Devil's Due (Destroyermen #12)(163)
Sandra was shocked. She’d never seen Kurokawa so rational, and most frightening of all, he could be right. It was very possible Matt would let him live now that he was out of the war, if that was the price of her life. And on his own, in this world’s Japan, he’d be free to continue to plot and scheme in pursuit of his own agenda, just as he’d done during his association with the Grik. They’d never be free of his treachery. It can’t happen, Sandra decided. I can’t allow it, even if it costs . . .
Her thoughts were shattered by the familiar, rapid stutter of .45 ACP rounds spraying from a Tommy gun, a 1911 Colt, and at least one Blitzerbug. Sandra knew instinctively what they were because despite shooting the same round, each weapon had its own distinctive sound. A storm of lead came from the very doorway Kurokawa just left, and Sandra grabbed Diania and dove for the ground, even as Kurokawa turned to face the threat behind him. Guards spun and fell, some performing macabre, boneless, blood-spraying dances as slugs tore through them and warbled away. Kurokawa raised the Nambu, an expression of surprised outrage purpling his face, but cried out in pain and fell atop a pile of writhing, shrieking Grik. A few managed to fire their muskets, but most went down before they even knew what was happening. There was a slight pause accompanied by the metallic click and snik of magazines being replaced, and the firing resumed. Sandra kept her head down, tight against Diania’s, mumbling, “Don’t move, don’t move,” over and over. No bullets came close, but splinters gusted down on her back amid a cloud of the feathery Grik fur that drifted through the few inches between her wide eyes and the earthy sand.
Finally, except for the nearing roar of battle, there was no more shooting, and she raised her head and peered through a gap in the stockade. There, standing over the writhing, mewling heap of Grik, oil smoke streaming from the hot barrels of their weapons, were Dennis Silva, Lawrence, and the Khonashi Sergeant Oolak. Sandra blinked alarm at the expression on Silva’s face. She’d never seen anything quite like it there, not even that time on Billingsly’s ship. Silva was usually so easygoing, even in battle, that regardless how grim things sometimes got he could always summon a grin, find something to amuse him. His wit was often quite dark indeed, but it was always there. He showed no humor now at all, not even satisfaction, and his one eye reflected a pool of hatred deeper and blacker than death itself.
Sandra actually shivered. Whatever we do, she thought, we have always got to keep that man on our side, and focused on the real enemy. Then she coughed and spat Grik fuzz out of her mouth. “There you are, Chief Silva,” she said. “Lawrence. Sergeant Oolak,” she added, then helped Diania up. The change that came over Silva’s face was remarkable and swift, the relief flooding across it like surf scouring shattered sand castles on a beach.
“Aye,” he managed. “We was a tad de-layed. A few needed killin’ out front.” He gestured, then hesitated. “You knew I was comin’, right?” he asked anxiously.
“Of course,” Sandra lied, though upon reflection, she should have. He always did. She watched his expression soften even more.
“We need to get you ladies inside quick as we can. Chackie’ll be here any minute, but we need defensible cover in the meantime.” Silva’s eye narrowed when he pointed at the pile of Grik with his Thompson. “Got an old pal here to deal with, though,” he added.
“In a moment. First, help me get Minaa and Diania inside.” Lawrence and Oolak knocked the spindly remains of the palisade over and carried the Shee-ree through the door. With a worried glance at Sandra, Diania followed. When they were gone, Silva and Sandra knelt together in front of Hisashi Kurokawa. He hadn’t spoken but appeared only lightly wounded, lying with his dead guards, clutching a bloody upper arm. His pistol was in the sand a few yards away and he glanced at it occasionally, diverting his gaze from their remorseless stares. He licked his lips.
“I can be very useful to you,” he said, voice strained. “More useful than you can imagine.”
“Are you begging?” Sandra asked softly. “Sounds like it.”
“I am not!” Kurokawa spat.
“Pity,” Sandra said. “That might’ve actually done you some good.” She looked at the Grik. “You shot a lot of them in the back, Chief Silva,” her tone mock scolding.
“Yeah, well, their backs was at us, an’ they should’a looked over ’em from time to time. Just like him.” He poked Kurokawa hard in the belly with his Thompson. “Didn’t shoot him in the back, an’ only winged him too, case you hadn’t told him off enough.”
“Thank you. There is something else I’d like to say.” She looked intently at Kurokawa. “You’re a monster,” she said simply. “An evil, evil man, with no honor at all, who’s only ever thought about himself. I respect the Grik more than you, because they’re just doing . . .” She shrugged. “What they do. You’re similar in that regard, but the difference is, you know better!” Her voice was rising. “You can’t trade me now, but you might be right about my husband. He’ll use whatever advantage he can find to save lives, win the war, and thwart the League, because—like I told you—he’s fighting for a cause bigger than himself. A good cause, which too many have already died for. You just might convince him not to kill you—for their sake.”