Asher's War (Asher Benson #3)

by Jason Brant

  I grabbed the flap and pulled it until I felt the buckle give way.

  My left arm tore free.

  As I reached down to undo my legs, hands grabbed hold of my shoulder and neck.

  “Benson is getting free!” he yelled.

  The man shoved me back into the chair.

  His fingers wrapped around my throat.

  My windpipe constricted under the immense pressure of his hands. The dude was strong. Damn strong. But he didn’t hold a candle to me. I grabbed both of his wrists and twisted them outward as I pulled them away from my throat.

  He grunted as I slowly moved his hands apart.

  Then I thrust my head forward and slammed the helmet off his nose. The cartilage crunched against the metal, and he cried out in pain. A fresh wave of hell penetrated my skull. More blood ran down my face, neck and chest, though I could barely feel the sensation above the sensory overload coursing through my system.

  The man’s arms went limp in my hands, and I released him.

  A muffled whump came from the floor directly in front of me, followed by more groans.

  The machine beside me whirred back to life. Lightbulbs overhead clicked as they came back on. At least, that was what I assumed the sound was since the helmet still blocked my vision. I could mentally feel the dozens of men in the area scrambling around.

  I hoped they were panicking.

  They would have a lot more to worry about once I got loose.

  ...please... help... me...

  The voice I’d heard earlier repeated the same mantra three more times while I worked at the straps around my ankles.

  I’m a little busy right now.

  ...please...

  My right leg tore free, then my left. Then I worked on the final straps around my body. The heat underneath me had reached unbearable levels.

  Murder ran through my veins as I exploded to my feet. The burning pain in my lower extremities ebbed a bit, but the throbbing remained. My hands instinctively felt my hamstrings and glutes. Blisters had formed on my skin from the heat. A few had popped, clear fluid running down my legs.

  That only infuriated me more.

  Metal rattled on the cart. The chair shook behind me. I could feel my anger fueling my power. There was some serious X-Men shit going on all around me.

  The man at my feet groaned.

  Even though I couldn’t read his thoughts, the void his mind left in my pseudo-telepathic radar signaled exactly where he was. I reached down and found his face with my hands.

  I punched him in his mangled nose.

  He cried out and swatted at my hands.

  ...kill... me...

  The Bridge that had formed between my mind and the other telepath’s was still there, but the man’s inner voice registered as barely more than a whisper. It sounded as if he stood at death’s door. The fact that he’d just asked me to kill him probably hinted at that too.

  I should have been a detective.

  Hold tight. I have a few people to kill and then I’ll get back to you. If I could have closed off the connection our minds had naturally created, I would have. There were a lot of mercenaries around who were probably on their way to murder me, and I didn’t need to be distracted by a guy who should be on suicide watch.

  My fingers wrapped around the man’s tie, and I yanked him off the ground. “Get this fucking thing off my head or I’ll stomp you into goo.”

  “Kiss my ass,” he spat.

  Literally spat. I felt a glob of nastiness splatter against my chest, which was already covered in other filth. As usual, I was disgusting.

  The spitting incident didn’t help my rage.

  Grabbing hold of his shirt, I lifted him to his feet and then hurled him against the wall. I reached toward the void that signaled where he was. His body had crumpled in the corner of the wall and the floor. I wrenched him to his feet again.

  “Last chance. Get this off my head, or—”

  The blank presence of another mind moved toward the door of the room.

  I slammed my fist into the man’s stomach and doubled him over. Reaching for the cart, I quickly felt around until my fingers brushed against the blade of a knife. It nicked my middle finger, though the pain barely registered.

  My hand wrapped around the handle as I slipped behind my doubled-over torturer. I reached down, felt the back of his head, then grabbed hold of his face and yanked him back against me.

  I put the blade of the knife against his neck.

  The door of the room burst open.

  41 – Engage

  Bree stayed low and tight while hustling behind a small shack. The tiny structure could have been a ring toss or some other kind of scam to get kids to throw dollar bills at nearly impossible games.

  Pausing at the corner, Bree peeked at the men by the pirate ship.

  They hadn’t moved.

  Huxx slid in beside her. “All clear.”

  “Moving.” Bree pushed away from the wall and ran to the next attraction. Though she constantly focused on her conditioning, the strain of moving in such a low crouch burned her quads. It wasn’t a common movement.

  Rather than approach the entrance to the roller coaster, Bree turned east and hopped a low fence. She passed through a cluster of trees and slowed as she approached the run-down ride.

  Once-white pillars had darkened from age and filth. Wood planks were missing from the weave of supports crisscrossing skyward. Several sections of the track had collapsed, their broken remnants splintered on the ground.

  Tall grass covered the area around the attraction, standing waist high.

  Bree plunged into the grass, Huxx following close behind. She inspected the area for a good vantage point to cover the others as they approached the Ferris wheel. Climbing to the top of the ride would give her the best shot, but it would also make her a sitting duck if they discovered her position.

  And even if the men Smith hired were only half as good as she expected, then they would most certainly locate her after the second or third shot.

  A train of four cars rested a quarter of the way up the first incline, the chain used to pull them rusted in place from years of neglect. Bree guessed the cars to be a solid thirty feet off the ground. High enough for her to get a good angle on the action, but not so far up that she wouldn’t be able to climb down in a hurry.

  Bree knelt in the tall grass and pointed at the train of cars. “That’ll do.”

  “I’ll cover you. When we fire, I’ll take the guy on the left. You get the asshole on the right.” Huxx moved to the edge of the overgrown lawn and watched in the direction of the guards they’d left behind. He keyed his mic. “We’re moving into position.”

  “Ready,” Tate said.

  “Good to go,” Drew replied. “Two more hostiles by us.”

  Bree ran to the roller coaster and stopped underneath the track. She glanced around, didn’t see anyone nearby. If someone saw her climbing up, they’d have an easy session of target practice. She slung her rifle over her shoulder and looked up at a horizontal post above her head.

  Ascending the supports wouldn’t be easy, but the angle of the track wouldn’t allow her to quickly run up it. She could use the chain to slowly pull her way up, but she would be exposed for anyone looking at the coaster to see. If she climbed up from underneath, the supports would at least offer her a modicum of cover.

  She jumped up and grabbed hold of the horizontal wooden beam. Her feet dangled momentarily as she pulled herself up and hooked an elbow over the support. Pull-ups had never been her strong suit, particularly not when she had several pounds of gear strapped to her, but she managed to heave herself up easier than expected.

  After swinging a leg over, Bree reached out to a post running vertically up to the track and pulled herself to a standing position. She glanced around again.

  The area appeared clear.

  The rest of the climb was easier as supports crisscrossed each other to the track above. She pulled herself along the angled
beams as rapidly as possible, doing her best to stay close to the vertical support so it would hide a portion of her body.

  She didn’t know if that would actually help, but it made her feel more concealed.

  In less than a minute, Bree grabbed hold of a railing that ran alongside the track and pulled herself over. Sweat soaked through her ski mask and the back of her shirt.

  Bree slid into the last car and took the rifle off her shoulder. It took a few seconds for her to get the bipod set up on the back of the car and her eye up to the scope. Huxx glanced back at her. She stuck a thumb in the air, signaling to Huxx that she was ready.

  The new vantage point gave a clear line of sight to the base of the Ferris wheel. From that angle, she could see that several cars were missing, along with an entire section of the wooden slats.

  A few more rides were visible, all of them dwarfed by the monstrous size of the Ferris wheel. Its long shadow fell over a building beyond it. The sun had nearly set behind Bree. The angle of the dying light would give her a distinct advantage when the shooting began. Smith’s men would struggle to spot her against the glare. Every handful of seconds the setting sun bought her would allow her to crack off another round.

  Strategy at its finest. Even if it hadn’t been intentional, she’d have to tell Tate to kiss her ass if they made it out of this.

  Bree aimed at the building bathed in the shadow of the Ferris wheel. The paint on the side, like most of the other structures in Woodsland, had cracked and peeled. The walls were made of cinderblock. A metal door sat in the middle of the side facing Bree’s direction.

  It appeared much newer than the rest of the structure.

  She swung the rifle back at the two men by the pirate ship.

  She grabbed her mic, whispered, “Ready.”

  Tate said, “Engage in three... two...”

  42 – A Little Upset

  “Drop the gun,” I growled.

  The man coming through the door answered by shooting my hostage. My plan had been to barter my way out of the room using my torturer as a bargaining chip. His dying put a slight crimp in that plan.

  As bullets punctured my hostage’s torso and arms, he performed an unintentional cha-cha. I released his face and shoved him toward the shooter. Performing all of that while not being able to see a damn thing made it a tad harder.

  More shots boomed in the room.

  The firing ceased for a second, interrupted by a grunt and the muffled thump of something collapsing to the floor.

  I launched at the shooter with a snarl.

  Aiming my forearm at the mental void before me, I connected with the shooter’s fleshy throat. He gagged as I drove him backward. His shoulders slammed against the doorjamb with a thud.

  I thrust the knife forward as hard as I could.

  It slid home with little resistance.

  The man let out a wet scream.

  I reciprocated, then tore the knife free and jammed it into his gut again.

  The gun went off beside my helmet. He struggled against my forearm, his strength already waning. His muscles slowly relaxed after a pathetic shove against my shoulder.

  Warmth ran over my fingers, the knife handle.

  I yanked it free and tossed it to the floor.

  As the man collapsed, I retracted my forearm and reached for his gun hand. Since I couldn’t see it, I had to trace his arm with my hands until I found it. He fell to his knees as I pried a warm pistol from his grasp.

  How many shots had he fired? I couldn’t remember. Counting spent rounds in the middle of a firefight had never been my forte. The whole near-death experience thing usually distracted me. I bent down and searched his pockets. A ring with half a dozen keys was in his right pocket, a cell phone in his left. I took both.

  His jacket held two more mags for the pistol. I grabbed those too.

  Being butt naked was a problem. My hands were full and I didn’t have any way to store my lifted loot. I considered stripping one of the men of his bloody clothes, but I didn’t want to waste the time. If anything, I needed to get the damn helmet off my head before grabbing a pair of pants.

  The man I’d stabbed groaned. A warm, wet hand grabbed hold of my ankle.

  I aimed the gun at the area where I felt his mind and fired.

  His grip went slack.

  The casual way in which I executed him should have horrified me. But I was far beyond the point of no return. I’d compartmentalized any compassion I might have felt for the lives lost. They’d taken everything from me. They’d murdered Sammy. I planned to return the favor.

  The other men in the building continued to buzz around. It wouldn’t be long before more of them came to check on the naked stud they’d tied to a chair.

  I groped for the door to the room and found it ajar, the back resting against the wall. When I tried to close it, the edge caught on one of the dead men at my feet. I dragged both of the bodies a few feet into the room and then eased the door closed.

  Next, I moved to the corner and reached out blindly for the security camera. When my fingers found the lens and tiny body, I smashed both of them to pieces with the handle of the pistol.

  I staggered toward the other side of the room, stubbed my toe on the ridiculously hot chair, and nearly fell onto the assortment of torture devices on the cart. I must have looked like Frankenstein’s freakin’ monster as I stumbled around like a drunken fool. My hands roamed across the top shelf of the cart. It took several seconds for me to find what I needed—the electric drill.

  My fingers danced over the helmet until they touched the screw by my left temple.

  ...please... you... have... to... kill... me...

  Grabbing the drill, I tried to place the screwdriver bit into the screw in the helmet. It took several attempts as the angle was weird and I couldn’t see a damn thing. I clearly wouldn’t have done well as a blind man.

  What’s your name? I finally asked the man on the other end of The Bridge.

  ...Jamie... Jamie Welsh...

  The drill paused beside my head.

  Jamie Welsh?

  I knew that name. Nami had discovered it while attempting to recover data from Smith’s old servers for the Psych Ward. We didn’t know much about him, other than we believed Smith had figured out a way to weaponize Welsh’s ability. We weren’t quite sure what he could do, but it was a safe assumption that driving people temporarily insane was part of his repertoire.

  Finding him in Smith’s employ didn’t surprise me—having him ask me to kill him did.

  ... yes... help me... I’m...

  The voice faded away, and The Bridge dissipated. That could mean any number of things had happened to Welsh, including death, unconsciousness, or having a helmet screwed to his goddamn head. I didn’t have time to consider any of them at the moment.

  Just another person dying around you, Sammy whispered. Stop all of this and come to me. Let go, Asher. Be at peace with me.

  My jaw clenched.

  I fought to quiet her voice as I anchored the screwdriver into place.

  My finger squeezed the trigger.

  The drill spun.

  A volcano erupted above my temple and my knees buckled.

  I collapsed to the floor, landing hard on my hip. My vision would have blurred if I could have seen anything. Fresh tears moistened my eyes. I reached for the screw in the side of the helmet and felt that it had barely moved.

  The desire to curl up and bawl in the corner was damn near overwhelming. Removing screws from my skull hadn’t been high on my bucket list.

  I scooted past the cart and put my back against the wall to brace myself

  The bit went into the screw again.

  I triggered the drill.

  Bellowed in fury and pain and willpower.

  The screw wound out of the bone, heating up rapidly.

  When it finally popped out, I slumped to the floor, dropping the drill. Blood poured down my temple and face. It dribbled from my chin, pattering my chest and st
omach.

  I couldn’t hear much beyond the hammering of my heart and the freight train whistle of my heavy, labored breathing inside the helmet.

  Until an alarm blared.

  43 – Weapons Free

  Bree placed the crosshair directly over the guard’s forehead.

  Tate didn’t say one in her ear.

  She fired.

  The guard’s head snapped back. Blood splattered the control panel of the pirate ship ride behind him. He dropped an instant later, collapsing to a heap on the pavement.

  Just as Bree’s shot found its mark, Huxx dropped the man beside him with a three-round burst to the chest. The second guard took one shaky step away from his fallen comrade before sprawling face-first to the ground. As he lay there, the man slowly slid his arm along the pavement, moving his hand close to his mouth.

  Bree aimed at him, looking through the scope to see what he was doing.

  A small, white object was attached to his wrist, a cable snaking inside the sleeve of his jacket. It was a communication unit similar to what Bree had seen Secret Service agents use. The man was trying to radio for help.

  Bree shot him in the top of the head.

  Echoes from the high-powered rifle reverberated through the park, the forest.

  “Clear,” Huxx said.

  Everyone else radioed in the same.

  Bree had just shot two men in cold blood. She was a police officer by trade, not a soldier. The others might be used to that sort of non-defensive killing, but she wasn’t. Cops were meant to protect people, not kill them. Soldiers were bred for war, not peace officers.

  The dead men hadn’t even known they were being engaged.

  “Moving,” Tate said.

  “Moving,” Drew replied.

  Huxx glanced back at her. He motioned toward the Ferris wheel.

  Bree nodded.

  He slid from his hidden spot in the grass and advanced in the direction of the large ride. The former Navy Seal paused behind a tree to scan the area before him, and then kept moving.

  Bree closed her eyes for a moment and struggled to remove the image of the man’s head popping like a balloon from her mind. She kept seeing the blood splatter, the lifeless way his body had collapsed.