The Rogue Retrieval (18 page)

The chant fell apart as two of the robed magicians stumbled. The spell broke. All of the pressure abated. God, what a relief. He couldn't see most of faces under the hoods, but the frowns were easy enough to discern.

“I suspect that will be enough for now,” Moric said.

The council members returned to their seats. Some of them glanced back to look at him. Moric lingered long enough to share a private smile. “You've sparked some interest, I'll wager,” he said. “Don't squander it.”

Quinn tried to ignore the crowd and the sheer strangeness of the entire situation. They were marks, nothing more, an audience to be dazzled and entertained. So far they hadn't searched him; thank God for that. If they did, they'd find about half a million dollars of advanced equipment hidden about his body.

He couldn't quite duplicate what Moric had done with the circle speakerphone, but the comm units had a portable amplifier disguised as a metal amulet. What looked like flecks of obsidian were actually tiny solar cells. He'd kept it on his windowsill since arriving, and prayed that doing so had given it a full enough charge.

“Magicians of the Enclave,” he said, and his voice thrummed out of the speaker, startling those in the first few rows.

He took two breaths to steady himself. He had to do this perfectly. Otherwise, he'd never have a chance to learn the truth behind Alissian magic. When this job was over, that might be his key to success. The things he'd seen Moric do, and Jillaine, they were beyond any of the best illusions on Earth. He could write his own ticket back home, and make a fortune.

And it would also mean he was still alive.
Yet another bonus.

“I will need a volunteer,” Quinn said. He looked up at the stands. None of the council magicians stood, but others in attendance seemed to understand his request. A few raised their hands. Jillaine was one of those.

He knew better than to choose her. Moric was his only ally in the Enclave, and he was obviously protective of her. She was smart, too, and just as likely to sabotage his illusion as help it along. She was pretty and alluring, but he definitely shouldn't choose her.

He did anyway.

“How about this young lady right here?” he called.

Moric said something to her as she passed by him, on her way to where Quinn stood.

He'd been practicing a little monologue, but he watched the way she walked toward him—­taking little steps on her toes, like a dancer—­and the words nearly left him. Damn, she looked incredible. How had he wanted to start it? He had a moment of panic, and then it came. Landor.

“As Moric said, I came from the north of Landor,” he said. “A cold place. A hard place, as anyone from there can tell you.” There was truth to that. The ­people in Quinn's supposed home village worked the iron mines in the foothills of the nearby mountains. That was a dangerous career in modern times, let alone a world without electricity. He even saw a few nod, and wondered for a moment if there were others from that region here now.

If so, then they'll love this next bit. . .

“There's a saying about the mountains, back home,” Quinn said. The last word had a sort of echo to it.
Home, home.
“They take life and youth, but give two things in return.”

Jillaine reached him. He made a fist and wrapped her hands around it. She smiled faintly. He turned her so that everyone could see them both. She
did
smell like roses. And that couldn't be magic, either, because it was forbidden here.

Stop thinking about how good she smells.

“Ready?” he asked her softly.

She nodded.

He looked back to the crowd, raised his voice. “Iron. And snow.”

With that, he triggered the microfan at his wrist. A narrow stream of white stuff fountained from his hands where Jillaine held them.

“Come on,” Quinn muttered. Where was the breeze? The damn thing had died again. He needed it desperately. Just the tiniest stirring of air. That's all he asked for. Just a gentle little breeze—­yes! There it was. And the cool on the back of his neck told him the direction would be perfect.

He'd never done this trick outside before, and the compressed foam—­a proprietary company material used by ski resorts—­handled well in the humid air. The particles expanded to nearly a hundred times their compressed volume, almost weightless as they fluttered in the humid air. And with the breeze, thank God for that, the opaque cloud spread far and wide over the stands. A blizzard for an island that—­unless Quinn missed his guess—­had never seen snow before. The crowd uttered a collective gasp.

The entire island was filled with magicians; that worked to his advantage. They saw what they wanted to see.

Only Jillaine seemed underwhelmed. She let her hands fall, stared at him for a long minute, and walked away. Not back to her seat, but out of the amphitheater. He had the weirdest flashback then, to the moment those talent scouts had walked out of the casino the night he'd met Kiara and Logan. Not much he could do about it now, though.

A thrilled audience had a certain sound to it, a certain
feel
of palpable energy. This crowd had it. Some whistled in appreciation; others cheered. The stands hummed with excitement.

Quinn stood watching them, keeping his face neutral. He had to admit, the effect was incredibly realistic. A few of the robed council magicians held out their hands to catch the delicate flakes. Even before Moric caught his eye and gave him the slightest of nods, Quinn knew he had them.

He was in.

Then the magician in purple, the one called Sella, appeared in front of him. Her eyes were dark as obsidian, and it was all he could do not to take a step back.

“Interesting performance,” she said.

He tried his best grin on her. “Did you like it?”

“Not particularly.”

“Oh.”

“Perhaps you could do another. Right here, right now.”

He had a deck of cards in one pocket, and a ­couple of coins that might serve. But something told him sleight of hand wasn't the right way to play this. He shook his head.

“I didn't think so.”

“It's not that I don't want to,” Quinn said. “It just doesn't come easy.”

She looked at him a long while, her face as unreadable as a stone. The orbit of white hair around her head was distracting. He tried not to stare at it.

“I teach a class for students who have difficulty accessing their magic. An hour after midday. Starting tomorrow, you will be there.”

“I will be there?” Quinn asked.

“You will be there,” Sella said.

“I look forward to it.”

 

“We've found few veins of precious metals. Iron is plentiful, as is copper. The mines for such metals are carefully watched and protected.”

—­
R
.
H
OLT
,
“B
RIEF
S
UMMARY OF
A
LISSIAN
N
ATURAL
R
ES
OURCES
”

CHAPTER 16

AMBUSH

C
aralis represented a unique political structure in Alissia, a feudal monarchy centered around agriculture. The hilly country was well-­suited to their orchards and vineyards. Apples, berries, grapes, and other sweet fruits were the principal crops produced. Not that the ­people of Caralis subsisted on these. Virtually all fruits were funneled to the central province, where they were fermented to make the monarchy's single export.

Caralissian wine.

The vintners of Caralis had a method for fermentation that impressed even modern winemaking experts. The company had sent samples to a number of these—­through third-­party intermediates—­for evaluation. The cover story had been one of a guy brewing wine in his garage, who wanted to know if it was any good.

Half of the winemakers came back with a job offer.

Good wine meant good trade, which in turn meant some of the best roads in Alissia. Finally, Logan had a chance to see what the horses could really do. They were four days out of Valteron when the drug's effects began to wear off. The veterinary team had warned about this—­the animals were developing a tolerance. Logan gave the next dose two hours earlier than expected, just before crossing into Caralis.

As Chaudri had said, the country was well into harvest season, so the Caralissian workers hardly noticed as they thundered past down the hard-­packed dirt roads. The horses found a groove on the smooth, flat surface. It was like they'd been waiting for it. Logan grew up around horses and he'd been riding as long as he could remember. It was part of why he'd made the team for the early Alissian missions. Horsemanship was a dying art in the modern world. Here, it was thriving.

It was still hard to believe that he'd landed this gig. That he'd gotten a glimpse of this world that CASE Global seemed determined to hide from the rest of humanity. If the company got serious about establishing a military presence here, it would require a real paradigm shift in their recruitment program.

Maybe they knew that. Maybe that's why the lieutenant recruited me in the first place.

He tried not to dwell on that, though. His job in the here and now was to keep everyone safe. The only time they got any notice from the locals was when they encountered a wine caravan. Ten wagons, each pulled by a pair of draft horses. These were hardly visible behind the mounted riders that escorted them, who happened to be some of the hardest mercenaries that Caralissian gold could buy. They looked up at the sound of the approaching horses. Hands went to sword hilts. Two of the men reached down into the nearest wagons, probably for spears or loaded crossbows.

“Caravan coming at us,” Logan warned over the comm link. He slowed his mount and moved to the side. “Keep your hands visible, no sudden moves.”

The mercenaries knew their business—­they only got paid if the shipment arrived safely. Their casual positions only
looked
haphazard. If Logan were to attack, three or four would engage him from multiple angles. An equal number would stay with the wagons. And a few would ride for the nearest Caralissian outpost for reinforcements. Bandits tried raiding wine caravans from time to time. Some even got hold of a cask or two, but they rarely made it far enough to enjoy a taste.

The caravan moved on, the rear riders keeping their eyes on Logan and the other two the entire time.

T
hey were half a day's ride from the Landorian border when they lost contact with Bravo Team. It couldn't have come at a worse time. Bravo had tracked the infiltrators halfway across the Alissian continent, and were only just closing in enough to learn about them. It was a small group, four or five men at the most. They were on their third set of stolen Alissian horses. Judging by the tracks, these were starting to falter as the others had. South Landor was rugged, sparsely populated country. There weren't any horses to steal.

Where they were headed, and why they'd changed direction a ­couple of weeks ago, remained a mystery.

They almost certainly knew they were being followed. The first time Bravo Team had made visual contact, the raiders were topping a distant ridge just after sunrise. It was a tactical blunder; now Bravo Team knew their bearing and location. A quick look at the parchmap for this region said that they could be intercepted by following a ravine northeast. They tried it, leading the horses and moving double time. Got to the far end, though, and found no infiltrators.

It had been a ruse, and put them half a day farther behind.

Bravo was quiet for a while after that. They were riding hard, trying to make up ground. Then communication broke off entirely. Kiara tried to raise them, but got no reply.

“Any luck?” Logan asked, after she'd tried a third time.

“No,” she said.

“When were they due to check in?”

“Two hours ago.”

“Maybe they went radio quiet.”

“Do you think that's what happened?”

He had been on too many missions to be that naive. “Not really.”

They rode for another hour. The terrain flattened here in the extreme north of Caralis, and rose steadily toward the Landorian plateau. Kiara still couldn't raise Bravo Team. “Something's wrong,” she said.

Logan couldn't argue with her.

Her communicator beeped with an incoming. “Command hasn't heard from them, either. They're sending the communications log.”

Just ahead, the hard-­packed dirt road running north into Landor widened. They reined in here so that they wouldn't block the way; another wine caravan might suspect an ambush. On the east and west were the last of the Caralissian orchards. The trees were mostly bare, as the plums and apples that once decorated them were likely already undergoing the fermentation process.

Chaudri held the reins of the horses while Logan and Kiara spread out their scale map of Alissia. They plotted the bearing and distance of Bravo Team's transmissions, both from Command and their own communicators. The intersection of these vectors marked Bravo's actual route as they pursued the infiltrators southeast from the gateway. It was more or less a straight line of travel—­this made Logan frown.

“I know that frown,” Kiara said. “What's wrong?”

“It's just not what I'd do, if I were the raiding party. A straight line of flight is too easy to follow.”

“They've doubled back a few times. Laid some false trails,” Kiara said. “Even pulled that head-­fake and gained half a day on Bravo.”

“Yeah. They're good. That's why their route now bothers me. It's like they're trying to seem predictable. If it were me, I'd be worried about the exact vise we're trying to put them in.”

“If you'd done as they had, breached a portal into a completely new area, what would you do?”

“Evade, survive, evaluate. The mission's not about sabotage, or they'd have just destroyed the gateway. They had to have some idea of what the gateway did. They're here for the intel.”

“Doesn't do them much good, unless they can report back. The company's reasonably certain the signal isn't coming through, but we don't want them back near the gate.”

Logan cursed.
Why didn't I see this before?
“It's the perfect time to double back. Maybe that's why we haven't heard.”

Kiara took a measurement and pointed at a spot in southern Landor. “They should be somewhere in this region.”

“That's about six days from here, if we push it.”

“We're going to push it. And I hope you're wrong.” She rolled up the map and took her reins back from Chaudri. They mounted.

“Me, too,” Logan said. But he doubted that he was.

T
his time they had to drug the horses four hours ahead of schedule. Logan began to see the toll that this ride was taking on them. Their legs shook with muscle fatigue, and their coats were matted down with sweat. They walked with the nervous excitement of racehorses after a derby.

“We're killing the horses,” he told Kiara when they'd stopped to water the panting animals. “They won't hold up much longer.”

She nodded slightly, but didn't tell him to lessen the pace. There was still no word from Bravo Team.

Chaudri hadn't complained; she knew the urgency of the situation. Even so, worry lined her face as she examined her mare. She spoke quietly to the animal, and slipped her an apple when she thought Logan wasn't looking. The animals weren't supposed to eat native flora, but there was no point in reminding her of that. Might as well try telling the horses when and where to crap.

“One more push should have us on Bravo's last known location,” Kiara said. “Mount up.”

They complied wearily. Landor's roads weren't quite as nice as the Caralissian ones, but at least the terrain was relatively steady. Soon the ground began to rise more sharply, though, as they approached the southern edge of the Landorian plateau. Two hours later, Kiara picked up a signal on the isotope scanner.

“One of ours on the scope,” she said.

“How far?” Logan asked.

“Two kilometers, give or take.”

Logan loosened his sword in its scabbard. He was more worried than he was willing to admit. Bravo Team was good. They'd trained hard, and they knew the terrain well. But they'd also pursued four or five men the company knew nothing about, except that they didn't belong in Alissia. He had the lead, with Chaudri bringing up the rear. Kiara rode in the middle, mostly focused on the isotope scanner.

It dawned on him that it was odd that they only had one signal; Bravo Team should have stayed together.
I'm liking this less and less.

“Logan,” Kiara called suddenly. The terrain had just leveled off; they'd gained the edge of the Landorian plateau. She lifted the isotope scanner to swing it back and forth. She pointed left off of the road. “There.”

Rocky terrain dotted with scrub brush didn't seem ideal for his horse. Drug-­induced euphoria or not, the mare looked like she might collapse where she stood. Logan dismounted, unlacing his crossbow. He'd gotten to bring this murder-­piece only after Bradley proved a surprising competence with the bow. That weapon had a range of sixty, eighty yards. This one could flat-­shoot a hundred yards with precise accuracy. It might as well have been a gun.

The tech team hadn't skimped on craftsmanship, either. Alissians seemed to prefer the simple longbow. The crossbows here were masterpieces of wood and metal; most were owned by wealthy nobles and used for sport. Logan liked the feel of the wooden stock. He could hide it under a table or carry it beneath a long cloak. It was powerful, deadly, and he could crank it back in twelve seconds.

He worked slowly through the brush, placing each foot carefully. Kiara and Chaudri were back-­to-­back, watching the road, with the extra horses between them. She tracked his progress on the scope. “Another ten meters.”

Logan saw him then, a crumpled form at the base of a large boulder.

“Man down,” he whispered. “Stand by while I sweep the area.”

He raised the crossbow and sidestepped, working around the boulder. This was a perfect situation for a trap, and one he'd seen before in jungle countries, Earth-­side: position an enemy soldier—­wounded or dead—­in plain view, and pick off his comrades when they came for him.

That didn't seem to be the case today.

“All clear,” he said. He approached the fallen man, trying to ignore the cold tightness in his gut. “Ah, O'Toole. Damn it.”

Charles O'Toole was the youngest member of Bravo Team. Twenty-­six, with two tours in the Middle East under his belt when he came to work for the company. He loved fishing; the facility's location in the South Pacific had been what sealed the deal.

Bravo's tech specialist still clutched the portable comm unit in one hand. The thing was in pieces, and with a small screwdriver on the ground nearby, it looked like he'd been trying to make some repairs. That began to explain why Bravo had been out of touch. Logan didn't need to check the man's pulse. At least it had been quick. He knelt close to him and got a look at the wound. “Lieutenant, you'll want to see this.”

“Already behind you, Logan,” she said. She had her crossbow out and was covering his six. He hadn't heard her approach at all.

She knelt beside him. “Christ, that's a gunshot wound.” He saw Chaudri come into the clearing behind her, leading the horses.

O'Toole used to tinker with ham radios, back on the island. Gods, the kid could get any scrap of electronics to work. No. He couldn't think about that now. Logan crouched beside Kiara. “Double tap, small caliber,” he said. “Might be an MP5.”

“How would that have gotten past the gate security?”

“Don't know. How did they even know about it in the first place? None of this makes sense.”

“Maybe it's been a little bit off since Holt disabled it,” Chaudri suggested.

She shook her head, either in disagreement or because she didn't like what it implied. “Fully automatic weapons on this side of the gateway. God help us.”

“His mount's gone, too,” Logan said.

“Maybe the rest of the team took it.”

“Let's hope so.” But it was clear from her tone—­and the lack of signals on the isotope reader—­that she didn't really believe it.

“Think I might be able to pick up their trail, at least,” Logan said.

Business first, though.

He went to a packhorse for the shovels, and then he and Chaudri dug a shallow grave. They laid O'Toole into it. Logan said a quiet prayer. They buried him and piled rocks over the grave. An hour lost, but none of them suggested leaving him.