by Jay Allan
It was strange. Lucerne had led thousands to their deaths in his campaigns, all soldiers who’d willingly followed him. But there was something about Blackhawk. Was it the waste, a man of such ability reduced to wandering the Far Stars like a drifter…and then killed the first time he tried to rise above his misery? Or was it something more?
It was just a feeling, one Lucerne knew was ridiculous. But it was there, and it seemed so real. He’d felt it the minute he’d met Blackhawk in his cell. The man had a destiny, something more than being killed by Ghana’s people.
I was so certain. But I was wrong.
Still, he didn’t believe it. It didn’t make sense, but he had a feeling he hadn’t heard the last of Arkarin Blackhawk.
Chapter Nine
Ghana’s Main Base
“The Badlands”
Northern Celtiboria
Shit.
Blackhawk knew immediately. Four guards behind the conscripted prisoners. Twice what he’d expected, what he’d seen with every other food delivery. Ghana’s people had changed their routine…and that meant they were suspicious, that they were afraid of him. He sighed softly to himself. That wasn’t good. He figured his eighty percent chance at escape had just dropped to even money. And the others…well, they were totally fucked. He considered calling off the attempt, but things weren’t likely to get better, and he was sick of sitting in the stinking prison. He knew his allies in the escape were likely to end up dead, but was it better to leave them here, to reduce his own chances so they could remain and endure more torture…and ultimately sell out whomever they were protecting? No, sometimes death was a better option. Besides, his own chances were a lot better if they went too.
He turned and glanced over at Jarvis and his people. They were nervous, uncertain, staring at the extra guards as Blackhawk himself had been doing. He flashed them a stern glance, a silent communication. We’re still on.
They’d planned the operation expecting to have a maximum of four guards to deal with, but now it was at least six…and eight if the hallway sentries had been doubled up too. Blackhawk had intended to kill one of the guards in the cell and leave the other to Jarvis and his crew. Then he would rush into the corridor and take down the two guards in the hall. The outer guards would have more time to react…and he knew he could get there faster than any of the others. But now there were four in the cell…and four outside. And he didn’t have time to think, to plan. He only had time for a decision.
His eyes focused on the guards standing behind the two food carts. They were attentive, not overly so, but not as distracted as they’d been before. Obviously, a lecture on staying alert had accompanied the increase in personnel.
Blackhawk’s eyes darted around, to the guards, the prisoners in front, the quickest route to get to the soldiers. His mind was fast, sharp. He knew attacking would be a big risk…but waiting didn’t offer much promise of a better opportunity. And that meant go now. It also meant taking all the guards himself. That was going to be difficult, and dangerous, but he’d had too little time to prepare Jarvis and his men. The best chance was doing it himself.
He lunged forward, the enhanced strength of his legs propelling him with great speed and control. He looped around the carts, his hands striking out, breaking the neck of the first guard before anyone could respond. He grabbed the already dead man’s rifle as he fell, even as he was moving forward toward the second. The new target was still staring at the body of his comrade as it dropped, when Blackhawk’s hand smashed into his chest, crushing his sternum and driving a dozen bone shards into his heart.
Two…
His eyes were on the other two guards. They’d been farther away, and now they stepped back, leveling their weapons. But Blackhawk was faster. He pulled the trigger, putting a shot right into the third guard’s forehead, lunging to the side as he did.
Three…
The fourth guard opened up, his weapon on full auto, spraying the area were Blackhawk had been an instant before. But he was too late. His body lurched to the side as Blackhawk put three shots into him, and he fell hard.
Four…
“Arm yourselves,” Blackhawk yelled as he leapt to the side, giving himself a field of fire as the two guards just outside the door ran in, their weapons ablaze. Two of the other inmates were hit, and the rest ran toward the back of the cell, screaming in panic. Jarvis and his people had frozen for a few seconds, but now they were scrambling toward the dead guards, grabbing whatever weapons they could get their hands on. The situation was pure chaos. Everywhere but in Blackhawk’s head.
His mind filtered out the hysteria, held his own fear in check. He was disciplined in a way no normal person could understand, a way only years of conditioning could achieve. His brain was silent, his thoughts crisp, rapid. He flipped the rifle to full auto as his finger pressed down on the trigger, firing a burst at each of the two guards just inside the door, killing them both in an instant.
Six…
Just two left, in the hall.
He knew those would be the hardest, the most dangerous. He’d had surprise on his side in the cell, total in the case of the first two guards, and partial with the others. But the troopers in the hall had heard the gunfire. They wouldn’t be as accommodating as the last two, running into the room, making perfect targets of themselves. They would stay in the hall, cover the door, ready to fire as soon as any of the prisoners came out.
Blackhawk’s eyes were on the door, looking, watching for shadows, for any signs of movement. Nothing. He risked a quick look behind to make sure Jarvis and his men had grabbed weapons. They had. Then he crept up to the door. Nothing. Silence.
He gestured toward Jarvis and one of his people, then to one of the dead guards. His eyes were still fixed on the door. The guards outside were waiting for his people to come out. It was a standoff. And a standoff was certain defeat. The soldiers outside just needed to buy time for reinforcements to arrive. Blackhawk and the other prisoners had to get out. Immediately.
He waved toward the form of one of the dead guards. “Okay, when I give the word, push the body out the door…slowly.” He spoke softly, leaning toward Jarvis as he did. His comrades had understood his gestures perfectly, and they stood next to him, holding the body of the dead guard.
Jarvis just nodded. Blackhawk could see the tension, the fear in his ally’s face. But the raider stood firm, looking back, waiting for the signal.
Blackhawk leaned down and grabbed a pistol from one of the other guards, shoving it inside his jumpsuit. He’d used half his rifle’s clip already, and the guards didn’t seem to have extra cartridges on them.
He moved back, pressing himself against the door, opposite Jarvis. “Now,” he whispered.
Jarvis pushed the body forward, struggling to move slowly, not to let it fall forward. An instant later, bursts of gunfire erupted, and the body was yanked from his grasp, blasted out into the hallway and riddled with bullets.
The instant the shooting started, Blackhawk dove through the door, low, dropping to the floor, firing the whole time. He hit the concrete hard, rolling at the last second to blunt the impact. It still hurt like hell, but he hadn’t taken any serious injuries.
He popped his head up, looking down the hall. Both guards were down. He jumped to his feet, tossing the spent rifle and pulling the pistol out from inside the jumpsuit. He took a step forward, bringing the weapon to bear. The first guard was clearly dead, his head almost completely destroyed by Blackhawk’s fire. The other was lying face down. Blackhawk moved slowly, carefully, his eyes fixed on the man. He leaned down, the pistol at the ready, and grabbed the soldier’s uniform, pulling hard and flipping him onto his back. There were three bullet holes on his chest, two of them dead center on his heart.
Eight.
“Okay,” Blackhawk said, turning back for an instant, checking on Jarvis and the others. “Let’s go. Time’s the one thing we don’t have.”
He moved down the corridor, quickly but deliberatively, hi
s eyes wide, alert, watching for any movement. The hall ended just ahead in a T, and he jogged forward, pistol out in front of him.
“Everybody good?” he asked without turning around again.
“Tig took a round in the arm, but he’s okay.”
Blackhawk didn’t respond. On some level he wished he cared more whether Tig—or any of the others—made it, but there was only one thing on his mind now. Getting out.
And taking his revenge on Augustin Lucerne.
* * *
“Quiet, all of you. We don’t move. Not until dark.” Cass peered out of the half-crushed concrete pipe. It was old, the relic of a project that predated Celtiboria’s three century long civil war. The plan had been to install piping all the way from the river cities to the coast, where a string of desalinization plants would be built. The project had never been completed, and the half-finished plants had long ago been pulled down to salvage their parts. But the pipe was still there, at least the half of it that had been laid. And a long stretch made its way through the badlands, unknown to the Warlords and their armies.
Cass’ people used the pipeline to pass unnoticed through the desert, with egress points positioned near the trade routes they preyed upon, making the conduit extremely useful. But it hadn’t offered a way to Ghana’s headquarters, at least until Elli Marne had somehow managed to map out the route of the thing…and pinpoint a spot that was close. Cass had been skeptical, but Elli had earned her trust many times, and she’d chosen to accept her friend’s judgment. They’d followed the pipeline, measuring their movement carefully until they reached the designated spot. Then they spent half a day pounding a hole in the reinforced concrete and digging through the dirt above, almost burying themselves alive in the process. But when she finally poked her head out and looked around, she could see Ghana’s complex off in the distance, no more than an hour’s march away. Elli’s measurements had been spot on.
She slid back down into the pipe. It was uncomfortable, its circumference large, but not quite big enough to stand up. Her people had been in the conduit, twisted up like pretzels for two days now. Her legs ached with a ferocity she wouldn’t have thought possible, and she wanted nothing so badly as to stand up straight and walk.
Not yet…wait until it gets dark…
There was no room for carelessness, no place for stupid errors. Not if they were going to get their people out. Not if they were going to survive this operation themselves.
It was dusk now, but she intended to wait until night was fully upon them. Only one of the moons would be out tonight, and that wouldn’t be until just before dawn. So the night promised to be a dark one. That was good. Because they needed every edge they could get.
She slipped down into the conduit, leaning back, trying to get as comfortable as she could…which wasn’t very. She wondered—for about the millionth time—if what she was doing was foolish, misguided. She’d lost people before, more than the five who were prisoners in Ghana’s headquarters. But they had been killed in action, not abandoned while they were still alive. She knew there was a good chance a lot more of her people would die in the rescue attempt…but she found it difficult to apply that kind of brutal mathematics when her friends were in trouble. She knew the others were having similar thoughts, their fears struggling with their loyalty to comrades.
And it’s more than that. If you leave them in there, Ghana will break them…and soldiers will come to the refuge…
Cassandra Cross had been born on a farm, just like virtually everyone in the Galadan. She’d grown up working with her brothers and sisters in the small vegetable garden near the house, and later out in the main fields. That had always been enough for most of those born in the Galadan, to follow the same paths as their parents, their grandparents. But not Cass. She’d always craved more, and from an early age her intelligence and drive had been obvious, to her parents, to everyone who knew her.
She’d longed for a life away from the fields, from the relentless monotony of a farmer’s life. But even in good times, the existence of a Galadan farming family was a simple one, and there was rarely much coin left after the harvest was sold off and all the expenses paid. Certainly not enough to send children off to university. Cass had two brothers and two sisters, and she knew her life’s script had already been written for her. But her father hadn’t accepted that. His other four children were normal Galadaners, content enough with their future roles on the farm. But Alexi Cross had watched his brilliant oldest daughter wasting away. He had seen the sadness in her eyes that she thought she hid. And he’d resolved to do something about it.
Somehow—and Cass could never quite figure how—he saved almost enough to send her to University, to give her a chance to find a life beyond the farm, outside the Galadan. Two years, he had said. Two more years, and there would be enough for her to go.
She’d been stunned, and she had thrown herself into his arms and burst into tears. She still remembered that feeling…hope. It was the most amazing thing she’d ever felt, a joyous sensation still unmatched in her life. But it was a lie, a self-indulgence she had vowed never to allow herself again.
Less than a year after her father’s revelation, the soldiers came. The first group was small, perhaps a few hundred strong. They were disordered, defeated in battle and retreating. They were in no condition to fight another battle, but they were still armed, and they took out their anger and rage on the helpless farmers of the Galadan. They pillaged the farms, killed most of the animals. They feasted on their pillage and took off what they could carry, leaving the rest behind, rotting carcasses of cows and pigs…and the trampled fields of a ruined harvest.
The soldiers devastated the Galadan, but they’d done worse to Cass. Her father had sent her away, with her mother and brothers. There were stories, civilians beaten, raped, murdered. Alexi Cross wanted his family safe…so he insisted they go to woodlands at the edge of the province to hide. Cass had argued with her father, begged to stay with him…or for him to flee with them. But he’d been adamant. So she’d agreed to go…a surrender she still regretted.
Though if you stayed, you’d only be dead too now. And it wouldn’t have been a pleasant way to go…
A band of soldiers came to the Cross farm, not long after Alexi’s family had gone. They trampled the crops, shot and cooked the animals…and burned two of the outbuildings for no reason save to watch the spectacle of the flames. Then they stormed up to the house, looking for women, for civilians to terrorize. But they found only Alexi Cross.
He told them his family was dead, killed by an epidemic two years before. It was a reasonable story, but one not supported by the evidence on display, closets full of clothes and other indications that the house had been occupied by more than a single man. The soldiers beat him for lying, taking out their rage that he’d denied them his wife and daughters, that he had so little coin for them to steal. And then, she imagined, one of them found the strongbox with the money he’d saved for Cassandra’s tuition.
She could see the images in her mind, though she hadn’t seen it all happen. The soldiers’ anger flaring, rage that Alexi had lied to them, that he’d tried to deny them their spoils. She had pieced most of the rest together. The soldiers had beat Alexi Cross savagely, almost to death. And then, just before they left to move on to the next farm…
She could see one of them, the image clear, though she hadn’t seen it happen, looking down at the bleeding, battered farmer…and shooting twice, leaving him behind to die.
But Alexi Cross hadn’t died, not right away. Somehow he’d managed to crawl into the house’s main room, to fashion some makeshift bandages from a small blanket he’d pulled off the couch. And he lay there, for two days, with no food, no water, no care. Until Cassandra found him.
She’d come back to the farm with her oldest brother, moving cautiously, by night. It was almost dawn when they reached the house…and as soon as she saw the fields, the still-smoldering ruins of the outbuildings, she knew something ter
rible had happened.
She ran into the house, frantically looking for her father. And she found him, bleeding, in pain…near death. He looked up at her as she leaned over him, her tears dripping on his face. “Cassie,” he said. “I’m so sorry. They took the money, for your education.” He looked at her, his own eyes wet with tears. “I’m so sorry,” he repeated.
She still remember how she felt, kneeling there in a pool of her father’s semi-congealed blood. He was dying, the farm virtually destroyed. And he was apologizing to her about the money for her schooling. Something changed in her in that room, that terrible morning. She became harder, grim hatred replacing her friendly demeanor. Her father died on that floor, with her holding his hand and sobbing uncontrollably. And part of her died there too…replaced by something dark, terrible.
She’d tried to help her mother rebuild the family’s lives. They buried her father…and then they cleaned up, replanted a section of the fields, desperately trying to preserve all Alexi had worked so hard to build. But another group of soldiers came…and then more after them. The battles of the Warlords had come to the Galadan, and the fury of war was all around. And by the time the battling armies moved on, the province was ruined, its lush fields burnt and ravaged, its wells and once-clear lakes poisoned.
The people, those who had survived the relentless onslaughts, had taken refuge in the forests, surviving as they could on what little food remained, struggling with the pestilence and the epidemics that raged among the weakened populace. Cass had watched her mother wither away, her mind broken. She had been a strong woman, loving and caring, but the trauma of losing everything was too much for her. Then her oldest brother got sick. He was sixteen and strong, built like a tree trunk…but she watched him wither away until his legs were so thin he could barely stand. Near the end, she could pick him up from his bed and carry him herself. She took care of him, refused to surrender, gave him her meager rations to supplement his own…but he died anyway.