Nicholas Smith - Wolves

But the grin was gone, his scarred face a mask of anger. Looking away, he yelled orders to his soldiers, who took up positions at the edge of the gardens, spears out.

El Pulpo stalked up the steps and sat on his throne, growling to himself. Imulah folded his arms across his chest, his hands vanishing inside the rough brown robe. He avoided Magnolia’s gaze, but the king looked her way a second time.

He said something in Spanish, and pointed at Rodger as Imulah translated.

“Tonight, we feast on the flesh of gods. Tonight, we dine on the flesh of the sky people—starting with that one. He is ripe.”

X had no idea whether Timothy would be able to get his transmission through to Michael, but it was out of his hands now.

His mission was to find and save Magnolia and Miles.

He wasn’t sure what he would do after that—improvise, as usual, he supposed.

For now, his luck was holding as he homed in on their location. The Cazador soldiers still hadn’t made him, but it was only a matter of time before he must engage them.

The piers at the bottom of the castle ahead were thronged with warriors. This wasn’t just a castle; it was a fortress. And he had no idea how to find his friends here. One thing was certain: he wouldn’t be using the piers.

And he no longer had Timothy’s help, either. The AI had gone offline twenty minutes ago after telling X that the Cazadores were inside the command center. For all X knew, Timothy was nothing but a memory.

The boats ahead picked up speed toward the dock. X felt the tendrils of panic, a feeling he hardly recognized. He had seconds to figure out what to do.

One of the boats veered sharply. X followed and saw a door opening under the structure right of the docks. Moored boats bobbed gently in the slow current running under the metal behemoth.

He gunned the WaveRunner’s engine to catch up. Of the four men in the back of the boat, only one looked in his direction, but he seemed to pay scant attention and went back to looking ahead at the widening doors.

X looked subtly left, to the docks, thick with soldiers and the men in robes.

He looked casually at the marine garage. If he could get inside unnoticed, maybe he could fight his way to Magnolia and Miles. A long shot, but it was a plan. As long as he was breathing, he would keep fighting.

The boat ahead slowed and drifted into the gloom of the enclosed garage. X eased off the throttle and followed.

Now the men in the boat were looking at him. Three of them talked to one another in low voices. He had hoped to buy a little more time.

His eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness as he steered the WaveRunner inside. The hangar held at least thirty boats, most of them hard-used and covered in rust and grime. Steel columns wider than some of the boats supported the structure above.

This fortress, too, was an oil rig. But unlike the others, it had been completely retrofitted with towers over the platforms that once held a petroleum pumping station.

A hundred feet ahead, a dock extended outward from a platform a few feet above water level. On it, two helmeted Cazadores stood guard. Both were looking in his direction.

The vessel he was following ran up along the dock, and a man jumped out. He grabbed a rope and threw it to a man in the stern, who hitched it to the cleat. Now all the other sailors were looking his way.

One of them yelled, “ Detenga su motor .”

X had a feeling they wanted him to shut his engine off, but he looked over his shoulder as if he hadn’t heard them. He would get only one shot at this.

When he looked back to the docks, the two men in armor held up their hands for him to stop. He did as instructed, killing the WaveRunner’s engine. In a smooth continuation of the same motion, he brought up the submachine gun. The automatic fire would attract others, but he would be long gone before they came.

The first trigger pull sent a three-round burst into the armored man on the left, spattering the next man with his blood. As the second soldier lifted his spear, the next burst shattered his helmet and the face behind it. Then X turned the submachine gun on the soldiers from the boat, who were still scrambling for cover. They had nowhere to hide. He cut them all down with short bursts.

In seconds, it was over.

X brought the WaveRunner up to the dock, grabbed his pack, and jumped off. Only one Cazador was still moving, crawling hand over hand down the dock, dragging his shattered legs.

A shot to the back of the head, and he lay still. X ejected the spent magazine, pulled another from his vest, and palmed it home as he trotted to the doorway at the end of the dock.

It swung open, and he halted in midstride as a man stumbled out, eyes widening at the submachine gun muzzle pointed at his chest. The blast sent him stumbling back into the staircase.

X limped into the passage, gun angled up toward the next landing. Finding it clear, he checked his wrist monitor again. Both beacons were still blinking. Mags and Miles were still alive.

Come on, old man!

He rushed up the first flight, adrenaline fueling his movements. Candles in sconces lit the way, but his injuries flared with every step. The bullet graze along the outer edge of his foot, the cut palm, and the old wound from the octopus—everything hurt.

He didn’t pause at any of the landing doors to check for contacts or even to rest. The sooner he got to the top, the better his odds of finding his friends alive.

About five flights up, he heard voices. He stopped at the next landing. Listening, he realized they were coming from above and below.

He kept moving, with the submachine gun pointed up the stairs. Two more floors up, footfalls echoed in the stairwell. He flattened against the wall and waited.

A Cazador man with a ponytail moved into view, and X shot him through the neck, painting the metal wall red.

Screams of horror rang out. But they weren’t male.

X moved his finger off the trigger as a woman and several children rounded the landing above. He bounded up the stairs with the submachine gun pointed at them, eyes scanning for weapons. None of the four women or three children appeared armed with anything but sharp teeth.

He considered expending a few more rounds, but he couldn’t bring himself to kill noncombatants, even cannibals.

Moving across the landing, he swung the gun up the next flight. Seeing no other contacts, he moved back to the group, with his gun on them.

One of the women knelt wailing beside the man X had shot. X felt the pang of empathy but quickly pushed it aside and grabbed the man’s rifle. He checked to make sure the magazine was full, then palmed it back in. He also had the blaster holstered on his thigh, loaded with two shotgun shells and a flare, and the fully loaded carbine slung over his back. Two pistols with fresh mags were tucked into his belt. He had a lot of firepower, and he had a feeling he would need it all.

But he also needed something more than bullets.

Looking the group over, he decided to grab one of the kids—a boy no older than Michael had been when he wore his twisty foil hat.

“No!” one of the women yelled. They hit at him as he pulled the boy away, until he brandished the submachine gun.

“Get the hell off me!” he yelled. “Back!”

The women and other children cowered on the landing, baring their sharpened teeth like cornered dogs. They were all filthy and reeked of sweat. Tattered clothing hung off their sun-bronzed skin, and bracelets of seashell and bone decorated the women’s necks and wrists.

He had started to retreat when a women pulled a knife from under her rags. As she lunged at him, X put a bullet in her thigh. The knife clattered to the floor, and he kicked it down the stairs.