Enemy in the Dark

by Jay Allan

  Running up to the edge of the cot, Sam looked down. She tried to hold back a gasp as she got her first glimpse of Tarq. He was completely naked, but that wasn’t what shocked her. His enormous body was torn open in at least a dozen places. There were four gaping wounds in his midsection, and the floor all around the bed was slick with blood.

  She looked across at Doc. He was frantically working, but he seemed lost in the enormity of the task. There were so many wounds, so much blood.

  And Tarq was running out of time.

  Katarina moved swiftly, silently, like a snake stalking its prey. She’d killed two of the enemy already, but now she was tracking the leader. His plan was in ruins, and if he was smart, he’d be looking to flee and save his life. His crew were all dead or fighting their final battles. He’d made his play to kill Blackhawk, but he’d lost. Escape was his only option . . . unless she caught him first.

  She was deep in her Sebastiani mantra, emotions mostly purged from her mind, but she couldn’t help but feel a twinge of disgust at her quarry. Her service—and friendship—with Blackhawk had taught her what leadership could be but so often wasn’t. Now, the man she was hunting reminded her what most leaders were—and why she’d been able to terminate so many of them in her career without a gram of guilt.

  She had a bleak view of mankind, one she knew Blackhawk shared. There were worthy people in the vast universe, she knew, but they were few, and hopelessly scattered. Occasionally, one appeared in a position to truly make a difference. Marshal Lucerne was one of those. His campaigns had been costly and brutal, but through thirty years of war and conquest—and overwhelming victory—he had remained unaffected by the massive power he had accumulated. A moral man was a rare enough creature, but one who remained so once he had grasped the reins of power—that was almost nonexistent.

  Yet, now even he is being led by anger and the call of vengeance. And millions of innocents may die because of it.

  She brought her mind back to the chase. It wasn’t time for such thoughts. Her target was all that mattered, and she focused every thought on the hunt. She could hear him ahead in the distance and followed the trail he had left. Even her enemy’s scent became a clue for her to follow.

  This mercenary—no, murderer—was out of his depth, she knew, no match for a Sebastiani assassin of the First Circle. She focused all her skills, as her training demanded, but she knew she didn’t need them. Her quarry was loud and clumsy, and there wasn’t a doubt in her mind she would catch him. If he hadn’t tried to kill her friends, she would almost feel sorry for him.

  She would find him, but then she was going to deviate from her core training. She wasn’t going to kill him, at least not initially. She intended to question him. That meant taking him alive.

  He will wish I had killed him before I am finished interrogating him. He will learn what the Sebastiani adepts know of the pain centers in the human brain. He will tell me all he knows. Everything.

  She crept around the crates, knife in hand, slipping closer to her prey . . .

  “Doc,” Blackhawk said, standing over a motionless form lying on the deck, “I need you to help Danellan Lancaster.” He looked over toward the Claw’s small sick bay, where Doc was working feverishly on Tarq. “Now.”

  “I can’t, Ark.” The stress was clear in his voice. “Tarq is in bad shape. I . . . I’m not sure I can . . .” His words trailed off.

  “Doc, I need Lancaster alive. At all costs.” There was nothing but grim determination in Blackhawk’s tone.

  “Ark, I can’t! Tarq needs me now.”

  Blackhawk gazed down at Lancaster. The magnate’s breathing was ragged, forced. His wounds had been hastily bandaged, but the wrappings were soaked through with blood.

  He’s going to die if Doc doesn’t work on him right now. He looked across the room. But what about Tarq? It felt like there was a deep pit in his stomach. Arkarin Blackhawk was a veteran, no stranger to combat and to the difficult decisions it so often required. But he couldn’t remember one as gut-wrenching as this one.

  He looked up. Everyone in the room except Doc was staring at him, waiting to see what he would say. He took a deep breath, trying to rationalize what he knew he had to do. But nothing worked. With all his heart he wanted to tell Doc to keep working on Tarq, to do whatever he had to do to save the giant. But he couldn’t. Without Danellan Lancaster, he had no chance to stop Lucerne’s attack. There were two hundred million people on Antilles—and a lot of them would die in the war that would follow. And then the empire will just walk in . . . and the billions in the Far Stars will live forever as slaves . . .

  “I need you to save Lancaster, Doc.” He paused, his mind reeling as he spoke the unthinkable. “Whatever the cost.”

  Doc looked up for the first time and fixed his gaze on the captain. “Ark . . . he could die. Tarq could die!”

  “Just do it, Doc.” Blackhawk spoke sadly, but firmly. He straightened up and started walking toward sick bay. “I’ll try to help Tarq, Doc. You save Lancaster. Whatever it takes.” He could see Doc still hesitating. “Do it,” Blackhawk said coldly. “Now.”

  “Ark . . .” Ace had turned and he was limping toward Blackhawk.

  “Not now, Ace.” The Claw’s captain stared toward sick bay, watching as Doc reluctantly moved to follow his orders. He knew every eye was on him. He could feel the tension, the disapproval of his crew, his family. But Arkarin Blackhawk wouldn’t let a holocaust occur, even if he had to risk Tarq’s life to do it.

  He walked the rest of the way to the sick bay alcove, passing Doc as he did. He glanced down at Tarq. His massive chest heaved up and down, struggling for breath. The floor was soaked with blood.

  The blood of my friend.

  He took a deep breath. He wasn’t a doctor, not even a real medic. Blackhawk had seen enough battlefields to pick up some first aid skills, but the instant he looked down at Tarq he knew he was in over his head.

  He picked up the large fuser . . . and put it back down. He didn’t know what he was doing. Blackhawk had a lot of skills, but he was no surgeon. He picked up the tool again and moved it toward a massive laceration. He knew there was tremendous damage to repair, but if he didn’t stop some of the hemorrhaging, none of that was going to matter.

  Hang on, old friend. Hang on. I’ll pull you through this somehow.

  But he didn’t believe it, not really.

  The Claw’s makeshift doctor was on his knees, bent over Danellan Lancaster. The industrialist was lying on the deck where Blackhawk had set him down. Doc was moving the fuser slowly across the man’s chest, closing up the wound. The bullet that had pierced Lancaster’s chest was lying on the floor, a few centimeters away.

  “He’s going to make it, Ark.” Doc didn’t look up, didn’t hesitate as he spoke. It was obvious he was exhausted—and just as clear he intended to keep going as long as there were injuries on the Claw that needed his attention.

  Blackhawk didn’t respond. He was leaning over Tarq, his hands moving frantically over the big man’s still form. His face was covered with sweat, and his gloved hands red with blood.

  Doc stood up and walked across the room and stopped half a meter from Blackhawk. His eyes fell on Tarq, and then they moved to the medical display. He hesitated a few seconds then he put his hand on Blackhawk’s shoulder.

  The Claw’s captain ignored him, and he continued what he was doing, struggling to fuse the gaping wounds on Tarq’s body. He was ignoring everything else, totally focused on what he was doing.

  “Ark . . .” Doc’s voice was slow, halting. “He’s dead, Ark.”

  Blackhawk paid no attention to Doc’s words, continuing to run the fuser back and forth across one of Tarq’s gaping wounds.

  “Ark,” Doc said loudly. “It’s too late. Tarq is dead.” He grabbed harder on the captain’s shoulders, trying to pull him away.

  Blackhawk spun around, pushing Doc hard, almost knocking him to the ground. He stood silently, staring down at his blood-covered hands as
they closed into fists. Slowly, he looked up. The room was silent, save for the faint hum of the sick bay life support system, still running, futilely now that the patient was dead.

  Blackhawk stared at Doc for a few seconds, but he didn’t say anything. He turned and looked back at his crew. Drake was leaning against the wall. He was pale, and he looked exhausted, but he was awake. His eyes were tired slits, and they were fixed on Blackhawk. Sarge was lying in a makeshift bed on the floor next to him. Ace had pulled half the bedding from the ship’s cabins to create a comfortable place for the noncom. Doc wanted his patients out in the main deck, where he could keep an eye on them all, and Ace had accommodated him.

  Sarge was out, probably unconscious from his own injuries, and certainly from the massive injection of tranquilizer Doc had given him. There was nothing he needed now more than sleep, and Doc had taken no chances with the dosage.

  The rest of the crew was standing around the ladder to the bridge. Sam was sobbing softly, her face a mask of tears. Shira was next to her, stone still and silent, staring vacantly into space. Ace was holding on to the ladder, his face red and feverish, the exertion of the last hour clear to see.

  Blackhawk looked over at the rest of Sarge’s boys. Von, Ringo, Buck . . . they were like statues, staring across the room with barely controlled rage in their eyes. They were focused on Katarina and Lucas, and the sobbing giant they held firmly between them.

  Cedric Kandros was bleeding from a dozen cuts, and his left arm was broken, twisted out at an obscene angle. Katarina been far from gentle, but she hadn’t killed him either. She’d wanted to. But something had stopped her short of the fatal blow, and she had brought the prisoner back to Blackhawk. Now the wretched creature stood in front of the entire crew, facing his own nightmarish judgment day.

  Kandros’s people were all dead, lying on the blood-soaked floors of the landing bay. Even the massive Mallock Debarnan was sprawled on the ground just outside the Claw, his enormous neck broken in an epic struggle where Tarnan’s sheer strength and rage had won the victory.

  Blackhawk looked back toward the sick bay station, to the unmoving form lying on the sole cot. He felt sick to his stomach, and his joints tightened with unfocused rage. He knew his people felt the same, that despite having killed all of Kandros’s people, their bloodlust still howled for satiety. They faced a desperate struggle still ahead, a race to stop a pointless and tragic war. But they knew, even if they prevailed, there would be no sweetness to their victory. Today they had lost one of their own. Tarq had been a great warrior, a fiercely loyal member of the crew, and he’d saved more than one of their lives.

  And I just killed him, Blackhawk thought morosely. I chose the life of another man, a stranger, a moral coward who had treated with the enemy . . . over my friend. He tried to tell himself he had chosen the millions on Antilles . . . and the billions in the Far Stars, but even though it was true, it felt hollow, empty. Tarq is dead, abandoned by the man he trusted most. Me.

  Blackhawk turned away from Tarq’s body and walked over toward Kandros, stopping just a few centimeters from the man’s face. He stared at the captive, and his eyes held icy death. “Crowns?” he spat. “You did this for crowns? To collect a blood price placed on me by minions of the empire?” His voice was thick with rage, with roiling hatred.

  “Your men are dead, Kandros. All of them. Was it worth it? Your greed brought you—and them—to this. And now you will pay the price, as those who followed you already have.”

  He turned and walked back toward the cot, looking down for a few seconds at Tarq’s lifeless form. He felt the fury coursing through his body, the need for blood, the lust for vengeance. He leaned down and grabbed Tarq’s belt, lying discarded at the side of the bed in a pool of partially congealed blood.

  He held it up, pulling the heavy, notched survival knife from the sheath. His hands were still covered with blood—his friend’s blood. He drew his hand across his face, smearing streaks down his cheeks, scarlet warpaint, a silent tribute. For now he would take vengeance for his fallen comrade.

  He walked slowly toward Kandros. The mercenary was conscious, his eyes wide with fear. He struggled to free himself, but Tarnan’s grip was like a vise. He whimpered as Blackhawk approached, but no words could come forth from the gruesome wreckage of his mouth. Katarina had hit him hard with his own rifle butt, shattering his teeth and turning his face into a bloody mess.

  “This is what you have earned, Cedric Kandros,” Blackhawk said, every word dripping slowly from his mouth, like venom from a cobra’s fang. “Now you die, you piece of garbage, and I will leave your body to rot until even the carrion birds are turned sick at your stench.”

  He moved right up to Kandros, his eyes just a few centimeters from those of his victim.

  He moved the blade forward, slowly, steadily. He felt the resistance of Kandros’s skin for an instant, then a small pop as the heavy blade penetrated.

  Blackhawk stared into Kandros’s eyes as he shoved the blade deeper, pushing slowly, so slowly. His victim whimpered, tried to scream through the broken wreckage of his mouth, spitting out blood and shattered bits of tooth as he did. His eyes looked into Blackhawk’s, a silent plea for mercy. But they met only coldness, a frigid stare like the icy depths of space. Kandros’s hopelessness and despair only energized Blackhawk, and he twisted the knife harder, drawing the last waves of agony from his dying victim.

  Tarnan and Katarina tightened their grip as Kandros began to slide down, his own body surrendering the last of its strength. Blackhawk could see the cloudiness in Kandros’s eyes as death began to take him, but his victim still convulsed in pain as he shoved the blade upward, slicing from the abdomen to the chest.

  “And now I send you to hell, Cedric Kandros.” He shoved the blade hard, again and again, slicing and tearing through the mercenary’s body. Blackhawk was covered in blood, but still he kept thrusting, until finally he took a step back and let the blade drop to the floor.

  He stood there drenched in blood, staring straight ahead but seeing nothing. You were a great warrior, Tarq Bjergen, and a loyal companion. Take what solace you can. Your comrades in arms have avenged you. He paused, struggling to hold back the grief threatening to overwhelm him. And forgive me, my friend, if you can. Though I doubt I will ever forgive myself.

  Blackhawk remained still, his mind deep in dark places. He’d longed for vengeance, ached to make Kandros pay for what he’d done. He wasn’t proud of it, but he knew it was true. Cedric Kandros had deserved no better than he’d gotten, but Blackhawk reminded himself yet again that the darkness he’d run from for two decades was still inside him. He’d felt the savagery, the raw brutality, like a beast released from its cage.

  He knew the satisfaction of the kill was a poor substitute for a friend who was now gone, that gruesomely killing Kandros wouldn’t bring Tarq back. He’d have chased Kandros to the ends of the Far Stars for vengeance, but in the end it was hollow and empty, as he knew it would be. The pain of loss was still keen, as it always was.

  He forced himself back to the present. There was no time for mourning or self-doubt. Those were indulgences that would have to wait.

  He knew the entire crew was staring at him, and he could only imagine what they were thinking. The Claw’s crew had always been like a family, standing side by side against any danger, and trusting one another without question. That was what Blackhawk had built, and it had been the proudest accomplishment of his life. And now I’ve destroyed it. He didn’t know how his people would react to what had happened, but he was sure of one thing. Nothing would ever be the same.

  He forced himself to lift his eyes, to look at each of his crew members in turn, returning their stunned stares. All but Tarnan. For all Blackhawk’s strength and courage, for the raging darkness deep inside that drove him ceaselessly forward, he couldn’t bring himself to face Tarq’s brother. Not yet. Will I ever be ready?

  He forced himself from his introspection. He didn’t have time for this no
w. If they didn’t hurry, it would be too late to stop the war. And then his terrible decision would be futile. He’d have killed his friend for nothing.

  “Lucas, Sam . . . we have to get out of here. We’re out of time.”

  CHAPTER 30

  “ALL ANTILLEAN PERSONNEL, THIS IS THE VESSEL WOLF’S CLAW. We are launching in thirty seconds, with or without clearance. We do not wish to injure anyone, so please clear the area around the ship immediately.”

  Blackhawk sat in his command chair. He’d expected to have Danellan Lancaster on the bridge, arranging launch clearance with one of his government cronies. But Lucas’s father was on the lower deck, badly wounded and unconscious. Blackhawk had almost ordered Doc to pump the Antillean full of uppers and get him to the bridge, but he held back. He needed Lancaster awake and alert to deal with Marshal Lucerne, and he wasn’t sure just how much the wounded man had left in him, even with Doc’s pharmaceutical assistance. After what he’d done to save the industrialist’s life, Blackhawk wasn’t about to let the bastard die—not until he’d served his purpose. After that, he honestly didn’t give a shit.

  Blackhawk looked like hell. His clothes were soaked with blood. Some of it was his, some Tarq’s, which was still smeared across his face in his own primal tribute to his fallen friend. But most of it was from the men he’d killed, Cedric Kandros and his people. The crew of Wolf’s Claw had been hurt, and one of them lost forever. But no one from Iron Wind had escaped.

  “Vessel Wolf’s Claw, this is Major Pollis of the Antillean Defense Force. You are ordered to power down immediately and surrender. You will not be allowed to leave Antilles. If you do not comply and exit your vessel, we will open fire.”

  Blackhawk sighed grimly. He’d never liked being told what he was and wasn’t allowed to do, and he rarely let inconvenient rules interfere with his actions. Besides, it was an empty threat. Pollis’s troops had small arms only, nothing that could pierce the Claw’s armor. Until they managed to get a tank or some heavy weapons sent in, Blackhawk could just ignore them.