скачать книгу бесплатно
The young cobra man nodded.
“Look at it this way—at least you’ll have grateful new friends,” Nathan added.
Thurpa managed a smile.
The two young men lapsed into silence, their eyes and ears peeled for signs of enemy movement down the path.
Brigid Baptiste linked up with Kane and Grant as they cut through the woods that separated the Panthers’ encampment and their line of prisoners. She had her suppressed Copperhead in hand now, firmly gripping it and keeping its stock against her shoulder, finger off the trigger and against the frame so as not to accidentally loose a shot and perhaps hit her companions. Though all three were in the darkened shadows of the copse of trees, they could see clearly, thanks to their shadow suit hoods, and were able to pick up the movement of Mashona troopers away from the path.
She glanced at Kane, and he held up his fist for a hold position. Brigid knew that Kane had a plan to intercept the force that was rapidly trying to flank Thurpa and Nathan. Whatever he had in mind, it was going to be simple but devastating.
Simple but devastating could have been the mantra of the Cerberus warriors as they often had to “wing it.” Even when working around their more familiar areas, such as the Tartarus Pits, flexibility was of the essence. As such, improvisation and tactics gained from observation of the terrain and evaluation of the enemy troops were applied.
So far, it had carried the day for them across dozens of adventures. Brigid anticipated that the Panthers of Mashona were a trained, disciplined force, despite the horrors they wrought. They had been well organized back at the power station assault, but the Mashonan militia hadn’t counted on fast-firing, quick-reloading grenade launchers and sniper rifles to flank them, surround them and hammer them with two dozen explosions and precision gunfire to slice through their ranks. The guards of this caravan moved on a schedule that gave the Cerberus explorers perfect placing to ambush them. There was a route—a slender game trail through the trees—that the Panthers were aware of and savvy enough to leave lightly attended.
Unfortunately for the Panthers, Kane’s woodcraft and stealth had allowed him to penetrate the forest between the two camps and stumble on the trail. He’d seen the sentry at that position, unobtrusive and mirroring the one on the other side, the one he’d ambushed immediately.
Brigid noticed movement on the game trail ahead, and she braced herself, waiting for Kane to give the hand signal to open fire. Grant drew back on his bow and took aim. Kane nodded, and the big archer loosed his arrow, putting it through the ear of the lead gunman on the trail. For a man who was a relatively new student to archery, Grant was proving to be quite lethal; Brigid marked that up to natural marksmanship training and his phenomenal strength. At six foot four, he was larger than most of his fellow Magistrates, and was much faster and smarter than he appeared.
Brigid had formerly had a low opinion of the Magistrate Division, seeing them as faceless ciphers, right down to the deletion of their “given” names and the fact they existed as surnames in service to the hybrid barons. Then she’d worked with Kane and Grant and discovered that they had a sense of duty, quick wit and humor, and were far more observant and resourceful than she’d imagined.
She remembered the Thunder Isle incident, before Grant had become lost in time. He’d used his kyudo lessons back then to deadly effect, alongside his lover and teacher, the samurai Shizuka. Now Grant was comfortable enough with the bow to bring it on their mission, meaning that he’d all but mastered the ancient combat art.
Kane gestured toward Brigid, and she swung her Copperhead up and targeted the heads of the next few gunmen, tapping off short bursts from the submachine gun. The bullets made soft popping sounds, like the flutter of a large bird’s wings, but when her bullets struck flesh and bone, the result was no less bloody and damaging. Unfortunately, the loss of three of their number sent the rest of the Panthers to cover on the far side of the game trail, seeking the protection of tree trunks and the concealment of foliage.
Kane motioned, and both Grant and Brigid hit the dirt, ducking below the inevitable stream of enemy gunfire in response to their ambush. Whatever Kane had planned became apparent when she saw him make two throwing motions. Two more grenades sailed through the night, going past the game trail and landing behind the line of Panthers. They exploded in quick succession, and Kane rose to his knees, watching stunned and wounded militia bandits stagger into the open.
Kane popped his Sin Eater and opened fire on the dazed survivors, chugging short bursts from the compact folding machine pistol. He tore through them, using the high-density slugs of his gun as a chainsaw, ripping open chests and bellies in a grisly display of vulgar firepower. Grant had set his bow aside and cut loose with his own Copperhead. Brigid joined in the grim and brutal slaughter.
She didn’t enjoy this butcher’s work, but she knew that there were dozens of helpless people on the other end of the game trail who needed protection. If she didn’t help to destroy this spearhead flanking maneuver by the Panthers of Mashona, they would burst in on the unarmed, naked prisoners and either retake or coldly slaughter them.
She was protecting lives, and that made the murder of these men all the more easy to bear. She’d sleep at night because she’d seen the condition of those poor humans, wrecked by a forced march, scoured bloody and raw by manacles and yokes about their neck. This wasn’t murder. This was the end of torturers.
Brigid caught movement from the corner of her eye. Kane motioned for her to stop shooting. She paused to reload the Copperhead, feeding it a new magazine.
They didn’t speak. The snarl of bullets through suppressed firearms was enough of a risk to compromise their position in the dark. The enemy knew that there were gunmen in the tree line, and they could quickly adapt to the situation. Brigid didn’t know how many of these soldiers there were. Kane had mentioned about thirty, maybe more. She wanted to do the mental math, but all that would accomplish would be counting how many more lives had ended this night.
The only true determination of victory was the retreat of their enemy and the cessation of gunfire.
Kane motioned to Brigid, gave the finger signal for grenades, then quickly pointed in the direction he wanted her to throw them. No need to risk being heard, even subvocalizing into their Commtacts, especially when they were under fire. Brigid sized up the targets for her grenades and braced herself to let loose.
“Now,” Kane whispered over the radio.
Brigid pulled the first pin, threw, then quickly armed the second miniature bomb. Both flew straight and far. She could see that they were fanning out their explosive counterattack along a wider front. Kane had kept an eye out for firing positions from among the Panthers beyond the tree line, and now they hammered the militia hard. Six explosions ripped through their ranks, and men screamed, torn asunder by shrapnel and concussive force.
The thunderclaps of the detonations stretched out in two distinct staccato roars. Whatever would be left of this group would not be keen on making another attack.
Back from the original path between the two clearings, they heard the rattle of heavy rifles.
Kane nodded for her to go check on the scene, to support the others. Now it was time for the Cerberus expedition to strike back, to force the Panthers into retreat. Thanks to cover and concealment, they’d presented a nearly impenetrable front against the enemy. Now it was time to press the advantage and make them retreat and give up the struggle.
Brigid gave a whistle, the signal for Nathan and Thurpa to know she was behind them. The last thing she needed was to be blasted at point-blank by either of the young men thinking that she was trying to ambush them. She saw Nathan wave her over, and she rushed to his side.
“They heard you fighting inside the thicket, so they thought they could cut this way again. We dropped three of them,” Nathan told her.
Thurpa’s rifle thundered, big bullets slapping the night air and cracking it before he shot down another of the Mashonan gunners. “Make it four.”
Brigid nodded.
“Do we pull back or hold?” Nathan asked.
“Hold,” Brigid said. She unscrewed the suppressor from the muzzle of her Copperhead. At this point, they were going to be on the attack, so they’d need to make noise. Silencers in the trees helped to keep them hidden against return fire, but now they needed to sow fear and scatter the militia’s surviving defenders.
In the distance, Kane and Grant cut loose with their automatic weapons, the unmistakable throaty booms of the Sin Eaters and the high-pitched cracks of their Copperheads. They were sweeping against the Panthers in that direction, guns blazing.
“Now,” Brigid said, and Nathan and Thurpa picked up on the cue for violence. Their rifles and her submachine gun cut through the darkness. They fired at shadows, pouring out a wall of bullets. Bodies fell, struck by rounds, but the blasting was to break the will of the enemy. The militia abandoned their camp, racing off into the forest, half of their number dead and likely more wounded.
It was a decisive strike, and one that would force the gunmen to reorganize and recuperate.
That would give them time to free the prisoners.
“Grant and I are going to stick by the camp,” Kane said. “You three unchain those people. We won’t have much time.”
“Acknowledged,” Brigid responded. Thurpa and Nathan heard him over their hand radios, which were tuned to the Commtacts’ frequency.
The three people turned back toward the line of prisoners, seeking out keys among the dead guards to undo the painful, heavy manacles.
The Panthers undoubtedly would either stage a counterattack or call for help from another group. Either way, Brigid was determined to free the prisoners and get them out of the clearing within an hour. Half that would be optional.
Anything to free these victims was necessary. Otherwise, she was a cold-blooded assassin for nothing.
Chapter 5
Lyta grimaced as the yoke came off her neck. The harsh corners of the steel collar took tiny slivers of flesh with it, peeling away whatever upper epidermis was left where the metal had chafed against her skin. The other prisoners were already up, moving drunkenly but with a semblance of speed and energy. The men immediately picked up firearms from the dead guards, and one of the three people dressed in jet-black skinsuits pulled off a hood.
Brigid Baptiste revealed herself as a woman, a white woman with hair that looked like streams of curled copper spilling over her shoulders. She was so tall, Lyta had originally thought her to be a skinny man, like the African with the staff or the humanoid who looked as if he was half cobra.
“Most of us speak English, if you do,” Lyta spoke up to the woman.
Brigid smiled. “Thanks. We’ve found that out working with your countrymen. We need to get to the other camp and get more stuff for you. Food, water, weapons and ammunition. Clothing would be good, too.”
“That’s a good plan,” Lyta replied. “Who are you people?”
“He is from India,” Brigid said, pointing to the cobra man. “His name is Thurpa. The other man is from Harare. His name is Nathan Longa.”
Lyta glanced toward the man she’d indicated. “Longa...I had an uncle named Longa.”
Nathan frowned. “What was his given name?”
“Nelson,” Lyta replied.
Nathan squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. “I’m his son.”
Lyta didn’t take long to put the subtext of Nathan’s painful reaction into context. “How did he die?”
Nathan looked around, hating to take time from preparing for evacuation from the area, but he spoke after only a moment. “He was murdered. By something that might be working with the Panthers.”
Lyta nodded, repeating what he’d said. “Something. As in what would eat us at the end of this march.”
“Not anymore,” Nathan returned. “You and the others take off. Get back to your home.”
Lyta narrowed her eyes. “I intend to find out what these animals wanted to do with me.”
Nathan glowered at her. “You’re not in condition to come with us.”
“She could be,” Thurpa spoke.
“Help the others gather supplies,” Nathan snapped at him.
Thurpa frowned. “They’re doing well on their own.”
“Then stop convincing my cousin that she has to risk her life,” Nathan hissed harshly.
Thurpa looked between the two. “As if you risking yours is any better?”
Nathan rubbed his brow. “I’ve got an advantage.”
“What?” Lyta asked.
“None of your—”
“The snake-headed staff that Nelson Longa owned,” Thurpa spoke up.
“Snake-headed... Is that why you’re interested in it?” Lyta asked.
Thurpa shook his head. “It’s an artifact, from the dawn of time.”
“It’s too complicated to explain here and now. You’re hurt. Exhausted...”
“And free,” Lyta responded. “Why would you deny me the chance to find out why my home was attacked? There’ve been so many people killed...”
Nathan grumbled. He gripped the strange walking stick, one she remembered from when Uncle Nelson had visited her so long ago. The object was as tall as Nathan, who was a shade under six feet, and it was one central ebony rod with strange designs inlaid along its length, wound about by two metallic serpents whose heads poked straight up. Lyta glanced at the space between the ominous snake heads and saw that there was a space for another object up there, braced or locked in between them.
Thurpa walked closer to Nathan, whispering into his ear. She couldn’t make out what was being said.
“I don’t know,” Nathan replied. He seemed crestfallen, looking first to the strange staff and then toward Lyta.
“Just give it some thought,” Thurpa said.
“Could I get some assistance?” the woman, Brigid, asked them. The two men walked away, leaving her be.
Lyta felt hands on her shoulders, sitting her down. Petroleum jelly salve was spread over her neck and shoulders. The ooze was an important supply for a militia on the move to deal with blisters, cuts and abrasions of all forms. As soon as the balm was spread across her raw back and about her wrists, she began to feel better. There were several jars of the stuff for the militia, so there was more than enough for the prisoners. Bandages from the Panthers’ first-aid supplies were also put to good use to protect the ravaged flesh.
Lyta accepted a shirt and a web belt. The shirt was long enough on her to act like a minidress, but there was enough air around her bottom to make her feel self-conscious until a pair of men’s briefs was provided for her from the militia’s laundry.
Clean clothes, after being naked for so many days, were wonderful. A bottle of water was also provided for her, and she took several deep pulls before passing the bottle on. Fresh water, clothes, she didn’t even mind the cooling of the evaporating wetness on her shirt. Boots, unfortunately, were in short supply, but Lyta didn’t mind. Most of the people in her town didn’t have much use for footwear, and the soles of her feet were only slightly less tough than rhinoceros skin.
Finally, Lyta got a weapon, two of them actually. One was a machete that looked rusted and pitted, but it was still heavy and felt good in her hand. The other was a .45-caliber pistol. Since the weapons of the Mashona were mostly stolen from the Zambian and Harare armed forces, she knew this pistol. She dumped the magazine and saw that it was loaded. She pulled back the slide and noted that the chamber was empty.
Lyta would keep it that way. She wasn’t sure about the safety on the pistol, and she wouldn’t carry one with a hammer on a live round. It would take a moment to slingshot a fresh round into the breech, if necessary. Both came with sheathes, so she put them onto the belt that tugged the long uniform tunic about her hips snugly. She rubbed her hand across her bare scalp, wishing that she still had her hair and idly wondering how she looked. Right now, she felt wonderful, but she was certain that a glance in a mirror would show her the truth of her ramshackle appearance.
Here you are, covered in bandages and the clothes of dead men, and you’re wondering if you’re hot or not, she thought, trying to hold down her disgust.
“It sure beats being raped and dead,” she muttered. “I look human again.”
“Are you all right?” It was Brigid, the beautiful woman from America, from the place she called Cerberus redoubt.
“Just trying to get my mind off of my vanity,” Lyta replied. “Can I join your group?”
Brigid looked taken aback. “We’re on a dangerous journey, Lyta. I don’t know if it would be wise.”
“Wisdom comes from mistakes,” Lyta replied. “And I know this could be a big mistake, but if I survive, I’ll at least know what awaited me. What was on the other end of this journey.”
Brigid’s brilliant green eyes looked the young woman over. She took a deep breath, pursed her lips, then nodded. “I’ll see what my compatriots have to say.”
“If it’s any help, I’m a resident of a frontier town in Zambia. We all receive firearms training,” Lyta added. She looked at the other prisoners. Though dressed, bandaged, rehydrating from water bottles and gobbling down random bits of food left behind by the Mashonan militia, they were ragged. They were unmistakably former prisoners, gaunt, wounded, eyes darting at the slightest sound.
“Not that it seemed to help us,” Lyta amended, frowning.
“Does anyone else want to see where the Panthers were taking you?” Brigid asked.
“I have to see to my family,” one man said. Others nodded, muttering in agreement. “If there’s any left.”
Brigid glanced to Lyta, and the young Zambian woman bit her lower lip, trying not to show any emotion. That effort translated into exactly what she tried to avoid as Brigid laid a gentle hand on her shoulder.
It was a warm, comforting action, and she looked worried for Lyta.
“I want to know what was worth the life of my mother, my fiancé,” Lyta admitted.
Brigid nodded.
“I’ll see what we can do,” Brigid replied.
Lyta watched her head to the tree line. Her spilling curls of golden-lit crimson provided a beacon by which she could be seen in the light of the moon and stars above.
Kane mulled over the whispered Commtact message from Brigid, then looked toward Grant’s position. He was a hundred yards away, barely a silhouette picked up by his night optics.
“Grant, you have an opinion on this?” Kane asked.
