Catching Red

by Tara Quan

  Her eyes grew so wide he could see dark lines forming around the irises. It didn’t matter what she wanted—the infection was about to win. He gentled his voice. “They’ll have to wait. You’re no good to them dead.”

  He sliced his knife into the wound on her thigh. All her muscles drew taut before she went limp. He released a pent-up breath. The invisible weight on his shoulders lightened. Until now, her suffering had affected him far more than it should.

  Marcus sighed. He didn’t like complications, but he had a feeling he’d just invited one in. No matter what came after, this encounter had changed his life. Red was no longer a stranger. She mattered.

  * * * *

  Spotting the black SUV, Marcus dismounted and slapped Gold’s rump. With a whinny, the palomino mare trotted back into the woods. He had found and tamed the horse two years ago. After the outbreak spread, a number of domesticated animals broke free to form herds. Able to graze on the encroaching wilderness and fast enough to avoid undead, the sturdier animals thrived and bred. No longer forced to travel on hard roads, the once babied species did well even without farriers, constant grooming, and veterinary care.

  Not long after he left the city, he became fascinated with capturing and taming a mount. Traveling in a government-issued vehicle was a surefire way of signaling where he was from. His cover as a trader required reliable means of transportation. It was a conundrum he had been left to solve on his own. Using the FMA’s archives, which contained an electronic copy of most books ever written, he taught himself enough about the basics of horsemanship to fashion a head-collar and attempt capture.

  It took countless days of pain, most of which was spent with his ass on the ground, to acquire a mount. Months passed before his thighs and calves grew strong enough to grip the animal with ease. Muscle pain after dismount was now a distant memory. Tying the animal down would guarantee death by a brain-eater, so he let Gold graze as she willed. The horse never ventured too far away, and all it took was a whistle for her to trot over.

  As a precaution, he announced his arrival before stepping onto the crumbling concrete. “How did you get demoted to delivery boy?”

  His instincts had gone on high alert ever since he spotted Dane Prince leaning against the vehicle. Interior Division agents seldom left Washington, D.C. Chimeras of police and army, ID operatives were trained to investigate crime and carry out tactical strikes. The wastelands weren’t their purview.

  “I was on my way out when you radioed in your request.” Dane maintained his relaxed pose. His friend’s body language was designed to put an asset at ease. Interrogative tactics were second nature to all FMA agents. They were employed without thought even when off the clock. Marcus would have tuned out the nuanced byplay had he not once struggled to unlearn this habit. Wasteland nomads played by different rules. With lifespans rarely surpassing five decades, they tended to value honesty and strength over petty games.

  Dane wore an unzipped synthetic leather jacket and dark denim. He had a Glock 21 in a shoulder holster. A pair of opaque sunglasses obscured his face. Marcus resisted the urge to make a snide comment. The man might as well have walked straight out of an Interior Division propaganda billboard. While the overt and covert wings of the Federal Military Agency commanded mutual respect, they were also the butt of each other’s jokes.

  Placement within the FMA’s hierarchy was based on results from a battery of genetic and cognitive testing performed in the early stages of childhood development. As a result, members of the various career tracks tended to fit within physical and psychological archetypes to a comical degree. Members of the Interior Division all shared what was termed the “Captain America” build—a looming physique paired with broad shoulders and thick necks.

  For reasons no one conscripted to Covert Affairs could comprehend, the hairstyles of ID agents never deviated from the ubiquitous short-cropped military cut. To add insult to injury, these operatives were perpetually clean-shaven, took at least one shower a day, and fanatically utilized standard-issue aftershave.

  In a way, their appearance encapsulated the uniformity and order they all swore to protect. While they were well trained, intelligent, and more than capable of keeping the peace within city limits, ID agents devolved into useless blundering mammoths on the rare occasions they ventured into the wastelands.

  While Marcus respected Dane’s martial capabilities, he shuddered at the thought of his friend working on any covert op. The man couldn’t lie to save his life. “Please tell me whatever assignment you’re on involves you driving straight back to D.C.”

  Dane opened the trunk and hefted out a red bag large enough to fit a small corpse. He tossed the extended medical kit in Marcus’ direction as if it were a basketball. “Your lack of confidence in my capabilities never ceases to amaze. Do all CA operatives go out of their way to look like bums?”

  Marcus caught the bag and slung it over his shoulder. “It takes more effort than you might think.”

  Dane favored him with a sardonic look. “I should take a picture and send it to your boss. She’ll yank you back to headquarters in two seconds flat. When’s the last time you shaved?”

  When Marcus rubbed his jaw, overgrown facial hair pricked his palm. He followed Dane’s gaze and glanced down at his own torso. His oversize jacket was a patchwork of scrap leather. It had been mended too many times to tell which parts were original. Covered in a layer of dirt and grime, the garment was muddy brown. His dark blue jeans no longer resembled the item he requisitioned from the FMA many years ago. The battered piece of clothing was held together by whatever materials he had been able to get his hands on.

  The memory of Red’s observant green gaze flashed in his mind’s eye. He wondered what she had thought about his appearance. For some reason, not knowing her preference made it impossible for him to shrug off Dane’s half-joking comment about his beard. “Unlike you, I’m trying to blend in. Whoever sanctioned your little trip out here was an idiot. You’re a cop, not a scout.”

  The agent’s expression was smug. “I have clearance from your boss. This isn’t a scouting mission—I’m investigating a crime. We received intel about the kidnappings. I’m one of the ID agents dispatched to investigate.”

  “The kidnappings? You’re shitting me.” The possibility was so farfetched Marcus couldn’t bring himself to give it credence.

  Dane crossed his arms. “Do you think Marguerite would’ve given me a way to contact you if she had a choice? The Interior Division is throwing everything behind this operation. Most senior agents have been dispatched to the wastelands.”

  Marcus shuddered at the thought of solar-powered SUVs rumbling their way into the woods. Letting ID take lead was a clusterfuck waiting to happen. But Dane was right. Crime didn’t fall under the jurisdiction of Covert Affairs.

  The impulse to throw bodies at this problem was understandable but misguided. Every year for the past two decades, a six-year-old girl disappeared from the capital. The Interior Division’s inability to prevent these kidnappings or recover victims had long since soured public opinion. In a city where the population was in continual decline, children were valued above all. Marcus didn’t think his boss should have rolled out the red carpet, but she might not have had a choice. “The source of this intel must have been damn credible for them to send you out here.”

  Dane shrugged. “It is, and it isn’t. The informants were too injured for us to glean enough useful information. They were nomads who had been infected by URV long before they reached the city. The medics are keeping them alive with an induced coma. Our investigators recommended waiting until further interrogation could be conducted, but we were overruled. No member of the Tribunal can afford to seem like they’re dragging their feet. This is an emotionally charged issue and the media is all over it.”

  Marcus scowled. “How the hell did the public even get wind of something this sensitive?” Once the words came out of his mouth, he shook his head. “Never mind. I forgot every leak in the
past five decades came out of ID. There’s a reason CA has a strict policy against interagency cooperation.”

  Dane’s eyes narrowed. “Two severely injured women showed up at the gates. They kept on babbling about lost girls. What were we supposed to do—hide them in a secret prison?”

  Marcus lifted an eyebrow. “I’m sure that’s what my boss suggested.”

  Dane snorted. “Things have changed since you left. A growing minority thinks this military dictatorship has stayed in power for far too long. The various branches of the FMA should be accountable to the people it protects. Becoming less opaque is a step in the right direction.”

  Marcus resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Upon occasion, Dane could be an idealistic fool. The Federal Military Agency was an imperfect bureaucracy designed to preserve the status quo. For the past fifty years it had managed to keep the human race from extinction. They couldn’t have achieved this end had every decision been put to a vote.

  While the FMA was thought of by some as a ruthless harbinger of death and oppression, it was also a necessary evil. Suffocating restrictions and morally ambiguous choices had driven Marcus into the wastelands, but they were prices most willingly paid to live in their comfortable bubble. “I’m guessing this isn’t a social call. What did you manage to wheedle from the higher-ups?”

  Dane’s grin was wolfish. “Your full cooperation in my investigation.”

  Marcus sighed. His boss tended to be liberal with favors when they weren’t hers to give. While he would have been chomping at the bit to help Dane a few hours ago, his friend’s timing couldn’t be worse. Red’s fever was escalating. He needed to get some fluids into her before dehydration succeeded where the undead had failed. It was why he had radioed in a request for an expanded medical kit, which included saline solution and the necessary intravenous apparatus. “I’m tied up at the moment. Even if I could make the time, it’s not a good idea to gallivant around these woods right now. A blizzard is about to hit. I can feel it in the air.”

  Dane made a dismissive gesture with his hand. “It’s cold, but there’s no sign of snowfall. You don’t have to make excuses. I work better alone. All I need is your expertise. Your presence would crimp my style.”

  “I’m serious about the damn storm,” Marcus muttered.

  “Sure you are. Regardless, I’ll be safe and warm in my car. Now, tell me about Fort Belvoir?”

  Marcus took a deep breath. While Dane’s foolhardiness often got him in over his head, he had the necessary skill and cunning to survive most sticky situations. Since Red was approaching death’s door, Marcus didn’t have a choice but to let Dane play out his stupidity. “The military installation was once the headquarters of the Defense Logistics Agency and is about eight miles southwest.”

  Dane gave him a disgusted look. “I didn’t lug that damn bag out here so I could get a map readout. There’s nothing in the Covert Affairs archives about the area, but your boss claims you give the term ‘succinct report’ a whole new meaning.”

  Marcus wasn’t a huge fan of receiving criticism thirdhand—especially not when it had merit. There was a great deal of information he hadn’t had time to summarize and send up the chain of command. “The section of the woods you’re planning to stroll into is covered with land mines, explosives, and undead. Whenever I’m in the vicinity, I hear intermittent gunfire. Nomadic lore weaves a fantastical tale about a group of evil witches who stormed the fort and decapitated every man they found.”

  Dane rolled his eyes. “A group of witches? These natives must be very primitive.”

  Marcus canted his head. “Undead roam every inch of these woods. Until the last two decades, the capital’s policy for dealing with refugees was to open fire. Are you surprised they’ve become superstitious?”

  Dane had the decency to look abashed. “Okay…so this group of witches—”

  “Place men’s heads on spikes at regular intervals along the fort’s perimeter,” Marcus finished saying. “The blood on those necks is red. Their flesh decays over time.”

  Dane scratched the back of his head. “Damn. They’re hunting humans.”

  Marcus nodded. “Hunting is the right word. Nomads know to stay clear of Fort Belvoir, but new heads still show up from time to time.”

  Dane’s brows furrowed. “How the hell have they managed to survive until now?”

  “Think about it,” Marcus prompted. “Before the outbreak reached Virginia, Fort Belvoir had a sizable stockpile of standard military issue supplies—MREs, gasoline, clothing, shoes, medicine, and weapons. It was meant to be a stronghold for servicemen not selected for relocation to the capital. With easy access to fresh water and arable land, Fort Belvoir was designed to become self-sufficient when the need arose.”

  “How the hell did those soldiers lose control of it?”

  Marcus tried to tamp down his impatience. He didn’t want to give away Red’s existence, but the desire to be with her was overwhelming. Despite years of training, frustration seeped into his tone. “Why are you asking me? Neither of us were alive fifty years ago. My best guess is the place imploded. Fort Belvoir isn’t where the military sent its best and brightest. Anyone with disciplinary action on file—hell, anyone with undesirable traits in their personality assessment—was detailed there. It was one among the many stupid decisions our ancestors made. The how and why doesn’t matter. Stay the hell away from that place. Infiltrating it isn’t an operation for a lone agent. You need a large team and a very good plan.”

  Judging from Dane’s expression, he had no intention of taking Marcus’ advice. “Do you have any idea what this group is called?”

  Marcus sifted through his memory. “They’re just called witches. Don’t ask me why.”

  “Would you like to know?” Dane’s expression was too smug to miss.

  ID agents rarely had worthwhile intel to bring to the table. Marcus was curious enough to give his friend the satisfaction. “I’m sure you’ve been dying to blurt it out since I got here.”

  “According to the two refugees, W-I-T-C-H stands for the Women’s Independent Territories Church.” As expected, Dane’s tone was gleeful.

  It figured. Anyone even remotely connected to the former U.S. military seemed to have a love affair with acronyms. “Did they happen to give you a security assessment? You can’t plan an operation if all you’ve got are fifty-year-old blueprints.”

  “I wish. We didn’t get much out of them before the medics tossed us out. Why do you think I’m out in this dump?” Dane swept the surroundings with his gaze. His distaste couldn’t be more apparent. The man had issues with wrinkled shirts and dusty furniture—driving over brush-covered cracked concrete must have wreaked havoc on his OCD tendencies.

  Marcus shook his head. The Interior Division had a habit of leaping before they looked. Dane was one of their best agents, and even he wasn’t handling this venture with much aplomb. The FMA should have retasked this assignment to people who knew what they were doing. “What exactly is your mission?”

  “The usual. Infiltrate the site, gather information on their security protocols, and report back to the WOLF.” Dane’s tone was nonchalant. Marcus’ palm itched to smack his friend’s dark head. This wasn’t some smuggling hub or criminal cluster. The wastelands operated on different rules—rules Marcus didn’t have time to explain.

  Though he wasn’t certain he wanted to know the answer, Marcus prompted, “The wolf?”

  “The WITCH Operation Lead Force.” Dane didn’t seem to notice the irony of an acronym within an acronym. The man had been drinking too much FMA Kool-Aid. “By the way, your boss will be receiving an official request to detail you to the team as a consultant. The paperwork just needs time to work its way through the system.”

  Marcus suppressed a shudder and contemplated ceasing all communication with headquarters until this can of worms sorted itself out. He couldn’t very well accept the assignment if he never officially received word of it. Right now, his top priority was keeping Red
alive. All he could do was hope Dane would stay out of trouble for the time being. “In that case, we’ll continue this chitchat after I get my orders. You know how strict the regulations against unofficial interdivision interferences are.”

  Dane’s brows lifted. “Since when do you care about rules? Did you even read the most recent revision to the Federal Military Agency Manual?”

  The last time Marcus glimpsed the F-MAM was back in training. Even then, he never got beyond the first chapter. “The important parts never change. If you’re done pumping me for as-yet unauthorized information, I’ve got shit I need to do.”

  “Fine. Go back to playing Wild Man.” Dane opened the car door. “But start clearing your schedule. Once I get back to the city, you’re going to have to earn your hazard pay.” The 35 percent bonus CA agents received when out in the field was a huge bone of contention between the two divisions.

  “Wait.” Marcus sighed and dropped his med kit on the ground. After rummaging through its contents, he unearthed a pocket-sized air horn and tossed it into Dane’s hands. “Do you remember the Morse code for SOS?”

  Dane looked dubious, but he nonetheless shoved the item into the inner pocket of his jacket. “You realize my car horn is much louder, right?”

  Marcus didn’t bother hiding his annoyance. “If you’re inside your damn car, then you don’t need my fucking help. That horn might sound like a half-dead duck, but the unique frequency triggers a vibration rod installed in all Covert Affairs bunkers. The range is much farther than you might think. My professional recommendation is for you to go back to D.C. But if you decide to do something stupid and end up getting your ass handed to you by a bunch of witches, get as close to our current location as you can. Keep signaling. If you’re lucky, I might show up.”

  Chapter 4

  Scarlet felt as if her body were held together by disintegrating string. No matter how hard she tried to move her fingers and toes, she couldn’t get a response. Her head was about to explode. An internal fire scorched her eyelids and forehead. The inferno scattered her thoughts. Words, sentences, regrets and numbing sadness coalesced into a garbled haze. She couldn’t part her lips. She couldn’t move her tongue. Trapped inside a paralyzed bag of bones, her mind screeched in despair as it struggled to regain control.