“Me too,” he replied.
They started to conserve their shots, only squeezing the trigger when a target was in the open. The incoming fire increased as the attackers realized the dire situation she and Braaten found themselves in.
How the hell are we getting out of this one?
44
I am Shawnee
Denny opened his eyes to the sound of thunder in the distance. Momentarily confused, he blinked, wiping dust from his face.
What happened?
His mind reeled as he grasped at random information his brain was receiving from his body. Thunder…no, maybe gunfire? Muted voices near, and shouts from far away. Was he dreaming? Pressure points on his body registered the fact that something heavy lay across his arms and legs. The air tasted dusty, and a fine coating of something chalky covered his tongue and the inside of his mouth.
He struggled to remember what had happened. The last he could recall was the angry expression on Eli’s face as his chief of staff sat on the bench, bound and gagged by Mr. Braaten. The next thing he knew, everything went white and then he awoke.
Denny tried to take a breath and coughed, his whole body spasming with the effort.
What the hell?
He rolled over and realized that the weight he’d felt on his arms and legs were rocks. He had no idea where they came from. Sitting up, he touched his head and his hand came away red with blood in stark contrast to the white powder. Denny got to his feet on shaky legs as rocks and bits of rubble shifted under him. He fell back against the closest wall and stood there, catching his breath until the dizziness and his blurred vision cleared.
A bright flash out of the corner of his eye caught his attention, and he turned to see Mr. Braaten and Ms. Baker, standing on either side of a huge hole in the wall that used to be behind the altar. They both had their weapons drawn and were taking turns firing outside. Every now and then, he’d spot shadowy movement from beyond the chapel as someone fired inside. The muzzle flashes from their weapons were what caught his attention. His mind finally caught up to speed.
Move!
Denny dove to the right as someone outside stitched a line of rounds into the wall where he’d been standing, sending chips of rock and dust flying in all directions.
“Senator Tecumseh! Run! Get over to the other side!” Mr. Braaten said, shouting at him and pointing to the far corner of the little chapel. It wouldn’t provide much protection, Denny saw immediately, but the sheltered corner was at least out of the direct line of sight of the people outside. He took two wobbly steps, and the rubble pile gave way underneath his feet, sending him toppling forward onto the painfully sharp debris.
A bullet thumped into the wooden bench next to his head. He yelled in surprise, scrambled back to his feet, and made for the corner.
The main door to the chapel burst open, silhouetting a man with a rifle. He stepped inside, shouted over his shoulder in a foreign language, and rushed at Denny.
Not knowing what else to do, Denny threw his hands up and promptly found himself captured. He turned toward Ms. Baker. “Help!”
She spun, still exposed to the people outside the chapel, and fired a snap shot that caught his captor in the shoulder. Denny was released and fell back away from the man who then dropped his gun as he crashed in the corner. Denny dove for it at the same time his captor did, recovering quicker than he would’ve thought. They grappled for the rifle—the man was younger than him and incredibly strong. He lashed out with a booted foot and caught Denny in the side of the knee. Denny went down with a grunt of pain, but refused to let go of the rifle, taking it with him as he fell over and throwing the soldier off balance.
“I can’t get a clean shot!” yelled Ms. Baker.
Denny heard the crack of a rifle then she screamed in pain. He had no time to look for her, his eyes locked on the bloodthirsty face of the man hovering over him, trying to wrestle the rifle away. At last, the soldier succeeded in twisting the weapon and ripping it from Denny’s grasp. He knew without a doubt that this was this was it—this was the end.
Before the man could even get the rifle in a position to be usable, his chest puckered twice and he fell over with a gasp onto his back. Denny quickly rolled to his stomach and scrambled to his feet to see Mr. Braaten recover his pistol. He spun back and planted himself against the cover of the opening in the wall.
Ms. Baker was likewise against the opposite wall, holding her arm. Denny saw the bright red stain overflowing her fingers. She’d been shot protecting him.
“Are you okay?” he called over the gunfight.
“Never better! Just stay low! We’ll get you out of this!”
Denny wasn’t so sure about that—he saw at least four people running around outside the chapel. The door directly to his left was still open, and he heard shouting in a foreign language. It almost sounded Russian, he thought, but it could’ve been anything.
Another man rushed in through the open door, carrying nothing but a knife. His rifle was strapped to his back. Denny got to his feet and backpedaled, tripping on one of the shattered benches. He fell down into a particularly large pile of rubble.
The man’s eyes darted to Denny’s protectors, then back to his target. He flipped the knife over in a reverse grip and lunged, clearing the open space between them in a heartbeat.
Denny’s hands floundered in the rubble pile, looking for anything he could use to defend himself. His right hand found a smooth wooden shaft and he pulled. A stick was better than nothing. Surprise and relief flooded his body when he lifted the stick and found a worn steel tomahawk head attached to the shaft.
How the fuck did this get here?
No time to ponder anything further—the man fell upon him, stabbing down with the knife. Denny swung his arm up and used the shaft to block the man’s wrist, diverting the knife from his shoulder by mere inches. The man got to his feet and took a step back. He noticed the tomahawk in Denny’s hand, and smiled, motioning for him with his free hand to come forward and fight.
Denny stood, feeling the dust and rubble fall from his body. He glanced down at the tomahawk again. The steel head was pitted and crudely made, but still looked sharp and serviceable. Whoever owned the tomahawk before him had taken care to carve intricate designs in the handle. He squinted and his training as a history teacher took over. It looked Iroquois, maybe 18th century.
Ms. Baker turned to see Denny facing the attacker and screamed. She raised her gun and tried to fire, but the slide locked back.
“I’m out! He’s going after Tecumseh!” she yelled behind him, warning Mr. Braaten.
“I don’t have a clear shot!” his other bodyguard replied.
Denny ignored the shouts coming from behind him. Gunfire seemed to stop ringing in his ears—it didn’t matter to him. He’d been running ever since he’d landed in Scotland. First from the man on the motorcycle, then from the ambush on the street, then from the people in the tunnels, then from the infected, now from Jayne and her henchmen.
“I’m done running,” he said.
* * *
Denny faced his opponent and held the ancient tomahawk in his hand. Somewhere, a warrior in the past held this weapon and faced off an opponent in the same manner. Denny felt the strength and power of that long-dead warrior flow through his arm. He brushed it off as his imagination and focused on the knife-wielding man before him.
“Make it sing, Little Spear,” Grandfather Red Eagle’s voice whispered in his ear.
The man facing him cracked a ragged smile. “Come,” he said, waving Denny forward. “Die.”
Denny smiled. He threw his arms wide, creating a cloud of white dust. “I am Shawnee!” he roared, spreading his arms wide. “I do not fear you!”
The man in front of him took a step back, then recovered himself quickly. He lunged, leading with the knife. Denny sidestepped, swung the tomahawk in a vicious arc, catching the solid, steel head against the man’s wrist, snapping the fragile bones with a loud crack.
The man sc
reamed and dropped out of Denny’s line of sight. Denny used the momentum of his backswing to turn him completely around and bring him face-to-face with his opponent again. To his surprise, the man came up holding the knife in his other hand. The grin was back, but it was tinged with pain and anger.
Denny twirled the tomahawk around his wrist, extending his free hand and motioning for the man to come at him this time. “Come hear my song.”
He didn’t have long to wait. His opponent lunged again, yelling something in that rough language of his. Denny met the knife and deflected it with the head of his tomahawk. An orange spark flared to life between the two blades as he used his shoulder to slam into his opponent. They both staggered back, separating again.
My turn.
He’d seen his opening and let loose with a flurry of attacks. Swinging back and forth, looping around and sliding up underneath his attacker’s range, he made his tomahawk sing. The man scrabbled back, barely able to defend himself against the onslaught. Denny let a war chant loose and funneled all his anger into the attack, driving his opponent further into the chapel. In just a few seconds, he had backed his opponent up against the wall and had him pinned, his eyes round with fright.
Denny cocked his arm and prepared for the deathblow. “Drop the knife!” he yelled.
The man’s eyes shifted between Denny and something over his shoulder. He smiled. “Nyet.”
“I suggest you drop your hatchet, dear.”
Denny turned to see Jayne Renolds standing in the doorway, holding a pistol pointed at his head. One corner of her mouth curled up, wrinkling the pink scar on her cheek just below her eye. “Be a good boy now. Your fight is over.”
45
Endgame
Jayne smiled. “At last I’ve found the elusive Senator Tecumseh. It’s such a pleasure to meet you. Again.” She held her pistol aimed at his chest. Though she knew she wouldn’t shoot him, the look on his copper-dark face confirmed he wasn’t quite so sure. She reached out with her other hand, her injection ring primed and ready. “Come, darling. Take my hand and let’s leave. You and I have much to discuss.”
“I’m not a fan of discussing anything at the point of a gun,” the exotic-looking senator said. He refused to drop the tomahawk.
Jayne kept the smile on her face. “Now,” she said. The command was followed instantly. Two men burst through the opening at the far end of the chapel, taking advantage of the distraction she’d caused to get their weapons right up next to the heads of her adversaries.
“They’re secured,” a voice said in her earbud.
Without looking, Jayne’s smile broadened. “Now. Let’s try this again shall we, darling? Come with me, drop that silly axe you’ve got, or your security team will have their brains painted all over the inside of this…chapel.”
Still, he hesitated.
Jayne felt her patience slip. “Come now, my dear senator. I’m sure you wouldn’t—”
“You bitch,” a voice from Jayne’s past snarled from the other side of the chapel.
Jayne kept the pistol on Senator Tecumseh but turned her head. There she was. Svea, 13, her rival, her one-time ally, her nemesis. Jayne’s hand reached up to her face. Svea had given her the scar; she was the woman Jayne had sworn to kill with her bare hands.
The smile faded from Jayne’s face. “Well…isn’t this something?” Another man appeared behind her and rushed forward through the rubble, keeping his weapon trained on Tecumseh. Jayne lowered her pistol.
“I knew you were here…I knew it. I could feel it.” Jayne stepped through the rubble, picking her way between the rocks to avoid falling. When she stood an arm’s length away from Svea, the smile returned. “It’s good to see you again, darling.”
Her one-time ally spat at her feet.
Jayne turned to face the SEAL. “And you’re the famous Cooper Braaten. So you’re the one who’s been hounding me halfway across the world.”
He smirked. “You deserved it.”
Jayne frowned. “I deserve nothing. Reginald was the one that put everything into play. All of this,” she said, spreading her arms to encompass the post-Korean Flu world, “can all be laid at his feet. Not mine.”
“You killed the president of the United States.”
“Not true,” she said, raising a finger. “Your own government claims he wasn’t legitimate. At best, you can say that I issued the orders to have the vice president killed…but even still, I didn’t do it myself.”
The former SEAL shrugged one shoulder. “I don’t give a fuck. You’re going down for it.”
“And what about you?” She stuck out her hip, traced the outline of her body with her free hand, and pouted. “What do you want?”
“Let me get my knife and I’ll show you,” he said with another smirk.
This time Jayne’s pout wasn’t fake. “Well, you’re no fun. Take him outside and shoot him,” she said, directing her henchmen with a wave.
That got the desired reaction. Senator Tecumseh screamed, and his eyes went round.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Jayne purred, “I didn’t know you had feelings for him.”
“Leave him out of this,” Svea said in a low voice that got Jayne’s attention immediately. “It’s me you want.”
Jayne smiled. “I’ve been looking forward to this for a long time,” she said, staring into Swede’s blue eyes. “I like the hair, darling. Red suits you. You have the perfect completion for it, you know.” She reached out and traced a fingernail along Swede’s cheek. “How do you get such smooth skin? It’s simply not fair.”
Svea flinched under her touch and frowned.
Jayne kept her smile plastered in place. “Do you remember when you gave me this?” she asked, tracing the pink scar on her cheek with one finger. “I’m going to get a little payback for that now, dear.”
Svea snarled. “Anytime, anywhere.”
Jayne drove her fist into Svea's solar plexus, targeted precisely to knock the wind out of the younger woman. It worked. With a whoof, she doubled over, gasping. Jayne turned and took two steps away, then dropped her pistol to the rubble at her feet. She rolled her neck, stretched her arms and cracked her back.
“Right here. Right now.”
“What about the—” began the man with his rifle aimed at Braaten’s head.
“We’ve got time,” Jayne snapped. It wouldn’t take her long to pummel this bitch into the dirt. She waved off the guard keeping his rifle on Svea. “Step back, let her move.”
She glanced at Braaten. The man looked ready to explode—the chords in his neck stood taut, and he leaned ever so slightly forward, ready to jump across the space and throttle her with his bare hands.
“You’ve got spirit. I like that…I’d love to get together when this is all over…” she said, teasing him.
“You’re sick!” cried Senator Tecumseh. “What the hell is this?”
“I’ll deal with you in a minute, darling—right now I need to teach someone her place.”
Jayne turned back to Svea just in time to see that red head snap up, blue eyes spitting fire.
Well, this should be fun.
Svea charged, her right arm straight, her left arm cocked for a vicious punch.
Jayne was ready for it and swatted away the clumsy lunge, shoving Svea painfully to the ground. The younger woman landed with a thud, encircled by a wreath of dust, but rolled to her feet quicker than Jayne would’ve expected.
Too late, Jayne tried to step back, but caught one of Swede’s heels in the back of her knee. She almost went down, and strained her shoulder in an attempt to stay upright, but managed to step out of range of the follow-up attack. Scrabbling through the rocks, they both regained their balance and set themselves in fighting poses.
“You’re quicker than I expected—that’s good. I’m looking forward to a good fight,” Jayne quipped.
“We don’t have time for this,” warned one of the men.
“When I ask for your opinion, you’ll know it,” Jayne
said. She pointed at the guard who spoke. “If he opens his fucking mouth again, shoot him.”
“You’re insane,” Braaten muttered. The anger was still there, but she noticed he wasn’t straining to get at her anymore. Either the man had some sense after all, or—more likely—he was starting to become afraid of her.
Her mouth curled up. Nothing excited her more than when a man showed his fear. Maybe she would spend a little quality time with this ex-SEAL after she dealt with Svea.
They circled each other for a second like two sharks zeroing in on a wounded fish. The Swede’s eyes never strayed from Jayne’s. Jayne took a moment to examine the woman before her.
Trim, athletic, svelte even, Svea looked much as she had the last time Jayne had seen her in Reginald’s castle on Skye. They had fought before a roaring fire, and Svea had used a poker to slash her face. She remembered flinging the bottle of brandy at the fire behind Svea and using the explosion as a distraction so she could escape. Svea had caught her off guard then—she’d forgotten how well the Swedish bitch knew bataireacht—Irish stick fighting.
This time it would be bare hands, no weapons. Jayne smirked. Except for the dirk that she had hidden at the small of her back. It wasn’t big, but it would be enough to slit Svea's throat if push came to shove.
But Jayne was confident that wouldn’t happen.
She feigned a strike with her right hand, and held it just a second too long, so that Svea was able to throw a block and knock her arm aside—which is exactly what Jayne wanted. She used the momentum to spin her torso and hip-check Svea against the far wall.
With a thrust of one shoulder, Jayne cracked Svea's head against the wall. She jumped back and watched as her opponent dropped to the floor, dazed. Jayne casually brushed the dust off her right hip and smiled.
“Oh, come now, Svea, you’ve simply got to put up a better fight than this…” She licked her lips. “I’ve been looking forward to this for the past six months…get on your fucking feet and take this like a woman.”
The Regent Page 27