Red Gambit: Book One of the Harvesters Series

by Luke R. Mitchell

  A second thud, this one accompanied by a sharp crack and followed by voices and the squealing protest of metal hinges. Rustling sounds. The roar of a shotgun blast.

  His insides shriveled, his mind whirling. There was nothing he could do. Not a damn thing. Only listen.

  Another shotgun blast, and then someone said in a raspy baritone, “There is no need for that, Jay Pryce. You are not the one I am looking for.”

  “Move your ass, son,” Pryce murmured. Then he cut the call.

  An icy fist held Jarek’s gut and refused to let go as the second voice registered in his mind. It was the same voice from the broadcast last night.

  The fucking Red King had just kicked in Pryce’s door. And it was his fault.

  His jaw trembled.

  It had to be his fault. What other possible explanation was there? Pryce had said it himself: the son of a bitch must’ve tracked him and the others to the shop. He’d been careful to avoid being spotted, but it wasn’t impossible they’d been followed. Or maybe the raknoth had simply sniffed out their trail; he’d heard stories about their predatory prowess.

  It didn’t matter now. Pryce was in trouble.

  “Al.” His voice croaked out of his parched mouth.

  “I’m here, sir,” Al said.

  The earth felt unsteady beneath his feet. First Fela, now Pryce. How could this be happening?

  He had to do something.

  But what?

  “What do we do?”

  “We need to find and access that safe house, sir.” Al’s voice was steady. It grounded him enough to think.

  If the Red King wanted Pryce dead, there was nothing he could do about it at the moment. It would take him at least three hours to get back to Newark. The only chance he had of helping Pryce was if the King wanted the old man alive for something.

  That seemed like a real possibility.

  It wasn’t any mystery what the King was after. He wanted that damn egg of his back, and probably their three heads on a platter at this point. Killing Pryce wouldn’t get him what he wanted. No. Chances were good the raknoth intended either to torture information out of Pryce or to use him as a bartering chip to get Jarek and the others to play ball and give him what he wanted.

  If Pryce made it through the next five minutes, getting him back would likely mean a fight with the Red King or turning over the device, which would also probably mean a fight. If it came to that, he was pretty certain Fela was his only real chance against a raknoth. Either way, they needed to get into that damn safe house.

  Which meant they needed that damn cowboy.

  He looked at the ship, machinations of trickery and kidnap flashing through his mind. Rachel had appeared at the corner of the ship. She watched him with a worried expression. Michael stepped off the ramp to join her.

  “Was that …” she asked.

  He nodded, heat rising in his chest and throat.

  “What?” Michael said, looking back and forth between them. “What just happened?”

  “They took Pryce,” Rachel said, her eyes still locked with his. “The Reds?”

  He nodded again, the heat bubbling over into deep anger.

  “How did they …” Michael said quietly. “Oh, no.”

  Jarek slung his sword over his shoulder, scooped up the cleaning kit, and pushed past them onto the ship.

  “They want the nest,” Michael said from the ramp behind as he stowed the kit and reloaded his mags. “They’ll try to use Pryce to get to us. Dammit.”

  He didn’t bother answering. He turned to leave. Rachel stood in his way, hazel eyes staring up at him with intensity.

  “What are you gonna do?”

  “Find Weston,” he said. “What’s it look like?”

  She searched his face, objections clearly hanging on her tongue.

  “They were friends once, him and Pryce,” he said. “Or something like it. He’ll wanna help.”

  “And if he doesn’t?”

  He shrugged. “I’ll bring him back after we’re done in Newark.”

  She traded a look with Michael, whose dark forehead was crinkled with apprehension.

  “Jarek,” she said. “I don’t—”

  “Do whatever you want.” He pushed past them and down the ramp. “Just don’t get in my way.”

  One way or another, Alaric Weston was returning to Newark with them tonight.

  Seventeen

  Somewhere along the line, something had gone fatally wrong.

  Just a week ago, Rachel had been safe in Unity, keeping her head down with the best of them. She’d been worried about the wayward brother who hadn’t returned her calls for several days, sure, but things had been good—stable, predictable, uncomplicated. Boring. Boring was good.

  But then the world had walked up and shot Boring in the head.

  Michael had continued to not return her calls. Worry had won out. For good reason, too; Michael had been in big-league Trouble with a capital T. From there, every step she’d taken had led her further away from the cooling body of her old friend Boring.

  Part of her wanted nothing more than to be back in Unity, safe and bored. Maybe Michael didn’t even need her here. Even if she hadn’t been around to help, she had a feeling Jarek would have found a way to pull Michael out of the Red Fortress. The guy didn’t seem to do well taking no for an answer.

  As long as Michael had something that he wanted, Jarek would fight to keep him safe, even if only as an insurance policy.

  Much as that last thought should have made her skin crawl, it didn’t. Maybe largely because she wasn’t sure she believed it anymore.

  Despite having watched Jarek efficiently cut and gun down god knew how many men in less than twenty-four hours, she wasn’t so sure Jarek was the cold, hardened mercenary he pretended to be.

  He was perfectly capable of killing; there wasn’t a hair of doubt about that. And he was beyond rough around the edges. But there was something else there at his center.

  After everything she’d seen, she was starting to think Jarek Slater might actually be one of the good guys, as far as good guys went these days. And right now, he was alone and, she was almost certain, terrified for Pryce.

  Poor Pryce.

  “I’m going after him.”

  She was almost surprised to hear herself finally say it after thinking about it for the better part of an hour.

  Michael looked up from the cot where he’d been sitting with his face buried in his hands. “What?”

  “It’s been like three hours,” she said. “Pryce is running out of time if he isn’t already … you know.”

  Michael frowned at her. “Since when do you care about Pryce?”

  She reached for the ceiling with an eyebrow. “Seriously?”

  “You’ve been trying to get away from this thing from the start.” He looked out of the open ship hatch. “What’s changed now?”

  “What’s changed now is that another good man’s been pulled into this bullshit. I don’t want Pryce getting hurt because of us.”

  “Are you sure it’s Pryce you’re worried about? You sure it’s not Jarek?”

  Instinctively, she reached for his mind with her extended senses, just as she’d always done when they’d bickered over the years. She’d never pushed too far, but brushing against the exterior—testing the emotional waters, so to speak—had always been by far the fastest and most effective way she knew to understand how her brother was feeling and to empathize with him.

  But that had been then.

  Now, the tendrils of her mind met a rigid wall of nothingness, a product of the gift the Resistance had stamped him with upon his initiation.

  Frustration swelled through her.

  “Jesus.” She grabbed her staff and turned to face him from the top of the ramp. “You know what?”

  Did she even know what? She wanted to say that he shouldn’t have dragged her into this if he didn’t want her taking sides and deciding to care, but he hadn’t really dragged her in, had h
e? Sure, his being in danger had heavily weighted her choices, but they had been her choices every step of the way.

  And now she was making another.

  “I’m going.”

  Michael stood. “Hold up, I’ll—”

  “You stay. Let me deal with one moody child at a time, please.”

  She stalked off into the cool country air and the dwindling daylight, trying to ignore the little voice pointing out that there were in fact three moody children in their party right just now.

  Dusk was thickening the sky like an ethereal curtain as she reached the tree line and began the descent to Alaric’s cabin. Among the trees, it was dark enough to need to flick on her comm light to get down the hillside and back out under the slim crescent moon and the few stars that were making their appearance above.

  A few townsfolk headed here or there by car or foot in the street, but for the most part, Deadwood was quiet. Alaric’s cabin was dark inside, and Jarek was sitting on the front porch.

  He didn’t move as she approached. Maybe she’d made a mistake in coming here, but … No. No, she was a grown-ass woman, and she could sit on whatever porch she pleased. So she did, lowering herself down to the smooth wood next to a still-silent Jarek.

  “No Alaric?” she said.

  He gave a small shake of his head.

  She sat still, enjoying the chirping of crickets and the whisper of a cool breeze as it rustled the greenery around them in the slowly fading light. It was actually kind of relaxing, life-or-death troubles aside.

  After a few minutes of silence, Jarek finally turned to look at her. She could almost feel the heaviness resting on him. For a second, he looked as if he’d say something, but then he turned his aimless gaze back out to the country evening.

  She reached out in the gathering darkness to find his hand. It was an impulsive move, and certainly not a romantic gesture. Just human touch—a quiet, warm reminder that he wasn’t alone, even if the war raging inside of him was solely his own.

  His eyes flicked toward her, though his head remained fixed forward. She sensed more than saw his mouth beginning to open.

  “Shut up,” she said quietly. “Just …”

  Wordlessly, he turned his hand over so that his palm met hers. She swallowed as his fingers intertwined with hers, welcoming the growing cover of darkness as he squeezed her hand and heat flowed into her cheeks.

  It wasn’t a romantic gesture, she reminded herself. Never mind what her pulse said.

  They sat quietly for a long while, hand in hand.

  “Michael was right,” he finally said. “I mean, he’s naive and sophomoric, but I don’t know what I’m doing here anymore.”

  She suppressed the urge to say something. He’d say what he wanted to when he was ready. She kept his hand in hers and waited.

  “There’s no winning. I cut down fifteen men, and you bet your ass fifty more are gonna step up to bat. And somehow, some way, the good people always end up getting dragged into the shitstorm.”

  He shook his head. “It’s not a good feeling, you know, ending lives. Surprise, right?” He pulled his hand free from hers. “I lost count a long time ago of how many people I’ve killed trying to protect other people.”

  He swallowed audibly. When he spoke again, his voice was thick. “It’s too much. The things I’ve seen people do … This world is so breathtakingly fucked, I don’t even know where to start. And I feel tainted, like I’ll never be free of it. I don’t think I ever can be free of it.”

  “Jarek,” she whispered.

  “And now Pryce is dead, for all I know, just because I wanted to get my goddamn suit back. And for what? So I can get back to doing this shit at full steam again?”

  “Jarek.”

  He met her gaze.

  “You saved lives today.” She thought back to the kids in the sanctuary and the girl she’d freed from the marauder in front of the church. “We saved lives. Good ones. And maybe it’s not forever. Maybe another raiding party rides in tomorrow and levels the town. We can’t stop bad things from happening. But at least we gave them more time than they would’ve had without us.” She shrugged. “It’s not perfect, but it’s something.”

  He contemplated her in the fading light. “Christ, when did you decide to join the scouts of America?”

  She smiled. “Right about the time I saw your sad ass still sitting here.”

  “Right. Fair enough.” After a pause, he added, softly, “Thanks, Rachel.”

  “Holy shit.”

  “What?”

  “I think that’s the first time you’ve ever called me by my name.”

  “Not true. I distinctly recall yelling your name in front of the church today. Just before I heroically saved your life, I might add.”

  “Oh, yeah. You mean just before you tackled me to the ground like a rampaging gorilla, right?”

  “You’re welcome. Don’t pretend like you didn’t like it, sweetheart.”

  She scowled and threw a light punch at his shoulder. He deftly brushed the attack aside in the dark, moving so that her hand somehow ended up in his once again. After a moment’s hesitation, she relaxed, allowing his fingers to once again intertwine with hers.

  They sat that way for several minutes before he said, “What about you?”

  “What about me?”

  “How are you holding up? You looked a little green at the gills back at the church.”

  “Yeah, well, believe it or not, I’d never seen someone dismembered in real life before.”

  “Hey, we don’t have to talk about it. I just thought, you know, I’m airing my shit out, only fair to listen if you wanna do the same.”

  She slid her hand free and considered what it might be like to tell him what had been going through her head when she’d saved that poor girl today. How some tiny part of her had felt like maybe, just maybe, she could undo what had happened to her family (and to her) if only she could save someone else. How she’d felt shockingly little remorse when she’d helped Jarek cut through the rest of the bastards.

  She’d never really talked to anyone but Michael and their dad, John, about the home invasion that had claimed two-thirds of her family and left her next to dead. Others had garnered rough ideas, but it wasn’t something she willingly relived. Even with Michael and John, she’d never been able to say it all. How could she explain the animosity, the raw, unfettered hatred that had been unleashed on her, to people who were decent and good?

  Somehow, with all the shit he seemed to have been though, Jarek might understand better than her brother and dad had ever been able to. But baring herself like that … Why did the thought alone sound so terrifying?

  “I saw,” Jarek said.

  Confused, she followed his gaze and realized her thumb was tracing along her left forearm. She folded her arms tightly in front of her chest. Any crazy ideas of opening up to a complete stranger evaporated as more practiced responses took over.

  She stood and walked down the steps.

  “It’s okay, Rachel,” he said behind her.

  It really wasn’t. How could it be? That kind of trauma didn’t just go into the vault for later recall, like the time you tripped and scraped your knee on the pavement. The reminder of how completely defenseless she’d been, of how completely her worth as a living, breathing person had been disregarded, was a constant weight on her mind. At times, it was suffocating. Even now, thinking about those memories indirectly, she felt the hot wetness of tears forming in her eyes.

  “Suffice it to say that there’s a reason I don’t necessarily disagree with your killing career assholes,” she said, managing to keep most of the waver out of her voice.

  “Fair enough,” he said, nodding. “I’m sorry for whatever happened. I’m not great at this whole talking thing, but for whatever it’s worth, I’m glad you pulled through.”

  Justified as she might be, she wasn’t accustomed to losing her shit, especially not in front of other people. She did her best to cover a wet sniffle wit
h a forced chuckle.

  “This from the guy who uses words like ‘sophomoric’ and ‘defenestration.’” She turned her head to dab away the brimming tears. “Totally helpless. Clearly.”

  “I mean, I may have read a book one time, but …”

  Silence stretched as the darkness grew thick enough to partially obscure his features from view.

  “Have you ever thought about joining the Resistance?” she asked after a while.

  “Not really,” he said.

  “Not even with a nickname like the Soldier of Charity?” She took a few steps closer so he’d see her small smile.

  He seemed to snap back from somewhere far away. “Thought I heard Pryce talking about that last night. Well, if he told you anything about the guy who first called me that, you’ll understand why I’m hesitant to jump onto any ship that sails on promises of a better tomorrow.”

  “What happened?”

  Dark was falling in earnest now. She stepped closer.

  “Long story short, a guy by the name of Connor found me when I was—”

  His head jerked up like a dog who’d just heard someone at the door, and his hand slid smoothly to the pistol holstered at his right thigh. There was a low, mechanical cough from somewhere behind her and to the right. Then something stabbed into the back of her right shoulder.

  “What the fuck?”

  She reached for her shoulder. Her voice sounded strange in her ears, deep and weirdly distorted.

  Her hand found a small cylindrical object protruding from her shoulder. She pulled, and the world lurched—no, she had. She saw a well-formed butt in front of her and realized Jarek had hoisted her over his shoulder. But why?

  Two gunshots cracked out right beside them, then two more. Jarek’s gun?

  “Hold on, sweetheart,” Jarek said from somewhere far away. He sounded like he was standing at the bottom of a pool.

  The world spun around her as she managed to bring the little cylinder she’d pulled from her shoulder up close enough to see. A tiny dart. That wasn’t good. Because? God, why was it so hard to think?

  Because …