by Kit Rocha
"I don't know," Dallas replied. "Closest we've had in years was that shit with the bootleggers your old boss set up. Before that? The fight that won me Four. But that wasn't war."
At least he wasn't telling himself they were all hardened soldiers who could handle anything. Hell, Ryder had been groomed for this war, trained since childhood, and even he had dealt almost entirely in the theoretical, in strategy.
"You have Bren and Cruz," he said finally. "And Jasper seems like he gets it."
"I think he does." Dallas made an amused noise. "I saw that in him from the start, you know. He was this scruffy teenager on a shit-ass illegal farm, underfed and still growing out of his clothes. He looked ridiculous. But men twice his age listened when he spoke. I knew men would follow him, if I could convince him to lead."
"Maybe he was a soldier in a past life."
"Is that what you were?" They hit the bottom step, and Dallas eyed him. "I didn't see it in you at first, but maybe you're too fucking good at hiding it. These men will go any damn where you lead them."
It wasn't a compliment, not exactly, but more of an observation. Ryder shrugged as he pushed through the door to the alley that led toward the staging area. "A soldier can't win a war the way a general can, right?"
Dallas gave him another of those long, appraising looks before snorting. "Soldier or general, just don't get yourself killed. Nessa will murder me."
They hadn't discussed it directly, only in terms of the likely damage to her friends, her family. Her home. "I think she's more worried about you," Ryder shot back. "You're family."
"Yeah, but I'm too contrary to die." Dallas grinned at him. "Plus Lex would follow me down into hell and bring me back so Nessa could kill me again."
Maybe she would, at that.
The men gathered in the staging area were the strongest leaders that had emerged from the remnants of Fleming's men, plus a few factory foremen who had proven themselves tough enough to handle the stress of command. They'd already armed themselves for the battle ahead, though they didn't have much in the way of protective gear. Ryder was pretty sure it didn't matter. This battle couldn't be fought clean and easy, boldly facing their enemy on level ground. It would be rough and it would be dirty.
It was the only way to win.
He stood in front of them as they shifted around, moving into a vague semblance of a line. There was nothing formal about it, but formality was for training, not for the real world. These men were about to bleed and maybe even die together, and that was enough for Ryder.
"We have lots of advantages here," he began, "and the biggest one is pretty fucking big—they're coming up on our western side, right through the factory district. The sons of bitches in the city want those buildings standing when all this is over, no matter what, so they're not going to blast their way through with artillery."
The tense but relieved expressions on their faces told Ryder they understood. With artillery, Eden's troops would roll right over them. Without it, they were left fighting an entrenched enemy force on unfamiliar turf, and that would be Sector Five's saving grace.
He went on. "We'll fight this one on the ground, guns and guts. The blockades are in place, snipers in position. Take these bastards down or drive them to us, just like Hector taught you. Stay in radio contact, and use the codes you learned."
Ryder paused, the heaviness of the moment weighing on him. He was giving the orders here, sending these men out to command others. Every death, every potential failure, was a reflection of him. And if he thought about that for too long, the gravity of it would paralyze him. "This is it," he said instead. "This is where we show them what happens when you fuck with Sector Five."
They lifted their fists and rifles in the air, their cheers sounding more like howls of anticipation, and he felt his own adrenaline surge in answer. They headed out to gather their teams, and Ryder turned to Dallas.
He inclined his head. "Good speech."
"Don't blow smoke up my ass, O'Kane."
Dallas barked out a laugh. "Now you sound like Jim."
"He did raise me," Ryder reminded him as he reached for his weapons. "Eden will want to send its troops straight up the boulevard—it has the best access, fastest movement. So we have it barricaded off. Their men will funnel into the side streets, and mine will pick them off."
"And any who get past them will end up with no place to go but straight at my men." Dallas made a final check of his sidearm and knives before glancing up at him. "This is gonna get real ugly. You ready for it?"
The first fitful spurts of gunfire had already begun outside, and Ryder struggled to put his overwhelming sense of inevitability into words. He wasn't looking forward to the death and destruction—maybe even his own—but now that it was in front of him, he wasn't afraid. Instead, a strong sense of fate gripped him, as if whatever was going to happen had already been written, and they were only fulfilling destiny.
So he didn't answer at all. "Let's go."
Hector must have given the shutdown order, because the only light filtering down into the streets and alleys now came from the moon. Ryder held up a fist to signal Dallas to stop, and they hunkered into the shadows as a team of six men in pristine tactical gear ran past the end of the alley.
At least they wouldn't have any trouble telling friend from foe.
More shots, and Ryder gestured forward. He and Dallas swung out into the cross street just in time to watch the fireteam from Eden cut down a third of the rebel team that met them. Instead of firing—and risking even more of his men—Ryder charged, aiming with the bayonet attached to the end of his rifle.
The soldier in front staggered back from Ryder, surprise overwhelming his training for a critical second before he started to raise his gun. Dallas kicked it out of his hands before swinging around, shoving the man onto Ryder's bayonet.
Rough and dirty, just as Ryder had anticipated. With the added distraction of a flanking attack, the fireteam broke, scattering back toward the safety of the dark alleyways. With a single command, the rebels pursued them, and Ryder tried not to look at the fallen bodies as he kept moving toward the boulevard.
The streets were chaos. Some of the invading troops had already realized they didn't have surprise on their side, after all. Grenades exploded against men and buildings, ripping both apart as screams of pain and bloodlust tore through the night.
They reached the boulevard in time to see a cluster of Eden soldiers bursting from an alley on the opposite side. Two of the five went down almost at once, as the snipers Ryder had positioned on the roofs took their shots. The other three scattered to be met by Dallas's militia.
Jasper had taken cover behind a steel barricade cut from a reinforced shipping container. Ryder and Dallas joined him, and he nodded as he reloaded his rifle. "Still alive? Good."
Dallas wiped his bloody knife on his pants leg. "How are the boys holding up?"
"Not bad." He paused to peer over the barricade, then leaned up and squeezed off three quick shots before ducking back down. "But I don't think the worst has come yet."
Even as he spoke, more of Eden's troops were streaming into the boulevard, driven by Ryder's men. The two groups clashed, mingling until it was impossible to tell them apart from a distance.
Jasper slung his rifle onto his back and pulled two long, wicked knives from their sheaths. "It looks like this turned into a good, old-fashioned brawl, after all." With that, he dove into the fray with a roar.
Crazy fucking O'Kanes.
Time to embrace it. Ryder followed, channeling his adrenaline and anger into focus. Bullets zipped past his head, one so close he swore he could feel the air flowing around it against his cheek, but he ignored them. To his left, a rebel militiaman was grappling with an Eden soldier.
He paused long enough to twist the enemy soldier's arm behind his back. Bone cracked, and the man howled as he dropped his knife. Ryder kept moving, trusting the rebel to finish the rest.
Another man charged at Ryder, the b
ars on his sleeve marking him as a seasoned soldier. It didn't matter. No one but the Special Tasks soldiers had trained for this as long as he had. Ryder ducked the man's first swing, came in close, and grabbed the back of his neck in a savage grip. With his enemy's movement—and possible retreat—controlled, Ryder jerked him into a vicious elbow strike.
His nose shattered, and Ryder followed him down to the ground, finishing him off with one mercilessly efficient stroke of his blade across the man's throat.
There was no room for mercy here.
Ryder rose and turned in time to see Dallas engaging two soldiers. He ducked blows, and for every one that landed, he hit them back harder. He could hold his own in a fight, even two-on-one, that was for damn sure, and Ryder almost laughed.
Almost.
The hysterical sound died in his throat as a glimmer of movement caught his eye. A third soldier, in half-cover behind one of the electric carts they used to haul freight between warehouses. He held his rifle steady, trained on Dallas, and he'd take the shot, even if it endangered his two comrades.
In a world at war, counting the great Dallas O'Kane amongst your enemy kills was more important than a hundred fellow soldiers.
No time to reach either of them, raise his own gun, even call out a warning. Ironic, since the rest of the world seemed to have slowed to a crawl. Ryder could only watch as the man squeezed the trigger—
"No!" One of Dallas's men hit him hard, taking down one of the Eden soldiers as well. Tank, the others had called him, a giant, smiling brute whose O'Kane ink was still bright and black on his thick wrists.
The shooter's head exploded in a red cloud as one of Five's snipers took him out, and the world snapped back into real, adrenaline-soaked time. Ryder dove for the pile of bodies and pulled away the fallen soldier to reveal lifeless, dead eyes—and Dallas's knife buried to the hilt in his chest.
"Fuck." Dallas shoved the man away and rolled to his knees. "That was fucking—"
His words cut off abruptly as his gaze fell on Tank. The young man sprawled on his back, his breath wheezing out through bloodstained lips. The bullets meant for Dallas had hit him square in the chest, and Ryder knew it was hopeless.
So did Dallas. He clasped Tank's hand and bent over him, his voice roughened by grief but still gentle. "Hey, kid. You saved my ass there. So you rest for a bit and let us mop up, okay? Then we'll have a big party for you, and all the girls will fuss over you, and you'll be a big damn hero."
Tank's lips curved into a smile. His lungs wheezed again as he tried to speak, and the words came out on a fading rasp. "O'Kane...for…"
He never finished.
Dallas leaned forward and pressed his forehead to Tank's. Without looking, he reached out and found the knife still protruding from the dead soldier's chest. His fingers curled around it, and he flowed to his feet.
Anger and grief would have been understandable. But what burned in Dallas's eyes was nothing less than determined fury, as if the moment Tank slipped away was all the time he had needed to fully envision the deaths of every Eden soldier left standing, and all he had to do now was make them happen.
"Let's finish this," he snarled, pivoting toward the remaining soldiers.
Then he was gone.
Dallas hit a tight knot of invaders with a roar that served as a rallying cry. Other O'Kanes echoed it, surging toward their leader. But Dallas didn't need any help. He slashed and stabbed like a man possessed. He ripped sidearms out of startled soldiers' hands and turned them on their owners. When he ran out of bullets, he whipped the pistols across terrified faces and took the men apart with his bare fucking hands.
He was a force of nature. Rage personified. Eden's soldiers started to break, scattering back toward the squads of Sector Four's militia, who picked them off easily. With the fight under control—and the enemy fleeing—Hector pulled Ryder off the front lines.
He headed straight for the converted shop they'd designated as their medical aid station. Wounded men lined the walls, with medics rushing between them like bees flitting from flower to flower. Only Dylan Jordan, head of Dallas's secret Sector Three hospital, stood unmoving, his arms crossed over his chest.
Dallas's eyes were still too bright. Dangerous. "Who did we lose?"
"Besides Tank, a few militia members—Crider, Lemieux, and McCutcheon." He hesitated. "Dallas, Stuart took a grenade. He didn't make it."
"Fuck." Dallas's fists tightened. "Fuck. Lex is going to murder me."
Hector handed Ryder a list of the known casualties from Five. It was much, much longer, but the names swam together. He wasn't sure he'd recognize any of them, anyway. He didn't know them, even casually. Hell, he'd been better acquainted with Stuart.
So that was the image that stuck with him as field reports continued to roll in, and the combined forces from Four and Five ended the battle with Eden's retreat. Not the dozens of names on Hector's list, but the crinkle-eyed smile of one of Sector Four's artisans, gone in an instant.
Chapter Fifteen
Nessa didn't want to be here.
There was nothing wrong with the rooftop garden, especially with the early-morning light burnishing everything with warm golds. It caught the shower of water droplets spraying off one of the sprinklers in a rainbow of color that vanished as soon as Nessa noticed it, only to reappear farther down the row of plants.
It was an idyllic setting. No doubt that was why Lex had picked it for the video Markovic was recording. Nessa would bet all the bottles in her safe that no one inside Eden's prissy-ass walls imagined this when they thought of the sectors. Dirt and blood, yes. Crime and concrete and death...but not life. And this garden seethed with it, from the plants finally bursting into bloom to the insects that had come from God-knew-where, buzzing from plant to plant doing whatever it was bugs did.
It was pretty as a picture, and Nessa was fucking miserable. Grief was bad enough—Tank had been a new recruit, someone she'd only known for a month or two, but she'd liked the impossible meathead. And the way he'd gone down…
Every last O'Kane in Sector Four would put themselves between Dallas and a bullet, if that was what it took to protect him. And the only thing grimmer than imagining how acutely Dallas felt Tank's loss was trying not to think about which O'Kane would be next.
There was plenty of reason to be hurting. But Nessa had her own intensely selfish reason, too.
Ryder hadn't come back from Sector Five. Dallas and Lex had both assured her that he'd come through the battle in one piece—more or less—but that the same couldn't be said for all his men, so she wasn't surprised he stayed. Sector Five was his, and if he abandoned the people who depended on him, he wouldn't be worth all her worry and sleepless nights. He wouldn't be Ryder.
Didn't make the sleepless nights easier, though.
"They're almost ready." Jared had shed his jacket for the cause—it barely fit Markovic through the shoulders, but it hung off his large frame. There was nothing they could do about that. The drastic weight loss resulting from months of starvation and torture couldn't be fixed in a few weeks.
Nessa dragged her attention back to the tablet in her hands. The video camera mounted on a trellis beside her displayed its captured image there, showing her Markovic as he quietly endured Lili's final touches.
She smoothed his hair into place with gentle fingers and smiled. "There we go. Do you need anything else before we start? Water?"
He shook his head, and Lex stepped up in her place, bending over to speak to him.
"This is going to be brutal," Jared whispered.
"I know," Lili replied just as softly. She moved closer to Nessa and peered down at the tablet. "Can you zoom in a little tighter?"
Nessa nodded and slid her finger over the controls along the side of the picture. Markovic filled the frame, perfectly dressed and still utterly out of place in this serene setting. He looked...sharp. Hard. No one watching could doubt that he'd been through hell. Just staring into his eyes was enough—the pain and darkness
that stared back left Nessa unsettled.
Which was the point, she supposed. Propaganda wasn't meant to make you feel warm and snuggly.
Markovic took a deep breath and swallowed convulsively. The closer shot hid his shaking leg and fidgety hands, but it couldn't hide his face, not when his face was the whole focus of the video.
"We can do this later," Lex offered.
"No, we can't," he shot back irritably. "It needs to be done by this afternoon. Just in case she says yes."
"All right." Lex bent over again, putting herself on eye level with him. "Then do it."
The noise he made was pure exasperation, but when Lex stepped back out of the frame, his hands were still, his eyes flashing more fire than despair.
Nessa tapped the screen to start recording.
Markovic took another deep breath. "Hello, I'm Councilman Nikolas Markovic. You haven't seen me for a while. Some of you thought I was dead, or that I'd abandoned you. At this point, I almost wish either of those things were true, because the reality is much more dangerous for you all."
Beside her, Jared flinched.
"I was a prisoner in my own city, jailed by my fellow councilmen," Markovic went on. His jaw tightened, but he kept talking. "For ninety-three days, they kept me chained to a wall in a cell at City Center. They gave me dirty water and very little food. There was no trial, no formal charges, because I committed no crime. I was simply in the way.
"Under the direction of Councilman Smith Peterson, MPs beat and tortured me. They interrogated me about my allegiances and activities, and when I didn't give them the answers they wanted, they beat me some more. They cut me, burned me, broke my bones. If they went too far, they called a regen tech to patch me up—and started again the next day."
His voice wavered on the last words, and Nessa couldn't watch him on the screen anymore. It was too close, too personal, pain radiating from his eyes as he fought back the memories.
He held it together. "I know some of you are shocked. You don't want to believe that things like this could happen in our city. Others are surprised, but only because it happened to me—a councilman, a leader elected by the people. But I think there are probably more of you who aren't shocked at all, because you've seen this. You've seen it happen to a friend or a family member, heard the whispers and the threats. You already know what some of your leaders are capable of."