Then Sean heard footsteps and wheeled about to discover the woman had risen from the weeds and was racing for the forest.
“Dillon, we’ve got a runner!”
Dillon appeared in the opening. “Okay, I got this.” He lifted the woman from the earth. Her four limbs stretched out like she was playing starfish in midair. As he drew her back to where Sean stood over the kidnapper, Dillon pulled her limbs together, wrist to wrist to ankles. She remained poised about ten inches above the ground, like she was seated on an invisible stool, waiting for Sean to truss her up. Which he did.
When Sean had applied a final strip of tape over her mouth, he turned back and asked, “What do I do with them?”
“They’ll keep right where they are.” Dillon dropped to the ground and used his force to draw out the third kidnapper and deposit him beside the others. “Get that guy’s phone.”
The lead kidnapper’s eyes could not have been any rounder and stayed inside his skull. Sean unclipped the phone from its pouch and carried it back. Dillon gave him a hand up into the house and said, “If we take Landon away from here, the kidnappers might walk free.”
“I hadn’t thought of that.”
“Me either, until now.” Dillon indicated the phone in Sean’s hand. “Call the white hats.”
Sean phoned Carey. When she answered, he said, “Landon’s safe. Pass me over to the cops.”
He listened to her stumble down the stairs, then breathlessly she asked, “He’s really okay?”
“You’ll see for yourself soon enough. Your dad still in the backyard?”
“Yes.”
“Tell him to come back inside.”
Carey stumbled through
her thanks, then passed over the phone. A voice raspy with exhaustion demanded, “Who is this?”
Sean returned Dillon’s dusty grin and replied, “Track this phone. Landon Evans is safe and waiting for your pickup. The kidnappers will keep until you show up.”
7
General Brodwyn’s force of will was so strong she held her two officers to silence, though both the commandant and her own adjutant quivered with outrage over her seriously considering Logan’s request. Logan had no idea how long they stood there, he and Nicolette and Vance still at attention before the now-empty desk. Time slowed to where each beat of his heart seemed thunderously long. His life, his future, rested in the balance. And all he could do was wait.
When she spoke, it was to the gathering twilight beyond the window. “I give you three weeks.”
Logan’s relief was so strong he could scarcely breathe. Thankfully, Nicolette answered for him. “That is not enough, General.”
“Nonetheless, it is all you shall have. I gave my friend six weeks, and now I have the blood of five hundred troops on my hands, and my friend is permanently absent.”
Her aide said, “General, I must object in the strongest possible—”
“Three weeks. Starting now. Not one instant longer. Gerrod, you are to observe. And you will do so from your office. No off-planet sorties unless I give you a direct order.” Her breath continued to fog the window. “Perhaps the shortened time span will save your company, Logan. But I doubt it.”
The commandant said, “General, this is a totally futile—”
“Commandant, are you aware that an inspectorate from the Human Assembly is arriving on Cygneus Prime?”
“I . . . What?”
“One condition for our entrance into the Assembly is, we must make every effort to protect our citizens.”
Logan had never before met the camp commandant. The closest he had come to the man had been holding the brigade’s standard on parade. But Logan knew what others thought of him. The commandant was a precise man who liked numbers more than men and planning far more than action. He was probably ideal as the leader of a training camp well removed from battle.
