Fireteam Delta by J. Halpin (popular novels .TXT) 📗

manned by about twelve men—eight with bows on the wall, much like the setup they’d seen when they’d first arrived. More importantly, though, there was a patrol running from the direction of the warehouses.

“Do not fucking stop, you hear me?” Nowak called over.

“Sarge, they ain’t going to let us through without a fight,” Cortez replied.

“I know!” Nowak leaned over and returned Adams’ M4 to his hands.

“Asle, tell those assholes to stand down, or we’re going through them.”

Asle yelled something as loud as she could manage.

“So, not even going to try talking our way out of this?” Summers looked to Nowak.

“We’re strangers, and we killed their own. I don’t like our odds.” Nowak looked at the patrol getting closer. “Besides, Asle’s a smart kid, but I don’t think she’s up to defending us for murder.”

Summers swapped out a magazine and checked his rifle. If they were going to do this, then they were going all in.

“Cortez, I need a show of force!” Nowak called over.

“Oh, not a problem, Sarge.” Cortez hopped down from the front and aimed her weapon at a very large, very old tree near the front gate. Summers heard a thump, followed by an ear-splitting explosion. What remained of the tree was now a trunk surrounded by a few smoldering piles of splinters. A guard that had been within twenty feet of it was on the ground, holding his head.

“Tell them to stand down!” Nowak shouted, pointing his weapon at the archers on the wall. “Anyone draws on us, we will kill them!”

Summers aimed his gun at the wall, watching for movement through his scope.

Asle relayed the message, but one of the guards ignored them and pulled an arrow from his quiver. Summers fired a burst into the man’s leg almost instantly.

“Repeat what I said, Asle!”

The girl screamed her warning. The patrol that was heading their way scattered, grabbing cover where they could find it.

Their wagon rolled slowly past the gate. Summers kept an eye on the archers; none made a move to attack after the first man.

Summers looked down again and found the bag at his side full.

“Stay with me,” Nowak muttered, as he grabbed the bag and hooked Adams up to an IV.

They were a good distance from the gate by now. No one had made a move to follow them, but Summers didn’t expect that to last long.

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Loas had been a guard at the north gate for about three months. It was, all in all, a terrible job. Not only did he have to deal with traders, farmers, and all kinds of country trash causing trouble, but more often than not, he’d had to look the other way while his colleagues took bribes or stole from the smaller merchant bands, the ones the others wouldn’t come to help.

A man screamed above him.

He didn’t dare move. A runner had arrived with orders to stop a wagon coming from the west wall. He’d heard the strange booming noises and assumed that one of the more unscrupulous traders had released a beast of some kind to cover their escape. He was wrong.

“Help me! Someone help me!” the man at his right yelled.

A shard of the tree was lodged into his shoulder. It had gone through his armor, burying itself far enough that the other end was visible around the bent remains of his pauldron. A piece of wood had torn through steel?

Nothing made sense.

He knew that soon the guard captain would be here, and once he arrived, they would be forced to pursue the strangers.

He also knew that if it came to that, it would mean his death.

Loas got to his feet and ran.

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Summers watched for pursuers. He only saw a few guards running to the forest in the east, far out of their way.

The homes outside the city walls were slowly coming to life. People were looking out into the street. A few of the braver, more curious civilians stood in their doorways, trying to figure out just what was happening.

A grunt caught Summers’ attention.

He turned in time to see Adams’ arm twist in an unnatural way. His entire body tensed.

“Adams? Adams, talk to me, man!” Nowak looked at the private as he shuddered, then stopped.

Adams bolted upright.

“Slow down!” Nowak tried to put a hand on his chest, but Adams wrenched away and pounced on the sergeant. Blood gushed from his neck as he attacked with both hands, trying to tear at Nowak’s face.

Summers didn’t understand what was happening. He grabbed Adams, pulling him off Nowak, but the man twisted in his grip, his hand going for Summers’ rifle. Shit.

Automatic fire tore through the bottom of the wagon. Summers grabbed the barrel of the gun and swung it away from his body. A woman screamed, and before he knew it, Adams was rolling on the ground behind the wagon.

“Shit. Shit. Shit,” Summers muttered.

Adams still had his gun in his hands. He was working the action even as he fell. What in the fuck was happening?

Then he saw Adams’ eyes. They were red, just like his were in the fog, his face animalistic.

Another scream. Adams got to his feet, head swiveling toward the source of the noise: a woman whose husband had been hit in the leg by a stray shot. When had that happened?

There was a boy next to them; he must have been at least thirteen. He was trying to staunch the wound.

Adams raised his gun.

“No!” As Summers shouted, Adams turned on his heel and fired. Summers only just managed to cover behind a crate as he sprayed it down.

“What the fuck?” Cortez yelled.

“Adams, put the gun down!” Nowak called from beside him. His face was covered in small cuts.

“Adams!” Summers tried to call out