Fela broke the worst of the impact, but pain still cascaded through his abused body as he slammed into the semi’s hood with a loud thump and a groan of bending metal. The world turned in a confusing blur, then glass shattered as the truck’s forward movement carried Jarek into the windshield. Fela’s iron grip was the only thing that kept the gun in his hand as he crashed through to land in the truck’s cab, awkwardly folded between two Iron Eagles.
Screeching brakes joined a steady stream of curses, and Jarek’s arm reflexively shot out to keep him from slamming into the dashboard as the truck pulled to a rough halt.
“It’s Slater!” Greg yelled into his comm.
“Hey, guys,” Jarek said, grunting through the waves of pain racking his body in the wake of the violent tumble.
Greg yanked his sidearm free and pointed it at Jarek. Jarek gritted his teeth and shot him.
At a warning from Al, Jarek threw his right elbow behind him just as the driver yanked a knife free of its sheath. The blow wasn’t well-placed, but with Fela’s strength behind it, it slammed the guy into the driver-side door hard enough to leave him dazed. Jarek righted himself and slammed the driver’s head into the steering wheel, then he killed the truck’s engine and pulled the keys from the ignition.
He clambered out through the space where the windshield had been, pitched the keys into the dark, then turned and hopped on top of the semi’s short trailer.
Judging from their angles, the two SUVs escorting the truck had slid to abrupt halts when Jarek had made his debut as a wrecking ball. Doors flew open as Jarek came into view and the remaining Iron Eagles hastened to come kill the little brat who’d eluded them and come back to ruin their nice convoy.
“Might I recommend the grenade, sir?” Al said.
A cold grin touched Jarek’s lips. “You may.”
He plucked the old hand grenade out of the pouch on his belt and pulled the pin. Hopefully the thing was still functional.
Six men piled out of the SUVs—three from each. Weapons raised toward Jarek as he covered the length of the trailer in a few bounding strides. On the last step, he sent the live grenade sailing for the SUV fifteen yards off to the right with a flick of his wrist then gathered himself to leap for the SUV ten yards off to the left.
Gunfire split the night air as he flew toward the second SUV. Jarek raised a protective arm as bullets pelted into Fela’s armor. He squeezed off a few wild shots and briefly glimpsed Conner skirting around the front of the SUV, and then the vehicle’s roof rushed up to meet him. Armored or no, the SUV’s metal paneling still crumpled several inches inward as Fela’s mass slammed against it.
Jarek dug armored fingers into the roof to keep from sliding off the end, then he rolled off the SUV to the left to come down on top of the gunman who’d been firing from behind the backseat door.
A sonorous blast roared out from behind just as Jarek landed on the guy—the grenade, he registered through the buzzing thrum of adrenaline. They hit the ground hard, Jarek coming down on top. Something that wasn’t his snapped under Fela’s weight with a crunch that was sickeningly clear thanks to Fela’s auditory sensors.
Jarek whipped around, raising his SIG as the queasy feeling in his stomach threatened to overwhelm him. There was Stetson by the open driver’s door, trying to shake his head clear after the explosion. Jarek aimed through the open backseat door and squeezed the trigger three times.
Two shots went wide. The third sent Stetson staggering back, clutching at his left shoulder.
Jarek leapt on the opportunity, throwing himself over the SUV and crashing down on top of Stetson on the other side.
To his credit, Stetson put up a fight even after Fela’s considerable bulk smashed him into the asphalt. Jarek caught the bulldog’s fist and threw a punch of his own. Queasiness yanked at his stomach again as bone gave way to his fist and Stetson’s eye socket caved in, but there was something stronger—some primal satisfaction at triumphing over his enemy, at beating someone who wanted to hurt him.
He raised his fist again, only tangentially aware of the cry pouring out of his own mouth, and then—
“Slater.”
Jarek froze at the commanding tone of Conner’s voice. He looked up. Conner stood at the back of the semi’s open trailer with his gun resting against the right temple of one of their handcuffed prisoners, human shield style.
“Step away from Stetson,” he said, his voice steady and calm.
Jarek did. When his steps angled toward the semi, Conner warned him off by digging the muzzle of his pistol into the young brunette’s head until she gave a muffled squeal of terror through her gag.
“Simmons,” Conner called, “take Slater’s weapon.”
Jarek turned with a shock. Simmons approached from the other SUV. He’d survived the grenade’s explosion—though not with impunity judging from the way he limped over from the smoking vehicle to yank the SIG from Jarek’s hand.
“Sir,” Al said quietly into Jarek’s ear, “the SUV’s battery.”
Jarek blinked his acknowledgment. Thanks to Fela’s sensors, he’d already smelled it—the odd, pungent aroma of burning electronics. An exploding battery probably wouldn’t be particularly devastating at this range, but if he could just stall long enough, it’d make a great distraction.
Conner was in no mood for stalling. “Out of the armor, kid. You have five seconds, or I kill her. Five.”
Jarek’s stomach tightened.
“Four.”
He swallowed, acutely aware of Simmons’ point-blank SMG beside him.
“Three.”
The girl struggled in Conner’s grasp, sobbing hysterically behind her gag.
“Two.”
“Okay!” Jarek cried, throwing his hands up. “Okay, I’m coming out.”
“Sir,” Al said.
“Slowly,” Jarek said back, so quietly that he didn’t even hear the word himself. Al did.
The click of Fela’s faceplate unlocking seemed particularly loud in the tense silence that had fallen, broken now only by the crackling fire licking its way through the SUV behind. Everyone watched as slowly, slowly, the faceplate began to slide open.
“Let’s go,” Conner said with a small wave of his gun.
A series of clicks ran down the front of Fela’s torso, and that too began to creep open, slowly revealing vulnerable flesh.
The satisfied smirk that crossed Conner’s face was the only warning Jarek had before Conner whipped his gun toward him, finger tight on the trigger.
“Now,” Jarek said, growling the word as he threw his arms up to shield his body and pivoted to launch a wild kick at Simmons. A crack and low boom rang out from the burning SUV, not quite drowning out the sound of gunshots as Conner opened fire.
Red-hot pain screamed through his left side and a concussive wave of heat buffeted him as his foot connected. The kick sent Simmons flying ten yards through the air to crumple slack heap. Jarek staggered back, his shoulder awash in fiery pain as Fela snapped closed around him. Had he been shot?
No time. There was no time to think now.
With a hoarse cry, Jarek threw himself across the six or seven yards that separated him from Conner.
Conner fired off two shots—one of which slammed into his faceplate and set his entire brain ringing—but then Jarek was catching onto Conner’s gun hand, dragging him down as he fell. The girl came along for the ride—there was nothing to be done about it.
They all hit the ground together. Jarek grabbed at Conner’s other hand, squeezed until he felt bones break, then pulled it away from the girl, who promptly rolled off of Conner and away from them as best as she could.
Conner snarled and got a boot up to deliver a hard kick to Jarek’s head. Armor or no, getting shot and kicked in the head wasn’t a pleasant experience. Jarek gnashed his teeth, a growl boiling in his throat and spilling over into a wordless yell as he grabbed Conner by the tactical vest and rolled to throw him away from the truck.
Conner crash
ed messily to the pavement several yards away. Jarek rose slowly to his feet, pain roaring through his every fiber. Dark spots swam in his vision, languid and inviting.
“Al,” he said, his voice a soft croak. “Losing blood.”
Jarek closed his eyes and lost himself in a fresh sea of pain as Fela’s membrane shifted to clamp down against the upper left surface of his chest.
He opened his eyes. Conner shifted on the pavement, trying to regain his feet. Jarek stalked toward him, searching with a clumsy hand until his fingers found the hilt of the sword at his back. He drew it.
The simple blade slid free smoothly and with a deadly silence. Jarek pulled to a halt, squeezing the hilt in his hand as he looked down at Conner, who’d made it to his knees.
Conner gave a mirthless laugh and spit blood at Jarek’s feet. “You think you have the stones to use that thing, kid?”
Jarek didn’t say anything. He was too busy trying not to pass out. How much blood was even left in his body at this point?
“I don’t,” Conner continued. “You know what I think? I think you should do yourself a favor and just go bleed out in that alley over there. It’ll be easy. No more pain.” He gave a wet-sounding chuckle. “You don’t have what it takes to survive this world.” He thumped at his chest with his good hand. “This is it, kid. This is the new model. The strong survive. You tie yourself down to the weak, you die.”
Darkness tried to close in over Jarek. Al manually corrected Fela’s right leg as it tried to buckle. “Faceplate, Al,” he whispered as the world swept back to him in a lightheaded rush.
Fela’s faceplate slid smoothly open, and Jarek showed Conner a feral grin as he labored to get his words out. “This coming… from the guy who’s about to die.” He squeezed the hilt harder. “I’ll never be like you Conner. Never.”
Conner’s face pulled into a harsh sneer. “Our little soldier of charity. See how far it gets you.”
Jarek didn’t say anything. He bared his teeth in a snarl and stepped forward to swing his sword. With Fela’s strength behind the strike, it was smoother than he’d expected—a clean sweep broken only by a split second of soft, gristly resistance. Conner’s head toppled to the pavement at his feet, right along with Jarek’s stomach. There was blood, though not as much as he would’ve thought, and then he was falling to his knees next to Conner’s motionless, kneeling body.
“Fuck you, Conner,” he whispered down toward the disembodied head as darkness pushed in on him.
A few seconds later, he distantly noticed the young brunette girl crouching down next to him, shaking him by the shoulder and saying something far, far away.
“Al,” Jarek whispered. “Get us outta here.”
After that, he passed out.
Chapter 14
When Jarek began slowly pulling his way out of the heavy darkness of The Sleep, the thick, sluggish malaise of consciousness creeping through his head soon became aware of The Pain.
The Pain defied any predefined mold in which his mind tried to fit it. It was simply The Pain, and as far as he could tell, it was omnipresent. There might have been a few points that burned slightly hotter—his chest and his leg, to name a couple—but for the most part, it was all just The Pain.
The first time he woke, Jarek swam in it for only a few delirious minutes before he fell back into The Sleep.
The second time he woke, The Pain burned a degree or two less than it had before. He probably had some manner of drugs to thank for that. That made sense. But drugs from whom? For that matter, where was he? Worn, wood-paneled ceiling above. Warm lighting. Was this a couch he was on? Maybe it didn’t matter just now…
He fell back into The Sleep.
The third time he woke, Jarek managed to move his head enough to see that he was on a couch in a cozy little living room. Fela was collapsed down beside another couch opposite Jarek’s. Behind that couch, Pryce moved about a small kitchen space, cooking something that made Jarek’s stomach growl, despite The Pain.
“Sir!” Al said through Fela’s speakers. Pryce turned.
Jarek met the older man’s eyes, grunted, and said, “You look like hell.”
A warm smile spread across Pryce’s face. “Hard to get my beauty sleep when you keep stumbling in here bleeding on all of my things.”
“And yet you brought me here to bloody up your nice furniture…”
Pryce wrinkled his nose. “Please don’t.”
“I’ll do my best.” He looked at Fela, wincing at the small movement. “Did you get those girls to safety, Al?”
“They actually insisted on getting you to safety, sir,” Al said.
Pryce shook his head. “Shot-up SUVs full of battered women dropping off strange robot men on my doorstep in the middle of the night… What will the neighbors think?”
Jarek coughed and nearly cried out at the fresh agony the movement woke in his body. “That you’re one crazy old bastard, would be my guess.”
“Ah, yes,” Pryce said, nodding. “Business as usual then.”
Jarek laughed and immediately regretted it. “Agh! Dammit…”
Pryce finished up in the kitchen and brought over a tray full of crackers and stew for both of them. Jarek insisted that he was capable of at least working a spoon for himself, and once Pryce had managed to get him propped up on the couch through a storm of groans and curses, Jarek proceeded to slurp down tiny sips and bites of a rather delicious stew of potatoes, carrots, some kind of meat (he didn’t necessarily want to know what kind), and a wonderful mixture of spices. He moved delicately, trying in vain to avoid eliciting fresh pain.
“How bad is it?” Jarek asked between spoonfuls. “Not that I’m an expert, but it felt like I lost a lot of blood before I passed out.”
Pryce glanced down at his bowl then back at Jarek. “There’s a reason I broke out the meat for this stew. You have a lot of healing to do, son.” He glanced at Fela. “You might have died if Alfred hadn’t slowed the bleeding. If hospitals were still a thing, you’d be getting a transfusion or two right now for sure.” He fixed Jarek with a serious look. “You’re damn lucky that last shot didn’t hit your heart, son.”
“I’ll be careful,” Jarek said.
“You’ll be dead,” Pryce mumbled.
“Ha!” Jarek said, then, “Agh!” as another wave of fire rolled through his torso. Pryce raised his eyebrows at him.
“What?” Jarek said. “Who doesn’t love the Wars?”
Pryce smiled and tilted his head in concession.
For a while, they sat in silence. Al had already recounted the battle to Pryce while Jarek had slept, and frankly, the fight was the last thing he wanted to think or talk about at the moment. It was hard to believe just how spectacularly the shit had hit the fan in the space of a few hours.
He’d killed some of those men… He hadn’t been close to them, per se—not like he’d been with Mark—but he’d still thought of them as brothers after a fashion.
He’d killed Conner. And not just killed him—he’d chopped the guy’s freaking head off. Had Al told Pryce that part?
As horrific as it should have sounded… it didn’t. And as sickened as he should have been at the memory, he wasn’t.
Not that he felt good about the act.
There’d been a time when he’d thought that Conner was a kind man at heart. Hell, there probably had been some decency left in the man; he’d just strayed too far away from it. He’d hurt people. He’d taken advantage of them, used them… and he never would have stopped.
Conner had needed to die.
A dull ache settled in somewhere between his gut and his heart, pulsing right at his core. It was difficult to distinguish from The Pain at first, but the more he thought about Conner and Mark and the Iron Eagles, the more the ache resolved into its own, separate entity.
He closed his eyes, and there was Conner’s headless form on the pavement. He shuddered, but then there was Mark giving him one last smile before Conner pulled the trigger, and the young b
runette girl, wide-eyed and afraid in Conner’s arms.
Yes, Conner had needed to die… hadn’t he?
Jarek opened his eyes and let out a long breath. For a while, he tried to use the company of Al and Pryce as a shield against the morbid thoughts.
They’d been talking for around half an hour when out of the blue, Pryce said, “So what’s next for the Soldier of Charity?”
Jarek’s furrowed his brows at Pryce, his mouth dropping open.
“Sorry. Some of the girls who dropped you off kept saying it.” He shrugged. “Not bad as far as nicknames go. Sounds noble.”
“I killed the last man who called me that,” Jarek said, his tone flat.
There was an audible intake of breath from Pryce. “Shit. I’m sorry, Jarek. I didn’t mean to… You did good last night, son.”
Jarek let out a breath and looked around the room. “Boston,” he said after while.
“You want to go back?”
“I don’t know about that, but there is a disgruntled redhead I’d like to see back there. I need to make sure she’s safe, anyways.”
“I was hoping you’d say that, sir,” Al said.
Pryce smiled. “Well, if that’s not a worthy undertaking…”
Jarek returned his smile, drifting back to his own thoughts for a while.
“Pryce?” he said after some time. “Have you heard the things people are saying about the… things that caused the Catastrophe? I mean, vampires? Seriously?”
“I’ve heard some… troubling stories from reliable people,” Pryce said. “Glowing red eyes and impervious to bullets and everything.” He shrugged. “Who knows if any of it’s true.”
Jarek frowned. “You said they were reliable.”
“Doesn’t mean they were right.”
Jarek pursed his lips. “Well, what do you think then?”
Pryce chuckled. “Hell, son. I have more theories than I could tell you in a night, half of which would put you to sleep and the other half of which would give you nightmares. Suffice to say, I believe the raknoth are real.”
“The raknoth?”
Pryce shrugged. “Name I picked up from one of those ‘reliable’ people. Some of the folks in Newark are organizing, trying to form some kind of militia in case the things decide to try something else.”
Soldier of Charity: A Prequel to the Harvesters Series Page 7