Ranger Page 6

  "You still sure you want to do this?" Paco whispered. "Not too late to bail. I love Alex, but him and this hard-luck gang of elf-haters… This is gonna end badly."

  She wore army clothing—boots and combat pants with a dark sweater and a jacket. Over the jacket, she wore her brother's load-bearing vest, stuffed with the essentials: spare magazines, an eight-inch fighting knife, and water. There were also useful items like camouflage-paint tubes, ear defenders, and protein bars. She had tied her long hair into a ponytail and now wore a floppy bush hat perched back atop her head. Paco's time-tested M4 carbine hung from a two-point sling near her right thigh. "He's my husband."

  "Snowbird, the man you married died with Noah."

  She shook her head. "No, you're wrong. He's still there." Leela faced her brother, scowled, and yanked on a handful of his beard, twisting it. "And I hate it when you call me that, Yancy."

  "Ouch! Crap, lay off. Little respect for your elder."

  She dropped to a knee and hugged Mo. She had never been fond of nicknames, especially his old army one, but for years now, everyone in Doig River had accepted that her brother's name was Paco. And who was she to fight a community?

  But nobody called her Snowbird, not even him.

  "All joking aside, sis, might be time to find someone else, have another child."

  "I'm never having another baby," she said with absolute conviction.

  They stopped talking as Alex approached, Dallas at his side. Alex ran his eyes over Leela's gear and weapon. He inhaled deeply, his unhappiness obvious. "You can still change your mind."

  Paco snorted and looked away. "You're very wise for a white man."

  They rolled shortly after, everyone, including Leela, now wearing miniaturized four-eyed night-vision devices that sat lightly upon their faces. They all wore camouflage paint on their faces and hands, and the paint itched beneath the NVGs, driving Leela to keep scratching under the lenses. The two Sanchez brothers went first, barreling out the gate on their amazingly silent motorcycles. Both brothers slung army sniper rifles equipped with long silencers across their backs, but they also carried submachine guns dangling from combat slings. The two armored vehicles followed five minutes behind with Leela sitting in the rear of the lead vehicle with Alex up front, driving, Sammy beside him, operating the remote gun with a joystick and camera, and all three dogs in the rear cargo compartment, lying atop ammo crates and boxes of explosives. Mo scrambled into the back seat, rubbing against her and taking up most of the space. Leela sighed and scratched his rump. The other vehicle carried Dallas, Anjie, and Henry. Besides the NVGs, Alex had stuffed one of their MBITR radios into her vest and fitted her with an earpiece and a bone-induction microphone, so if she needed to speak, she could do so with a whisper—if she absolutely, positively had to communicate verbally. Complete silence was always best, he explained in earnest seriousness. No shit, she had mused. Teach your grandmother how to suck eggs, pale-faced husband.

  They were heading for the juncture where the Halfway River joined the Peace River, at least a four-hour drive. From there, they'd hide the vehicles and move north on foot through six kilometers of rough bush.

  Neither Alex nor Sammy spoke much during the trip, only the intermittent radio chatter with the brothers running scout ahead of them. Besides, her stomach was too upset to attempt conversation. Leela was the odd woman out among the ranger team, so she sat there, her fingers atop Mo's head, her thoughts cascading about her.

  She was still furious with Alex, and rightly so. He had abandoned her when she had needed him most. But she understood Noah's death had driven him mad with blind rage. He wasn't the tracker she was, but he had become competent over the years, and Sammy and Anjie were very good. They had tracked down the boggarts who had burned the settlement, killing dozens. She thought he'd return then. He hadn't. Instead, he and the others drove south, telling Paco that they needed to resupply and rearm. When they had come back, it had been with new vehicles, new weapons, and new members—including the mag-sens Bekka. Bekka was, to put it nicely, a cold bitch with zero interest in befriending Leela, the only other human mage in the north. Of the others, she only really liked the small Asian dude, Dallas. Alex had recruited people who were every bit as filled with hatred for the dark elves as he was.

  She stared at Alex's head. Did she still love him?

  Yes, and a part of her always would, but another part of her hated him for abandoning her when she needed him most, and yet another part was undecided. How many parts could a person have?

  It was two a.m. when they pulled off the broken highway and onto a path running through the trees. On their right was the Halfway River, near the rapids where it met the Peace River. Alex stopped the armored truck, parking it under trees where one of the Sanchez brothers stood waiting for him, beckoning him. The other brother knelt nearby, his sniper rifle strapped to his back and a submachine gun tight against his shoulder as he provided security. The second vehicle pulled up alongside the first, and everyone piled out. Something in the air felt wrong, as if the air was supercharged with mana. She put her worries down to nerves.

  Once again, she felt out of place as the others, moving with practiced ease, unrolled camouflage netting over the two trucks. Alex knelt, a military map open before him on the ground. The rest of the team joined him, leaving only the one Sanchez brother on sentry. Leela edged between Sammy and Anjie.

  The three dogs seemed agitated, unable to cease fidgeting, but maybe they just understood how dangerous this was. In many ways, animals were smarter than people.

  Everyone still wore their NVGs, and Alex looked like a weird four-eyed bug as he watched them, his finger on a bend in the river on the map. "Tracker shows the hellhound here, so this must be the camp."

  "Or the dart came loose," said Henry. "Could be a bust."

  Alex shook his head. "The tracker is still mobile, keeps coming back to this area. I'm thinking a pen or abattoir."

  "Abattoir," Sammy answered. "Same as the other two camps."

  "Abattoir?" asked Leela.

  "Hellhounds keep animal carcasses for weeks," Anjie answered. "They like 'em less stringy. Better eating, I guess."

  "Besides," continued Alex, cutting them off, "this is where I'd put a camp, right here with the river on three sides."

  "I concur," said Anjie. "You pick locations?"

  "Two," Alex said. "I may need to adjust once we're on target, but for now, wind forecast is six kilometers an hour, moving northeast with seventy-four percent humidity. Perfect for us."

  "God's work," said Henry, bobbing his head. "It's a sign."

  "Amen, brother," said Sammy.

  "Wait," said Leela. "What about the wind?"

  They all stared at her. Alex chewed on his upper lip for a few seconds. "No more questions, not out here. Best you just go along to get along for now. You'll understand later."

  "Fine." It wasn't fine, but she had forced herself on them and could only push so far.

  Alex climbed to his feet, folded the map, and shoved it in the cargo pocket of his combat pants. "All right, let's suit up. Mop two for now."

  Mop two?

  They broke apart and pulled gear from duffel bags in the trucks—dark-green coveralls, rubber boots, and gloves. Leela stood in place, confused. Alex motioned with his head for her to follow him to one of the duffel bags. She stood behind him as he knelt beside the bag and pulled out a coverall for her and handed it to her with a pair of black rubber boots and long rubber gloves that would reach her elbow. "These belonged to Bekka," he said. "She was your size. Put the suit on. The boots go over your combat boots like galoshes."

  She removed her rifle and tactical vest and placed them on the ground before shaking out the jumpsuit, noticing there were Velcro straps and zippers on the arms and legs and a single zipper running from the crotch to the hood. Another thick flap with Velcro strips covered the zipper so that once closed, it would cover the person. This is a chemical protection suit, she realized, sweat breaking out
over her face. "Alex, what…"

  "No questions."

  He jumped to his feet and rummaged in the rear cargo hatch, coming back a moment later with a bag that resembled a large purse with a belt and shoulder strap. He helped her climb into the overalls then strapped the ends of her ankles and wrists closed with the Velcro. She leaned against one of the large tires as she pulled the rubber boots over her combat boots. I'm going to make noise with these clunky things on, she ruminated, her worry eating at her. He handed her the bag and watched as she strapped it to her left hip. He reached over and pulled open a Velcro-closed flap on the side of the bag facing forward and shoved the gloves inside, wedging them behind a gas mask sitting ready for use. He closed the flap again. Finally, she put her tactical vest back on.

  "Jump in place," he whispered.

  She did, and he grunted in satisfaction.

  Dallas approached Alex, carrying a hard black plastic suitcase, the kind that gun nuts used to carry their weapons. He punched in a combo on the top of the case, and the locks snapped open. He raised the lid. Within, she saw that thick foam padding lined the interior, with cut-out slots for six wine bottle–sized metal canisters, but only two canisters remained. The other four slots sat empty. Dallas slipped his NVGs up atop his forehead then held a small penlight over the canisters, risking white light to inspect them and the strips of paper stuck inside the case. He looked up and met Alex's gaze, nodding, then he put his NVGs back on.

  She stared at the silver canisters, her heart pounding, unable to accept what she saw with her own eyes. Dallas gingerly removed both of the canisters, paired them with electronic timers the size of a Zippo lighter, and placed each canister and timer inside a padded carrying case with a sling. Dallas slung his case then handed the other to Alex.

  "My God," she whispered breathlessly, lifting her night vision devices atop her forehead and wiping the stinging sweat from her eyes. "You can't do this. It's obscene."

  "They're dark elves. We can't sneak up close enough on foot without them hearing us—or the hellhounds smelling us. It's the only way to stop them from killing more innocents… like Noah."

  "Don't do this in his name," she said, feeling like she would throw up.

  He turned on her, slipping his own NVGs onto his forehead. He gripped her shoulders with both hands, staring into her face. His eyes shone with obsession. For the first time ever, he frightened her. "You insisted on coming. I didn't want you here."

  "I… this isn't right."

  "It's how it has to be. If you can't cope, then you stay here."

  The others stared at them. Dallas slid back a step behind Alex.

  She shoved her NVGs back atop her face. "I'm coming."

  Alex sighed. "Stay close. I'll help you when it's time to put on the mask and gloves." He turned away.

  7

  Alex felt the heat of Leela's displeasure but ignored her. He couldn't doubt himself, not when they were so close to ending the Remnant threat in the North.

  He slung his assault rifle on his shoulder then did the same for the strap for the Cyclosarin canister, making sure the case hung clear of his weapon—or anything else that might bang against it. While he understood how well engineered the canister was, and that rough handling couldn't damage the seals, a more primal part of him knew if the seals leaked, they'd be dead in seconds. Cyclosarin was a nerve agent—five times more potent than Sarin, which was already plenty lethal. It inhibited the body's enzymes, assaulting the communications synapses to the brain, literally flipping the "off switch" for the glands and muscles. The effect sent organs into overdrive, slamming the victim into a breathless unconsciousness then death. It was odorless and colorless, and Cyclosarin's only limitation—or redeeming quality, depending on your point of view—was that it was short lasting.

  In theory.

  He took one of the two airbows and inserted an arrow into the weapon's barrel until it clicked in place. Then he carefully removed the plastic cover from the razor-sharp arrowhead—making damned certain he didn't touch the interior of the cover or the arrowhead. Batrachotoxin, a potent alkaloid poison produced by poison dart frogs, coated the edge. Even a grazing wound released enough neurotoxin to paralyze a full-grown man in heartbeats. Once, Alex had even seen a single arrow take down a troll mid-step. The air-powered crossbows were their go-to weapons of choice for killing sentries. Silencers were only silent in the movies, and given the dark elves' preternatural hearing, the rangers needed something whisper quiet. In addition, the airbows were so accurate with their 6x40mm mil-dot hunting scopes that within a hundred meters, Alex could group three arrows in a target the size of a dime, splitting the arrows Robin Hood–style. Sammy, almost as good a shot as Alex, took the second airbow.

  Ready now, Alex looked over the others. Each man and woman, including Leela, nodded when his gaze settled upon him or her. The three dogs were still uncharacteristically anxious, but when he pointed into the woods, Larry and Curly darted away, disappearing into the underbrush. Mo, as always, padded along at Alex's side. Larry and Curly scouted out the path ahead while Mo protected Alex.

  Alex and the others ghost-walked through the brush, placing their weight on their rear foot while setting the outer edge of their lead foot onto the ground before rolling it forward. Alex led, with Leela and the other rangers spread out farther back, moving in a single line, herringbone fashion with each man or woman watching a different arc. They kept to the river on their right, using its gurgling waters to mask their noise. At irregular intervals, Alex dropped onto one knee to listen. He closed his eyes and opened his mouth, a trick Leela had taught him to hear better. The forest was flush with wildlife but nothing he'd consider a threat, like the soft clink of dark elf or boggart chain mail armor. They could still always blunder into a grizzly bear, but he was far more worried about the Remnants. Grizzly bears didn't cast lightning bolts at you.

  They traveled a kilometer before they reached a steep ravine. Going around it would have taken too long, so Alex led them down its bank and across a thigh-high stream of ice-cold water. The wind shuddered through the branches as they climbed back out the other side, soaked and shivering.

  Once they had clambered out of the ravine again, he dropped and listened to his surroundings. He heard birds, squirrels, and small animals rustling through the brush, but not once did he hear the ubiquitous howling of a wolf pack, nor did he expect to. While the wolf population had surged following the Culling, wolves, like other predators, avoided hellhounds. Fire-breathing was a genetic advantage against which no Earth predator could compete. Except men, he mused, feeling the weight of the Cyclosarin canister against his hip.

  They took hours to cross the six kilometers of brush and approach the bend in the river where they suspected the Remnant camp to be, arriving around four a.m. But the timing was exactly right. Even dark elves had a twenty-four-hour circadian rhythm and would be in their deepest REM sleep cycle now, which was a fancy way of saying the camp would be fast asleep. He hoped.

  They were still over a kilometer from their target when the stench of dead flesh wafted toward them, so strong it turned his stomach. The abattoir. Hellhounds kept their kills grouped together in a mound, usually close to where they slept, but Alex and the other rangers had learned that because of the stench, the dark elves wouldn't tolerate an abattoir near their camps, forcing their beasts to store their prey at least a kilometer away. Hellhounds charred their prey before consuming them but only the outer layer of flesh, leaving everything beneath to rot. If the abattoir was here, the camp must be close. As the sickening smell grew stronger, Alex breathed through his mouth. He heard the angry buzzing of thousands of flies just before he saw it. Fifty yards to their right lay a heap of carcasses that reached his chest, dozens of animals—deer, foxes, caribou, and even a brown bear. Nothing was more disgusting in this new world than a hellhound abattoir.

  They circled the corpse hill, keeping upwind as they approached the river. They went more slowly now, knowing they were g
etting close to the camp. Alex dropped to a knee. There'd be a sentry post soon. There always was. In the glow of his NVGs, the forest was a nearly crystal-clear blend of shades of green, but he saw nothing moving. Dark elves saw much better than humans—and dark-elf mages cast a spell that gave them perfect vision—but the elves' other servants, the boggarts and trolls, saw no better than people, and boggarts saw poorly even in daylight.

  Alex remained in location for several minutes, his muscles stiffening, until Larry's large head appeared through the foliage ahead of them. The dog stared at Alex, his eyes glowing white-green in the NVGs. Then, when satisfied Alex was paying attention, Larry moved east toward the riverbank. Alex understood: a threat, likely a sentry post.

  Alex turned and tapped his finger against his rifle's magazine, getting the team's attention. When they were watching him, he used hand signals to point out the enemy presence to their front and tell them to stay in place. Then he motioned for Sammy to follow him with the other airbow—there were usually pairs of guards. Alex rose into a crouch and followed Larry east, skirting the sentry post. Leela and Mo came with them. He had expected Mo to tag along, but he hadn't expected Leela. She was better at stealth than he was, but it still bothered him.

  He'd have preferred she not come at all.

  He moved much slower now, keeping low. A carpet of dead pine needles, leaves, and twigs covered the forest floor. The earthy smell of decomposing leaves, scat, and rotting wood hung in the air.

  Alex dropped prone. Once again, he opened his mouth, his eyes closed, and listened to the night's sounds, the soft wind rustling the leaves, rodent claws scratching in the branches overhead—and his own breathing. This close to the river, there should be other animals coming to drink at night, but nothing was moving, which was unsurprising. Hellhounds might ignore squirrels, but a deer would be too tempting.