The Complete Harvesters Series

by Luke R. Mitchell

  It had taken a good fifteen minutes for her breathing and heart rate to even begin to slow after the fight and the better part of an hour to get her hands to stop shaking.

  And here she was, about to wade into worse than that.

  At least the catcher had worked—that was something. She’d tested it before, of course, but it was a new creation, and given the complexity of the enchantments she’d laid on the device, she’d been more than a little skeptical about whether the thing would successfully stop bullets when it really mattered. Relying on the catcher probably still wasn’t the best idea, but as long as no one got too close to her, she feasibly shouldn’t have to worry about getting shot. She’d have to deal with the cold as the thing drew the energy it required from the air around her, but that was a small price to pay.

  But enough. She’d been watching the Red Fortress long enough to know she wasn’t going to gain any additional insight sitting here. She was only wasting time because she was afraid. If Michael was in there, he could well be running out of time.

  She needed to move, and that meant breaching the Red Fortress.

  In reality, the place looked like more of a fortified factory complex than an honest-to-god fortress. Still, whether or not the place would stand up to heavy artillery wasn’t exactly important right now. It was only her, after all, and the sheer number of armed men in there was more than enough to make the prospect of storming the place sound like suicide.

  Of course, just because she couldn’t walk away didn’t mean she had to go in staff blazing. With a little luck, she might be able to find Michael and slip out before anyone noticed a thing. The perimeter wall would be easy enough to hop. It was the question of what she’d do from there that was twisting her stomach into knots.

  She checked over her gear one last time. Her bullet catcher was ready to go, as was the cloaking pendant hanging from the thin chain at her neck and the twin batteries clipped at the back of her belt. When she was ready to go, she hefted her staff, a much more versatile tool than the rest. It had evolved along with her skills as an arcanist, beginning as little more than a kind of telekinetic battering ram and growing steadily in function and precision alongside her creativity with the arts of channeling and enchanting. It also made a handy whacking stick when the need arose.

  She killed her comm holo and closed her eyes for a long moment, trying to dissipate some of the anxious energy. As if that were going to happen.

  She stood, took one last look, and leapt over the concrete barrier at the edge of the freeway. As the ground rose up to meet her, she focused her mind and channeled the energy of her falling body, redirecting it into telekinetic force applied at an upward angle to slow her fall. A familiar crackling buzz rushed through her head and body as the energy flowed through her, but it was nothing she couldn’t handle.

  Despite having jumped from a height of twenty feet, she touched down as if she’d simply hopped from a small stepladder, no worse for the wear aside from the small expenditure of effort.

  As she stared up at the looming Red Fortress, worried scraps of plans swirling through her mind, only one thing seemed certain: if and when she got Michael out of this whole mess, she owed him one solid kick in the ass.

  SHE COVERED THE DARK STRETCH between the highway and the Fortress wall at a light run, keeping as low and quiet as possible. A few yards from the perimeter wall, she gathered herself and jumped, drawing energy from her surroundings to telekinetically amplify her leap to something well beyond what would be humanly possible. The ten-foot wall passed beneath her, and for a brief second, a small trill of panic rose at the sight of the ground rushing up to meet her on the other side. Then she took another pull of energy, applied another effort of will, and settled safely to the grass inside the perimeter of the Red Fortress.

  She remained frozen for a second.

  No shouts, no shots.

  The only guy in her immediate sight was thirty yards away, headed toward the far end of the complex with his back to her. For the moment, she seemed to be in the clear.

  The yard between the perimeter wall and the Red Fortress itself was lit along its considerable length by several large floodlights. Ample patches of shadow remained beside the stacks of supply crates and lines of transport trucks that populated the space.

  She was moving to take cover behind a line of trucks to wait out the lone patrolman when the sounds of voices and crunching gravel from the direction of the front gate made her stop in her tracks.

  She forced herself to breathe again. With a base this size, people were probably coming and going at all hours. It had nothing to do with her. She was still good.

  That didn’t stop her from flinching when the front gate gave a pair of sharp clicks and began to pull open with a low hum. She covered the last few feet to the nearest truck in a panicked shuffle and hunkered down by its front grill, gripping her staff as if it were the only thing keeping her from plunging to certain death.

  Yeah, she was still good. Definitely.

  Get it together.

  She peered around the front of the truck. A dark SUV pulled through the front gate and headed for the building entrance. She glanced over her shoulder to ensure she was still alone. Ahead, the rear left door of the SUV popped open, and a big guy slid out.

  He only looked around for a second before turning back to the vehicle, but she recognized him. She was sure about that. It would take more than a couple of hours to forget the face of the guy who’d tried to shoot her dead in that awful pub.

  More men began to emerge from the SUV, five in total. She sucked in a breath when she spotted gorilla-man Tom. What the hell were these guys doing here?

  They must have come to track her down for revenge, or at least to tip the Red Fortress off to her. But wait—one of the guys from the back seat had his hands bound behind his back. The possibilities expanded.

  The maybe-prisoner was on the tall side, with dark hair and a lean build. He was the only one of the five she didn’t recognize from earlier. He stood out. As she watched, he had some kind of exchange with Tom, who stepped forward to backhand him. The guy leaned out of harm’s way on the first strike, but the other men immobilized him and Tom threw a sharp jab into his handsome face. The guy shook off the punch, and by the time the five of them turned to head into the Fortress, he actually wore an amused grin.

  She was ready to bolt just observing the interaction. She watched them go, wondering what the guy had done to land himself here, and maybe admiring the view of his retreating backside just a little bit, despite everything else.

  It didn’t matter what he’d done, she reminded herself. She was here for one thing, and the sooner she got Michael, the sooner she’d be able to get out of here. All she had to do was—

  Click.

  Gun. That was a gun.

  She slowly began raising her hands in surrender.

  “Stop. Drop the stick.”

  She did, wondering if the guy could hear the sonorous pounding of her heart. He wasn’t crying for backup yet, at least. That was good.

  There was a rustling sound, then a hand grabbed her shoulder and pulled, turning her around and pressing her back into the truck’s grill. The tense but controlled-looking patrolman kept his pistol trained on her and out of her reach as he extended his other hand with a long length of zip tie.

  “Hands.” He waved the gun to urge her to get to it. “Make ’em tight.”

  He looked like he was about to say it again when she finally got over her initial shock. She slowly took the zip tie and made a show of beginning to pull it closed around her wrist.

  She paused, arriving at a plan. “You’re not gonna shoot me.”

  Before he could say anything (and before she could talk herself out of it), she sprang forward and reached for the patrolman’s face.

  He pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. She’d already locked the pistol’s hammer back in a telekinetic vise grip. The patrolman glanced in surprise at his weapon and then up at her.
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  She closed the last step between them and clamped her hands to the sides of his head. He went slack as she rode their physical contact like a shortcut into his mind and subdued him. She struggled to keep his bulk from collapsing too noisily, then used a combination of telekinesis and old-fashioned dragging to get him into the shadows between two trucks.

  She poked her head back out. They were alone.

  Normally, she made a point of avoiding that kind of use of her telepathic abilities. Diving into another’s mind, manipulating them like that—it felt perverse and wrong. But she wasn’t in any position to be above that right now. She’d wanted a stray patrolman, and here he was.

  She scanned their surroundings more thoroughly with her extended senses and settled down to deliberate on what she was about to do. Once she’d convinced herself there was no other way, she turned her focus to the patrolman and slid into his quiet, vulnerable mind. Her body shuddered at the sensation, but she allowed herself to sink deeper into his head, sifting for thoughts and memories pertaining to Michael.

  It only took a few seconds to begin finding what she was looking for. Once she was this far into someone’s head, searching their memories was nearly as instinctive as recalling her own. Images flashed in her mind’s eye, accompanied by sporadic bursts of sounds and smells and other sensations. She saw Michael arriving in a large transport truck like the one she was currently hiding beside. He’d looked rough and scared, but he’d been okay.

  That was about all this guy had happened to see. But it wouldn’t be all he knew.

  He’d know where Michael was being held.

  The brig, came the dreamlike response.

  He would also know how to get there from here—discreetly. At that thought, a new series of images flashed through her mind, rapid and disjointed in places but coherent enough to paint a picture of an out-of-the-way side door and the way to the brig. From there, she’d have to figure out how to get them out, a thought that conjured a much more confused jumble of thoughts and images from the patrolman’s mind. But she’d gotten what she needed for now.

  She pushed the patrolman into deep unconsciousness and returned her senses in full to her physical body. She was getting ready to move when the patrolman’s comm crackled to life, sending a jolt through her as violently as if it’d been a gunshot.

  A tinny voice asked for a status update.

  Shit.

  She snatched up her staff with sweaty palms, options playing through her head, none of which sounded particularly good.

  Trying to feign a passable response seemed like the worst of them. Running for the hills to formulate a more organized plan with what she’d learned was probably the smartest option.

  But no . . . If she ran now, they’d only beef up their watch when this guy woke up and reported the breach. And that wasn’t to mention Tom’s presence. Even if he was only dropping off a prisoner, all it would take was one mention of the crazy chick who’d attacked the pub looking for Michael Carver, and they’d probably double Michael’s security or maybe even move him.

  No, she couldn’t run. It was now or never.

  Halfway to the door, it occurred to her that she could have dived back into the patrolman’s head and used him like a human puppet to respond to the call. It was too late now, and the thought made her shudder anyway.

  She could still do this. She had to do this.

  She repeated the affirmation to herself over and over as she crept through the compound to her destination. She repeated it when she saw three patrolmen jogging back in the direction she’d come from, their comms alight with chatter. She repeated it again as she drew up to the target door and placed her hand to its surface, extending her senses to probe at the lock.

  She could do this. She had to do th—

  “Hey!” a voice cried from off to her left, yanking her attention away from the delicate task of turning the door lock. “Hold it!”

  Two men jogged toward her from further down the building, one with his weapon raised, the other busy with his comm.

  She turned back to the door, planted the tip of her staff against the lock, and drew in the energy she’d need to blow it out by force.

  So much for the stealthy route.

  5

  Despite whatever airs he’d put on for Michael, Jarek had to admit he was in a tight spot.

  When Mosen had left with Tom and his men, Jarek had thought he might have a chance at getting a drop on Baldy and the other two Reds outside the brig. It turned out Mosen had three more men waiting outside the brig, though, and he’d sent them all to stick with Baldy.

  Jarek was good—damn good, even—but a one-on-six fight against armed, lightly armored opponents? Not exactly a sure thing. Especially not with his hands still tied behind his back.

  So he waited, hoping one or two guards might split off from the group or at least post themselves outside of wherever they were headed. Who knew? If they tried to transfer him to another set of restraints (say, a nice torture rack), he might even get a freebie. When it came to worming his way out of hairy situations, Jarek fell firmly into the school of thought that revolved around flying by the seat of one’s pants, and it hadn’t failed him. Yet.

  He kept up his steady chatter as his chaperones marched him down one dull, dreary hallway after another, asking names and cracking jokes. Talking made him feel better as much as it annoyed the crap out of his guards—a win-win in his mind.

  Inside 120 seconds, Baldy called a halt, shoved a balled-up bandanna into Jarek’s mouth, and covered it with tape. But that was okay. Reactions were good. Upset people made more mistakes, and mistakes just might get Jarek somewhere.

  The next small victory came when Baldy stopped at a door that looked just like the other dozen or so they’d passed, posted two of the six men outside, and funneled Jarek inside. He couldn’t exactly say that was two down, but at least it might momentarily improve the odds.

  His spirits didn’t stay so high for long.

  The small room was as dull and lifeless as the hallways outside, but for the few toys contained within.

  His gaze went straight to the old dentist’s chair in the center of the room. It was fitted with leather wrist and ankle straps well-suited for use in any number of unpleasant activities, and the bloodstains on its tan polymer cover gave clear evidence that many such acts had occurred in its plastic embrace. The rolling surgical cart next to the chair didn’t help matters, topped with a metal tray of blades, pliers, and other cruel tools Jarek had no desire to be on the working end of.

  Baldy was watching him with a cold grin. It looked like his window for action was going to be closing sooner than later.

  Most likely, they’d undo his wrist restraints to strap him into the chair, but if they were even half intelligent, they’d only do that after his ankles were already secured. At that point, he might be able to take down anyone within arm’s reach, but then he’d be stuck until he could undo his restraints. They’d placed the tray of tools out of easy reach of the chair, so buying time with projectiles probably wasn’t a viable option either.

  It was just as well; he’d take mobility over the use of his hands most times, anyway.

  He ran through a rough sequence in his head. Implausible, but it’d have to do.

  Any second now.

  Baldy gestured toward the chair and turned to a set of shelves in the back of the room with an almost bored expression. “You know the drill. Feet first, and—”

  Jarek jumped, planted a foot into the back of the guard in front of him, and kicked off hard enough to twist around and slam his foot into the face of the guard behind him. The first guard cleared the dentist’s chair and came down with a crash of falling tools. The second toppled to the ground beside Jarek as he narrowly avoided falling over himself.

  Cries of surprise joined grunts of pain as he recovered his balance and darted toward the next guard. The guard swept a rifle butt at his head, but he easily dropped underneath the blow and slammed the guard int
o the wall with a hard hip check. From there, he exploded upward to slam the top of his head into the bottom of the guard’s chin.

  He clenched his teeth against the jarring impact and the wet, gurgling noise that followed and pushed on toward Baldy, who looked a lot less bored now. Baldy backpedaled into the wall, clawing for his sidearm.

  “You son of a—”

  Baldy’s words turned to a grunting whoosh of air as Jarek planted a hard boot sole in his chest. He added a kick to the side of the bastard’s head to keep him down, then lunged for the first guard he’d kicked, who was recovering from the sea of spilled tools. He drove a knee into the side of the guard’s head, crumpling him into a slack heap.

  He panted heavily through his nose, cursing Baldy’s gag, and looked around for something, anything, to quickly sever his bonds.

  The hallway door burst open.

  He spun around, preparing to throw himself over the chair in some manner of wild aerial kick. There was a flash of red eyes, and then Seth Mosen cleared the chair and hit him in a flying tackle.

  The world became a blurred, confused series of brutally solid impacts with Mosen’s bulk, the wall behind him, and, finally, the hard concrete floor.

  Considerable pain clawed its way out from his disorientation. He rolled onto his back and gasped into his gag at the pain the movement sent lancing through his right shoulder.

  The two guards from the hall were already inside the room, poking and prodding Baldy and the others back to awareness.

  Mosen frowned down at the unconscious guard beside him and prodded him with his boot, then shot Jarek a grin that made his insides shrivel.

  “If you want a job done right . . .”

  “Tell me about it,” Jarek tried unsuccessfully to say past his gag.

  It wasn’t like he had anything of substance to add anyway. He was too busy working to close his fingers around one of the tools he’d landed on—the one that felt mercifully similar to the handle of a box cutter.