by Rachel Aukes
“If we brought William into the silo, the signal would’ve been cut off. This way, they’ll assume the silo is here.”
Joe exhaled. “Good. Everyone should still be safe in the silo.”
A flicker of emotion flashed over Val’s face. “Almost everyone’s in the silo. You should know, I moved the Swintons to the old ruin where I put you with that murc.”
He frowned. “Why’d you do that?”
“They’re safer there,” she said.
“Safer than in the silo?” he asked. When she didn’t explain, he prodded, “What’s happened to Sara and the kids, Val?”
“They ran into a little trouble in the silo, but it’s nothing to worry about. Not now.”
His eyes narrowed.
“Trust me. They’re safe, and nothing’s going to happen to them. You have my word.”
“That’s not good enough, Val. What happened?” he asked coldly.
“The kids set off the wrong man—one with a violent temper. I don’t trust him, so I thought it best to have the Swintons stay in a separate place for now.”
“If he’s violent, why is he even in the silo? Kick him out, not Sara and the kids.”
“I would if I could, but there’d be problems if I pushed him out. There’s politics involved in dealing with refugees,” she said.
His scowl didn’t fade, but he understood how, whenever people lived in close quarters, tempers could boil. He’d lived his first seven years in a silo. Most of the silo’s residents were escapees from Sloan’s farm; he understood why the Swintons were considered outsiders. He sighed. “Just make sure they stay safe.”
“I will, I promise,” she said.
He nodded, then did a three-sixty to take in their surroundings. “This is a good place for an ambush. We can set up a good plan here.”
Val shook her head. “Not ‘we.’ You have to go back to the farm and make sure Sloan thinks the silo is here and not at its real location.”
“If I’m the only survivor, especially being the new guy, they’re going to suspect something’s up. It’d be better that Marco Polo dies today with the rest of his squad.”
“But I need you to lead them here. And we still need proof of Sloan’s plans to show the people.”
His stomach churned at the prospect of returning to the farm.
“They won’t suspect you if you return injured,” she suggested.
He shot her a dark look and rubbed his temples.
“I can give you something minor, but still make it look convincing.”
He gave in with a groan. “All right. But try not to make it too painful.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Val made it painful.
She’d shot Joe not once, but twice. Both were grazes—one in his side, one in his thigh—but the burns hurt something fierce. Murc body armor was crap and did nothing to block laser fire. Evidently, she believed one graze wound would be suspect, while two would be seen as lucky. He wasn’t sure he agreed since, right then, gnawing pain bit at him with every breath and every bump in the road.
He hurried to the farm, as much for painkillers as for reacting like how a single, scared murc would after losing his entire squad and nearly being killed. When he reached the gate, the guards waved the transport through without even checking for passengers. The security hadn’t improved—he could’ve easily stuffed fifty of Val’s rebels into the back, and they could’ve taken over the farm in a single attack.
But the MRC would respond to an attack like that in kind. Val was right—the only way to stop Sloan, to really stop Sloan, was to expose him. Killing him wasn’t enough, though Joe planned to make sure Roderick Sloan drew his last breath before the week was over. Some folks just needed to die, plain and simple.
Joe parked the transport near the barracks, since he hadn’t seen a medical facility on the farm, and limped to the building, gritting his teeth and holding a hand over his side.
He was barely inside before Tote ran over. “Marco! What happened to you?”
“Ran into some trouble outside of Clearwater.”
Tote waved at another trooper as he helped Joe to a bench. “Medic!”
Joe stretched out on the hard surface. The trooper Tote had summoned rushed over, carrying a red medical kit. Tote and the newcomer opened Joe’s shirt and cut open his pants.
Tote whistled. “You have a lot of scars, buddy.”
Joe looked down. Val had shot the same thigh that had been skewered two months earlier. His most recent scar was still red, while older, faded white scars littered his leg and stomach. “Comes with the job.”
“I don’t know any murcs who are scarred up like that.”
Joe had been thinking of his real job, not the one he was currently performing. He gave a small shrug. “I’m just unlucky, I guess.”
“I’d say,” Tote said.
“You got lucky this time,” the medic said as she carefully placed bio-wraps on both burns. The drugs in the fabric immediately soothed his burns and eased his pain. “If either of one these shots were an inch farther in, you’d be crippled or dead.”
“What about Mutt and the rest of the squad?” Tote asked.
Joe winced. “They didn’t get out.”
Tote’s face fell, then a glower formed. “We’ll show those gangs what we do to people who hurt murcs.”
Joe noticed then that Tote was in full gear, as was everyone else in the barracks. “What’s going on?”
“We have a mission today—Boris is filling us in on details in the courtyard in fifteen minutes.”
“Speak of the devil,” the medic said and straightened.
Joe followed her gaze to see the murc captain walking toward him, a displeased look on his face. He stopped, casting a shadow over Joe.
“Where’s the rest of your squad, Marco?” Boris asked.
Joe struggled to sit up. “All dead, Captain. They hit us at the silo. They must’ve seen us coming.”
“And the prisoner?”
“They took him into the silo.”
“And how did you make it out of there?”
Joe gulped. “After my squad was taken out, I ran, Captain.”
Boris sneered. “Coward.” He spat before motioning. “Come with me. Administrator Sloan wants an update.”
Joe pushed himself into a standing position with a grunt.
“Babies handle worse burns than that better than you. Take a painkiller. You’ll be fine,” Boris said, and walked away.
Joe limped to catch up.
“Hold up, Marco,” the medic said. She showed him a syringe. “This’ll fix you right up.” She stuck the needle in his neck.
“Ow.”
“Baby,” she said, and gave him a flirty wink.
Prickles of numbness flitted through his body, bringing a sensation of weightlessness. The burning throb from his injuries melted away, and he broke into a jog to catch up with Boris, who was already halfway across the courtyard. When Joe caught up, the captain continued his brisk pace, not even glancing in Joe’s direction.
They left the courtyard and walked up the steps to the mansion. Two guards at the front entrance opened the doors, and Boris strode inside without slowing. Joe followed the captain through a foyer and past a staircase on their left that led upstairs. Boris went to the right, knocking on the first door.
“Enter,” Sloan’s voice came from the other side, and the pair stepped into the office.
Joe knew it was an office before they entered. In fact, he knew every room on the ground floor and the layout of the second floor. He’d been there once already, on the night he’d intended to kill Roderick Sloan. Instead, he’d found Romy in the office and been forced to choose between freeing as many slaves as he and Val could or assassinating a despot. They’d made the right choice, but Joe kicked himself for not accomplishing both.
Sloan’s desk was a monstrosity of metals, wood, and composite. The desktop was cluttered with papers, tablets, and a bowl full of trinkets—different
colors, time periods, and styles. The entire office was decorated in the same ornate style, with knickknacks filling every inch of open space as though Sloan had populated it with anything that struck his fancy.
Sloan leaned back and steepled his fingers. He wore a foppish suit made of iridescent red fabric and puffy sleeves. One thing was for sure: Sloan had no recognizable sense of style when it came to either décor or clothing.
Boris spoke first. “Here’s the only trooper who survived this morning’s mission.”
Sloan gave the captain a single nod. “How fortunate that we have a survivor.” He turned to Joe. “Tell me exactly what happened out there this morning, trooper.”
Joe stood before the administrator. He recited the story he’d practiced on the drive back to the farm. “The prisoner led us to the silo. He got lost once, almost twice, and we were beginning to think he was screwing with us, but then he finally took us to the right place. When we arrived, we searched the area for an entrance. We found it and were leaving to report back when we were attacked.” He swallowed and tried to convey a bothered expression at the thought of losing comrades.
“Continue,” Sloan said.
“They hit us from both sides. We fired back and tried to retreat, but they gunned us down. I managed to hide behind a boulder, but no one else made it to cover in time.”
“I see. I assume the prisoner was killed in the exchange as well?” Sloan asked.
Joe shook his head. “Mutt—I mean, the squad leader—tried to kill the prisoner to keep him out of the enemy’s hands, but someone grabbed him and pulled him into the silo. No one could get a clear shot to finish him off.”
Sloan waved it off. “Doesn’t matter. We’ll get him one way or another.”
The administrator studied Joe for an uncomfortably long time. Joe was careful not to make direct eye contact, keeping his gaze downward on the desk. He stared at the bowl of trinkets, and a pendant caught his eye. It was a bird.
“See something you like, trooper?”
Joe blinked. “Sorry, Mr. Sloan. It’s just that I’ve never seen so many expensive things in my life. It’s incredible.”
Sloan waved a hand broadly, feigning modesty, but his features revealed the opposite. “This? These are just a few baubles I’ve collected over the years. Someday, I’ll have the finest collection in all the world.”
“That would be a majestic collection, sir. Something deserving of a king,” Joe said.
Sloan scowled. “A king? Bah. Those who spend all their time leading have no time to enjoy their treasures. And what good is a treasure if it can’t be enjoyed?”
Sloan’s statement forced Joe to reconsider what the administrator was up to. If he wasn’t out to take over the Midlands, then what was he after? It couldn’t just be some kind of get-rich-quick scheme, surely? The man was already wealthy—he certainly didn’t need more wealth. Then again, Joe had seen time and again that greed could drive an insatiable hunger. Sloan was clearly a greedy man—his pride in his collection was proof enough of that. Joe decided that he had been right in calling Sloan a king. Only, instead of a king or conqueror over a massive territory like Genghis Khan, he was striving to become massively wealthy, like King Midas.
Sloan dismissed Joe and turned back to a tablet on his desk. “That will be all, trooper. Get back to your squad. Well, get back to a squad. We move out against the silo within the hour.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
It was three days before Kit could walk ten feet without fainting.
“You, my friend, are a delicate flower,” Rex said.
“And you’re an asshole,” Kit ground out as he strapped gingerly into the passenger seat of Rex’s cutter. His left side, from hip to shoulder, throbbed with pain. His head injury gave him a constant migraine, though Rex’s personality might’ve played a hand in that special gift. He couldn’t see Rex’s face behind the helmet, but assumed the man bore his usual crooked smile that resembled a snarl more than a grin.
If only he’d been wearing his exoshield when the mountain collapsed. He’d have walked out of there with a few bruises, like Joe. Instead, he’d very nearly died. He peered down at the sword, safely stored in its black sheath. It was worth the pain to have his sword back. He’d also planned to get his exoshield back, but that vindictive Cat had shredded it. He didn’t like her, but he respected her. It was exactly the sort of thing he would’ve done.
“There you go, making googly eyes at your sword again.”
“Lay off me,” Kit said.
“I’ve been laying off you all week. Now that you’ve gotten your beauty rest, you should be a little nicer to me, princess.”
Kit cocked him a sideways look. “Why are you so sarcastic all the time?”
Rex continued looking forward as he drove. “Because sarcasm keeps me from telling you what I really think of you.”
Kit muttered a response under his breath and closed his eyes. He spent the rest of the drive sleeping and feigning sleep.
He woke to Rex pinching him. “Ow. Stop that.” He swatted the hand away.
“You were snoring.”
“I don’t snore,” Kit said.
“Whatever you say, sugar. I thought you’d want to be awake when we get there,” Rex said, and pointed.
Kit rubbed his eyes and looked through the windshield to see that Rex had parked near a silo entrance. He reached into his pocket—grunting at the stiffness in his side—and pulled out a bottle of pills.
“You’re going to run out of those in just a few days if you keep popping them like that.”
“Thanks, doc,” Kit said, and swallowed a white pill. Between the bio-wraps, painkiller shots, and adrenaline pills, he was able to move. Take any one of those away, and he’d be flat on his back again. Val had said the silo was stocked, and he was counting on replenishing his supply while there. He figured a few pills and a couple of syringes wouldn’t be missed from a supply room currently supporting a fraction of the silo’s capacity.
Rex stepped out of the cutter first. Kit winced as he swung himself out, but that first step was a doozy; he winced again when his boots connected with the hard ground. He strapped the sword carefully on his back, grabbed a blaster, and walked up to the entrance alongside Rex. He felt—and probably looked—like a decrepit, hundred-year-old man.
The silo entrance was a small, nondescript shed in the middle of nowhere. While it was possible the silo had been forgotten after the fallout, he found it surprising no raiders had come across it. The entrance was visible to anyone who happened to wander into that particular valley, and enough people, let alone drones, roamed the surface in search of anything that could put food on the table for another day.
Rex tried the heavy steel door. “Locked.”
Kit tapped the screen near the door. It lit up, but no one responded. He assumed the inhabitants had chosen silence over announcing the silo was occupied. He took a step closer to the panel and spoke. “Tell the sheriff her deputy’s here to see her.”
“You have to be kidding me. Deputy?” Rex asked.
“Inside joke,” Kit replied.
“More like a corny pickup line.”
The door opened. Kit raised his brows at Rex, and the pair entered together.
When the door closed behind them, they found themselves in a small foyer, empty except for a single, open elevator. They stepped into it, and the door closed.
As they descended, Kit shivered. “I hate silos.”
“Yeah, I’m not a big fan of them myself,” Rex said. “Say the code word and we’re out of here.”
“What's the code word?” Kit asked.
Rex was silent for a moment. “Rex is a god among men.”
“That’s a phrase, not a word.”
“So?”
“There is no way I’ll ever say that,” Kit said.
Rex shrugged. “We’ll see.”
The elevator stopped, and the door opened.
Any uneasiness Kit felt faded the instant he saw S
heriff Val Vane in front of him.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Every night while the children slept, Sara Swinton slipped out in search of hiding places and escape routes. She also used the time to think. She had so many unanswered questions that brought on headaches. Questions like: who could look after the kids if something happened to her, or how could they get back together if they were split up? As long as a Sloan still walked the Earth, she and her children were in danger.
Gabriel Sloan had been the first to identify her as Joe’s weakness. Her husband, Nick had been Joe’s best friend—they’d been closer than best friends, really—so when Nick was killed during the Shiprock Riots, Joe didn’t hesitate to step in and make sure Sara always had enough. They’d become fast friends, and she worried terribly about Joe’s wellbeing. Gabriel Sloan had nearly killed him; she couldn’t handle it if Roderick Sloan did the same, or worse.
Champ barked and Sara froze, instantly yanked back to reality. No one came to visit at night. She sprinted back to the shack. Champ was a great alarm system, but not a reliable protector. As she neared the stone building, she saw a vehicle’s lights slicing through the black. She unslung the blaster she always carried over her shoulder and darted into the shack, where the kids were awake. In the dim light of the lantern, she could make out Nick peering through his peephole and Romy holding Champ to keep her from barking.
They both turned to Sara as soon as she entered.
Sara held a finger over her lips, then motioned for them to follow. They came without hesitation. She led them out the door and along the wall. When they reached the corner, she whispered, “Run to the secret hiding place you found, and keep Champ quiet, no matter what.”
She didn’t wait, and began moving back toward the other side of the shack to confront the trespasser.
“Mom,” Nick whispered.
She glanced over her shoulder.
“Be careful.”
She shot him a wink, then turned back. When she reached the edge, she flattened herself against the stone and peeked around the corner to find the cutter had parked. With its lights still on, she couldn’t tell if it was a vehicle she recognized or not, so she aimed her blaster at the driver’s side and waited.
