Shadow Ops 3: Breach Zone (21 page)

Harlequin’s mouth went dry. There
were
Selfers in the city. And he knew where to find them.

It was one thing to employ a Probe who was already in government custody. It was another thing entirely to make common cause with Selfers. The thought made his stomach turn over for the third time in less than an hour.

But before he knew it, Harlequin had nodded to Downer and leapt into the sky, leaving her staring at his boot soles shrinking in the distance.

Chapter Twelve

Flushed People

The ‘Pangea Theory’ posits that, perhaps prior to the First Reawakening, in the ancient, even primeval past, the Source and the Home Plane were united at a more fundamental level. The division occurred later, owing to reasons lost to history. Radical proponents believe that all life originated in the Source, and that humanity itself (along with all Home Plane fauna) is a ‘lost tribe’ cut adrift, in search of its roots. ‘The Return’ movement espouses this position, putting them in line with the beliefs of the goblin ‘Embracer’ tribes.

– Avery Whiting, ‘Into the Breach Zone’
Op-ed in the
New York Times

Harlequin marveled at himself as he flew back to Battery Park. He’d spent the best part of his early career working to bring down the Houston Street Gang, and part of him burned to think that remnants still existed. The thought of working with Selfers worked against something rooted deep in him, but Scylla’s army was obviously finding it easier to steer clear of them and focus on the barricade. He should brief it up to Gatanas; maybe the news would help move the man to send more arcane support. Harlequin thought of the tower of the Trump Building slowly tumbling into the street as the A-10s completed their run. No, better to stay mum on this for now. The last thing he needed was to give Gatanas another excuse to bomb civilians.

He banked west, looking for the area Sharp had described. With most of the fighting up at the barricade or around Battery Park, the streets looked mostly empty, with only the occasional pack of demon horses or goblin patrols amid the smoke and wreckage. It was hard to tell which spot might be clear.

But as Harlequin flew over a small, horseshoe-shaped park off Canal Street, he could make out other barricades, tall shelves of earth and rubble, capped with slabs of broken concrete. They were seamless, drawn up out of the ground in one piece. He flew lower. The barricades looked empty, but they systematically blocked off two blocks square to the west of the park. Behind them, there was some damage, but not nearly as much.

He shed altitude, trying to feel for magical currents, but he didn’t want to risk getting taken down, especially without an escort. What would a magical current tell him, anyway? The goblins had them, too.

He turned, flew due east, heading for Chinatown, following the wide expanse of Canal Street. The buildings grew tighter here, and he spotted the occasional Chinese sign, growing more and more frequent until it was the only language he saw. The neon still shed light in some places, but many more had been shattered, or had gone dark in blocks where the power was out.

As he closed on Walker, the contrast was stark. There were no barricades that he could see, but a rough line of corpses clearly delineated the borders of the clear zone. A bear-sized creature with bat wings and a disturbingly human face lay on its side, its purple guts strewn across its ribs as if some giant hand had reached in and ripped them out. Goblins were piled around it, many with their heads turned at odd angles, limbs ripped off. Harlequin felt his stomach turn as he made out what had probably once been a smallish dragon, until something had turned it inside out.

Rending. Offensive Physiomancy. What other weapon could do this? He shed altitude, circling above the line of dead, marveling at the lack of physical obstacles into the neighborhood. Even with a Render, it would be a tall order to keep the streets clear.

Yet they were clear. Just beyond the line of corpses, Harlequin could see working street signs, store windows intact. The streets were free of bodies; the only indicator that this block sat in the middle of the Breach Zone was the trash blowing across the streets, the smoke in the air.

Harlequin circled lower, radioed his position back to Battery Park, just in case. Where were the sentries? It didn’t matter. This was a stupid, unnecessary risk. He could come back later in force and see for himself. He dipped low, spun around, and prepared to turn back south.

He stopped in midair, hovering. It was faint, but he could feel a magical current, rippling through the air . . . No. Two. Maybe more. If he could feel them, they could feel him.

There were Selfers here. Nothing he didn’t already know.

He rose, turned, picked up speed toward the park, letting the feel of the magical currents fade behind him as distance ate the signal.

But one of them grew stronger, a rising in his senses with every foot he flew.

He was getting closer.

He slowed, shed altitude as fast as he could, denying an enemy the chance to Suppress him and drop him out of the sky. At last, he was level with the building entrances, head sawing wildly as he looked around for the source of the current, seeing only the blur of façades as the buildings raced past.

The current rose until it sang in his veins, tickled the back of his throat. He Drew his magic, feeling his neck dampen as storm clouds coalesced around him.

And then winked out. The foreign current crossed his own, stopping his flow and rolling the magic back. He strained, pushed against it, felt it hold fast. He flailed in the air, arms pinwheeling as he came down, his stomach catching the metal rod of an awning, folding his body in half, breath exploding from him. He scrabbled for purchase on the smooth plastic surface, struggling to suck in air, all hope of winning free from the Suppression gone.

He fell, shoulders and tailbone slamming into the sidewalk, head bouncing on the ground so hard his vision grayed. All sense of the magical current was lost. He felt three, then one, then none. He tried to Draw his magic, but he couldn’t focus on his own flow through the ringing in his ears and the sudden pain blossoming behind his eyes.

His vision began to clear, and he heard shouting and the slapping of bare feet on asphalt. Goblins. They were coming for him. He struggled to clear his head, got to his feet, blinking furiously. His vision was blurry, the pain in his skull blinding him. A high ringing in his ears began to give way to a loud buzz. He fumbled for his pistol, biting back vertigo.

He took a whooping swallow of air and swayed, but his legs held him, and he stumbled back a pace from the converging shapes. Small brown blobs, a white one at their rear. They snarled, shouted. He blinked again, his vision slowly resolving. Goblins, a white-painted sorcerer with them. One reached him, thrusting out a spear with a victorious yell.

Harlequin kicked it aside, finally managing his holster catch and dragging the pistol out, slamming the weapon into the goblin’s face and sending it sprawling. Something sharp sliced past his arm. Another whistle of air past his ear. He raised the pistol and fired madly, not bothering to aim, unable to anyway, praying his rounds hit the sorcerer.

The goblins scattered, but sparks and spraying chips of brick and cement told him his shots had gone wide.

The goblin’s current held his own fast. He was sure he could break free if he could only concentrate, but his lungs still burned from the lack of air, his lower ribs aching. The headache stabbed him less with each throbbing pulse, but the pain was still horrendous. He felt wet warmth on the back of his neck. Blood from his head, most likely.

He was certain he felt another current now. A second sorcerer. Even if he could break free, it wouldn’t do him any good.
I can’t believe this. I’m going to die out here just because I couldn’t be bothered to move with a proper escort.

Another goblin reached him, swinging an axe almost as big as it was. He ducked back, heels slipping off the curb, lost his balance, fell again, his head and vision clearing in exchange for a sharp pain shooting up his wrist as it took his full weight.

The goblin followed, swinging the axe around and up over its head for another strike. Harlequin kicked out, finding the creature’s bony knee. It stumbled across him, lost its grip on the heavy axe, which went clattering to the ground. Harlequin seized its throat, squeezed, punched it in the face. Once. Twice. The creature went slack in his grip. He grabbed it by the shoulders and hauled it into the way of another spear thrust. The spearhead punched through the goblin’s body, scoring Harlequin’s cheek and spraying him with hot blood.

The goblin standing over him cursed, wrenching the spear, trying to pull it out of its comrade’s back. Another three goblins appeared beside it. One raised a jagged-edged short sword. Another held a pistol. The gun looked comically large in the small creature’s hands. The recoil would surely knock it on its ass.

But at this distance, it couldn’t miss.

Harlequin yanked the goblin corpse to the side, pulling the spear from its comrade’s hands, desperately trying to get it between him and the barrel of the gun. It was futile. Even a 9mm round would punch right through both the dead goblin and his head, and bury itself quite a ways into the street behind him.

Harlequin roared, hurling his tide against the Suppression as the goblin raised the pistol, dark tongue poking out of the corner of its mouth, finger tensing on the trigger.

Its head exploded.

It sank to its knees, the gun tumbling from limp hands. The other goblins looked up. Two of them suddenly contorted, arms twisting at unnatural angles, embracing themselves so fiercely their bones cracked. Blood fountained from their mouths, and they fell, their comrades running for their lives, spears clattering to the street.

Harlequin felt the Suppression drop away, his own tide racing back into him with such force that he fell back. He felt another tide, powerful and near, but the sorcerer made no move to Suppress him now.

He looked up, blinking the last of the cotton from his vision.

A man stood there, arms folded. Short, bull-necked, in jeans, work boots, and a button-down shirt hanging open, revealing his bare torso, dominated by a tattoo: the characters
SUR3NO$
riding above the image of two crossed pistols. A yellow bandanna was tied around his head, and a necklace of thick wooden beads hung to his waist.

The bones of his face had been raised into sharp ridges, forming a stylized skull. His eyes sank in circles of dark pigment, lips in black half-moons that formed a grinning death’s-head.

Harlequin didn’t know the man, but he recognized the alterations. Only one gang used Physiomancy to bend their features like that.

‘You a long way from the barricades, my son,’ he drawled, folding his arms.

‘So are you.’ Harlequin struggled to get to his feet, wincing as his raw palm came in contact with the asphalt, and his strained wrist took his weight.

‘Jesus, man. You is all fucked up.’ He came closer, extending a hand. Harlequin felt warmth tingle in his hand and wrist, watched as the wound spat out the gravel from the street, knitting together until his palm was covered with shiny, pink skin.

‘Aw, man. I worked for years building up those calluses.’

The man snorted, smiled. ‘I can fuck it back up again if you want.’

‘I’m good, thanks.’ He turned around. ‘I hit my head pretty bad. How’s it look?’

The man grunted and warmth spread across Harlequin’s skull, making his scalp burn. ‘You got a bald spot now.’

‘I’ll live. Thanks again.’

The man nodded, folded his arms. ‘You lost?’

‘Came looking for you, actually,’ Harlequin said.

The man’s smile vanished, his tide spiked. ‘The fuck why?’

‘Easy, easy. I just . . . I need help.’

‘I helped you, man. Fixed your hand and your head.’

Harlequin thought of the refugees, streaming in every hour. He thought of the help, from Mexico, from Canada, from his own country that was coming. Always coming. Never arriving.

‘And I appreciate it. Maybe you could come help me some more. We don’t have any Physiomancers at my camp.’

The man jerked his chin at Harlequin’s shoulder patch. ‘You SOC, man.’

‘I don’t care about the Rending. I’ve already got one Probe in the fight.’

‘You think I’m stupid?’

‘No stupid person could have kept this block clear. How are you managing it?’

‘You ask a lot of questions. You keep sticking your nose around here, maybe you’ll find out how we look out for our own.’

‘Don’t try to push me around. If you were going to kill me, you’d have done it already. We’re clearly on the same side here. You don’t want monsters on your block? Neither do I. We can help one another.’

‘Looks like you’re the one needs help, Army man.’

‘How long do you think you’re going to last once the monsters are done with us? Once they can focus their full attention on you? You don’t want them here. Neither do I. You help us, maybe we can make an arrangement.’

‘I seen you on TV, right?’

‘Right.’

‘You famous. You in charge here?’ The skull ridges above the man’s eyes rose slightly.

Careful. If they know you’re in charge . . . Screw that. You want help? You have to take a chance
. ‘I am. Tell your boss that I’d like to negotiate.’

‘What’re you offering? What happens when this is over?’

Harlequin wasn’t even sure he could convince the president to pardon Downer, and she was a known quantity. How the hell could he make promises to an international criminal gang?

The man shook his head at Harlequin’s silence. ‘You fucking liar. Get off my block before I get sick of you.’

‘I’ll do whatever I can. I’m the best shot you’ve got of getting the ear of the government.’

‘Wrong government, asshole. You know who we are?’

‘You want to stop calling me names. I’m not stupid either. You don’t spend this long in the SOC without hearing about the
Limpiados
.’

‘Then you know we’ve been living in a fucking sewer for years because of you motherfuckers.’

‘Bullshit. The
Zetas
run Mexico. You could walk in the daylight if you wanted to. You choose the sewers. I remember
El Perro
’s speech.’

The skull face smiled. ‘Man. You been paying attention. That’s good to hear.’

‘Help us. We’ve got all the bullets in the world, but they don’t hurt the mountain gods. We need magic.’

‘Those bullets still hurt us. You fucking politicians are the biggest liars in the world. You think the NYPD hasn’t made us the same offer? We saw what you did to Houston Street. Rending’s illegal except when you’re impersonating Big Bear. Or what you did to Oscar Britton? Fuck that, man. You’re a bunch of snakes.’