Devil's Due (Destroyermen #12)(132)
“Maker of All Things,” Adar began, staring upward now, his voice growing thicker, weaker. “We thaank you for this life you gifted us, this soul you made and gave a fraa-gile form. As you instructed it to do good in your name while among us, so shall we remind and admonish it, so that when it returns to you, its maker, you will be pleased with what it has become.” He looked back at Sandra and managed a real grin. “Thaat’s it,” he said. All Lemurian prayers were very brief and to the point; something he and Sandra had discussed before. She snorted wetly. She’d echoed the prayer with her own and was amazed how equally well it applied to this good person lying in her arms as it did to the life inside her.
“Thank you,” she murmured. Weakly, Adar reached for her face again and she clasped his furry hand and held it to her cheek.
“It doesn’t hurt a great deal, and I’m sure you could save me under . . . other conditions.” Adar’s voice had become a whisper she could barely hear. “As it is,” he continued, “I will ask a final favor. You know I have few real differences with my esteemed colleague, Sister Audry, and her Chiss-chin faith. One is fairly profound, however, the one about vengeance. I believe the Maker has more to occupy Him than righting the wrongs his people do, at least until they stand before Him. I still believe He brought you to us to help with that, but then, as always, He left it to us to present the evil ones for His judgment. So I ask you to avenge me, avenge Amerika and the helpless ones aboard her. And my last request to you and . . . Cap-i-taan Reddy . . . is to . . . finish . . .”
Adar was gone. He hadn’t completed what he wanted to say, but Sandra knew what it was: finish the job, win the war, make the world safe for his people—of whatever race and species. It was all he’d worked for, almost since the day they met. Gently, she laid him in the sand and straightened. “You’ll have your revenge, Adar,” she told him. “We all will. And somehow, some way, we will finish the job!”
Diania touched her, breaking the spell. “We haftae go, Lady Sandra!” she insisted. Sandra nodded, covering Adar’s pathetically frail, lifeless form with his tattered robe. “We’ll be back for you,” she murmured. Then, standing, she strode toward where the others had gathered behind the stockade, just inside the gate. Horn was peering out.
“I should’ve used my pistol,” she said to no one in particular.
“Maybe. Maybe not. Let’s go.”
“Wait!” Ruffy warned, pointing at the woods where the trail leading to the compound disappeared. A double line of torches was approaching at a trot. “More Grik!” he said. They’d waited too long. There were at least twenty of Kurokawa’s personal guards coming for them, just as they’d expected, and no way they could bolt now without being seen.
“Well, shit,” Horn said, quickly loading the musket. It was the one that killed the Grik—and Adar. Lange’s was still loaded. “How many rounds in that little three eighty?” he asked Sandra.
“Seven.”
“You pretty good with it? I mean, can you wing a few? Between me an’ Lange, we might knock down a few more. Give you and . . . I mean, us a chance to make a break.”
“I’ll try,” Sandra said, knowing what he’d started to say. She also knew it was hopeless. The Grik were in the open now, halfway to the gate. The leader had noticed the guards were gone, the gate stood open. He snapped something and the column stopped.
“Get ready!” Horn said, voice tensing as he slid the bloody musket over the palisade.
The clearing roared with the up-close, thunderous crack of rifles and the frantic stutter of several automatic weapons firing at once, and the tree line to their left lit up with bright muzzle flashes. The Grik danced and jerked as bullets tore them apart. Bodies dropped and sprawled on the ground, some flailing, others still, amid a downy haze of blood spray, clattering weapons, and scattered torches. In seconds it was over except for a few quick bursts that stilled moving, moaning forms. To everyone’s surprise, the first rescuers that appeared, kicking through the dead, looked like more Grik, even down to their dress. Then they saw a couple of Lemurians and two humans trotting toward the compound, weapons ready.
“You there, Gunny?” came a distinctive, inimitable voice.
“My God! Silva!” Horn exclaimed, standing up. In the light of the torches on the land bridge, Dennis’s face split into that particular gap-toothed grin that defined his personality so well—and that few enemies ever survived.
“I ain’t a god, Gunny. Leastways, not that I know of. An’ nobody ever called me one before.” He paused, apparently considering. “Unless you count—”
Sandra stood. “Chief Silva.” She managed a smile at Stuart. “Mr. Brassey, and Lawrence as well, of course. We’re very glad to see you,” she said earnestly. “You could’ve come at a slightly better time . . . but I’m grateful and won’t complain, as long as you stow your banter for later. I assume we need to move?”
“Yes’m,” Silva agreed. “Right smart too. Griks yonder at the airfield’ll be closest with the mostest, but even if we can take ’em, we don’t want tangled up. There’s a few more projects on my wish list tonight—I mean, this mornin’.”
“Which way?” Sandra asked.
“Right down the throat o’ the snake,” Silva said, pointing at the trail the Grik emerged from. “It’s the right direction, an’ except for these lousy boogers”—he kicked a dead Grik in the snout—“anybody else’s liable to be headed the other way, toward the harbor. Shouldn’t meet much till we get near it ourselfs.” The rest of the prisoners had stepped out to join them, those without weapons gathering the Grik’s.