by Lee Stephen
The conference room speaker phone crackled as the Indian voice of Jaya Saxena—Kang Gao Jing’s protégé in Intelligence—broke through. “President Blake, we have an urgent situation!”
Blake’s focus shifted to the speaker immediately, standing and snapping his fingers to indicate his request for silence. As the chatter died down, he said, “We’re listening, Jaya—”
The young woman cut him off. “We’ve located the Fourteenth, Mr. President.” The Council collectively held their breath. “They’re in Krasnoyarsk.”
“Krasnoyarsk?” asked Lena.
“Krasnoyarsk is a supposed Nightman recruitment city,” said Torokin, looking at his American counterpart, then the rest of the judges. “Our agents learned this while they were in Novosibirsk.”
Immediately, discussion rose again. Blake raised his hand to silence it. “Jaya, are we positive the Fourteenth is in Krasnoyarsk?”
“Yes, Mr. President—confirmed by visual and radio chatter. I am in the War Room and awaiting your arrival.”
“On our way!” Blake said. Without a second’s hesitation, half of the room rose from their chairs to follow him.
* * *
Krasnoyarsk, Russia
THE CRACK OF Jayden’s sniper rifle resounded over the firefight below, his shot once again impacting concrete in an effort to stave off the EDEN operatives without killing any of them—a moral conflict unshared by the three Nightmen below, who had already felled six soldiers. Raising his rifle, the Texan peered through the scope farther down the street, where a larger group of EDEN operatives was en route. “Oh, man, we got trouble! More EDEN personnel on the way. Looks like another dozen or so.”
“We can hold our position,” said Rashid. “Diminish the ranks of those who approach.”
Grumbling in irritation, Jayden switched over to Esther. “Girl, you gotta get ’em out quick or I’m gonna start havin’ to shoot some folks!”
“And?” Esther asked.
“And—” The Texan growled. “Never-freakin’-mind, just get ’em out quick!” He cut the comm off and shot at the concrete once more. “Man, I run with a rough crowd.”
Esther could see the Nightmen at the front of the safe house, some firing their weapons out of the open doorway and windows while others fell back to reload or reorganize. Focusing on one Nightman in particular—a younger-looking, blond-haired slayer who had taken off his helmet to adjust it—the British scout approached him from behind. “Hey, you!” Flinching at the sound of a female voice, the slayer turned around to find Esther’s pistol aimed at his face. She glanced at his nametag. Alkaev. “Falcon Platoon. Where are they?”
Wide-eyed, the slayer stuttered, “They—who are you?”
“I’m your worst sodding nightmare, so take me to Falcon Platoon now!”
Scott’s head whipped skyward as the Pariah buzzed overhead, the chopping sounds of the pursuing helicopters’ blades cutting through the rain. “Well, that’s not good,” he said off-comm before his focus returned to the firefight which was on the verge of turning lopsided. “Ess, what’s the status of the cargo?”
“En route to them as we speak!”
“Get them out ASAP! That safe house is about to be a lot less safe.” Ducking down, he adjusted his comm to hail the Pariah. “Trav, we’re not going to be able to hold this position for much longer. We’re going to head due east past Faraj’s location to one of the next intersections—get in position for a pickup.”
The exasperated pilot answered, “I’ll do what I can, sir.”
“Not what you can, what we need.”
“Yes, sir.”
Rescuing Colonel Lilan and the survivors of Falcon Platoon hadn’t been part of Scott’s original intentions when he instructed Travis to turn the Pariah’s nose toward the city of Krasnoyarsk. On the heels of their mad dash from the banks of the Suez, only two priorities had existed in Scott’s mind: get help for Centurion and locate Svetlana, who he’d discovered had gone missing during EDEN’s attack on Novosibirsk. There was no question that of the two priorities, getting medical aid for their injured Ceratopian was the more critical in the realm of the big picture. But hearing the news that Svetlana wasn’t among the Fourteenth’s escapees had shaken him. There was no way to hide that finding Svetlana and ensuring she was safe was his priority, big picture or not. And so Krasnoyarsk it was.
That Antipov commed him while they were already en route was just a lucky—or unlucky, depending on how one looked at it—break. The eidola chief informed Scott through a secure connection that Svetlana had been accounted for. She was in the “care” of Oleg Strakhov, who was en route to Chernobyl with the rest of the Nightmen who were escaping Novosibirsk. Despite the immediate concern expressed by the others in the Fourteenth, Scott was relieved. Oleg was unquestionably a villain, but he was a villain who knew when to rattle the cage and when not to. He was smart enough to know that Antipov was not to be trifled with. If Antipov had ordered him to bring Svetlana to Chernobyl, then that’s where Oleg would bring her, unharmed.
Svetlana, however, was not the primary reason for Antipov’s call. Now that Ignatius van Thoor had been killed and the Nightmen weakened, Krasnoyarsk was in full rebellion against the murderous sect. Nightman facilities the city over were being overrun by law enforcement.
That included safe houses. And it was this fact that presented a significant problem to Antipov. The survivors of Falcon Platoon had been taken to a safe house in the city, where the Nightmen were keeping them in custody until an appropriate time came to reveal them and EDEN’s deception to the world. At least, that had been Thoor’s intention. Now the Nightmen were at risk of losing the only leverage they had in the eyes of the media. There was no question that if EDEN’s forces discovered Lilan first, he would be hidden away until EDEN could come up with the perfect way to spin the truth as they wanted the world to believe it. At that point, the Nightmen would have nothing. But with Lilan, they had a sucker punch in hand. It was imperative, Antipov stressed, that the Falcon Platoon survivors be rescued and presented to the world as proof of EDEN’s lies. Exhausted or not, there was no better team to pull off as daring a rescue than the Fourteenth of Novosibirsk.
“Let’s go!” Scott said, motioning for Becan and William to abandon their rapidly-failing attempts to keep EDEN and the police at bay. The three men bolted in the direction that Rashid, Rodion, and Feliks had gone.
As soon as the Falcons were secured, the Fourteenth was to fly to Northern Forge, a secure Nightman facility hidden in the mountain valleys northeast of Norilsk, a remote industrial city above the Arctic Circle. According to Antipov, when the New Soviet Union—the NSU—was in its infancy, there were fears that the long-standing rivalry between the United States and Russia would escalate into a new Cold War. At that time, then-President Cherkashin commissioned the development of several “emergency facilities” in the event of an American attack. Then, the Great Drain happened—Russia’s equivalent of the Great Depression—and the Russian economy collapsed. The emergency facility project was abandoned and the site, already excavated, was left to decay. At least, until the Nightmen rose to prominence.
Through a series of back door deals, the Nightmen purchased the facility from the NSU under a condition of secrecy. Thus, Northern Forge was born: a Nightman base protected by mountain valleys that were situated right beside a major industrial city. No one outside of Norilsk even knew the facility was manned at all, let alone by the Nightmen. For all practical purposes, Northern Forge was the Nightman equivalent of EDEN Command—minus the command aspect. Just the same, it was a major manufacturer of the iconic black armor worn by the Nightmen. Resources there would be aplenty.
The only question was how the Fourteenth was supposed to reach Northern Forge undetected. Antipov insisted that time was their ally, and that if they could rescue Falcon and soar northward quickly enough, they could slip through the cracks before EDEN solidified its global network for the purpose of the manhunt. No one would suspect Norilsk
as a city the Nightmen would run to. The plan sounded reasonable. If the Fourteenth could somehow find a way to leave before EDEN fighters arrived, and if the Pariah could indeed point its nose north to the mountains of Norilsk, then the game would change. Centurion and the other injured could receive medical attention, and the Fourteenth could regroup in a place of security. It was a fantastic idea.
Now they just had to pull it off.
Dashing around the corner of the building, Scott, Becan, and William stopped to take up a new position. The husk of the vehicle that’d been struck by the Pariah during its descent was still smoking in the downpour and was now between them and the police officers they’d been engaging. At some point, those police officers—and EDEN—would move past it. “We have to hold this corner until Esther has the Falcons,” Scott said, readying his assault rifle to fire. Farther down the street along the building’s face, he could see the few remaining Nightmen attempting to defend the structure, shooting from the front door and from windows. “Ess,” Scott said through the comm, “we need to know the instant that Lilan is secure.”
Esther was following the slayer down a flight of stairs when the comm came from Scott. “Oh believe me, it’ll be instant!” she answered back.
The young Nightman’s breathing was at near-panic level. “Was that Remington? Are you with him?”
“Who I’m with is none of your business.”
“You are the woman in the news, right? Esther Brooking?” The scout cursed as the slayer went on. “My name is Pyotr. Take me with you, please! I can help with anything you need me to help with—I can do anything you need me to do.”
“Well, aren’t you keen as mustard?”
Pyotr pled on. “Please, just take me out of here, I beg you!”
Scoffing, she answered, “Kid, we’re the last people you want to be with right now.” Pushing past him as soon as they reached the bottom step, Esther emerged in the middle of the holding room.
It was like being in the underbelly of The Machine, deep within the catacombs of Fort Zhukov, minus the torchlight. Esther’s nose crinkled as it was hit with a stale mustiness; still she strode on. As the last of the iron-barred cells came into view, she saw them.
The Falcon survivors were pressed against the bars, frantically watching Esther as she made her approach. In the middle of them and exhibiting the only amount of collectedness in the pack, was the man she was most concerned about: Brent Lilan. The weary colonel looked downright irate. “What the hell is going on up there?” he asked as she drew nearer, his gritty voice stern despite the state of his team.
“Pyotr, keys!” said Esther, glancing at the young Nightman before she drew to the cell. Pyotr obediently ran to a desk on the far side of the room. The Briton’s attention returned to Lilan. “I’m Esther Brooking, with Scott Remington and the Fourteenth. We’re here to get you out.”
“I knew you were her!” shouted Pyotr.
Immediately to Lilan’s right was the smaller-framed Tom King. The fiery, black soldier scanned Esther’s body, traveling up from her soaked black dress to the tussled and damp strands of her hair. “Damn, baby,” he said, tightening his lips as if trying to restrain himself.
“What, Remington’s here?” Lilan asked.
The scout nodded. “They’re waiting in the streets—we have a transport to pick you up. But we need to move quickly.” She looked behind for her youthful slayer. “Keys, Pyotr!”
Nodding at Esther’s words, Lilan stepped back to allow room for the door to open. “Thank you, Miss Brooking. This is my team—or at least who’s left in it. Delta Trooper Donald Bell, Privates Javon Quinton and Tom King, and back there,” he said, pausing to point to the raven-haired Canadian sitting against the wall, “is Private Catalina Shivers. She’s pretty busted up—I don’t know if we can do anything ‘quickly’ right now.”
Esther eyed the four operatives, from the giant Donald Bell to the tall and slender Javon Quinton. Finally, her gaze fell on Tom. The soldier leered at her, chin nodding upward with deliberate subtleness. “’Sup?”
She stared back flatly. “Right.” Snatching the keys from Pyotr, Esther fit them into the rusty keyhole and turned it. The iron door groaned as she swung it open. “Are there handcuff keys here?” she asked Pyotr. “A set of masters?” The slayer nodded. “Go get them.”
“Handcuffs?” Lilan asked. “Now hang on a minute.”
“They’re not for you,” she said, stepping aside to allow them to exit. “They’re for Tiffany. I believe you know her.”
At the mention of her friend’s name, Catalina’s brown eyes grew wide. “Tiffany’s with you?” she asked excitedly.
“She’s in the ship. Can someone carry you?”
“I got her,” said Javon, the athletic soldier kneeling down next to her to scoop her up. “C’mon, Hellcat. Let’s get you movin’.”
Rushing back to Esther, Pyotr handed her the keys. “These are master keys for handcuffs.”
Grabbing them from him, Esther stepped past him and got on the comm. “Falcons in custody.” She slipped the keys into her bra.
Lilan looked at Pyotr. The older man surveyed the teenager with scrutiny. “And who are you?”
Pyotr opened his mouth and stumbled on his words until he finally pointed at Esther and managed a reply. “I’m with her.”
“Oh. All right, then. Let’s go.”
Together, they followed Esther out of the holding area.
* * *
EDEN Command
SHOVING OPEN THE double doors to the War Room, Blake strode inside, Torokin and half of the Council in his wake. In the center of the room, on the rotating holographic globe, the city of Krasnoyarsk was being indicated by a pulsing red dot. At every station at every corner of the room, operators’ hands were flying about their communications controls as they spoke frantically into their headsets.
Jaya Saxena surveyed Blake and the others from her vantage point at the center of the room. Jaya was a new addition, relatively speaking, to Intelligence, though one would never guess as much by the way she carried herself. Serving as the personal assistant—and the voice—of Kang Gao Jing, she was one of the few people on the planet who worked with him in close proximity. She was the definition of prim, from her beige three-button jacket, to the offensively-precise bun of hair atop her head, to the thin pair of spectacles that framed her hazel eyes. They were fitting extensions of her personality.
“Ms. Saxena,” Blake said as he approached her, “what is the situation?”
The young Indian woman’s voice was intense, yet controlled. “We are waiting for information as to the Fourteenth’s exact position in Krasnoyarsk, though communication with our forces there is intermittent.”
“Intermittent?” asked Dmitri Grinkov, Torokin’s robust counterpart on the Council.
She eyed him scrupulously. “There are widespread firefights currently taking place in the city as the Nightmen there are being expelled.”
Blake approached the holographic globe, setting his hands on the metal railing that encircled it. “But we’re sure it’s the Fourteenth?”
“Yes, sir. They were initially identified over standard EDEN radio then confirmed with a visual.”
“By our forces or Krasnoyarsk’s?”
She answered, “Both, sir.”
Inhaling deeply, Blake looked Jaya directly in the eyes. “They cannot be allowed to escape.”
“We have instructed all of our Krasnoyarsk forces to muster at the Fourteenth’s location.”
“And air support?”
Turning her head, Jaya addressed one of the radar operators. “Status of our interceptors?”
Turning in his swivel chair, the operator answered her, “We have a pair of Superwolves en route, ma’am. ETA ten minutes.”
“Make it nine,” Jaya said.
Approaching the two from behind, Benjamin Archer cleared his throat and addressed them. “It is imperative that Remington be taken alive.”
Blake’s voice l
owered. “Do you really think this is the time to—”
“Yes, I do,” Archer said flatly.
After a brief look among the three of them, Jaya nodded her head. “I will instruct our forces to take Remington into custody unharmed.”
“They can harm him a little,” Archer said as he walked away.
Blake and Jaya exchanged a look before their focus returned to the globe, which zoomed in over the city of Krasnoyarsk. At the far edge of the view, a pair of green dots appeared. The first Superwolves were on their way.
* * *
Krasnoyarsk, Russia
“EVERYONE, HOLD ON,” Travis said over the comm. Pulling back the stick, he brought the Pariah’s nose skyward.
Tiffany grabbed the handrails again. “What are you doing?”
“Going back to the safe house to pick up your friends.”
Her eyes widening, the blonde said, “Don’t go higher to do that! Stay on street level.”
“No time.” Yanking the transport’s nose around, he aimed it at the location of the safe house.
Back in the troop bay, David and Boris were struggling to set the harness in place over Centurion. The colossal Ceratopian continued to grunt in pain with every sharp turn the Pariah made. “Snap it in place!” David said, tossing his end over the alien for Boris to catch. The Russian technician snatched it out of midair and clamped the snap-latch down.
“In place!” Boris said.
* * *
Just as Scott expected, the added EDEN reinforcements had given law enforcement enough to press forward to the safe house. As EDEN operatives and police officers began moving in using automobiles for cover, the Nightmen holding the front of the building began to lose their foothold. Whether from retreat or casualty, every passing minute delivered fewer and fewer streaks of orange assault rifle fire coming from inside the building. The Nightmen were losing.
