The Devils Do (Chaos of the Covenant Book 3)

by M. R. Forbes

  “The park?” Gyo said.

  “For now. I need intel.”

  “They’ll be tracing us,” Zoey said.

  “That’s why we’re going to the park. I don’t want any civilians getting hurt.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  17

  “Gyo, I need to know who owns the Gilded Cafe,” Olus said. “Zoey, see what you can pull up on Davis.”

  “Yes, sir,” Zoey and Gyo replied.

  They were sitting on a bench in the park, looking out at the Hudson River. A dinner cruise was floating down the waterway in front of them, the diners fully visible behind the transparent frame of the long, low boat.

  “We should do that sometime,” Gyo mentioned.

  “Looks boring,” Zoey replied.

  “Focus,” Olus said. He reached into his pocket, withdrawing the beacon.

  “What’s that?” Zoey asked.

  “Tracking beacon. I lifted it from General Omsala.”

  “You really killed him, sir?” Gyo asked.

  “Yes. He was a traitor. What do you have on the restaurant?”

  Gyo looked away, putting on a pair of connected glasses and getting to the search. He looked back a few seconds later. “It’s one of Pierre Gavron’s.”

  “Interesting,” Olus said. “Look deeper. See if he pulled a loan for it, or if there are any other stakeholders. The restaurant is a front.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I’ve been around the universe. I know.”

  Gyo looked away again.

  “Abraham Davis,” Zoey said. “Harvard Law School. Graduated at the top of his class. He works for the Republic as a prosecuting attorney. There’s a pretty long list of soldiers he’s gotten court-martialed.”

  “What’s my question?” Olus asked.

  “How does a Harvard-trained lawyer wind up working as a military attorney?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Searching.”

  “Do it faster. We have about three minutes before we need to move.”

  “That’s pretty precise, sir,” Gyo said.

  “Better too early than too late.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Here you go, sir,” Gyo said a minute later. “Tridium Corp has a forty percent stake in the Cafe.”

  “Tridium?” Zoey said. “The company that makes the Apocalypse fighter?”

  “Yup. Well, not directly. I traced three shell accounts back to them.”

  “You traced three shells that fast?” Zoey said. “I’m impressed.”

  “How impressed?” Gyo asked, waggling an eyebrow.

  “You know OSI regs, don’t you?” Olus said.

  “What are you going to do about it, sir?” Gyo said. “You aren’t the Director anymore.”

  “I guess you’re right. It isn’t my problem anymore. This is. And if Tridium is involved with Thraven and the Nephilim, we’re getting more screwed by the second.”

  “Nephilim?” Zoey said.

  “Another long story, and not that important.”

  “I’ve got a business address for the cafe,” Gyo said. “It’s not the restaurant. Looks like an old sweatshop in Soho.”

  “Give it to me,” Olus said.

  Gyo recited it. Olus committed it to memory.

  “This probably won’t surprise you, sir,” Zoey said. “But Abraham Davis doesn’t exist before he joined Harvard fifteen years ago. There are no prior education records, no voter registration, no juror selection. He has no public presence at all outside of his duties as a prosecutor for RAS.”

  “You’re right; I’m not surprised. Anything else?”

  “I checked a few of the names on the list of soldiers he sent away. Four out of four are listed as deceased.”

  He doubted that.

  “Time to go,” he said.

  “Sir?” Zoey asked.

  “Follow me.”

  They made their way across the grass toward a newer structure nearby.

  “Shouldn’t we be leaving, sir?” Gyo asked when they took a position in the shadows.

  “I want to see who comes to check on us.”

  “What for? If they know what we were looking for and what we found, they’re going to be waiting there for us. They don’t need to-”

  Olus held up his hand. A black car dropped from the sky, coming down over the lawn near the bench. Olus took one of the guns from under his jacket. “You were saying?”

  “That was fast,” Gyo said.

  “They were probably already headed this way.”

  A squad of soldiers hopped out of the car, followed by another man in a dark suit.

  “That’s Davis,” Zoey said.

  Davis approached the bench, looking at it thoughtfully. Then he reached into the inside pocket of his coat, withdrawing a glove. It was metallic, with spikes on the ends. He circled the spot where they had been sitting.

  “We need to get out of here,” Olus said, not liking the maneuver. “That way.”

  Davis started reaching for the bench. Olus didn’t see anything else. He started running for the opposite side of the building, out of sight of the enemy.

  He felt a cold breeze a moment later, as though something was giving chase behind them. A chill ran down his spine. He recognized the feeling of the Gift. Could it reach this far?

  “Faster,” he said, increasing his speed. He didn’t use the added strength of his suit, not when his people couldn’t do the same.

  He heard movement behind them and turned to look. The soldiers were running after them, weapons drawn. Davis wasn’t with them.

  He pulled his sidearm, prepared to shoot back. They reached the street.

  “This way,” Zoey said, pointing.

  They kept running, streaking across the lane ahead of oncoming traffic, the interruption giving the blacksuits momentary pause. They reached an alley and kept going, hurrying past garbage collection modules. There was an emergency door on the building to the left. Olus stopped in front of it, putting his hand on the control pad there. It didn’t open.

  “Frag,” he said. It would only be locked from the outside.

  He looked back. The soldiers were crossing the street. Zoey and Gyo had pulled their sidearms and taken defensive positions on either side of the alley.

  “Cover fire,” he said.

  They responded dutifully, taking careful shots at the incoming soldiers, making sure not to let their fire reach the street.

  He pulled an extender and stuck it to the panel, his fingers working rapidly. Where the hell was Davis? He reached the command line, entering the most common passwords. The third try opened the door.

  “Form up,” he shouted.

  Zoey and Gyo followed behind him, bullets hitting the frame as they escaped inside.

  “That wasn’t normal, sir,” Zoey said.

  “No, it wasn’t. Did you see where that bastard went?”

  “Back in the car, I think,” Gyo replied.

  Probably to contact Thraven and see what the Gloritant wanted to do about him. They couldn’t outrun someone with the Gift, not unless he could catch Davis off-guard the way he had caught Vee.

  “I’ve got an idea,” Olus said. “We need to make it back to the street.”

  They moved through the building, running through clean, well-lit corridors. Olus could hear the soldiers at their back, even if they managed to always stay a turn or two ahead of them. He could feel his heart pounding, his reflexes heightened by the adrenaline. He was too old for this, and at the same time, he had missed it. He drew the small knife from his pocket. Let Davis come. His aim was still good.

  They made it to the front of the building at the same time a second squad of blacksuits were coming in.

  “Down,” Olus shouted, dropping onto his stomach as the soldiers reacted, bringing up their rifles and firing too high.

  He squeezed off three quick rounds, sending them into the head of one blacksuit and the knees of another, who cried out as he fell to the ground.

&n
bsp; At least these bad guys were human.

  The other soldiers were hit in succession, Zoey and Gyo’s shots almost as precise as his. Olus bounced to his feet, still running for the door.

  “Go out ahead of me,” he said.

  They didn’t question. They trusted him. They exited the building. A moment later, they froze.

  Olus gripped the knife. He closed his eyes. He had told Lieutenant Cage that he wasn’t a good man. His training had made him cold. Now he was going to have to prove it.

  “Captain Mann,” Davis shouted from outside. “Why don’t you come out? Maybe I’ll even let your people go.”

  Olus opened his eyes. He had tried to save them. Some things were too important. Some sacrifices had to be made.

  He turned back the way they had come, sprinting across the floor. He reached the adjacent corridor, slamming into the other soldiers on their way to him.

  He growled as he slammed the knife into the joint between the armor and the helmet of the first, wrenching it through and out, sending blood splattering everywhere. He shot the second point blank in the chest, kicked the third into the wall before shooting him in the neck, bouncing sideways off the side of the corridor and knocking the fourth with his shoulder, sending him sprawling backward. He landed in a crouch, rolling to the side and firing at the fifth, three rounds that tore into the man’s gun hand and made him drop his rifle. He sprang up, leading with the knife, getting under the armor to the flesh and digging in deep. He turned back to the fourth soldier, picking up the dropped rifle and firing it into the man’s helmet.

  He ran past them, hearing motion at his back as he did. He turned to see all of the blacksuits moving again. Fragging Converts.

  He kept going, finding a stairwell and going up. There had to be a back way out of the building. He went to the third floor, guessing at where the rear of the building was and breaking in the door of one of the apartments. A woman was sitting on a sofa, a pair of Construct goggles on her head. She turned her head and screamed at the noise, but he was already past and to her window. He looked out. He was over the street on the other side of the building. He took a few steps back, took off his jacket and held it in front of him. Then he charged forward, firing into the window, puncturing the material right before he went through it.

  He fell twenty feet, locking the jacket so it spread out behind him, acting as a foil in the air. He still hit the ground hard, but it was enough to keep him from breaking anything. That didn’t mean it didn’t hurt. He clenched his teeth in pain at the impact before straightening, dropping the rifle, and running to the nearest pickup lane. He pulled the beacon from his pocket, along with the smallest of his tools. A car arrived, and he climbed in.

  “Broadway,” he said. “Move it.”

  The car began to lift back into the sky. Olus manipulated the beacon, reattaching the battery. The small LED on it began to blink once more.

  He leaned back in his seat and told himself that Thraven wouldn’t kill Zoey and Gyo for helping him escape. He was too calculating to callously cut them loose.

  Not like he had just done.

  He cursed and shook his head. He knew he was a bastard. But if he could get Cage what she needed and help the Council, it would be worth it.

  Maybe.

  18

  Olus left the beacon on the transport when he got out on Broadway. He was momentarily overwhelmed by the bright lights and massive projections, the crowds and all of the surrounding steel and glass. He had picked the most populated place in the city to disappear, knowing that Davis would follow the beacon but not expect to find him with it.

  Did it even matter? If the Nephilim resorted to torture, he could make Zoey or Gyo tell him where Olus might be headed. Davis would probably be waiting for him there.

  He had years of experience and plenty of skill, but none of it mattered when the enemy had a power you couldn’t stand up to. He hadn’t gotten the chance to look into Iti’s death, but he could imagine it now. Davis somewhere nearby, pushing her transport out of control with the Gift and causing the accident.

  He had been in deep before.

  He was drowning now.

  He made his way through the crowds. He couldn’t fight Davis or any of his Converts with a pistol. He needed something more. Something bigger and better. He hurried toward Grand Central, picking the pocket of a civilian as he wandered past and syncing his identity. He put a hand over his face while the cap adjusted, changing his appearance within a few seconds as he descended into the loop.

  He caught a ride back toward Soho, getting out at one of the subterranean stations that diverted into the Plixian underground, better known in the city as Little Plixar. Thousands of insectoid immigrants had found their way here over the years, their planet overpopulated and their love of digging in high demand to maintain the tunnels that helped ease the above ground congestion. Many of them were engineers. Not just diggers, but makers, inventors, and tinkerers.

  There was one in particular he had come to see. One he had worked with multiple times across the years. The OSI was nothing without informants, especially in a place like New York.

  He found Dilixix right where he expected her to be, at the counter of her pharmacy near the southern end of Little Plixar. The pharmacy sold Plixian meds above the table, enhancers and uppers below it, along with some other not-very-legal things. Olus had kept her from getting raided on more than one occasion in exchange for her cooperation. She was a fixture down here, and the workers had no problem telling her everything they heard on the daily. That intel went over to the OSI when it was juicy enough.

  “Dilixix,” he said, walking in.

  She cocked her head to the side, confused. She didn’t recognize him.

  “Sorry,” Olus said, clearing the disguise.

  She clacked in response. “Captain Mann.” Her face didn’t carry much expression, but her antennae curled back, guarded. “Why are you here in person?”

  “I need your help,” he said. “More than usual.”

  “What is the benefit to me?”

  “Payment. Whatever your price is, you’ll get triple. Net thirty.”

  “A loan? That isn’t good for business.”

  “Come on, Dil, we’ve known one another for how long? Almost twenty years?”

  She clacked in acknowledgement. “For you, then. What do you need?”

  “I’m going to war. I need a softsuit and heavy ordnance. I also need something sharp. Something that can get through a neck fairly easily.”

  Her antennae went straight up in surprise. “I can’t get you a softsuit just like that, Captain. Why did you not bring your own?”

  “This came up last minute. I lost two of my team tonight, Dil.”

  She lowered her head toward him, shaking it. “I understand.” She moved to the counter, reaching into a cabinet and withdrawing a bottle. She opened it and dumped a handful of pills out. “Take two of these. Save the rest.”

  “What are they?”

  “They will strengthen your defenses.”

  “Those are Plixian meds. Different chemistry.”

  Dilixix stared at him. “You may need them tonight. I believe I know what you are hunting.”

  Olus froze. “You do? How?”

  “We’ve been watching.”

  “We?”

  She didn’t respond to the question. “I don’t have a suit. Take the pills a few minutes before.” She dropped them in his hand. “Come with me; we can get you weapons.”

  She scuttled toward the back of the shop. Olus followed her.

  They passed through the rear of the pharmacy, past the shelves of inventory and out through a hidden exit in the rear. A dank, dark tunnel carried them a few hundred meters to a matching hole.

  “Wait here,” Dilixix said. She vanished into the hole, returning a few seconds later. “Come.”

  He climbed through. A second Plixian was there, a small male.

  “Captain Mann,” he said. “Dilixix tells me you need w
eapons.” He waved one of his hands across the room. “Take what you need. She will cover the payment for you.”

  Olus felt a slight stab of guilt, knowing she would never get that payment. How many lives was he going to destroy tonight? He could only hope it would be worth it in the end. Thraven probably didn’t have much use for Plixians. He would either kill them or enslave them. This had to be better.

  He surveyed the room. He needed to stay fast. Anything too big would slow him down. “Where did you get all of this?” he asked. “And how did you get it through customs?”

  “You’re in intelligence,” the male replied. “You should know.”

  Olus nodded. Anyone could be bought. “I need something armor-piercing. Something violent and messy.” He looked back at the Plixian. “Something illegal.”

  “That will cost.”

  “The Republic can afford it.”

  “He lost two team members, Xalix,” Dilixix said.

  The male’s antennae twitched. He moved over to a shelf and pushed it aside, revealing a second shelf behind it.

  “The special inventory,” he said, taking a case from it.

  He brought it to the counter and placed it down, unlocking the case. Inside was a pistol design Olus had never seen, with three detached grips arranged on the side, sized for different species. Xalix lifted the pistol out with the Terran grip, snapping the parts together. He removed a shelf in the case. There were four magazines beneath, and he showed Olus how to reload the pistol, snapping the cartridge into the side of the weapon, perpendicular to the grip.

  “There are three penetration settings,” he said, showing it to Olus. “All of them are violent and messy. The first will expand near the surface and tear into muscle. The second will explode internally, and destroy the interior. The third will punch all the way through a battlesuit, and leave a hole the size of your fist behind.”

  “The RAS doesn’t have anything like this,” Olus said.

  “You said you wanted something illegal. This is a miniaturized electromagnetic launcher with specially designed ammunition. It will calibrate the distance to the target, and sensors will detect the surface material and body composition and adjust velocity accordingly. It is the weapon of a killer. I am giving it to you because you lost soldiers, and I am a loyal servant of the Republic.” He clacked in amusement. “And because you can pay for it.”