Angie Vaughn, predator, murderer, monster, had become tinned meat, cooked in the can.
Mandy lowered her weapons and sighed with relief. She sank to the ground, exhausted from the exertion. She hadn't had such a workout for a while. Maybe she was starting to get lazy and out of shape. She should probably…
She blinked as something niggled at the back of her mind. Something was wrong. Helicopters were coming in from overhead. Low and quick. Did Angie bring reinforcements when the wall blew? In which case, they'd secure the fortress first, and—Kevin!
Mandy struggled to her feet, tottered there for a moment, and then fell back on to her ass.
*
Kevin was relatively certain he was screwed. He had lost track of how many shells he had taken, and he hurt all over just from the grenades. His ribs were almost certainly cracked, if not ready to shatter. He had finally been blasted into a corner in the hallway, and now each blast slammed him up against a wall. The medical nanites in his bloodstream, standard for all SpecOps, would take care of it within a week or two, but he suspected he wasn't going to live that long.
“I'll give you this, son,” Kirk said, as he popped out both shells, “you're certainly a tough sumbitch.” He reached for two more. “How about this: just roll over, and I promise your family won't be charged with treason. It'll just be a sad, brave war hero driven mad by the loss of his team.”
Kevin took a moment to regain his breath. He was surprised he hadn't passed out from the pain. It even hurt to breathe. He pushed one more time, and his pained scream came out as “Die!”
Kirk sighed and slapped the shotgun closed. “Pity, I—”
A door twelve feet down the hall burst open, a man dressed all in black, carrying an assault rifle swung into the hall, weapon at the ready. Reflexively, Kirk brought his weapon to bear. The man in black fired a simple burst, killing the senator with three rounds to the chest.
“Hostile down!” he called out as three more men came in behind him. The leader moved forward, heading towards Kevin. Kevin finally sprawled on the floor, and his glazed eyes wouldn't focus on anything. He groaned, unable to move.
The leader knelt by Kevin. He grabbed the chain around Kevin's throat and pulled out his dog tags. He looked back towards the others. “This is the guy who called us. He's a Marine! Get him back to GITMO, have everyone else secure the site.”
The three squad members bent down, all of them members of the United States Marine Corps, based out of Guantanamo Bay, Cuba.
Chapter 16: Consequences
As General Trent Banks walked down the halls of Guantanamo Bay, he continued telling his companion about Kevin Anderson's retrieval. “I don't know how he managed it, but this guy single-handedly destroyed an entire fortress, and a legion of Mercenaries. Almost everyone was dead when we got there, and the place was on fire.”
The tall blonde next to him nodded. “I've heard he's been relatively quiet since his arrival?”
“You could say that,” the General said. “He apparently called GITMO before the attack; we were on approach not long after. He probably timed it so that we could pick him up.”
The blonde nodded, and the general looked over her a bit. She had to be nearly six feet tall, with the assets to match. He gave her one more glance, then maintained eye contact the entire time. Her eyes were a startling green, and her face narrow. She wasn't all that bad looking, actually, from the neck up. Nice tan, too.
“Why would that be?” she asked him.
Was that accent European? French? Wasn't there a French issue a few months ago? Banks shrugged. “Given what he's been through, might have seen like the best option.”
“Has there been any decision on what will be done with him?” she asked. The accent was definitely European. “Some of my people want him dead, some want him recruited, and some want him sent out into the world so that they can hunt him down themselves.”
General Banks shook his head. “No idea. They haven't sent that decision down the line yet, assuming that I'm ever told. They probably figure that I'm on his side.”
“Why?”
Banks smiled. “Ma'am, thanks to modern technology, I am an octogenarian who has been career military since I was too young and stupid to know any better. While I am sincerely sorry for your men, I'm quite happy that each and every one of those Senators got what they deserved.”
“Ah, I see...” She drifted off as they moved closer to the target door, cut off by the sound of singing. Only it wasn't one man, as she expected, but a group; deep voices rang out in a chorus down the hall, asking how many people could be killed.
Before the last line of the verse, the General opened the door. The blonde only smiled as she watched the Marines around the hospital bed. They all laughed as the song finished, then chugged back the beers in their hands, and crushed them flat against their foreheads, as did the prisoner, giving a resounding “OO-RAH!” to finish it off.
“I didn't know that you treated all of your prisoners this way,” she said.
The Marines all looked at her, as did the prisoner, and their smiles all faded away to dead seriousness…except for the prisoner, who just looked amused.
“He's a Marine, ma'am.”
“Actually, he's a spy,” she replied. “And that was after he abandoned the Marine Corps for the SEALs.”
“Once in, never out, ma'am,” Kevin Anderson said from the bed.
She arched a blonde brow. “Everyone, out. Now.”
The marines looked to Banks, and he nodded. “She's a specialist from the Guild. They apparently want to debrief him on the assault as well, since they lost...” he looked to her. “How many did you lose on this one?”
“More than was worth it,” she answered.
The Marines all glanced at each other. Kevin Anderson simply nodded. “Sure, what could she do to me? And what the hell am I going to do to her? She wasn't on my list.”
They all nodded, then moved out. Kevin slid out of the bed, throwing a casual salute to them all right before the door closed. He looked down at his hospital gown, shrugged, and then turned his back on the visitor to get some clothing. If she was going to kill him, might as well invite her to take her best shot.
“Nice ass, Kevin.”
Kevin turned, staring at the blond, who had made herself comfortable on the foot of his bed, taking off her shoes…and she seemed to lose about seven inches. The blonde looked at him and said, “Do you know how much of a bitch these are to wear?”
Kevin blinked. “Mandy?”
She rolled her eyes. “No, Santa Claus. Don't let the boobs fool you—standard undercover package.”
“Um …” He paused a moment, confused. “What the hell are you doing here?”
Mandy sighed. “It's a jailbreak. Duh.”
Kevin smiled. He sat down next to her and kissed her on the temple. “That's very sweet of you,” he said gently, softly, quietly even. “But no. I'm staying here.”
Mandy jerked away so fast, her face almost collided with his. Her eyes met his with such burning intensity, he expected her to burn a hole through her colored contact lenses. “What? Why? They're going to kill you, Kevin!”
He shrugged. “Maybe. They may not.”
Her lips tightened, and she went through several facial changes. Her brows furrowed and relaxed, grimaced, then half grimaced, then fully grimaced. The only thing that didn't change were her eyes, intent on him and never wavering. “No! I can't let that happen. I can't let you—”
“Do what?” Kevin shrugged. “Accept responsibility for my actions? And what about the Mercenaries? Are they throwing official support to my side?”
She blinked. “No, of course not, it's you and me, and that's—”
“Wrong,” Kevin told her. “After all, Mercenaries don't take two sides in a war. Do they? If you take me out of here, sooner or later, they'll figure out who you are. Then the other Mercs will have to support you, or turn on you. Either way, the government isn't going to be happy. They'll c
ome down on us both. Sooner or later, they'll find us. And then, they will kill us, guaranteed.”
Mandy's mind searched for options. “We could run to San Francisco.”
Kevin grinned. “And if, as you said before, it's possible they're going to disappear yet another inconvenient person there—me—then all of the risks of escape are for nothing, aren't they? Your guild, your life, your job?” He shook his head. “Ain't happening. If they're going to kill me, they're going to kill me, and if they're going to send me to San Francisco, running there is a waste of time.” He gestured. “Get out before they figure out you shouldn't be here.”
Mandy blinked, her mouth open, uncertain. “But, I don't... Kevin, you can't...I can't...”
He smiled gently. He rose from the bed, took her face in both hands, and leaned down to kiss her. His lips met hers, and both arms went around her back and drew her in close as her hands slid under his arms and up his back to comb through his hair.
After a long moment, he slid away. “Thank you, Mandy, for everything.”
Mandy smiled at him, hoping she wouldn't start crying over this noble idiot about to fall on his sword—in part for her. “You weren't bad yourself.”
He smiled. “It means a lot coming from you...don't worry about me. We must not forget to pay the debt.”
Mandy cocked her head and studied him. “What?
Kevin smiled and shook his head. “Nothing. Now, scoot. You gotta go.”
Mandy sighed, and then reluctantly slid on her shoes. “Damn, I hate these things.”
The Mercenary stood, steadied herself, and then strode towards the door. She grabbed the handle and swung the door open without even a pause. She even took one step out the door before she hesitated, and gave Kevin a look over her shoulder. It was only for a moment before she walked back out the door...certain that she would never see Kevin Anderson again. He could see it in her eyes.
Mandy knew that he was going to die.
When the door closed, Kevin sank down to the bed and leaned back. Still alive. Well, that was unexpected. He succeeded, he was alive, and…what was next? Either someone would kill him, or he would be shipped off some place where he'd be encouraged to die. No matter what, he would not go quietly and he would not go alone. When they started this fight, he knew that he would finish it.
The next time the door opened, it was a huskily built black gentleman, dragging a set of luggage on wheels, and a leather jacket hanging precariously over one shoulder. “Hey, Kev.”
Kevin blinked, and his mind reeled at the sight of his boss. “Henry?”
Henry Daley, his old boss, parked the luggage against the wall, and then tossed Kevin his leather jacket. “Start getting dressed. You're about to head out on your new assignment.”
Kevin cocked his head. “Assignment?”
“Of course,” Henry told him without any sense that things had changed before Paris. “Can't let you lay about. Your team was killed months ago, and you've had plenty of your own therapy. Only solution is to get you back into the thick of things.”
If this is Henry's way of telling me something, he's a very strange man. “Okay, what's the, um, mission?”
“You're going to be doing recon work,” his boss told him. “Someplace … away.”
Kevin almost smiled. Well, if it wasn't code for being dumped into the ocean, then there was only one other option. “San Francisco, then, is it?”
Henry nodded. He glanced around the room, and reached into his pocket. After a moment, he said, “We can talk freely now. Yes, they've told me you're heading to San Francisco. Though I'm not sure if they're going to let you get that far.” He stared at Kevin a long moment. “Honestly, they may decide to push you out of the plane over a radioactive wasteland.”
Kevin smiled this time. “Well, if it comes down to me and a plane load full of black ops schmucks, I'm relatively certain that I can take them…or blow up the plane. I'm good with either.”
Henry shook his head. “Anyone ever tell you that you were strange, son?” He shrugged, and then leaned against a chair. “You do know why they're doing this, don't you? They can't put you on trial. No one would convict you. Even courts for SpecOps guys like us wouldn't take two minutes to let you go after your team…after Moira… And no one's going to fire you, because if you discussed it with regular people, well, that would be unpleasant. ”
Kevin thought a moment. Of the original lower forty-eight states, there were only thirty-one remaining, and Hawaii had gone the way of Korea and China after the first nuclear bomb went up. With seventeen states destroyed, the Senate was down to only seventy senators (Puerto Rico and Cuba had been added to the union). Kevin suspected that some of the other fifty-five might be a tad put out that he had killed off fifteen of them.
“So, if they're not dropping me out of a plane, they're going to just disappear me.” He adjusted himself on his bed. “So, you knew about San Francisco, Henry?”
Henry shrugged. “There've been a few bad guys who were worth sending away. It's been rumored that people the administration hates have been sent there on a whim. I can't confirm it, though.”
“Okay.” Kevin thought a moment “So what do I need to know about this particular enemy territory? I've heard it's kinda gone to hell in the past few years, but that's about it.”
“You know about as much as I do.” Henry sighed. “You're on the first plane out. You have maybe an hour. You will be officially listed as dead on the rolls—as far as your family is concerned, you were killed with Moira.”
Kevin paused as the weight of this slowly pressed down on him. He was already dead. This wasn't a good sign. And even if he was “merely” exiled, there was no telling if there was a return ticket. “Henry, be honest. Assuming they don't put a bullet in the back of my head right after I board the plane, is there any way back?”
“Well,” Henry drawled, “there are flights out of there. For some reason, no one rebuilt the San Francisco airport, but they rebuilt LAX. Possibly to keep a lot of the riffraff from breaking in. There's a long stretch of radioactive wasteland between San Fran and LAX, and if you're one of the nutcases, you can't even afford to make it to the airport, to Hell with buying a plane ticket.”
The former SEAL blinked. “Um, uh... Henry, I wanted to know about whether or not I could be allowed back here. Ever. The details are something else.”
Henry's face remained the model for a gargoyle. Kevin shook his head, slid out of the bed, and murmured, “Get out of here, Henry, before I wind up flashing you.”
Daley chuckled. “As you wish, Kevin. And Anderson, good luck.”
*
Mandy stood at the window to the airport, and watched Kevin being marched towards his doom—or, more precisely, his plane. This would almost certainly be the last time she would see him alive, if ever again. Mandy was many things—a good shot, a nifty dancer, and quite stealthy right before shanking someone—but impractical was usually never the case. And she was the least sentimental person she knew. And somehow, she couldn't help but become misty as Kevin was walked up the ramp to a fate she could not predict.
A gentle hand slid onto her shoulder. “How are you?”
“How do you think?” she said, her voice small and distant. “They only caught him because of me. I could have gotten him out, gotten him safe. He wouldn't let me.”
Major Antonio Rohaz slipped in next to her, and nodded, even though her eyes were locked onto the jet on the runway. “Which is precisely what he should have done. Freeing him would have ended us. He would still be hunted; we would be right next to him.”
Mandy closed her eyes and pulled herself away from Kevin's last walk, and hugged Major Rohaz. She clung to him desperately, and he wrapped his arms around her consolingly. “I was starting to love him, Dad, and they're going to kill him.”
Rohaz nodded. “You do know how to pick them, darling.”
Amanda “Mandy” Esmeralda Rohaz, the Mercenaries' deadliest killer, silently wept in her father's arms.
Already grieving for one of the better men she had ever met.
*
Kevin Anderson didn't know what to expect as he was being loaded on a military C-130 relic. He stepped up the ramp cautiously, expecting to be ambushed once he boarded the plane. He had worn a shirt and tie with his leather jacket—the leather would offer some protection against knives, and he could find all sorts of uses for his tie.
It helps to be prepared.
When Kevin stepped into the aisle, he saw that he had walked into what looked like a long, extended first class seating, with only fifty seats in the entire cabin. Everyone on the plane looked like he was a businessman returning home from a conference. The stewardess looked like she had come out of a Playboy magazine, and that was only from the neck up, where Kevin's eyes stayed despite her exceedingly short uniform. She pointed out his chair, and he smiled, nodded, and moved towards it.
Small seating area, but a huge plane. I wonder what's taking up the rest of the place? Answer, you idiot: supplies. If there are still businessmen in San Francisco, then they have to bring in a lot of their own supplies, luxury goods, and food. Where else is the nourishment going to come from? Mars?
Kevin smiled at the stewardess and nodded, slipping into his seat. He ignored the gentle snoring of the man next to him and focused on the people around him. He had to have been the youngest person on the plane. Among his fellow passengers, there were no young people, and no women. Gray was the popular natural color—otherwise it was standard “oil slick” dyed black—and any single tie cost more than everything Kevin was wearing.
Therefore, everyone here is a CEO, or at the very least, upper management. What the Hell goes on in San Francisco that would make anyone willingly fly there? Answer: anything profitable that the government regulates to death in the rest of the world. Drug testing, offshore drilling, any experimental procedure that the FDA or EPA wouldn’t like. Pick one, pick all.
The plane started to taxi down the runway, and Kevin smiled to himself as he leaned back into his seat. He had done everything he had set out to do, and somehow, he was still alive. Now, he just closed his eyes, and went to sleep.
Codename: Winterborn (The Last Survivors Book 1) Page 18