It was the coldest ride I’d ever taken. There was no joy in it, no freedom, no exhilaration.
I was driving to some kind of reckoning. I’d brought it on myself, sure. I’d gotten casual and sloppy, started to let other people make decisions for me. I hadn’t been sharp enough in figuring out the bullshit Grant and his boss had cooked up.
Most of all I hadn’t taken operational security seriously enough. Too much time worrying about things outside this job.
“Can deal with all that later, if there is a later,” I said aloud, inside my helmet, which was filling up with humidity from my expelled breath in a way it didn’t usually.
I was getting close to the spot where the GPS, and the directions I was given, indicated I should turn off onto an unpaved road in an empty cornfield. It went on for a couple of hundred feet, leading to a ramshackle little house. I took in as much as I could as I got close; a car parked in the driveway, a bike parked next to it. A single light on in the house, that looked small and dim enough to be a lantern or a flashlight. I killed the engine of my bike.
Briefly I wondered if it was about to be the last time I’d ever ride It.
A figure resolved out of the gloom ahead of me, suddenly illuminated by a handle-flashlight clipped to the collar of his leather cut. One hand rested near his belt, on a holstered pistol.
“Dixon. Gimme your phone.”
I spread my hands out to either side. “Come get it.”
“Don’t play any funny bullshit with me,” the Aesir growled. Despite the beam of his flashlight, I couldn’t see much of his face. That would help.
I didn’t say anything.
“Gimme your fuckin’ phone.”
His hand moved uncertainly on the grip of his pistol. He was close enough that he wouldn’t miss if he decided to drop me right there, and I was no kind of gunslinger to try and outdraw him. Not with my jacket zipped up. Stupid, I berated myself.
Then two quick, loud pops rang out from the house. The Aesir in front of me turned towards the sound, following instinct.
I seized the moment and leapt at him. The baton snapped into my hand. He fumbled with his gun, having lost his concentration. The baton cracked him across the face. I heard the crunch of bone. He stumbled backwards. I landed on top of him, using the baton to bear him to the ground. There was a crunch; something soft gave away underneath the steel bar in my hand.
He gurgled under me, started thrashing madly, no thought of going for his gun. I realized I had the club in both hands and was pressing it down on his throat. I kept it there until the thrashing stopped. And the gurgling.
Only then did I reach down and pull the gun from the holster at his side. I vacillated between tucking it into my belt and throwing it into the field.
I heard footsteps approaching, so I clicked it off safe and pointed it toward the noise, which was a large, armed man coming straight towards me, his steps slow and measured, quieter than you’d think for someone his size.
“It’s me, Jack,” Brock Diamante—who’d been the third phone call I’d made, after Gen and Mr. Gogarty—whispered. The arm that had taken a bullet a couple of months ago was now wrapped in a soft cast. The barrel of a pistol rested on the wrist, which he lowered so the barrel pointed at the ground. I did the same.
Brock came forward, prodding at the guy on the ground in front of us with the toe of his combat boot. “He done?”
“Yeah.”
“What do we do with him?”
I thought a moment. “Let’s get him in the trunk of their car. Along with your man.”
“Yeah.” Brock looked down at the Aesir. “I didn’t hear any shots. What did you…”
I didn’t answer. We put our weapons away and bent down to pick up the biker.