The Kasari Nexus (Rho Agenda Assimilation Book 1)

by Richard Phillips

  The soldier to Mark’s left spun toward him, seemingly moving in slow motion. His trigger finger squeezed off a volley of shots that missed Mark but chopped into the two commandos on the ground. Mark grabbed the rifle stock and twisted violently, tearing it from the man’s grasp and caving in his skull with the weapon before lunging toward his next target.

  As that commando’s knife cleared its sheath, Mark grabbed his wrist and re-sheathed it in its owner’s solar plexus and heart. Then, using the suddenly limp body as a shield, Mark pulled the knife free, threw it into the throat of the soldier to his right, and charged the last enemy standing. All of the bullets spraying from the muzzle of the AK-105 impacted the dead soldier’s body armor . . . all but the last one, which punched a hole in Mark’s left side. The explosion of pain momentarily narrowed his vision but didn’t slow his momentum.

  Then Mark was on the man, every blow breaking bones until there was no life left to pummel from the shattered form. Mark turned, looking for his next opponent but finding none. In this devastated room, pain and death were his only companions.

  The sound of the whistle pulled Jack toward one of the two alpha targets that moved through the night, even as the dark corner of his mind felt the other slip away. The man with the whistle was giving the orders and it was time to bring that level of coordinated effort to an end.

  The commander had positioned himself beside a Dumpster inside a walled alcove that gave him cover from three sides while still providing a partial view of the safe house. From where Jack crouched along the southern-facing wall of that alcove, he could just see the end of the man’s rifle barrel.

  Any movement Jack made would bring him into Janet’s line of fire, and in this dimly lit night she wouldn’t be able to recognize him. That narrowed his choices down to one. If she couldn’t recognize him by sight, he’d have to make sure she recognized him by his actions. Setting his assault rifle silently on the ground, he drew the black dagger.

  Amidst the sound of rapid gunfire from inside the safe house, Jack heard the heavier boom of Janet’s SCAR-H, watched a man tumble to the ground on the far side of the street, and moved. Whirling around the corner, he kicked the rifle from his target’s hands, letting his momentum carry him into the man’s body.

  The attack took his opponent by surprise, but he reacted as The Ripper would have, bringing up an arm that stopped Jack’s blade just short of his throat. The commando then rolled into a judo throw that slammed Jack into the side of the Dumpster and sent the dagger spinning across the ground.

  The commando reached for his sidearm, but Jack launched himself shoulder-first into his opponent’s stomach and drove him hard into the concrete wall, his left hand locked over the man’s gun hand. A heavy left-handed blow caught Jack on the side of his head, but he rammed a knee into the man’s groin and followed it with a head butt that splashed his face with warm blood.

  Jack shifted his grip on the gun hand, twisting two fingers so violently he felt them snap. When the gun dropped to the ground, the man growled a Russian curse. Jack’s elbow smash to his throat cut it off mid-utterance.

  As he passed between houses on the right side of the cul-de-sac, Daniil saw the rifle fly out of the alcove where Kamkin had positioned himself. The sight sent a thrill through his body. The Ripper had just revealed himself.

  Without hesitation, he dropped the rifle, pulled his SIG Sauer, and ran, making sure to keep something between himself and the sniper on the upper floor of the house. When he reached the side of the trash alcove, he paused for a moment to judge the exact position of the two combatants that struggled within.

  Then with a grin on his face, he plunged around the corner, gun leveled and firing. Kamkin could die alongside The Ripper.

  The sense of impending danger pulled Jack’s head toward the opening just before another man lunged into view. And in that moment, Jack shifted position, pulling the dying commando around in front of him, ramming him, back first, toward this new opponent. The first three shots impacted the body armor of the commando he shoved forward, followed by a point-blank head shot. And then Jack’s leg sweep sent the three of them tumbling to the ground together . . . in full view of Janet’s sniper position.

  Daniil couldn’t understand how The Ripper had heard him coming in the midst of his fight with Kamkin, but he must have. How else could he have shielded himself with Kamkin’s body? All this flashed through his mind as Daniil tumbled to the ground beneath Kamkin and The Ripper.

  The impact partially knocked his breath from him, but he maintained his grip on the SIG, twisting it to get off a shot that caught The Ripper in his left thigh. But as Daniil tried to aim his next shot for the man’s body, The Ripper grabbed Kamkin’s hair and hammered the dead man’s head into Daniil’s face with such stunning force that it ruptured the already damaged skull. Brains and blood spilled forth. The pain that exploded in Daniil’s broken face threatened to rob him of consciousness.

  Blinded and gasping for breath, Daniil fired wildly, only to feel The Ripper’s weight shift as he rolled off the pile. Daniil continued firing as he shoved Kamkin’s body off of him. The SIG’s slide locked back. He was surprised. Had he already fired all seventeen rounds? And where was The Ripper?

  Wiping goop from his eyes, Daniil spit and struggled back to his feet, trying to make sense of the situation. Why hadn’t The Ripper finished him when he’d had the chance instead of leaving him alone out here in the open? Daniil’s heart jumped into his throat. Out here in the open. As his eyes shifted back to the house at the end of the cul-de-sac, he saw the muzzle flash. But he never felt the bullet that hit him in the center of the forehead.

  Heather scanned the backyard and beyond for living targets and failed to find any. Since Janet’s last shot, everything had gone dead quiet. She could hear the heartbeats of Janet and Robby, noting the improvement in the boy’s pulse since last she’d checked. Even the sounds of conflict from below had died out. When Mark climbed into the attic, his presence confirmed it. This fight was over.

  For the first time she noticed his upper chest wound and his bloody side.

  “My God,” she gasped. “Let me look at that!”

  “It can wait.”

  “No,” she said, crawling out of the sniper hide, “it can’t.”

  Mark sighed but didn’t argue. The light wasn’t good, but with Heather’s enhanced vision, it didn’t need to be.

  Janet had moved to Robby’s side, but when she saw the spike jutting out beneath Mark’s collarbone she turned her attention to him.

  “Sit down on the floor,” she said, pointing to a spot next to Robby.

  Pulling her knife, Janet worked rapidly as Heather assisted, cutting away Mark’s utility vest and shirt in order to examine the two wounds.

  Just then, Jack’s voice called out from below. “It’s just me.”

  Without pausing in her work, Janet replied, “Come on up. Mark’s hurt.”

  “I’m fine,” Mark growled.

  When Jack climbed into the attic, he was bare chested, having bound his shirt around his blood-soaked pants leg.

  “Jesus. You too?”

  “Nothing my nanites can’t fix. They just need a little time.”

  He sounded convincing. Still, Heather noted Jack wincing as he sat down.

  Janet turned to Heather. “Get me the medical kit out of my go bag.”

  Heather moved to comply. Janet poured water from her canteen over Mark’s wounds and scrubbed at them to wash away the blood and dust.

  “Heather, I’m going to need thick gauze pads soaked in chlorhexidine and another roll of gauze.”

  Heather set the medical kit next to Janet, opened it, and began the prep work. She caught Mark’s forced grin and that simple expression helped dampen the worry that had put a tremor in her hands.

  “I may not have your nanites, but there are certain circulatory advantages to being an alien-augmented freak.”

  “Yeah,” Janet said as she finished binding the wound on hi
s side and reached up to grab the spike beneath his collarbone. “Hang on to that sense of humor, because this is going to hurt.”

  Mark made no sound when Janet placed one hand on his shoulder and pulled on the spike with the other. Beads of sweat sprouted on his dusty brow. For a moment the spike refused to move, but as she increased the pressure it came free.

  Immediately, Heather pressed two gauze pads against the wound, front and back, applying pressure while Janet bound them in place and then leaned back to examine her work.

  “That’ll do until we get to more permanent accommodations. Now that Robby’s stable enough to move, I’d like to get him as far from here as possible.”

  That plan sounded damn good to Heather.

  “I’ll carry Robby,” Jack said, climbing back to his feet.

  “No,” Janet said. “I’ve got him. Mark can carry my bag and weapon, while you take point.”

  When they left the shattered house, they found the cul-de-sac deserted, no great surprise considering the terrifying amount of firepower that had just been employed here. They hadn’t killed all of their attackers, but once the leaders were down, the remaining few had melted away into the night.

  They moved out rapidly along backstreets and alleys, heading northeast to avoid the rest of the fire. Jack took the lead, followed closely by Mark, and then Janet carrying Robby’s unconscious body, with Heather acting as rear guard.

  Heather noticed movement in the distant shadows as Jack brought up his SCAR-H assault rifle. The vision that formed in her mind was so clear it blotted out all else.

  “Wait,” she said, her voice loud enough for Jack to hear. “Don’t shoot.”

  From the shadows twenty yards in front of Jack, a familiar form emerged, wrapped in traditional Quechua garb and wearing a broad-brimmed hat.

  “Yachay!” Jack exclaimed, lowering his weapon and stepping forward to greet her, his movements matched by the rest of the group.

  “How did you find us?” Janet asked as Yachay moved to gently lift Robby from her willing arms.

  “Not hard. I tell Quechua people, ‘Listen for biggest gunfight.’ Always leads to you and Jack.”

  The statement broke the night’s tension and pulled a laugh from Heather’s lips. God, it was good to be back in the company of this woman.

  Yachay straightened with Robby in her arms and turned to go. “Come. I take you somewhere safe. Do not worry. Quechua people make sure no one bother.”

  Then Yachay turned and led the way with their battered little group in tow. All around them, other shadows drifted silently through the chaotic night.

  Except for the shifting shadows cast by the distant fire plumes, the street was devoid of movement. The bodies of the dead lay strewn about, their orange-lit faces horrible caricatures of the people they had been in life. A low moan escaped the lips of one of those bodies.

  Her head feeling like somebody was hitting it with a hammer, Galina Anikin struggled to her knees. She put her hand to her forehead and winced anew. So much blood. But that’s what head wounds did . . . bleed. If not for the nanites in her blood that worked to repair the damage, the wound might well have been fatal.

  Galina traced the injury with her index finger, ignoring the burn of what she was doing. A five-inch groove had been carved into the top of her skull from the top right side of her forehead to the upper rear. The thought that she’d never regrow hair in that shallow groove pissed her off as much as the fact that a Smythe sniper, most likely Janet Price, had come very close to ending her.

  But she hadn’t.

  Galina climbed to her feet, paused until she stopped swaying, and then turned to look around. Almost immediately her eyes fell on Daniil.

  “No!” Her voice was a low growl.

  Galina stumbled as she walked toward the spot where his body lay stretched out, faceup beside the street. She knelt beside him. The bloody hole in the center of his forehead told part of the story. His battered face and brain-splattered uniform told the rest.

  For the last time, Galina ran her fingers along Daniil’s head and looked into his green eyes. Then she stood and walked to the spot where Kamkin’s body lay facedown. The major had been shot in the head, and his killer had taken the time to cave the front of Kamkin’s skull in.

  A coldness crept into her bones. Only one man could have done this.

  The Ripper!

  Galina straightened, checked her SIG, and then looked out over the burning skyline of what was left of Lima. She locked that image firmly in her mind. The view was a poor imitation of the inferno she would unleash upon The Ripper for this, no matter how long it took to find him. And she owed Janet Price a debt as well.

  Galina Anikin then strode purposefully into the night, her bloody face illuminated by the dancing fires of hell.

  CHAPTER 29

  Jennifer watched the video feed of Raul leaning over the newly reconstructed stasis field-generator inside the Northang Research Laboratory, marveling for the hundredth time at the changes in the young man. His new legs, eye, and skullcap had transformed him, and not just in appearance. Raul’s entire self-image had undergone a surprising makeover. He still had an annoying snarkiness to his personality, but the wit she’d just seen glimpses of had come to the fore. Gone was the moody melancholy that he’d previously succumbed to.

  Perhaps the most awesome of his augmentations had come from the subspace receiver-transmitter communications crystals he’d embedded in his brain. Those chips provided him with a constant link to the Rho Ship’s neural net, even when he was away from the vessel. The downside of that was his attachment to VJ. For one thing, Jennifer thought VJ was nothing like her and found it downright insulting that this was how she was perceived by Raul. Furthermore, Raul had become convinced that the sim had real feelings and refused to shut it down.

  Jennifer shook her head. What did they say about boys and their toys? She just wasn’t all that keen on a simulation of her being one of them.

  She turned her attention back to the new stasis field generator. Raul had just finished running a test of the control unit that had failed three weeks ago, almost killing Jennifer and Chief Engineer Broghdon. After some minor adjustments, Raul had pronounced it acceptable and Jennifer agreed. In the coming days, Raul and Broghdon would test it against another stasis field generator manufactured aboard the Rho Ship, although this time they planned on taking greater safety precautions.

  Yeah. Like not being in the same freakin’ room with the thing.

  Advanced as the Rho Ship’s nano-manufacturing capability was, it couldn’t produce the quantities of devices that would be needed for the war effort. So anything they wanted to deliver to Dgarra’s northern front needed to be redesigned for Koranthian assembly line manufacturing. There was a damn good reason why Dgarra wanted the stasis field generators to be their top priority. As strong as the triton-steel doors were that could be lowered to block their enemies, that steel could be penetrated by a Kasari disrupter weapon. Hence the stasis field generator tech would give the Koranthian defenders a surprising edge in the battles yet to come.

  Lifting her gaze from the monitor, Jennifer straightened her uniform and turned her attention to the furious activity inside Dgarra’s military headquarters, where a different type of war preparation was well underway. With Raul in charge of assisting Broghdon with the design, manufacture, and testing of new technologies, Jennifer had resumed her duties as Dgarra’s aide-de-camp. And as she watched the general move among his warriors, inspiring them to greater efforts through the sheer power of his presence, a new realization hit Jennifer.

  Dear Lord, she’d missed this.

  CHAPTER 30

  Alexandr Prokorov sat staring at the wall opposite his mahogany desk, unable to believe the disastrous news of the events in Peru. Not only had two of the world’s most elite special forces units been decimated, but even the EMP attack on Lima had failed to defeat the Smythes and their allies.

  For ten days he’d hoped and waited for wor
d that the Smythes were dead. But with Lima and much of the rest of Peru suffering from the aftermath of the EMP, such word had been difficult to come by. This morning, Galina Anikin had arrived in Brasília to send the encrypted message that had delivered the bad news.

  Daniil Alkaev had failed him. The Ripper had killed Prokorov’s top assassin and then, with help from Janet Price and the Smythes, had proceeded to kill almost three dozen Spetsnaz commandos. Then the Smythes and their bodyguards had disappeared . . . just smoke in the wind . . . hidden by their Safe Earth and NPA allies.

  Now, at the request of the president of the United States, the UFNS Committee for the Review of Internal Affairs had launched an investigation into Prokorov himself. Who the hell did they think they were? The leader of the last political group who had dared to investigate him had been found spewing his guts out from radiation poisoning in a London hotel room. If President Benton didn’t want to find himself in similar circumstances, he’d better hope that the internal affairs bureaucrats were as ineffective as they were stupid.

  Grabbing a globe-shaped crystal paperweight, Prokorov hurled it across the room to shatter against the far wall with a loud crash that would be audible in offices down the hall. Right now, he didn’t give a damn whether he disturbed some of his staff or not.

  Prokorov’s thoughts again turned to the Smythes as a snarl curled his lips. This wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

  Senator Freddy Hagerman jogged toward the Lincoln Memorial through the gently falling snow, enjoying the springiness of his running leg. It gave him an odd gait, but one that he’d long since grown accustomed to. Across the Mall to his left, the cherry trees near the Jefferson Memorial spread their skeletal branches wide, calling on Old Man Winter to clothe their nakedness in robes of fluffy white.