Enemy in the Dark (21 page)

ZEL CROUCHED DOWN, DUCKING BEHIND THE LOW RIDGE. HIS TWO
companies, together barely two-thirds the size of a single full-strength unit, were drawn up behind the ridge. They had been advancing all night, and now the first rays of dawn were casting a tentative light across the field.

The enemy capital city stretched out before his position, its battle-scarred skyline standing defiantly, as the enemy soldiers prepared to mount a last-ditch defense.

The Nordlingeners had been trying to break off since the previous night, but Zel's people—and the rest of the Celtiborian army—had been pushing hard, keeping them engaged, staying on their heels all the way back to the city and denying
them the chance to regroup. The Celtiborians were exhausted, and their losses had been brutal, but they could taste victory.

“Captain Zel, are your people ready?” It was Colonel Martine on the comm.

“Yes, sir.” Zel slipped forward, lying flat on the half-frozen ground and staring cautiously over the ridge. “We've just been resupplied, and we're ready to advance.” Ready was a relative term. His people were tired and hungry and cold. But they knew winning battles was mostly a matter of timing. They had the enemy on the run. If they let the Nordlingeners reorganize, thousands more of their comrades would die in attacks against a resupplied and entrenched enemy. If they pushed themselves now, tapped into that inner power that had won them so many battles before, they could end it.

“Okay, Captain. Your people are opposite the royal sector. When we advance, I want you to slice through the enemy lines and head straight for the palace. Don't worry about your flanks. Benz and Altavon are covering your advance.”

“Understood, Colonel.”

“We'll be attacking in half an hour, Captain, so if you hurry, there should be time to get a quick meal for your men.”

“I'll see to it sir.” That was the least they deserved.

“And, Captain?” There was a hint of hesitancy in Martine's usually assured voice.

“Sir?”

“Try not to take the palace apart when you attack. I have word from HQ.” The colonel paused. “Apparently, Arkarin Blackhawk and his people are in there on some kind of mission for Marshal Lucerne.”

Fuck. How am I supposed to take the palace without wasting whoever is in there?

Zel had never met Blackhawk, but he knew the adventurer was one of the marshal's closest comrades. And from what he'd heard, the captain of
Wolf's Claw
had long been a friend to the entire Celtiborian army.

“Understood, sir. We'll be careful. Zel out.”

He took a deep breath, and hit the comm unit on his collar. “Sergeant Havers, we've got about half an hour before the attack now. Let's make good use of it. Get a quick breakfast going.”

Katarina slipped down the hall swiftly, silently, with Shira right behind. The main power was still out, but the backup systems were engaged. The rooms and corridors all had the same dim light.

They'd explored most of the upper level, and they'd found it to be almost deserted. There had been more shooting, but the sounds had all come from downstairs. Katarina's first reaction had been to head to the sound of the fighting, but the mission was to find the king, and he was as likely to be upstairs as down. Besides, Blackhawk and the Twins—not to mention Sarge and his boys—could take care of themselves.

The two women had stumbled onto a few guards, but they'd gradually come to realize most of the enemy strength was downstairs. The few sentries they'd encountered on the upper floor had been easily—and silently—dispatched. Shira's heavy blade and Katarina's slim and deadly throwing knives had found their marks without fail.

“It's too empty up here,” Shira whispered softly. “And not just because everybody rushed downstairs. It doesn't look like it's been used in a long time. It's dusty. It feels almost abandoned.”

“I agree. But the king's quarters are up here. If he hasn't been living up here . . .” Katarina stopped and turned back
toward Shira. “Do you think he moved his headquarters? That we're wasting our time here?”

“I don't know. But something's not right.” Shira's voice was full of concern. “And there's some kind of fight going on. Maybe we should . . .”

Katarina was nodding. “Let's find out what is going on down there.” She glanced down the hall. “The main stair was back that way. Do we chance it?”

Shira took a quick look behind her. “Either that or back the way we came.” The two had scaled an abandoned old shaft leading up from the service area, an ancient dumbwaiter or laundry chute. It hadn't been fast or pleasant, and it was all the way on the other side of the building. But they hadn't passed another set of steps or an elevator except the main stairway.

Katarina paused a few seconds. Her training told her to find another way, to remain hidden as long as possible. But she wasn't a lone wolf assassin right now. She was part of a team, and the rest of that team—of her family—were likely fighting for their lives right now. She reached around, pulled the carbine from her back. “Let's go. If this is a wild goose chase—or worse, a trap—we need to get everybody out of here.”

Shira nodded. She already had her two assault rifles in her hands, and a look of cold death on her face. Her readiness said it all.

The two spun around and moved back the way they had come. Knowing the way had been cleared with their first go-through, their pace had quickened significantly. They had to get to the others, and if that meant fighting their way through half the guards in the city, so be it.

Shira was in the front now, and she slipped out into the broad upper hall. The grand foyer was below, and the main
stair was a curved affair, carved from pure marble and at least three meters wide. Two guards were on duty just inside the main door, but she couldn't see anyone else.

She turned back to Katarina, holding up two fingers. The Sebastiani assassin just nodded. Shira slipped one of her rifles onto her back and carefully aimed the other. She paused an instant and then put a bullet in the rightmost guard's head. Half a second later, she dropped the other. Then she sprang to her feet, running down the stairs, whipping the second rifle from her back as she did.

The two women raced down, their heads snapping around, peering into the adjoining rooms, looking for any enemies. There was a man walking through what looked like a reception room. From the angle, Katarina couldn't tell if he was a guard or a household servant. She didn't relish the idea of blowing away some handyman or butler, but there was no time for second-guessing in action. She dropped him with a single shot.

They reached the bottom of the stairs and turned in opposite directions, scouting out the area and supporting each other's blind spots. “Clear,” Shira snapped, with all the harsh certainty of a veteran sergeant.

“Clear,” came Katarina's reply, somewhat softer, but just as decisive.

“So where do we . . .” The buzz of Shira's comm unit interrupted her question. Her hand darted up and activated the unit. “Shira,” she said simply.

“Shira, it's Ark. Listen carefully. We've got the king, but we're trapped in the dungeon level. I need you to hook up with Sarge and get down here and help us bust out. I've activated my transponder. You can follow it to our position. But we can only keep it on for short bursts, because it's a damned road map for
every guard in the place, too.” She could tell he was distracted, and she could hear the sounds of gunfire in the background. “And call Lucas. Tell him to have the
Claw
ready.”

“Got it, Ark. We're on the way.” She heard the click as he signed off. “You heard the captain,” she said to Katarina.

She turned back toward the main arch leading deeper into the palace. She took one foot forward . . .

And all hell broke loose.

At least a dozen guards were pouring into the corridor ahead of her. They'd been headed somewhere, probably down to the dungeon where Blackhawk was holed up. But they stopped on a dime when they saw two women standing in the foyer, armed to the teeth.

Shira whipped up her arms and started firing both guns on full auto, diving for cover as she did. Katarina had beat her to it, though, and two of the guards were already down, each with small, smooth holes in their heads from the assassin's carbine.

Then the rest of the enemy troops opened fire.

“General DeMark, the enemy forces have retreated back to Nordlingen City. They have assumed defensive positions around the perimeter of the urban area, and Colonel Martine is spearheading the final assault.” Varne's voice was hoarse, but it was loud and clear too. The aide had been at his post since the attack began over thirty-six hours before—everyone in the command post had. The soldiers in the field had been fighting that long, and DeMark would be damned if any of his support staff would do less than the troopers advancing against enemy fire. He knew every one of his people agreed.

“Any word from Blackhawk or
Wolf
'
s Claw
?”

Varne sighed softly. “No, sir.” He hesitated a few seconds
then added, “But
Wolf
'
s Claw
wouldn't break radio silence until they got Blackhawk's signal anyway.”

DeMark knew that was true . . . but he also knew they should have gotten that signal by now. He didn't think it would help anything to say it out loud, though. They'd all expected to hear something from Blackhawk sooner than this, and his hope faded with every passing minute.

“Advise Colonel Martine to exert extreme caution if his people reach the palace.” Blackhawk might have taken one risk too many and finally gotten himself killed, but DeMark was damned if it would be his friendly fire that took down the legendary adventurer.

“I already forwarded that directive, sir.”

“Well, send it again,” DeMark roared. He knew he was just working through his own frustration. He'd heard Varne warn Martine twice already, and he was well aware his men only needed to receive an order once. But he felt helpless being stuck in his command post while his men were fighting and Blackhawk and his people were missing behind enemy lines. Rafaelus DeMark was a combat soldier, and in his heart he longed to be in the field with his men. But he was also the commander of the entire expeditionary force, and his closest replacement was fourteen light-years away.

Rank has its privileges . . . and its shackles.

“Message confirmed, General.” Varne's confirmation was crisp.

DeMark's eyes drifted down to the small screen on his workstation. He pulled up the list of units held in reserve. It was a pointless exercise. He knew exactly what the screen would show him, but he confirmed it nevertheless. He'd committed every fresh formation but one: the Forty-Eighth Regiment. It
was positioned ten kilometers behind the line, loaded up on the last of his trucks and waiting for the order to move forward.

He'd waited, keeping them back while the men strained at the leash to reinforce their comrades. Marshal Lucerne was the greatest military genius in the Far Stars, and he had taught his officers well. And the number one rule, the paramount maxim for winning battles, was to be the last to commit your final reserve. He was pretty sure the enemy had everything they had in the fight, but he couldn't be sure. And the wisdom of holding something back seemed even more profound on a planet light-years away from home.

But Marshal Lucerne also knew just when to launch the final blow, to throw everything into the fight to win the final victory. And DeMark's gut was screaming,
Now!

Or never.

“The Forty-Eighth will advance and support Colonel Martine's assault,” he ordered. “All units along the line are ordered to attack, and no one is to halt until every square centimeter of Nordlingen City is ours.”

“Yes, sir.” It was clear from Varne's tone he approved. Then again, it was easy to vote for courage and aggression when you weren't in command. But DeMark suspected a titanic victory and a crushing defeat looked eerily similar to each other at this stage.

Now we just hope I
'
m right, and that the enemy doesn
'
t have a last trick up his sleeve.

Because I
'
m completely played out.

“You okay?” Shira yelled across the foyer to Katarina. Katarina wanted to ask her the same thing, considering Shira herself had taken a flesh wound to the arm. It didn't seem too serious, but it had been enough to knock her down to a single rifle.

“I'm fine.” Katarina had taken cover behind a heavy marble statue next to the stairs. She glanced across to Shira, who had ducked behind the doorway leading to a small drawing room.

The two had been much quicker to react than the surprised guards, and they'd taken most of them down in the first seconds, before the soldiers regained their composure and reacted. By then, Shira and Katarina had gotten behind cover, firing all the while.

The problem was, while there were only four guards left by the time they too had gotten out of the line of fire—and two of those were down now—another four had arrived since.

“We can't stay here. My ammo's running low, and they'll just get more support,” Shira yelled to her comrade, her deep voice loud and clear, even over the din of battle.

“Agreed.” Katarina didn't look like the tough customer Shira often did, but that was pure illusion. Katarina Venturi was the most relentless killing machine on the
Claw,
save possibly for Blackhawk. “Be ready in three.”

She reached behind her and pulled a grenade from her belt. It wasn't the usual light frag model; it was a high-powered incendiary, normally used on the field, not in the confines of a building.

Screw it.

She was done with being pinned down and helpless.

“Two.”