So when Dred came tumbling over the barrier and violence exploded on the other side, he was torn in his impulses. He wanted to kill the bastards chasing her, but he also wanted to squeeze her until she couldn’t breathe. One was more urgent than the other, so he bounded to the top of the scrap wall, found a place to brace his rifle, and opened fire. The merc commander shouted furiously at his men to disengage, but one of them had been badly wounded by the junk bomb. His helmet was scattered around in him several pieces, his scalp gushing blood. His comrades made several runs to try to save him—brave, loyal bastards—but the turrets pushed them back. While they hovered just outside the kill zone, Jael took aim and finished what Dred had started. The downed soldier’s face sizzled and burned while his mates looked on, roaring with murderous rage.
Jael called, “Come on in! Don’t let the turrets stop you.”
He peered down at the body. Damn. The armor was too damaged from the explosion to be used though Ike might be able to jury-rig something from it. He couldn’t see the man in charge until one merc edged forward as if trying to retrieve the body. Jael took aim, and the soldier dove for cover, swearing so he could hear it even over the firing turrets. I know that voice. That’s Vost. Kudos for trying not to leave a man behind.
“Time to cut our losses and regroup.” The merc commander seemed to be making sure Jael could hear him, too.
He respected the man for keeping his temper in the face of provocation. It was easy to blow off steam and rant threats you had no means of carrying out. The fact that Vost hadn’t done that, had instead calculated the odds and chosen to fall back, didn’t bode well for Queensland long term. It meant he was a smart leader, one who plotted his battles and achieved success through patience and planning.
“Help me,” he said to the sentry, once he was sure the mercs were gone.
The man went over the barricades with him, no questions, and together, they hauled the fallen merc and his gear over to the Queensland side. Close up, the armor was beaten to shit, helmet worthless, but his squad hadn’t been able to retrieve his rifle. Jael turned to Dred and lifted the second rifle in a triumphant gesture. She leaned against the wall, one arm crooked as if it pained her, but he knew better than to draw attention to the injury.
“How’d you do?” he asked, loud enough for others to hear.
“Took out eight mercs and around twenty of Mungo’s men.”
“No fragging way.” The sentry actually took a step back.
Martine shoved the guard from behind. “Why do you think they were chasing her, genius? To chat?”
“Backup squad?” Jael guessed.
Dred nodded. “They showed just as the fight was ending, tried to run me down. Too bad. Five minutes more, and I’d have come back loaded down with presents.”
Instead of shot up and pale with pain.
But it was more than that, actually. Her eyes had dark circles beneath them, and her lips were dry and cracked. She looked as if she’d been in the wilderness for a week with little food and water. Is that what your power does, love? Burns you out like a branch alight at both ends? Small tremors shook her from head to toe; at this point, she seemed to be standing more through will than strength.
“Why didn’t you just kill them, too?” the guard asked.
It was a good question. If the sentry believed she’d taken out eight mercs, plus twenty brutes, and had barely a scratch on her, what was ten more mercs in heavy armor? They need to scotch those inquiries, or the men would argue that Dred should go out alone and kill the enemies herself. Sometimes a legend swelled so big, it became unwieldy.
“She’s not a machine,” Ike said testily, bending to examine the armor. “Just look at her, she’s exhausted. You would be too if you’d fought that hard.”
The guard seemed to come to the same conclusion after a quick inspection. “No, I’d be dead,” he said with what Jael judged to be impressive self-awareness.
“Exactly, so stop bitching that she didn’t kill all the mercs in one go, you moron.” Any other Queenslander, himself included, would be guaranteed a fight with those words, but Ike had apparently earned some respect due to his longevity.
“Sorry,” the sentry said.
But Ike wasn’t paying attention; he was already stripping the armor off the body, probably to see what he could do with it. Nothing went to waste in here. With everyone else occupied watching the old man, Jael turned to Dred and wrapped an arm around her shoulder, making sure it was a casual gesture. He also took care to stay on her uninjured side.
“Let’s get these rifles to the armory,” he said.
As soon as they left the common room, he cupped her face in his hands and kissed the hell out of her. Her lashes fluttered shut, and he listened to the thrum of her galloping heart. For the first time, it moved him knowing he could make somebody else feel that way. Before, he’d always used it as a tool for gauging potential success or failure of emotional manipulation. Then she shoved him away, and he saw stark terror in her green eyes.
“It’s a good thing the mercs don’t know how little ammo we have left for the turrets. Or they’d have stayed and baited them until we ran out. Then they storm the place.”
His satisfaction in her success died a lonely death. If she’d taken out eight, and he’d dropped two, that only equaled one squad. There were still forty mercs on station, and they wouldn’t go out easy. Vost would make sure of it. He’d learn from his mistakes and fight smarter, going forward. Jael also suspected he’d be able to predict their strikes better. An experienced commander was gifted at assessing his enemy’s tactics and extrapolating.
It only gets harder from here.
“How bad are you hurt?” he asked quietly.
“Just a laser bolt. I’ll live.”
He’d never heard anyone shrug off injuries like he did, and in a strange way, it made him feel less alone. No longer was he the solitary monster. Maybe he should feel bad about doing that to her, but instead he wanted to swing her around until they were both dizzy. But there was no time be playful, hardly even a moment to breathe. Life was a constant state of crisis—without any of the small pleasures that Perdition had previously allowed—like downing a drink with some mates over a bowl of Cook’s goulash.
“Can you move your arm?”
She showed him. “Hurts, but I can.”
“It’ll burn like a bitch for about two days if my back is anything to judge by. Then you should be all right.”
Dred gave him a fleeting smile. “Let’s hope for a couple of quiet days then. It would be nice if Mungo and Silence kept the mercs away for a while.”
“They won’t do it on purpose, that’s for sure.”
“No, I’ve been failing at diplomacy lately. Not that Mungo ever sent envoys.”
“And from what I hear, he’d eat any that you dispatched.”
“I saw him a while back, before he turned into such a beast.”
“Yeah?” Jael invited her to elaborate with the question in his tone.
Her tone was cool and remote, as if she were relaying events she’d heard about long ago. “Artan had taken me to the neutral zone to recruit . . . always attracted more men by putting me on display. Back then, he kept me shackled to him by a five-meter chain, and he held the end of my leash.”