The Rogue Retrieval (22 page)

There she was, floating just over the edge of the waterfall and off to one side. How? She blew him a kiss. He lost his balance then. The stone gave. The water didn't magically part for him, either, no matter how much he wanted it to. The cold hit him everywhere at once. It knocked the wind out of him. He went over the edge and had a gut-­wrenching moment of weightlessness. He tried to take a breath and got a mouthful of cold water.

He felt a massive, invisible hand wrap around him. It slowed him as he fell. He was barely moving when he hit the pool at the bottom. Not that the magicians kept him completely dry, of course. They let him flail around for a bit while the falling water pummeled him before dragging him to the shore. He got no further attention, as two more of the students came over the falls.

Quinn looked up to find Moric standing there. “No breakthrough, I take it?”

“Not the one I was looking for, at least.”

The two magicians behind Moric lifted the most recent victims to the shore of the waterfall pool.

“Where's Meera?” Moric asked.

“She did something with the water. It parted like the Red Sea for her,” Quinn said.

“What's the Red Sea?”

“Right, sorry.” Quinn held up his hands and split them into a V-­shape. “It went like this, with her in the middle.”

“I'll be damned. Little Meera a water magician. That's fantastic!”

“Yeah,” Quinn said. He took off his boots to empty out the water. Damn these tests. He'd officially been burned, chased by a wild animal, and nearly drowned in a class that was designed for twelve-­year-­olds.

“I'm sure Sella's quite pleased about it. She's a water magician herself, you know,” Moric said.

“Yeah, I picked up on that,” Quinn said.

H
e was starting to dry out by the time he found Jillaine, perched on her usual rock at the island's high point. She was faced out to sea, but had her eyes closed. He paused to just look at her a moment, without the distraction of her staring back. She was more than pretty; she was serene. Not a worry line on her. Not an ounce of tension in the set of her shoulders. She was as careless and free as the strands of red hair that drifted back and forth in the sea breeze.

“You made me fall,” Quinn said.

She kept her eyes closed, but smiled. “I never touched you.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I was only trying to help you find your breakthrough.”

“Why would you do that?” he asked. The last time they'd spoken, she didn't seem ready to help him do anything.

“It's why you've come here, isn't it? To find your magic?”

“Technically, I came here because your father kidnapped me.”

“But you could leave, if you wanted.”

“Yes.”

She opened her eyes and held him in place with them. “I want to come with you.”

It was the last thing he expected her to say. He struggled for a minute, working his mouth and trying to find a word to reply. He was pretty proud when he came up with “Why?”

“I want a change of scenery. And my father won't let me go to the mainland on my own. Even though I can take care of myself, and have for years.”

She said it with a bit of a petulant tone. He couldn't blame her, any more than he could blame Moric for wanting to keep her close. Alissia was a rough place, even for magic users.

“What makes you think he'd let you come with me?” he asked.

“He likes you.”

Quinn didn't think that mattered much, when it came to Jillaine, but he didn't want to argue. “It doesn't really matter right now. I don't plan to leave until I can win Sella over.” He had to do that before he set foot off the island. If he didn't he was sure she'd make it impossible for him to come back.

And he wouldn't leave until he was sure he could return.

“So win her over,” Jillaine said.

“I'm trying to!”

“You're doing it wrong.”

“What's the right way, then?” He couldn't keep the irritation from his tone.

She tried to read his face, as if she thought he was kidding. “You really don't know, do you?”

“If I knew, I wouldn't be soaking wet right now.”

She shook her head. “She's trying to help you reach your breakthrough. And all you do is complain.”

“Because it's not
working
,” Quinn said. “I'm afraid it never will. That I don't really belong here.”

“That's not her fault. She's doing her job.”

“So what am I supposed to do? Thank her for throwing me off a waterfall?”

“That would be a start.”

“I don't know why I should do that.”

“You both want the same thing, don't you?”

He bit back a snarky reply, because she was right. Even if he didn't agree with the approach, he had to admit that everything Sella did was aimed at helping the students call on their magic. “I suppose so.”

“If you really want to impress Sella, show her that you want it as much as she does.”

M
oric found him that afternoon and dropped a bombshell.

“We've just had a message from the new Prime of Valteron.”

Quinn sat up straight and put down the book he'd been secretly photographing. “From Richard Holt?”

“Yes.”

“What did he want?”

“A protection detail.”

He was careful to keep his face neutral, because he was thinking about Kiara and her mission. And what she'd probably be willing to do to complete it. “Has something happened? An assassination attempt?”

“No.” Moric looked at him in a searching way. “You needn't worry about that, you know.”

“Why not? He's a powerful man. I'm guessing he has enemies.”

“That may be, but the Prime is under certain protections.”

From the Enclave, no doubt. This quiet alliance ran deeper than he'd thought. But he had to tread cautiously here. “I hope Richard appreciates all that you've done for him.”

“We do this much for every Prime.”

“That's generous of you,” Quinn said.

“It's a small price to pay for stability.”

Ah, there it was. The first hints that the Enclave wasn't playing an isolation game here on their island. As much as he wanted to ask how many other political leaders got this deal, he knew that might be pushing it—­and he was pretty sure he already knew the answer.
You back the man with the power.
And in Alissia, there was no greater power than the wealth of Valteron. “Why does he need protection, then?” he asked.

“It's for some friends of his who are journeying north, by way of Landor.”

It took all he had to keep his poker face then. To play it cool, because he knew Moric was watching. “Anyone I know?” he asked.

“He didn't offer their names,” Moric said. “But the Prime believes them to be in some kind of danger. He's asked us to ensure that they make it to Felara.”

And back out of the gateway, no doubt. How thoughtful of him. Quinn couldn't imagine Kiara just deciding to cut and run. Or Logan, for that matter. Something must have happened. God, they might just ride through the gateway and seal it permanently.

“Sounds kind of boring,” Quinn lied. “If you wanted my opinion.”

“I've already agreed to the contract,” Moric said.

“Then why are you telling me this?” Quinn demanded. Here he'd thought Moric actually wanted his opinion.

“I was only being polite.”

“Thanks a lot.”

“The council had a similar reaction when I told them, if it makes you feel any better.”

“Not really, no,” Quinn said. If Moric got the boot, he'd probably be next.

“Sella only agreed on the condition that she be part of the team. So I suppose I'll have some face time with her.”

Quinn chuckled. “Well, that should be fun.”

Moric wandered over to Quinn's hearth, as if distracted. “Sometimes the guild brings students out on contract jobs. It's an educational experience.”

“It's free labor,” Quinn said.

“That, too.”

“I think they'd be a liability, though,” Quinn said. From what he'd seen in his classmates, twelve-­year-­old magicians were a mess.

Moric waved this off. “What better way to teach our students what the world is really like?” He shook his head. “Regardless, I'll be undertaking the mission, and I've decided to bring along a student observer.”

“Who's it going to be?”

“I haven't decided yet,” Moric said.

He had to know how badly Quinn would want it. A chance to get off the island, collect some intel on Holt, and maybe find a way to impress Sella. If such a thing was even possible.

So Quinn yawned. “Well, good luck with that.” He stretched out on his bunk, picked up a book, and flipped it open.

Moric's eyes widened. “Sweet gods, is that a library book?”

“Oh, this old thing?” Quinn asked. Old was the word for it, too. The cover was animal skin, and the pages near-­transparent vellum. By his guess, the book was at least a hundred years old.

“I know that book. It's
Fundamentals of Magic
. One of only three copies in the world,” Moric said. He sounded like he was going to be sick.

“Yeah, it's all right,” Quinn said. “Mags let me borrow it.” At first he'd done so just to try out the reading glasses. The translation program was pretty good, though it couldn't always decipher the handwriting. Once he'd gotten the hang of using them, though, the book had gotten interesting.

“
Borrow
it?” Moric spluttered. “She hasn't even let me
look
at it in ten years!”

“I've got it for the rest of the week,” Quinn said. He'd photographed nearly every page as well. If he ever managed to get back to the gateway, Chaudri was going to have a field day.

Moric's incredulity was gone; he was all curious now. “May I ask how you managed that?”

Quinn shrugged. “I'm good with ­people.”

“You're a mysterious man, all right,” Moric said. He lowered his voice. “Say, could I have a look?” He leaned over Quinn's shoulder.

Quinn put the book to his chest. “Sorry, can't help you.”

“What?”

“Library policy. Mags insisted.” Quinn didn't fight the smile. This was just too fun.

Moric stood up straight and rubbed a hand over his bald head. One of his tells. He had so many it was getting hard to keep track. “Perhaps we could reach some kind of arrangement.”

Quinn began reading again. Best to keep it casual, and not seem too interested. “What do you have in mind?”

“An hour with that book might be a good start.”

Quinn couldn't begin to guess why Moric wanted this particular book. He seemed to have his fundamentals covered rather well. An hour was nothing, since he had it for the week. But in Vegas, you never took an opening offer.

“Five minutes,” Quinn said.

“You're not the only student on this island,” Moric said. “Many would be interested in witnessing some guild work.”

“Ten minutes,” Quinn said.

“Fifteen,” Moric said.

“Done,” Quinn said. He set the book on his table and started pulling on his boots. “See you in a bit.”

“Where are you going?”

“Out for a walk. I'll leave my book here. Due to library policy, I must request that you don't read it while I'm away.”

“Oh, come, Quinn. Mags will never know.”

“She'll know. Trust me,” Quinn said.
She can read faces as well as any cardsharp.

Moric looked uncertain. “Better safe than sorry, I suppose. Off with you, then.”

Quinn stepped out. A thought occurred to him just then, so he poked his head back in. “You'd already picked me for the job, hadn't you?”

Moric smiled. “Of course. The rest of your classmates are children.” He settled down into Quinn's chair.

“You played me,” Quinn said.

“Well, I have been around a while.”

“So it's you, me, and Sella?” That was going to be interesting.

“We'll bring a fourth to handle the workload. Someone young, most likely.”

Quinn hesitated, but figured he might as well throw the dice. “You know, I could make a recommendation.”

“Oh?”

“I know a talented young woman who'd probably be useful.”
Not to mention good company.

Moric gave him a stern look. “Did my daughter put you up to this?”

“Not at all. I just think she might like a change of scenery.”

“I'll find it easier to concentrate if I don't have to keep an eye on both of you. Are you willing to give her your spot?”

And miss out on seeing Logan, Kiara, and Chaudri again?
“Not really.”

Moric smiled. “I didn't think so.”

“Well, it was worth a shot.”
Sorry, Jillaine.
Quinn turned to leave again.

Moric touched the book's cover gently, almost with reverence. When he opened it, though, the first page was blank. So was the second. He flipped through more of them, finding only empty pages.

“Quinn, get back here!”

 

“We cannot hope to equal the fighting prowess of those born here.”

—­
R
.
H
OLT,
“A
SSESSMENT OF
A
LISSIAN
M
ILITARIES
”

CHAPTER 20

PRISONERS

T
hey had tied Mendez to a tree in the middle of camp. Dried blood crusted the side of his face. His arms and legs were mottled with bruises. He was conscious, though. He'd managed to get a piece of rope between his teeth and was gnawing it steadily, like a rat trying to chew itself free of a trap. Maybe a rabid dog was more accurate. He shook his head, growling. No other part of him moved, just his head.

Logan clasped both hands over his mouth and gave the soft hoot of a white-­winged owl. Mendez cocked his head, listening. Logan hooted again.

Mendez spat out the rope, licked his lips, and gave a long, warbling call.
All clear.
No one from the other side of the gateway would recognize these calls; they were from Alissian birds.

Logan moved forward, sweeping left and right with the muzzle of the MP5. The fire pit near him had burned down to coals. Bits of charred leaves littered the periphery.

“You look like hell,” Mendez said.

Logan felt himself grinning. “So do you. Were you going to chew through twenty loops of paracord?”

“Hey, fiber's good for you. You should try it sometime.”

Logan took out his combat knife and began sawing through the cord. “I'll get right on that.”

“Did you take care of the mercs?”

“Of course. No problem.”

“I guess that's why you're the Alpha Team.”

“Yeah.” Logan finished cutting him free. “Janitor almost got the drop on me, though.”

“He's not a janitor.”

“I figured that out when I saw his submachine gun. Can you walk?”

“I've been slung over a horse for almost a week. I could run a marathon,” Mendez said.

He was still in his armor, a lighter version of the alusteel suit that Logan himself wore. They'd beaten him pretty soundly; the bruises that weren't fresh were yellow around the edges, probably days old. Logan knew he wouldn't complain. When you've been to hell and back on a raft from Cuba, you go through life with a different perspective.

Logan handed him a canteen and a sidearm they'd taken from one of the men. Mendez took the gun first. He dropped out the clip, checked the ammo, slammed it home, and chambered a round. All of that in about four seconds. Then he tucked the weapon into a concealed carry holster strapped to his ankle.

“That company issue?” Logan asked.

“Not exactly. I know guns aren't allowed across, but I can't even sleep without the feel of the holster on my leg.”

“I know what you mean.”

Mendez nodded at Logan's MP5. “I know
that's
not company issue.”

“Borrowed it from someone.”

They didn't talk about the other members of Bravo, but one look at Mendez's eyes told Logan that he already knew. It was too soon, too fresh, to bring it up now. They still had work to do. When the mission was over, and the men's remains were brought back Earth-­side, then they could remember. And grieve.

“Don't get attached to the gun,” Logan said. “The lieutenant wants to be rid of them as quickly as possible. You been practicing with the sword?”

“Every day. I'm probably as good as you now. Maybe better.”

“Christ, we'd better get you some food,” Logan said. “I think you're delirious.”

L
ogan poured a stream of frigid water on the prisoner's face. “Wake up!”

The man spluttered awake, tried to move, and found that he could not. His wrists and ankles were bound with flexsteel ties. They were like zip ties, but made of a company-­developed polymer that was virtually unbreakable. He struggled only for a moment, and then grew still. He looked around, assessing his captors, the environment, everything. Most normal ­people would have panicked.

Training always tells.

They were in the enemy camp, or what was left of it. Two of the raiders' horses were exhausted beyond recovery; Logan had had to put them down. He added their deaths to the mental tally he was keeping; this man had a lot to answer for.

He crouched in front of the prisoner. “Who are you?”

The man met his gaze and held it.

Logan stood and delivered a hard kick under the rib cage. The manual on field interrogation called this part “Establishing physical dominance.”

He tried asking again, once the man had recovered. “What's your name, soldier?” Logan asked.

“Thorisson. Lars Thorisson.” He had a slight accent, probably Nordic of one kind or another. Raptor Tech loved to hire these Andal types; they were good for show on the private security details. Some of them really knew how to handle themselves, too. “How many men were on your team?”

Thorisson didn't answer.

“Five?” Logan asked. “That's counting the janitor.”

The man's face gave something away at the mention of the janitor. How had they gotten someone in, so close? To say CASE Global did intense background checks was a hell of an understatement—­they made colonoscopies seem noninvasive by comparison.

Yet another mystery to unravel once they returned.

“What are your mission objectives?” Logan asked.

“Untie me first.”

“No.” He'd done enough damage here already.

“Am I under arrest?”

“Let's call it detained,” Logan said. He smiled without humor. “Suspicion of trespassing.”

The way the company saw it, they owned the island, so they owned the gateway, so they owned everything through the gateway. Of course, there was no legal precedent for such a situation, and a fair number of Alissians would take issue with being owned by anyone. Yet another fine line they walked that required absolute secrecy. As far as the gateway went, at least, the company's lawyers had offered the adage that possession was nine-­tenths of the law.

“I want a lawyer,” said Thorisson.

“Got one in your pocket?”

Thorisson scowled.

“Listen, man,” Logan said. He tried to make his voice reasonable, when all he really wanted to do was beat this man to a bloody pulp. Kiara and her damn orders. “We're taking you back with us, back to the company facility.”

“Where's that?”

“None of your business.”

“And where are we now, exactly?”

“Also none of your business. Listen, I don't think you're quite getting it. You're our prisoner,” Logan said. “We've got a long way to go and I'm not going to play babysitter the whole time. You do what I say, you answer our questions, but otherwise you keep your mouth shut.”

“What's in it for me?” Thorisson asked.

“I won't cut your throat right now and leave you here to rot. Like you did to three of my men.”

“So you're with them, eh? The bearded one and the bruiser?”

“That's right. You son of a bitch. And we're not the only ones, so give me your answer.” He put a hand on the hilt of his combat knife. If the man didn't agree, he'd use it no matter what Kiara said. This was a security matter. They couldn't afford to risk a captive constantly trying to escape or undermine the mission.

“I agree to your terms,” Thorisson said.

He wanted to kill the man anyway. The guy deserved it; all of them did. But Logan's comm unit was back in, and Kiara had probably been listening. He put his knife away and hauled the man to his feet. Maybe a touch rougher than necessary. “Let's see if there's a horse you didn't manage to kill.”

T
here was a contentious debate about where to head next.

“I think we should go after Bradley now,” Logan said, out of earshot of Thorisson—­he had Mendez watching the prisoner. “It's been almost a month since he pulled a Houdini on us. He's not prepared to last that long on his own.”

“I want him back, too,” Kiara said. “But we don't even know where to start looking. He could be anywhere between here and Valteron.”

“The trail's only going to get colder,” Logan said.

“There
is
no trail. We're talking a grid search at best, and that won't be easy while we have to keep an eye on Thorisson.”

“I've got a solution for that.”

“And as I told you, I want him alive. Too many questions have gone unanswered,” Kiara said.

“Good luck getting any answers out of him,” Logan said. “I know what it would take, and I doubt the company is willing to go that far. That's all besides the fact, though. If we're right about who took Bradley, his information will be far more valuable.”

“As long as we get him back. If magicians do have him, then we're facing an even more difficult problem,” Kiara said. “The one we encountered in Valteron had our number pretty quickly.”

Logan frowned, remembering his mistake in not taking the slight woman seriously. A moment's hesitation, and she'd sewn him up like a throw pillow. “We'll be ready for that, if we encounter another magician. Their magic can't protect them all the time, from every angle.”

“Tell that to Holt.”

Ultimately the company executives ended the argument. The moment they learned that Kiara and Logan had captured one of the raiders alive, they sent a new set of orders. Bradley was officially placed on the back burner. Getting Thorisson back to the gateway was priority one.

They put Mendez on Bradley's horse, and Thorisson on the packhorse. That way Logan could keep the reins; the packhorse had followed his mount for most of the journey anyway. Logan bound the prisoner's boots to the stirrups. They'd had to bind his hands in front of him—­which Logan wasn't happy about—­so that he could hold the high Alissian pommel enough to keep from falling.

Letting Thorisson ride was the backup plan—­they'd tried sedating him, but the drug hadn't worked. Either it was a bad batch, or Raptor Tech's team had taken countermeasures before the mission.

My money's on the second explanation.

He'd searched the man for weapons twice, first while he was unconscious and later while the man was hog-­tied. He'd confiscated the handgun—­now in Mendez's possession—­and a SOG tactical folding knife, the kind favored by Special Forces. The second search turned up a small Leatherman tool, another military favorite.

But he still wouldn't put it past the man to have something hidden somewhere. That's why the best policy with any prisoner is diligence.

Kiara took the lead. They'd stashed the MP5s in her and Logan's packs. She wanted swords and crossbows from here all the way back to the gateway. They tied Bradley's bow to the saddle of the packhorse. Logan moved the quiver of arrows to his own horse, but hoped the sight of another ranged weapon might discourage any bandits or militias they'd meet along the way.

Logan and the prisoner were in the middle. Chaudri rode just behind them, with a bolt loaded on the crossbow and express orders to shoot Thorisson if he tried anything. Mendez insisted to Kiara that he was fine, and played the role of the scout. He took quick control of Bradley's mare; they worked well together. He ranged ahead. He checked their backtrail. Somehow he even found time to catch a pair of Alissian rabbits and skin them to roast for dinner.

He did everything but look in Thorisson's direction.

T
horisson clammed up for the next two days. He refused to answer any questions about his mission, or who had sent him. Logan would have applied more persuasive techniques, but there wasn't time.

The updates from Command weren't encouraging. Raptor Tech's drone continued to harass the island facility, disrupting communications and thwarting every attempt to shoot it down.

Mendez appeared over the rise ahead and reined in to wait for them.

“Barometric pressure has been dropping all day between here and Felara,” Kiara said. “Eighty percent chance of a storm.”

“We should stop soon anyway, to rest the horses,” Logan said.

“Agreed,” Kiara said. She got another beep on the comm unit, skimmed it, and didn't look happy.

Logan gave Mendez a hand signal.
Shelter.

Mendez flashed an answer.

“There might be a spot about half a klick ahead,” Logan said. “I'd like to scout it first.” Landor's capital was on the far side of the country; bandits and highwaymen were the rule in this area.

Kiara glanced up. “Do it,” she said.

Logan untied the packhorse's reins from his mount and lashed them to Kiara's instead. Chaudri moved up to cover Thorisson with the crossbow.

“If he gives you any trouble, shoot him,” Logan told her. The reminder was more for Thorisson than Chaudri, and he kept his eyes locked on the prisoner's just to make sure he heard him loud and clear.

He joined Mendez and they rode ahead. The wooded hollow wasn't far from the road. They split the perimeter and met on the far side.

“Looks all right,” Logan said. The hollow was bowl-­shaped, with a rather steep side of hard earth on the western side that might provide some cover from the approaching storm.

“There's a lot of angles to cover, but I figure you still have your dog fence,” Mendez said.

“That's a roger.”

Logan tapped off his comm unit and signaled for Mendez to do the same. They were both alone for a minute. “How are you holding up, soldier?” he asked.

“Just fine.”

He was tough as nails, always had been. But Logan had still been there. “When the mission's over, it'll be rough for a while.”

“Trying not to think about it,” Mendez said.

“You'll get past it,” Logan assured him. “Haven't seen your skills dip at all, which is good. Stay focused for now, and tell me if you have any problems. Understood?”