James Axler - Grailstone Gambit

“Hope not.” There was a pause. “Kane?”

“Here.”

Her tone a bit softer, Domi said, “Aim good. You be very careful.”

“Aren’t I always?” he retorted.

The transceiver accurately conveyed Domi’s snort of derision. “Hell, no. That’s why I mentioned it.”

A trifle annoyed, Kane said, “Just make sure the target is where he’s supposed to be…and be aware of all our people’s positions.”

“Gotcha.”

Kane knew Domi intended to blend in with the group of Farers, flowing unnoticed among their number in her patched denims and long, hooded coat that concealed the girl’s white hair and skin, Detonics Combat Master autopistol, grenade-laden harness and her signature knife, with its nine-inch-long, serrated blade.

Kane had been reluctant to put Domi in the midst of the Farers because of her inability to get along with others, but under the circumstances, she was the least conspicuous of the Cerberus rescue team.

He opened another Commtact frequency. “Baptiste?”

“Here,” Brigid Baptiste responded in her characteristically calm tone.

“Status?”

“Hanging out with some Roamer stragglers, half a klick north-northwest of your position. “

Kane turned his head in that direction and squinted. “Sun is in my eyes.”

“In the convoy’s, too,” Brigid replied. “I’m keeping a street between us.”

“Any sign of Grant?”

“None so far.” Someone who didn’t know her would not have detected so much as a hint of concern in her crisp tone, but Kane heard the worry underscoring her voice.

“He’s still alive,” he said reassuringly. “Baron Shuma won’t pass up the chance of show off his prize pig to the citizens.”

“Assuming,” Brigid replied, “nothing has gone wrong in the past few hours.”

“You’re always such an optimist,” Kane said sarcastically.

“About as much as you are…which is to say, not much.”

“Aren’t you the one who always tells me to watch my overconfidence?”

“Only when you need it,” she answered. “Like now.”

Kane smiled crookedly and adjusted the Commtact, opening all the individual channels simultaneously. “Status reports every two minutes now, people.”

“Yes, sir,” Edwards said.

“Yo,” Brady announced.

“Gotcha,” Domi stated.

“Acknowledged,” Brigid said.

Kane took a deep breath. The stock of the OICW rifle felt smooth and warm in his hands. He eyed the sky, noting that in a few minutes the autumn sunset would plunge the narrow concrete valley below into deep gloom. The laser optical scope would help, but he prayed Shuma’s triumphant procession arrived while it was still daylight. If anything went wrong on the op, light levels wouldn’t matter.

A faint, faraway rumble of a distant engine reached his ears. Hitching around, Kane shifted position. A tall man built with a lean, long-limbed economy, most of his muscle mass was contained in his upper body, much like that of a wolf. The cold stare of a wolf glittered in his blue-gray eyes, the color of dawn light on a sharp steel blade. A faint hairline scar showed like a white thread against the sun-bronzed skin of his clean-shaved left cheek. The wind ruffled his thick hair, its color a shade between chestnut and black.

He resisted the urge to stand up, not wanting to risk being spotted by any of Baron Shuma’s advance scouts. Shuma was a known killer who operated for hire, using the bombed-out ruins of Newyork City as his base of operations. Manhattan Island no longer held even the ghost of a thriving metropolis, only the hecatomb of a vanished civilization. The fields of devastation stretched to the horizon in all directions. The few structures that still held the general outlines of the buildings they had once been rose at the skyline, then collapsed with ragged abruptness.

All of the skyscrapers and towers had been broken by titanic blows combining shock and fire. Entire city blocks were nothing but acres of scorched and shattered concrete, with rusting rods of reinforcing iron protruding from the ground like withered stalks of some mutated crop.

Why anyone would want to stake out Newyork as an empire was beyond Kane’s understanding, but he knew a number of self-styled and self-proclaimed tyrants had rushed in to fill the power vacuums in the former baronial territories. Shuma was not unique in his dreams of ruling over others. He was, however, a scalie, so by virtue of his pedigree, he stood high on the rung of the unusual ladder.

But even taking overweening ambition into account, Newyork seemed a singularly unappealing place to build an empire of any sort, situated as it was in the longest hellzone in the country.

Manhattan had never been claimed as part of a baronial territory, partly due to its inaccessibility. All the bridges connecting it to the mainland had fallen during the massive quakes in the first few minutes of the nukecaust.

In the company of Brigid Baptiste, Grant and Domi, Kane had visited the shockscape of ruins over five years earlier, when they found it inhabited mainly by the peculiar mutie strain known as scalies.

The engine rumble grew louder and Kane peered over the edge of the building. Lights bobbed along the dark ribbon of the road, already cast into shadow by the structures rising on either side. Faint cheers and shouted laughter were audible through the mechanical roar.

“On his way,” Brigid’s voice whispered.

“Acknowledged,” Kane replied as he checked the direction of the wind with a moistened forefinger.

He eyed the sky, noting that in less than fifteen minutes, sunset would give way to dusk, then full night. A shot would be exceptionally risky, depending on where Grant was positioned in the promenade.

Brigid’s voice came again. “Shuma himself just passed. Big as life and about five times as ugly.”

“Did you see Grant?”

“Yes.” Her tone quavered slightly. “It’s going to be close, I’m afraid.”

“It’s what I figured. Stand by. Edwards?”

“Yes, sir,” the man calmly responded. “Target coming into sight.”

“Brady?” Kane inquired.

“Got them in my crosshairs, Commander,” Brady stated.

“Acknowledged. Wait for my signal.”

A single shaft of sunlight slipped over the top of the building and cast a shifting yellow halo on the road below. A thunder of drums, a rhythmic engine throb and sharp voices echoed between the walls of the concrete canyon. Kane crept closer to the cornice edge and peered through the rifle’s scope.

Straight down the potholed street came the procession, and on either side milled the Farers and Roamers, lean people wearing rags, but their faces were those of predatory animals. They yelled and shouted and waved at the vehicle chugging slowly over the potholed blacktop. In a previous incarnation, some two centuries earlier, the long automobile had been a bright yellow Cadillac convertible. Garlands of artificial flowers festooned the bodywork, from the gleaming grillwork to the sharp tail fins. Four men marched beside the vehicle, hammering on drums made of old metal containers.

Although he had never seen him before, Kane had no problem identifying Baron Shuma. An enormous man stripped to the waist stood upright in the rear seat, his arms folded over his thick chest. His hairless head was small in proportion to his massive torso. He resembled a toad more than a lizard. His blunt-featured face was coated in overlapping scales of a dark gray-green. His nose was a blob, a lighter shade of gray. His pendulous lips drew back over yellowed teeth in a savage grin. His black-rimmed eyes glittered brightly even in the dim light.

Kane recalled that Lakesh had speculated the scalies were the descendants of humans modified for war. Most likely the first generation were little more than expendable fighting machines, with their brains modified to ensure that they remained under the control of those guiding their actions.