Special Forces 01 (24 page)

And finally there was Brandon.

Brandon, who should have been his new adopted brother, had evidently evolved into Rys’s most ardent enemy.

Rys allowed himself a moment to take stock, and evaluate his surroundings. They had carefully planned this much of it out, at least. The road appeared to be a seldom used agricultural access, the badly rutted surface little more than gravel and sand. There was no one for miles around, most likely, and no way to summon help.

Or so they imagine. They have no knowledge about all of my built-in advantages, and that is going to ruin their whole day. I could call for backup immediately, if it suited my purpose, and they could be posing for pictures at the local jail within the hour.
He wasn’t convinced that calling in the cavalry, in the form of his team, was the right tactic here. He still wanted to find a way to salvage the situation. Rys was extremely saddened to know his initial assessment of Brandon was dead on. He knew the disappointment he felt would be multiplied exponentially in Jeremy Bloch’s heart. He didn’t even want to think about Sara’s reaction.

And he’d rather take a thorough beating than to hurt those two good and caring people, if he could avoid it. It surprised him to suddenly realize that they had quietly passed the borders of friendship, and taken up the place in his heart reserved for parents.

I guess that means I will not be calling for help. I’m going to have to deal with this situation myself. Glory, it is not going to be a good evening for any of them.

“Nothing to say,
Captain
Savar?” Brandon taunted. He looked decidedly entertained, smug and self-confident in his plan to rid himself of the megalith that totally blocked out the sun.

Rys sighed deeply. “I had truly hoped that this wouldn’t be an ambush.”

The four hulking teenagers howled with laugher, mistakenly believing they were in control of their own lives at the moment.

“Afraid, were you?” That was about as clever as Seth could manage.

“For your sakes, yes,” Rys agreed calmly, preparing to do what was necessary to neutralize the situation. “Brandon…I am especially disappointed in you. I thought you were more clever and astute than this. You apparently have not thought this through.”

Brandon’s face hardened, his eyes like raw jagged flint. “Here we go again. So I’m just a lame screw-up to you too? Not for long, you miserable little squatter!”

Rys knew the sure-fire method of shutting them up, and shutting them down. They needed a good healthy dose of reality. He slowly started unbuttoning his shirt, continuing to talk as he did, keeping them distracted enough so they wouldn’t jump him immediately.

“Brandon, stop and consider this for a moment. I am one of the most advanced soldiers Fourth Colony could produce, the culmination of years of training and technology. I have been taught to kill, without hesitation or remorse, since I was eight years old.” Two more buttons to go. “I have been
engaged in combat
since I was fourteen. I have fought in more battles than your father has, in his lengthy military career.”

The final button was free, and he let the shirt drop to the ground, revealing the maze of scars covering his chest. There was a myriad of shrapnel wounds, bullet wounds, burns, and a very compelling knife gash twelve inches long. Not one of his scars had been cleaned up or mitigated with plastic surgery; he wore them like badges of honor. Rys had not had the time, or the luxury to be concerned with cosmetics. There was always another battle waiting to be fought, and not enough soldiers to fight it. His focus was centered on healing as quickly as possible, and be ready to defend his world again, shoulder to shoulder with his brother soldiers. He considered dealing with the aftermath of his wounds as trivial, and a waste of valuable resources.

That attitude served him well in this moment. Seth and Dustin took a long look at the scars on his chest, their definition heightened by the car’s headlights. They both took a hasty step back in unison, horrified by what they had seen. All of the blood drained from their faces, leaving them looking like a pair of twin specters. Greg looked aghast as if he were going to be sick, his eyes vacillating. They kept darting away, and then turning back again, both fascinated and repulsed in their turn.

Brandon just looked stunned, as if unable to comprehend what his eyes were telling him.

Rys’s voice emerged quiet, firm, and barely loud enough to reach them. Even to his own ears he sounded sinister, like a harbinger of doom. “I have stood squarely in the mouth of hell, Brandon Bloch. Moreover, I made the conscious decision to march straight into that fiery inferno and fight with the devil himself. Do you honestly believe that a bat, a crowbar, and two unarmed teenagers can even muster my attention?”

Brandon paused for a moment, and then reached inside the waistband of his pants, drawing a compact military-issued pistol. Rys knew he’d been concealing
something
under that baggy sports jersey, his gut clenched at the confirmation of what that something was. “Whatever you are, you aren’t bullet proof,” Brandon rasped. He aimed the weapon directly at Rys’s head, but his hand shook, and his knuckles were bone white on the grip.

Rys accessed the zoom function in his right eye, examining the gun in closer detail than Brandon could with a magnifying glass. When he found what he was looking for, he nearly laughed out loud in relief. As it was, he did let out a short derisive snort. “You’re no killer, Brandon Bloch.”

“You want me to prove it?!” Brandon screamed, on the verge of hysteria. His other hand came up to the handle of the gun, in a vain attempt to steady it.

“Not with that gun, you won’t. The safety is still on.”

Brandon froze in shock, and then yanked the gun close to his own face to see for himself. Rys just watched him, like some class B formula sit com…and waited.

“Guardians,” Brandon whispered, shaking his head in visible confusion. “You’re right, why in the world would you tell me that?!”

“I told you because you are
not
a killer. I could have easily taken that gun away from you, snapped off the safety, and killed you where you stood. I would have been justified, since you were an imminent threat to my life. I will only kill to defend those I love. Killing a man in cold blood, for no other reason than petty jealousy or vengeance, requires more evil than you will ever possess.” Rys inclined his head to the three teenagers that were growing rapidly more agitated and nervous at the unexpected turn of events. “Beating me to a pulp is one thing. Killing me? I don’t think either you or your friends are ready for the consequences of that action.”

“We’d hide your body,” Brandon blurted out defensively, unwilling to let victory slip from his grasp. With his back to his friends, he couldn’t see the alarmed looks that statement earned him.

“That
might
fool your father, but I sincerely doubt it, he’s a very bright man. Even if you get past him, you’ll never escape my Strike Team. Are you prepared to be hunted like animals for the rest of your—very short—lives?” Rys shook his head, abruptly tired of this whole conversation. He reached down and picked up his shirt, shrugging it back on, but left it unbuttoned for the moment. “Just be absolutely clear on this single fact, Brandon. It takes more than one bullet to stop me. You have seen the evidence with your own eyes, there is no brag or exaggeration. Be prepared, if you pull that trigger, to pull it again, and keep pulling until the magazine is empty. Even
that
may not be enough to save you
. Nothing
less than that will keep me from coming for you.”

Without pausing to see how this graphic scenario was being received, he simply turned on his heel and started walking back toward the main road.

The absolute silence behind him was so thick it was almost tangible.

Despite his cool manner, and his confident words, Rys didn’t feel any real connection to what was going on behind him. For a moment, it felt as if he were divorced from his own emotions, as if he were on the outside of his head and looking at the events of some third party. But he shook off the sensation and forced himself to walk slowly and steadily, one foot in front of the other, refusing to look back. If he showed any doubt or hesitation, his bluff would be blown, and Brandon really would shoot.

If he does not buy my well executed chess move, then I guess I get shot. Hopefully not near my right eye, Doc would dig me up and kill me again.
Maybe this wasn’t the best idea I have ever come up with, but it was the only one I could think of that didn’t involve killing Brandon outright.

Rys didn’t breathe normally until he was on the pavement again, well out of range of those four pathetic punks. With nothing but empty countryside around him, his mind returned from that strange pre-battle state it sometimes went into. Only then did he begin to realize exactly what had just happened. He had to resist the urge to throw his head back and let out a primordial scream, or rant until he was blue, or throw heavy objects. Something,
anything.

What crime had he committed, in his short sojourn with the Bloch family that was terrible enough to trigger this? Brandon must have some very serious self-esteem issues, to come out of his skin like that. His soul must have been so consumed with jealousy that he was willing to blow his entire future to make that noise in his head disappear.

His father has praise for me, but never for his son. Granted, Brandon never did anything that was praise worthy, but…that was still wrong. Very wrong.

Rys was undecided if he should call anyone now or not. He snorted, amused at himself. None of my training manuals covered this situation, that’s for sure. His teammates would come on the run in an instant, of course, with no questions asked. But Jeremy…what on earth could he possibly say to Jeremy about tonight?

The truth usually works!
a sarcastic voice accused in the back of his head.
That kid has some dangerous problems that need to be addressed.

He tried to ignore that responsible side of his nature. He was sure that Brandon would never try to pull a stunt like this with him again.

Not with me, no. He wouldn’t dare, but he might try it with someone else. Brandon is a loose cannon, with plenty of ammo and a short fuse. Do I have the right to put someone else at risk, knowing what he could be capable of?

He hated being logical at times; it could be a real nuisance.

Headlights washed over him, ending his revelry. He glanced back, just to make certain the car wasn’t aimed at him. He wanted to be sure that Brandon had not had a latent boost of false courage, and was going to try running him over instead.

The car, a small coupe that he knew very well, swerved to the far shoulder and screeched to an abrupt stop. Rys stopped as well, staring in amazement as Anne’s head popped into view above the roof of her car.

“Rys! What on earth are you doing out here so late? And why are you
walking?
You’re miles from town!”

“Anne,” he sighed in open relief. Surely she was a gift dispatched from heaven itself. In this complex, and often contradictory culture, Anne had always been a solid source of advice and counsel. Surely she would be able advise him on the best way to handle this dilemma.

“Stop standing there like a statue and get in!” she barked.

Rys did just that, hastily buttoning up his shirt as he headed for the car. It would have prompted a whole new line of questions he was not prepared to answer, if she caught a glimpse of his chest.

He sank into the seat and buckled in immediately. Buckling up was always a good move when Anne Dorian was at the wheel. Lead foot didn’t do the woman justice. He could probably locate the impressions of her toes in the carburetor, if he popped the hood.

She surprised him tonight, not taking off with her trademark squeal of tires, just a slow and steady acceleration. He realized why after a moment. She was so intent looking at him, that she wasn’t paying any attention to the road.

“Are you…all right?” she asked hesitantly, searching his face for clues. “I’ve seen road kill with better color.”

Rys considered how to answer her truthfully, without giving too much away. “I’m still alive and in one piece. That’s…better than what I probably had a right to expect, after what almost went down.”

Anne’s eyes were huge with alarm. “What nearly happened?”

“I came close to being shot.”

“WHAT?!” That lone hyper accentuated word was still reverberating in the confines of the small car when she hit the brakes and demanded, “You weren’t really hit? You’re not
hurt,
right?! Say something!”

“There are no holes, I wasn’t hit, I’m not hurt,” Rys assured her quickly. “I managed to talk my way out of a tight situation. But, wow it was a close one, Anne. It could have gone either way.” He let his head slump back against the headrest, eyes shut against a wave of weariness as the adrenaline finally ebbed out of his system.

He nearly jumped out of his skin when she unexpectedly grabbed his hand, fingers interlocking with his, as if she were determined to hang on to him at all costs. He realized he was still far too keyed up, if her touch alone triggered that kind of reaction in him. He had never ever felt threatened by Anne, or even uncomfortable in her company. She met his eyes, looking frightened, worried, and grimly determined all at the same time. That expression was almost as reassuring as her firm grip on his hand.

“Tell me what happened,” she commanded in a lower voice, putting the car back into motion, while his ears were still rings from her initial response.

“It was an ambush,” he began, then frowning at his regrettable choice of words. He hadn’t meant to start out that way and hastily regrouped, trying to organize his thoughts on the fly. “I had a suspicion it might be, when someone unexpectedly invited me to go out with him. I wanted very much to be proven wrong. I hoped it was some odd cultural bonding tradition with guys in this society. But when I stepped out of the car, and saw the other three guys waiting for us, armed with a baseball bat and a crowbar, I knew my instincts were still trustworthy. They were all for handing me a good beating, and hoping I would crawl off into the bushes to die.”