“You can thank me tomorrow,” Fitzy said, glancing briefly at Therese, “by stopping these sickening attempts at foreplay and actually putting in some work.”
CHAPTER XXIV: THE BODY
— Staff Sergeant Jim Horan, SOC Fire Team Bravo
Law Enforcement Support Element, Jacksonville, Florida
Britton refused to give up on Wavesign. He enlisted Therese’s help. “He might need a woman’s touch,” he mused. “Who knows? Maybe it’d break him loose. You raised the flag, and I know he likes you…”
Salamander insisted they stay for the day’s classes. “Never hurts to have a refresher.”
Wavesign, for his part, ignored them with studied effort. Britton might have pushed the issue, but Therese’s company mellowed him, and he sat at the back of the classroom, acutely aware that their knees were lightly touching and pretending not to notice.
They exited the schoolhouse, tired and cramped. They’d missed chow, but Salamander had ordered a small folding table set up in the mud, covered with brown paper lunch sacks. Wavesign left quickly and moved beyond their reach. Britton decided not to chase him. He waited as the rest of the No-No Crew passed, then tapped Therese on the shoulder. He grabbed a sack from the table and tossed it to her, motioning at the cold dirt.
“As comfortable as any spot in this pit,” he said. He slid down the building side, winced as a splinter dug through his shirt, and settled on the ground, grimacing.
Therese smiled. “Nice one,” she said, taking a step back and squatting beside him. “You always this smooth with the ladies?”
Britton shook his head. “That was actually pretty good for me.”
“Spend a lot of time by yourself, do you?” she asked, still smiling.
“Not really.” He quickly corrected himself as she arched an eyebrow. “I’m not bragging or anything. I just stuck to my guys a lot.”
“You miss them?”
Britton was silent for a moment. Remembering Cheatham’s grip on his arm.
Now Therese was quiet for a bit. “And…and no girl?”
“I never had a kid,” Britton said, knowing perfectly well that wasn’t what she meant but stalling for time to wrap his head around the question.
She scowled at him. “Never mind.”
“No, I didn’t have a girlfriend. There was someone on the base I was going to ask out, but…I just focused on work. I figured there’d always be time.”
Therese smiled ruefully. “I think you’ll find life on the FOB limits your romantic options.”
“…” Therese started to say.
A pillar of fire erupted just beyond the barricade wall. The siren began to wail in time with the pulsing recorded voice: “Take cover, take cover, take cover…”
“Got to love Goblin timing,” Britton muttered, jumping to his feet. “Don’t worry, it’ll be over in a sec—”
But the recording had been replaced by a live voice “Coven Four and Novice Del Aqua report to Trailer B-6 immediately for action stations. I say again, Coven Four and…”
“What the hell…” Therese started to say, but Britton had already grabbed her arm, his boots pounding the mud and out through the SASS gate, the guards moving to let him pass. After a few feet, Therese shook off his hand and matched his pace. Another fireball rose close by, the force of it casting chunks of chilly earth over the nearest barricade to rain down on them.
An electric cart was parked outside the trailer, the back heaped with tactical gear. Truelove, Downer, and Richardson were already being strapped in by a knot of harried-looking Goblin contractors. Their human minder beckoned to Britton and Therese, holding up helmets that were clearly the wrong size.
Fitzy intercepted Britton before he could take another step. His normally hard mouth quivered at the corners. He waved a picture in front of Britton’s face. “Get us here, Keystone. We need to be there right now.”
Britton seized the chief warrant officer’s wrist. “Hold it still, sir! I can’t see it with you waving it around!”
His stomach clenched as he expected Fitzy’s knee to impact it, but Fitzy said nothing and held still. The picture was a rough printout of a poorly lit room. Flat cement floor, dirty gray tile walls, low fluorescent lights. Construction sawhorses, plastic mop buckets, and barrier posts were heaped in a corner. Britton stared at it, trying to fix the details blurred by the low-quality print job. “Where is this, sir?”
“Just get us there!” Britton felt a helmet slam down on his head. He took a half step to the side as someone buckled a holster on his thigh.
“I can’t unless I have a better idea of where we’re going! You’ve got to give me something to work with, sir!”
Fitzy gritted his teeth and ground out his reply. “It’s a subway maintenance locker. New York City.”
Britton closed his eyes and pictured the image. He tried to conjure the sounds; the steady pounding of the train wheels and the click of heels on cement. He tried to imagine the sharp smell of ozone and garbage, of the sweat of many bodies in close proximity. He gathered the current and pushed it forward. When he opened his eyes, the gate shimmered before him, the rest of Shadow Coven already disappearing through it. He barely had time to see if he’d gotten the location right before Fitzy slammed a vest over his shoulders and pushed him hard, sending him stumbling through the gate.
Fitzy followed behind, then turned and beckoned behind him. A SOC Sorcerer, his body armor blazoned with the Suppressor’s symbol, ran along behind, sweating and out of breath. “I trust you remember Lieutenant Rampart?” Fitzy asked.
Britton stared for a moment. The Suppressor’s face was flushed with running, but his flattop haircut and broad shoulders jogged Britton’s memory. “You escorted me in, when I first came over.”
Rampart nodded, his cheeks rising slightly. “Chief Warrant Officer Fitzsimmons tells me you’ve seen the light. Glad to have you on board.”
The tiny space was crowded by the new arrivals, adding to the two dozen men already packing it. The majority were black-clad police officers in tactical gear that rivaled the Special Forces operators Britton had worked with before. Black balaclavas covered their faces, exposing only nervous eyes beneath the helmet rims. NYPD/ESU was blazoned across their body armor in subdued gray lettering. Two men in expensive suits stood apart from them, whispering in a language Britton didn’t understand. The cops and the suits formed a wide circle around a pile of bodies in the middle of the floor.
At least, Britton was fairly sure they were bodies.
They steamed, raw and red, twisted funnels of meat covered with scraps of human faces, shredded uniforms, plastic buttons. One of the dead’s bones had grown through his body, shaped into pointed barbs, cruel weapons turned against the flesh they once supported. One of the bodies had been twisted neatly into the exact shape of a ragged pretzel.
Britton gestured at a scrap of uniform in a camouflage pattern he didn’t recognize. “Sir, wha—”
“It’s Russian,” Fitzy said, eliciting glares from the two men in suits. “The Sahir aren’t the only liaisons we’ve got at the FOB. The Spetznaz Vedma are their Witch Corps.” He met the eyes of the men in the suits. “We’ve got some guys in Russia, too,” Fitzy went on, keeping eye contact. “A fine arrangement for the continued enhancement
