Red Gambit: Book One of the Harvesters Series

by Luke R. Mitchell

  He was already darting to the right when the metal door to Pryce’s shop tore from its hinges with a groaning screech. Not fast enough. The door slammed straight into his left side and knocked him to the ground.

  He reflexively raised his gun but lowered it with a curse as the Red King stepped through, eyes awash with red raknoth fire.

  “Where is the nest?”

  “Where is the Pryce?”

  The raknoth scowled at him, the skin of his hands and face shifting a few shades greener. When he spoke, his voice was raspier than before. “It would appear you have no intention of holding to our bargain.”

  He swallowed the urge to tell him he had a bargain for his ass. “How’s this for a bargain? Give me Pryce and we walk—no fighting, no helping those rebel scum. This isn’t our fight. I just wanted my exo back, and I’ve got it.”

  The Red King looked at him as if he were a particularly offensive pile of garbage. “You are a man without honor, Jarek Slater. Your choices were clear: the nest for Pryce, or death for both of—”

  Jarek raised his gun and fired off four rounds in rapid succession. No reason to start acting honorably now, right? At least two or three shots must have hit, but it was hard to tell. The Red King sprang into motion, diving for him with no concern for the rounds pelting into the deepening green of his scaly hide.

  Jarek swept his pistol butt at the King’s head, but the raknoth lunged in and drove him flat on his back. Even with Fela’s protection, the impact drove the air out of Jarek’s lungs, and he immediately realized he’d underestimated the Red King’s strength. He twisted out of the way of a punch that obliterated the ground where his head had been, and he slammed the butt of his gun into the Red King’s head once, twice, three times.

  The blows only succeeded at making the raknoth angrier. The King caught Jarek’s wrist in a steel grip and drove it to the ground with one hand while he raised the other, which had sprouted short but nasty claws, to strike.

  Jarek reached up to grab the raknoth’s arm and dropped the flashbang just behind his head—the flashbang whose lever he’d let fly the moment the raknoth had come down on top of him.

  “Say cheese, asshole.”

  The grenade detonated with a sonorous pop and a flash of blinding light. Thanks to Fela’s lightning-fast sensory filters, the light wasn’t blinding to Jarek and the sound not nearly so intense.

  On top of him, the Red King roared, shaking his head in disorientation. Jarek took advantage of the opening to plant a doublehanded shove into the King’s chest. The raknoth was heavy—absurdly so—but Fela was strong. The shove launched the King back into the wall with a thud and a crack.

  Jarek kipped to his feet and wasted no time in closing on the thrashing raknoth. He caught the King by an arm and planted a few more pistol whips on his head. Each one of those blows would have killed a normal man twice over, but this felt more like bashing a rock instead of a skull.

  Shouts came from the shop as the Reds scrambled to rally and come to their master’s aid. He needed to get Pryce and get out of there.

  He pivoted with a violent jerk and threw the raknoth back into the shop.

  “Get ready, Al.”

  He chucked the second flashbang into the room beside the Red King and drew his second pistol as the raknoth leaped up to kick at the flashbang with his—not feet. Appendages. Clawed, scaly green appendages.

  But the King was a hair too late. The flashbang detonated.

  Jarek was already charging. He cut the Red King’s roar short with a hefty chest kick that sent the raknoth sailing across the room. Then he raised his weapons and relaxed as best he could.

  “Take it, Al.”

  Fela tracked left, taking Jarek’s arms with her as Al sighted in on their first target and said, “Pull.”

  Jarek squeezed the triggers. Two Reds fell dead.

  Al was already taking aim at the next pair.

  “Pull,” Al said. “Pull. Pull, pull.”

  Each time, Jarek squeezed the triggers, doing his best not to disturb Al’s aim. Between his own movements and the staggering of the Reds, the system wasn’t perfect, but in the space of four seconds, they dropped six of ten targets to the floor.

  Those four seconds were all they had.

  The Red King, already recovered from a kick that would have killed an elephant, barreled toward them, eyes blazing red. Al had the insight to aim a shot at one ruby eye, but the raknoth lowered his head when he saw it coming.

  Jarek capitalized on the momentary break in line of sight to leap high and right. He flew over the charging raknoth and landed on a heavy wooden worktable with a deep thud. He paused long enough to snap off a shot at the one Red who hadn’t managed to scramble to cover, holstered one pistol, and leaped again, this time for the tightly winding spiral staircase in the corner.

  He vaulted over the metal railing, which groaned and bent beneath his grip, and landed about a third of the way up the staircase.

  Below, the Red King strode toward him, no longer in any great rush by the looks of it. A second later, Jarek realized why.

  He heard shuffling from above and the sound of a gun hammer being cocked. A moment later, a pair of feet came into view, followed by another. They descended the stairs until Jarek could see that the first set belonged to Pryce. Behind him came Mosen, holding a large pistol to Pryce’s back.

  “Hey, Slater,” he said, his cold eyes gleaming. “Was hoping we’d catch you soon.”

  Twenty-Four

  Jarek looked between Pryce and Mosen, glad for the cover of Fela’s faceplate as he gnashed his teeth in apprehensive indecision.

  “You have broken our bargain, Jarek Slater,” the Red King called from below. “Give us the location of the nest, or Jay Pryce’s life is forfeit.”

  Pryce visibly swallowed, watching to see what he would do.

  “Okay.” He consciously let go of the railing, holstered his pistol, and raised his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay.” He gave Pryce and Mosen a little wave and added, “Hi, by the way.”

  Mosen gave him a predatory grin and waved his gun demonstratively.

  Jarek swallowed. God, his mouth was dry. “Why don’t you hand me the old man, and I’ll tell you guys everything I know.”

  He wasn’t going to tell them anything (not that he even had much to tell), but it was worth a shot. He was a man without honor, after all.

  “I find that unlikely, given the circumstances,” the Red King said.

  “Oh, come on. What did you expect me to do? For the record, calling someone to say you’re gonna kill their friends if they don’t do what you want isn’t making a freaking bargain. That’s called ransom.”

  “I believe ransom implies a monetary payment,” Pryce said. His eyes widened as he realized he’d spoken out loud.

  Mosen frowned at the back of Pryce’s head.

  Jarek turned his palms upward. “Either way, I think we can all agree it’s kind of a dick move.”

  A low growl rumbled from the Red King.

  “Look, if you kill Pryce, you can bet your scaly ass you’re not getting a peep out of me. I’ll blow this suit and kill us all if I have to.”

  At that, the three Reds watching from below exchanged uneasy glances.

  “You’re so full of shit, Slater.” Mosen raised his gun to the back of Pryce’s head. “You have no idea where the nest is. You have nothing.” He looked to the Red King, asking for permission.

  The Red King held up a hand. Those glowing red eyes looked directionless without irises or pupils, but Jarek noticed slight movements of the raknoth’s head from himself to Pryce and back.

  “No,” the King said. “If I must end Jarek Slater for breaking our bargain—”

  Jarek cleared his throat.

  The Red King showed him teeth that would now be more accurately described as fangs. “—then let Jay Pryce witness his foolish friend being torn to pieces. He can spread the word about what happens to even the mightiest of humans who think to stand ag
ainst the raknoth.”

  Jarek managed to keep his voice level. “You calling me mighty?”

  “The mightiest of ants is still but an insect,” the King said.

  “Oh, boy,” he mumbled so quietly only Al could hear. “We have a philosopher on our hands.”

  “What did you say?” the Red King said.

  Christ on a cracker, had he heard that?

  “Careful, sir,” Al said, his volume dialed down in Jarek’s ear. “Our conversation might not be private with him around.”

  The raknoth didn’t seem to hear that, at least. Jarek gave Al a deliberate blink of acknowledgment, glad again for the coverage of Fela’s faceplate.

  He glanced at Pryce one more time, vaulted the railing, and dropped to the floor below with a solid thud. With a smooth, practiced motion, he drew the large, straight blade strapped to his back and spun it through a few tight revolutions. “I said—”

  He heard the clanking footsteps on the stairs just before Al cried, “Behind you!”

  He hopped to the right, avoiding Mosen by less than a second. Before he could reorient himself, the Red King was on him, catching him in a tackle that carried him straight into the brick wall several yards behind.

  Armor or no, slamming halfway through a brick wall was more than a little jarring. He managed to score a few hard blows to the side of the King’s head with the pommel of his sword while he waited for his senses to straighten out. Just when things seemed to be settling, the world spun again, and the accelerometer of his stomach informed him he’d just been thrown across the room.

  The wall he slammed into a moment later confirmed the fact.

  All things considered—advanced armor to disperse the impact force, adaptable smart membrane to absorb some of that force and lengthen the deceleration phase, and years of pain threshold training—it still wasn’t a fun ride. In fact, it hurt like shit, and the shower of hand tools that rained down on him only added insult to the cheap shot.

  “Okay.” He pulled himself to wobbly feet and readied the sword he’d only held on to thanks to Fela’s tremendous grip. He swept aside a slew of fallen tools with one foot. “Now Pryce is gonna kill you guys if I don’t. You have no idea how meticulous he is about this place.”

  The Red King watched him, eyes burning brighter than before as a slow smile stretched his lips. The structure of the raknoth’s entire face seemed to be changing before his eyes. His mouth began to protrude like a small snout, and his skin grew darker, its scaly texture deepening.

  “Uh, I think you’ve got something on your face, buddy.”

  The Red King tilted his head back and made an alternating growl-hiss Jarek took for laughter. Mosen looked back and forth between them, his own eyes tinged with red now.

  “You are a peculiar one amongst your kind, human,” the King said. “I think I would have preferred not to kill you.”

  Jarek stalked to the center of the room, sword at the ready and senses alert. “Hey, offer still stands.”

  The raknoth waved Mosen back. “I hope you will at least offer a satisfactory fight. It has been far too long.”

  Jarek touched the tip of his sword to his helmet in a mocking salute. The Red King’s smile widened, a low growl building in his throat.

  The raknoth lunged forward.

  Jarek was ready. He sidestepped, whipping his blade around in one hand and then bringing it down with both on the King’s outstretched upper arm. The sword jarred in his hands as if the blade had struck something like concrete or steel. Seemingly unaffected, the King pivoted to take a swipe at him.

  He ducked past the blow and spun to land another sword strike against the raknoth’s left trapezius. Again, the result was underwhelming. The King dropped his weight and launched himself backward, slamming into him back first like the world’s most savage tortoise. Jarek got his hands up against the odd attack, but that didn’t keep him from sliding across the floor until they slammed to a halt against Pryce’s worktable.

  He ducked the King’s follow-up elbow strike and stabbed his sword up and forward as the raknoth completed his rotation. The sword didn’t have the best stabbing tip in the world, but it was decent enough to dig into the Red King’s gut by at least a couple of inches with the Fela-powered stab.

  The King’s eyes widened in surprise, and a small shriek escaped him as Jarek threw his strength behind the sword again. The blade sank deeper, but not as easily as it should have. It was like pushing through a thick wall of sand—super-dense, super-hard sand that also happened to be trying to kill him.

  With a furious snarl, the Red King clamped a hand over one of Jarek’s and threw a low punch with the other. Jarek was dropping his elbow and shoulder to push into the blow when he realized it wasn’t aimed at him. Instead, the King’s fist slammed into the broad face of the sword blade just as his other hand wrenched down on Jarek’s like a nuclear-powered vise grip, holding it firmly in place.

  The blade snapped with a sharp crack. Jarek stared in shock at what now amounted to a short dagger. The King bared gleaming fangs in Jarek’s face and clamped onto Jarek’s free arm. Jarek flipped the jagged, broken blade into a reverse grip and made a stab for the raknoth, but the King turned, whipping him into a brutal throw.

  The world spun in a confusing blur. Jarek had a fraction of a second to note that it was a small miracle the raknoth hadn’t torn Fela’s (or his own) arm off. Then something hard and unyielding slammed into his ribs on the right, breaking his momentum. He fell to the ground in a crouch next to Pryce’s shelf of raw metals.

  “Sir!” Al cried.

  “I’m fine.” He tasted blood. Hopefully, he’d just bitten his lip.

  Mosen and the other Reds had gathered by the staircase and were watching him with an array of sneers. Pryce stood on the other side of the staircase now, his eyes wide and intense. Pryce took a few steps toward him, but one of the Reds cut him off.

  The Red King was occupied by the worktable, laboriously pulling the broken blade from his gut. It sucked free, and he threw it aside with a roar.

  Jarek swallowed and stood, still clutching the broken sword. The King started toward him with menacing purpose, only to freeze and tilt his head as if he’d seen or heard something.

  “The comms, sir,” Al said.

  He focused. Fela’s auditory sensors worked their magic, homing in on a message coming from multiple earpieces, judging from the reactions of everyone in the room.

  “—ed at Port Newark. Repeat: Resistance activity sighted at Port Newark. Multiple vehicles and at least a dozen troops gathering by the warehouses. Please advise.”

  Had they decided to make a move for the nest so soon? If so, then Alaric must be with them. Probably Michael too, and maybe—Jarek’s stomach fell—maybe Rachel as well.

  And judging from way the Red King’s eyes flared, they were about to have a whole lot of Reds coming down on them.

  “Try to warn them, Al,” he said quietly. “Local broadcast, if you can’t find a direct way.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  The fire in the Red King’s eyes looked hungrier as he regarded Jarek. “Time to leave. Kill them both.”

  After that, things got hairy fast.

  Jarek darted for Pryce, but strong, scaly green arms made a grab for him from behind. He dropped his hips back and threw a wild stab over his shoulder with the broken sword. He was rewarded with a high, ugly screech as the remnant of the blade found some soft target and the arms retreated.

  Mosen had already turned his gun on Pryce.

  He ripped the broken hilt free from the King and hurled it at Mosen. He was shocked to hear a pained cry, and a spot of blood appeared as the blade sank into Mosen’s chest. Mosen staggered into the Reds behind him.

  Jarek reached for his pistols. The Red King’s arms clamped around him and squeezed until he thought his ribs or arms might break.

  “No!” he cried as the next Red in line raised his rifle toward Pryce. “No!”

  Pryce backed away,
too stunned to do anything more than raise his hands.

  Jarek bucked against the Red King’s steel grip, stomping at the raknoth’s foot-like appendages. It was no good.

  He watched in sick, helpless horror as the Red drew a line on Pryce and pulled the trigger.

  Twenty-Five

  The shots that rang out might as well have been aimed at Jarek for the way they stabbed into his being. He forgot the pain of the Red King’s death lock. Pryce wore an expression of utter shock, his hands still raised in surrender.

  Fear and helpless rage shifted to confusion.

  Pryce was fine.

  Three lead slugs floated in midair a foot away from his chest.

  He could have laughed with relief. Then the Red King snarled something and hurled him into a shelf. This shelf didn’t stop him like the other one had; it just toppled over with him.

  For a handful of seconds, his existence became a jumbled mess of jolting impacts and jarring crashes. The few tiny spots on his body that weren’t already in pain found their way there. There were shouts and gunshots and pounding footfalls. A loud thud punctuated the cacophony, followed by the sound of crumbling stone.

  He pulled himself from the ruins of the shelves, and several things hit him at once. Pryce was okay. There was a large hole in the wall, through which he could see the retreating forms of the Reds. And Rachel was striding across the room toward him in all of her tiny arcanist glory, flanked by Michael and Lea, who both kept their weapons trained on the Reds’ impromptu escape route.

  “Was he missing an eye?” Michael asked Lea.

  “I think so,” she said.

  Huh. Maybe Jarek had actually done some damage to the King with that backward stab. Talk about blind luck. He allowed himself a small grin and sank back into the scrap pile. It actually made a pretty comfortable nest. But maybe he was just tired.

  “Asshole,” Rachel’s voice came to him. A few seconds later, her dirty-blond waves came into view at the edge of his vision. She scowled down at him. “What did you learn about running off to fight the big bad raknoth on your own?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He tried to keep from groaning as he shifted his weight and commanded his faceplate open with a thought. “I had ’em right where I wanted ’em.”