by Jim Roberts
“See for yourself.” Graves beckoned the Centurion over to the Hummer. The armored trooper shone a flashlight into the backseat as Graves said, “That’s Krieger—one of the Peacemaker’s finest.”
The Centurion seemed to snap out of his lethargy. Krieger snarled from the seat, trying to make the whole thing look good. “Goddamn it!” exclaimed the Centurion, “How did you—”
“Caught him trying to make it back to Juba,” replied Graves. “Thought the Praefectus would have a bit of interest in him.”
“Indeed he would,” the Centurion said, eagerly gesturing to his men to open the gate. “Get him inside. I’ll radio the Praefectus to meet you at the barracks motorcade.”
“Thanks. Olympus diu vivere.” Graves spoke the Olympus motto Caedra had taught him, stumbling a bit on the Latin words.
The Centurion didn’t seem to notice. “Glory to Olympus, brother.”
Getting back in the Hummer and closing the door, Graves let out a sigh of relief. As the Hummer started moving, Krieger said, “Good work, I think they bought it.”
“We ain’t done by a long shot,” Graves said as he steered the Hummer through the narrow depot courtyard. To the side of them a few dozen feet away were the refueling tanks.
Krieger peered out, noting the location of the tanks. “Now remember, I’m the celebrity here, so once they are all on me, you need to get over to the tanks and not pull any attention. All you Centurions look alike, so hopefully you can do it before they beat me to death.”
Graves nodded in understanding. With a free moment, he reached over and grasped the radio on the seat beside him. Clicking it on, Grave’s said, “Caedra, we’re in. What’s your sitrep?”
“Looking good here,” replied Caedra’s voice through the receiver. “Fog’s getting thick. You boys may be on your own for a bit down there if it doesn’t settle.”
Krieger spoke up from behind Graves. “Tell her not to worry pretty head. She’s not the one about to be beaten to pieces.”
“Tell the Russian I can hear him just fine,” Caedra’s voice said through the radio, with a hint of annoyance. “Good luck.”
“Thanks,” said Graves before clicking off the radio. “Are you ready?” he asked Krieger.
“Da, my friend.”
“See you on the other side, Alexei.”
“Krieger, mudak.”
The gun-runner sighed behind his helmet. “Never change, brother.”
Graves brought the Hummer to a stop at the tiny motorcade in front of the steel barracks. Even with the overhead floodlights beaming brightly, the mist was still thick as Heinz. Ahead of them, a procession of Centurions and other Olympus types were assembling to meet the infamous Peacemaker.
In front of them all was the Olympus Praefectus. Wearing the impressive-looking silver armor underneath the gaudy red regalia of an Olympus command type, he stood among his men like an obelisk. Stopping the Hummer, Graves got out gave the commandant the formal Olympus salute.
“My lord, my unit caught this man attempting to flee Equatoria.” Graves moved back to the passenger door. “Alright, you, get out!” He opened the door and—none-too gently—grasped Krieger by the hair, hauled him out and dropped him to his knees on the ground in front of the crowd.
“Watch it, Olympus bastard!” the Russian swore, playing up the facade for all it was worth.
Graves answered by bringing his rifle butt into Krieger’s chest, hard. The Russian doubled over for a moment before looking up and spitting a mouthful of blood onto the pretend-Centurion. Graves gave him a solid backhand across the face. He was about to hit him again when a voice rang out within the misty courtyard.
“Enough, Centurion,” said the Praefectus, standing hands clasped behind his back, flanked by his bodyguard of two Praetorians. The troopers wore the traditional coyote-shaped helmets and carried wicked-looking katana swords on their backs. “You’ve done well,” the Praefectus said to Graves. “Come join your brothers.”
Graves lowered his hand. He turned to the Praefectus and bowed before moving to stand with the other Centurions, who by now had formed a semi-circle around Krieger. He saw that his arrival had drawn most, if not all of the Centurions in the depot out to watch his demise.
Good…so far it’s working.
“So...the great Krieger,” the Praefectus spoke, his voice heavily modulated through his helmet. “A killer feared like some sort of boogeyman, whose own foolish luck has inconceivably allowed him to survive against the greatest private military on earth all these years.” He shook his head in disbelief. “It was Saladin’s error in not dealing with you back at the village. An error I don’t intend to replicate.”
Defiantly, the Peacemaker stared the Olympus bigwig straight in his faceless helmet. “You had one chance already and still here I am. Perhaps you should try killing me this time and not stand there scratching your balls.”
A few of the Centurions started laughing. A single motion from the Praefectus silenced them. Walking forward through the foggy courtyard, the Praefectus stood within a meter’s length of the Russian. Krieger looked up at the man, marveling at how tall and well built the Olympus commandant was.
“I and my other comrades have lost many good brothers to you and your band of terrorists, Peacemaker,” the Praefectus said. He seemed to be making an example of Krieger for his men. “You look at yourselves as some sort of liberating force, following the wishes of your pathetic, corrupt country like mindless fools. You’re nothing more than a dog. A pathetic, dying breed about to be wiped from the face of the earth.”
“Like you wiped out that innocent village back there?” Krieger interjected.
The question did not seem to bother the Olympus commandant. “That village was a means to an end. The Hammer of Mars is Olympus’s return to glory and will give us the control we will need in what is to come.” The Praefectus made a show of adjusting his gauntleted hands before saying, “And here I was thinking this was going to be a boring night.”
Krieger cast his gaze behind the Praefectus. He’d kept the corner of his eye on Graves’ position during the Olympus bigwig’s long-winded spiel. He spotted the gun-runner inching away from the other Centurions, trying to make his way toward the fuel tanks.
Krieger knew he had to buy his friend some time. He looked up at the Praefectus and said, “You know I don’t think I ever met a single Olympus scum-sucking maggot bastard who could hit worth shit.”
The Praefectus let out a chuckle from his helmet. “Oh, really?” With a grunt, the man landed a vicious right cross against Krieger’s face. The gauntlet on his hand ripped open the Russian’s cheek, sending blood flowing into his mouth. Krieger dropped to his side for a moment, but only long enough to think up another insult.
“With a pussy punch like that, you must give very shitty handjobs, mudak.”
Several Centurions laughed at the remark. The Praefectus shot them a look. “Silence!” Turning back, he smashed Krieger hard in the stomach with his boot, doubling the Peacemaker over in pain. Behind the Praefectus, the Centurions started to whoop and yell, enjoying the spectacle before them. “What I am going to do to you, Peacemaker, will make your ancestors weep.”
The threat did not get the response he was after.
Krieger let out a long, mocking laugh that echoed through the depot.
“It was your ancestors that were weeping when I got off your mama yesterday!”
More laughter from the Centurions. The Praefectus hit him again, harder this time. A sharp snap in his chest told Krieger he’d broken a rib. Wincing through the pain, he looked over to see where Graves was, but couldn’t spot him.
Dammit. Where was he?
* * *
LAYING PRONE at the edge of the ridgeline above the depot, Caedra peered through the infrared scope of the Sako TRG-42 sniper rifle, keeping a close eye on the action below. She’d found a decent enough blind that gave her a solid view of the facility, though the heavy fog threatened to obscure her targets at times
.
With the Sako stabilized on a rock, she swept the area, counting the tangos gathered at the motorcade. She had to give the Russian credit—his suicidal plan was actually working. All but a small handful of Centurions were now crowded within a short distance of Krieger. Moving the crosshairs over to the edge of the gathering, she spotted Graves, identifiable by the ACR slung on his back. She watched the gun-runner move away from the crowd of Centurions as they busied themselves with Krieger.
Come on, hurry up, she thought to herself, as if willing the man would make things go quicker. There was no telling how long Krieger would last down there. If Graves couldn’t get that C4 into position soon, the Praefectus would beat him to death.
Caedra brought her rifle back to the commotion, leveling the crosshairs at the man in the silver armor.
This was the man who ordered the death of her comrades.
She knew that after what was to come Krieger would never trust her again, maybe would even try to kill her.
But this needed to be done—and she’d picked the perfect patsy to pull her plan off.
Placing her finger on the trigger, she relaxed and waited for the signal.
CHAPTER TWELVE
ANOTHER FIST blasted Krieger hard in the face, sending him backward in a heap. His vision doubled and he had to hold back from vomiting. In front of him, the Praefectus stood like some brutal effigy in the mist—a thing of unstoppable power.
“Anything left, Krieger?” the Praefectus asked, shaking out his sore hand, “or are you all talk after all?”
The Russian rolled over on his side, searching the area desperately.
Then, he spotted him.
Graves had moved back to join the other Centurions. As inconspicuously as he could manage, the gun-runner gave him a quick hand signal that all was ready.
Krieger nodded. Turning back to the Olympus commandant, he said, “Alright, alright, enough!”
The Praefectus seemed surprised. “Enough? Please, we’re just getting started...”
“No, wait, I beg you, I need to tell you something important.”
Amused, the Praefectus silenced the surrounding Centurions. “What, no more smart remarks?”
“No…it is something I must say. Something I must tell you…”
“Well make it quick,” the Praefectus said, enjoying the moment, “We don’t have all night now, do we?”
The Centurions laughed. Krieger got to his knees, spitting a gout of blood into the dirt.
“No,” he said, looking up at the Praefectus. “You were right. I am a dog. Always have been. But there is one thing I know—”
The Praefectus listened, unsure where the Peacemaker was going with this.
Krieger tensed himself and said, “—I am a dog of war. So welcome to my war now, asshole!”
With that, he snapped the pre-cut bonds behind his back and dropped to the ground just as Graves activated the C4.
The charge detonated the fuel canisters, rocking the entire depot with a thunderous explosion that sent a torrent of flame and smoke buffeting across the area. Four Centurions standing too close were instantly swallowed by the blast. The rest were knocked off their feet or rocked to their knees by the discharge. The fire almost seemed to ignite the mist itself, illuminating the area for a few seconds.
Rocked by the explosion, Krieger managed to shake off the initial shock and look up just in time as the Praefectus was thrown off his feet by the impact of a bullet sent from Caedra’s sniper rifle. The Olympus commandant landed hard on the ground and didn’t move.
Krieger didn’t wait another second. Ignoring the pieces of flaming debris that scorched him, he scuttled back to the Hummer, reached under the front grille, and grasped the AA-12 auto shotgun he and Graves had duct-taped to the undercarriage with a roll he’d found in the back of the Toyota. Ripping it off, he pulled the weapon out and leveled it at the crew of dazed Centurions ahead of him.
“Eat it, bastards!” Krieger shouted as he let loose a burst of fire from the gun. Instantly four Centurions were caught by the high-ex flechette rounds and shredded like cheddar.
Two more Centurions were caught by back-to-back shots from Caedra—the heavy magnum rounds slotting the troopers in the head and exploding them like grapefruits.
Across from Krieger, Graves—still in his disguise—used the confusion to tag three Centurions with his ACR; putting them down like cattle in a slaughterhouse. Trusting that his friend had his back for a moment, Krieger leaped over the hood of the Hummer into the cover it provided just as the remaining Centurions regained their wits and brought their FN F2000 rifles to bear on him. He pulled his head down as a flurry of gunfire erupted from the troopers, perforating the opposite side of the Hummer.
Krieger took the brief second of time to take stock of the situation. So far they’d managed to tag over a dozen Centurions in the first furious seconds of the firefight—an astounding piece of luck.
That wasn’t going to last long. He’d lost track of the two Praetorians guarding the Praefectus. Knowing full well they could be utilizing their optic camouflage, Krieger had to assume they could be anywhere right now.
A bullet plunked into the Hummer door beside Krieger, missing him by an inch. Straight ahead were two Centurions, bolting across the flame-ridden courtyard, firing their weapons at him. Staying as low as possible, Krieger scampered around the front end of the Hummer, away from their line of sight. Spotting the two Centurions, he raised the AA-12 and let loose several shots, tagging the men and sending their bodies into a gruesome dance of death. The flechette ammo blew limbs from torsos as the auto shotgun minced the troopers where they stood.
All but one of the Centurions that had been in the semi-circle were now dead. The last one thought he had a solid shot for Krieger’s head and had managed to raise his battle rifle to his shoulder when another gunshot barked from outside the depot. Instantly, the Centurion’s helmet burst apart, showering the ground beneath him in a rain of gore.
Caedra.
Krieger looked up and gave a wave towards the Vagabond soldier’s hiding place several hundred feet away.
“Alexei! The Praetorians! Behind you!”
Graves's voice shook Krieger out of his momentary triumph. Spinning around, the big Russian barely had time to dodge aside as the Praetorians reappeared in front of him, their razor-sharp katana swords drawn and held at the ready.
“Oh, you’ve got to be joking,” Krieger said, clutching the shotgun. The first Praetorian moved quickly, leaping forward while bringing his blade across in a wide arc. Krieger narrowly managed to dodge the attack, but it cost him his footing, and he stumbled.
The Praetorian was about to press the advantage when he heard Graves’ voice call out to him.
“Alexei, duck!”
Without thinking, Krieger bent forward. The Praetorian barely had time to register what was happening before Graves, standing across the courtyard, injected a steady burst of 5.56mm rounds straight through the coyote-shaped helmet, blowing it and the head behind it to bits. The elite stealth trooper’s nerveless hands dropped the katana beside Krieger before falling in a heap on the ground.
Krieger turned to look at his friend. “Now that is what I’m talking about!” he said, giving Graves a thumbs up.
Graves yanked off the helmet. His smile was wide on his dark face. “Like the old days, huh, Alexei?”
Krieger’s smile vanished as he saw something appear behind Graves, backlit by the burning fuel tanks. It appeared as if from nowhere—
—the other Praetorian.
“Graves! Look out!”
The gun-runner had no chance. Before he could even react, a solid steel blade erupted from his chest. Graves’ eyes went wide in shock as the Praetorian’s katana skewered him. He dangled on the blade for a moment before the trooper yanked the weapon out, sending the man to the dirt.
“Noooo!” Rage clouded Krieger’s mind. He reached down and grasped the katana beside him. With a loud roar, he exploded to
wards the remaining Praetorian. The trooper met his feral attack well, parrying Krieger’s initial thrust. Heat from the burning fuel tanks beside him seared Krieger’s eyes. He engaged the Praetorian in a deadly dance of blades—swinging, retorting, and parrying blow after blow as each warrior attempted to get the upper hand. The Praetorian was a trained swordsman and was quickly figuring out his opponent. At an impasse, the two men locked weapons, each trying to overpower the other.
Krieger knew his enemy would have the fight won any second now.
So he did the first thing that popped into his mind.
He barked at the man.
Eyes wild with fury, Krieger let out a loud shout directly into the Praetorian’s face. It caused a single second of trepidation in the Olympus soldier—which was all Krieger needed.
Bracing himself, the Peacemaker pulled his blade to the side, breaking the contest. Reversing his grip, he brought the pommel of the sword up into the Praetorian’s helmet, momentarily staggering him. Then, as if it was second nature, Krieger swung the sword low and stuck the trooper directly through the solar plexus, slicing into the soft segment of armor over top. The Praetorian shook like a minnow on a hook for a moment before Krieger yanked the blade out and swung it once more—lopping the trooper’s head from his body. Blood from the gruesome corpse sprayed across the big Russian’s chest and face before dropping to the ground.
Krieger was left standing amidst a sea of bodies and flame.
He heard movement off to his side. Looking over, he saw two Centurions on shaky legs rush towards him, assault rifles at the ready.
Krieger faced the Centurions, backlit by the rising flames of the still-burning fuel tanks. His naked torso was covered in the blood of his enemies, his eyes wild with fury and bloodlust.
To the fevered, Stream-withdrawn minds of the Centurions, he appeared as a dark angel rising from the jungle.
A true dog of war.
Krieger pointed the katana at the men. “Alright—who else wants to die?”