Текст книги "Hastrom City Rising (The Adventures of Letho Ferron Book 2)"

Автор книги: Doug Rickaway

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Текущая страница: 18 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

Steigen was the first to break the silence. “My Lord, this is very irregular. Is there something wrong?”

Steigen’s inert limbs were trembling, and his face was as white as the paper smock that hung from his shoulders.

“Let’s cut to the chase, shall we?” Abraxas snarled. “You and I both know that you have been very bad.”

Steigen’s lips were drawn, quivering. Unbidden tears began to sparkle at the edges of his eyes. “My Lord, this is all very confusing. What are you—”

“SILENCE, FOOL!”

Abraxas rose to his full height, his roar still reverberating in the small room. In a blur he was on Steigen, lifting him from the chair by the throat. “I will destroy every last member of the Corpus Verum for this!” he snarled, putrid spittle misting from his mouth.

Steigen’s eyes whirled in his sockets like a rabbit caught in a snare. Then calm washed over him, and he began to laugh between gasps for air. “You and I both know you can’t do that,” he gasped, his face turning purple. “You can’t control this city without us. You will be unable to maintain order.”

Abraxas roared again, and hurled Steigen through the air. There was a sickening meat-thud as his body collided with the wall. Steigen crumpled to the floor, a limp sack of flesh and pulverized bones.

“Alastor, send the human conscripts, along with a complement of overseers, to the slums. Kill anyone who raises arms against us, including their pathetic families, and burn their homes. Double the watch on the Fulcrum dormitories as well. Lock them down. Kill anyone who attempts to enter or leave. All remaining Mendraga must report to the palace immediately.”

He paused, then added in a cool whisper, “Oh, and I almost forgot: send a detachment to the front gates. We mustn’t forget about the visitors we will have this evening.”

“I eagerly await their arrival, Lord Abraxas,” said Alastor, who seemed to crackle with alacrity now that his master was at the helm.

They exchanged a look, and Abraxas felt the closest approximation of love that his race could experience swell within him as he looked upon his son, his creation. Then Alastor turned, his cloak swirling as he exited Abraxas’s chamber.

****

“Over yonder is a pump waystation,” said Johnny, “and one of the outflow pipes. That’s where we’ll make our entrance. Any questions?”

No response. Letho just nodded, staring at the sky, the light of the moon reflected in his irises.

“One sec,” Johnny Zip said. He leapt out of the razorback and grabbed one of his ordnance crates. It looked heavy.

“Need some help?” Letho asked.

“Nah,” Johnny responded. “I’ll be right back.” He trudged to the pump waystation. After a few minutes, precious ones, he appeared at the entrance of the waystation and began to jog back to the razorback.

“All done?” Saul asked.

“Yessir. I just planted a a little present for Abraxas,” Johnny said, clutching a detonator like a swaddled baby.

“A little explosive to liven up the party?” Letho asked.

Johnny smiled. “There’s a gas line access point in there. If I trigger this detonator, it’ll set off a pretty spectacular chain reaction, all the way down the line, down the middle of Main Street and right up Alastor’s ass. A nice insurance policy. Just in case things go sideways on us.”

“An ace in the hole—I like it.” Saul said. “All right, away we go.” He put the pedal down again, and the razorback sped off toward the waystation.

The full-throated roar of the razorback’s engine masked the exited chitter emanating from a storm drain nearby. They did not see the number of gleaming eyes watching them from the rectangular orifice. The eyes disappeared, and the skittering of claws on concrete filled the night air.

****

Deacon rolled the nav spheres with dexterous hands and brought the warbird into a steep bank, its nose dropping. It was roughly half a rec-ball field in length, all stealth black and baffled edges to confuse radar. Deacon had fallen in love with her at first sight, and now that he had a feel for how she handled, he wanted to make babies with her. She was primarily a troop transport, but she also had plenty of offensive capabilities, including a mean set of 25mm cannons in the aft and fore that could fire eighteen hundred rounds per second—virtually guaranteed to turn Mendraga soldiers into red paste faster than Zedock Wartimer could say shine-ola. Deacon couldn’t wait to try them out.

Deacon thought for a moment about the best friend he had ever known, and he hoped that his friend’s mission would go smoothly—as he hoped that his own would. He thought about the old man Wartimer, and hoped that the old dog was watching from above somewhere, appreciating the way that he stroked the nav spheres and the way he was about to bring a hellstorm upon a few unsuspecting Mendraga.

This is for you, old man. Happy trails, he thought as he pushed the warbird downward through the sky, buffeting the warriors inside as the stratosphere attempted to tear it to pieces. He brought the ship down, low enough that even if Hastrom City had functioning radar systems, the ship would still be undetectable. Two other warships followed suit flying in V formation behind him. Below, a line of razorbacks and armored trucks kicked up a massive dust cloud in their wake as they sped across the abandoned expanse of freeway like a discarded ribbon.

Deacon tapped a series of commands on the ship’s data screen, and various readouts began to pour into the display in his visor.

“That’s strange. There doesn’t appear to be anyone on watch tonight. Maybe they didn’t expect an air force?”

“Very strange,” one of the pilots replied. “This may be over quick.”

The massive metal gate that protected Abraxas’s walled inner sanctum began to open.

“Here they come!” Deacon shouted.

Mendraga began to file out of the opening, boots moving in lockstep, rifles held against their chests. Several of them separated out from the main group, remaining in the rear as they dropped to one knee. They placed cylindrical metal objects on their shoulders, and Deacon’s console glowed red.

“WARNING, EXPLOSIVE PROJECTILES DETECTED WITHIN RANGE,” said a stern feminine voice. “LOCK-ON DETECTED. INITIATING AUTO-EVASIVE MANEUVERING.”

“Oh, no you don’t,” Deacon muttered, flipping the manual override switch.

“Deacon, get us out of here!” Maka shouted.

“Really? Is that what I’m supposed to do, Maka? Because I wasn’t sure if I should…”

The smoky contrails were visible even from the cockpit as the Mendraga launched their deadly payloads. The ship launched a series of countermeasures, but the circuitry inside the rockets appeared to be too sophisticated to be fooled by such rudimentary tactics. Deacon spun the nav spheres, and the warship groaned as it rolled and hurtled upward, boosters glowing white-hot as the ship reached maximum velocity. He pushed the ship higher and higher, the rockets still trailing.

“Boys! Follow me up!” Deacon shouted into the com. “This is going to get hairy!No pun intended,” he added, shooting a grin at Maka.

“They’re getting closer!” one of the Tarsi shouted, peering out a porthole in the hold.

“I got this,” Deacon said.

Oxygen masks dropped from hidden panels in the ceiling. Tarsi fumbled with them, finding that they weren’t designed to fit over their snouts.

The volley of rockets sputtered, their propellant exhausted, and began to fall back to the earth below. Deacon cut the boosters to the ship, and it followed suit.

“Get us close, but not so close this time,” Maka said.

“Again with the suggestions,” Deacon muttered. “Getcha there in a sec.”

The warbirds dropped in a metal V back toward the ground. Within moments, the Mendraga were again visible beneath them. The rocketeers, as Deacon had labeled them, had rejoined the other soldiers, apparently all out of rocket-propelled ammo.

“Guess they’re one-pump chumps, eh, Maka?” Deacon said, turning to Maka and hoping for a smile on the Tarsi’s face. Nothing. “Okay then, guy with the plan, what now?”

“We’ll take it from here,” Maka said. “Tarsi, prepare for attack! Make your forefathers proud!”

The Tarsi on board shouted in the affirmative.

“Tarsi! Ready?” Maka shouted.

They answered in their sonorous language, a chorus of harmonious roars.

Deacon opened up on the Mendraga below with the ship’s twin mounted cannons, grinding the front line to pulp. Deacon’s console lit up red again, and the cabin filled with the roar of rushing air.

“What the hell?” he shouted. Maka had engaged the deployment hatch, and Tarsi were dropping out of the hatch one by one. Deacon’s mind ground to a halt, struggling with the absurdity of it all.

No parachutes! his mind screamed.

He watched as the Tarsi barreled into the throng of confused Mendraga—rolling as they hit the ground, or using the bodies of their enemies to cushion their fall. The Mendraga’s fear overcame their discipline; many had scattered like ants under the withering fire, and the sudden introduction of Tarsi from above further broke their lines. Deacon watched as the Tarsi sent Mendraga rag-dolling through the air with furious swats of their great paws. The citizens brought up the rear, rolling over Mendraga in armored vehicles and grinding them to pulp from a distance with vehicle-mounted cannons.

Incessant warning lights and the ship computer’s smug voice seized his attention.

“LOCK-ON DETECTED.”

“Crap,” Deacon muttered.

He banked hard left, but it was too late. The ship rocked with the impact, sending a shower of sparks and detritus into the air. Deacon choked as an acrid smoke filled his lungs. He pulled the oxygen mask down over his face, and his lungs cried out with joy in response to the pristine air. Then he brought his ship up out of rocket range, learning his lesson: Never assume the bad guys are out of ammo.

“I’m hit, but it doesn’t seem too bad. I’m going to have to circle back around,” he said to his fellow pilots. “Take out those rocket launchers!”

“Affirmative. Targeting enemy rocket launchers,” another pilot said in a nonchalant voice. The inflection of his voice was no different than that of someone ordering coffee, or sharing an anecdote with a coworker.

“Very good,” Deacon said. “Let’s not forget to provide cover for friendly vehicles. Let’s push it forward.”

He had no formal military training, but he had played a few pre-exodus shooter games on his uCom in his day, and he was proud at the jargon that he was now able to employ. He never thought he would have an occasion to use it, but as he watched the Tarsi and Eursan warriors scramble beneath him, it was just like those games: detached from the bloodshed, the evisceration. Deacon circled around again, liquidating another row of unfortunate Mendraga with his cannon fire.

****

“If anyone resists, burn their filthy hovels to the ground,” said Overseer Zehn. The overseers began to close in, followed by the human conscripts. Hammerheads emerged from their huts, barking and gesturing toward the Mendraga.

“Go back to your homes. Anyone that chooses to fight will be killed. Dead.” Zehn emphasized the last word, hoping that if any of his words got through, it would be that one.

Amid the din of inane, grunting chatter, Zehn heard one word: “No.”

Zehn spun to face in the direction of this treasonous offense. “One last warning! Anyone that does not follow instructions will be shot. Your families will be shot. Do you understand?”

The head of the overseer standing right next to Zehn exploded in a spray of red mist. The rifle report arrived milliseconds later. Then there was more rifle fire, and Zehn’s overseers began to crumple around him. He saw a muzzle flash from a nearby building, then another. A bolt of searing pain speared his left shoulder.

“Kill them all!” he screamed.

That’s when a horde of Tarsi seemed to materialize from the very air. They were unlike anything he had ever seen. Mouths full of razor teeth, claws extending from their massive hands. They were huge. Where had these beasts come from?

The overseers began to fire, and a few of the Tarsi fell. Out of the corner of his eye, Zehn saw a blur heading in the wrong direction. Pulling his pistol, he ended the human conscript’s flight with a bullet to the back.

“Anyone who flees, dies! Do you hear me?” he shouted.

A worker charged him, brandishing an enormous steel wrench.

That thing must turn a really big bolt, Zehn thought. Thenthe man brought the wrench down on Zehn’s arm, crushing the bones to powder. Screaming, Zehn fired his pistol into the hammerhead’s skull, obliterating it.

Hammerheads were now emerging from every door and window, some of them brandishing pistols and rifles. Zehn looked on in horror as more Mendraga fell under their assault. Behind him, several overseers were attempting to clamber up the sides of the buildings where the riflemen were entrenched. In this untenable position, the Mendraga’s superior speed was of little advantage; rifle fire dropped them one by one.

“Idiots, use the stairs inside!” he snarled. Then he turned to the humans. “You conscripts, head up the stairs and provide support for the overseers scaling the building!”

To his horror, the human conscripts did not respond to his commands.

Something is not right, he thought as he counted the number of overseers still standing. Then it dawned on him.

By Abraxas, the conscripts have turned against us.

 

SIXTEEN – Heart of Darkness

“Johnny, cut us a nice hole in that grate there,” Saul said.

“Aye aye, cap’n.” Johnny rummaged through his rucksack and produced a small ion torch, then made his way to the tunnel’s yawning maw and began the painstaking process of cutting through each of the iron bars. One by one they fell aside as he made cuts at both top and bottom.

Letho felt that watching Johnny made the waiting worse, so he looked away. His thoughts drifted to his friends. He hoped they were still alive.

Johnny placed his index finger and thumb against his teeth and whistled. The razorback edged forward into the mouth of the tunnel, and Johnny leapt into the back of the razorback, stowing his gear and taking his seat. One of the iron bars dug into the razorback’s metal hide, screeching as it tore away a curl of steel.

“Damn it, Johnny!” Saul shouted.

Johnny shrugged. “Hey, what can you do? It’s dark out here. If you wanted an expert, you should have brought Tiny.”

The razorback’s headlights chewed up the darkness that threatened to drown them. The tunnel was squat and rectangular, but with plenty of clearance for the razorback. Ancient pictograms, applied with spray cans, adorned the walls. Those who could decipher their meaning had long since passed. Occasionally they would pass a hovel or lean-to, and discarded pots and pans.

Things must have gotten really bad up there if people were choosing to live down here.

Letho thought of flash floods, the tunnels filling to the brim with roiling brown-white water, flushing out anything not bolted down.

“In five hundred feet, turn left,” Saladin said.

“That sword of yours sure is handy,” Saul said.

“Hey, do you guys hear that?” Johnny cocked an ear.

“Nope. All I hear is the purring of this sweet baby,” Saul replied, caressing the razorback’s dashboard

“Saul, stop the razorback for a second,” Johnny said.

“I don’t think that’s a wise decision.”

“Now I hear it, too,” said Letho. “It sounds like scratching or something, far off. Saladin, you want to weigh in on this one?”

“Sensors are picking up a large number of organisms moving in this direction. Bioscans are similar to previous samplings. Mutants, I believe you call them.”

“Shit!” Saul shouted.

Out of the darkness behind them, tiny fireflies began to appear, bobbing up and down in steady rhythm. The irregular patter of contorted feet and claws scraping against stone began to crescendo.

“Saul, you might want to pick up the pace a little bit,” Letho said.

“Roger that.”

Johnny began to rummage through his rucksack, producing a flashlight.

“Johnny, don’t—” Letho began.

But Johnny lit the halogen and swung the taut photon beam around to the rear of the razorback, illuminating the nightmare visages of hundreds of mutants. Their shriek was a combination of squalling infant and grinding metal. Letho felt an overwhelming urge to drop to the floor of the razorback and clamp his hands over his ears. Anything to stifle the horrible screeching.

“Let’s go, let’s go!” shouted Johnny, throwing open one of the crates and tossing assault rifles to Saul and Letho.

Letho and Johnny immediately opened fire at the swarm behind them, and the thunderous tattoo of rifle fire covered the screams of the falling mutants. They tumbled and collapsed in piles, but always more would come, clambering over fallen brothers, snarling, ropes of gray spittle clinging to their snapping jaws. Saul was shouting something, but Letho couldn’t hear him over the roar of his assault rifle. Saladin illuminated his targets and assisted his aim; not a bullet was wasted.

Headshot every time, he thought, sick to his stomach.

A frontal impact rocked the razorback, and it began fishtailing, almost throwing Letho over the edge. All at once he saw bodies of several mutants flying over his head, and the bloody, sinewy trail the razorback was leaving. Wheels spun and screamed, fighting for purchase on the gut-slick floor of the tunnel.

“Letho, get up here!” Saul shouted.

Letho clambered to the front of the razorback, careful not to lose his footing as the metal beast attempted to buck him. Saul was doing his best to keep the razorback on a straight course, even though it meant mowing down mutant after mutant. The creatures disappeared one by one under the razorback’s brush-guard in gory spurts. Letho attempted to block out the sound of bones popping and tissue liquifying under the wheels.

In the front seat, Letho kicked out the shattered, bloodstained windshield, then ripped the shoulder strap from his assault rifle and looped it around the razorback’s windshield frame. Clutching it in his right fist, he leapt onto the hood. In his mind he pictured himself assuming a heroic pose: crouched low on the hood of the razorback, sword drawn. But instead he slipped in the thick soup that coated the hood and fell flat on his ass. He slipped over the edge, his boots dragging on the slick ground. He felt claws grasping at him, and he panicked as he remembered the sensation of the mutants piling on top of him, choking the air out of him. Pulling with all his might and slamming his feet down to the ground, he launched himself into the air and, pivoting on the taut strap, landed back on the hood of the razorback.

Second try’s the charm, Letho thought, unsheathing Saladin. Then he closed his eyes and let Saladin go to work. He felt hot ichor spraying his body, heard mutants thudding around him as they fell.

“Left turn ahead,” Saladin said.

Saul jerked the wheel, and the razorback swerved in a wide arc, tires spinning. The bodies of several mutants provided a sickening cushion as the vehicle slammed into the tunnel wall. Then the way in front was clear, and Saul opened the razorback’s engine wide, pouring in as much fuel as she would drink.

Relieved, Letho looked back—just in time to see Johnny tumble over the back of the razorback, thrown off balance by the impact with the wall. Gruesome gray hands welcomed him from all sides as he fell like a lead singer stage-diving into a throng of his greatest fans. His rifle sprayed the ceiling, providing strobed images of his quick and gory demise.

“Johnny, NO!” Letho shouted.

The pursuing mutants stopped to feast on the meal of Johnny Zip, ceasing their assault on the razorback.

Stunned, Letho turned back and faced forward. The end of the tunnel was just up ahead. If only Johnny had hung on a little longer.

But then Letho realized they had another problem. There was no light at the end of this tunnel; no opening. Just a concrete wall.

And it was coming too fast.

Letho started to warn Saul, but he must have already seen it because he hit the brakes and threw the wheel to the left, sending the razorack into a spin. It slammed sideways into a waist-high solid barrier, and the impact sent Letho hurtling through the air. He crashed into the wall, and saw no more.

****

Maka surged forward, curling his god-sized fist and pulverizing a sneering Mendraga’s face. His body throbbed with the unfettered flow of adrenaline. A rifle blast tore through his shoulder, and he roared and pressed forward toward the gunman. The Mendraga, seeing Maka’s charge, fumbled with his rifle, his eyes wide with abject fear. Maka snatched the rifle out of the Mendraga’s hands and kicked him high into the smoky air. Then he charged into a throng of Mendraga and began tearing, slashing.

He tasted Mendraga blood in his mouth but did not remember biting. The reptilian part of his brain reveled in the primitive rightness of it, while his cortex rejected the spoiled, syrupy flavor. He spat to the side, and took a moment to issue a gut-wrenching roar.

The Mendraga were issuing their own battle call. They were calling for retreat.

But Maka wasn’t finished with them. He waved his arm forward, commanding his brethren to surge ahead. “After them, brothers! We finish this!” he roared.

The Tarsi followed the retreating Mendraga past the city wall. All around them, what appeared to be an open market was in flames. Maka stumbled over a body that grappled at his feet. An ape-like woman clutched at him, her eyes wide with fear. Bodies of fallen Mendraga and hammerheads clogged the dirty thoroughfares.

The Tarsi pursued the Mendraga into the heart of the slums, crushing them into the backs of another platoon of beleaguered Mendraga overseers. The Mendraga soon found themselves surrounded on all sides—by blood-bathed Tarsi, human conscripts, and thick-browed revolutionaries—and were cut down in a hail of gunfire.

Cheers erupted from the crowd. One of the workers held a Mendraga’s severed head in an raised hand, barking in defiance. The workers and conscripts congratulated each other, exchanging handshakes and firm embraces. Women and children were emerging from unburned hovels. They rushed to greet their men, still standing or otherwise. More than one moan cut through the celebratory roar as women and children discovered fallen fathers, sisters, mothers.

It was then that Maka saw Bayorn, and his heart soared. He ran to his brother, and they embraced, both covered in ash and blood.

“Maka, you made it!” Bayorn shouted.

“As did you!” Maka replied.

Beside Bayorn was a hammerhead who did not look quite like the rest. He carried himself more upright, and his eyes glimmered with higher intelligence. He looked up at Maka.

“I am Adum,” he said, extending his hand.

Maka engulfed the hand in his own. “I am Maka, of the Centennial Fulcrum.”

“I have heard your name, great one. Bayorn has told me of you.”

Maka shrugged, smiling.

Bayorn then turned to address the gathered Eursans, Tarsi, and hammerheads.

“We must go to the palace. To end this. Together we will chase Abraxas and his scum off the face of this planet. For Letho!” Adum repeated these words in the simple language of the hammerheads, to ensure their understanding.

Another roar rose from the crowd. LETHO! BAYORN! MAKA! they shouted.

Then they gathered into loose ranks, and began their march.

****

Consciousness returned to Letho in small flashes of pain and light. He was aware of pressure under his armpits and the sensation of friction on his back. In the background someone was shouting.

“Letho, wake up!” someone said. It was Saul. He was dragging Letho’s limp body toward a ladder. Blessed light shown down from the opening above, illuminating the gory scene that Letho found himself in.

Letho clambered to his feet, clenching his teeth as pain washed over him. Bones were knitting back together, ruptures sealing. He took one last look at the overturned razorback and thought about Johnny—another senseless loss. He hadn’t known the man very well at all, but he seemed like a good fellow.

As Letho surveyed the wreckage, he saw something resting on the ground near the razorback. It was Johnny’s detonator. Letho walked over and picked it up, slipped it inside his boot.

“Hurry up, Letho!” Saul shouted. “They’ll be coming for us soon. We gotta get out of here!”

I’ll light it up for you, Johnny. Rest in peace.

Letho followed Saul up the ladder. It led to a small maintenance shed that enclosed the entrance to the drainage tunnels. Probably meant to keep kids from wandering down there and getting hurt—back when there were kids around who engaged in such mischief, Letho thought. Saul disengaged the deadbolt and slowly opened the door. As they emerged into the open air, the sound of intermittent gunfire filled the air. Letho said a silent prayer for his friends, then returned his focus to the task at hand.

Just as Saladin had promised, they were less than a block away from the palace. Saul and Letho jumped a fence and found an unlocked door at the back of the building.

“Unlocked,” Letho mused. “A little bit of luck today.”

“Yeah, luck,” Saul grunted. “Let’s just get this over with.”

“Saul,” Letho said, “Johnny. I…”

“It’s alright,” Saul said, placing a hand on Letho’s shoulder. “There was nothing you could have done. Come on, we’ll make sure he didn’t die in vain.”

Inside the palace, they navigated a series of hallways, not entirely certain where they were going. Letho had expected to fight his way through the building, gunslinger style, but there was no one around. The dry pop of gunfire occasionally filled the air like firecrackers; perhaps Abraxas’s army had their hands full elsewhere.

As they hurried down the hallways, Letho noticed that all around them, implements of war were covered in thick layers of dust. In one room they passed, Letho saw small tank-like vehicles, too small for a person to ride inside. In another, rows and rows of assault rifles were stored neatly on racks.

Letho was soon lost in the labyrinth of hallways, but Saul seemed have some direction in mind, so Letho let him lead the way. After several more turns, they burst through a door into a massive room, easily as large as a hangar.

“Saul, I think we might’ve taken a wrong turn,” Letho said as he surveyed the massive space. The room was filled with nothing but egg-shaped pods—thousands of them. Each pod had what looked like a massive computing device attached to one end and a thick bundle of cords extending from the other. These cables were all connected to towering computing structures festooned with readout screens and interface pads.

Letho edged closer to one of the pods and peered inside. To his horror, the sight of an emaciated human form greeted him. It lay in repose, hands crossed over its chest, and what Letho could see of the face appeared to be mummified. The lower part of its face was covered with a mask, from which tubes extended.

“What is this place?” Letho asked.

“Saul, why don’t you tell them?”

The voice was familiar. Letho’s brain was immediately ensnared with improbabilities.

Alastor Wyrre leapt down from a catwalk above, his cloak billowing as he landed.

“It’s the sleepers’ den,” Saul said in a low voice.

Letho felt the cold press of a rifle barrel on the back of his cranium.

“Yes, that’s it. Easy now. Let’s not do anything rash,” Alastor cooed.

“What the hell is going on?” Letho asked.

“Letho, my friend, there will be plenty of time for explanation later. First, let’s divest you of your weapons,” Alastor said.

Several overseers emerged from the shadows. Their cold hands patted him down, drawing his prized .50 caliber from his holster and unclasping Saladin from his back.

Sir. Unauthorized user detected. Initiate anti-theft protocol? Saladin whispered inside his mind.

Letho thought it over. Saladin could disable the overseer who held the sword, but the others would shoot him in the head point blank, and he doubted his healing abilities could that sort of mess back together.

No. Not yet, he replied to Saladin.

The Mendraga brought the sword and handgun to Alastor. The remaining Mendraga kept their guns trained on Saul and Letho.

“I was wondering where this had gotten to,” Alastor said, his eyes tracing across the length of Saladin as he held it out before him with two hands. Saladin glimmered red as if in warning. “This was supposed to be a gift to my master. Shame on you for stealing it, Letho.”Alastor smiled.

“Screw you,” Letho spat.

Alastor ignored his outburst. “Saul, I believe this belongs to you now,” he continued, holding Letho’s gun in his hand. “Would you like to have it?”

Saul did not move, his eyes glued the floor.

Realization cramped Letho’s stomach, doubling him over.

“Yes, I would like to have that gun,” Saul said at last, in a near-whisper.

“You have done well. Come and claim your prize.”

Saul’s head turned, his eyes dazed. He walked over to Alastor and took the .50 caliber from his hand.

This is it! He’s going to blow Alastor away, and we’ll take them, Letho thought. But Saul holstered the gun quietly. He now owned the complete pair. Realization hit Letho like someone had dumped the shattered remains of one of Hastrom City’s skyscrapers on top of him.

“You son of a bitch,” Letho said to Alastor, though his eyes were locked on Saul. “This must be your inside guy.”

“That is correct. I have been negotiating with Saul for quite some time, trying to find some way for our two societies to coexist. The price was you, Letho, delivered to my master, alive,” Alastor said.

Now Letho turned to Saul. “You killed him, didn’t you?” he shouted. “You killed my father.”

“He died of a heart attack, Letho, you know that,” Saul said, his face blank, his voice devoid of inflection.

Letho roared like an animal in a snare. The tears began to flow, and his body convulsed with sobs. Thresha, Bayorn, Deacon, and Maka were all going to die because he had put his trust in the wrong person. He had had led them all to their demise. Alastor and Abraxas had outsmarted them all.

“Come now, Letho, all is not lost,” Alastor said, his voice both smug and condescending. “I think you’ll find that Saul has made the smart move. It’s not too late to be smart, you know. Saul here understands that wars are won not by sacrifice alone, but by compromise. All that bloodshed and killing is certainly a means to an end, but so out of fashion. Do you understand that, Letho?”