Night In A Waste Land (Hell Theory Book 2)

by Lauren Gilley

  “The…” He lifted his hand only long enough to flap it toward his tiny, wall-mounted desk. “The thing. You know.”

  “Uh-huh. Insightful.”

  “Shut up,” he said, without heat, smiling to himself. “I think my brain came out through my dick.”

  “That’s charming.” Rose gathered herself, and sat up, and he immediately regretted the loss of her heat and weight at his side.

  Unbothered by her nakedness, she climbed out of bed – on gratifyingly unsteady legs, he noted – and snagged the files of the desk. She sat on the edge of the bed and flipped through them.

  She stilled. He saw tension streak up her back, the lean muscles along her spine tightening beneath her skin.

  Lance sat up.

  “This is New York,” she said, turning the pages more slowly.

  “It is.” He’d asked her to his room to begin with because he’d been afraid she would have a reaction – even if it was only to close off and go quiet and tight-lipped enough that he felt compelled to try to coax her back to a softer place.

  He shifted across the mattress so he could sit beside her, and set his feet down on the floor, corner of the sheet pulled into his lap because this didn’t feel like a dick-out sort of conversation. “To be honest, I’m a little surprised we haven’t been sent in there since you joined up.”

  She stared at the paperwork she held – a printed-out, infrared, aerial map, white circles marking potential target sites. Blinked, after a long, still moment, and then looked up at him, gaze as hard and closed-off as he’d feared. All the warmth of the past half-hour had drained out of her. The flush of pleasure, the spark of humor, the satisfaction – gone, replaced with cold wariness. “I thought New York was a lost cause. That’s what they said in Basic: that it wasn’t possible to retake it.”

  He took a breath, and saw her brows lower in reaction, a ratcheting up of her tension. He stroked her back – and she didn’t respond to the touch, not even to avoid it. Okay…

  “In the immediate aftermath of the Second Rift, right after we left the city, the mob war blew up. Castor’s death left a big hole in the hierarchy, and a half-dozen smaller-time thugs tried to take up his throne.”

  “Right.” She had a gimlet stare worse than any captain or general he’d ever reported to.

  “Right. So. There was that. And then there were conduits from both camps: outright biblical war in the streets, gangsters choosing sides with them. It’s – well, it’s like hell there.”

  She kept staring, and he was reminded, unwelcomely, of Arthur Becket, burning now in actual hell. Still, he wouldn’t have traded his metaphor; it was the best he could think of.

  “If any civilians are left there,” he said, they’re either enslaved to, working for, or at least working at the mercy of the top dogs there – whoever they are. An evacuation would be ideal, but we’re not just talking about one or two targets to eliminate here. It would be a full-out war, and the casualties would be…unimaginable.”

  “We don’t deal in full-out war,” she reminded, frostily.

  “I know. Which is why I’m proposing, now that there are other companies to relieve us out here, and fewer conduits besides, that we treat it like an op. Us. Golden Company. We’ve got your dagger, and lots of experience under our belt. And, hell, we’ve got Morgan. We’ll be careful, and covert, and…” He trailed off when she frowned. “What?”

  “If a company of Walkers could take care of it, why has the army waited until now to put that forward?”

  “They didn’t put it forward. I did.”

  Her brows finally lifted, high up on her forehead, the rest of her expression smoothing. “Why?”

  He sighed. This was the part that she really wouldn’t like. “I don’t suppose you keep up with the news?”

  “It’s all shit. What’s there to keep up with?”

  “Do you at least know that the British Prime Minster was in town a month ago? Or, well, in DC?”

  “Vaguely.”

  “It’s the first PM they’ve had since the London gangs wrested control from the government. The first since the First Rift.”

  “Lance.”

  “Right, well, he brought his family. It was a lot of trouble and hassle, and the government was trying to keep it all under wraps – but the vehicle was attacked on the drive between bases. The Prime Minister’s son, Logan, was kidnapped. He’s being held for ransom by a New York gangster named Timothy Shubert.”

  She sighed. “And they want him rescued.”

  “They asked if anyone had the skills to rescue him. Shubert and his people are demanding a ransom. The PM is willing to pay it, but Shubert said the best they’ll do is turn him loose.”

  “Which puts a civilian walking through hell, as you put it, alone and unarmed.”

  His pulse beat faster telling her than it had while proposing it to Captain Bedlam. “I suggested an extraction. And, before that, an assassination.”

  Her gaze narrowed. “Of Shubert, or his whole outfit?”

  “As many of the bastards as we can take out.”

  She studied him a moment, then nodded, and turned back to scan the map. “When?”

  “We’ll spend a week preparing. Draw up a strategy, make sure we’ve got enough weapons.”

  Another nod. “What about Morgan?”

  “What about her?”

  Rose looked at him again, scrutinizing. “You brought her up. I think we should at least ask her if she’d be willing to come along and help.”

  “Bedlam won’t like that.”

  “Bedlam’s willing to let us walk into a shitshow. If we want to take our own secret weapon, where does she get off telling us no?”

  He couldn’t help a chuckle. “You know, sometimes I don’t think you understand how this whole being in the military thing works.”

  She snorted, and glanced toward the wall, her shoulders settling; a subtle squaring-up that, even naked and rumpled, left her as regal as a queen. “There’s a difference between understanding and approving.”

  He wanted to tuck her hair behind her ear – but didn’t. “Yeah. I guess you’re right.”

  ~*~

  The Present

  Tris slapped his hands down on the opposite side of the table, sending up a wave of dust and mold spores. His expression, when Lance met it, sparked with uncharacteristic aggression. “You understand this is fucking stupid, right? Or did you hit your head?”

  Lance took a slow, measured breath, in and out. His nerves were already buzzing, and if he let it, Tris’s obvious, outwardly-projected anger would touch his own carefully-banked fury like a match to paper. “Look, I know it’s not ideal–”

  “It’s fucking suicidal.”

  “We agreed,” Lance snapped. “We took a vote before we ever left for Wales, and you, and Gallo, and Gavin all put your hands up and said you’d come along, and you’d help, and that you wanted to stay a part of this company, no matter what happened with Becket.”

  A muscle in Tris’s jaw worked. “I didn’t think she’d actually be able to bring him back.”

  “Well, she did, and he’s here, and we asked him for help, which means we’re not calling the shots anymore. I’m not – I’m not in command.” His breath caught at the end, chest squeezing tight. Holy shit, he’d thrown away his own command, and for what? To make Rose happy?

  No, he told himself. Because they were in over their heads and needed help, even winged, tailed, potentially demonic help who’d most definitely just had sex with his girlfriend.

  “If you want out, then radio base,” Lance said, more harshly than intended – harshly enough that Tris’s face blanked. “But I’m staying here, and figuring out how to - to–” He gestured helplessly to the map he’d spread out. “Do something about all this. Fuck. I don’t know. Whatever.”

  Tris straightened. His voice lowered – footsteps sounded outside the massive dining room, echoing in the broad hallways. “I know that you like her,” he said, “but don’t let th
at – some kinda jealous, dick-measuring shit get your head–”

  “Do not lecture me about where my head is,” Lance said – ordered. “You haven’t been impartial where your own love life’s concerned, so don’t you dare tell me to be.”

  Tris let out an unhappy breath, but didn’t respond.

  The others entered the room, Gallo leading, rifle held at the ready across his body, goggles pushed up on top of his helmet. “All clear on the first floor. The stairs don’t look strong enough to hold anyone. We can get the grappling hooks out to check the upper floors.”

  “No need.” Beck was bringing up the rear, wings trailing through the dust behind him like a cape, his tail crooked up in a loose hook at his hip. He’d smoothed his hair, and fixed his shirt buttons, his expression cool and removed. Calm and in control. “I’ll inspect them in a moment. Sergeant?” he prompted, arching a single brow and looking to Lance.

  Lance allowed himself a darted glance toward Rose, equally composed, walking at Beck’s side. She had her knives and her sidearm, but not her rifle, nor even her helmet. They were no doubt sitting back in the meeting room they’d used at base, where she’d taken them off before seeking Beck out on the roof.

  He swallowed, cleared his throat, and tried to focus on the task at hand. “I have a map, here.” He settled back in front of it, and Beck took up Tris’s place across the table – the long, once-polished dining table where Castor had hosted all his lavish dinner parties while the regular citizenry starved and shop-lifted scraps. “These are the places” – circled in white – “where heat signatures have indicated a concentration of conduit activity. Based on recon of the periphery of the city, heavensent production is at an all-time high, and probably a third of the city is taking it.

  “We can confirm that there are two main factions of power feuding with each other, supported by smaller crime families and gangs. Timothy Shubert” – he touched the last-known headquarters of the kingpin, the infrared scan a blaze of bright light – “and Adam Lassiter.”

  “Humans working alongside conduits?” Beck asked. “Or…?”

  “Shubert – and he still calls himself Shubert – is an angel conduit. No one’s been able to determine which heavenly being is wearing his skin, but his behavior and motives are shockingly human.”

  Beck nodded. “And Lassiter?”

  “Hell beast.” He paused. “No offense.”

  Beck grinned, quick and sharp. “I’m flattered you think I’m that dangerous.”

  Gallo cleared his throat. “Um.”

  Tris hissed his name.

  “No, it’s okay.” Gallo patted the air toward him, a comically soothing motion, given the obvious contrasts between the two of them. “Um. I’m just curious – and I don’t mean any offense, obviously.”

  Rose sighed. “Frankie, just ask.”

  “Mr. Becket–”

  “Beck, please.”

  “Beck. How did you go to hell, but you aren’t a conduit now?”

  “Oh my God,” Gavin deadpanned quietly. “He’s gonna get us all killed for real one of these days.”

  Tris punched his arm.

  “Ow!”

  “It’s a valid question,” Beck said, seeming to take him seriously. He linked his hands together behind his back, tucked into the shelter of his wings. “I’m afraid I don’t know the exact science of it.” He cocked his head, thoughtful – almost scholarly, despite the black horns curving back sinisterly above his ears. “But I do know that I was very much alive when I was pulled under. That I was…” He hesitated, and Rose took a half-step closer, her expression pained as she watched his profile. “Tested, I’ll say. The urge to break was immense, as you can imagine. But I held on, somehow. Time had no meaning, and most of the time I didn’t know up from down, nor the extent of my own body. But I knew that I was me. And when the blue light appeared, and Derfel came – wraiths scattering from him like rats against a flashlight – I knew that it was me he was taking topside, and no one else. Not even a version of me.”

  He grinned, close-lipped and rueful. “I suppose you’ll just have to take my word for it that I know my own mind, and I know that I am not a demon wearing this skin – do your conduits have wings?” he asked, rippling his own at the ends.

  “No,” Gallo said. He didn’t exactly sound convinced.

  “If there’s some test you’d like to administer…?”

  “Rose knows conduits,” Lance said. “Both kinds. If she says you aren’t one, then that’s good enough for me.”

  Beck nodded. “Very well.”

  Lance said, “We’ve had a run-in with Shubert and his people before.” He gestured back to the map, and the others crowded in to examine it as well, though they already knew about the headquarters – had barely escaped it on that disastrous op. “An extraction mission. At the time, we didn’t understand Shubert’s – condition.”

  When Lance glanced up from the map, his gaze collided with Beck’s. God, but that glowing gold was unsettling; like wading through the tall grass of a field and finding yourself face-to-face with a lion – or maybe even a dragon.

  “Care to debrief me?” Beck asked.

  Lance took another deep breath – he wasn’t sure when his chest would stop feeling so tight. Maybe never. “Yeah. It was our last major op…”

  ~*~

  Before

  “You won’t need those,” Morgan said of the infrared binoculars Lance pulled from his pack.

  He paused. “Why not?”

  “I’ll be able to sense any conduits – heavenly or hell-spawn,” she said, in that placid, monotone voice that still left his hair standing on end. She offered him a semblance of a smile, though, like she was trying to put him at ease. “You’ll be more agile with less equipment in your hands, yes?”

  Slowly, he stowed the binoculars, and watched the others do the same with obvious reluctance and uncertainty. “Yeah. That’s true.”

  The child-sized conduit was dressed as they were, in fatigues and tac gear, gray/white/black urban break-up camo flecked with fire-red, a helmet, goggles, boots, gloves. She carried no weapons – Bedlam had been firm on that – but Lance figured her own powers were more effective in this instance than any of their guns, knives, or grenades.

  “If you can detect them, can’t they detect you?” Tris asked.

  “Yes, that’s true.” She nodded. “But that’s one of the risks of bringing me along.” She looked to each of them in turn, those big, cornflower-blue, guileless eyes assessing without betraying any of the thoughts happening inside the borrowed skull.

  “It’s worth the risk,” Rose said, firmly, pulling her goggles down over her eyes. The rain was picking up. “You ready, Sergeant?”

  Gavin snorted at the honorific. “She call you that in bed?”

  “I call your mother that in bed,” Rose fired off, without inflection. “Lance?”

  “Right.”

  Gavin was squawking in dismay – only that he’d been bested at his own joke, while Tris and Gallo sniggered at his expense.

  “Let’s move out, as planned.”

  They’d flown into the base – formerly a civilian airport, and now an army headquarters – and moved into the outer fringes of the city on camo-painted dirt bikes. They’d stopped a half-mile out, in a dark abandoned lot between two boarded-up houses, where the garbage lay thick as snow drifts, slick with algae and mold, and where stray cats yowled like babies crying. There might have been actual babies. A scan of the city from here, just across the bridge, revealed the glow of fires, the faint yellow squares of electric and candle light in windows, and lots and lots of darkness.

  Lance wished for a helo, and a line dropping down onto a rooftop, and the assurance of a lone target, and a departure time. He wasn’t afraid – he refused to think of himself as that, no matter the odds – but they’d not tackled an op this dangerous, with this much possibility of disaster, in a long, long time. He felt green and unsteady again, like the newly-minted officer he’d been
when he’d been assigned to infiltrate Castor’s operation.

  The city was three times as dangerous, now.

  They swung back onto their bikes, the rain pattering against their helmets and goggles; Morgan climbed on behind Rose, tiny arms linked tight around Rose’s waist. Rose glanced back, Lance nodded at her, and they cranked the motors.

  The bridge had fared better against the corrosive rain and ash of both Rifts than the city’s skyscrapers – but it had been over thirty years, now, and Lance thought he felt it shiver beneath their bikes. A glance down at the water revealed white-capped, black chop, rain-lashed and seething. Things moved beneath the surface, cresting in flashes of sleek bodies, hard scales, and gleaming plates.

  Better not to look down.

  There were people on the streets, as they rode past shuttered windows and blackened shop fronts. Strong-shouldered men in black coats: the dealers. The sad, scrawny tweakers in patched clothes, dirty faces whipping toward them, dilated eyes full of fright.

  Shubert’s headquarters was a narrow, three-story townhouse in a part of town that had probably been posh once upon a time. Now, it was only slightly less sad than the rest of the city – as well as guarded day and night, at both ends of the street, by heavily-armed, armored thugs with night vision goggles. Doing a drive-by wasn’t an option.

  They parked two streets over and left the bikes behind a burned-out dumpster.

  “They’ll be stolen,” Gallo said, looking at his own with wistfulness.

  “Ha,” Gavin said, unwinding a length of wire. “If they wanna get blown up.”

  As far as deterrents went, rigging an explosive device up to all their bikes wasn’t the best way to preserve them – but it was better than hoping for the best.

  Lance scanned their surroundings through his goggles, noting dark windows, and empty, slimy sidewalks. There was no way of knowing if there were human eyes, or even cameras watching them.

  He’d had his misgivings about the idea, at first, but it was with a large dose of relief that he said, “Morgan? Can you tell if anyone’s looking at us? Even with cameras?”