Monster Hunter Nemesis (43 page)

“Nemesis was looking for him, but Stricken used us as decoys instead. I bet he probably had another way out the whole time.” She recognized the green blood pooling beneath the body as the same substance she’d seen at MCB headquarters. So this thing was how they’d made it look like Franks on the video.

“I should feel guilty for jumping the gun, but I just can’t summon up the energy to feel any pity for shooting one of these nasty bloodsuckers,” Earl said as he holstered his revolver. “That’s two wrong calls this week. I’m forming a bad habit.”

“Don’t worry. This thing was guilty enough. It smells like bubblegum.”

“I’ve got no idea what that means, but I’ll take your word for it . . .” Earl looked toward the end of the tunnel; beyond that was their unknown future. “This means Stricken is out here somewhere.”

“I’m not going back to STFU, Earl,” she vowed. “PUFF be damned, I can’t do this anymore.”

He nodded. “I’ve got this little place down in Mexico . . .”

The exit was hidden in a heavily wooded ravine on the edge of the runway. There was a big military cargo plane with its engines running at the opposite end of the airfield, but the last thing she wanted to do was get involved in more MCB business. They found the only other STFU survivor up top, trying his best to conceal himself in the bushes, but it wasn’t like you could hide from two werewolves. “Come on out of there, Renfroe. I’m too damned tired to chase you,” Heather shouted.

“If you’re going to kill me, get it over with, because I’m done with you shadow government bastards.” The thin man came out of the bushes with his hands up. “Do it. I don’t care anymore, but you’re too late. I’ve already exposed everything. Your bosses are done.”

“Wait . . .” Heather stopped him. “What?”

“I knew Stricken was planning on killing me. I was too much of a loose end. I kept records of everything so I could blackmail Stricken into letting me go, but when I thought I was going to die on that ladder, I sent it.” Renfroe sat on a log in front of them. “Oh well. Do what you’ve got to do.”

“Back up, kid,” Earl demanded. “What did you send?”

Renfroe seemed honestly surprised that they hadn’t shot him yet. “Stricken thought I was scared of him—well, yeah, who wouldn’t be?—but I’m better at this than he ever expected. He thought he had me blocked, but no way, man, I put back doors in the back doors. The unedited security video of Foster’s guys in action, MCB has it by now. I’ve even got the audio logs and voiceprints of Stricken giving the orders. Nemesis production? Sent. Every dirty black op you can think of, all sent. The only thing I didn’t reveal was the identities of the other poor suckers like me coerced into working there. That’s it. Everything I know has been dumped so you don’t even need to waste your time torturing me.” Renfroe closed his eyes. “Make it quick.”

“I’m not going to—” Heather began to speak, but Earl held up one hand.

“Who did you send all this to? The news?”

“Those wimps? They’ll do whatever they’re told. I dumped it all on the internet. It’s on a thousand sites by now. Sure, I know most people will think of it as extra crazy conspiracy theory stuff and dismiss it, I mean, who believes in monsters, right? But the people who know, the decision makers behind STFU, that crazy lady who got Stricken to relaunch Nemesis, they’re exposed. They get it. They just got served. And best of all, they’re going to murder the hell out of Stricken when they catch him. He’s not weaseling out of this.”

Earl gave a low whistle. “About that hideout in Mexico . . . I think I just found somebody who’s gonna need it a whole lot more than us.”

* * *

We are almost there, General.

Thymos’ report was not comforting.
Almost there
was not good enough. Kurst could barely see. That chemical had badly burned his eyes, and then Franks had utterly devastated his body. Too much energy had been expended. He needed time to heal. Kurst should have been invincible, but Franks had still bested him. Franks’ body was an archaic design. Victory should have been inevitable. The only other explanation was that Franks was the better warrior, and that was unacceptable.

They both looked like humans again—it was necessary for their escape—but just putting this face back on felt like an insult. Kurst felt the sudden lurch as Thymos slowed their vehicle. There was a rough bump as they drove up the ramp and into the aircraft before Thymos stomped on the brakes. The demon soldier opened his door and hopped out.

“What are you doing? Are you insane?” A human male shouted. “I don’t care what kind of special Pentagon orders you’re on, you don’t abuse my aircraft like that!”

“Close the door. Take off now,” Thymos said.

“I’ve got to secure your vehicle before we move. I can’t have an unstable—”

Kurst couldn’t see, but from the noise, he could tell that Thymos had tossed the loadmaster off the plane. Kurst opened his door and stumbled out of the truck.
Get us in the air, Thymos. I’ll take care of this.

His soldier ran forward. Apparently someone on the flight crew didn’t respond fast enough to the impatient demon’s liking, because there were a few gunshots. Then the engine picked up in intensity, so now they were listening. Kurst walked across the bay, dragging one foot because his knee hadn’t healed yet. He searched for the hydraulic controls with aching, blurry eyes, as he recalled the familiarization training. Their education had included information about operating all current-issue military systems, and even a flight simulator, but that wasn’t the same as being on the actual aircraft and finding the damned button when you were half blind. He finally found the controls and within seconds the ramp was closing and the plane was moving.

Resting one hand on the cool glass of the growth tank, Kurst paused to reflect. There had been some setbacks, but this was only the beginning. Their ally had promised them a new home and boundless resources. This technological marvel would be deconstructed and rebuilt a thousand times over, scattered across the world so that the humans could never root them all out. A new army would rise, and in time, the Fallen would inherit the Earth.

“You kept us from this world before, but our time has come,” Kurst whispered. “We will have our revenge.”

Greetings, General Kurst. I bring word from my master. I regret to inform you that our business has concluded. This alliance no longer benefits my master.

Kurst squinted until he could see that the other greater demon’s red face had appeared on the glass of the growth tank. “What do you mean?”

Your services are no longer required, General.

“Why?” he demanded.

Because Franks has come for you. It does no good to ally with someone who has been cast back into Hell. We will have to win this war without you. Farewell, Prince.

The face disappeared, and now Kurst was only looking at his own blood-soaked reflection.

“Come back! I command you to explain yourself!”

A new sound separated itself from the engine noise. This was a higher-pitched sound than the jets or the hydraulics. Kurst turned just in time to catch a motorcycle in the face.

* * *

Franks’ momentum caused him to roll across the cargo bay until he slammed into the bulkhead. He’d barely made it in time. The plane was picking up speed for takeoff. The ramp was closing. Franks took stock. The STFU truck didn’t take up that much interior space inside a plane that was designed to hold an M1 Abrams. Gutterres’ bullet bike was laid on its side far forward, and Franks tracked the blood trail from there back to where Kurst had been flattened.

The demon prince was knocked down. They sat up at the same time. The impact had peeled most of the skin from Kurst’s face and a swath of his torso, leaving nothing but red muscle and spots of white skull.

“You’ve ruined everything,” Kurst spat.

“Not everything . . .
Yet.
”

They glared at each other for a long moment, before both of them sprang up and simultaneously hurled their bodies against the other. The collision rocked Franks, and then they came crashing down. Franks punched him in the side of the head, but Kurst kicked him in the chest. Franks hit the truck and left a dent in the door.

Franks still had that Sig stuck in his belt, but no idea how many rounds it had left in it, and whatever that number was, it wouldn’t be sufficient to stop Kurst. They circled each other, looking for an opening as the C-17 lifted off sharply. Kurst was hurt, and he might have been in a more human-looking form, but he was still the chief warrior of Hell’s army, and that made him deadly. They clashed, striking violently at each other. Franks had spent hundreds of years learning every fighting art known to man, but Kurst had all of those encoded directly into his being by his artificial womb. Kurst took hold of the rags that were all that remained of Franks’ suit, trying to throw him. Franks locked up on his hands and tried to break his wrists. They began to slide back toward the ramp as the plane continued its steep climb.

They were turning toward the east. The airfield was approximately two hundred and thirty kilometers from the ocean. Franks knew that at a C-17’s maximum speed they would be there in less than twenty minutes, but then what? Where was Kurst running to?
Who
was he running to? Franks also knew he would never get that information from Kurst, because he did not plan on taking this particular enemy alive.

His battered forearms and shins kept absorbing the majority of the blows, but Kurst was not nearly as strong as before, and Franks was running on more Elixir than Father would have ever imagined possible. Human organs had never been intended to take that much stress, and Franks knew they were all failing. The ocean may have only been twenty minutes away, but even if he defeated Kurst immediately, there was no way Franks would live to see it again.

He needed to end this now.

Kurst shoved him back against the wall. Aluminum bent. Franks held on and wouldn’t let his opponent get an angle to strike. He realized Kurst was blinking rapidly, as if he was having a hard time seeing. Franks sacrificed his body and let Kurst hit him. His nose went flat, but it also gave him the opportunity to throw his elbow against the side of Kurst’s head. The demon prince desperately moved aside . . . Considering how inhumanly tough he was,
too
desperately.

The demon had displayed his weakness. He was nearly blind. Now Franks would dismantle him. He drove his knee into Kurst’s side, over and over, and when Kurst finally forced himself back, Franks slipped a shot through his defenses and drove his knuckles deep into Kurst’s eye socket. Sure enough, Kurst showed far more of a reaction than he should have. Franks capitalized on the hesitation, following him as Kurst tried to protect his ruined face, Franks hit him in everything else that was available.

“What’s the matter, Kurst? I thought I was the outdated model.”

One of Kurst’s legs seemed slower than the other. It was the same one he’d hit with the spike. Franks tested his hypothesis by putting himself in the bad position to get snap-kicked, but instead, Kurst pulled back. Franks showed no reaction. Instead he attacked, opening himself up, and the instant the demon overextended, Franks kicked out and shattered Kurst’s wobbly knee. The demon fell against the edge of the truck.

Franks pulled out the Sig. A bullet to the base of the brain might not end Kurst, but it would speed up his demise. There was movement in his peripheral vision. The other demon had returned to the cargo bay with a pistol in his hand. They lifted their guns at the same time. The demon was a bit faster, and his first bullet tore up Franks’ arm, through his armpit, through his good lung, and across the top of his primary heart. That threw off Franks’ aim.

They both stood there, shooting until their slides locked back empty. Franks counted fifteen new holes in his body. The demon was a very good shot. The cargo bay was filled with the stink of carbon. Spent shell casings rolled toward the back of the plane. “Damn . . .”
I felt that.
Suddenly dizzy, Franks slowly moved over and braced himself against the side of the truck so he wouldn’t fall over. The other demon was still standing.

The plane began to roll further toward the side.

The demon soldier turned and looked at the bullet holes high up the metal behind him. Then he looked back at Franks as the plane continued to turn. “You hit the pilot!”

Franks shrugged. “Whoops.”

Kurst seemed to be focusing on something, but it was hard to tell with his face missing. The demon soldier was confused and frustrated. Kurst snarled. “I said go fly the plane, Thymos! You will take us to our new home!”

“But General—”

“Now!”

The demon ran back toward the cockpit.

The two former champions of the host watched each other. Their angle was getting worse. Kurst slid across the floor that they’d lubricated with their blood until he stopped at the fuselage. Franks looked suspiciously at the truck as it creaked and got ready to flip over on top of him, but then the roll stopped, and the plane slowly righted itself as the demon took back the controls.

“You’re dying, Franks. I can tell.” Kurst slowly straightened his leg out, cracking the mangled joint back into place. “I’m not. I’ll get better. You’re out of your precious Elixir. You’re done.”

Franks rested his head against the cool glass of the growth tank. “Just need to . . . catch my breath . . .” He was low on blood and oxygen, and all his nonvital systems had shut down. The other demon would correct their course, put it on autopilot, then he’d come back here and finish Franks off at his leisure.

Mission failure was unacceptable.

Normally, Franks would rather die than fail a mission, and since he was dying anyway, that made this decision extremely easy. Franks pulled himself along the side of the truck until he reached the door.

“What’re you doing?” Kurst asked.

Franks opened the door. The keys were still in the ignition. He climbed up and got in. The engine turned right over. STFU kept up on their maintenance.

“No, Franks. Don’t do that.” Kurst forced himself to stand up.