The Rimes Trilogy Boxed Set

by P. R. Adams

“You going to be okay?”

  Martinez was silent a moment. “No.”

  Rimes slid the sally port cage doors open, then closed each behind Martinez as they went through. Two swift kicks, and the doors were jammed with small, cement wedges. Rimes carefully stretched fishing line taut through the interior door’s bars, wrapping the line around the bottom bar twice.

  The room had a long, rectangular walkway around the edges but was open in the center all the way to the first floor. Another walkway bisected the rectangle, connecting the two sides. The rectangle’s far end opened onto a set of interior stairs. Prison cells, stripped to the cement and littered with trash, lined the left- and right-hand walls.

  Rimes pointed Martinez to the left walkway. “Far stairs.”

  Martinez jogged ahead, cautiously checking the cells as he passed them. “Where’s Molly?”

  “Someplace a little safer,” Rimes said. “She can fire a gun, but I want to avoid that if I can. I’ve made some mistakes, and right about now, I think I’d be her first target.”

  Martinez stopped at the interior stairs. He checked the pistol Rimes had given him and shook his head in disbelief. “It’s just us? You’re expecting to hold them off with a couple of ten-mil semi-automatics? How many rounds do we have?”

  “Two full magazines between us, two half-empty, plus the full mag in the gun.”

  Martinez looked down the stairs. They led all the way to the bottom floor, except for a piece of sheet metal covering one flight halfway up. Aside from falling back into one of the cells, they would have no cover once the building was breached.

  “I hope you know this looks pretty ugly,” Martinez said, searching for what Rimes saw in the position. “I’m not seeing it. Walk me through.”

  “Two teams. First team descends from the roof and holds in the fire escape.” Rimes pointed to the sally ports at the far end of the floor where they’d entered. “Second team enters through the bottom and makes its way to the stairs, here.” Rimes pointed down the internal staircase. “Second team looks for shots, can’t get any.”

  “What, are they fucking blind?” Martinez looked at his darkened surroundings again. Nothing obscured the lines of fire but handrails.

  “Just a minute. They make for the stairs in a line, three-meter stagger. Base of the stairs, they tell team one to go. Team one enters the sally port while team two ascends the stairs. Fifteen men, counting Moltke. They leave one on the roof, one at the entry below. That leaves us with thirteen. Piece of cake.”

  “Twelve then. Moltke would never get his hands dirty, the little coward.” Martinez glared at Rimes. “I didn’t come out here to get murdered. You’re my friend, Jack. I love you like a brother, but this is fucking hopeless. You’re cut off from exit, you’re outgunned, and you’ve got no defensive positions to speak of. Give it up and let me talk to Moltke. We don’t all need to die over this.”

  “You know me better than that, Marty. I don’t intend to die. I think I understand Moltke well enough to pull this off.” Rimes smiled wickedly. “A limited number of exits is also a limited number of entries. It’s all in how you see it. You see vulnerabilities, I see choke points.”

  Rimes ran his light along two narrow slits chipped out of the wall. The slits stretched a meter in length up from the floor. Rimes put the light away and said, “See? Now help me get our defensive position up.”

  Rimes ran back to the nearest cell. He turned when Martinez hesitated for a moment. Martinez shook his head in disbelief, then followed.

  Rimes lifted a rectangle of crudely stitched and duct-taped burlap that looked a few centimeters thick. Sheet metal and packed dirt showed through the corners of the burlap.

  “This and those smaller ones.” Rimes strained to hold the bundle upright. “It’ll stop most rounds, especially if they’re loaded for close assault. We set this up where we can look down on the stairs. I’ve got a piece of reinforced chain link to put over the top to catch grenades. Grenade hits, give the chain link a smack to bounce it off and let the plates handle the rest.”

  The roof groaned as something heavy settled on it.

  Martinez looked up. “Okay, I’m in.”

  38

  13 March 2164. Helena, Oklahoma.

  * * *

  They dragged the burlap-wrapped pieces next to the slits in the wall, then Rimes pulled a pair of leather pouches from the cell.

  Rimes dug a nail gun out of one of the leather pouches. He handed the other pouch to Martinez.

  “So you’ve been busy,” Martinez said.

  “You know I’ve always dreamed of a big renovation project.”

  They set to work, Martinez moving quickly and efficiently despite his grief; it took less than a minute. When they were done, they had a crude, low pillbox with narrow firing holes.

  “Simple but effective,” Rimes said. “I hope.”

  “Intimate,” Martinez said.

  Rimes laughed. “I’ll call room service.”

  He opened the top, and they climbed inside.

  “Okay.” Martinez checked his pistol again. “So we don’t die immediately. They’ll still shoot through your little grenade trapper.”

  “I hope they think as little of me as you do.”

  “Loo—”

  The door to the first floor burst open. Two loud pops followed. Martinez and Rimes dropped flat and knocked the grenade trapper shut. Below them, explosions rocked the bottom floor, the metallic chime of flechettes echoing everywhere. The flechettes bounced off cement and iron for a long second before going quiet. The sound of running boots rolled up the stairs.

  “Here they come.” Martinez licked his lips. “Last chance to surrender.”

  Rimes’s reply was lost as the fire exit door burst open. Rimes sneaked a peek; someone in a tac-vest and open-faced helmet swept a submachine gun across the interior, its laser sight tracking over the cement wall just above their position.

  It was a good forty meters and dark, and the target stood behind iron bars: it would have been a tough shot for a pistol marksman under ideal conditions.

  Rimes sighted and slowly squeezed the trigger.

  The bullet ricocheted off a bar. Gunfire erupted from the stairwell doorway in response, hammering the wall above them. Concrete chips and powder rained down.

  “What was that?” Martinez hissed.

  “Bad shot.”

  Martinez growled something beneath his breath and peered out his firing slit again.

  “They’re coming up on that sheet metal. I can take a shot.”

  “Do it,” Rimes said.

  A moment later, as the lead gunman tried to sprint up the sheet metal ramp, Martinez fired. “Got him!”

  A loud crash sounded.

  “Down?”

  Martinez risked a glance, then pulled back as bullets thudded into the concrete and sheet metal walls. “They’re pulling him back. He’s not a concern.”

  The firing stopped.

  Martinez swapped out his magazine for the other full one. “It’s tough to get a good shot like this.”

  “Wounding is just as good as a kill in this environment,” Rimes said.

  “We want something more serious than a stubbed toe, I’d imagine.”

  “Shoot off their trigger fingers, Hawkeye.”

  Martinez choked back a laugh.

  “I’m sorry about J.C., Marty.” Rimes sighed, wondering how he would feel losing Molly. No. I couldn’t deal with it. I won’t let them kill her.

  Martinez said nothing for a few seconds. “They’re looking at that sheet metal. Your work?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Is it secured? One of them’s pulling at the base.”

  “Fire a shot at him. Don’t hit him, though.”

  “Don’t hit hi—” Martinez sighed. “And I thought Moltke’s tactics sucked.” Martinez took a shot at the gunman.

  The gunfire came again, this time sending several rounds into the sheet metal wall protecting Martinez. Martinez rubbed at a bulge
in the wall where a round had nearly penetrated.

  “Kicked the fucking hornet’s nest with that one,” Martinez said. “I think we can safely say they’re not using close-assault rounds, just in case you were still—”

  Another round of gunfire drowned Martinez out. More concrete chips rained down on them.

  At the far end of the building, someone knocked the wedge free and slid the sally port’s outer door open. One of the gunmen squat-walked toward the second door.

  Rimes fired.

  Once again, the gunmen returned fire. Three gunmen were advancing into the sally port behind the lead gunman. One took up position on either side of the lead gunman, and the last ducked behind him. They were preparing for a quick assault.

  “Okay, they’re going to make a rush,” Rimes whispered. “That means they’ve probably figured out the basics of this defensive position.”

  Martinez sighed. “We’re sitting ducks. I warned you.”

  Rimes heard the second door’s concrete wedge being kicked free. The door slid. Another quick glance confirmed the four gunmen were readying to charge, with two more waiting in the stairwell doorway.

  “Shit,” Martinez whispered. “They’re pulling the ramp away. They’re going to rush us from both directions.”

  “Close your eyes.” Rimes swapped in a full magazine as the inner sally port door slid open the last of the way. He heard the sheet metal ramp scraping on the banister below.

  Explosions rocked the building from the stairs. A wave of heat jetted over the top of their pillbox, and Martinez flinched. Then two smaller explosions sounded from the sally port.

  As the explosions died down, screams took their place, and Rimes opened his eyes again.

  Once again, gunfire erupted from the stairwell, this time without a hint of coordination or accuracy. Rimes pulled the walkie-talkie from his pants and activated it.

  “All yours.”

  He switched the walkie-talkie to a different frequency and activated it again. A moment later, another explosion sounded from the stairwell.

  The gunfire went silent.

  Rimes switched the walkie-talkie back to its regular frequency.

  Martinez looked at Rimes in stunned silence. “You had this planned all along. You knew I’d bring J.C. with me.”

  Rimes winced. “No … but I had to be sure all the loose ends were accounted for. I figured you’d either show up alone and try to kill me, or they’d be following you—or following her—and they’d try to kill all of us separately. You’re in with dirty people, and they don’t care who they have to kill to protect themselves.”

  The walkie-talkie came to life. Kleigshoen’s voice came in clearly. “Targets down. All clear.”

  “Who was that?” Martinez demanded.

  “Dana Kleigshoen,” Rimes said.

  “That sweet thing from the Sutton?”

  Rimes nodded. “She’s also a sweet marksman. She got the pilot and the two sentries, so we just need to clean up in here. You up for that?”

  “Jack, what about me?” Martinez asked, his face pained. He looked at his pistol. “They’ll call it treason.”

  Rimes watched Martinez. “I’m sorry. I was figuring you and J.C. could disappear, start a new life somewhere, maybe down in Ecuador. You still have family there, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “But you need to give me the X-17, Marty. And the Sundarbans data stick you kept from the Bureau. Yeah, I know about it. And I’m guessing Marshall probably suspects.”

  “How’d you—”

  “Later,” Rimes said. He popped open the grenade cover. A quick glance at the dying flames assured him the assailants in the sally port were no longer a threat.

  The improvised pillbox was battered and pockmarked. Dirt was scattered everywhere. Rimes shook his head in admiration.

  Martinez squatted in front of the pillbox, rubbing his hand over several holes where dirt tumbled out. “This could’ve gone a lot worse.”

  “Let’s get out of here. I want to get the data stick, and you should get on the way to your new life.”

  Martinez stood and walked over to the railing, leaning over it with his eyes unfocused. “Without J.C., I can’t see—”

  Gunfire echoed loudly from the stairs below them, nearly drowning out Martinez’s quiet gasp. A round struck Rimes’s right shoulder; another grazed the right side of his head. He rolled away from the pillbox.

  Martinez fell.

  Rimes watched for a moment, unable to understand what he was seeing. His legs gave out, and his head fell against the cement floor. Waves of pain shot through his body. He couldn’t focus, he couldn’t think. He was vaguely aware he’d been shot and that he wanted to get his gun, but he couldn’t string together the steps necessary to do that.

  Footsteps echoed. Someone was slowly climbing the stairs. One moment, they seemed close, the next far away.

  It required a Herculean effort, but Rimes rolled onto his side. He blinked and managed a glance at the stairs. He saw a torso, a CAWS-5, all-too-familiar gear.

  Darkness and a semblance of peace washed over him, until Moltke’s face resolved out of the void, hovering above him. Moltke was saying something about Martinez. Rimes tried to concentrate on Moltke’s words, but the words just couldn’t connect in the thunderous roar in his head.

  Where’s Marty? He was here. Dana? Molly?

  Moltke lifted Rimes by the front of his shirt, demanding something.

  Rimes’s head fell back as Moltke shook him.

  A knife appeared from thin air, and Moltke pressed its tip just below Rimes’s right eye. Moltke spoke again, angrier, louder. Rimes sensed there was importance to the words, that it was critical he understand what was being said.

  He blinked, and his eyelashes brushed the blade. Moltke said something about knowing, about the others, about pain.

  There was a pop—a gunshot—and Moltke suddenly slumped. Rimes’s weight pulled them over, and Moltke fell on top of Rimes, cutting his cheek with the knife.

  Moltke was mercifully silent now.

  Rimes tasted something terrible in his mouth. He gagged, tried to spit. Instead, he rolled to his side and vomited, somehow managing not to breathe it back in.

  Darkness.

  Peace.

  When Rimes opened his eyes again, an angel was kneeling beside him, babbling in the same formless language Moltke had used. She was crying.

  What could make an angel cry?

  Molly.

  He was so tired, so very tired. He slipped into the darkness.

  39

  18 March 2164. Fort Sill, Oklahoma.

  * * *

  Rimes tried to swallow but simply couldn’t manage it. His mouth was dry and rough as sandpaper; his throat burned. He opened his eyes and instantly regretted it; it felt like he was ripping off their outer membranes.

  But with some effort, he was finally able to focus.

  The all-too-familiar combination of privacy screen, monitoring systems, and wheeled serving tray greeted him.

  Another hospital room.

  A moment passed, and the privacy screen opened. A bushy-eyebrowed young man in hospital greens stepped in.

  “Welcome back to life, Sergeant Rimes,” The young man leaned in close, pulled down Rimes’s bottom lids, and looked into Rimes’s pupils. “Your vitals’re looking awfully strong for someone who took a bullet to the head. How’re you feeling?”

  Rimes tried to speak, felt his throat tighten up, and thought better of it. He pointed at his throat and shook his head.

  A headache exploded just behind his eyes.

  “Your WBC count is up. How about opening your mouth for me?” The nurse fished a penlight out of his shirt pocket and shone it into Rimes’s throat. “Just a touch of strep. We’ll take care o’ that. You up for a visitor? We’ve got a standing call for when you come around.”

  Rimes nodded, and the headache hit him again. He hoped it was Molly.

  Waking alone in the hospital had hur
t him, he realized.

  She’s always been there when she could be before.

  “Good. I’ll have the desk let Colonel Weatherford know.” The nurse seemed oblivious to the disappointment flashing across his patient’s face as he examined the side of Rimes’s head. “Try not to move too much. Although I have to admit, I’ve never seen someone heal so fast before, not without aggressive stem cell treatments. And you’re not showing even residual indications of brain trauma. That’s pretty amazing stuff.”

  Rimes nodded without thinking, then grimaced.

  The nurse left Rimes to his thoughts, thoughts that quickly turned dark. Not only was Molly not waiting for him, he realized, but the nurse hadn’t even mentioned her. Or Kleigshoen.

  Suddenly, it occurred to him that he may very well be a prisoner. He had, after all, killed several men, and there was no real evidence that Moltke was a traitor.

  He searched around for the bed’s controller and raised the head of the bed, then pulled the serving tray over. It was all an embarrassing struggle, his limbs shaking and uncertain, but he managed to pour himself a cup of water without spilling too much. He gulped the water down, closing his eyes against the pain.

  A console suspended from the ceiling caught his eye. He found the remote and powered on the display. Flipping through the dozen or so menus was slow going, but he eventually found a news feed.

  Several searches through headlines and video revealed nothing worrisome—another brushfire war in Africa, another assassination in Asia, droughts across the eastern United States. He stopped at the last set of stories: more concessions from the feckless World Trade Organization to appease the metacorporations.

  Heavy, deliberate footsteps approached the privacy screen. A hand pulled the screen aside.

  Colonel Weatherford’s face was an unreadable mask. “I understand you have a pretty bad case of strep.”

  Rimes whispered weakly. “Yes, sir.”

  “Sorry to hear that.” Weatherford’s gravelly voice revealed nothing. “Can’t keep these damned infections under control no matter what we do.”