21. Aron
ARON
The sky is overcast, the day is windy, and the whole fucking op is chaos.
Men keep rushing there and back over the bridge.
No one seems clear on where the boxes with explosives and fuses are, and no one seems too clear on what they should be doing.
Even time seems warped—sluggish minutes that somehow add up to hours gone by way too fast, without us accomplishing much.
Nothing is as it should be. If this whole mission goes tits up, it will be my fucking fault.
In the past, this kind of operation would have consumed me completely, demanding my full attention days in advance.
Instead, here I am, the day of, and all I can think of is getting back to the girl in my cell, haunted by the memory of her breaking in my hands.
I have a bad fucking feeling about this. Everything rides on today. And yet here I am, unable to focus on anything but the memory of Riley’s moans and the way her body melted into mine for support when she came undone.
I need to snap out of it. I must concentrate. But I can’t stop my thoughts from straying.
The day has already dawned. We’re running late, taking too much time. Fuck.
Attila keeps marching back and forth, barking incoherent orders, but he’s no use when it comes to delegating work.
I slip a harness on and, grabbing some wires and explosives from the crates, rappel over the stone railing and start looping cables around the bridge construction. I traverse across the bridge length and then back to the other side, checking on the men’s progress.
I hook the trigger to the apparatus, and we’re finally done.
Still, we’re cutting it close. The sun is nowhere to be seen, hidden behind all the clouds. But it’s gotten hot and muggy, which tells me we’re approaching midday.
There must be something dead trapped in the riffles below, the vapourised stench assaulting us in the rising heat.
We hide ourselves and our empty crates behind overgrown shrubs by what used to be a road but is now mostly a pile of tarmac rubble. And we wait, insects circling us, attracted by the collective scent of our sweat.
Moisture is collecting in my eyebrows and rolling down my back in rivulets.
I’m struggling to keep my eyes open. Anytime I let myself drift off into that cosy state between sleep and wakefulness, I’m back in Riley’s cave, my hands wrapped around her body, triumph flooding my bloodstream until her orgasm feels like the biggest victory of my life ...
This is demented. I’m fucking addicted, obsessed, my thoughts more persistent than the damn mosquitoes feasting on my blood.
This has to stop before I become completely consumed by it.
We hear them before we see them, and we feel them before we hear them. At first, their approach is nothing but an imperceptible shake of the ground beneath us, nothing but faint vibrations in the air.
Then the mechanical screech and rumble of the tanks, the roar of motors.
A town lies in ruin on the opposite bank. At first, it’s like the destroyed buildings have come to life, walking forward like decrepit giants.
My heart rate spikes.
Military trucks and bikes. Some marching soldiers.
All in that nasty mustard yellow—Continuum colour.
No inconspicuous army green. These assholes want to be very fucking obvious as they flood our streets.
Like pus leaking from a wound. The sight of them rolling through the destruction they themselves caused makes my stomach turn.
These houses used to be homes! These roads used to lead somewhere other than death.
This region was never without conflict, but people used to live their lives here.
I clench my jaw, nearly cracking my teeth. I want to feel their skin tear under my blade. I want to crush their organs in my fist.
The first vehicles roll onto the bridge.
“Aron,” Attila urges me from the corner of his mouth.
“Not yet,” I growl. “I want to get as many of these fuckers as I can.”
Like a swarm of nasty vermin, they flood the bridge, filling its entire width and progressing along its length. The roar is deafening, the march of their boots echoing like a dreadful heartbeat.
There are so fucking many of them, still coming from in between the desolate streets.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen an offensive this big, and I shiver when I imagine what would happen if we let them through.
The Rifterland would be finished, and we would be pushed right to the border of the Rift—and over it.
One day it will happen, I know. One day, they’ll roll all over us. Obliterate us.
But not today.
I wait until the leading truck is nearly on our bank. And then I press the button, the tip of my thumb going white with the pressure.
Nothing.
Nothing happens.
Fuck.
I try again. And again.
“Aron!” Attila snaps in my direction, and all the other men are murmuring, heads turning towards me.
“The remote doesn’t work. Fuck!” I slam it into the ground. “Fuck!”
This can’t be happening. We cannot fail. Not like this. This is too big, the consequences too catastrophic.
The first truck, three bikes and about ten foot soldiers already made it across.
“Retreat?” Attila asks grimly.
“No fucking way.”
My mind is reeling, heart pounding, stomach churning. I knew something would go wrong today, knew it, felt it in the marrow of my bones. This is all my fucking fault. I didn’t test the remote connection. All because I let myself be distracted by a pretty pussy.
My eyes stray towards the control box at the foot of the bridge, fixed to the nearest supporting pillar. I chew the inside of my cheek until I taste blood. Cold sweat erupts all over my body, ice rushing through my veins.
I’m responsible.
I’m fixing this.
“Attila,” I address my second-in-command, and hate myself for my broken voice, for the violent tremors making me quake visibly.
“Yeah?” he asks me tensely, then his face falls when he notices my expression.
“Riley.”
There’s only one thing left on my mind, one persistent, overpowering thought. If I don’t get to hurt her, then no one does. No one else touches her. No one.
“Let her go. Set her free. Nobody lays a finger on her.”
“What?” He frowns in confusion.
“Lead the men away when the bridge blows. Use the distraction.” My voice grows firm, emotionless, and it’s like I’m hearing myself from a distance.
Not waiting for a reply, I tear myself from the spot.
They’re not getting through, they’re not getting through, they’re not getting through ...
Skimming the sloping bank of the river, I run undetected, insects getting stuck on my sweaty face, my lungs searing. I’m so high on adrenaline, I doubt I would’ve noticed being shot.
They’re not getting through, they’re not getting through, they’re not getting through ...
I’m almost there, almost by the pillar. My boots disturb the water, splashing loudly, and I’m soon wading against the current.
They’re not getting through, they’re not getting through, they’re not getting through ...
Shouting voices. A few shots whistle over my head, bullets disturbing the calm surface.
The drumming in my ears gets louder. My head’s swimming.
Hiding from their aim behind the pillar, I yank the waterproof cover up and punch in the code. I set the countdown. One minute. They won’t be able to get here in time to stop it. I press the trigger button.
I don’t wait for the cover to click back in place. Turning around, I rush back, pushing through the water, crouching, trying to ignore the rattle of guns.
I make it to the bank and scramble up on all fours, sharp grass blades cutting my palms, feet slipping.
In the split second before the explosion, just a heartbeat before an inferno erupts behind me, I can already feel it coming—the air warming up and getting sucked backwards, the ominously loud silence.
Then the deafening noise of rock and metal wailing. The crackle of voracious flames eating everything in their path. Terrified, agonised screams of doomed men.
The ground destabilises, and I topple backwards. I fall, landing back in the water with a splash.
Debris rains over me. There’s ringing in my ears from the change in air pressure, and my vision goes black.
They’re coming for me. Even if I can’t see or hear them, I sense their presence, drawing nearer and nearer.
I can’t do a thing. I can’t move. But that doesn’t matter anymore.
Something flashes through my mind. Brown hair. Freckles. Rough words spoken in a sweet voice.
“Fuck you.”
I’m confused, disoriented.
But not for long. My skin tingles, and the darkness behind my eyes changes. I think I’m about to fall into that kind of sleep that you don’t wake up from.
About fucking time, too.