The Complete Harvesters Series

by Luke R. Mitchell

  Now he just had to figure out how to use the damn thing without being blatantly obvious.

  He considered trying to scoot over to prop himself against the wall, but before he could move, Mosen bent down, gathered a handful of his shirt and one pants leg, and plucked him off the ground as if he weighed no more than a sack of potatoes. Ripping sounds from his shirt confirmed that he was in fact still a nearly two-hundred-pound man, but Mosen didn’t seem to pay the fact much mind as he moved around the chair and tossed Jarek roughly down on it.

  To his surprise, Mosen tore the tape from his mouth before moving to secure his legs. He caught the awkward kick Jarek aimed at his face and forced Jarek’s leg down to the chair with the strength of a pneumatic press.

  Jarek’s tongue and throat were burning with effort by the time he managed to spit out the wadded bandanna and take a luxurious, full breath.

  “You been hittin’ the weights, Mosen?”

  He continued struggling, mostly to buy time, as he set to work extending the blade of the box cutter and trying to shift it into a workable position without stabbing himself.

  “Or has that Overlord of yours been letting you dip into his special stash?”

  Mosen ignored him and gestured for one of the Reds to come help him with the straps.

  “Look,” Jarek said as one of the guys he’d kicked came around and grabbed aggressively at his left leg. “I like you guys and all, but I’m not sure I’m ready for this kind of adventure yet.”

  His voice might have stayed level, but as Mosen secured the strap on his right ankle and impatiently reached over to secure his left leg for his struggling assistant, Jarek felt the first wave of deep, genuine terror.

  He’d been tortured once or twice before—okay, exactly twice, and despite what he might tell Pryce or anyone else, he hadn’t emerged the same person from either encounter. The look in Mosen’s cold eyes, coupled with the feeling of the second strap tightening down on his ankle, brought those memories too close to the surface.

  He clenched his jaw and got to work with the box cutter, moving the tool back and forth in maddeningly tiny sweeps until the first tie gave way.

  Baldy came around to join Mosen at Jarek’s feet.

  “What do you want with Carver?” Mosen asked.

  He took a steadying breath. “He owes me a Coke. What do you think I want with him? You can’t piece that one together for yourselves?”

  He shifted the little blade and began working on the second tie with a sinking feeling that this escape plan was going nowhere. At least not before a few hours of agonizing pain. Still, he wasn’t about to throw in the towel while he still had some angle to play.

  Mosen gave Baldy a meaningful glance. Baldy began rooting around on the floor, collecting his tools on the metal tray with the air of a chef gathering the ingredients for a cake.

  Mosen laid a hand on Jarek’s right shin. For a second, the gesture was merely creepy. Then came sharp, piercing pain as Mosen pushed his thumb against his tibia hard enough that he thought the bone might actually break.

  Strapped down like this, anticipating much worse to come, he couldn’t help but buck against his restraints and let out a pained grunt.

  “Come on,” he half-shouted. The second tie gave way to his cutter. “You know what I’m doing here!”

  Mosen squeezed harder. Jarek gnashed his teeth. His leg was going to break, and he was going to end up trapped in the Fortress like Michael. Al and Pryce had been right.

  He forced himself to begin sawing at the third tie anyway.

  Mosen opened his mouth just as an alarm buzzed through the room, echoed a second later by the same sound from the hallway. His grip on Jarek’s leg loosened as he exchanged a confused look with the others. The alarm blared again.

  The sound was like music to Jarek’s ears, and he found himself chuckling at the spark of hope in his chest and the beginnings of a plan in his head.

  Mosen stepped around the chair and brought his face close to Jarek’s. “What the hell is this?”

  Jarek beamed his best devil-may-care smile. “You don’t really think I’d come here without a backup plan, do you?”

  Of course, that was exactly what he’d done, but none of these guys knew that.

  “Bullshit,” Mosen said.

  Jarek looked up, squinting in mock concentration. If he could get this freakishly strong bastard out of the room (preferably along with a few of his cronies), maybe he could make use of his soon-to-be-free hands. “You hear that, Mosen?”

  Mosen frowned, listening. Jarek did the same in earnest and was surprised to detect the faint report of distant automatic gunfire.

  What the hell was happening out there? Could it be the Resistance coming to collect Michael? Unlikely. A rival outfit seemed even less likely, mostly because the Red King didn’t have rivals. Except for the Overlord, who was actually his boss.

  He managed to keep his mischievous superiority act rolling as Mosen focused back on him and the alarm continued to blare.

  “Here they come!” He waggled his eyebrows as if he knew what he was talking about.

  A second later, two of the unmuted comms in the room crackled out the same message: “Intruder on base, last seen breaching the northeastern patrol outlet.”

  He couldn’t have asked for more perfect timing. But had they said “intruder”? Singular?

  Now wasn’t the time to worry about that.

  For a second, Mosen looked as if he might just tear into Jarek with his teeth. Then he turned to Baldy. “Keep him secure, and don’t fuck it up this time.” He pointed over Jarek’s head and added, “You three, with me.”

  With that, Mosen turned on his heel and strode out of the room, his chosen men hurrying after him.

  That left Jarek with Baldy and two Reds to deal with.

  The third and final tie fell to the box cutter’s blade.

  “Strap his arms down,” Baldy said. He returned to his inspection of his instruments, looking fully intent on continuing where Mosen had left off.

  Jarek wasn’t about to give him the chance.

  The temptation to strike at the first guard who stepped within reach—to draw his sidearm and turn it on the others—was incredibly strong, but it was driven by fear. Mosen and the three he’d taken would still be plenty close enough to hear the gunshots, and they’d come running if that happened. He might be able to get free and armed well enough in time to take them, but why risk it when he could do better?

  “Huh,” Baldy said. It might have been paranoia, but Jarek got the impression he was looking for the missing box cutter.

  It didn’t matter now. The Red on the left drew a hunting knife from a sheath on the front of his vest and leaned in to reach for Jarek’s bindings.

  He exploded into motion, catching the guard’s knife hand with one hand and sweeping out with the other to open the Red’s throat with the box cutter, drawing a slow river of blood and a sequence of disgusting, wet slurping sounds. He stripped the knife from the Red’s hand. No time to be appalled.

  In one motion, he shoved the bloody Red back toward Baldy while aiming a reverse-grip stab at the second Red with the borrowed knife. The Red on his right managed to get an arm up to intercept his attack.

  He dropped the box cutter freeing one hand to deal with the block. He caught the Red’s wrist and gave a twist and a yank as he threw his other elbow into the guy’s ribs twice. On the third strike, he flipped the knife around in his hand and stabbed upward, sinking the blade under the Red’s chin.

  Too much time, his instincts screamed. He’d taken too much time.

  He didn’t think about it—he hurled the hunting knife to his left. Only as the blade left his hand did he get a look at Baldy. The torturer had been about to shoot, and now his eyes were wide.

  Jarek didn’t wait to see how his throw would fare. He snatched up the box cutter and attacked the leather tethering his legs to the chair.

  “Fuck!” cried Baldy to his left.

 
A clatter of heavy metal on concrete.

  One strap down.

  Shuffling to the left.

  “—ing son of a bitch.”

  The light scrape of metal sliding over concrete.

  Two straps down.

  He vaulted off the chair, box cutter clutched in a reverse grip, and came down on Baldy just in time to knock his gun hand aside and stab him in the side of the throat.

  He clenched his teeth at the spurt of dark blood that hit his right thigh, warm and wet through his pants. He held Baldy’s eyes, watching as the torturer’s struggles weakened from the furious thrashing of a sadistic bastard to the pathetic floundering of a lonely, frightened man.

  Baldy stopped struggling.

  Jarek swallowed and stood up, an odd combination of victor’s pride and abhorred nausea swirling through him.

  “Phase One complete, assholes.” His voice sounded flat in his ears.

  He bent to scoop up the hunting knife he’d thrown at Baldy, not really sure whether the blade had found a mark or if the projectile had simply stunned him. From the other Red, he took an old H&K MP5 submachine gun and an extra mag, which he tucked in a pants pocket.

  He cracked the door open and listened. It was hard to tell past the buzzing alarm pulses still pouring from the speakers, but he couldn’t make out any more gunfire.

  Maybe they’d already taken care of whoever the hell had been crazy enough to storm the Fortr—

  The pieces came together at once in his mind. The events at The Rath, Michael’s reaction to them, the comm broadcast, and an intruder. Singular. One crazy-ass intruder . . .

  The same person who’d been crazy enough to pick a fight with an entire pub’s worth of hardened thugs?

  “And so the plot thickens again,” he mumbled.

  If that was the arcanist out there, and if she was still alive, she’d be after Michael as well. Whatever their business was, he couldn’t imagine it was going to make his life easier. He’d busted his ass and now killed three men to find out what Michael knew, and he’d be damned if he was going to let anyone jeopardize getting Fela back now.

  Time to move.

  He checked outside once more, stepped into the hallway, and set off for the brig, moving like a ghost in the fog.

  6

  Gunfire roared down the hallway. As spent bullets clattered to the floor and the temperature dropped another several degrees around her, Rachel decided she might have to rethink the design of the bullet catcher—or at least get used to wearing something warmer than her worn leather jacket. Assuming she made it out of the Red Fortress alive in the first place.

  Things had been going so smoothly until a minute ago. She’d had her quiet route planned. She’d nearly had the door unlocked. Skip ahead two minutes, and now there was a trail of wreckage behind her and a Fortress’ worth of men bearing down on her.

  She threw herself behind the cover of an inset doorframe, not wanting to rely too heavily on the catcher and end up freezing to death before she reached Michael.

  The key, she decided, was to keep moving to warmer patches of air, but that wasn’t easy with this much hot lead flying in her direction, especially when she still wasn’t sure the device wouldn’t simply miss a bullet or two at some point. Even so, she needed to keep moving before the rest of the damn base arrived on top of her.

  She gritted her teeth, pointed her staff blindly around the corner, and fed a wallop of energy from her batteries through the glyph that resembled a tiny sun. Even around the corner and through closed eyelids, the flash was bright. Down the hallway in the direction the staff was pointed, the effect would be monumentally stronger, like being at the epicenter of half a dozen lightning strikes.

  Through the muffled ringing the gunfire had left in her ears, she thought she heard a few startled cries at the arcane flash. Time to move.

  She whirled out from cover, staff at the ready. Four men lined the hall, weapons partially lowered as they shook off their disorientation. The closest of them fired a few blind shots that struck the wall unnervingly close to her.

  She thrust out her open hand, pulling from her energy stores, and the two closest men slammed into each other headfirst.

  One of the guys at the end of the hall must’ve recovered enough to see it happen, because he took careful aim and fired over his fallen allies. Two bullets pelted into the catcher’s field and dropped to the floor, sending a chill through the air. She raised her staff and unleashed a strong telekinetic blast in response.

  It caught the shooter full on, rocketing him back into the wall. His partner wasted no time in scrambling behind the corner for cover. She shifted her aim and sent a more focused blast.

  Unseen force tore through the corner of the wall and drove the gunman across the hallway in a rain of concrete chunks and a cloud of gray dust.

  She tromped down the hall as quickly as she could, panting and leaning heavily on her staff as the sheer volume of energy she’d just slung caught up to her. The staff alleviated some of the exertion that came with heavy-duty channeling, but she still had her limits. She’d have to pace herself if she wanted to have anything left on the way out.

  The last gunman was recovering as she reached the end of the hall. She dealt him a solid blow with her staff and turned left down the next hallway.

  A surge of panicked energy seared through her exhaustion at the sound of voices crying after her. Coming into the Fortress might be the last mistake she’d ever make. She clenched her teeth and told that tiny voice in her head to shut the hell up and get moving.

  First, though, she needed to shake her incoming tails.

  She turned right down the next hallway, which was mercifully empty, and ducked through the second door on the right as the voices drew closer behind her.

  A broom closet. Wonderful.

  She closed the door behind her, plunging the space into darkness. Footsteps pounded closer outside. The darkness pressed in around her, squeezing tighter and tighter with each approaching boot fall. Her fingernails dug painfully into her palm.

  Then the footsteps were receding, continuing down the hallway. She forced herself to breathe.

  Off to a great start.

  She reviewed the directions she’d extracted from the patrolman, slipped out of the closet, and doubled back to continue her original direction. She did her best to extend her senses as she ran, scouting ahead for imminent threats. It wasn’t the easiest thing to do while moving, and the result was far from perfect, but the effort at least enabled her to duck out of sight of a group of six men moments before they caught sight of her.

  A minute later, she came across a man retying his boot as his partner bickered at him that now was a hell of a time and that he’d better hurry it up. She didn’t feel particularly accomplished or proud when she managed to take them down, but at least she managed it before any shots were fired.

  She passed a hallway and caught sight of the busy central hub she knew from her brief mental tour opened up at the heart of the facility. Apparently it acted as a marshaling ground too, judging by the din of voices and activity drifting out. At least she was getting close.

  She crept carefully on until she’d passed the hub, then hung a right. The Red Fortress wasn’t exactly teeming with direction signs pointing the way to the brig, but a couple of minutes later, she spotted the barred door she’d been looking for.

  It was open.

  She thanked her lucky stars and hurried into the antechamber of the quiet brig. By the time she returned her attention to her extended senses, it was already too late.

  A guard had already emerged from a room she’d passed. He slammed the barred door shut and winked as its lock engaged with a heavy click.

  She thrust her staff toward him with a growl, and his smirk flashed to shock as he rocketed upward and slammed into the hard ceiling. He fell limply back to the floor, a slow shower of dust following in his wake. She turned to face the door to the cell block.

  Now that she took the time to p
roperly explore with her senses, the situation was quite obvious: nine minds lying in wait among the cells. They might have been prisoners but for the armor and weapons she could feel on them.

  She couldn’t sense Michael, but that was to be expected. The Resistance had seen to it that his mind was shielded from telepaths like her. Her gut told her he was near, and that was enough.

  A rush of hope welled up but was quickly tamped down by the realization that she’d just walked straight into a trap. Why else would so many armed men be lurking around the brig and waiting to close her in? They’d been waiting for her, which meant they’d figured out what she was after. She probably had that asshole Tom to thank for that.

  It didn’t matter now. She was here, and so were they. And if her gut was to be trusted, so was Michael. That was all that really mattered.

  She tightened her grip on her staff and stepped into the brig proper. She swept out with her senses again. Three men on each side behind the first group of cells, and three more in the back right corner of the room. All waiting for her.

  Did they already know who she was, what she could do?

  She thought about making a big boom to show them, then decided advertising her presence to the rest of the base was unwise. Something subtler, then.

  With a wicked grin, she raised her staff and focused her mind. Then she drove the weapon toward the floor as hard as she could. At the last second, she directed the energy of the blow into one of the staff’s glyphs, adding a pinch of energy from her battery stores for good measure. The staff jarred to an oddly silent halt, the only sound that of the rushing air that sprang into existence and swept through the brig.

  The currents weren’t strong enough to do much more than yank at clothing and ruffle hair, but judging from the way the men shifted around in her senses, the display succeeded at unsettling them.

  “Hey, assholes,” she called, doing her best to keep the waver out of her voice. “You took someone I care about. I’m here to take him back. That simple. Get out of my way, and I won’t hurt you.”

  She wasn’t really sure she meant the last part, but it seemed like the right thing to say.