Three Promises (10 page)

“They're closing around us,” Five says.

“Sir, if I can get on the roof, I can rain some flame down and thin the buggers out,” says the one with a British accent and a “3” on his patch.

One nods. “Light 'em up.”

Three turns and runs out of the room.

“This one isn't so bad.”

I see Two kneeling over Mitchell. Two pulls another pendant out, this one silver with a yellow stone in the center, and sets it on Mitchell's forehead. “Just blast damage, he'll be fine.” Two stands and comes over to me.

“What'd you do?” I ask, looking at the others. Sarge still has a glow on him, Johnson still has the symbols on him, and now Mitchell seems to be glowing like the Sarge, but instead of blue, he's yellow.

“No questions, soldier. You heard One.” I see a smile from the shadows of his hood. “Hold still.” He passes a hand over me.

I feel a jolt of cold and flinch. I haven't felt cold since I got to the sandbox. I'd almost forgotten what it felt like.

“Three, no, four broken ribs, pulled muscles, and some light shrapnel damage to your left deltoid,” Two says. “Do you feel any pain?”

“A twinge here and there,” I say through clenched teeth.

He chuckles. “Okay, just keep breathing, that's the secret to staying alive, you know.” He reaches into another pouch and pulls out a green clump. It looks like something a horse would leave behind. He pushes it to my mouth. “Eat this.”

“It looks like horse shit!” I protest.

“Tastes like it too, but it isn't. It'll help with the pain.” He holds it in front of my mouth.

After a bit of consideration, I decide that even if it is horse shit I don't care, as long as it helps the pain. I open up and he pushes it in. I've never tasted horse shit, but it's how I imagine it'd taste. I swallow and immediately, truly immediately, I feel the pain fade. I look at Two, dumbfounded.

“Told you,” Two says and stands up. “Causalities are treated and stable, sir.”

“Good,” One says. “I imagine this is confusing as all hell, Private. The only thing I've been cleared to tell you is we're with the American military. I'm One, that's Two, our medic. Three is on the roof with Seven, and that's Four, Five, and Six.” He motions to the three other men in the room, who nod in turn.

“How many of you are there? Can I ask that, sir?”

“Seven, always seven,” One answers.

“Well, I'm glad you were there, sir. We'd be dead by now if you hadn't been.”

One doesn't answer, he just nods. It's obvious he's still upset we were here at all, but that's one ass-­chewing that's above my pay grade, thankfully.

After a few minutes of sitting quietly, I decide to try getting to my feet. I move slowly, waiting for the pain to hit me, but it never does.

“Whoah! Take it easy,” Two says, coming to me. “Just 'cause you don't feel it, doesn't mean you're healed.”

“I can't sit here anymore, sir,” I say. “Please.”

One nods and Two helps me stand. I walk to the window and look out. It's the first I've gotten to see the situation. The line of Humvees are still burning and nothing but a barely recognizable pile of twisted metal. I try, and fail, not to see the bodies still in them. I turn from the scene, trying not to notice the smell. That's when I see a small group of hostiles come around a corner. On instinct, I raise my weapon.

“You don't see me. I'm invisible to you,” I whisper and feel a familiar sensation of pressure around me.

When they look my way, I put my finger on the trigger and watch them closely.

They seem to look right through me. No one shoots, or even raises their weapon.

“Hold fire,” One says.

“Sir?”

“I said hold fire,” One says again. “You open up and it'll draw them right to us.

The hostiles continue by like I wasn't twenty feet away with them in my crosshairs. When I look up at One, he and Two are staring at me.

“What were you whispering?” One asks.

I shrug. “I call it my Jedi mind trick, sir. It's stupid. Just something I do.”

“If it's stupid why do it?” Two asks.

I look from him to One and back. “I don't know, sir. Superstition I suppose. Sometimes it seems to work.”

“Like it just did?” One asks.

I furrow my brow. “That was your doing, wasn't it, sir? I've seen others of your team standing in clear view too.”

“Can't say,” One says, but he's smiling a little now. “Sorry.”

He and Two exchange a glance, and I can tell there's an entire conversation behind it, but I'm smart enough to keep my mouth shut. Not that it matters because at that moment I see flashes of red out of the corner of my eye. I flinch back behind cover. When I peek around the window's edge, I see small streaks of flame raining down from the sky into the street. They look like little comets, dozens of them. The hostiles that just went by come running back and join a larger group. The meteor shower pours on them, each little comet exploding on impact. The blasts send the hostiles flying in all directions.

Soon there are shouts coming from all around us and I see more of the mini fireballs raining down behind other buildings.

“Who's your radioman?” One asks me.

“Sir?” I ask, not looking away. My brain doesn't seem able to accept what I'm seeing. It must be some kind of new air support weapon, but I don't hear any planes overhead.

“Your radio,” he asks again, more force in his words. “Who has your radio?”

My head snaps back to him and I answer without thinking. “Cruz, sir. Lance Corporal Cruz.”

“Four, Six,” One says.

“Sir?” they answer in unison.

“We're out of time,” One says. “They're starting to close in, we need to evac the wounded. Get out there and see if you can find that radio, and if it's still operational.”

“Yes, sir.” They exit the room and I watch as they emerge on the street moments later.

“Step back from the window, son,” One says.

“Sir?” I ask.

“You're not cleared for what you'll see, Private,” he says.

“What are—­” I don't get to finish my sentence. I hear gunfire outside. I instinctively take cover, but can't keep myself from looking back, peeking around the window. I see a group of hostiles come from around the corner and open fire. Four, I think, moved his hand in a circle and the bullets actually curve around him, striking nearby buildings. Six punches the air in front of him. Two cars are hurled through the air as if kicked by a giant, landing on the hostiles.

“Holy shi—­!”

“Collins, step away from the window,” One says again with all the authority of God speaking to Moses.

I turn away. “Sorry, sir.”

When I look up, One has pulled his hood back. He looks to be in his early fifties, which means he's probably early forties. Military men age hard. His face bears the lines of every hard mile, and his brown hair is peppered with gray. His eyes are hard, made of military-­grade steel, just like the rest of him. I imagine this guy could take apart half a dozen men years his junior

“This isn't some new tech, is it, sir?” I ask.

“I can't answer that,” One says. “We're called the Legion of Solomon, and you're going to be told in your debriefing that you never saw us.”

I nod. “Yes, sir. But how—­?”

He doesn't blink. “You heroically pulled your squad mates into shelter and held up here until help arrived. You'll probably get a medal.”

I'm not a genius, but I'm able to figure out just how much slack he's cutting me, so I step back from the window and nod. “I understand, sir.”

“Bloody hell, contact left!” says a clipped British voice, soon followed by Three barreling back into the room. “Sierra Novembers, sir! We're live.”

“What do you have?” One asks.

“Mystics, sir, two of them,” Three says. “I caught their smell, then I saw them. They're leading a group of about ten insurgents, all mundanes. Bloody mystics must've figured out how to hide from us.”

“We need to get clear of this building. They'll bring it down on top of us if we stay here,” One says. At that moment Four and Six come back into the room.

“The radio?” One asks.

“Right here, sir,” Four says holding it up.

“Huddle up,” One says.

Five and Seven enter the room and everyone gathers around One.

“Here's the deal. We've got incoming hostiles: two mystics, probably working in tandem, and ten mundanes, probably followers.”

There's a round of muttered curses from the team.

“If there's two in tandem,” Five says, “we might have a jinn to deal with too.”

“We've dealt with them before,” One says, then turns to Two. “Get the best ward you can over the wounded.”

Two nods.

“Five and Six, you two get them off the ground so we can move them fast,” One says, then looks at them hard. “You make sure they don't get hit again, you hear me? We've got enough angels today.”

Both men nod.

One continues. “Since we're moving, the wards won't be as strong. When they're up, you each move one of the men. Two, you get the one on pause.” He turned to another team member. “Three, you call for a medevac, no delays. I want birds in the air before you hang up, got me? Authorization Alpha-­one-­one-­Foxtrot.”

“Done and done,” Three says.

I can't stand sitting on the sidelines anymore while the grown-­ups make plans. It's probably stupid, but I step forward. “What can I do to help, sir?”

“This is out of your league, kid,” Seven answers. I can't see his face, but I feel his glare.

“Besides, you're hurt,” Two says, more gently. “Even if you can't feel it.”

“Sir,” I say to One, “with all due respect, this is what's left of my squad and I can't just sit on my hands. What would you do in my position?”

One takes a deep breath, then looks me up and down. After a moment he turns back to his team. “Okay. Three and Four, you're with me. We focus on those mystics and bring them down. Hit hard and fast, don't give them a chance to breathe.”

“Yes, sir,” both men answer.

“Collins.” One turns to me. “Get what ammo you can off your buddies, and keep an eye out for any loose magazines outside. Don't spend much time scrounging, focus on the mund—­the insurgents.”

“Yes, sir.” I pick up my rifle and check it again.

One is saying something to the others while I check Mitchell, Johnson, and the Sarge for ammo. Johnson and Mitchell are dry, but God bless Sarge. He has four mags stuffed in various pockets.

“Everyone ready?” One asks.

“Hooah,” I say.

Two, Five, and Six move over to Johnson, Mitchell, and Sarge and gesture over them. The three still forms slowly lift off the ground, stopping at about two feet.

I stare like an idiot for a few second, remembering back to being six and playing “light as a feather, stiff as a board.” Then I push it down and get my head in the game. I have no idea what's happening around me, but I know my buddies need me and I'm not going to let them down.

Two, Five, and Six each draw something on the chests of the floating men. When they seem happy with whatever it is they've done, the three of them move toward the door. The three injured, unconscious men float behind them like tethered balloons.

Somewhere in the back of my head I'm thinking how messed up it is that this is the best story ever and I'll never be able to tell it to anyone.

“Move, now!” One shouts.

We burst from the doorway, and everything slows down.

A group pops around the corner a few buildings down. I see nearly a dozen with AKs and two in the front wearing
thawb
robes. They look unarmed.

I take aim and open fire on the ones with the AKs. I drop a ­couple before the others return fire.

One throws his hand forward and I feel my hair stand up. There's a cracking sound and a huge lightning bolt, at least it looks huge to me, leaps from his hand, striking one of the robed figures. The bolt sends the man flying several feet, tumbling in the air like a rag doll. The bolt then forks, hits two hostiles' weapons, and surges through them into the men themselves. The other robed figure makes a motion, and as a fork heads for him, he deflects it into the ground.

I take cover when the return fire starts, some of which happens to be actual fire.

When there's a lapse, I pop out and lay down suppressive fire of my own, though mine is strictly the 5.56-­millimeter-­copper-­alloy-­slug variety. I'm a little surprised how calm and focused I am. Don't get me wrong, I'm not raw, but I still struggle to keep it together under fire. Not today though.

“Go,” One says. “Get the wounded to the extraction point!”

Three sweeps his hand out in front of him. A gust of wind blasts the ground, sending sand up and forward in a cloud.

“Incoming!” a Legion team member shouts.

I look up in time to see a fireball come screaming through the conjured sandstorm. I leap for cover and feel a stab of pain. Guess the horse shit is wearing off.

There's an explosion, the blast of it makes my landing less than graceful, and I feel heat on my back. When I turn over, the building we just left is blasted to rubble.

One orders us back. I empty the last of my mag into the group, drop it, and load another as we back away in a covering pattern.

When we start taking fire from a nearby building, Six steps into the street. He brings his arms up and then down quickly. I feel my stomach lurch, like I'm on a roller coaster doing a loop. The building collapses like a can being crushed underfoot.

The fight goes on like that for what feels like weeks, but is probably less than a ­couple of minutes. I take cover, fire, take cover, fire. All the while the Legion boys toss fire, lightning, air, and sometimes buildings or cars. I lose track of how often I fire, and reload, until I hit my last mag. I focus, conserving my ammo for good shots as we continue our retreat. I can't even see the three wounded, but that's a comfort. That means they're behind me and closer to the extraction. The last robed figure steps out and hurls a ball of what looks to be just pulsing light. One leaps forward and sweeps his arm out. The light bounces off something and hits a building. There's a flameless explosion and the building shatters into dust. The shockwave hits me, indirectly, but that's enough to scramble my brain and send me ass-­over-­teakettle.