Enemy in the Dark (17 page)

The two men stared silently at each other for a long while. Finally, Tragonis spoke. “Very well, Lord Ka'al. The rent will be five hundred thousand crowns annually, calculated on the Galvanus Prime calendar.” He paused. “And one hundred thousand soldiers will be permanently deployed on Kalishar to aid in the defense of the planet. The empire will pay these forces, but you shall be responsible for billeting and provisions. Agreed?”

Florin nodded slowly.
It
'
s the best deal I
'
m going to get. Push harder, and I will begin to make an enemy of this man.

Or
more
of an enemy, that is.

“We are agreed, Lord Tragonis.”

“Maintain position. Minimum power.” Kandros was frustrated. He'd been chasing
Wolf
'
s Claw
across half the Far Stars, waiting for the right moment to strike.
Iron Wind
was a good ship, but he doubted she could take the
Claw
in a straight-up fight. Blackhawk did a good job of hiding his vessel's true capabilities, but word still got out, at least among the strange community of smugglers and mercenaries prowling around the fringes of the Far Stars. There weren't a lot of specifics, but the whispered warnings were all the same:

Stay away from the
Claw
.

Kandros would have been happy to steer clear of Blackhawk's ship. He didn't need to be told that Blackhawk was dangerous.

But Blackhawk had finally pissed someone off enough to put a truly huge price on his head—and for a million crowns, Kandros was prepared to match wits with the captain of
Wolf's Claw
.

Starn Quintus turned and looked back toward the command station. “Yes, Captain. We can remain on life support only for another ten hours. Then we'll have to engage the positioning jets to reestablish our orbit.”
Iron Wind
was tucked in next to a large asteroid, deep in the fringes of the Nordlingen system. They'd managed to drop a couple scanner buoys closer in toward the planet, and they were waiting to pick up
Wolf's Claw
when it lifted off.

It was a dangerous place to be. The Celtiborians had
invaded Nordlingen, and their naval forces were all over the system. Kandros had intended to follow Blackhawk right down to the planet's surface, but blasting through the Celtiborian fleet wasn't an option. And there were the thousands of soldiers down on the surface. Blackhawk would be right in the middle of the Celtiborian army.

Not an ideal setup for an assassination.

“Just keep a watch on the scanner buoys.” The Nordlingener navy had consisted of a few rust buckets, secondhand junkers purchased from other worlds taking them out of service. They were hardly up to the task of protecting the planet's shipping from pirates, and the Celtiborians had destroyed two in the first moments of entering the system, and compelled the others to surrender. Kandros knew he was lucky. If the invaders had been more concerned about the defending navy, they would have conducted a thorough search of the system, and they'd have discovered his scanning devices.

But they hadn
'
t.
And we
'
re far enough out,
Kandros thought,
that even if the Celtiborians discover us, or pick up the scanner buoys, we
'
ll have plenty of time to jump.
That was the last thing he wanted to do, though, because then he
'
d lose Blackhawk
'
s trail
.

“Yes, Captain.” Quintus stared back at his scope. “As long as the Celtiborians don't find those scanners, we'll pick up
Wolf
'
s Claw
when she lifts off. Don't worry about that.”

“I worry about everything, Starn. Don't underestimate Arkarin Blackhawk, or anyone on his crew. This is the toughest mission we've ever had, and one mistake could send us all to hell in a hurry.”

And yet, even as he said it, Kandros stared at the system plot on the main display and his thoughts drifted.
This is the
crowning moment of my career. It will be my greatest achievement. Killing Arkarin Blackhawk.

He got up slowly. “I'm going to my quarters, Starn. Call me if anything changes.” He walked slowly across the cramped bridge toward his quarters, his mind racing.
What are you up to, Blackhawk? Where are you going next?

“THE TWENTY-SEVENTH REGIMENT IS TO ADVANCE.” RAFAELUS
DeMark stood in the command post watching the reports streaming in from the front. The battle had been raging for fourteen hours, and there was fierce fighting along a thirty-kilometer line. He'd been planning to launch the decisive push in another week, when the newest group of reinforcements arrived. But four regiments from Rykara had landed right after
Wolf
'
s Claw
, and that gave him enough force to push for all-out victory.

At least then my soldiers' lives will be spent for more than just a distraction.

DeMark was a hardened veteran, and when he made a decision, he stuck with it, whatever it took. Still, when he'd seen the first casualty reports, he came close to doubting himself. Had
he moved too soon? Were his forces strong enough to attack so aggressively? Perhaps he should have launched smaller spoiling attacks to give Blackhawk his diversion and waited until he had more troops to advance across the line.

Well, we
'
re all in now. No more second-guessing. Now I just need to make sure those boys on the line have what they need to win.

“Colonel Martine reports his forces are in place and moving forward.” Captain Varne had been DeMark's aide for almost five years, ever since the then-colonel DeMark had commanded a single regiment in the polar wastes of Celtiboria's deep southern continent.

“Very well.” DeMark had nothing else to say. He knew he was sending those troops into a meat grinder. But there was no choice. Lucerne had dispatched him to Nordlingen to bring the planet into the confederation, and that's exactly what he was going to do.

The Twenty-Seventh was a crack unit, but it was under strength. It was one of the four regiments transferred from Rykara, and its soldiers had already been through one brutal campaign. They deserved a trip home and a long rest, but the demands of war were seldom fair.

“Sir, we're receiving a flash signal from
Wolf
'
s Claw
.” Varne turned and looked over at his commanding officer. “They're in position over the palace, apparently undetected.” He paused, glancing back at his screen. “They're going in now, sir.”

DeMark nodded. “Thank you, Captain.”

He sat quietly, losing himself in his thoughts. He'd known Blackhawk a long time, and he had memories of the
Claw'
s captain visiting Celtiboria as far back as his days as a junior officer. The mysterious adventurer had been a close friend of Marshal Lucerne for as long as he could remember, and he knew Black
hawk had completed more than a few missions for Celtiboria's leader. Indeed, he was privy to the details of a few of them, and one thing was for sure: Arkarin Blackhawk and his crew were uniquely talented and capable. The operations Blackhawk had conducted for Lucerne had been difficult and dangerous and, as far as DeMark could recall, the captain and his crew had successfully completed them all.

The mission they were on now seemed like the most desperate of them all. Sneaking forty kilometers behind enemy lines and infiltrating the center of their command structure was insane enough. But finding the king of the entire planet and kidnapping him, getting past all his guards and security, both on the way in and out, seemed impossible.

DeMark remembered one night not long ago, when Astra Lucerne was still missing. The marshal had been a wreck, but he made a comment that DeMark still remembered. He said that Blackhawk would bring Astra back, that there was more to him than anyone knew. He wouldn't say anything more, but DeMark remembered feeling a strange confidence that came through the marshal's deep worry, a faith that Blackhawk would indeed bring his daughter safely home. And so he had.

I hope you
'
re as good as Lucerne thinks, Ark. Because you
'
re going to need every bit of it to get out of this one alive.

Katarina slid swiftly down the cable, dropping down to the grassy field behind the palace and landing softly, as always. She pulled the carbine from her back as she hit the ground, and her eyes quickly scanned the area. Nothing. No sign of enemy soldiers.
That
'
s a bit of luck.

She looked back up, watching the others slide down to the ground. It was an odd sight—half a dozen thin cables stretch
ing up about six meters, and apparently disappearing into thin air. She'd seen the field from outside the ship before, but never in circumstances quite like the current one. She knew the
Claw
was hovering overhead—she could hear the engines—but other than the cables, there was nothing there.

Anyone on the ground watching the crew descend would have thought he was going crazy.

But while the ship was cloaked by the distortion field, Katarina definitely wasn't—she needed to get out of the open in a hurry. So she quickly moved toward the huge stone wall of the palace, her head darting around, eyes scanning for movement in the semidarkness. Blackhawk was down now, too, and the Twins. A few seconds later, Shira dropped on the same cable Katarina had used and ran up behind her.

Katarina turned and nodded, pointing northward, toward what appeared to be a service entrance of some kind. Shira silently returned the nod. She had an assault rifle in each hand, holding the heavy guns like they were pistols. Katarina had seen her wielding the two weapons before, blasting death on her enemies. It struck her as a cumbersome way to fight, and she wondered how Shira managed to aim. But she couldn't argue with results, and Tarkus had a tremendous track record of putting her shots where she needed them.

Katarina and Shira were similar in many ways, at least superficially. They were both cool and unemotional, especially in battle. Katarina had always kept her close relationships to a minimum. Her training stressed the lonely nature of her profession, and she was highly suspicious of those she didn't know well. Her experiences had only reinforced her general sense of distrust. A career as an assassin didn't tend to expose one to the best in people.

And yet, Shira Tarkus was colder still. Her views weren't the result of training and discipline. No, they had developed from her experiences alone—most of them bad. Katarina never let emotions get in the way of her work, but she'd never witnessed a killer as naturally cold-blooded as Shira. As far as Katarina could tell, outside of her shipmates, Tarkus didn't care who lived or died.

She was glad they were shipmates.

One thing Katarina often wondered about was what Shira would have been like if she'd gone through the guild training on Sebastiani. She suppressed a shudder at the thought of what fifteen years of indoctrination would have done to someone so naturally cold. She might have been the greatest assassin ever graduated from the celebrated ranks of the millennia-old school.

Or the most dangerous psychopath ever loosed on humanity
. . .

For all her training in human behavior and psychology, Katarina had never been able to completely figure Shira out. But one thing was clear. Like the rest of the odd assortment of characters Blackhawk had assembled, she had found a home on the
Claw
and a family in her shipmates.

Katarina took another look across the wide expanse of grass and leaped out from her position next to the wall. It was probably a risk running across the open ground, but hugging the wall would take a lot longer, and she had a feeling time wasn't their ally.

Shira was close on her heels, though Katarina doubted anyone but she would have heard her companion's soft steps. The two of them had their assigned area. Blackhawk and company were here for the king, but the truth was they had no idea where he was. He could be in his apartments or a throne room—or in a bunker in the subbasement. So despite the likelihood of
heavy resistance, they were forced to split up and cover as much of the huge complex as they could.

Katarina put her hands out, stopping her momentum as she ran right up to the wall. She crept along the rough gray stone, moving toward a small door. She took another step and froze.

Shira was just behind her, and she could feel the tension in her companion's body. They'd both heard it. The door creaking slowly open.

Katarina's eyes were focused like lasers, watching the heavy wooden door swing slowly. She was listening, concentrating. Her actions would depend heavily on how many enemies were coming out of the door. Her ears were sensitive, and years of training had taught her to screen out background noise. Footsteps, she was listening for footsteps, and her mind screened everything else out.

Just one,
she thought, as her hand moved to the leather strap hanging down her body. Her fingers felt the cold metal of the throwing knife. Her other hand moved back behind her, waving Shira off. She would handle this herself.

She was silent and stone still, waiting like a predator for her enemy to expose himself. Her prey walked slowly, his footsteps loud, clumsy. She saw his shadow in the crack between the doorway and the wall, silhouetted against the light coming from inside.

Her arm moved like a cobra, pulling the knife from its place and throwing it toward her victim in one smooth motion.

He let out a single gasp then he fell hard to the ground. Her blade had found its mark, and it was buried to its hilt through his neck. Blood poured from his severed carotid artery, and one look confirmed he was already dead. His leg was stretched out behind him, holding the door half open.

Shira lunged forward and jumped in front of the door, bringing her rifles to bear in case anyone else was there. “It's clear,” she whispered to her comrade. “Goes about ten meters and ends in a T.”

Katarina reached down and retrieved her blade, cleaning it off on her victim's coat. “Let's get him inside. There's too much chance someone will see him out here.”

Shira hopped over the body and threw her rifles over her shoulder. She grabbed the dead man's legs while Katarina held his shoulders. A small pipe fell from his hands as they moved him. Katarina looked down and shook her head slightly. She'd imagined he was a guard on his rounds, that he'd heard them or seen them on a monitor. But he was just walking outside for a smoke. That's how little it took to get killed sometimes.

The man with the pipe might have been an imperial agent, a mass murderer responsible for incalculable suffering. Or a Nordlingener who worked at the palace to feed his family. She didn't know. She didn't need to know.

She didn't want to know.

In a few seconds, they had the body through, and the door closed behind them. The hallway was lit with small fixtures, placed every three meters or so.

They were in.

“Let's go. Move your asses!” Captain Gregor Zel stood next to the ruins of a large building, urging his men forward. They'd been in the thick of the fighting all day, and now they were pushing into the central zone. After hours of intense combat, the enemy was finally giving ground, falling back slowly through the dying city, and Zel wasn't about to give them time to regroup.

Above the battlefield, the heavy gray of dusk was giving way to the darkness of night. And yet there was plenty of light, the chaotic landscape lit in places by the fires all around the combat zone. It seemed like half the buildings were ablaze, and dense clouds of smoke hung low over the field.

The Celtiborian veterans advanced methodically, half of each squad moving forward while the others stood firm and covered their comrades. They leapfrogged from building to building, dashing across the empty streets.

Zel was moving with one of his squads, on the front edge of the advance. Officers in Marshal Lucerne's army led, they didn't follow their men into battle. He watched the first half of the squad running down the street to the next position. They were halfway there when he heard a shot. One of his men fell forward to the ground. His squadmates halted and looked up, aiming their rifles, looking for the sniper.

“Team two, hold.” Zel listened to the squad leader firing out orders. “Scan the area. Find that fucking sniper.”

Zel was already looking himself, scanning the buildings across the street. Another shot rang out, and another of his men fell. His head snapped to the origin of the sound.

“Fourth floor, third window from the left,” he shouted to the men around him, whipping his assault rifle from his shoulder as he did. He jumped up to his feet, a risk, but one that would give him better positioning to aim, and he cut loose on full auto.

He couldn't see if he'd hit the sniper, but he knew he'd put about thirty rounds into the space the enemy soldier had occupied. A few seconds later, one of his own men leaned out the window and gave a thumbs-up—Zel had gotten the bastard.

The sniper had taken out two of his men, but he was an amateur—no veteran would have stayed in position after fir
ing two shots. The enemy troops on Nordlingen were dug in and equipped with highly advanced weaponry, but they were still novice soldiers. Which was why, in the end, Zel knew he and his Celtiborian comrades would win this war. Whatever the cost.

And it's been a hell of a cost so far.

“All right, looks like the sniper's down. Let's keep moving.” Colonel Martine had been clear: Zel was to keep up the intensity of the attack until further notice.
No matter what.
Those had been Martine's exact words, and Zel knew what they meant coming from a veteran like the colonel.

There was something going on, some reason his men were hitting the enemy so hard. He didn't know what it was, but that was no surprise. He was sure it was something well above his pay grade. All he had to know was what he'd been ordered to do.

Attack.

Blackhawk was pressed flat against the wall, creeping closer to the corner. He and the Twins had made it deeper into the palace than he'd dared to expect, but they'd finally run into resistance. There were two guards down the hallway to the right, maybe three. They had Hellfire assault rifles. Blackhawk had run into those terrible weapons too many times, and he knew he'd never forget their distinctive sound.