Enemy in the Dark (31 page)

He knew he didn't have to say that. Tarnan didn't know if his brother was even alive, and Shira was . . . well, Shira. They knew what to do.

Moving forward, Blackhawk crouched low behind a large cargo sled. He took a few silent steps forward, and then he heard a loud crash from behind. He spun around to see that Tarnan had pushed over a five-meter stack of crates on top of at
least two enemies. He was climbing over the pile, somehow still holding his autocannon with one hand as he did.

Blackhawk turned and swung around himself. He saw movement below, one of the enemy, trying to extricate himself from the collapsed and broken crates that had almost buried him.

Blackhawk's eyes focused, and his hand raised instinctively, firing two shots. The target's head almost exploded as the heavy slugs impacted. Blackhawk was about to run forward when he heard the deafening roar of the autocannon just to his right.

Tarnan was standing atop the mountain of boxes, blasting away with the enormous gun. The massive projectiles tore through the wood and sheet metal of the crates like they were paper, rendering any cover they provided useless and turning the trapped enemies underneath into strawberry jam.

Blackhawk could see that Tarnan had taken out at least two of the enemy, and he was pretty sure there was nothing else alive under there. “Hold fire,” he snapped, as he climbed across the pile of debris. He pulled away chunks of splintered wood and looked all around. There were three bodies—all very dead.

Tarnan turned, looking off in the direction of the
Claw
.

“Tarq is tough,” Blackhawk said, noting the concerned look on the giant's face. “You know that better than anyone.”

Tarnan nodded, but he still looked uncertain.

“Sam, Ace—I need help in here.” Doc's voice was strained, nearly frantic. “Now!”

Ace came down the ladder, grimacing in pain with each step. He was far from recovered himself, but the tone in Doc's voice had been unmistakable. He could see Tarq was in the sick
bay bed, and the sides of the cot and the floor all around were covered in blood. His massive frame completely covered the cot and hung off on all sides.

Sarge was lying on the floor on top of a sheet, and Drake was sitting against a support beam, holding a large, blood-soaked rag to the side of his chest.

“What can I do?”

“You think you can handle the fuser?”

“I've watched you use it enough on me. I'll manage. What do you want me to do?”

“See if you can get some of Sarge's wounds closed up. I don't think anything vital was hit, but he took at least half a dozen hits, and he'll bleed out if he just lies there.”

“Got it.” Ace grabbed the small device, flicking it on with his thumb. “I'll get an anesthetic.”

“Don't worry about it.” It was a throaty growl coming from the floor. Sarge's head turned slowly. “Just patch 'em closed. I'll be fine.”

Ace turned and looked down at Sarge. His body was riddled with gunshots, and half his body was covered in blood. Ace's face had a hesitant look. The fuser was an incredibly useful medical tool, but it met no one's definition of painless.

“Okay, Sarge . . .” Ace was struggling to sound strong and confident, but it was difficult. Sarge looked like hell, and from the quick glimpse he'd gotten, Tarq was even worse. “You want me to try to get these darts out, Doc?”

“No, just leave 'em. I'll go back in and fish them out later. For now, we just need to get him stabilized.” Doc looked up from his table for a second, glancing toward Ace. “Thank Chrono General DeMark resupplied us with artificial blood.”

Ace knelt down over Sarge. “Okay, you dumb ape, this is gonna hurt some.”

Sarge gave Ace a nasty scowl, but he didn't say anything.

Don't say I didn't warn you . . .

“Doc, what can I do?” Sam came running in from the engineering access tube. She looked around the room, and her face went white as a sheet when she saw the blood and three of her friends broken and bleeding.

“Check on Drake,” Doc snapped.

“I'm fine, Sam,” Drake answered almost immediately. His voice was strained, and it was obvious he was in a lot of pain, but he nodded at her and said, “Go help Doc with Tarq. He's worse off than me.”

She ran over toward the cot, catching a glimpse of Ace leaning over Sarge, a quick smell of burning flesh hitting her nostrils as the fuser closed a gaping wound.

Running up to the edge of the cot, Sam looked down. She tried to hold back a gasp as she got her first glimpse of Tarq. He was completely naked, but that wasn't what shocked her. His enormous body was torn open in at least a dozen places. There were four gaping wounds in his midsection, and the floor all around the bed was slick with blood.

She looked across at Doc. He was frantically working, but he seemed lost in the enormity of the task. There were so many wounds, so much blood.

And Tarq was running out of time.

Katarina moved swiftly, silently, like a snake stalking its prey. She'd killed two of the enemy already, but now she was tracking the leader. His plan was in ruins, and if he was smart, he'd be
looking to flee and save his life. His crew were all dead or fighting their final battles. He'd made his play to kill Blackhawk, but he'd lost. Escape was his only option . . . unless she caught him first.

She was deep in her Sebastiani mantra, emotions mostly purged from her mind, but she couldn't help but feel a twinge of disgust at her quarry. Her service—and friendship—with Blackhawk had taught her what leadership could be but so often wasn't. Now, the man she was hunting reminded her what most leaders were—and why she'd been able to terminate so many of them in her career without a gram of guilt.

She had a bleak view of mankind, one she knew Blackhawk shared. There were worthy people in the vast universe, she knew, but they were few, and hopelessly scattered. Occasionally, one appeared in a position to truly make a difference. Marshal Lucerne was one of those. His campaigns had been costly and brutal, but through thirty years of war and conquest—and overwhelming victory—he had remained unaffected by the massive power he had accumulated. A moral man was a rare enough creature, but one who remained so once he had grasped the reins of power—that was almost nonexistent.

Yet, now even he is being led by anger and the call of vengeance. And millions of innocents may die because of it.

She brought her mind back to the chase. It wasn't time for such thoughts. Her target was all that mattered, and she focused every thought on the hunt. She could hear him ahead in the distance and followed the trail he had left. Even her enemy's scent became a clue for her to follow.

This mercenary—no, murderer—was out of his depth, she knew, no match for a Sebastiani assassin of the First Circle. She focused all her skills, as her training demanded, but she knew
she didn't need them. Her quarry was loud and clumsy, and there wasn't a doubt in her mind she would catch him. If he hadn't tried to kill her friends, she would almost feel sorry for him.

She would find him, but then she was going to deviate from her core training. She wasn't going to kill him, at least not initially. She intended to question him. That meant taking him alive.

He will wish I had killed him before I am finished interrogating him. He will learn what the Sebastiani adepts know of the pain centers in the human brain. He will tell me all he knows. Everything.

She crept around the crates, knife in hand, slipping closer to her prey . . .

“Doc,” Blackhawk said, standing over a motionless form lying on the deck, “I need you to help Danellan Lancaster.” He looked over toward the
Claw
's small sick bay, where Doc was working feverishly on Tarq. “Now.”

“I can't, Ark.” The stress was clear in his voice. “Tarq is in bad shape. I . . . I'm not sure I can . . .” His words trailed off.

“Doc, I need Lancaster alive. At all costs.” There was nothing but grim determination in Blackhawk's tone.

“Ark, I can't! Tarq needs me now.”

Blackhawk gazed down at Lancaster. The magnate's breathing was ragged, forced. His wounds had been hastily bandaged, but the wrappings were soaked through with blood.

He
'
s going to die if Doc doesn
'
t work on him right now
. He looked across the room.
But what about Tarq?
It felt like there was a deep pit in his stomach. Arkarin Blackhawk was a veteran, no stranger to combat and to the difficult decisions it so often required. But he couldn't remember one as gut-wrenching as this one.

He looked up. Everyone in the room except Doc was staring
at him, waiting to see what he would say. He took a deep breath, trying to rationalize what he knew he had to do. But nothing worked. With all his heart he wanted to tell Doc to keep working on Tarq, to do whatever he had to do to save the giant. But he couldn't. Without Danellan Lancaster, he had no chance to stop Lucerne's attack. There were two hundred million people on Antilles—and a lot of them would die in the war that would follow.
And then the empire will just walk in . . . and the billions in the Far Stars will live forever as slaves . . .

“I need you to save Lancaster, Doc.” He paused, his mind reeling as he spoke the unthinkable. “Whatever the cost.”

Doc looked up for the first time and fixed his gaze on the captain. “Ark . . . he could die.
Tarq
could die!”

“Just do it, Doc.” Blackhawk spoke sadly, but firmly. He straightened up and started walking toward sick bay. “I'll try to help Tarq, Doc. You save Lancaster. Whatever it takes.” He could see Doc still hesitating. “Do it,” Blackhawk said coldly. “Now.”

“Ark . . .” Ace had turned and he was limping toward Blackhawk.

“Not now, Ace.” The
Claw
's captain stared toward sick bay, watching as Doc reluctantly moved to follow his orders. He knew every eye was on him. He could feel the tension, the disapproval of his crew, his family. But Arkarin Blackhawk wouldn't let a holocaust occur, even if he had to risk Tarq's life to do it.

He walked the rest of the way to the sick bay alcove, passing Doc as he did. He glanced down at Tarq. His massive chest heaved up and down, struggling for breath. The floor was soaked with blood.

The blood of my friend.

He took a deep breath. He wasn't a doctor, not even a real
medic. Blackhawk had seen enough battlefields to pick up some first aid skills, but the instant he looked down at Tarq he knew he was in over his head.

He picked up the large fuser . . . and put it back down. He didn't know what he was doing. Blackhawk had a lot of skills, but he was no surgeon. He picked up the tool again and moved it toward a massive laceration. He knew there was tremendous damage to repair, but if he didn't stop some of the hemorrhaging, none of that was going to matter.

Hang on, old friend. Hang on. I'll pull you through this somehow.

But he didn't believe it, not really.

The
Claw'
s makeshift doctor was on his knees, bent over Danellan Lancaster. The industrialist was lying on the deck where Blackhawk had set him down. Doc was moving the fuser slowly across the man's chest, closing up the wound. The bullet that had pierced Lancaster's chest was lying on the floor, a few centimeters away.

“He's going to make it, Ark.” Doc didn't look up, didn't hesitate as he spoke. It was obvious he was exhausted—and just as clear he intended to keep going as long as there were injuries on the
Claw
that needed his attention.

Blackhawk didn't respond. He was leaning over Tarq, his hands moving frantically over the big man's still form. His face was covered with sweat, and his gloved hands red with blood.

Doc stood up and walked across the room and stopped half a meter from Blackhawk. His eyes fell on Tarq, and then they moved to the medical display. He hesitated a few seconds then he put his hand on Blackhawk's shoulder.

The
Claw
's captain ignored him, and he continued what he was doing, struggling to fuse the gaping wounds on Tarq's
body. He was ignoring everything else, totally focused on what he was doing.

“Ark . . .” Doc's voice was slow, halting. “He's dead, Ark.”

Blackhawk paid no attention to Doc's words, continuing to run the fuser back and forth across one of Tarq's gaping wounds.

“Ark,” Doc said loudly. “It's too late. Tarq is dead.” He grabbed harder on the captain's shoulders, trying to pull him away.

Blackhawk spun around, pushing Doc hard, almost knocking him to the ground. He stood silently, staring down at his blood-covered hands as they closed into fists. Slowly, he looked up. The room was silent, save for the faint hum of the sick bay life support system, still running, futilely now that the patient was dead.

Blackhawk stared at Doc for a few seconds, but he didn't say anything. He turned and looked back at his crew. Drake was leaning against the wall. He was pale, and he looked exhausted, but he was awake. His eyes were tired slits, and they were fixed on Blackhawk. Sarge was lying in a makeshift bed on the floor next to him. Ace had pulled half the bedding from the ship's cabins to create a comfortable place for the noncom. Doc wanted his patients out in the main deck, where he could keep an eye on them all, and Ace had accommodated him.

Sarge was out, probably unconscious from his own injuries, and certainly from the massive injection of tranquilizer Doc had given him. There was nothing he needed now more than sleep, and Doc had taken no chances with the dosage.

The rest of the crew was standing around the ladder to the bridge. Sam was sobbing softly, her face a mask of tears. Shira was next to her, stone still and silent, staring vacantly into space. Ace was holding on to the ladder, his face red and feverish, the exertion of the last hour clear to see.

Blackhawk looked over at the rest of Sarge's boys. Von, Ringo, Buck . . . they were like statues, staring across the room with barely controlled rage in their eyes. They were focused on Katarina and Lucas, and the sobbing giant they held firmly between them.