James Axler – Bitter Fruit

Conte kept a mental count going in his head. One set of numbers was for the time since they’d taken out the security guards, and the other was for the time they were spending scaling the wall.

For a time during the battle along the mountain ridge, the team had lost sight of Cawdor and his people. But the tracks of the vehicles had been easy enough to take up. They’d made the outskirts of the town almost two hours before sundown.

After a recce through binoculars, Conte had spotted the dearth of guards hanging around a tavern visible from their vantage point among the trees almost three hundred yards distant. The tavern was called the Bent Rose, and the heavily armed vehicles in front of it looked a lot like the ones that had intercepted Cawdor and his group.

It had been enough to warrant further investigation. And if Conte found Cawdor, he fully intended to see the man dead before morning.

The vehicle they’d taken themselves from the small redoubt they’d arrived in was secured almost five miles back. Getting around the men on horseback had been tricky, but they’d been focused on the invaders who’d taken Cawdor. During that time Conte had also seen that the green-garbed people had taken the black woman among Cawdor’s band prisoner.

That was a loose end that would have to be taken care of later. Possibly. From the looks of things, it might only require ascertaining the woman was no longer a threat.

Aames went next, vaulting up Turley and Henderson with only a little trouble. He halted at the top long enough to flash Conte the all-clear hand signal, then vanished.

Conte broke cover, sliding the Hamp;K MP-5 over his shoulder to hang by its sling. In swift strides he was beside the two men against the wall. Without breaking his rhythm, he climbed up.

He lay flat on the roof, resting lightly against the blanket Whittaker had put down to cover the jagged pieces of glass mortised into the stones. A quick glance assured him the three men on the ground had the situation well under control. None of them was visible.

Conte reached down and helped Henderson and Turley over the wall. Then he dropped over the edge himself. He held up a hand and signaled his team. Whittaker took up point and Turley brought up the rear, then they were moving down the alleys they’d chosen for their approach on the Bent Rose. In the next few minutes, if everything went well, Ryan Cawdor and his people would be dead and they’d be looking to link back up with Major Burroughs.

“YOU FEELING BETTER?” Ryan looked down at the boy on the bed.

“Yes. Thank you.” Tarragon lay quietly, one hand against his forehead above his fever-reddened eyes and the other touching the pouch at his neck.

“Think you’re ready to move?”

“We have to, don’t we?”

Ryan gave it to him straight, laying the ace on the line. “Yeah.”

“We’re in New London, aren’t we?” The boy looked around at the walls.

Ryan nodded.

“I thought so. I’ve never been inside a building like this except for the abandoned ones farther out from the thorpe.” The boy struggled to bring himself to his feet.

Ryan reached down and took the boy by the shoulder, steadying him as he brought him into a sitting position.

“Have you friends here?” Tarragon asked.

Before Ryan could answer, the boy reached up and touched his hand, gripping to bring himself upright. Tarragon’s flesh was still hot, but not as hot as it had been. Then an electric charged seemed to ripple through him.

“No,” the boy said. “I guess you don’t. You’re strangers to this land.” He fixed Ryan with his bloodshot gaze. “The Prince has taken one of your own, and you intend to get her back.”

Ryan broke the grip and took a step back. “Mutie?” he asked the boy.

“I don’t recognize the term,” Tarragon replied.

“The way you know things.”

The boy hesitated for just a moment. “I’ve always been different. The Prince has made a habit out of killing anyone who was different, but my father kept me very well hidden.”