Myke Cole - Shadow Ops - Control Point

“Go! Go!” he shouted to the remaining men, who nodded and jumped through. The flight officer paused at the gate, turning back to him.

“Sir, what ab…”

“I’ll get him!” Britton shouted. “Get out of here!”

Britton ran back to the parapet, where Fitzy stood over the Terramancer, slumped and bleeding. The chief warrant officer wrenched back and forth, Goblins hanging from his arms. One leapt and wrapped its arms around his neck while another grabbed his leg. Fitzy hauled the Goblin over his shoulder, hurling it into its fellows. Another Goblin threw its sword down, grappling his waist.

Slowly, Fitzy sank to his knees. Britton shouted and ran toward him.

Then he was ripped off his feet, spinning in the air, whipping through the helicopter’s cabin. He came out the other side of the bird, his body whirling through hundreds of feet of empty air, the helo shrinking in the distance.

He hung in the air. A Goblin Aeromancer faced him, its grimace cracking the white paint that covered its body. It leaned forward, grinning, prying one eye open wide.

And then Britton was falling.

Terror unleashed a flood of adrenaline that threatened to swamp him. He felt the Dampener kicking in, shunting the terror aside. The wind whipped his face, his dry eyes too painful to keep open.

So he closed them and concentrated on the soft couch in the recreation area at LSA Portcullis.

He felt the shift in magical currents, the sudden change in smells, temperature, air pressure. He slammed into the soft couch, sprawling among soldiers who squawked, scrambling. His kicking boots knocked the TV off its stand. He bounced, his nose spraying blood from the impact, his shoulders and chest reporting the hit. He didn’t think anything had broken, but couldn’t be sure.

There was no time.

Britton sprang to his feet and leapt off the back of the couch. He heard the shouts of the startled soldiers, saw Don and the blond desk officer staring openmouthed, then he’d opened another gate and jumped through, slamming shoulder first into the Goblins swarming Fitzy, sending them flying. A few clung stubbornly to him.

The Aeromancer swooped over them, screaming, a dark cloud spinning behind him.

“Get out of here!” Fitzy screamed.

“Sure thing,” Britton said, locking his arms around Fitzy’s neck. A Goblin squirmed between them, clinging to Fitzy’s waist. The Aeromancer descended, cloud pulsing with light. Britton gripped Fitzy tight, pushing off with his thighs, opening up the gate behind him.

They slid on the loading bay’s smooth floor, the gate shutting behind them. Britton’s shoulder collided with James’s shin, sending the armorer tumbling over them.

It took them a moment to scramble free, the Goblin crawling out from their midst, gasping. It scrabbled a few feet on the concrete floor, its fur cloak flipped backward over its head. Fitzy hauled himself to his feet and threw himself on it, grabbing the fur-covered lump of the Goblin’s head and slamming it into the concrete again and again.

Britton moved to stop him, but hands gripped his arms, holding him back.

“Son of a fucking bitch!” Fitzy screamed over and over, punctuating each shout with the muffled wet sound of the Goblin’s head striking floor. At last, the creature was still, a dark stain spreading across the cloak.

Britton looked around. Soldiers crowded one of the SOC soldiers from the helo. The arrow had been pulled from his collar, white gauze pressed to the wound. He stirred weakly, his skin white and sweaty. The injured pilot sat beside him, dressing his own wounds with the help of the flight officer. Radio chatter blared somewhere in the darkness.

“Sweet baby Jesus,” James whispered. “What the hell happened?”

Fitzy whirled on Britton. “Genius here pulled a bunch of heroics instead of getting himself to safety like he was ordered! You goddamned idiot! Do you have any idea what it would have meant if you had died? What if they captured you?”

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Britton screamed back. “I saved your goddamned life!”

“You’re not in the life-saving business!” Fitzy yelled, spit flying. “You’re in the shut the fuck up and do as your told business! When I want to be saved, I’ll order you to do it!”

Britton shook his head. “…damned crazy.”

Fitzy leaned in close, his breath sour. “You think this means I owe you. You think this means we’re buddies. You remember one thing, contractor. I am not your friend. I am not your comrade in arms. I am here to make you into a righteous engine of war. Nothing more, nothing less.

“You’re paid to be a weapon, not a hero. Remember that.”

Shadow Coven sat in their usual place at the bar. Britton slumped moodily over his folded arms, doing his best to ignore Truelove, who badgered him with questions. Richards and Downer sat beside him, trying hard not to look as interested as they were.

Britton couldn’t concentrate on the flurry of questions his Coven threw at him. Fitzy’s words echoed over and over in his mind.

A weapon. That’s all I am, a tool. He had felt that once he raised the flag, he would be part of something again. He had watched his magic do good, rescuing American serviceman and putting down what could only be described as a monster.

But this last raid. Where was the good in that? Was that what he was? A weapon? An instrument wielded for whatever capricious whim the army chose?

“Fitzy was pissed,” Britton said, turning back to the conversation, trying to drive such thoughts away.

“Man, I bet. He just wanted you to leave him there to die?” Truelove asked.

“Yup. The Camp Commandant met him at the flight line when I gated us back in. Dressed him down right there.” Britton looked gloomily at his drink. He wasn’t sure what the cost would be, but he knew it was coming and soon.

“You’re all right, and that’s what matters. Nobody got hurt,” Truelove said.

“Yeah,” Britton replied again, staring into his drink. His mind was full of images of burning wood, Goblins screaming to their deaths.

“He’s right,” Downer said. “You did good. You got them out of there.”

“What was it Harlequin said to you?” Britton asked. “That we’d be fighting narcoterrorists? Enemies of our country? We slaughtered Goblins last night. We must have killed a hundred of them.”

Downer leaned toward him, sympathetic. “Come on, man. They’re not the same ones. They’re not like Marty. There are good Goblins and bad Goblins. You went after a Defender tribe, Sorrahhad. Those are the same ones who attack the base every night! You know how many lives you saved by what you did?”

“No,” he replied. “I only know how many lives I took. Sorrahhad means Defenders, right? What is it you suppose they’re defending?”

“That’s stupid,” she replied. “That’s just their name for themselves. Of course they’re going to make it nice like that.”

The tide of mutters sounded across the patronage as it always did when Marty entered. The little Goblin made his way to the bar, smiling.

“Christ, Marty,” Britton said. “You can’t come here anymore. Fitzy is going to pitch a fit. He’s laying down the law about us hanging out now.”

Marty wiggled his ears and mounted a stool. “Fitzy is…”

Britton cut him off with a raised hand. “Stop. Enough with that.”

He pointed at Chris, his finger mimicking a gun. “Give him his usual, and be forewarned that I’m in no mood for your bullshit right now.”

Chris took one look at Britton’s face and filled a cup with sugar. Truelove helped Marty onto the stool, shaking his head. “He’s right, Marty. Fitzy’s gone off the deep end lately. We don’t want you to get in trouble.”