13. Chapter 13
Riley
I ran my fingers through Mangus’s thick black fur, searching for wounds or a pulse. The implant rattled off his vitals. Shallow respiration. Steady heart rate. Pupils responsive to light. But beneath my calm exterior, something raw and terrified clawed at my ribs.
“Hey, big boy, you’re okay. You’re gonna be okay.”
His ear twitched, and a low, rumbling sound vibrated through his massive body. Athena stopped pacing and came over to sniff him. Her white fur and maw were streaked with blood and gore, but it didn’t appear to be hers.
My head shot up, and I frantically looked around for the Betas and Gunnar. My partner’s shoulder and chest were split open like a ripe peach.
Jamie appeared beside me, pressing a hand to his face as dark blood dripped down his chin.
“What happened to the Commander?” He grimaced when he saw Gunnar.
Marlowe was gone. He’d stood ten feet in front of me, and I let him go because Mangus went down, the choice making itself. The implant logged the decision without judgment. For a split second, I pressed my forehead against Mangus’s broad, warm skull and breathed in his terrible scent.
“He’s gone.” I took off my backpack and fished around for my extra shirt. The gash across Gunnar’s shoulder was deep enough to show tendons and muscle, and blood soaked the left side of his jacket.
“Those sons of a bitches are fast,” Gunnar grunted in pain.
“They’re enhanced.” We needed to get off this mountain and get medical attention.
Mangus exhaled a long, sulfurous breath, and his tail scraped against the dirt. Sharp relief hit me.
Marlowe had an implant, and he’d turned himself into whatever I was now. He’d also shot one of his own people to keep me safe and told me he wasn’t going to kidnap me again. But what did he want from me? Even the implant couldn’t reason out Marlowe’s actions.
Freda strode over with a combat medical kit and knelt next to Gunnar. The troll’s face was a sickly gray beneath his natural green pallor.
“Hold still.” Her eye was swollen, and she had scrapes and bruises along her left side, but otherwise she looked okay. “I’m going to press this bandage on your shoulder, right on the deepest gash. It will hurt, but you’re losing too much blood.”
“Everything already hurts,” Gunnar grunted. He hissed when she pressed the gauze deep into the wound, his jaw clenching hard enough that I heard his molars grinding.
I turned to Jamie. Blood soaked the left side of his face and neck. It looked like a bullet had grazed the outside of his orbital bone, and his aviator sunglasses were gone.
I gently tilted his head toward the fading light and studied the wound, the implant keeping my hands steady. “You’re lucky,” I murmured. “Another quarter inch and we’d be picking bullet fragments out of your brain.”
He breathed out shakily. “It hurts like a motherfucker, and it won’t stop bleeding.”
“It looks like something hit your eye. I don’t know whether it was your sunglasses or shrapnel, and I’m unsure whether to apply pressure. We need to get you to a hospital.” I handed him my clean shirt, letting him decide how to use it. I felt so useless.
Freda motioned for me to take over putting pressure on Gunnar’s shoulder. Then she pulled out her knife and strode toward the downed operatives. “I need to check them.”
Athena stood over her kill, eating something wet and bloody.
I swallowed and looked away. Freda didn’t bother to check whether that operative was still alive.
As she looked over each body, she efficiently removed their weapons and personal effects.
When she assessed the operative who lay crumpled on the ground at an odd angle, she reached in and slit the man’s throat.
I stopped watching and pulled out the satellite phone Conall had insisted I take with me. Beau Harlan picked up on the second ring.
“Beau, it’s Riley.” The implant helped me stay calm. “We were attacked in the backcountry and have two seriously injured. We also have confirmed dead hostiles and need immediate extraction and medical support.” I rattled off our GPS location.
Silence stretched. “What in god’s name happened, Blackthorne?”
“We ran into Commander Marlowe and Apex operatives on the Mary Mountain Trail.” I gave a brief explanation, but didn’t mention the hellhounds or Athena biting off one of their heads.
He didn’t need all the details. “Gunnar’s losing blood, and Jamie took a round to the face. Freda and I are operational.”
Another pause. I could hear him breathing and the soft click of a keyboard. “Air support will be en route shortly.” He gave me an ETA. “Do I need to call Alpha Segerson?”
“I’ll contact him myself. Thank you.” I exhaled and disconnected. “They’re coming. It’ll be an hour.”
Gunnar nodded once, his massive head sagging against his pack. His breathing had grown labored, and bleeding had slowed but not stopped. Trolls were tough, but they weren’t immortal.
I shifted toward Mangus, settling beside him.
His massive head rested in my lap, hot and heavy.
His breath was almost overwhelming this close, but I buried my face in his fur anyway, letting his unnatural warmth seep into me.
Athena circled once and lay down facing the trail, her white body a sentinel against the now dark forest and whatever was out there.
Freda stuffed what she’d gathered into her pack and glanced around. “Marlowe still has modified operatives with him. Why do you think that is?”
I shrugged tiredly. “Because those facilities were sanctioned by Apex Mentis, no matter what lies they feed the public.”
Freda nodded. “We’re bringing their gear back with us. Those AR-15s are military-grade, and we might be able to trace them.”
Jamie stirred beside her, his voice pained. “I saw you talking to Marlowe in between shooting at him.”
My shoulders crept up. “I couldn’t get a clean shot off, but Mangus ripped up his arm. He used some type of taser that knocked the hellhound out.”
“What’d the creepy fucker have to say?” Jamie asked.
I rubbed my face, feeling something wet. Then I remembered the bloody viscera that’d splattered there from Athena’s kill. “He implanted himself.”
Freda went still. “He… what?”
“He has an implant like mine. That’s not all. Somehow the bastard figured out how to replicate Cognizant energy, because he’s now a high-level Compulsor.”
They both stared, then Jamie exhaled a shaky breath. “Jesus fuck, this is bad, Sparky.”
“I know.” The Compulsor energy signature had been unmistakable on Marlowe, layered beneath his natural energy like oil on water.
Marlowe had subjected himself to the same procedure he’d forced on me, McKenna, and God knew how many others. And now, he was searching for the same coordinates Viggo had left behind. Whatever was at Mary Mountain had drawn my father, Viggo, and now Marlowe.
Mangus shifted, his weight pressing harder against my thighs. I scratched behind his ears. “Thank you for saving me.” His tail thumped against the ground, scattering pine needles.
Athena’s head lifted, her crimson eyes fixing on a point deep in the trees. I followed her gaze but saw just the forest. Marlowe was still out there. He probably had answers about my father, Viggo, and what was at Mary Mountain, and knew what the implant was doing to me.
A distant thrumming reached me, faint at first, then growing steadily louder. Help was here.
“About fucking time.” Jamie carefully rolled to his feet.
Hours later, I sat next to Freda in a hospital waiting room. The place smelled like antiseptic and stale coffee. Freda sat beside me, her posture military-perfect even in exhaustion, her fingers drumming a quiet, irregular rhythm on the armrest.
“You should get your ribs looked at,” I told her for the third time.
“Nothing’s broken. Whatever they can do here, I can do at home.”
The helicopter ride had been torture. The EMTs eyed us carefully, especially when they spotted the hellhounds and the semiautomatic rifles hanging out of Freda’s backpack. Thank god Beau met us at the hospital and took the hellhounds and our gear back to the bungalow for us.
I felt a stress headache blooming behind my eyes, the kind that came from running on adrenaline and fear for the past six hours. The implant made a small adjustment, redirecting the pain into something distant and manageable.
A doctor with a brisk manner and sharp eyes pushed through the double doors.
“Anyone here for Gunnar Alfson?” We both stood.
“I’m Dr. Park. He’s out of surgery. Mr. Alfson sustained several deep lacerations across his chest and shoulder.
The worst injury is near his subclavian artery.
” He pointed to the spot on himself. “Another quarter-inch and we’d be having a very different conversation. ”
The subclavian artery was a major blood vessel. “Is he out of danger?” I asked.
“For the moment. The problem is his blood type. Trolls have a unique hematological profile, and we’re not equipped for it. We have some blood coming in from Bozeman. He’s lost a significant amount.”
“Is he going to be okay?”
Dr. Park’s expression softened slightly. “Barring infection or something unforeseen, his chances are good. The nurse said he was giving the anesthesiologist a hard time as they wheeled him in.”
That sounded like Gunnar.
“What about Jamie Reynolds?” Freda asked.
Dr. Park rubbed his eyes. “The bullet grazed his skull near his eye and fragmented. Several small pieces are lodged near his optic nerve. We don’t have the equipment or expertise to handle that here.
The air ambulance is taking him to the Moran Eye Center in Salt Lake City. It’s the best in the region.”
Freda’s jaw tightened. “Will he lose the eye?”
Dr. Park sighed. “I don’t know, but the damage was extensive. He’s conscious and coherent, and the eye is responsive to light. That’s something.”
He gave us a few more details, and the registrar came and went as we tried to navigate the bureaucratic friction of a half-troll and a shifter being treated in a hospital that wasn’t set up for either.