Havoc

8 Willing Sacrifice

Dred was sound asleep, the rifle propped up against the opposite wall.

It was difficult for Jael to shut down under the best of circumstances, and tonight, he couldn’t quiet his brain. They’d talked about tactics at length, considering and discarding numerous strategies, but he knew what he needed to do. Trouble was, he didn’t want to. Once he’d been known for carrying out impossible ops, but he’d lost a few steps since then.

Gave them away, actually.

On the surface, there was no reason for him to stick his neck out for a bunch of lifers, and truth be told, he didn’t care much whether they lived or died. But Dred . . . the idea that she could die here made him want to tear the ship apart with his bare hands, but that would kill her, too. He remembered the way she’d fought for his life like it was worth something, before she knew him at all, and how she treated him like a person, even after she learned the truth about his background. Women had been drawn to him before, but they saw only superficial features, the gleam of pale hair or the twinkle of blue eyes. All the while, he understood that they’d scream and try to destroy him if they learned the truth. Some of them had before he learned to strike first.

But not Dred.

She stirred, curling closer to him and pressing her cheek to his chest. He could hear her heart at rest, and he counted the beats as if the growing numbers could explain the mysteries of the universe. He lifted a hand, careful not to disturb her, and rested it against her hair. She wore the braids and trinkets on the sides, so the back was all messy curls. Jael looped his fingers in them as if they were ropes that could keep him from falling. But they might as well be gossamer. And he had to go.

One rifle wasn’t enough to make a difference. He needed to snag more weapons and thin out the mercs. So he slipped from the bed with slow, careful movements. It’s you I’m fighting for, love. Not them. Each time she stirred, he froze, until it felt like it took hours for him to slip out of bed. In her sleep, she moved into the space he’d vacated, possibly because it was warm. But it gave him an odd pang to watch it happen.

She’d miss me if something goes wrong out there.

With an odd ache in his chest, he crept out of her quarters. Queensland was quiet during downtime. He didn’t see anyone until he reached the barricades; the watch posts had been moved to just inside the barriers. If the turrets went live, the man on duty would then alert the rest of the zone to the attack. His status as the queen’s champion meant he could come and go as he pleased, so the sentry didn’t seem surprised to see him.

“A little solo hunting?” the guard asked.

“You know it.”

“That’s a sweet rifle.”

Jael nodded. “I’ll let you know how it performs.”

“Must be nice to rack up private time with the queen.” It was the first time anyone had mentioned their sleeping arrangements, but people had probably noticed that since Einar’s death, Tam no longer joined them at night.

“If I hear you talking about her again, duffer, to me or anyone else, I’ll kill you.” He was smiling when he made the promise, but the other man likely saw the truth in his eyes.

The guard dropped his gaze. “Sorry. No disrespect meant. Won’t do it again.”

“See that you don’t.”

Jael swung away without further conversation and hoisted over the barricade. The guard didn’t say another word. He probably assumed Jael was going on some secret mission assigned by Dred, and remorse pricked at him for taking advantage of her trust. But he’d never told her to rely on him. In fact, if she’d asked, he’d have told her it was a bad idea.

I’m the villain. And you should’ve guessed that by the fact that I’m in here.

But even a villain was the main player in his own story, so if he could do some good before it all went to shit, he had to try. Hence the silent run during bunk time. He shouldered the rifle and jogged away from Queensland, determined to find a perch where he could use the rifle to its best advantage. Jael avoided the main passages, instead choosing to wend through secondary hallways designated for sanitation and maintenance. He went up a level and cut through the territory that used to belong to Grigor. Not long ago, this place teemed with bloodthirsty brutes, all ready to kill on a psychopath’s command.

Now it was a warren of abandoned rooms. But it would take the mercs a while to search the whole station and figure out which areas were populated. If he had some drone cams, he could track their movements, but old-school recon would have to do. He found a roost on a beam above the cavernous space Grigor had used as a throne room. The climb pulled the sore spot on his back, but he was strong enough to scale straight up, then crab walk until he had a shadowed vantage of the whole room. The vertical joist provided cover, and if necessary, he could spin around it to avoid shots from the other side.

The worst part about an ambush was the “waiting” part of lying in wait. More than once, commanders of his merc unit had sent him to single-handedly secure a position while the rest of them hung back, allegedly guarding the rear. They’d learned quickly that he could deliver the impossible, and they didn’t care how much he suffered in the process.

But they’re dead now.

He settled against the beam at his back, stretching his legs out before him. Jael wished he could’ve packed some food, as there was no telling how long he’d be waiting before things got interesting. He listened carefully as he tilted his head back. Station noises came back to him: skitter of rodent feet, clang of pipes, whir of maintenance bots moving through vacant corridors. It was hours, and he was nearly dozing when he heard the boots.

Jael came awake in an instant and positioned himself with the rifle. The footsteps told him there were ten again, which meant that was a standard squad size. There had been fifty at the transport, so the commander had five patrols roving the station. If he were in charge of the unit, he would rotate them and have four out on duty and another resting. Even so, that was a lot of ground to cover for relatively few men.

I wouldn’t want to be in their shoes.

He imagined creeping through Perdition, not knowing where the traps were and constantly finding deadly surprises. They had to know to stay sharp by now—that bad shit could come jumping out at any minute. Which meant his ambush had to be even tighter, timed down to the second. He had to drop one before the rest located him; and they were well trained, so it wouldn’t be long.

When the heavy footsteps resonated throughout the room, he popped out of cover. A quick count confirmed what his hearing had predicted, and as they strode in, one of them gestured. The rest spread out to check different parts of the room. Jael did a quick sweep of all the men’s locations and decided to take out the one standing guard by the door.

He’s the farthest from the rest, so it’ll take longer for them to notice when he drops. Then they still have to find me.

He crawled down the beam to get a better angle. After getting into position and setting up his gun, he took aim in the middle of the merc’s visor. Once he was sure, he confirmed through the autosight. The gun’s computer chip confirmed the trajectory, so he took the shot, and a red burst snapped from his perch to the visor, shattering it on impact. Another snap shot exploded the glastique and fried the merc’s face. His armor hit the floor with a noisy thunk when he dropped, alerting the rest of the men.

Two of them ran toward their fallen comrade while the rest spun, searching the ceiling for the shooter. Jael pushed to his feet and ran along the beam. The movement alerted them, but there was no other way to escape. Burning shots sizzled along the metal behind him, filling the air with the scent of melting steel. Part of him wished he could square off; he desperately wanted that fragging armor, but he had no chance of snagging it. Sparks sprang up behind him as he leapt from the ceiling to the wall. He hit hard enough to break some ribs; the snap sent pain down his spine like a lightning strike, but he ignored the gouge in his side and threw himself out the doors on the other side of the room. Merc shouts followed him, and the sound of pounding feet, but there was no way he was stopping. Nine men all with rifles identical to this one didn’t add up to good odds, even for an inhuman bastard like him.

A drone cam zoomed past and this one, he couldn’t catch but he eluded it by diving down a sanitation chute. Desperation drove him; if Vost was able to follow his movements, then the mercs would be on him in seconds. He fell with terrifying velocity, and he only caught himself a few meters before the recycling unit by jamming his feet as hard as he could against the opposite wall. His side gave, sending another wave of agony over him until his vision bled red. Jael hovered above the chopping blades, his entire body trembling.

Horror washed through him in a rushing wave. Will I come back if this thing carves me into soup meat? The worst part was, he could imagine it—being bound to the mutilated carcass with no way of dying. A deep breath, another, while his thigh muscles trembled and burned. Fear made him sweat, and his back slipped; he dropped a few centimeters, so the fans clanged against his boots.

No way out but up.

Winded, he shoved back up to where he had been and hung there, his body feeling like one huge bruise. The burn on his back must’ve split open like a smashed fruit, and hot blood slicked the metal behind him, making it damn near impossible to get any traction. With a stifled curse, he arched his back to use his shoulders instead and worked upward with his boots. He crooked his arms, shoved with his legs, and scrabbled with all his strength. Sweat broke out on his brow as he worked upward by the centimeter, conscious all the while of the disposal facilities beneath him. If I slip, I go to pieces. The joke didn’t seem as funny when he couldn’t get a deep breath, and the pain was constant, each time he shoved his body upward. It was worth it. I dropped one. Forty-nine to go. Red trickled down the wall, spattered by the whirring of the fan.

You can get out of this, mate. You’ve been in worse fixes.

But for the life of him, he couldn’t remember when.