by Jay Allan
His stomach clenched. He looked all around, searching for anything he could use as a weapon. He reached down and grabbed a large, thick branch, breaking off a few small spurs and creating a workable club. Then he continued slowly forward.
He could see the shadowy figures through the trees. There were at least half a dozen, possibly more. Half of them seemed to be moving away from the house, toward a large transport. He saw several climb on board and then he saw the truck begin to move, turning around and heading away from the house.
He paused at the edge of the woods, peering from behind a large tree. They were soldiers. Two that he could see. And someone else, lying on the ground facedown. He stared for a few seconds before he realized.
Alexi!
That was all it took. He lunged from the cover of the trees, charging for the nearest of the soldiers. The man heard him coming and turned to face him, but he was too slow. Jamie was on him, swinging his club with every gram of strength he could muster.
The heavy branch caught the soldier on the side of the face, and Jamie could hear the sickening crunch as it shattered the man’s jaw . . . and fractured his skull. The trooper fell hard, a muffled grunt coming from his wrecked mouth as he dropped to the ground, already unconscious before he hit. But Jamie was already focused on the other man.
That soldier had pulled his assault rifle off his back, and he was moving it to bear. Jamie rushed forward, but he knew he was too late. The fed would get off at least one shot.
His mind raced, his eyes following the movement of the rifle. He was counting to himself, trying to sync with the soldier’s movement.
Now, he thought as he ducked hard to the side, just as the sergeant opened fire, firing a burst where Jamie had been. The soldier adjusted his aim, but Jamie smashed into him before he could get off another shot.
The man fell backward from the impact, Jamie’s momentum carrying him over as well. The two landed hard on the ground and the soldier was immediately reaching over, trying to grab the weapon he’d dropped. But Jamie was on him, grabbing his arm and pulling it aside, away from the gun. Then he slammed his other fist down into the trooper’s side.
The fed grunted from the impact, but from the pain in Jamie’s hand, it was obvious the man was wearing some sort of body armor. The soldier pushed back hard, throwing Jamie off him. Before he could get up, though, Jamie tackled him, and now the two grappled on the ground. This was no boxing match. There were no rules here. This was a fight to the death, in all its horror and ugliness. The two men punched, kicked, and grabbed each other. Fingers acted as claws, teeth gnashed.
The soldier reached around to his side, trying to grab the heavy survival knife from the sheath that hung from his belt. But Jamie’s hand was there, holding the fed’s wrist, twisting sharply. Jamie gritted his teeth and pulled as hard as he could, and the soldier screamed as his wrist snapped.
Now it was Jamie’s hand moving toward the knife, using the man’s pain to give him the time he needed to pull it free and jab it toward the soldier’s side, where the flak jacket had much less protection. The sergeant rolled to his left, trying to escape the blow, so the blade just grazed him. It left a nasty cut, but spared him the gutting Jamie had intended.
Jamie scrambled after his opponent, grabbing the man and pushing him down on his back. Pinning the man down with his body weight, he brought the blade down toward the fed’s neck. The terrified soldier reached up, trying to push back Jamie’s arms. The two struggled, putting the last of their strength into the contest.
With a scream, Jamie leaned down, pushing with everything he had, staring down into the trooper’s panicked eyes as he slowly shoved the blade into the man’s neck. The federal tried to scream, but all he could do was gurgle blood. Jamie could feel the man’s strength draining away as his blood poured out of the hideous wound, and suddenly Jamie fell forward, the soldier’s arms no longer able to hold him up.
For all the violence of the slum where Jamie had grown up, and the fights and turf wars in the mine, he’d never killed before. He stared down, looking at the dead man under him, and he felt an instant of confusion, of hesitation.
I am a killer now . . .
But there was no time for introspection. He leapt up, wincing in pain from his own injuries, and he scrambled over toward Alexi. “Mr. Rand . . .” He looked down, panicked, thinking for an instant Katia’s father was dead. But then Alexi turned his head and opened his eyes.
“Jamie,” he said, his voice soft, weak. “Two more . . . in the house . . .”
Jamie hesitated for a second, and then he understood the warning. More soldiers . . . in the house.
He moved quickly, scrambling for the rifle the fed had dropped. He scooped it up, staring frantically at the trigger, the controls, trying to figure how to work the thing.
He heard something, noise from the house. He looked up just as the door swung open, and another soldier came running out. He whipped the assault rifle around, still not sure he knew how to fire it. He pressed his finger down hard, aiming for the doorway.
The kick took him by surprise, and it knocked him to the side, throwing his aim off. He struggled to pull himself back, to re-aim the gun, but then he saw. The soldier was down, lying in a pool of blood on the front porch. His first shot had been dead-on.
Two more . . .
Alexi’s words echoed in Jamie’s head. There was another soldier in the house . . . and this one couldn’t have missed the sounds of the fire.
Jamie realized he was out in the open. He dove behind a pile of cut logs, seeking cover just as a burst of fire ripped through the air where he had stood an instant earlier.
He ducked below the stack of firewood, struggling to maintain his calm. Jamie wasn’t a soldier, and this was his first experience of battle. His heart was pounding, and he could feel sweat pouring down his back. He peered over the top, looking at the house, trying to find the fed. There was nothing at first . . . then he saw the flash of movement, and he ducked back into cover just as his adversary opened fire.
He held himself ready, pushing back against the fear, listening, waiting. Then the firing stopped. He leapt up, bringing his rifle to bear on the window the soldier had shot from. He squeezed the trigger, cutting loose on full auto.
The bullets shattered the window, and decimated the wood all around it. He kept firing, moving the weapon slowly, blasting all around the target area.
He thought he heard a scream, and an instant later it was confirmed. The federal slumped forward, his still body hanging over the wrecked window. Three men. I killed three of them.
Jamie dropped the gun and ran back to Katia’s father. “Alexi, let me see . . .” He pulled at the wounded man’s shirt, moving the fabric as carefully as he could. There was a lot of blood, but he didn’t think the bullet had hit anything vital.
But I’ve got to stop this bleeding . . .
He took off his shirt, wadding it up and pressing it against the wound.
“Jamie . . .”
“Just lie back. You’re going to be okay.”
“No . . . Katia . . .” Alexi struggled, trying to sit up.
“Lie back, don’t move. You’ll just make the bleed—”
“Katia . . . soldiers . . . took . . . her . . .”
Jamie felt a coldness in his stomach. “What are you saying? The transport?” He looked around frantically, as if the vehicle might still be in sight. He looked back at Alexi. “They took her? Where?”
“Don’t know . . . back to Landfall . . . probably.” Alexi gasped for air. “Save her . . . please . . .”
Shit . . .
“Alexi, stay where you are.” He grabbed Alexi’s hand, moved it to the bunched-up shirt. “Hold this as tight as you can against the wound. Damian is coming; he will be here soon. He’ll help you.”
He jumped up, looking around, seeing one of the federals’ rifles on the ground near the first man he’d fought. He reached down and grabbed it, his eye catching the wounded soldier, lying
on his back, whimpering. His ruined face was covered with blood, and he coughed and spat, trying to clear his airways.
Jamie moved over to him, reaching down, grabbing the ammunition belt strapped over the man’s shoulder, and throwing it over his own. Then he raised his rifle, aiming it downward, pulling the trigger. He wasn’t sure if he killed the man out of pity or rage—probably both.
He turned and ran toward the transport, punching at the outside controls, opening the hatch. He jumped inside, staring at the panel, staring at the various buttons. Too many fucking buttons. He’d driven a tractor on Damian’s farm, but that was the extent of his experience. And this military transport was a hell of a lot more complicated.
He forced himself to concentrate. He leaned in close to read the tiny words on each button. Finally, he came to ignition, and he punched it. The engine roared to life. He grabbed the main control and pushed it forward, feeling the heavy transport lurch forward.
He turned it around and pushed the throttle further, taking off down the winding forest road. Katia was in trouble . . . and Jamie knew he had to get to her before the federals got her to Landfall. He’d kill the bastards with his bare hands if he had to. But he would save her.
Somehow . . .
CHAPTER 17
OLD NORTH ROAD
THREE KILOMETERS SOUTH OF VINCENNES
FEDERAL COLONY ALPHA-2 (HAVEN)
EPSILON ERIDANI II
“BLACK WEDNESDAY”
Killian was running through the forest, leaping over fallen trees and ducking under hulking branches. The federal column was pushing down the road, but every hundred meters or so, one of the mines his rangers had planted blew, taking a transport and another handful of soldiers with it. The first time, the federals had dismounted two dozen soldiers to move the wreck, but his people had taught them never to make that mistake again. They’d opened up from two sides, firing at carefully plotted angles to prevent hitting each other. And they’d taken down nearly twenty of the enemy before the soldiers managed to return the fire effectively. His people had retreated as he’d ordered, disappearing into the dense woods like so many ghosts.
After that, the feds didn’t leave their vehicles; they just drove forward into the disabled trucks, pushing them out of the way. But the roadblocks Killian’s people had set up were different. The rangers had built the heavy structures from large tree trunks, and they’d stacked up boulders behind. The feds had tried to drive through them, but there was too much weight to just push out of the way. They had to stop and send soldiers forward, enough to remove the barricades, plus more to engage the raiders in the woods.
Which meant more fucking targets.
Killian had a perpetual scowl on his face, but inside he was smiling. His people had cut up the federals badly, killing at least fifty, and delaying them for hours. Their column was a disordered mess, and many of their transports were damaged. Killian could only imagine the state of their morale, but he suspected it wasn’t good.
And now for the last . . . and the best.
He came to a halt, looking around and whispering to the rangers he knew were hiding all around him. “It’s time. Let’s move.”
The feds would reach the final roadblock any minute. They would stop the whole column, Killian knew, and they would send troops en masse—some to the clear the barricade and more to move out into the woods and engage any bushwhackers. But this time they wouldn’t be facing two or three snipers. Killian had half his people deployed here, waiting. And half a dozen of them had armor-piercing rocket launchers. The weapons had been enormously expensive, and he knew Danforth had entrusted his people with almost half the Guardians’ total supply. He was determined to prove the rangers were worthy of that kind of trust.
He moved through the heavy brush, about fifty meters toward the road. He held his hands out behind him, signaling for his people to halt, but he continued forward himself a few more meters before crouching down and putting a small pair of binoculars to his eyes.
The enemy was there, transports stopped and stacked up as far back as he could see. There were soldiers, too, standing around the massive roadblock . . . and others moving slowly into the woods. He waited, watching, getting a rough count on the troopers in the woods.
And he waited some more.
Then . . . an explosion. A big one. This last roadblock was more than a barricade, as the federals had just discovered. He peered through the binoculars again, risking the slight movement. The troops coming his way had stopped and turned, looking back toward their comrades in the road. At least fifteen of them were down, and the others were running around in disorder. It was time.
He stretched his arms out in both directions, his fists clenched. It was a signal. He felt the ripple in the woods, the soft sounds his rangers made as they swept forward through the brush.
The enemy soldiers who’d advanced into the forest were looking away, back toward the road. They didn’t hear the approaching rangers, not until it was too late.
Killian lunged forward, reaching his arm around one of the soldiers, driving his knee forward and grabbing the man’s hair as he ran his blade across the soldier’s throat. He felt the man’s hot blood pouring out over his hand, and he threw the body to the side.
Another trooper was turning around, but Killian caught him before he could bring his weapon to bear. He shoved the notched blade into the man’s abdomen, twisting hard and slicing upward.
Killian grabbed the dying man and pulled him up, slashing the blade across his head, scalping him. He held up the bloody chunk of hair as he moved forward, and he shouted a bloodcurdling battle cry.
He pulled out his pistol and moved to the edge of the woods, firing at the soldiers gathered around in the open. Then he threw the bloody scalp into the road. The sooner the federals realized they were fighting a nightmare, the better.
He heard the whoosh of a rocket firing, followed by an explosion as it hit. He turned and looked down the road, seeing the plume of smoke.
With any luck, that transport is on fire and the murdering feds inside are burning, too.
He had no sympathy at all. As far as he was concerned, anyone who fought for the federals deserved the worst death he could give them.
He heard another rocket launch . . . and hit. Then another. He exulted, and the urge to turn this into a fight to the death was strong. But he held back. He knew he didn’t have enough rangers to defeat the entire federal force. Besides, he’d promised John Danforth. And Danforth was one of the few men Killian truly respected.
“All right,” he shouted, “let’s get out of here, rangers! Our work is done!”
He looked around, making sure there were no threats close to him. Then he turned and slipped back into the dense woods, virtually disappearing.
He could have been frustrated at leaving when his people could have killed more federals, but he was savvy enough to understand continuing the battle would be a bloody affair for the rangers, too. They’d had surprise and preparation in their favor so far, but if they kept fighting, the federal numbers would begin to tell. As it was now, his best guess was he’d lost five of his people.
Still, that was nothing when compared to the nearly one hundred enemy troopers they’d taken out.
A victory by any measure.
But it wasn’t as if this battle was over, let alone the war. Not by a long shot.
He turned, heading north. He knew there was going to be one hell of a fight at Vincennes, and he had no intention of letting the rangers sit it out.
“Fuck.” Frasier muttered to himself as he tied a bandage around his arm. He’d moved forward at the last roadblock, and he’d caught a round just before the enemy withdrew. The wound wasn’t serious, but it hurt like hell.
“Captain, I have requested permission to abort the mission, but we have been ordered to proceed.” Major Stein was looking at the column’s exec as he pulled the headset off, his eyes wide with undisguised confusion. Every trace of his earlier bravado was gone
, his arrogance replaced by shock.
Never mind that none of this would have happened if you’d let me send out flankers when I suggested it.
Now wasn’t the time to get into a fight with his superior, though. Now they had to keep moving. “We’ll be fine, Major. They just took us by surprise, that’s all. We’ve taken some losses, and they’d delayed us, but we’ve still got a significant battle-ready force. But we’ve got to get the troops back in order. They’re a little shaken up, but with orders to focus on, they’ll do the job.”
Stein swallowed and—to his credit—nodded his head. “You are right, Captain. Send scouts out to both flanks, and an advance guard down the road. And get the rest of the troops mounted up again. We’ll resume our advance in fifteen minutes.”
“Yes, sir.” Frasier turned and frowned. He knew the anti-insurgency forces Colonel Semmes had brought to Alpha-2 considered themselves an elite force compared to the colonial regulars. He also knew that was a joke. Semmes’s troopers were used to gunning down mobs of protestors or breaking down civilians’ doors in groups of ten or twenty. They were arrogant, and they underestimated the rebels. And that was going to be trouble.
Frasier walked down the column, snapping out orders. There was nothing wrong with the second in command doing what he was doing . . . but it was a problem when he was doing it because the commanding officer was too shaken and discombobulated to do it himself.
Frasier had no illusions. Taking casualties was one thing. Hell, from what he had gathered, it was more than acceptable—human life didn’t seem to mean a whole lot to Asha Stanton. But failing to take Vincennes and the weapons stored there was quite another. And handing the rebels a victory in the first fight of the rebellion would be catastrophic. He knew the strongest force holding civilians back from supporting the rebel cause was fear. And if they came to believe the rebels could actually win . . .
No. They had to get to Vincennes. And they had to defeat whatever force was waiting there. Perhaps in spite of Major Stein.
