Shadow Ops: Control Point

But Downer’s hackles were up. “What, then?”

“Nothing.” He swallowed hard, trying to suck down the simmering resentment. It’s not her fault. Don’t take it out on her. But he saw her as she was — completely sold on the SOC’s bill of goods. A little while ago, you were running. There’s no zealot like a new convert. The thought infuriated him. She didn’t care what she belonged to so long as she belonged somewhere. Are you so different?

“Tell me,” she demanded, “or else get over yourself and apologize to Rictus.”

“Did you miss the screaming last night? Am I the only person on earth who heard it?”

Truelove looked at his feet. Downer’s face fell. “That’s not our business.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Britton asked. “It’s not only our business. It’s our fault!”

“You don’t know what happened,” she said, shaking her head.

“No, you’re right, I don’t know what happened. But I’m not retarded, so I can hazard a fucking guess. And, surprise, surprise! Fitzy had me prep for our next op.”

Downer’s anger vanished. She pressed forward, Truelove and Richards coming with her. “Seriously? What was it? When do we go? What are we doing?”

“That’s what you care about?” Britton asked. “Never mind the screams in the night. What’s our next op?”

“Damned right that’s what I care about!” Downer said. “What is it?”

He shook his head. “It’s…forget it. Fitzy probably doesn’t want you to know.”

“Fuck that! You can’t pull that crap! You have to tell us now.” She tugged on his arm.

He jerked his arm away, standing. Downer leapt back, frowning.

“Don’t pretend you don’t know! It’s fucking Mescalero, all right?” he said. “Are you happy now?”

“What, the reservation again?” Richards asked.

Britton nodded. “Yeah. I recognized that…casino or resort or whatever. You know, the one from the news.”

“I knew it! That’s Apache Selfer HQ!” Downer jumped for joy. “Holy crap! Chatto talked! He rolled over and gave them up!”

Britton snarled. “Are you kidding me? Do you realize what they did to him to get him to talk? You were crowing about protecting your country. You went on and on about narcoterrorists or pirates or whatever bullshit you were into.”

She looked at him, uncomprehending.

“These are Americans!” he raged. “This is our own country! We’re not going to China or Somalia, you idiot! We’re going to New Mexico! They tortured that guy all night, and we lay there right next to it, and we didn’t do anything!”

Downer shook her head. “Sometimes you have to break eggs to make an omelet. Did you forget the videos? They’re Selfers…”

“So were you just five damned minutes ago! And those videos are bullshit! Half the people we took out going after Chatto were girls! Little fucking girls!” Britton shouted, taking a step forward. Richards put a hand on his chest, and Britton slapped it away, sending him backward into Truelove. Both sprawled against the bar.

An instant later, the mud floor rose up into a fist that gripped Britton’s throat.

“Don’t,” Richards said, leaning against the bar. “Not another step.”

Britton opened a small gate, severing the fist at the wrist. The dirt fingers fell away from his neck. Then Britton felt his magic roll back, and he turned to Downer.

“That’s right,” she said. “You think you’re such hot shit because Portamancy is so rare? Without it, you’re just a bruiser. And there are three of us. We can all Suppress now.”

A little girl, a pasty nerd, and a doughy older man. Britton thought they’d need three more if they wanted to take him on. An instant later, he regretted that thought. As badly as the anger choked him, what was he going to do? Pummel a little girl because she was doing as she was told? Because she’d found the home he wanted for himself? The SOC wasn’t going to make him kill his own countrymen. But neither was it going to make him swat little girls.

“Forget this,” he said, turning to the door. “You can go rampaging through a reservation if you want. This isn’t what I signed up for.” And just what the hell do you think they’ll say? “Oh, that’s fine, Oscar. You can sit this one out. Maybe you’d prefer some other missions that you find more personally agreeable.” They’ll pop that cork in your chest, or you’ll wind up in a blue hospital gown like Billy.

He hauled open the door just as Downer fired back a retort, but Britton didn’t hear it; his attention was completely fixed on the scene outside.

Fitzy knelt over Marty, who sprawled in the mud that had frozen hard in the cold air. The chief warrant officer’s fist impacted the Goblin’s oversized head again and again, sending it bouncing off the ground. Marty’s shoulders were limp, his eyes shut. His mouth trickled blood.

Behind Fitzy, two MPs stood impassively, carbines cradled in the crooks of their arms.

Fitzy snarled, incoherent words punctuated each blow. His face was a shade of purple visible even in the darkness.

And then Britton’s legs were moving.

Behind him, Truelove shouted a warning, but Britton was already throwing his shoulder into Fitzy, knocking the Master Suppressor off Marty’s chest and sending him sprawling. Britton could smell the whiskey even from that distance. The MPs started forward, noted the Shadow Coven uniform, and paused.

“What the hell are you doing?” Britton shrieked at Fitzy, who had begun to scramble to his feet. He knelt at Marty’s side, chafing the Goblin’s wrists. “Marty! Are you okay? Marty!” The creature stirred weakly, groaning.

Britton looked up just as Fitzy’s boot swung toward him. It was too late to dodge, but he managed to catch the blow mostly on his neck and shoulder. He launched over Marty and skinned his hands, choking on the dust kicked up by the impact.

“I told you he wasn’t supposed to drink with you,” Fitzy said through clenched teeth. “This little fucker was on his way here from the cash. Not sure what it is you people don’t understand about orders, but we’re going to get that straightened out right now.” He started toward Britton, who rose to his feet.

Out of the corner of his eye, Britton spotted Truelove dragging Marty out of the way. The MPs looked on, amused.

“You’re going to beat him to death for trying to have a drink with his friends?” Britton raged.

“No, I’m going to beat him to death for eating the eyes out of the still-warm corpse of an American soldier!” Fitzy hissed. “And when I’m done, I’m going to teach you some manners.”

He turned toward Truelove. “Get the hell away from him, needledick. He’s got dues to pay.”

Truelove dropped Marty and scrambled backward on his skinny buttocks. “Sir, it’s a custom! They do it to honor their dead!”

The wheels clicked in Britton’s mind. He remembered the young specialist’s burned body in the cash, Therese standing by. Lenko must have died. Oh God, Marty.

“Good,” Fitzy said, reaching down to grab Marty’s ankle. “You love them so much. You can eat this piece of crap’s eyes right after I kill him.”

And then he was sputtering, with Britton’s arm locked around his neck. He punched Fitzy hard in the kidney, and the chief warrant officer dropped Marty, grunting.

“You’ll have to kill me first,” Britton whispered in his ear, then he pivoted his hip, slamming Fitzy face-first into the dirt.

The chief warrant officer lay there for a moment, stunned. The rest of Shadow Coven stood openmouthed. The MPs started forward, but Fitzy began to rise to his hands and knees. He waved a hand at them, and they stopped, looking askance.

Fitzy slowly got to his feet, shaking his head. He spit out a tooth, a trail of blood making its way slowly down his cheek. The face above it was scraped raw, mud caking the wound. One eye was already beginning to swell shut.

“If that’s what you want,” he whispered, “who am I to deny you?”

He spread his hands, and Britton felt the Suppression take hold as Fitzy started forward. Rage countered the alcohol, making him incredibly fast. He threw a jab at Britton’s face and followed with a kick as soon as Britton had