Exactly as Gabe had predicted.
“Blair, you’re with me,” he said. “The rest of you, be ready to leave at a moment’s notice.”
“You said twenty hours,” a Gear complained.
Gabe held up a hand. “You have your orders. Blair, let’s move.”
He didn’t wait for a response. Gabe slipped back into the jungle, following the path Ciprian had taken. The scrawny man must have jogged, because he was already out of sight, and that was okay. Gabe kept his pace casual, not wanting to arrive too soon.
“Going to tell me what this is all about?” Blair asked as they moved beneath the lush canopy. Then she added, “Sir?”
Gabe swatted a branch aside, then ducked under another.
“Call it a hunch, if you like.”
“Is there going to be trouble?”
Gabe considered that.
“Maybe. Keep your sidearm at the ready, but holstered. Understood?”
She nodded. Blair knew when to ask questions and when to keep quiet. The rest of their walk passed in silence.
After a few minutes they reached a huge banyan tree. Gabe could see the village just beyond it. And people, too. A lot of them. He rounded the massive tree and slowed to a stop.
It seemed as if the entire village had gathered, but it wasn’t him they were waiting for. No, their attention was entirely on the lone hut that faced west, up on the low hill.
Ciprian’s house.
Gabe stepped into the clearing, with Blair just behind him on his right. A branch snapped under his foot.
The villagers turned and stared at him, instinctively parting to let him and his companion into their midst. At the front of the gathering was not Ciprian, but the matriarch. While everyone else had turned to look at Gabe, she had not. Her gaze was fixed firmly on the western-facing hut.
The woman started to speak. Gabe knew a few words of the local tongue, but her rapid-fire barrage of guttural noises came way too fast for him to make anything out. Except for two words.
Gear, and hostage.
Gabe realized suddenly that the fishermen gathered around were all armed, insofar as they could be. A few carried old pistols or small caliber hunting rifles. Most had machetes or axes. Their expressions were as varied as the weapons they carried. Anger, determination, fear, or simple confusion.
“What the hell’s going on?” Blair asked, whispering out the side of her mouth.
“Relax, and let’s keep our hands where they can see them, hmm?”
“If you say so,” she replied.
Gabe demonstrated by holding his own hands out, palms down. When the matron finally turned and looked at him, he pointed toward the hut on the hillside.
“A Gear?” he asked.
She nodded, once. Gruff. Disgusted.
“And… Cipi?” he asked. The woman nodded again. It occurred to him then that he didn’t know which of the men was the hostage, and which the captor. That didn’t seem to matter too much at the moment. He lifted the Lancer off his shoulder and held it out to Blair.
“Is that wise?” she asked.
“Ask me again in ten minutes.” Then he handed her his Snub pistol, too.
Blair took the weapons, stowing them as best she could. Still holding his hands out, Gabe walked slowly toward the trail, watching the matron instead of the house. Once he’d made it a few steps away from the group, her eyes narrowed, as if to say, “That’s far enough.” Gabe stopped there.
“Wyatt?” he called out.
No reply. The house was silent. The whole island seemed to have gone silent, in fact.
Gabe moved a little farther up the path, now halfway to the hut.
“Wyatt?” he called out again, louder.
“That you, Gabe?” his brother replied.
“Yeah.”
“Come on up,” Wyatt said. “You were right, brother.”
Glancing back, Gabe saw concern in most of the villagers’ eyes. Some were afraid. Several more looked angry. But it was the glare of the matriarch that gave him pause. Her look told him that whatever was going on here, it better be over soon, or there would be trouble.
“Are you coming?” Wyatt called from the hut.
“Working on it,” Gabe replied.
“You need to see this.”
“Blair,” Gabe said, “give their leader my pistol. Slowly.”
Though it was clear from her pinched expression that Blair wasn’t thrilled with this idea, she nevertheless drew the weapon—carefully—and held it out to the matriarch, grip first, as if it were a gift being offered to a queen.
The woman eyed it with contempt, however. Instead of taking it, she glanced at one of the men near her and jerked her chin toward the offered pistol, muttering a few quick words in her language.
The man took the weapon. To Gabe’s surprise, he checked the clip and the safety. Former military, maybe? It didn’t matter. He was the one the matriarch trusted with such a thing, and Gabe thought that was a good sign.
The thought proved correct a second later, when the old woman motioned for the man to join Gabe on the trail.
“Together,” the man said as he approached, nodding toward Ciprian’s hut. “Go together.”
“Yes,” Gabe said, relieved. This was what he’d wanted. Someone from the village, other than Ciprian, to witness what was in that hut.
They moved the rest of the way up the trail in silence. Gabe kept his hands out at his sides, holding them flat and visible. His escort remained a few steps behind, saying nothing as they approached the door to the small building. The thin wooden door was slightly ajar. Gabe pulled it open.
The home was a single room, a little more than ten feet on a side. On the south wall was the door, flanked by some simple cooking gear. The north wall was pressed against the hilltop. On the east and west walls there were large windows that afforded almost unbroken views in those directions. The open sea to the west, and a large portion of the Lesser Islands to the east.
There was a bed in one corner, and a cage where Cipi’s monkey now sat, looking bored. It curled its lips at Gabe, but made no sound. A cabinet was tucked into the corner beside the bed.
Gabe’s attention, though, was immediately drawn to the desk under the western-facing window. It was narrow, the surface well worn. Resting atop it were a pair of binoculars, a candle in a brass holder, notepads, and an old tin mug full of pens. In front of the desk sat a chair with wheels, discarded from an office somewhere. It had been used so much there were visible tracks across the wooden floor, stretching between the west and east windows.
Ignoring Wyatt and Cipi, Gabe crossed to the desk and flipped open the notepad on top of the pile. Within he saw a series of log entries. Times, dates, and—most telling—the registration identifiers of the various COG patrol boats stationed at Vectes. “CNV 146, North-northwest at appox 12 knots.” Dozens of entries, on just this one page, dating back several weeks. The other pads no doubt contained more of the same.
“It’s just as I thought,” Gabe said to himself, looking out the big window at the horizon, knowing for certain that this was the window where he’d seen a candle burning, just before that first fateful landing on Knifespire.
Standing there, it was easy to imagine Ciprian staring out with his binoculars, observing every ship that passed, then wheeling to the other window to watch them complete their patrol routes.
“It’s worse than you thought, actually,” Wyatt said.
Gabe turned.
Wyatt stood near the cabinet by the bed, his MX8 pistol pointed at Ciprian’s left temple. The terrified man was on his knees, staring at the floor, blubbering and shaking. A couple of feet away, a floorboard had been lifted and set aside, revealing a hidden space.
A rectangular object was nestled within. Gabe recognized it immediately. This, too, he’d expected.
It was a UIR radio. Military grade.
“Son of a bitch went straight to it,” Wyatt noted. “Just like you told me he would. Reported everyt
hing he overheard on the beach. I assume it was everything.”
Gabe stared at the object, nodding slowly.
“There’s more,” Wyatt said, which didn’t surprise Gabe, either.
His brother tossed something to him. Gabe caught it, turning it over in his hands. Behind him, the villager who’d followed him up the path came closer, peering over Gabe’s shoulder.
In his hands were a pair of night-vision goggles. UIR issue, not COG.
Gabe nodded once more as a hollow feeling began to grow in his gut. What was it Cipi had said? A green-eyed demon, who’d killed a little boy? The kind of goggles the Gorasni sometimes carried had a greenish tint. Cipi probably wore these when he ventured out to meet with them, receiving his pay or other supplies. Cypher pads.
“And this, too,” Wyatt added.
He kicked something with his boot. A bundle of fabric, long and flat. Gabe hadn’t spotted it before, but now it slid a few inches from Wyatt’s foot and into the light.
There was dried blood on the burlap cloth.
Nudging it with the toe of his boot, Wyatt unrolled the bundle to reveal a machete with more of the dried blood on it.
The reaction from Gabe’s escort was immediate. The man turned back to the door, stepping outside. He whistled loudly to the villagers gathered in the clearing below, then shouted several urgent words that Gabe did not understand. Immediately there came a commotion from down there. Everyone talking at once. Someone cried out in sudden, terrible grief.
Gabe let out a breath. Cipi, kneeling on the floor, had gone still too, save for the occasional sniveling. Wyatt pressed his gun harder into the poor man’s scalp.
“He’s a spy, Gabe, but he’s also a murderer. I’d bet my life on it.”
“Just relax, Wyatt.”
Someone was running up the path. Blair, as it turned out, looking ready to tackle someone. She stopped cold at the scene inside the hut, but kept her mouth closed.
Wyatt ignored her. He was still working himself up, the rage growing on his face with each word he spoke. “The kid who died probably saw something he shouldn’t have. So this asshole killed him.”
Gabe stepped forward, his hands out once again. He needed to get Wyatt under control, and quickly.
“He came in and transmitted his report?” Gabe asked. “This is important, Wyatt. What exactly did he say?”
Focused on the enemy spy, Wyatt rattled off a reasonably complete version of Gabe’s speech. All the important details were there: the makeup of the fleet coming from Vectes, when they would arrive, and the fact that the base was being left virtually undefended.
“Fucking hell,” Blair muttered. “Why didn’t you stop him? That’s our entire plan. And you stood by and listened?”
“I told him to,” Gabe said, before Wyatt could answer.
Blair’s mouth hung open. “Why, sir?”
“Yeah, why?” his brother echoed. “I still don’t get it. Why’d you tell me to wait? To let him do it? They know we’re coming now.”
Gabe looked at them both. He took no satisfaction in his answer. “It’s Imulsion, Wyatt. Of course the COG will come. If Cipi had said otherwise they would have known we’d caught him. Forced a false report out of him. This way, they’ll believe it.”
His brother squinted at him, baffled. “’Course they’ll believe it, because it’s what we’re going to do. You’ve gone mad, brother. You just told the enemy our plan.”
“Listen to me. They think they have twenty hours,” Gabe explained. “We’re going to be there in five.”
A glimmer in Wyatt’s eye emerged, but the gun remained planted against Ciprian’s head.
“But,” Gabe added, speaking with exaggerated calm, “only if you relax and let me handle this.”
“Relax?” Wyatt demanded. “What the hell, brother? We should execute him. Right now. It’s our right. Our duty. We lost a lot of Gears and sailors because of this piece of shit.”
“Going to have to trust me on this one,” Gabe said to him. Then he stepped aside, just as the footsteps on the path reached the hut. Men and women from the village suddenly crowded the door, weapons raised. They seemed unsure who should be the focus of their concern. Seconds passed before the old woman pushed between them and entered.
She cast her gaze around the room. Cipi, the hidden parcel with the bloodied machete inside, the notebooks full of his careful observations. The UIR radio. The candle. She was quick to draw the right conclusions. A wise woman, as Gabe knew she would be.
“So it was you, Ciprian,” she said. The man who’d escorted Gabe translated in a low, somber tone. “You. A green-eyed demon was seen that night. I think of all those times you brought up the child, poor Lexi, and you wondered if perhaps what had really been seen were soldiers. That they had killed him. Gears.”
“Wasn’t us,” Blair said, and held up her own set of goggles. Switched on, the glow they cast was a dull red, barely visible even in the gloom of the tiny hut. “Of course, he wouldn’t have known that little detail, would he?”
“He planned to pin it on us,” Wyatt added. “Turn his village against the COG.”
The old woman eyed the device, but this last bit of evidence was unnecessary. She turned her considerable glare on the cowering man once again. “It… was… you. I name you murderer!” She spat on the floor between herself and Ciprian.
Cipi bowed his head, defeated. Lost. He made no denial.
Gabe finally stepped between her and the dejected man on the floor.
“He killed one of yours,” Gabe said. “But he’s also responsible for the deaths of many of my people. Friends. Good men and women. And he disgraced your customs, taking a side and aiding the Gorasni. Making your island a target.”
Wyatt made a noise at the back of his throat, but Gabe cut it off with a sharp glance.
“Justice,” the woman said, “is ours to exact.”
Again Wyatt started to complain, but, as he had so often in his life, he deferred to Gabe’s example. The matriarch went on.
“Still, you have done us a great service, uncovering his crimes. You still must leave here, but we will give you what aid we can. Food, medicine.”
Gabe waited for the translation, then nodded and asked what he’d intended to all along. “I’m afraid we need a bit more than that.”
She eyed him. “Go on.”
“Two things. First, we need some clothing. The sort of thing your fishermen wear when out at sea.” This gave her pause, and yielded a puzzled glare that became suspicious, but she nodded all the same.
“Done. And the other?”
Gabe gestured toward their village.
“We need boats.”
13: BLOOD IN THE WATER
The village’s gratitude translated into a gift of ten small fishing boats that looked to be only days away from a short trip to the ocean floor. Yet their decrepit state was also, Gabe thought, perfect for what he needed.
And besides, it was more than he’d dared hope for. Exposing Ciprian as a spy who was putting this village at risk and flaunting their tradition of neutrality was one thing, but also bringing to light the murder he’d committed? That had sealed the deal in a way Gabe hadn’t quite anticipated.
Yes, he thought, he could do a lot with ten boats, no matter their seaworthiness.
He and his Gears watched as the vessels were guided into the cove one by one, a process that took until late afternoon. As the villagers disembarked and walked away, it was with an air of mixed emotions that Gabe could appreciate. They were grateful, but perhaps just as importantly, they wanted the COG off their island, immediately.
“That modified comm still working?” Gabe asked Gian.
She said it was.
“Good. Put Wyatt and my armor back together if you can, but first I’ll need to talk to base again in a minute. Can you raise them and have someone on standby?”
She nodded.
Gabe thanked her, then climbed up onto the deck of the nearest fishing boat.
/> For the second time that day, he gathered his troops around. They were on the beach now, not bothering to hide. Gabe noted that, as per his orders, each and every one of them was fully suited up and ready to go.
“The plan I told you about earlier was a lie,” he said, voice raised. “A lie not meant for you but for an Indie spy, who reported it exactly as I’d hoped.”
The Gears and sailors below him exchanged glances.
Gabe held up a hand. “Don’t get your hopes up. It was a lie, but not entirely a lie. There is Imulsion on Knifespire, and we are going back. Just much, much sooner than the enemy expects. We’ll catch them unaware or, even better, asleep. It’s our only chance to win that island.”
Gabe slapped the railing before him. “Blair will split you up into squads as best she can, and divide our remaining ammo evenly. We sail in twenty minutes.”
The faces before him hardened, thanks to the immediacy of his words. This was no vague battle that might happen tomorrow. This was real. This was now.
They got to work.
Satisfied, Gabe went to Gian and her improvised comm. Hoffman and Phillips were waiting for him.
“Keep the fleet there,” Gabe said. He explained before Hoffman could accuse him of cowardice for trying to call off the attack. “We’re going to Knifespire now, in fishing boats. No time to explain, but it means we’ll have boots on the ground in a few hours instead of nearly a day. What’s more, the enemy is likely to reroute a large portion of its fleet to Vectes, which is why you might want to keep some firepower down there.”
“What?!” Phillips exploded. “What the hell did you do, Diaz?”
“The only thing that makes sense,” Gabe snapped. “Besides, it’s done, so listen up, because I have a plan and I’m going to need your help for it to work.”
“You’re not the one giving orders here,” his Captain roared.
It was Hoffman who responded to her, though, speaking before Gabe could.
“I don’t know, Phillips, it seems like he is.”
* * *
The boats puttered toward Knifespire, their aging wooden hulls creaking with each crest of a wave and groaning with the slap against the cool waters that immediately followed.
Gears of War Page 19