Authors: Patrick Freivald
Jade Sky
Jade Sky
A Matt Rowley Novel
By
Patrick Freivald
JournalStone
San Francisco
Copyright © 2014 by Patrick Freivald
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
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ISBN:
978-1-940161-43-3
(sc)
ISBN:
978-1-940161-44-0
(ebook)
Library of Congress Control Number:
2014932374
Printed in the United States of America
JournalStone rev. date: May 16, 2014
Cover Design:
Rob Grom
Cover Photograph © Shutterstock.com
Edited by:
Dr. Michael R. Collings
To The Redhead™. You're why I write.
Patrick Freivald
“
Jade Sky
is an ass-kicking action-fantasy that takes no prisoners. Lightning fast, brutal and way too much fun. Highly recommended!” –
Jonathan Maberry
, New York Times Bestselling author of
Code Zero
and
Fall of Night
Patrick Freivald’s latest novel,
Jade Sky
, is one of those all too rare reading experiences that just consumes you. I live for those moments when a book practically swallows me whole. I felt that way about Mieville’s
Perdido Street Station
and Bacigulupi’s
The Windup Girl
, and I felt it about
Jade Sky
too. Some authors just have that special touch when it comes to creating worlds, and for
Jade Sky
, Freivald made a future so rich in detail and so full of life and energy that I couldn’t help but lose myself in it. This is a book full of wild invention and even wilder action, yet grounded by a genuinely sympathetic love for the people who live there. Freivald has truly reached a new high water mark here, which is pretty scary considering that he was already so damn good. –
Joe McKinney
, Bram Stoker Award-winning author of
Plague of the Undead
"With
Jade Sky
, Patrick Freivald takes science fiction, the supernatural and action adventure, seamlessly combining the genres in a unique and page-turning thriller. He brings his world, characters, dialogue and narrative to life with skill and assurance that keep the reader turning the pages. Loved this book!" –
Dana Fredsti,
author of
Plague World
Jade Sky
rips like a bullet… or an entire armory of same. Cinch up your body armor and enjoy Patrick Freivald’s blitzkrieg through dark trenches and the corridors of the human heart–I sure did. –
Norman Partridge,
Author of
Dark Harvest
Jade Sky
Blood rained from the ceiling. Matt Rowley gasped cordite-stained air into his lungs as crimson drizzle spattered his face.
I hope that's not mine.
His shoulder, knee, and gut itched, the tell-tale sign of muscle and bone knitting together. Whispered, alien gibberish clawed through his mind, warning him. He rolled to his left and squeezed his eyes shut against the coming shrapnel. Bullets raked the floor where he'd been lying, peppering his face with chips of concrete. An unaugmented man would have died twice in the past five seconds.
He slithered backward under the steel loading-dock platform, opened his eyes, and swore. His helmet lay across the factory floor, next to the face-down Sergeant Karle. Tendrils of smoke rose from Karle's ruined body, his entrails smeared across the shelving unit above him.
So much for radio.
He couldn't see the others, but heard the unmistakable chatter of their REC7 assault rifles outside. The throatier return fire probably belonged to German-made HK's.
A quick inventory wasn't promising: one flash-bang grenade, a bandolier of shotgun rounds, and a Beretta M9A1 with three bullets. He unholstered the pistol and took two shots. The room went black as the remains of the fluorescent lights tinkled to the floor. He cringed as bullets pinged off of the platform. He risked a look when they stopped. The heat rendered his infrared vision useless, but his brain processed the ultraviolet spectrum into a black-and-white picture.
The claustrophobic room, narrow with thick walls and not enough cover, could have been tailor-made for an ambush. The explosion had converted the door they'd just retreated through into a pile of smoking cinder blocks and twisted metal. The stock of his AA-12 combat shotgun stuck out from the rubble, too far out of reach, and he didn't see Karle's REC7 anywhere. The two men near the back door lowered goggles onto their faces.
Perfect
. Matt shot the one on the left. The man screamed, blood spurting from his neck, and stumbled back through the door as his partner returned fire.
Matt hissed when a ricochet hit his bicep. His carbon fiber sleeve spared him the worst, but it still hurt like hell. The man reached for his belt, and the whispers filled Matt's mind with future possibilities. He picked the one he liked best then reacted to what hadn't yet happened. He rolled from under the platform and kicked as the object skittered toward him. The man stumbled back in surprise, and the grenade followed him out the door. Matt accompanied the dull explosion with a prayer of thanksgiving for late-second precognitive therapy.
He pulled the combat shotgun out of the rubble and put on his helmet. "Room's clear, Karle's dead," he said into the mic. His heads-up display showed his own elevated heart rate and adrenaline levels, but no moving targets. "Status?" he asked no one in particular.
Lieutenant Kifer responded through the radio, an edge of panic to his voice. "Ryan's dead, and I'm pinned down behind these barrels. Can you give me some covering fire?" Small arms fire peppered the doorway. Matt ducked back.
A REC7 fired from the left, full-auto, then Conor Flynn's voice broke over the radio. "Brilliant, mates. I leave you guys alone for two minutes and you get in this kind of trouble?" He fired again. "Rowley, I got your shooters shitting themselves. Get Kifer." Two more bursts came from his direction.
Matt peered around the corner for a quick look, then jerked his head back. The recalled image flashed onto his visor, crisp and clean. Seven hostiles, armed to the teeth, covered each other as they closed in on Kifer's position from three directions. Little more than a stack of 55-gallon drums and a small shack, Kifer’s poor defilade left him exposed. Matt looked out again.
"Kifer, the guys at eight o'clock are about to break cover. Take them, and I'll get the two at three. Ready? Go!" Matt's AA-12 roared four times, the finned projectiles adjusting to the information fed through his helmet. They hit their targets and exploded, spraying gore and organs across the ground. Kifer's first target grabbed his shattered leg and wailed. His companion dragged him back behind a burning, upended delivery truck.
"I'm out," Conor said. "Give me a minute."
Matt ducked behind the wall as Conor reloaded. Bullets chipped the brick from the right. "Rastogi," Conor said, "I'm going to pin those assholes on Rowley again. Go get 'em."
"Got it," Akash Rastogi said. Matt waited while the gunfire intensified, then silenced, and bolted out the door toward Kifer.
"Echo company ETA two minutes," a professional, male voice said in his headset.
"Might be late for that," Kifer said between wheezy breaths. "Rowley, how good are these things at lungs?"
Matt dove behind a pile of pallets as Akash and Conor kept the rest of the hostiles pinned with short, controlled bursts. He couldn't see Kifer, or any movement, but took comfort that regenerates could repair anything short of death. He fired his last three shots over the burning car, and they exploded downward as programmed.
Someone screamed, and everything went silent. Matt breathed a sigh of relief. "Are we clear?"
"Hope so," Kifer said. A grenade lobbed over the barrels toward Kifer's position. "Shit. Never mind."
The barrels erupted in a spray of blue fire. The shockwave knocked Matt back twenty feet. His head rang as he hit the wall, the tang of blood filling his mouth. The stink of petrochemicals overwhelmed everything else, and flame bathed the stockyard in flickering light. His foot hurt with a casual dullness. He looked down at the fire licking up past his boot onto his pant leg. Shaking off the concussion, he slashed through the boot laces with his knife and kicked it free, then scrambled deeper into the rubble. Rolling to his stomach, he crawled into the ambush room and took aim at the door.
A short silhouette stepped into view, face hidden by a reflective visor, and Matt breathed a sigh of relief. Conor's Friend or Foe transponder would have shown up green on Matt's helmet, were he wearing it. Still, he'd recognize the build and gait anywhere. Conor held out his hand. Matt took it, and Conor hauled him to his feet. "Brilliant, you're alive."
The sound of helicopters had never been more welcome.
* * *
Matt watched the third squad disgorge from their helicopter, then walked barefoot to greet his boss, whose black flat-top stood immune to the prop wash. Bean-pole tall, Jeff Hannes wore a $300 suit that matched his gray eyes, a windbreaker bearing the International Council on Augmented Phenomena eye-and-thunderbolt logo, and a constipated grimace. Matt shook his hand, and let Jeff lead him far enough from the chopper that they could hear each other.
"Well, that was a clusterfuck," Jeff said. His eyes hovered over the grunts dragging corpses into a line. They'd covered the ICAP casualties with white sheets; Dawkins's goons had been left in the rising dawn.
