Ashwin (Gideon's Riders #1)

by Kit Rocha

  Deacon lifted his radio. “What about the camp?”

  “About ten—no, twelve. Mostly drinking and playing cards, but they all have weapons handy. Bishop’s checking the perimeter for sentries.”

  Silence, followed by a second crackle and Bishop’s lower voice. “Don’t see any. Looks like everyone else is below ground.”

  “So we’re ten,” Reyes mused aloud, “up against Christ knows how many. I like those odds.”

  “Twenty-nine,” Ashwin supplied. “According to my best assessment.”

  Zeke snorted. “Okay, so Christ and Ashwin know. Just don’t go hogging all the kills, Makhai Guy. I saw you during the final battle with the city. You took out, like, a dozen Special Tasks soldiers in under a minute.”

  More than a dozen, but he’d been considerably motivated. Those Special Tasks soldiers had been firing their weapons in Kora’s direction. “I’m sure there will be plenty of risk to go around. These are well-trained Base operatives.”

  “Like I said, two teams.” Deacon pointed at Ashwin. “Malhotra, you take Ana and Zeke and meet up with Ivan and Bishop. You’re hitting the mine. Everyone else is with me.”

  There was a flurry of activity—Reyes snapped his blade shut and shoved it back into his pocket. Gabe checked the hilts of twin knives crisscrossing his back, wicked ones long enough to qualify as short swords, and Ana shouldered a rifle half her own height.

  Zeke hopped out of the truck and started toward Ashwin, but Deacon grabbed his shoulders. “Before I send you down there, I need to know you’ve got your head on straight.”

  “I’m fine,” Zeke promised. “I’ll get this shit done.”

  “You were hurt bad.” Deacon pitched his next words low. “No one would blame you for sitting this one out.”

  “I can’t. Deacon—” Zeke’s voice turned rough. “You have to let me do this. For Jaden, okay?”

  “All right. But you watch your back,” he ordered. “No reckless shit.”

  “Got it.”

  Deacon released him, and Zeke swept up his rifle and joined Ana. Neither of them questioned being put under the command of a virtual stranger, and they fell in behind Ashwin as he started across the field.

  Ivan and Bishop met them at the edge of the woods. “This way,” Ivan said, jerking his head to the right before melting silently into the trees. Bishop was equally quiet, and they both moved with the practiced ease of people who’d spent time stalking prey in the wild.

  Ana and Zeke followed with the not-so-quiet awkwardness of city folk, wincing at every snapped branch. Ashwin ignored them, concentrating on the sounds growing louder at the very edge of his range—the low rumble of voices punctuated by sharp barks of laughter.

  Ivan stopped at the far edge of the trees, behind a large tumble of boulders. Bishop crouched down and eased out far enough to get a visual on the encampment. “Still twelve,” he whispered as he shifted back so Ashwin could take his place.

  The battlefield spread out before him. He’d already seen the aerial view, but the terrain looked different when viewed from the ground. The deserters had set up their makeshift shelter in a dusty clearing next to an abandoned railroad track. It was about a hundred yards from the edge of the trees to the closest man—enough space that they’d become complacent, sure they’d see anyone coming. Or sure that no one would bother to chase them out here.

  They were wrong on both counts.

  The first bullet cracked through the afternoon air—a sniper shot that blew out the back of an elite soldier’s head. In the clearing, everyone froze for one fatal moment of confusion, barely long enough for the body to hit the ground.

  In that time, Deacon’s team poured into the camp, already firing.

  Zeke tensed, his finger on the trigger, but Ashwin caught his shoulder. “Wait.”

  Ivan shot him a wary look. Bishop shifted impatiently. Even Ana was stealing looks at him, and he knew they were wondering if he’d led them out here into some sort of trap. If he was going to hold them back from the fight while their brothers died.

  They could mistrust him as much as they wanted, as long as they obeyed.

  The chaos in the clearing accelerated. Some of the deserters had reached their weapons and were returning fire. Ashwin ignored them, keeping his attention on the wooden door to the mines. He’d counted to nineteen, and it slammed open. A man with his shirt still unbuttoned spilled out, an assault rifle in his hands.

  “I’ll take point,” Ashwin murmured. “Bishop, cover us. Don’t let them shut that door.”

  “Got it.”

  A tremor ran through Zeke’s body. Ashwin released him. “Go.”

  They erupted from the tree line, and the adrenaline of battle took over. Time seemed to slow, giving Ashwin ample opportunity to assess and alter course, if necessary. He noted each of the Riders on Deacon’s team—all still standing—as well as the positions of their remaining foes. He tracked Bishop as he swung around and kept anyone from shooting them in the back as they raced toward the mine.

  But most of his attention was focused on the distance between him and the man at the door. He recalculated the math every few steps until he could lift his gun and squeeze off one precise shot.

  It hit the deserter in the neck. He dropped his gun, clutched at his bleeding throat, and staggered back. A second man appeared, his face blanched with shock, and groped for the door.

  Ivan shot him three times in the chest.

  Ashwin reached the tunnel first and leapt over the bodies, with Ana and Zeke hard on his heels. After a steep drop down, the tunnel took an abrupt turn to the left. Ashwin held up his hand, halting his team, and listened to the chaotic tumble of arguing voices ahead. They were fighting over what to do, but that wasn’t what gave him pause.

  The voices echoed strangely. He closed his eyes and tried to visualize the kind of space that would make that sort of noise. Something large, with a high ceiling—and plenty of room for them to maneuver.

  Plenty of room to barricade themselves, if Ashwin gave them the chance to organize.

  “Count to ten,” he told them, holstering his sidearm and pulling forward the semiautomatic rifle he’d strapped to his back. “If I don’t shout for you to fall back, come in after me.”

  “What are you going to do?” Ivan asked.

  Ashwin gripped his weapon in one hand and tugged open one of the pockets on his cargo pants. The flash grenade fit perfectly in his hand. “I believe the colloquial term is scare the shit out of them.”

  He didn’t wait for a reply. He pressed down on the lever and pulled the grenade’s pin with his teeth, then swung around the bend in the corridor and lobbed it into the center of the room.

  In the five seconds before it went off, three things happened.

  First, Ashwin cataloged the open space—a huge cavern with bedrolls around the edge and overturned mine carts serving as makeshift barricades. Fifteen men were scrambling to erect some sort of cover. He marked the location of the elite soldiers in his mind and adjusted his mental tally. Fifteen left.

  Then one of the men caught sight of him—a private who’d been one of the laziest, angriest soldiers Ashwin had known on the Base. Ashwin had caught him bullying younger recruits more than once, which meant Private Jones went very pale as recognition washed over him. “Holy shit, it’s a Makhai—”

  Ashwin’s bullet cut him off. Precisely timed, because the word Makhai performed its usual magic. Men dove for weapons, dove for cover, scrambled in all directions as the elite soldier who’d been trying to organize shouted furiously, “Hold the fucking line, dammit!”

  Ashwin closed his eyes. The grenade exploded, painfully bright even through his eyelids, but the sound was worse. It filled the cavern like thunder, vibrating until tiny pieces of rock rained down from the ceiling and dust filled the air.

  Terrified and stunned, the enemy floundered. And Ashwin opened fire.

  Fourteen. Thirteen.

  Twelve.

  At the count of ten, the
rest of the Riders spilled around the corner and fanned out on either side of him. Ivan charged straight at the overturned carts, jumping up and over before the men behind them had shrugged off the effects of the stun grenade.

  Eleven men. Ten.

  Zeke was laughing, the sound rough and wild. There was anger in his shots—he took out knees and left people bleeding from gut wounds that thwarted Ashwin’s clean count until he finished the job—though Zeke gave him a look of such affronted outrage that he only did it once.

  Nine.

  Ana, by contrast, was silent and laser focused. She ignored the bullets and shouts and chaos around her and quietly lined up precise, deadly shots. The men she targeted fell with perfect headshots that would have made any marksmanship trainer on the Base ranges proud.

  Eight. Seven. Six.

  Five.

  Three men were clustered behind a thick overturned table, popping up to fire wild shots and disappearing before they could be struck. Ashwin trusted Bishop and Ivan to keep them pinned down while he tried to locate the soldiers missing from his count.

  Five. Five…

  Had he miscounted on arrival? Had he missed a death? Ashwin spun toward the tunnel, retracing the last moments—and heard Ana’s shout, “Zeke, down.”

  Ashwin whirled in time to see Zeke hit the ground as a “dead” man lifted his arm and shot at the space where he’d been. Ana swung around and fired, sinking three bullets into the man’s chest and two into his head.

  Definitely dead now. Actually dead.

  Four.

  Ana dropped the magazine from her rifle to reload. As she did, Ashwin caught a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye. Instinct kicked in, and he was moving before the crack of the shot sounded. Ashwin shouldered Ana out of the way, knocking her back, and twisted to take the bullet flying at him in the safest spot he could manage.

  Pain bloomed in his shoulder, the familiar burn of a bullet wound. He started to lift his other arm to return fire, but Ivan launched himself from the top of the mine cart and crashed into the man’s back, driving him to the ground. Two bullets to the head at close range evened out Ashwin’s count.

  Three.

  His shoulder hurt. How close Ana had come to getting killed bothered him more. He reached into another pocket and came out with a second grenade—this one not as harmless as the stun grenade. Overkill, perhaps, but getting all of the Riders back in one piece was the only thing that mattered.

  He pulled the pin and raised his voice. “Fall back into the tunnel. Bishop—”

  He didn’t even have to finish. Bishop laid down a spray of covering fire, keeping the three men huddled behind the table as Zeke, Ivan, and Ana retreated into the tunnel. Once they were safely around the bend in the corner, Ashwin jerked his head at Bishop. “Go.”

  “But—”

  “Now.”

  Bishop bolted, and Ashwin lobbed the grenade and ducked down behind one of the overturned carts. The grenade exploded, sending shrapnel flying through the room at high velocities. The cart shuddered as small, wicked pieces of frag slammed into it, and for a moment he wondered if he’d miscalculated the risk.

  But the moment passed. Silence fell. Ashwin rose cautiously and stared at the opposite side of the cart—or what was left of it.

  Zero.

  A few scrapes and bruises among the others, one scary brush for Ana, and a bullet in his shoulder. Not a terrible outcome, considering the odds.

  He didn’t even mind the bullet wound. It would provide a perfectly rational excuse to let Kora touch him again.

  And he wanted her to touch him again.

  Chapter Eleven

  The only thing harder than waiting in Gideon’s study to find out how the raid went was trying to do anything else. Kora eventually gave up and resigned herself to pacing in front of the huge fireplace while Gideon sat, still and staring into the flames.

  She’d worn a path in the expensive, handwoven carpet by the time Deacon radioed in to say they were on their way back. Her knees went weak, then locked when he mentioned that Ashwin had been injured.

  Dimly, she considered the possibilities, running them over and over in her mind, as Maricela and Gideon tried to comfort her with more details. She couldn’t stop, even as they led her down the stairs to meet the returning Riders.

  She wouldn’t be able to breathe until she saw Ashwin.

  Then he was there, climbing stiffly out of Deacon’s Jeep, and the tension snapped, vibrating painfully through her. She couldn’t stop shaking, though the overriding emotion wracking her was pure, sweet relief.

  He had come back, and he was going to be all right.

  Kora’s relief lasted until she got Ashwin settled in her makeshift clinic in the palace—and got a good look at the bullet wound beneath his bandage.

  He was fortunate. Another inch to the right and the bullet would have shattered his shoulder, making complete repair—even with regeneration—difficult to impossible. He would have been left with permanent damage to the bones and nerves.

  Worse, a few inches lower, and the damn thing would have hit his heart.

  She drew in a deep breath, but it did nothing to allay the sudden resurgence of dizziness as she dropped the bandage into a surgical tray. “You got lucky.”

  “No,” he replied quietly. “I made a strategic decision.”

  “Yeah, and what was that?”

  “To take a nonlethal shot instead of allowing Ana to suffer a lethal one.”

  He seemed so calm, as if the possibility of dying didn’t scare him at all. “And if you’d miscalculated?”

  “I rarely miscalculate.”

  Maybe it was true. Maybe his genetic enhancements and endless training meant that the worry seizing in her gut was not only unnecessary, but counterproductive. He didn’t need her falling apart on him right now.

  He needed a doctor.

  For better or worse, she could never be that for him now. Oh, she could patch up his wounds, get him back on his feet. But the thin veneer of professional detachment she’d barely managed to maintain on the Base was gone now.

  She supposed that waking up in a man’s bed tended to do that.

  No, she had to be honest with herself. Her inability to maintain her distance started a long time ago. It had shaken a little more each time he walked into her exam room, and its foundation had cracked the night he kidnapped her and dragged her out to the sectors. This had simply been the last straw.

  Kora took another deep breath and started arranging her supplies. Antiseptic. Forceps. Gauze. The small imaging machine that had shown up two days after her offhand comment to Maricela about how she really could use one.

  “Kora.” His voice was gentle. “I’m fine. You don’t need to be concerned.”

  She turned to face him. “But I can’t help it. I never could.”

  “I know.” He reached up, his fingers hovering a few torturous millimeters from her cheek. “You didn’t belong on the Base. Or in Eden.”

  She had to focus, and she couldn’t do that with him touching her. She ducked away from his hand and cleared her throat. “You got lucky, but regeneration is still going to be tricky. It’ll ache for a few days.”

  “That’s acceptable.” He let his hand fall back to his leg, but even that was somehow graceful. “Does it bother you so much to deal with my injuries?”

  “Treating you? No. Knowing that you were hurt?” She shrugged, suddenly self-conscious. “Yes, it does.”

  He studied her for a few seconds, then inclined his head. “Then I’ll avoid it as much as I can.”

  It was so absurd she almost laughed. He wouldn’t avoid taking a bullet to save himself the physical pain and injury, but he’d do it because she didn’t like the thought of him being shot.

  The only thing that kept her from laughing was knowing that he was dead serious. So she picked up the antiseptic instead and began cleaning his wound. He endured it in stoic silence for so long that she’d almost fallen back into a familia
r rhythm when he shattered it again.

  “Knock knock.”

  She blinked, but the words came automatically. “Who’s there?”

  “Control freak.”

  “Con—”

  “Now you say control freak who,” he interrupted, still stoic and stone-faced, as if he hadn’t just told a joke. But his gaze fixed on her face, full of such sharp anticipation that she felt it like a blow to the midsection.

  She’d started telling him knock-knock jokes as a way to loosen him up, something to say just to break the distant silence. It had always confused him more than anything, because silly little jokes and highly trained, lethal warriors didn’t exactly go together.

  Somewhere along the way, somehow, he’d made the effort to figure them out.

  She wanted to kiss him. Smooth her fingers through his hair and thank him. Cry.

  In the end, she smiled and shook her head. “You got me with that one.”

  His lips...curved. Not a full smile—she’d seen him attempt that, but it always seemed a little forced. Empty. This barely qualified as movement, but she felt it—the tiniest spark of satisfaction and pleasure. “I researched jokes,” he told her. “Did you know they used to publish books that were nothing but jokes?”

  “I did.” She picked up a prefilled injector full of anesthetic. “There were people whose entire jobs involved telling jokes. I used to watch the vids sometimes, but they didn’t make much sense. It was a lot of social and political commentary.”

  “Mid twenty-first century politics were extremely divisive.” Ashwin didn’t even flinch as she injected him. “The Energy Wars lasted for almost two decades. I imagine the conflict evidenced itself across most of popular culture. You know what the result was.”

  Eden. A self-sustaining city, beacon of the future, saved from the solar flares that had fried infrastructure across the country simply because they hadn’t turned it on yet. “I studied it all, of course. The Flares, the military takeover of the Eden Project. It’s just hard to reconcile.” That didn’t make any sense, so she tried again. “The pop culture, I mean. It was all so focused on things that didn’t matter, not when the world was crumbling around them.”