“It’s better than those balloons spotting us.”
They had to make a dash across the four-lane highway to reach the relative safety provided by the burning town, the whir of more motorcycles growing louder. Roderic couldn’t tell if they’d brought the vehicles through the bog or if they’d already found an alternate way around. Unlike the jeeps and trucks, the bikes didn’t require roads.
Heat radiated off burning surfaces, plumes jumping from rooftop to rooftop, but the major thoroughfares remained clear enough for them to run through. A group of sharpshooters had the same idea, racing down the street ahead of them, gripping tight onto empty guns. The deafening roar of the fires prevented Roderic from hearing whether enemy cyclists were nearby, so he threw glances from side to side and over his shoulder in regular intervals.
Roderic’s heart pounded, and he panted for breath in the smoky heat, stopping to lean his hands on his knees when they reached the end of town. The gunmen kept running, while Rushing and Foley helped the injured soldier catch up.
“That way,” Roderic gasped, motioning to the left. A small clearing lay between them and thick forest—and hopefully safety. The marksmen disappeared into the trees unfollowed. Sucking in a deep breath, he called, “Now!”
Roderic’s feet slapped the ground as relief from the intense blaze filled him with a sense of well-being—just a few more meters.
The rev of engines. A blast of gunfire. Roderic hit the dirt. In moments, Iron Army soldiers on blaring motorbikes surrounded them. The first skidded to a halt, jerking his handlebars, leveling a rifle. Before the report sounded, skinny James Foley threw himself over the general. A loud crack cut through the air. The bugle rolled from Foley’s hand onto the ground as his meager weight slumped atop Roderic’s chest.
Roderic’s fierce glare bore into the eyes of a muddy soldier clad in the distinctive gray drab of the Republic. The man raised the angle of his barrel, a sneer on his lips.
“At ease, private!” shouted an officer who pulled up beside him. “Don’t you know a general when you see one? This man’s important. We need to take him to Garcia.”
“What about the others?” The shooter seemed reluctant to lower his gun.
“We’ll take them too,” the officer barked. “General Garcia will decide their fate.”
Another Iron Realm brute grabbed Foley’s leg and slid his body away, leaving a bloody trail across Roderic’s shirt. “Have you no respect?” Roderic blasted in disillusioned anguish.
“Not for half-breed scum,” the soldier retorted.
The enemy officer reached a hand for Roderic. Having little choice if he preferred to live, he took it and was pulled to his feet. Guns pointed at Lieutenant Rushing and their wounded comrade. They all placed their hands behind their heads, enduring the insult of a crude pat-down. An Iron Army corporal was unnecessarily rough with the woman, causing Roderic’s anger to burn hot. First, Foley’s sacrifice, and now Roderic’s inability to defend her honor.
“Get your filthy hands off her,” he growled, knowing his words carried no bite. “Can’t you see she’s injured?”
“Had to make sure it was her blood,” the soldier replied, flashing him a vile grin.
“Come on,” the officer ordered. “Let’s get moving. Our orders were to mop up, not fool around.”
“Yes, sir,” his underlings muttered. Now completely disarmed, Roderic felt a bayonet poke him in the back. He went along without further protest, hoping at least half of his army would escape to safety and regroup under Colonel Williams’ command. But he left behind a part of himself he’d never recover, lying in the dirt, a mere meter from the forest’s edge, beside the body of a musician with a lion’s heart.
Sergeant Latrice Brant had climbed a tree to see what transpired two kilometers away. She saw the billows of smoke, felt the detonations vibrate through her body, each explosion ratcheting up her tension. There was nothing she and the supply wagon drivers could do but watch, wait, and pray. By the time the horn call sounded for Xenophon—a hasty retreat in multiple directions, meant to frustrate pursuit—her nerves frayed. Ambulance drivers started their engines. Bearers unrolled hand-carried stretchers as trucks loaded with supplies rolled out in the opposite direction.
The general will need the Humvee ready to roll,she thought, and started to climb down.No—maybe I can spot him from here and drive to meet him.She pressed the binoculars to her eyes, adjusted the wheel, and scanned the battlefield. The magnified view of the destruction stole her breath. The sheer number of bodies covering the scene was horrific. Men, women, horses; bloodied, dismembered, burned. This was war, up close and personal, not like when she could only see smoke and distant figures that were no more than ants crawling about their mound.
Tamping down her revulsion and grief, she focused on finding General Calder amid the mayhem. She was sure he’d take the most direct path, not veer off on a winding trail through the marshy lowlands, taking hours to circle back around. Voices rose below her as the support crew prepared to take in the wounded, but she paid them no mind. Twice, she had to deliberately steady her hands as they shook the binoculars, interfering with her search.
“There!” A euphoric rush enveloped her when she spotted the general, Lieutenant Rushing, and two others dash from the blazing town across a vacant acre, heading for the expanse of forest that would shield their way back to camp.
A small shift of her lens. “No! Shit, damn it, look out!” They couldn’t hear her. She knew it, but she cried out in distress anyway.
Tears blurred her vision for a moment after the boy with the bugle was hit. The enemies surrounded her general and marched him away. Fueled by rage, she shimmied down the tree, dropped to the ground, and dashed to the communications officer.
“Send a pigeon to Nelanta!” she demanded breathlessly. “Do it now, and another to Stonevale. General Calder’s been captured.”
Chapter twelve
Desperado
Fort Desperado, Southwest Red River Republic
All was sun and sand when the cargo truck bearing Captain Colt Irons to his new assignment rattled to a halt. One of the rough MPs seated beside him in the back grinned, displaying a missing tooth. “I think this is your stop.” He spat a wad of tobacco onto the metal floor, where it landed amid grit, grease, and stains long past identifying.
Colt sighed, settled his brimmed hat over dirt-encrusted golden-blond hair, and hopped over the tailgate without fanfare or assistance, his boots puffing up dust when they hit the ground. The six-hundred-kilometer trip had taken two and a half days, with stops at Midland and Fort Stockton for food, rest, and refueling. If the roads and vehicles had been in pre-Ruin condition, it would have taken less than a day. Still faster than horseback, although he couldn’t attest to the comfort factor.