17. The Bloody Viking

The Bloody Viking

Saxon

I 've got that cold hard lump in my gut. I always get it before an op. Nerves? Excitement? Fear? A little of everything.

Beside me, Terra is clearly nervous, and trying to hide it.

I don't like the look in her eye—I can't read it, and I don't like that.

We're a mile away from the meeting point—a county park in a rural area equidistant between Jean-Paul's place in Connecticut and the ski resort base in Vermont. Jean-Paul picked a good spot—I checked it out on Google Earth before leaving, examining topography, potential lines of sight, egress routes, the works. Not as good as doing preliminary in-person recon, obviously, but the best I can do under the circumstances.

I pull the Range Rover off the narrow gravel drive leading from the two-lane highway to the park entrance, turn it around, and back it up into a small stand of trees a quarter of a mile off the road.

Grab the bag from the footwell behind us, and pull out two burners—mine, and an additional one courtesy of Jean-Paul, seeing as Terra's purse is MIA—hopefully either with her friends or en route to Vegas.

Mine has missed calls—Inez. "Fuck," I snarl. Dial her back.

"Saxon. About time."

"Sorry, been a little…busy."

"Even apart, you three are peas in a pod." There's outright amusement in her voice. "Silas has been busy, as has Solomon. Silas has wrapped up his situation. Solomon's is still somewhat…liquid."

"They okay?"

"So far. Silas, at least. I had to get involved with Silas's issue. He got himself into a pretty interesting situation."

I chuckle. "He's good at that. What's her name?"

"Naomi." A pause. "And you? What's your situation's name?"

I look at Terra. "Terra Connelly."

"Are you handling it?"

"Wrapping it up as we speak." I bite the bullet. "She's coming home with me."

"I assumed." Another long pause. "Is there anything you require?"

I sigh. "Not that you can give, not now. Not soon enough."

"Saxon…I feel I must remind you of your vow. It is a sacred vow—not to me, not to your brothers in blood or in arms, but to yourself."

"I know," I whisper.

"Good. I look forward to meeting the woman who could crack that shell of yours so quickly."

"Hey, Inez?"

"Yes."

"You good? You sound…different."

"I am well." Another of those pauses—she has a way with silences. "Naomi, Silas's new companion and partner, or whatever you'd like to call her, she…reminds me of someone I once knew."

"Oh? Who?" That's the most she's ever revealed about herself.

A soft sigh. "Myself. A long, long time ago."

"You strike me as being the same age as the rest of us. How long ago could it be?"

"My age is none of your concern," she snaps, and then softens. "But…time is a very relative and subjective thing, Saxon."

"True," I murmur. "Someone is gonna be showing up with some of Terra's stuff. I don't know who, and I don't know when."

"Understood. It will be handled."

"Be in touch when this shit is wrapped up."

"Be safe. Hold to your vow." A meaningful, pointed pause. "It matters."

"I know."

"See you soon."

Terra looks at me. "She sounds…interesting."

I laugh. "There's no one like Inez. She's a real fuckin' enigma."

I dial the number of my burner with the spare, connect the call, and hand her the device. In an inner pocket of the duffel bag I find a pair of cheap corded microphone-and-earbud sets, charger cords, and thumb-sized portable batteries—I connect everything and pocket my phone, thumb the earpiece in, running the cord under my vest so it doesn't get in the way or yanked free by branches. Hand her the other.

"Keep this on and connected—it's a quick and dirty comms setup. Don't talk to me unless necessary, no matter what you hear. If you see someone coming down the road, say 'incoming.' If there's one car, you say 'one incoming,' or two, or three, whatever the case is. If someone spots you, you get gone and don't worry about me. Being cell phones, there's no outer range to these, short of signal issues." I check the display. "But we're good, for now." I gently pinch her chin. "I'm serious, Terra. Shit goes sideways, you get the fuck out. Don't come for me."

She glares at me. "Fuck you. I'll do what I do. I was just thinking on the way here how grateful I am that you don't treat me like a damsel in distress. So don't you dare fuckin' start now, you asshole. Shit goes sideways, I'm coming in. If you thought I was the type of girl to run at the first sign of trouble, you ain't been paying attention. And if that's the girl you want, you'd better look elsewhere, ‘cause that shit ain't me."

I sigh a laugh. "It was worth a shot."

She doesn't laugh. "Bullshit."

I wince. "You're no fuckin' damsel, Terra. I know that shit down to my bones. Doesn't mean I want to see you shot."

"You think I wanna see you shot? Like, for real, seriously shot. Not just grazed. No, I do not. So, just…shut up. Do the thing. Go be badass. And just trust the fact that if shit goes sideways out there, I'm coming to the fuckin' rescue."

"You've got my back." I'm telling myself.

"Fuckin' right I do." She softens, momentarily. "I've got your back, Saxon."

I swallow hard. "I hear you."

And I do, I hear what she's not saying. I lean over the console between us and kiss her—soft, slow, deep.

"Good," She whispers. "Because I mean it."

She palms my cheek. Brushes her thumb over my lips. Searches me with her turquoise eyes. "Go get 'em, tiger."

I laugh, and say nothing else. Exit the car, open the trunk, and fetch the rifle—a high-powered, long-range, military-issue sniper rifle—and the MP5 submachine gun. I stuff magazines for both into the front of the vest. Two Glocks, spare mags. Knife.

Loaded for fucking bear.

With the hatch open, I adjust my gear so nothing rattles, jostles, or bounces too badly. I'm not going for stealth, but habit is habit—you check your gear. I've already stripped and cleaned the rifle, the MP5, and the Glocks. Personally loaded the magazines from fresh, unopened boxes of ammunition. Checked the scope and the action.

Before I close the hatch, I meet Terra's eyes in the rearview mirror. "See you soon, hot stuff."

"See you soon, big boy." She gives me a wink and an air kiss. A grin that doesn't quite meet her eyes.

I close the trunk. Sigh. Give myself one more moment to swallow past the cold hard welt in my gut that seems to have migrated north to a position near my Adam's apple.

I orient myself based on the gravel road, and head parallel to it in the trees. The park is an old one, used for county fairs a few times a year and little else except the occasional hiker, dog-walker, and drone- or remote-controlled airplane enthusiast. It's not much but a big open field surrounded by a dense perimeter of trees—an old-growth forest protected by the park's status. I make a circuit of the field, first. Close, just inside the tree line, stopping, looking, listening. No signs of anything unusual. Near where the gravel road opens out from the forest into the field a small dirt parking lot is marking the trailhead—there are several miles of maintained trails running through the woods in various marked loops, all beginning and ending at the same trailhead. Beyond, in the overgrown field, knee-high grass waves in a slow post-dawn breeze, beaded with diamonds of dew.

Tricky terrain for an ambush—I'd assumed the field would be mowed, but it's not, and the tall grass poses an obstacle for finding a good spot to get the shots off without being spotted. There's no high ground—no hills. Everything is flat. Climbing a tree is out because I won't be able to get down fast enough after I've made the shots.

The only reason this plan even has a chance of working is because Jean-Paul has a habit of making you wait for him when you're meeting with him. He enters on his time, not yours. So it won't be unusual, in Jarrod's mind, for him to show up and have to wait for Jean-Paul to make his entrance. He'll be looking for a helo, I'd guess.

I make another circuit of the field, looking for a vantage point. And continue to find nothing. Anywhere I could post up, they'd spot me after my first shot, and if I'm prone or kneeling, the grass is in the way.

Fuck.

"Three incoming," Terra's voice murmurs in my ear. "Yukons. Tinted windows, so I can't see how many in each."

"Heard," I murmur back. "Fuck," I breathe.

"Fuck? Why fuck?"

"No good spots for the rifle. Too flat, grass is too high."

"Pivot. New plan. Fast. Something they won't expect, even after the shooting starts."

God, I'm out of practice. "Roger."

"Roger Roger." She snickers.

"Terra."

"Sorry, sorry. Star Wars joke."

I sprint flat-out for the trailhead, cutting through the corner of the field—make it to a trail, one running parallel to the field. It cuts away, the bastard, and I duck off the trail and through the trees, keeping the field on my left. My lungs burn, but I keep going.

"They should be visible soon."

"Got it," I gasp.

I break out onto another trail, and this one leads directly to the trailhead. Bingo. I slow to a trot, and then a walk, focusing on slowing my breathing. Spin, assessing.

There.

A fallen tree just off the trail, with a clear line of sight to the parking area. Scramble behind it, toss the rifle aside—too close for that, not even fifty yards. Lay prone, MP5 resting on the tree trunk, red dot optic against my cheek. It's not a scope—it doesn't magnify, only provides the red dot for aiming.

I hear vehicles after less than thirty seconds—I'm still breathing hard, but I'm not gagging for breath anymore. I'm just hot, sweaty, and jangling with nervous energy.

Don't kill. Don't kill. Don't kill.

The three black SUVs park in a line, one after the other. Tinted windows. They idle, engines on.

"Saxon? You see them?"

"Targets in sight. Radio silence." I whisper it, even though they're dozens of yards away, and inside motor vehicles.

Not yet. Let them get settled. Complacent.

Fuck, the waiting is hard.

I manage to let almost five minutes elapse—I draw a bead on the lead vehicle—Jarrod is in the middle, most likely.

Start drawing in the slack on the trigger, the red dot on the lead Yukon's engine bay.

I'm a breath away from opening fire when the rearmost vehicle's rear passenger door opens and closes. Fuck—who? What?

Jarrod, circling the rear of the vehicle, phone to his ear. He's irate. Yelling. Gesturing angrily—snatches and bits float to me. Something about bad intel.

He smacks the driver's window, and it rolls down. Says something. Spins away, hand passing through his hair.

I know it's Jarrod because I fucking recognize him. When I knew him, though, he went by JT. He was a kid, a snot-nosed punk. He tried out for the assassin boot camp and washed out in the first phase, the physical fitness test. Too slow, too weak. He tried again. And again, kept washing out. Got meaner every time, until I told him to quit fucking trying. Stick to what he knew—being a grunt.

He was a douchey, entitled little prick, a rich kid like me, but instead of running away and earning his way up, he used crooked Daddy's money to buy his way into everything. Including the Cabal, with whom his father did business. Big business—coke distribution, I think, out of Jersey City. His father was enough of a name to Cabal brass that they put his son in the ranks and promised him easy promotion. Except, that only applied to the regular ranks—to make it in the elite program, you have to earn it. And he didn't.

Is that really why he hates me? Pathetic little bastard. He's still a pathetic little bastard, too. Decent height—just shy of six feet. Decent genetics—his dad cuts an imposing figure. But JT? Skinny, with a belly poking out past his suit coat. No discipline.

He's all fire and no fury—just an entitled douche given a little taste of power. The kind of fuckwad who thinks brutality and ruthlessness are all you need. No smarts, no prudence, no forethought, no patience.

He's the guy who'd be an assistant manager somewhere and lord his little bit of authority over everyone, even though he didn't do shit to earn a goddamn thing.

Fucking JT.

He pulls a silver case from his suit coat, opens it, pulls a cigarette free, and lights it with a Zippo.

Pretentious fuck.

Paces away. Puffs angrily.

Pivots. "Let's fucking go," I make out. "Fuck Jean-Paul."

I have no time to think, then, only react. Squeeze the trigger and put four rounds into the rear-most vehicle's engine.

BAMBAMBAMBAM —lead truck's engine.

BAMBAMBAMBAM —middle.

There's yelling.

Doors open, and guns fire—wildly, indiscriminately—in every direction. JT hits the dirt, hands on his head, as his own men damn near kill him.

They haven't spotted me yet, so I stay put. Draw bead on a figure with an M-16 and blast his knee out. He screams, drops his rifle, and scrabbles toward the Yukon.

Fuck, those SUV's were loaded with guys. I count…too many.

No time for fucking around—I drop as many as I can with leg or high torso shots: arms, shoulders. No such thing as a good place to get hit, but you're not likely to die as long as you stop the bleeding.

A round smacks into the tree trunk an inch from my face and sends splinters into my mouth. I throw myself to the rotting bark and wriggling bugs beneath the tree trunk, spitting splinters and wiping blood away with my sleeve.

Roll, roll, hit my feet and run into the trees. I hear shouting. Gunfire. Lucky shot, or did they spot me?

I hear voices closer, duck, drop to one knee behind a thick pine.

"Swear to god I saw him. Behind the tree here. Yeah, see? Casings, and a rifle." A shout, then. "Hey, dumbfucks! Quit shooting!"

No time for finesse. I pop out from behind the tree, spot the pair at my previous hiding place. Drop 'em both with knee-cap shots. Because at least that way, they can't chase me.

Back into the trees, circling wide toward the parking lot. JT is on his feet now, gun in hand, yelling incoherent and conflicting orders.

"Get the fucker! Find him! Get me out of here!"

His men don't know whether to come after me or get him out—so they just stand there, unsure.

BAM-BAM-BAM . Drop three.

JT takes off running into the woods and three of his men follow, four more scattering.

Shit.

Switch mags, noting with no small amount of worry that there are several dark red pools of blood without an attendant howling body.

I head after JT.

It's slow going because I have to keep quiet and avoid his men, who are everywhere, yelling at each other.

Sloppy. They're trained for shit—no comms, no plan.

They should be working to trap me. They've got me outnumbered, even with the ones I've immobilized. It shouldn't be hard—identify, isolate, surround.

I move through the woods, sweating and panting. "All good so far," I whisper, wanting to assure Terra. "Stay put."

"Okay." her voice is tight.

No time or mental space for anything more.

I nearly run into a group of JT's men clustered in a circle, whispering at a junction of two trails. I burst out of the trees and skid to a stop less than six feet from the group of men.

A stunned tableau.

No time. No thoughts. Only reaction.

I toss MP5 to the dirt and draw my knife, taking two running steps and launching myself into a stutter-step sidekick, my foot connecting with a ribcage. The man goes flying, ribs crunching.

It's on, then.

I spin, slice my blade along a forearm, slam the edge of my hand into his throat. Drive my knee with all my weight into the next guy's sternum. Donkey kick behind me, catch a would-be attacker in the gut.

BAM .

Lightning strikes my left thigh—a hot hammer with no pain, at first, just pure kinetic impact. My leg gives out, a hoarse grunt escaping my clenched teeth.

Fuck.

No time.

Pain later.

The shooter is behind me—I spin, grab the guy I kneed, and throw him at his friend. The gun goes off, and his body drops, forehead dripping gore.

Not my kill.

"Saxon?" Her voice is mouse-small and piano wire-taut.

Ignore. Ignore.

"Come on, motherfuckers," I snarl, hobbling in a circle.

Let myself drop to my knee, let my bad leg give out—a shot rings out and snaps through the air where my head was. I palm my pistol on the way down, plant a round in the shooter's left ribcage, low. Drop and roll, almost make my good knee, but the wounded leg won't cooperate.

BAM .

I'm thrown backward to the ground as a round hits my chest, dead center. My lungs are squeezed empty as the impact drives my oxygen out, leaving me gasping.

My vision blurs.

I see JT slinking this way, gun first.

BAM .

Another chest shot. They hurt, and fuck, I can't breathe.

"Fuck," I gasp. "Go. Run. Please."

I hear her snarl, and then a car door open and close.

Footsteps, her breathing.

"Stay…the fuck…alive," she pants.

I have to narrow the odds.

I roll to my belly, not entirely faking a moan. Use the motion to assess how fucked I am.

Four men and JT.

Surrounded.

Guns drawn.

On my belly, I act like I'm fighting to get to my feet, acting more hurt than I am. I mean, I'm fucking hurt, and bad, but only the leg is an issue. I'll have bruises on my chest, but I'm already breathing better.

"Saxon fucking Cabot," I hear JT say, sounding cocky now that no one's shooting at him. "The great Bloody fucking Viking himself."

I drop my knife under myself and get a grip on my other Glock. Snap the closure off. Writhe, gasping dramatically. Losing blood, fucking hurts. No time.

Terra is coming. I have to end this before she gets here.

"Thought you'd fucking ambush me?" His voice is thin, reedy, nasal. Goddamned annoying. "Jean-Paul was in on it, huh? Figures. Old French sack of shit. Fucking frog fuck."

Closer.

Over me.

His Italian leather loafer, no socks, slams into my gut, lifting me off the ground, sending stars bursting behind my eyes, knocking the breath out of me.

Fucker doesn't know who he's dealing with. I was taking kicks to the gut while he was sipping juice boxes and watching fucking cartoons.

I gag, playing along.

"Get his fucking guns, Marco, you fucking useless bitch."

Hands grab my vest and haul me upright. I go limp and let him struggle with my weight, so his buddy has to help. Now I've got two of them right where I want them.

BAM-BAM .

Both of my pistols buck, the barrels pressed against their bellies, aimed outward, hopefully missing anything vital—the name of the game now is pure survival.

They fall backward and I smash their faces in with the butts, drop to my good knee and crack off another shot, a messy, sloppy one that misses my target—his knee—and catches him in the belly, full-on.

Fuck.

BAMBAMBAM —I'm thrown forward as the rounds hit my back. Can't breathe, my body a raging inferno of agony.

Tough it out, motherfucker.

Roll to my back, groaning, teeth gritted so hard I feel a molar crack. Snarling.

JT and his last lackey face me, guns pointed at me.

"You're tough, I'll give you that." JT swaggers toward me.

I gasp a laugh. "Still a pathetic…whiny…little…shitstain." Fuck, I can't breathe.

"You remember me?"

"Sad little bitch." I spit blood—I bit my tongue. "Couldn't hack it."

"Couldn't hack it?" He swaggers closer. "Who's on the ground, about to be fuckin' dead?"

I spit more blood—Jesus, must've taken a chunk out. Good, though—makes me look more hurt than I am. Good thing these fuckers can't make a headshot.

"Camilla Marccione sends her regards," I say, wiping my lips on my forearm. "She'll see you real soon."

"I remember her. That was a fun night. I went twice. She cried real pretty."

"You're the last one, you know that?"

He frowns. "Last one what?"

"Everyone else who was there that night is dead. She hunted them all down and killed them, every last one. Starting with her father and brothers and ending with you."

He pulls a face. "Huh. Well, if you're here to get me, she fucked up. I heard a rumor about you." He circles me—a move he probably got from a movie and thinks is cool and threatening. "You don't kill anymore."

"I might make an exception, in your case."

"See, I don't think you will." He kneels behind me and touches the barrel of his pistol—a huge gold-plated Desert Eagle, the official firearm of wannabe hardasses everywhere. "You haven't killed anyone yet. Which I think puts me at an advantage, here. See, I'm well aware you could still pull this out. Get off a few shots. But you won't. Because you got soft. Took a vow, and now you have that girl out there somewhere. You wanna impress her. Keep your vow. Well…guess what?" He stands up. Towers over me, behind me—or tries to. "I'll make this quick, and then I'll hunt down your sweet little redheaded slut, and I'll put her to work…personally."

I laugh. "Think you're gonna rile me up? Piss me off so I do something rash?"

I haven't heard anything from Terra's side of the connection—she must have cut the call.

This is bad.

My leg is bleeding badly—I've lost a lot of blood, and I'm getting woozy. JT is behind me, his last soldier opposite.

Don't think. Just do.

I pivot so JT is on my left and the other on my right. Bring my left hand up against my torso and fire under my right armpit. The round goes high and wide, takes off his ear.

Drop.

A bullet buzzes past my nose. Hit the dirt and roll—the lackey is on the ground, cupping his ear. I fire from the hip, and it's pure dumb fucking luck my round hits his hand and sends his gun flying.

Roll on my back to put my feet toward JT, aiming both pistols down my body at him.

He's aiming at me.

"Real standoff, here." He grins. "You won't kill me."

"No, but I will." Terra's voice, off to my right.

It all happens in slow motion—JT's face registers shock. His barrel slides around.

Terra, twenty feet away, between two tall thin pines, a Beretta in both hands, standing in a beautiful triangle stance. Rage on her face. Determination. Resolve.

"Well, it's Saxon's little redheaded slut. I'm gonna enjoy you. Breaking you will be quite fun."

"Drop it." Her voice is hard, quivering with adrenalized rage.

"You first." He points his gun at me. "Drop it, or I'll kill him."

"Last warning." Terra's finger curls, tightens.

JT grins. "Maybe I won't kill him." He bobs his head from side to side. "Maybe I'll torture him while you watch, and then make him watch while I fuck every hole you have."

How does this end? I'm not just woozy—I'm faint. My guns are heavy. My head hurts, pounds, spins.

I've got one last ditch effort I can make before I pass out. Before I die—no help coming, here. Shoot him. Kill him. Save her. I'll be breaking my vow, but I'll be dead, so I won't care.

I look at Terra and see her eyes locked on me.

She shakes her head. Sniffles—rage, and tears. "Don't. Don't ."

Jarrod thinks she's talking to him. "Beg harder, maybe I'll consider it."

I grit my teeth and fight with the last of my strength, my vision twisting, narrowing, spinning. Haul my gun up. Line the iron sight on his skull.

Take the slack out of the trigger.

Everything wavers.

Two of him.

Which one do I shoot?

The pair of him turn to face me. Two of his big stupid golden guns aim at me. "I'm bored of this," he says, his voice muffled, faint.

BAM .

The shot startles me. Did I…?

Something thumps to the ground beside me. Jarrod. Wavy brown hair side-parted and slicked back, fair skin. Brown eyes wide…

Sightless.

A hole in the middle of his forehead—a big one. A messy one. An exit wound, not an entrance wound.

I peer, dizzy, fighting to stay conscious. Terra lowers her pistol.

Scrambles over to me, sliding in the dirt. "God, you're a mess, honey."

"L-leg."

She looks down. "Oh fuck."

"Tour…tourniquet." I swallow dirt and knives, it feels like. "Stick. Shoelace."

I stay conscious as she strips the lace out of my boot—the injured side. Slips one end of the shoelace under my leg a few inches above the wound. Ties the shoelace off in a tight knot, and then ties the ends of the cord to the stick, which she then twists.

Once the bleeding has visibly slowed, I hold the stick in place while she uses my other shoelace to tie the stick down.

"Hey." She touches my cheek with a bloody hand. "I've got your back."

"I…" Breathing is hard—I think I've got broken ribs from the…everything. I fight the words out. "Love you too."

"Dammit, Saxon. Stay with me."

"Call Camilla. Closer. Then…Inez."

"You're gonna fuckin' stay awake, Saxon."

"Tryin'."

"What do I tell Camilla? I took her revenge away."

"Kill…or be…killed. She'll get it. She…she likes you."

"Fuck, I hope so."

I find her turquoise eyes. "Now would be…a good time…to say it."

"You wish. You gotta stay with me."

"Why…are you…so scared?"

She sniffles. "Never said it. Never heard it said to me, except for Em. I don't—I don't know how. She says it to me. But I…I don't know how." She fishes my phone out, yanks the headset free. Dials a number. To me, then: "But I do, Saxon. I do. I've got your back."

Darkness reaches up, implacable.

"Scaredy…cat."

I pass out, then.