Asher's War (Asher Benson #3)

by Jason Brant

  The third guy, also wearing a gray suit, raised a pistol and popped off a few shots.

  I dove behind a workbench with wires and electrical parts of some kind atop it.

  Debris showered down around me as the guy unloaded a full mag into the counter behind me. Holes carved through the wood, forcing me to crawl away from the fire. He stopped shooting for a second, and I could hear the ruckus of him jamming a new magazine home.

  I popped up and returned fire, spraying bullets at the other side of the room.

  He wasn’t there anymore.

  ...what’s happening...?

  Keeping both pistols trained on the rectangular contraption, I slid along the edge of the bench, moving toward the rear of the room. If I flanked around the shooter’s location, I could pick him off with ease. Hiding might have worked against a normal man, but I had some lovely brain damage working to my advantage. His blank mind flashed in the room like a lighthouse.

  As I approached, the man popped up from behind the box and ripped off two rounds. The bullets zipped over my shoulder. I returned fire, catching him the chest.

  He stumbled back to the wall behind him.

  I lithely ran around the bench and reached the man as he slid to the floor.

  Blood bubbled from his lips.

  “Don’t die on me.” I kept the pistols trained on him. “I’m not done with you yet.”

  I knelt in front of him. The only way to get the information I needed was to beat it out of one of Smith’s men or to worm my way through their mental defenses. Either one was fine by me. They’d electrocuted and burned me to get what they wanted. I didn’t mind returning the favor.

  The man slumped against the wall, his eyes glassing over.

  I opened my consciousness, focusing my anger and willpower on the void. He was circling the drain, so I needed to work quickly. At first, nothing happened. Even as he died, he fought against my mental intrusion.

  An emotion slipped through—fear.

  I worked even harder, prying at the crack in his defenses.

  He groaned, throat bobbing rapidly.

  An image of Smith’s face popped into my head. He stood before the rectangular object behind me, peering at the top of it. I grabbed hold of that thread of memory and pulled.

  I saw a handful of men chasing down a teenage boy in an alley. Trash and puddles of filthy water dotted the concrete. Graffiti colored the walls and a dumpster. The boy had a deep tan and raven-black hair. His pursuers grabbed hold of him by the neck and jammed a needle into his arm. He fought in their grasp before the tension drained from his body, and he gaped at the man with the needle. The man jerked as if a spasm ran through his muscles. He turned and rammed the needle into the eye of the goon holding the boy.

  And then I lost the memory in a flash of white and a rush of pain.

  The man in front of me exhaled for the final time.

  “Damn!” I exploded to my feet and then slammed the handle of the pistol against the wall.

  I didn’t manage to get anything that could possibly help me before the guy had died. I hit the wall again.

  ... mister... I hear...

  The pleading in my head was the last straw. I felt like a pot on the brink of boiling over. The tools and electrical wires vibrated on the bench. A soldering iron fell to the floor.

  My anger teetered at the precipice of falling into a full-blown rage. No one could fight effectively in a rage. That would get even the best soldier killed. I had to channel my emotions toward something constructive and re-exert a semblance of self-control.

  I wheeled around, looking for something to destroy because nothing said self-control like smashing shit. Atop the rectangular object, a window was cut into the metal near one end. Even though I could barely contain my anger at that moment, curiosity still tugged at me.

  Moving closer, I leaned over the edge and peered into the window.

  My jaw dropped.

  The boy I’d seen in the dead man’s memory lay inside.

  His dark skin had taken on a sallow, unhealthy hue. The flesh at his temples and cheeks had sunken in. Both of his eyes were closed. Straps secured his arms, chest, and forehead. His neck and arms had atrophied to the point where I doubted he could have sat up even if he wasn’t secured down.

  A feeding tube ran through an incision in his stomach—a breathing tube to a hole in his throat. Cracks split his lips.

  I recoiled at what I saw above the strap over his brow.

  Part of his head was missing.

  Wires snaked into the skin that had healed over the crater where skull and brain should have been. Surgical scars crisscrossed his scalp. Some of them were fresh, the cuts not quite healed.

  The wires ran to the end of the coffin-like container imprisoning the boy, disappearing inside the white mesh covering the walls.

  As I gaped in horror through the window, the boy’s eyes slowly opened.

  He stared straight ahead for several seconds. Then he blinked a few times and sluggishly turned his gaze to me. We watched each other in silence for what felt like an eternity.

  I didn’t move. I couldn’t.

  ... it’s you...

  I almost fell over. The voice coming through The Bridge was from the boy in front of me.

  My mouth worked as I tried to say something, anything, to comfort him.

  You’re all... bloody... did they... hurt you... too?

  A tear formed in the corner of my eye.

  Yeah, buddy. They hurt me too.

  He blinked. ... I hate... them... they keep me... here... won’t let me... die...

  I wanted to pick him up and carry him out of there, but something about the wires in his head, the missing chunks of skull and brain, told me he wouldn’t make it more than a few feet after I removed him from that metal and glass prison.

  How long have you been here?

  ... I don’t... know... years?...

  I placed my hand on the window. What’s your name, big guy?

  ... Jamie...

  Jamie Welsh?

  ... yes... He blinked slowly. Very slowly. ... so tired...

  I’m going to get you out of here, Jamie.

  ... no... please... let me... go...

  No. I shook my head. We can help you get better.

  ... they... crippled me... can’t... move...

  Staring down at the remains of what had once been a healthy boy, I raged at the abomination they’d twisted him into. Beyond the waste to his muscles and skeletal system, the missing chunk of brain and skull had likely removed his ability to survive outside of his metal tomb.

  ... hard to... think... so tired... so... hard to... think... let me... go...

  His thoughts jumbled together as I watched his eyes close again. The Bridge between us crumbled.

  I removed my hand from the window. A bloody, grimy handprint remained on the glass. I bent down, searching the metal monstrosity for some kind of a clue as to what I could do to help young Jamie. On the back, above the top of his head, was a control panel.

  A button marked T. Field blinked rapidly.

  Several other switches and buttons were scattered about the panel, some blinking, some a solid yellow. Though I didn’t know what any of them did for certain, I wondered if the T. Field thing had kept Jamie from reaching me telepathically. When the power went out, perhaps the defenses of the coffin-like containment system had gone down.

  The same had happened to my helmet after all.

  I resisted the urge to empty both guns into the body of Smith’s man behind me.

  What kind of monsters could do that to a child? It was inhuman.

  I went back to the window and watched Jamie again. His eyes rolled under their lids. What did someone in his position dream of? Or were his dreams nothing but nightmares?

  Tears rolled down my cheeks.

  A machine beeped behind me. A series of medical machines stood in the corner, monitoring Jamie’s heart rate and God knew what else. I didn’t know much about that
stuff, but a beeping sound couldn’t be a good thing.

  And then I realized what was happening.

  When the power had gone out, it wasn’t just the machine that contained his telepathic abilities that went down, but all the machines connected to him. I doubted he could survive long without the life-support systems running. That was why the men were in here—they were trying to get everything operating properly again.

  And I showed up and killed them.

  The beeping turned into one solid tone.

  I whirled around, saw Jamie’s eyes had stopped rolling. His breathing had arrested.

  “Oh, God.” My fingers fumbled over the machines as I frantically searched for anything I could turn on or switch over that would help.

  But I didn’t understand any of the crap I saw.

  The tone continued.

  I went back to the window and stared down at the dead boy.

  My breathing was ragged, my vision red.

  “Smith!” I bellowed.

  Then I stalked from the room, looking for a scar-faced man to kill.

  46 – Party Poopers

  A fist rapped on Nami’s door. She kept working, copying files she’d managed to restore from Smith’s destroyed hard drives. She knew the men coming to take her away wouldn’t let her ever set foot in the Forensic Palace of Digital Love Making again, so she needed to take as much with her as possible.

  Copying information classified so highly was an enormous crime that would carry a ridiculous penalty, but she figured it couldn’t be any worse than the treason charge coming her way. That and she didn’t trust anyone to do the right thing with the files except Ashley, Mr. Clean, and herself.

  The rest of the assholes in Washington could sit on it and rotate.

  “Open the door!” someone shouted. “Now!”

  The hammering ratcheted up.

  “One minute,” Nami said sweetly.

  “Now!”

  Nami watched the progress bar as the last of the files finished copying to a thumb drive. She yanked the device from the USB port and then pulled the collar of her shirt open.

  “Thank the gods I wore a padded bra,” she whispered as she placed the thumb drive under her breast. The hard edges weren’t comfortable against her skin, but it wasn’t too bad.

  She stood and placed a hand on each boob, feeling for a major difference. The hard plastic was barely detectable. If someone really searched her, they would find it, but otherwise, she hoped no one would notice. A nice perk with looking so young was that security forces and guards weren’t as likely to feel you up while searching you.

  The files she’d copied had just finished a lengthy recovery process that Nami had started several weeks ago. The damage to the hard drives was so severe that she feared they were unrecoverable. But she’d managed to find a relatively untouched platter in one of the last drives she’d opened and had been able to slowly pull files from it.

  Because of the craziness of the day, Nami hadn’t checked to see what she’d recovered yet.

  “You have five seconds to open up or we’ll break the door down.”

  Good luck, Nami thought. That mahfah is metal.

  She was about to go to the door when she remembered that Tate had told her to radio them when the men from Washington showed up. She grabbed the microphone atop her desk.

  “The party poopers are here,” she said into it.

  “Roger that. Radio silence from here on out,” Tate replied.

  Nami slid the microphone behind her monitor, hoping to conceal it a bit so the men wouldn’t notice it right away. She killed the power to her forensic machine and then went to the door.

  “Who is it?” she called out.

  “Open the goddamn door!”

  “If you’re here to introduce me to my Lord and savior Jesus Christ, then I’ll have to—”

  The door shuddered in the frame.

  “Don’t get your panties in a twist, for fuck’s sake.” Nami undid the heavy lock and opened the door. She smiled at the three pissed-off men staring in at her. “Sup?”

  47 – Cover

  Knowing that Nami and Nelson were likely apprehended set an internal timer in Bree’s mind. At some point, the men from Washington would figure out where they were and then things would get really interesting. Lloyd and Nelson thought they would carpet bomb the entire area.

  Bree would have found the idea of the U.S. government bombing their own soil ludicrous less than twenty-four hours ago, but a lot had happened since then. She wasn’t so sure that they wouldn’t dust an entire state to get to Smith now.

  The door in the building behind the Ferris wheel flew open and three men ran out. Bree sighted the lead man and squeezed off a shot that caught him dead center in the chest. He dropped like a stone. The guard behind him nearly tripped over his body.

  Bree worked the action on her rifle, never taking her eye from the scope.

  Both of the remaining men scrambled for cover. One dove behind a bench, the other slid over to the base of the Ferris wheel, disappearing from Bree’s view. She aimed at the bench the man hid behind, careful to keep her breathing slow and steady.

  A tree split the area between Bree’s position and the bench, partially obscuring the man in the gray suit. She settled the crosshairs on the lowest slat and waited for him to make a move. His feet were visible along with a portion of a rifle.

  She considering shooting him in the ankle to see if that would force him to pop his head out, but decided against it. There was only a limited amount of shots she could fire before they would zero in on her position.

  Huxx ducked behind a tree a few dozen yards ahead of her and stopped. He raised his gun, fired off a few rounds toward the Ferris wheel, and then ran to the next tree.

  Bree swung her rifle in the direction Huxx had fired.

  A bald man peeked around the base of the Ferris wheel. He saw Huxx crouched behind the tree and raised his gun. He’d just fired his first shot when Bree dropped him with a bullet to the side of the head.

  She chambered another cartridge.

  As she turned her attention back to the man behind the bench, she saw Huxx double tap him in the chest with two bullets. She marveled at how methodical and accurate the former Navy Seal was. Normally, he would have been working with a team he’d spent months or years training with, but now, he stormed a castle by himself.

  “Closing in on the target,” Tate said.

  “Already here.” Huxx hunched down behind a tiny structure that had COTTON CANDY painted above an open window.

  The tiny pop of distant gunshots echoed from the west. Bree hoped the detective and Briggs were okay. They hadn’t radioed in after Tate and Huxx. She understood that Lloyd wanted to save his friend, but she feared his diminished physical condition would hinder the team more than help.

  Movement beyond Huxx caught Bree’s attention. She aimed a few feet over his head and saw Tate and Shea break the tree line and run across an open patch of concrete. They passed a rank of dollar games and paused beside a structure that used to house a ball pit.

  Bree was about to concentrate on the entrance to the facility when she saw a flash of gray behind Tate.

  One of Smith’s men stood just behind a tree, only a gray sleeve and the barrel of a rifle visible from Bree’s angle. The muzzle was pointed at Shea and Tate.

  “On your six,” Bree said into the mic.

  Tate spun around and popped a few shots off at the man.

  Shea moved to the other side of the ball pit and fired.

  Another series of gunshots came from the north, closer to the facility.

  “Damn.” Bree hesitated, her scope still hovering over the tree with a guard behind it. She finally looked away, hoping they could handle the man without her cover. Off to her team’s right came three more armed men, all firing at Tate and Shea’s position.

  Dust kicked off the pavement around Tate’s feet. He dove inside the empty ball pit. His head popped up a moment later, and he squeez
ed off several rounds.

  Jack Shea put a hand on a half-wall beside him and vaulted over it. Midway through the jump, he twisted in the air and collapsed out of Bree’s view.

  In a flash, Bree sighted the lead man and dropped him with a round to the gut. He fell to the ground, flopping around like a landed fish. His screams reached her ears as little more than whispers.

  “Shea is hit!” Tate had stopped firing and disappeared inside the small structure.

  Bree aimed at the second man and cut him down with a shot through the heart. She chambered another bullet as the third attacker disappeared on the other side of a rusted, purple children’s ride.

  The man taking cover behind the tree stepped out and quickly advanced toward the ball pit. Bree swiveled the gun on the bipod and aimed at him as he passed behind an overgrown thicket of bushes. Bree paused, waiting for him to reappear so she would have a clear shot.

  He finally popped out when he was less than five feet away from Tate and Shea’s hiding spot. With his body turned sideways from Bree’s position, she didn’t have the clean angle she’d hoped for.

  She took it anyway.

  The bullet tore through his rifle, shattering the stock.

  It punctured his shoulder, spun him around.

  Tate popped up and watched as the man fell to the pavement.

  Bree put a second round through his back.

  His screams fell silent a moment later.

  Tate looked back at Bree. He gave her a thumbs-up. “Nice shot, kid.”

  Coming from Tate, Bree recognized that as a compliment of the highest order. She keyed her mic. “We’ve got a hostile at—”

  Bullets ripped into the car she sat in, splintering the wood and tearing through to the seat behind her. Bree ducked down as low as she could and checked the area at the bottom of the hill. Two men ran toward the entrance of the ride, firing up at her.

  They were close enough that it would be difficult for her to see them through the scope. She dropped the rifle to the torn leather of the seat and skinned her pistol from the holster. With a slow exhale, she aimed at the center mass of the nearest man and squeezed off two shots.

  Neither hit their mark.