eyes on Juliet. Go,” Frank said through his mic. God, he loved his job. Using his military training but without all the chain-of-command bullshit to wade through, he ran his own show. His superiors gave him his head, and he got the job done. End of story.
His platoon landed on this jungle hellscape an hour ago. Using the handy tracking chip transponders supplied by the good directors, they’d known where their targets were. Now his team was on the ground, three klicks out and closing in.
He was positioned in a big-ass tree to the south of a raging river. He could see across the churning brown water to the little glade where a tidy fire burned in a fire ring, and three of his targets stood talking to each other. “Juliet” was the tall black bitch in the kick-ass armor. He’d have to ask his superiors where he could get a piece of that action. He’d considered snipers, but the directors wanted them all alive. Wounded was okay; dead was not. At least, not yet.
Clemmins occasionally threw him and his team a bone for a job well done. From what he’d seen of these rock-mining bitches, he’d take a stab at any of them. Couple go’rounds of some stiff disciplinary action and they’d be on their knees begging. Just the way he liked his pussy.
“Big Man in the Sky, two klicks out,” Team Leader said.
“Confirmed,” he answered and watched. They’d done a discreet flyover with the most recent military grade stealth drones to get the lay of the land. Those stupid bitches had been popping in and out of the woods and wandering around like they were looking for their mommy. “You ain’t in Kansas anymore, little girls,” he said out loud.
The other two women came out of the forest to the north and joined the three. He saw a lot of hand gesturing.
When Hackney sent him their personnel files, he skimmed them. He got enough information to read their height and weight; all his men had to do was outclass them. Juliet had limited firearms training, not enough to be a threat. The Native chick had some hand-to-hand certifications, but she was a girl. He wasn’t worried about the threat level on this mission.
Just for fun, he only brought five of his guys. The beady-eyed Shinterran who smelled like fish rot, the Qhudret fugitive, and his three meanest motherfuckers. He left the Boy Scout and Knife-Thrower with the Babysitter because sometimes they liked to rain on his parade. His boys needed to cut loose sometimes. Have a little fun. HRC was no place to grow a conscience.
“Big Man, one klick,” Team Leader said.
“Confirmed.”
Damn, he should have brought popcorn. The fireworks were about to begin.
“Big Man in the Sky, local wildlife spotted near the perimeter,” Team Leader said. “Looks like a white wolf. Fuck, he’s huge.”
“What is this, a fucking nature show?” Frank said. “Shoot the damn thing.”
“Aw shit, he disappeared,” he said. “We’ll get him next time around.”
A minute later, screaming static burst over his earpiece, and Frank ripped it out with a flurry of curses. Stupid-ass tech. Jamming it back in, he listened.
“Team Leader, come back,” he said. Nothing. “Team Leader, come back.”
Static buzz. Clicking.
“Big Man, Fish Eye here,” the Shinterran said.
“Jesus Christ, what is it? Where’s Team Leader?” Frank said.
“He’s right here. A white ghost tore out his throat and disappeared back into the forest,” he said.
Frank popped his gum. “Are you shittin’ me?”
“I do not shit in the woods,” the Shinterran said. “Should we collect Team Leader’s body and bring it back to the drop ship?”
“Negative, Fisheye,” Frank said as if he was talking to a five-year-old. Because he practically was because the Shinterran was fucking stupid. “The mission still stands. Avoid the white ghost or white dog or whatever the hell it was and get me Juliet and the Cheerleaders. Do you read?”
“Yes, I read, but not in the woods.”
“Jesus Christ,” Frank said and spit his gum out. It landed on his thigh. Peering through the spotter, he had eyes on the women. They still stood around talking like it was a fucking quilting bee. They were home on the range though, he thought to himself with a laugh.
A bloodcurdling scream rent his eardrum, and he almost stood up on the branch. “What in the blue hell happened, Fisheye? Report!”
Scuffling noises and then heavy breathing pierced his hearing. “Trap, sir,” Gnarly Newt said in his ear. He liked Gnarly. Wasn’t real bright, but he took a perverse pleasure in kicking people when they were down. He was also as big as a fucking ox.
“Trap?” Frank asked.
“Sharpened sticks in a pit. Fisheye won’t make it.”
“Newt, listen up,” Frank said. He wished he had a cigar right now. “You get in that glade, and you grab those fucking Cheerleaders, got it?”
“What about Hank and Cthulhu?” Newt asked.
“They should be watching your back,” Frank said slowly. “Why?”
“They split off,” he said. “They’re going to infiltrate from the north.”
“Okay. They can get Juliet. You grab Cheerleaders, got it?”
“Yeah.”
Jesus Christ, he was surrounded by imbeciles. He’d told them to go in radio silent with Team Leader comms only. That was when they were all going in at once. If he reached out to Hank and Cthulhu, he could jeopardize any headway they’d made.
Squinting through the spotter, he zoomed in on the woods at the back of the glade, but he couldn’t see anything. Good.
A high-pitched screech blew out his left ear drum, and he tore out the bud to a chorus of shits and fucks. He almost dropped his scope in the process but snagged it in time and jammed it up to his eye. What in the hell was going on with his comms and his men?”
“Newt, report,” he said, his voice raspy. He sounded strange to himself; he could only hear from his right side. “Newt?”
Panning across the glade, he stared into the wild brush to the east of the creek that emptied into the river below. His men were supposed to be about there by now. Movement in the trees. Was that … what the hell was that? He dialed in ten times, the digital zoom clarifying the pixelated image until he could make out Newt’s head. A gigantic black wasp-thing was traipsing across Newt’s face and its clawed foot stepped on Newt’s broken mic. Newt wasn’t blinking, just staring. Frank adjusted the view and saw a puncture in Newt’s neck weeping blue liquid.
“Fucking shitcicles,” Frank muttered. What was that. Three dead? Three of his best men dead? They’d been on this fucking mission an hour and thirty minutes.
“Big Man in the Sky, a half klick out,” Hank’s voice rang loud and clear in his right ear bud.
“Thank Christ,” Frank said. “Use caution. I repeat. Approach with extreme caution.”
“Roger that.”
Zipping his scope back to the woods, he gave himself motion sickness. Hank and Cthulhu could take on five chicks. He glanced at them real quick; now they were stretching or doing some yoga shit. Christ, what a bunch of lazy ass pussies, he chuckled to himself.
Scope back on the trees, he could just make out Hank. Something was wrong; that thin line reminded him of something, took him back to the Ciliak Wars— “Hank, watch out for the goddamn trip wi—” It happened so fast. One minute Hank was standing just inside the tree line, the next he was pinned to a tree trunk with wooden spikes driven through his skull.
Frank turned bilious. He could sit up in this fucking tree and watch crazy-ass Cthulhu the Qhudret alien fuck up the mission next, or he could climb down this fucking red tree, fjord the river, climb back on the trail and kill every single one of those motherfucking bitches himself.
Climbing down, he noticed every place his skin peeked from beneath his black ops uniform itched like the fucking devil. But he didn’t care.
At the base of the tree, he slung his razer rifle over his shoulder and raced to the place upriver where he’d crossed earlier. Jumping from rock to rock, he replayed the shitshow that had happened in the last forty-five minutes. He wasn’t getting it. How could it have gone to shit so fast?
Team Leader killed by a white ghost—wolf? Fisheye in a Punji stick trap. What was this, the fucking 19th century? Newt taken out by a killer wasp. Okay, he should have done a little more homework on the local flora and fauna. But Jesus. And Hank. Nailed to a tree because he missed a fucking trip wire made out of plants. It was so thick Frank could see it from a half-mile away.
“Cthulhu, fall back,” Frank said in his mic, his spit splattering across his cheeks. “Repeat. Fall back and wait for me.”
“[clicking noise],” Cthulhu clicked. Because he was a fucking Qhudret, and he couldn’t fucking talk.
Frank mumbled to himself as his eyes darted back and forth on the trail in front of him. Huge ass millipede, what the fuck planet was this? He shot it, and it curled up dead. Tromping through the underbrush, he found the trail Team Leader had taken. Eyeing it with suspicion, he jumped over it and into the thick bracken on the other side. He knew all about that fucking trail. Fucking death traps. Who set the traps? The yoga chicks? Fuck, no.
In the trees, he felt better. Just man and nature. Flipping his monoviz down, he found Cthulhu’s blinking red dot. Staying still just like Frank told him to. He ghosted between the tree trunks, stepping around dead leaves, whispering through the brush. Back in the Ciliak Wars, his handle had been Ghost. Take that, wolfie. If he so much as spied a paw, he was shooting that motherfucker.
Slowing, Frank peered between the branches. He had to cross the creek, but it looked like he found the head of it just there. It flowed from under a huge rock formation covered in creeping vines. Speaking of vines, he felt one tickle around his ankle. A quick glance, and he figured it must be just another lethal-ass entity. He sliced it in one blow and sheathed his hunting blade once more.
Grabbing onto the vines on the rock, he creeped across it like he was a lizard. Hopped down. He was about ten meters from Cthulhu and Hank’s dead body.
He slinked into the trees, dodged a feral warted cat or whatever the fuck it was, and kept going. There! He found Cthulhu sitting against a tree snacking on a rodent.
“Jesus, Cthulhu, what have I told you about eating on a mission?”
“[clicking].”
“Dammit, put that thing down. You don’t know where it’s been,” Frank said. He stepped a few paces closer to inspect Hank’s body. He’d approached from behind, so he could see the back of Hank’s helmet. The spike branch had been held back with pure coiled tension. Damn.
He pulled his scope out and stared across the glade at the women. He counted three. Scanning the area, he stopped at all the places he’d seen them before. The green dome. The trunk of the tree. The fire pit. The trail to the creek. The pod. Dammit! They must have gone in the pod.
“[clicking].”
“Shut up, Cthulhu, I’m counting,” he said.
“[gurgle].”
Frank stilled. Sliding the safety off his handgun, he praised himself again for using his chest holster. Palming the weapon, he spun and pointed it at the god damn Amazon in armor who had Cthulhu in a chokehold. Which was saying something because the Qhudret didn’t have proper necks that he could tell. Juliet was wearing the helmet, now, which was a damn shame, because he would have liked to see the light fade from her eyes when he shot her dead.
“You’re responsible for my men’s deaths,” he said through gritted teeth. “Men who had families. Wives. Children.” Those were all lies, but it sounded good. Between the six of them they had an estranged step kid, a deadbeat dad in prison and a janky apartment on Jeppsit 5 with an alien cockroach named Penny.
“Drop your weapon,” Juliet said, her voice rich and smooth.
Damn, he loved women who could fight back.
“You’re under the impression that I give a damn about my compadre here,” Frank said. “Break his neck, if you can find it. I’m not dropping my weapon.”
Juliet shrugged.
And a powerful arm slipped around his neck and squeezed. There was a knife in the hand attached to that arm, too.
“How about now?” A different woman’s voice. A husky alto. “I have another blade. A bigger one.”
He felt a sharp stick just on the other side of his kidney. He dropped his gun.
“Let’s talk, huh?” Frank said. “What are you lovely ladies doing in a dump like this?”
The arm squeezed, and he coughed. He knew when to shut up. Unlike Cthulhu who started gurgling and clicking again.
Frank tried to meet his eyes and shake his head, but the arm tightened.
Cthulhu was going apeshit. And then the white wolf shimmered out of the trees and licked his bloody chops. Frank wet his pants.