Arcadian Genesis

search. He put his finger to his ear again. ‘Party’s over; whoever was here has long gone.’

Bronson’s reply was immediate. ‘Pull back.’

Alex lowered his gun. Stozer appeared beside him and made a brief cutting motion across her throat — also nothing.

Singer was still kneeling over the kid. Perhaps he reminded him of his own son. He crossed himself and his lips moved in a silent prayer. Alex shook his head. The man definitely needed to get out of the unit; he had too much to lose.

Stozer holstered her weapon and shrugged. Alex was about to call the team to order when he saw Singer reach down and turn the boy… just a fraction, perhaps just to see his face, who knows… but it was enough.

Alex barely had time to yell: ‘Stop —!’

The hook pinned into the flesh of the boy’s cheek pulled tight on its wire thread. The high-energy explosion that followed carried enough percussive power to blow out every window, half of the walls, and lift the roof right off the old house. Alex found himself in the side yard, with Stozer sprawled beside him. She spat out blood, but got up with her gun leveled. Their suits were tough enough to absorb most of the impact, but they’d be covered in bruises for weeks.

Alex worked his jaw, feeling rather than hearing a ringing in his ears. He rushed back into the smoking ruins. Singer’s legs stuck out from under a pile of rubble, and Alex pushed aside the broken planks of wood that covered his upper body.

‘Ah shit.’ The body was missing its head — the only part of Singer not protected by the armored suit.

He mouthed the words: ‘Singer down — place was fucking booby trapped.’ With his ears ringing, he wouldn’t be able to hear Bronson’s reply either, but didn’t really want to. He could guess what it would be: you took them in; it was your job to bring them all out. He should have guessed they’d set a trap for them. He knew Singer had a kid, and that gave the man a blind spot. He’d walked them right into it.

He switched the comm. off.

Blinding anger welled up inside him. Stozer grabbed his arm and Alex pulled it away so forcefully she took a step back. Taking a deep breath, he held up his hands to show he was okay. He looked back down at the headless body.

‘Singer shouldn’t have come — he fucked up and now he’s lost everything. He should have quit sooner. D’you think his kid’s going to be proud?’

Stozer frowned. ‘Would you quit? Would it be that easy? We’re not in some sort of pay-by-the-month social club, Alex. You know that.’ She stepped in closer to him.

‘I reckon if I had something important to quit for.’ Alex thought of his own father and gritted his teeth. One minute we’re all happy family and the next Mom’s so broken down she won’t even talk about it. His face was blank. ‘Yeah, I could quit.’

Stozer gripped his arm. ‘Let’s make ’em pay. C’mon.’

He nodded and knelt beside the body, sliding back a panel on Bill Singer’s chest and entering a string of numbers into the small keypad. Immediately the suit began to smoke. Its camouflage effect ceased and the flesh inside began to shrivel.

Alex stood and turned without a word, kicking a hanging board out of his path — all reason for stealth having been ripped away. Stozer waited for him.

‘Let’s go.’

* * *

Bronson withdrew them a mile to the south, keeping them running at a solid pace, before raising a hand and pulling them into a tight circle. His HAWCs’ faces still showed commitment, impatience and plenty of anger, but no lack of clarity or frustration. Good, he thought.

When they first regrouped, he had spoken a few words for Bill Singer. Was a good man, was about all he said. There’d be time for eulogies later. They all knew they needed to stay focused or they’d all end up anonymous bodies on some deserted Chechen road.

He looked at Alex Hunter. His second in command was staring at the frozen soil; Bronson could tell he was still seething inside. Hunter was smart, unparalleled in combat, and had enough guts for ten HAWCs, but there was something inside him that was a little too turbulent. The man couldn’t let go. In the HAWCs you had to be cool and clinical, not some bloody avenging angel. He’d put it in his report and let Hammerson have a think about it when they got back.

The packages were still in play, but now it seemed it might take a firefight to retrieve them. It also meant they were potentially a step behind the GRU. Tough bastards, but he knew they could go through them if need be. They’d taken a dent, but they were still fully functional. He looked at each of the HAWCs in turn as he spoke.

‘Listen up, people: the torture means they were seeking answers in a hurry. Means when the bad guys entered the property, they did not find what they were looking for. Package is still in play; mission is still go.’

The team nodded.

Bronson placed a small electronic tablet against a tree at head height and opened its map of the area, pulling the image back to a higher orbit.

‘This is where we are. Now, if I was Dr. Khamid, on the run and scared, where would I go?’ Bronson used a finger to move the map image to the left, and then drilled down on magnification. ‘I’d go home, of course.’

Bronson used two fingers to open the image. A town even smaller than Urus-Martan was displayed. He tapped it and turned.

‘Katyr-Yurt — about ten miles west-northwest, and still four hours until sunup. Let’s move, double time.’

* * *

Denichen Khamid lay flat under an oily canvas sheet in the back of the truck. The old Kamaz bounced over ruts and fissures in a road that was more a river of shallow mud.

Yuri, the truck’s driver, made a guttural sound in the back of his throat loud enough for it to carry through the open window — it was not one Khamid wanted to hear. It meant he had either spilled his vodka or there was trouble. A whisper from the cabin resolved the question.

‘Roadblock — Russian.’

Khamid’s stomach fluttered with fear and he tried to make himself as small as humanly possible.

The old truck whined to a halt and a barking voice ordered Yuri from the cabin. Khamid lifted one edge of the canvas just a fraction. He saw two young Russian soldiers walk Yuri around the front of the truck and then came the impatient click of fingers followed by a single word — identifikacija — they wanted his papers.

Yuri stepped back, felt in his pockets and pulled his wallet, making a show of dropping it. Khamid knew what he was doing — giving him a few extra moments. He slid out the back of the old flatbed and crabbed his way into the bushes beside the rutted road. Slipping over a small barrier of built-up branches and dirty snow, he rolled down the small embankment on the other side. He guessed he was still a few miles out from Katyr-Yurt, but as long as heavy snow didn’t start to fall, or a pack of wolves didn’t take an interest in him, or if he didn’t get hopelessly lost, he might just survive.

He hadn’t thought through a long-term plan, but knew that as long as he had the disk, the Americans would come for him. He just needed to make sure he stayed alive long enough to make contact. They will come, they will come — his repeated thought was becoming more like a prayer.

He got to his feet beside the trunk of a tree frosted with snow, and paused to get his bearings. He looked up: no stars or moon — good for hiding, but he would have liked just a few stars to guide him.

‘And now we walk,’ he whispered to himself, confident if he kept in line with the old road, he should make it to the village by morning.

Khamid stepped out from behind the tree, and only took a single step before a blow to the back of his head made him finally see the stars he had missed. Everything went black.

* * *

Khamid was tied to a chair. The Russian captain stared into his face as he went through his pockets.

‘Did you know you speak when you sleep?’ He grinned and tilted his head as though expecting an answer. He went back to his search. ‘Your language is good, but your accent… I think you are not really from here… Perhaps