“Oy, bug-eyes,” I called out, “what exactly is that supposed to mean?”
“It means I need that key if I am to do what must be done,” Rasputin replied, ignoring my verbal jab. “Give it to me, and your friends will be freed. I will stand by my pledge. Indeed, after seeing you succeed, I believe we could greatly benefit each other.”
Dimitri turned to us, glancing only briefly at Natasha, who had yet to join his side. “You gave us your word you would help us destroy him,” he reminded, hands balled into meaty fists at his sides.
I waited for Othello to respond, wondering if she’d had time to come up with a plan yet, or if we’d be forced to choose sides, after all. Sadly, I never did get to find out what she would have said, because that’s when the tank came tearing through the far side of the gate, crushing the fence beneath its massive tread, the main gun swiveling slightly towards Rasputin and his men, all of whom had their guns drawn and pointed at the armored vehicle.
The top hatch opened, and a familiar face poked his head out.
“Cousin look what I caught,” Vitaly called, grinning.
Chapter 41
For a second, no one moved.
Then, as if on cue, all hell broke loose.
The werebear soldiers began firing at Vitaly’s unprotected head, forcing the Russian man to duck back inside the tank, shutting the hatch in the process. Bullets careened off the metal behemoth, sending sparks flying in every direction, even occasionally ricocheting towards us. I waved a hand to get everyone’s attention, screaming, “Find cover!”
The vampires simply looked at me. Dimitri raised an eyebrow, as if the idea of running from a firefight were absurd. Bloodsucking morons. I gritted my teeth and drew my AK-9. After taking out the wolves back in the valley, I knew I wouldn’t have much ammo left. Fortunately, I didn’t need a whole clip to make my point.
Just a bullet.
I fired at a vampire—coincidentally the bastard who’d held Felicia by the throat at the club—beside Dimitri, taking him in the arm. He whirled from the force of the shot and screamed, clutching at his injured appendage. The silver bullet had likely gone right through, which meant he wasn’t in nearly as much pain as he might have been; if a silver bullet had ended up lodged in his body, the fanger would be writhing on the ground like a wounded dog. But his reaction earned Dimitri’s attention—which had been the point. “Silver ammo,” I called, hoisting the gun. “They came here to kill ye, so they’ll be usin’ silver!”
Dimitri’s eyes went wide, and he gave a command that I couldn’t hear. The vampires scattered, ducking behind anything and everything they could find. I turned back towards the sound of gunfire to find the werebears approaching the tank, still firing sporadically, searching for possible chinks in the tank’s defenses. Luckily, it seemed Vitaly hadn’t been idle, either; the main gun was now pointed directly at the advancing werebears.
“He’s going to fire,” Othello yelled. She grabbed me and ran, finding cover behind one of the two personnel vehicles we’d seen the soldiers use. I huddled low and realized Natasha had run with us; she had her back pressed firmly against the rear door, staring at her feet. She looked so miserable I almost asked her what was wrong, out of curiosity, but didn’t get a chance because, at that moment, Vitaly fired. The sound was like nothing I’d ever heard before—a boom so loud and immediate it gave me a headache on the spot. I glanced back and saw the tank rock backwards from the recoil, settling only once the damage was done.
And damage had certainly been done.
I rose to a crouch to see past the hood of the vehicle, but I didn’t have to look far to find the smoking crater and the limp bodies of several fallen soldiers littered across the ground. Most of the werebears had spread out before Vitaly fired, making themselves more difficult to hit, but Vitaly had chosen his target well; he’d hit one of the concrete barriers that ran between the main gate and the tents, which had sent shards of stone flying, effectively taking out as large an area as possible.
Unfortunately, dozens of werebears remained, and I doubted he’d get a chance to fire a second time; once the soldiers reached that hatch, they could wrench it off its hinges and fish the man out themselves. Unless we gave him time to reload, which would require taking out Rasputin’s men with a coordinated effort on multiple fronts. I reached out and grabbed Othello by the shoulder, leaning in so she could hear me clearly. “Tell Dimitri and his people to get in close. If the vampires can get within striking distance, the bears will probably ditch the rifles, unless they want to risk crossfire. Either way, the bloodsuckers will have better odds. If the soldiers start to shift, at least it’ll be fangs versus claws.”
“And what are you planning to do?” Othello asked, eyes narrowed.
A familiar howl split the air.
I grinned, perched myself on the hood of the car, and sighted down the line of my rifle. “I’m goin’ to cover Serge,” I said. “Now, go!” And with that, I began firing into the advancing soldiers. I took the first soldier with a shot to the face that went through his head like it was a watermelon, spraying blood and other fluids into the air. The others ducked and turned their weapons on me, which meant Othello and Natasha were able to cut across the clearing to find Dimitri without being targeted. Or so I hoped; I honestly didn’t have time to see if they made it. Instead, I began firing in three-round bursts, aiming for the chest of my victims, hoping that the natural upward pull of the rifle would lead to a headshot. Sadly, after the first three or four soldiers went down, the rest knew what was coming and had found cover of their own. They peppered the personnel vehicle with bullets, so many that I had to dive to the dirt to avoid getting shot, myself.
But that was alright; I’d done my job.
I grinned as surprised shouts sounded above the racket, guessing the werebears had finally learned they had other enemies to contend with besides me. I tossed the AK-9 and drew the ASh-12.7. Part of the new rifle’s appeal was that—as a close-quarters assault rifle—it was more compact and easier to carry. Hell, I could wield it one-handed if need be. But the true value was that it was intended for urban environments, meaning I could fire point-blank into an enemy without having to worry about taking out one of my allies by accident.
Once I was sure I was ready, I dipped out from behind the vehicle, turned the corner, and ran towards the fighting, taking stock of our odds as I went. Things seemed to be going well; Serge and his fellow skinwalkers had attacked from the left side, Dimitri and his vampires from the right. Felix and Felicia had pounced on one soldier, their massive cat-like skinwalker forms eerily reminiscent of the twins from Thundercats...if the twins had put on at least a hundred pounds and gotten infinitely scarier in the process. Serge, meanwhile, had assumed his own skinwalker form and was going toe-to-toe with a fully shifted werebear, gnawing at the creature’s stomach even as it gouged Serge’s shoulders with its massive claws.
From what I could tell as I ran, it seemed Dimitri and his bloodsuckers were having the tougher go of it; several of his vampires had fallen, taken down by the silver ammunition. Those who remained were fighting partially shifted soldiers with extensive combat training. Which meant, if we hoped to divide and conquer, that’s where I was needed most.
I adjusted my trajectory, angling right, and ended up running into the fray with so much built-up speed that when I shoulder-checked the nearest soldier, I sent him soaring at least six feet in the air to land in a jumbled heap against one of the concrete barriers. The vampire who’d been fighting the werebear—ironically the one I’d shot only a few minutes before—took off after the wounded soldier, hoping to finish the job.
I didn’t bother waiting to see the outcome. Instead, I spun in a slow circle, firing judiciously. I took out one soldier’s leg, blowing a hole in it big enough that he toppled, unable to deliver the killing blow he’d intended. Next, I fired into an exposed shoulder, spinning the soldier around in time for Natasha to sink her fangs into the man’s throat. She rode him to the grou
nd, staring up at me beneath her bangs like a lion drinking from a watering hole. Dimitri, I noticed, needed no help; the man fought like a damn bear himself, firing off punches with enough power behind them to shatter walls, not to mention bodies. The Master moved like an old-school boxer, weaving around his opponent to deliver blow after blow, so graceful he made his opponents look clunky and slow. Unfortunately, I was so mesmerized by his technique that I didn’t hear the creature coming at me from behind until it was almost too late.
Some instinct—some premonition—warned me an instant before the assailant could take my head off. I ducked away, dropping to one knee as I spun to fire point-blank into the enormous creature’s stomach, thinking to wound whichever werebear bastard I came across long enough to get a clean headshot.
But it wasn’t a bear’s stomach I saw when I looked up.
The creature staring down at me was at least ten-feet tall and hideously muscled, the way modern bodybuilders often are, as if its body had evolved to do nothing but intimidate. Its face was equally disturbing, but for very different reasons: it was blank. Not empty of expression, but truly blank—a fleshy mask devoid of eyes, ears, nose, or mouth. And, worst of all, it seemed completely unfazed despite taking a bullet from an assault rifle at close range. I watched in disbelief as the gaping wound that was its stomach closed in a matter of seconds, the flesh merging like silly putty stretched over a flat surface, leaving not even a trickle of blood behind.
The creature reached for me, and I danced away, firing at that hand. I wasn’t sure why, but I knew I didn’t want it to touch me—knew it instinctually, just as you know you wouldn’t want a spider skittering across your face or a snake slithering up your thigh. But no matter how much damage I did, no matter how quickly I moved, the hand grew closer. In fact, the flesh seemed eager to mend itself, growing back almost faster than I could destroy it.
In the end, I stumbled over a fallen corpse, knowing with a grim certainty that the monster’s hand was going to touch me and that I was going to loathe every second of it. But, before I could even so much as consider scrambling backwards, Felix and Felicia were on the thing. Felix, the larger of the two skinwalkers, went low, taking the thing at the knees with a vicious hip check. Felicia went high, burying her claws into its chest and shoulder as she gnawed on its head, plunging her fangs into that smooth, fleshy surface over and over like a cat with a toy.
The monster shuddered, momentarily off balance, but then righted itself. I watched in horror as it grabbed Felicia by the scruff of her neck and tore her loose, only to shove its other hand into her feline chest. Felicia wailed, her agony sending spasms through her body. Felix answered her wails with a scream of his own, only he screamed the way mountain lions scream—his yowl so primal it sent every hair on my body standing straight up. He leapt, latching onto the creature’s wrist as if he could chew through the flesh and bone quickly enough to sever the thing’s hold on his sister.
But it was already too late.
The creature flung Felicia’s body into one of the nearby tents, the canvas of which folded over her like a burial shroud. A mass of something meaty and red lay in its blood-soaked hand, falling to the ground in a wet thunk only after Felix’s weight forced the creature to lower his arm. The monster reared back, then thrust two fingers into Felix’s skull as I sat there, too shocked, too appalled to move. Felix jerked, twitching spasmodically, as the creature fished around for the brain. Once found, the hand drew back, and Felix flopped over into the dirt.
“Enough!” a voice called, loud enough to be heard over the sounds of the fighting, causing us all to hesitate, if only for an instant. The creature turned towards the sound of the voice and began shambling towards it like a dog that’s been called by its master.
And perhaps it had.
I, meanwhile, was left staring at Felix’s skinwalker form, willing those eyes to brighten with the inner fire I’d so often seen flickering behind Serge’s. But the gaping wound in Felix’s skull was too large to ignore, and I knew in my heart that he was dead. Him and Felicia both. Casualties, they’d said—the war would only truly begin once both sides took losses.
They hadn’t wanted to end up casualties.
I got to my feet, gritting my teeth, and found Rasputin exactly where I’d last seen him, only this time he had his hand resting on the featureless head of the monster who’d come after me. The thing had gone onto all fours like a pet, and I knew at last what Dimitri had meant, what had incited the Master’s pure, unadulterated hatred for the conjuror. The only kind of person who could tame something like that—something that monstrous—had to be evil. Had to be stopped.
I took a step forward, but a beefy hand on my shoulder held me back.
“We have lost,” Dimitri said, forcing me to look around.
He was right.
Everywhere I looked, werebear soldiers held our people at gunpoint. There were far fewer of the soldiers than there had been, admittedly, but still enough to end us all with a few well-placed shots. Only Natasha and a few other vampires remained. Serge was being held to the ground by two werebears, his fiery green eyes promising death and mayhem should he ever be let up. Vitaly had apparently been pried out of the tank and was bleeding from a vicious head wound, badly enough that I knew he’d die soon without medical attention. Mikhail, I saw, had Othello in custody, pinning her arms behind her back as he marched her towards Rasputin. Besides her, only Dimitri and I remained standing, although we were flanked on either side by two soldiers apiece, close enough they could take us out in a matter of seconds.
“Drop your weapon,” one of the soldiers said, staring me down with the cool eyes of a professional killer. I glared at him but did what he said; it really wasn’t important enough to argue about, I could always pick it back up, later. Besides, I wasn’t interested in getting shot simply for holding a gun. If I was going to end up shot, I wanted it to be because I was firing a gun. Preferably into his fucking face.
“I will admit this little rebellion of yours proved costly,” Rasputin said, his voice disturbing the sudden, almost oppressive silence. “I never dreamed you would test my men so effectively, Anichka. I am not easily impressed, but I must admit this was quite the challenge you presented. I was even forced to call one of my minions.”
“It’s Othello,” the Russian woman replied, spitting in the conjuror’s general direction. She struggled against Mikhail’s grip, but couldn’t break his hold on her. If anything, her attempts seemed to amuse the man; he looked down at her with an expression that would have been alarming, if he’d had eyebrows.
Rasputin smiled. “Of course. But I think we can agree that you have been soundly beaten, yes? Unless you would prefer I kill everyone?” He made a motion with one hand, and one of his soldiers fired, hitting one of the kneeling vampires. The bloodsucker screamed and writhed, then stilled as another shot took him in the head. It was brutal. Callous. But efficient.
Othello stopped struggling and let herself be led by the arm. “What do you want?” she hissed.
“You surprise me. I have told you repeatedly what I want. Hand over the flower, and this can all end. Dimitri and his vampires will have to die, of course, but the rest of you may go.”
“And the ones you imprisoned?” she asked.
“I confess I have no need for the FBI agents, the detective, or the Valkyrie. I intended to bargain for their lives, but never to keep them. Unfortunately, Christoff belongs to me, as does his bloodline. I may have to wait a little while before taking his children, but they, too, will have to die.”
“Why?” Othello asked, a note of anguish in her voice that hadn’t been there before, as if Rasputin wasn’t playing fair anymore.
“It took me a long time to cultivate the precise genetic makeup required to produce Mikhail and his men. To allow one of my creations to wander the world and potentially infect others, giving them access to this gift, would be foolish. You are a businesswoman, yes? Perhaps you should try to think of it like a pat
ent. A copyright. Christoff is mine and—according to the contract he signed—so, too, are his children. Sadly, as old as they are now, I doubt they will serve me as faithfully as Mikhail, so there is no value in retrieving them. Death is a simpler solution.”
At this point, Othello was only a dozen feet away from Rasputin and his pet monster. I wanted, desperately, to rush the soldiers and go after her, but I couldn’t take the chance. If I moved, Rasputin may very well have us all gunned down. Of course, that didn’t mean Dimitri wasn’t planning something; it’s hard for anyone to know they are going to be executed and not make a move. But, unless he chose to act in the next minute or so, Rasputin was going to get exactly what he wanted.
And, for some reason, my gut was telling me that—whatever it was Rasputin intended to do with the raskovnik—I wasn’t going to like it very much.
“If you go after the children,” Othello said, finally, “you will die, Grigori.”
Rasputin cocked his head. “Oh? Will you come after me again, Anichka?”
Othello shook her head. “They are protected. If you think what we have done here has been a challenge to your authority, you have no idea what fresh hell would come upon you, should you try to assert your will in St. Louis. In fact, if I were you, I would not so much as joke about endangering Christoff’s children.”
“Is that so?”
“Da, it is so,” a man said, emerging inexplicably from a tear in the fabric of space—a Gateway—only a few feet away from where Othello and Mikhail stood. Christoff, his once muscular frame reduced to something sad and brittle, stepped through and raised his chin defiantly, his eyes glowing amber, like those of his beast. “You will never lay a hand on my children so long as I am living.”
“Or us,” Leo added, trailing the older man. I watched in awe as others—more than I would have thought possible—piled in behind him, catching glimpses of Jimmy and Lakota among the sea of orange jumpsuits. It wasn’t until the last individual stepped through that I knew who’d created the Gateway, and who’d likely rescued the rest.
Moscow Mule: Phantom Queen Book 5 - A Temple Verse Series (The Phantom Queen Diaries) Page 18