Invasion: Book One of the Secret World Chronicle-ARC

by Mercedes Lackey

  That store had only just reopened too. Cracking his knuckles and shrugging off his sopping wet jacket, John started off at a clumsy jog to reach the pair. “Hey! Knock it off, both of ya!” No guns were in evidence, not even knives. This looked like a garden-variety drunken brawl, or a couple of crooks getting into an argument over the spoils of their latest heist. John was a few paces from the stronger-looking one when it happened.

  He felt a sharp pain in his left bicep; a needle dart of some sort was sticking out of it. Immediately, he began to stumble, finally splashing down on his hands and knees. The world swam in front of him, the dirty runoff water and rubble blurring. John’s head began to feel very heavy, and his breathing was slowing down.

  Poison…tranquilizer…something. Straining, he managed to turn his head to his left flank; three men carrying assault rifles and dressed in non-descript, black military uniforms—“ninja suits,” the kind of stuff you saw in mall-ninja magazines and Soldier of Fortune—quickly closed in on him, setting up a perimeter. Looking over to his right, he saw three others doing the same. The two bruisers that had been fighting when he showed up had stopped; the smaller one was shivering in a pile under the lamp, and the tougher one was walking very calmly towards John. He shrugged off a dirty trenchcoat, revealing a similar get-up as the other men; the sole difference was the pair of swords that hung on his belt, one long and one short.

  The man had a swagger, a self-assuredness that set John’s teeth on edge. He’s a smug bastard. Feeling his anger rising that he’d been stupid enough to walk into the trap, John’s vision began to clear, strength returning to his limbs. He didn’t let on, though; he kept his breathing erratic, and acted as if his every move pained him. Finally, he looked up at the tough brawler; he assumed that the one with the swords was in charge. “Who…are you?” he choked out.

  The leader ignored him. “Secure the package. We’re leaving as soon as I tie up the last loose end.” The leader turned to face the shaking man on the ground; John caught a glimpse of an insignia stamped onto the sheath of the longer sword. It was a single snake coiled caduceuslike around a sword. The sword was silver, the background red. The snake was black.

  Son of a…Blacksnake.

  The team closed in around him; they figured that he was beaten, and had already slung their rifles. John acted; he splashed hard to his left, flinging gobs of water and trashy muck into the eyes of the nearest merc. In an instant, he was on his feet, lunging right; a flash of hands, and he shattered the collarbone of one of the commandos, ripping his rifle away and snapping its sling. There was no time to bring the rifle to his shoulder, so by its barrel and flash suppressor John swung it in a wide arc, pivoting on his back foot. The butt of the stock connected with the blinded merc’s temple, and there was a sickening crack; from the stock splintering or the man’s skull, John didn’t know, and didn’t care.

  “The package” must be him; for some reason they wanted him alive for now. But he wouldn’t stay that way for long, no matter what the reason was that they were taking him. There was no way out of this except over bodies.

  He hefted the rifle and swung it backhanded, aiming low and to his right; one of the commandos had taken a step forward and tried to grab his shoulder. The rifle fractured his target’s knee, sending a cruel shard of bone to protrude through his battle-dress uniform pants; the merc screamed, crumpling lopsidedly to the ground as his leg collapsed. John jumped over him, the rifle clattering to the ground as he was reaching for the merc with the shattered collarbone. He grabbed the back of the man’s ski-masked head, then hooked his thumb; a split second later he had jabbed his hand forward, puncturing the mercenary’s eye and ripping it out. Drenched with rain, John’s hands were already slippery; the fluids and blood that gushed over his thumb made no difference as he let go and moved on to the next target. The man’s scream spiraled upwards into a whistling shriek, then stopped as he passed out cold from the pain and dropped into the gutter. One more on the right side; the man had cleared his pistol from the holster on his thigh sub-load, and was racking the slide. Stupid. Didn’t keep a round in the chamber? Gonna cost ya. John turned his body so that it was parallel to the pistol, and then quickly stepped next to it. Gripping the merc’s wrist with his left hand and the semiauto’s barrel with his right, John twisted the pistol sharply so that it was perpendicular to him but still pointed in a “safe” direction. The merc’s fingers snapped, bent outward from his palm. Completing the movement and sliding behind his opponent, John placed the disabled man in between himself and the remaining mercenaries.

  No time to wrench the gun free and ready it, John drew his own pistol from the back of his waistband. Suppressed rifle fire sent supersonic cracks shrieking into the rainy night; the muzzle flash and report was muted, but they weren’t using subsonic rounds. A moment later the crack and flash was uncannily echoed by a nearby lightning strike and simultaneous boom of thunder. Rounds impacted with John’s hostage, and the man’s body went limp; John watched as the top of his head exploded into a mist of blood, bone, and brain matter. Falling backwards, John cleared the “target box” and began firing; no time for looking down the sights, he relied totally on point shooting. He killed one for sure, and wounded the last remaining commando. Rolling the body to the side, John got up into a crouch; he ejected the expended magazine for his pistol and loaded a fresh one, thumbing the slide release to chamber a new round. Another lightning strike and explosion of thunder lit up the street.

  The injured merc was on his back, pistol in hand. John’s mind barked a harsh laugh, reminded of something he was asked once a long time ago. “Are you injured, or just hurt?” He shot the last merc twice in the face. John didn’t want to have to worry about someone reporting back; killing these losers would keep him from having to kill more second-rate mall ninjas, or so he hoped.

  Standing up to his full height, he walked around the irregular circle of dead and dying, and finished the job by shooting each in the head. More lightning cracked, punctuating and covering his shots. If anyone had heard this, and he frankly doubted they did or cared, by the time the storm was over there would be no signs of the slaughter.

  John ejected the magazine from his pistol, examining the back of it; he still had two rounds, plus one in the chamber. He hadn’t brought a third and fourth magazine; he didn’t think he’d need them tonight, since he hadn’t fired his pistol since starting these “patrols.” Slamming the magazine back home, John looked over to where the streetlamp was still blazing its sickly yellow light. The Blacksnake team leader, the one with the swords, was standing calmly. His palms were resting on the pommels of the still-sheathed swords. Guess this guy never heard of what happens to folks that brings knives to gunfights.

  “If I were you, John Mur—” John raised his pistol and fired twice at the merc leader. Talkers. They’re always talkers, for some reason. Just as John was sighting his follow-up shot, something flat and shiny was flying towards him; before he could react—which was saying something with his reflexes—his pistol was knocked from his grip and into the darkness, his hand cut on the back. John’s gaze was just returning to the merc when he felt the first cut; a tickling slash across the ribs. Enough to draw blood, but not enough to nick organs. John hadn’t noticed the merc leader taking the sword out of its sheathe, but he sure noticed how sharp it was.

  “Shit!”

  The leader was on him again. John lashed out, leading in with a strong jab followed by several kicks; the surviving merc easily dodged all of John’s attacks, parrying with the flat of his blade or simply evading. John realized that his opponent was toying with him; he was keeping John at sword’s length, trying to tire him out.

  John made a gamble. He turned his back to the mercenary, and knelt down. Over the sound of the pouring rain, John thought he heard a whisper of words with the curiously toneless quality of a voice over a radio. The leader paused for half of a heartbeat, and then surged forward. John twisted around, bringing his right hand slashing upw
ard in an uppercut. He was clutching a chunk of concrete, and hit the merc squarely under the chin, staggering him. John threw the piece of debris as hard as he could at the mercenary, who turned to have it strike him in the shoulder, twisting around and bringing his sword up into a high-ready position. Serious for ya now, ain’t it?

  John didn’t have time to twist out of the way, or slap the blade aside. Lightning flashed, thunder boomed, and John felt a dull thud as the blade of the longer sword plunged into his side. The mercenary was up close to John, their eyes locked together. Still smug, still cool and collected. Damn it, they sent someone like me after me, John thought. With a grunt, John smashed his head forward once, twice, three times; his opponent’s nose cracked and started to spew blood through the ski mask. John locked his arms together and smashed them downward, breaking the leader’s grip on his sword. Stepping back, turning, and then launching himself backwards, John cried out in pain as he impacted the dazed mercenary. He swayed on his feet, and then fell forward, twisting in time so that he didn’t land on the handle of the sword. The merc had a hole in the front of his uniform, displaying pale flesh that was just as quickly flooded with blood; his hands were on his short sword, the blade already halfway out of his sheath. Then, the man’s eyes rolled into the back of his head, and he collapsed, dead.

  With a gasp of agony and curses muttered through clenched teeth, John pulled the sword out of his side, bringing it out as straight as his shaking hands could manage. It cut through the water, disappearing as soon as he dropped it. Had it hit anything vital? He couldn’t tell. His augmentations shut out most of the pain, flooding him with the endorphins that were supposed to keep him fighting long after everyone else had dropped.

  This time he didn’t have to fake the pain; he looked down at himself, and he knew it was bad. Worse than it felt, probably. And he had a limited amount of time here, buoyed up by adrenaline and endorphins, with extra control from his implants, to get done what needed to be done. And just as he thought that, the implants kicked in, numbing him down to the bearable level. He got to his feet, methodically going through the bodies and collecting all of their equipment, even down to their boots. It wasn’t surprising that they weren’t carrying anything that could be used to identify them. Well, except for the emblem on the sheath of the longer of the two swords, a bit of vanity that the dead merc would probably have paid for eventually if John’s bill hadn’t come in first.

  Once he was done, he had amassed a nice-sized pile of tactical gear, rifles, and boots, all soaking wet. Now to the other business. Slowly, John began clearing away some rubble from across the shop; once he was done, he dragged each of the bodies to the pit he had created, and then closed it with as much broken concrete and bricks as he could stand to; the pain was finally getting past his reserves of strength. His purpose in throwing the bodies under a destroyed building was twofold. First, no one would really pay that much attention to some bodies in rubble; disaster-relief services were still uncovering people from the invasion. After tonight’s rain and a few days in the heat, he seriously doubted that anyone would care to examine them too closely, either. At most, they’d call it a dump site for a gang hit. Second, Blacksnake would be wondering what had happened to their team. If they had bodies, they’d know exactly what happened. Making those people disappear, however, would scare someone. No one would know what had happened. No one would know if the “disappeared” people might show up again. Had it been John? Had it been the Nazis? Had it been Echo? No way to tell. Knowing was good; not knowing was terrifying. And it just might be enough to keep him from having to kill more merc goons.

  He’d need someone to help stitch him up and to carry the gear back to his place in the morning. He could have done both himself, but he was honestly too screwed up at the moment to want to. He’d have to take the rifles and sidearms with him tonight, though; wouldn’t do to have some kid find them after the storm cleared up. Lugging the rifles and pistols in his arms, John finally remembered the one man still alive, aside from himself. The stranger was still on the ground under the lamp, shaking almost to the point where it looked like he was going into convulsions. John staggered over to him, weaving a little from side to side. “What’s your story?” John barked.

  “H-hired m-m-me. B-bait for you.” The man recoiled from John like a wounded animal shrinking away from a predator. “G-gonna k-k-k-kill me?”

  John looked at him thoughtfully. “Naw. I’ll leave ya for someone else to deal with; I’m done for tonight. Get outta this neighborhood, an’ you’ll live awhile longer.” Without another word, John continued to bleed and slog his way back home, disappearing into the rain. He might be closer to dying than living. C’est la guerre.

  * * *

  Jonathon Frieze liked his job. What was more, he was good at it. Tonight was a pisser of a night, but he was getting paid; it sure beat a cubicle.

  Their job was to bag and tag a meta that BS wanted alive; he couldn’t fathom why, but he didn’t really get paid to worry about such things, either. The team for the job was assembled locally, pulling a number of different guys from security jobs at corporate headquarters and government institutions; the operation leader was called in from out of town, and brought a weird ninja guy with him to lead the team. After everyone was briefed on the target’s location, abilities, and likely avenues of retreat, the op leader sent them out to take care of business. A stealthed chopper ride later, and they were set.

  Frieze hated having to climb the water tower in this rain, but it was his preplanned spot to set up his lurch. The thirty-pound rifle that he was lugging with him wasn’t helping things; not only was it a load to tote, but he was the tallest and most conductive thing for at least a couple dozen blocks. He just hoped there was a lightning rod somewhere nearby so he didn’t end up a crispy critter.

  His rifle deployed, his body settled into a semicomfortable prone position, and his comm gear double-checked, all he had to do was keep his eyes peeled and wait. The trap they had set up was pretty decent; there’s not much arguing a person can do when he’s subject to tranquilizers and a half-dozen assault rifles. There were some pretty tough metas out there, resilient ones that could shrug off bullets and even bombs or worse, but they were a rarity. And most of them were already with Echo or Blacksnake or in jail. Or were super-Nazis. This joe was none of the above. If things went south, Frieze had a friend in Mister .50 BMG. It was a heavy round, normally reserved for antimateriel roles, but the head honchos didn’t want to take any chances. If Dead is Good, then Really Damn Dead is better.

  Frieze did his little squirm exercises, as regular as clockwork, as all good snipers do. When the rain started up, he clicked his scope one notch to compensate for drag. Eventually, he saw the package; walking down the street on the outside of the neighborhood he inhabited, just like their intelligence had indicated. He notified the team leader using their op order. “Deliberate, stage left. Package. Unarmed. Approaching from the east. Forty meters, slowly.” All he received was a cold double click on the comm in acknowledgement. He watched their target through his rifle scope; the rifle’s kit was monstrous-looking, but had nifty things like Generation IV night vision. It wasn’t perfect, especially at these ranges, but it was better than using moonlight. He saw the target, sopping wet, move in closer. Saw the teams close after he had fallen to his knees, and then—the comms exploded in chatter. In an instant, the man was on his feet, moving like a blur; within seconds, several of the retrieval team members were down, some undoubtedly dead. Frieze bunched up on his rifle stock, settling it into his shoulder. Things had definitely gone south.

  But he hadn’t gotten the go code yet. He had to follow procedure; clicking his comm over to the leader channel, he radioed back to base about the “rapidly deteriorating situation” and how chances for success were diminishing. Within seconds, he had a kill order authorized; he relayed this to the team leader, lining up his shot without missing a beat. He already had the range dialed in. “Got him. Stand by.” Cent
er of mass, center of mass, center of mass…gotcha! Jonathon Frieze’s finger slowly tightened on the feather-light trigger…

  * * *

  Seraphym was all but invisible in the pouring rain, with her fires dimmed down to next to nothing. Navigating the blind spot around the life of John Murdock had brought her here. She periodically dashed off to save or help those that the Infinite wanted her to—the mortals who would be critical in protecting their world—but on the way back from the most recent one, it occurred to her that she might learn more about John Murdock’s future by staying near him and seeing what, and who, he affected. She decided that unless the Infinite advised otherwise, his vicinity could be as much of a home base as she had so far.

  She hovered, without a wingbeat, above and north of a water tower set atop of the roof of an industrial building, not thirty feet from a man stretched out prone on the roof of the tower. The man had a huge rifle propped up and aimed below him.

  He was dressed in a mottled dark gray that blended into the gray metal of the roof, but he could have been dressed in scarlet and not have been seen in this weather. Between the rapidly closing dusk and the rain…he, too, was all but invisible.

  A mortal would have frowned or sighed. Seraphym did neither. A quick brush of the mind, a search in him, revealed details about his life. Knowing the darkness of the souls of so many that had joined Blacksnake, she was neither surprised nor disappointed. They had made their choices. This man had made the choices that brought him here. And those choices had summoned her.

  She had sensed this moment in the futures, and had waited until he was fully preoccupied with his target before igniting her fires and dropping down between him and his target, silent as a raindrop.