Page 37

LOKAN

D awn's colors across the Russian sky were magnificent, but Lokan barely noticed the beauty.

His body ached from the night-long trek through increasingly rugged terrain, his ribs were still healing because he hadn't had proper rest, and his head hurt from maintaining constant vigilance and casting his mental net around.

Carol was also exhausted and operating on pure determination, which he knew was the case, not because she'd complained but because she hadn't cracked a single joke or even talked in hours.

"River crossing ahead," Grant said from a few paces ahead of them. "About half a klick."

The extraction point lay just beyond that river, and Lokan was grateful to see the end of this journey. They'd been walking for over twelve hours since abandoning the motorcycles, pushing through rocky terrain that was meant for mountain goats and not people.

"Finally," Carol muttered. "I'm about ready to swim back to America at this point."

Lokan was so glad to hear her joke again. "Almost there, my love," he assured her.

When they reached the tree line above the river, Grant held up a fist, signaling them to stop. The water below ran fast, swollen with mountain runoff. A narrow wooden bridge spanned the rapids, looking about as sturdy as one would expect in these parts.

"I don't like it," Camden said, studying the crossing through binoculars. "It's too exposed. Perfect for an ambush."

"Everything has been perfect for an ambush in these damn mountains," Dougal grumbled. "It's a strategic nightmare, but we can't second-guess every meter of terrain or we'll never make it to the extraction point."

Lokan reached out with his senses, searching for the telltale presence of immortal or human minds and found nothing, but he didn't trust himself, especially given the pounding headache he'd developed.

Immortal thoughts were harder to detect from a distance, and that held even truer for enhanced immortals, whose minds were harder to penetrate.

"I'm not sensing any thoughts," he reported. "But that doesn't mean it's clear. My headache might be interfering with my extrasensory perception, and it's also possible that the ambushers are so empty-headed that they are difficult to detect."

That hadn't gotten him the chuckle he'd hoped for from Carol.

"We have no choice," Grant said. "We have to cross. We go fast, one at a time. I'll take point, then Carol, then you. Camden and Dougal, you provide cover until we are across, then follow."

Grant made it halfway across the bridge when the world exploded into chaos.

Gunfire erupted from concealed positions on both banks, the sharp crack of AK-47s mixing with the deeper boom of shotguns. Grant dove forward, rolling across the remaining planks as wood splintered around him.

"Contact left and right!" Camden said into the comm while returning fire.

Lokan grabbed Carol and pulled her behind a fallen log as bullets whizzed overhead.

He reached with his mind, suddenly focused by the adrenaline rush, and this time he got something.

The mental signatures that met him were human, tinged with greed and desperation rather than the focused malevolence of Doomers or human assassins.

Low-level mercenaries or bandits, who shouldn't be challenging to take out.

"Not Brotherhood," he said into the comm, squeezing off a burst toward muzzle flashes on the far bank. "Humans."

A voice called out in accented English from across the river. "You surrender now! We only want the woman and the pretty boy. Others can go!"

"Charming," Carol muttered. "They know how to make a girl feel special."

"I'm offended," Camden said through the comm. "Am I not a pretty boy?"

"Gorchenco must be behind this," Lokan growled. "My father wouldn't have wanted Carol."

She cast him an incredulous look. "Yes, he would, Lokan. He would use me to interrogate you."

That hadn't occurred to him, but she was right. His father would absolutely torture her to get him to talk.

More gunfire, but it was undisciplined, spray-and-pray tactics rather than aimed shots. These weren't soldiers or even professional criminals. These were opportunists hoping for an easy payday.

There was obviously a bounty on his and Carol's heads, but the question was who had put it up, Gorchenco or Navuh?

Did it matter?

Lokan wasn't about to let himself get caught alive, regardless of who wanted his head.

"Camden, Dougal, flank left," Grant's voice crackled over their earpieces. "I'll draw their fire. Lokan, can you get into their heads and redirect?"

"Working on it," Lokan replied, though the distance and chaos made it difficult for him to do so. He needed to be closer.

"I have an idea," Carol said. "Cover me."

Before he could protest, she was moving, not away from danger but toward it. She sprinted along the riverbank, using trees for cover, drawing fire away from their position. The attackers, focused on what they saw as the prize, shifted their attention to track her.

Which was precisely what she'd planned.

With their focus redirected, Camden and Dougal moved like shadows through the trees, their immortal speed and strength turning them into blurs of motion. The first scream came seconds later as Dougal reached the nearest gunman.

Lokan used the distraction to push forward, closing the distance to the main group of attackers. As he moved, he reached out with his mind, finding the chaotic thoughts of greedy men.

Five million rubles... American dollars better... the Pakhan wants them alive... especially the woman...

He found what seemed to be their leader, a rough-looking veteran whose thoughts were more organized than the rest. Lokan slipped into his mind like a knife between ribs.

Drop your weapon , he commanded. Tell your men to stand down .

The man's hands began to loosen on his rifle, his face going slack.

"Hold your position, soldier," a voice called out in Russian, and a figure emerged from the trees on the far bank—tall, well-dressed despite the wilderness setting, and with the demeanor of a man used to being obeyed.

"Let me guess," Lokan called out, buying time as he tried to penetrate the newcomer's mental shields. "You work for Dimitri Gorchenco."

The man smiled. "Colonel Volkov, formerly of the GRU. Now a freelance contractor with a very lucrative offer on the table. You've caused the Pakhan considerable losses, Mr. Lokan. He wants to discuss that with you. Personally."

"I'm sure he does," Lokan replied, noting that Grant had made it to cover on the far bank and was working his way toward Volkov's position. "But I'm afraid I have prior commitments."

"A shame." Volkov raised his hand, and more fighters emerged from concealment. Twenty, maybe twenty-five total. "We'll have to do this the hard way then."

What followed was a massacre, though not the one Volkov had planned.

Grant hit the first group like a hurricane. Bodies flew, bones cracked, and weapons were turned on their owners and their comrades.

Lokan was impressed. Even he had a hard time thralling under pressure, while the three Guardians were doing that in addition to physically fighting.

Camden and Dougal carved through the left flank with the same brutal efficiency. These might have been hard men, veterans of Russia's criminal underworld, but they were still only human. They stood no chance against immortals.

Meanwhile, Carol had circled back and was picking off stragglers with precise shots, cutting off their retreat routes.

Lokan focused on Volkov, battering against his mental shields with increasing force. The man had a strong mind and was well trained, but he was still human. Still breakable.

"You don't know who you're dealing with," Volkov gasped, blood running from his nose as Lokan's mental assault intensified. "Every criminal from here to Moscow is looking for you. Every corrupt cop, every soldier who needs extra money. You'll never make it out of Russia."

"I beg to differ." Lokan pushed harder.

Volkov's shields shattered like glass. His eyes rolled back, and he collapsed, his mind overwhelmed by the forced intrusion. Lokan rifled through his memories with no regard for the damage he caused.

There. The bounty notice was distributed through Gorchenco's network. Five million American dollars for Carol and Lokan, delivered alive to the Pakhan. Every criminal organization in the region had been alerted.

But there was more. Someone in Turner's network was feeding information to Gorchenco. Not a name, just a stupid code that would have made Lokan laugh under different circumstances.

Foxhound .

Someone was watching too many old action movies.

Lokan withdrew from Volkov's mind, leaving the man drooling and twitching on the ground. Around them, the ambush had turned into a rout. Bodies littered both riverbanks, and the few survivors were fleeing into the forest, their greed overwhelmed by terror.

Grant materialized beside Lokan with barely a spatter of blood on his tactical vest. "You okay?"

Lokan nodded. "Gorchenco has put a bounty on Carol and me," Lokan said. "Every criminal in western Russia is looking for us. And someone in Turner's network is feeding him information."

Grant's expression darkened. "The extraction point might be compromised."

"My thoughts exactly." Lokan pulled out his phone. "I need to warn Turner."

He typed quickly, explaining the situation and the code name Foxhound. Turner's response came within minutes.

No idea who that is, but I will find out. Wait for the new extraction point coordinates .

"We'll have a new location shortly," Lokan told the others.

Carol dropped to the ground and sat amidst the carnage. "I'll rest in the meantime."

The text from Turner with the new coordinates arrived only a few minutes later.

Lokan showed them to the others. "Fifteen kilometers northeast."

"On foot?" Carol asked. "That's another three hours minimum."

Camden gestured toward the trees. "The mercenaries didn't get here on foot, and I heard engines revving up, probably used by those who escaped. I bet there are vehicles left behind we can use." His gaze swept over all the dead bodies around them.

"They'll be looking for those vehicles," Dougal pointed out.

"They'll be looking for us regardless," Grant said. "Speed trumps stealth at this point. We take the vehicles."

They found two battered SUVs and a military-style truck that had seen better days.

They loaded into the two SUVs, not because they needed both for the five of them, but because they might need to split up.

Grant took the wheel of the lead SUV with Camden riding shotgun.

Lokan drove the second vehicle with Carol beside him and Dougal in the back.

The vehicles roared to life, and they tore off down the rough forest road.

Lokan's phone buzzed with another message from Turner. Aircraft inbound. ETA to new extraction point: 43 minutes. Suggest you hurry. Local military responding to gunfire reports.

"Perfect," Lokan muttered. "Because we need more complications."

"What now?" Carol asked.

"Military's mobilizing. We have forty-three minutes to make the new extraction point."

"Then drive faster," Dougal suggested from the back seat.

In the lead vehicle, Grant was setting a punishing pace, and behind him, Lokan pressed harder on the accelerator to keep up, the SUV's engine protesting as they flew over the uneven terrain.

They'd gone five kilometers when Lokan's phone rang. Turner's number.

"Change of plans," Turner said. "Original extraction point is compromised. We're rerouting again."

"Turner—"

"Listen carefully. There's an abandoned airfield twenty kilometers due east of your current position. The pilot will put down there in..." A pause. "Thirty-seven minutes. That's the best we can do."

"Understood." Lokan was already recalculating the route. "What about?—"

The line went dead.

"East," he called to Grant over the comm. "Twenty kilometers to an abandoned airfield. We have thirty-seven minutes."

"Copy that," Grant responded. "Hold on to something."

The next half hour blurred in a chaos of speed, desperation, and barely controlled vehicles.

They left the forest behind, tearing across open steppes that offered no cover but allowed for greater speed.

Twice, they spotted helicopters in the distance, but whether military or criminal, the aircraft didn't pursue.

With five minutes to spare, the airfield came into view. Crumbling concrete buildings, a tower that tilted at an alarming angle, and a runway that looked like a collection of potholes held together by wishful thinking.

And descending toward it, engines roaring, was the most beautiful sight Lokan had seen in days—a cargo aircraft, sturdy and battered but airworthy.

They skidded to a stop near the runway as the plane touched down, bouncing alarmingly on the deteriorated surface but maintaining control. The cargo ramp was already lowering before the aircraft fully stopped.

"Move!" Grant shouted.

They abandoned the vehicles and ran, Carol's hand in Lokan's as they sprinted up the ramp. The pilot was an older woman with grey-streaked hair, wearing a jumpsuit that bore no insignia. "Welcome aboard," she called back in accented English. "Next stop, somewhere that isn't Russia."

As the engines roared to full power and the abandoned airfield fell away beneath them, Lokan finally allowed himself to relax. They'd made it. Bloodied, exhausted, hunted by half the criminal underworld, but alive.

Carol collapsed against him, her head finding that familiar spot on his shoulder. "Next time we need to escape somewhere," she said, "let's pick a nice tropical island. With beaches. And drinks with umbrellas."

He laughed. "That description matches my father's island. You've already done that and ended up in his harem."

"Right." She scrunched her nose. "A different tropical island, then, somewhere in the Bahamas."

"Deal," he said, pressing a kiss to her hair. "Though knowing our luck, the island would probably turn out to be run by pirates."

"At this point," she murmured, "I'd take pirates over Russian mafia any day."

As the aircraft climbed toward cruising altitude, leaving Russia and its dangers behind, Lokan closed his eyes and let exhaustion claim him. They'd won this round, but Gorchenco needed to be dealt with.

That was tomorrow's problem, though. Today, they were still alive, and they were going home.