Quinn Page 2

  I’ve kind of made a transition to the digital age. Sort of. But this was simpler than relying on electronics.

  Gone back for chopper was all I wrote before crumpling the paper into Leon’s hand. He’d find it and not worry about where I was.

  Gwaihir squawked again. I loped toward him, and he flew to meet me, landing heavily on my shoulders. It’s always a shock something made mostly of feathers could weigh a good forty pounds. Images flooded my mind of the incoming troops he’d warned me about.

  “We’re going back,” I said.

  The eagle pecked the side of my head. His version of a love bite, it always drew blood. “Hurry,” he urged.

  “Why you bloodthirsty bitch.”

  “Not your bitch,” he retorted in a stock answer to my comment.

  The exchange made me laugh. We were friends, companions, buddies, mates. All of the above and more. He’d become my bondmate centuries ago when I was part of the Circle of Assassins. Long story short, Grigori and I butted heads once too often. I could have given him a run for his money, challenged him for control of the Circle, except I had less than zero interest in piloting a rowdy crew of supernatural assassins.

  And so, the eagle and I had left sometime during the 1700s. We’d been on our own ever since despite Grigori’s parting shot that I’d be back. Not only was it never a consideration, but I wasn’t even tempted. I knew what I had there. Likeminded companionship, but at what cost?

  Grigori ran the Circle with an iron hand and single-minded purpose. He picked the jobs and parceled them out. He wasn’t unreasonable. If I wasn’t up for a mission, he offered it elsewhere, but the lack of autonomy grated. The first time I left was for a month, the second for a year, and the third far longer. I hung around for another hundred plus years after returning, but the writing was on the wall. I knew I’d leave, and so did Grigori.

  He tried to talk me out of it over flagons of well-aged brandy one winter evening. Ironically, that conversation made up my mind. My leave-taking was amicable, as those things go, and I occasionally run into him or his operatives. I’m not a bridge burner. That door is still open, but it would take a whole lot to entice me to sign back up.

  Different terms, for one thing. A world where I picked my assignments, sought them out on my own. I wasn’t a neophyte, and I didn’t require protection from the baser aspects of my nature. I could burn down the world leveraging earth magic—if I wanted. I don’t. Everyone has a niche. I’d found something that was as good a fit as I was likely to come by, and—

  Another peck reminded me it was time to get moving.

  Returning to the battlefield on my own had advantages. The primary one was I could chuck as much magic around as I wanted. I might come up short if I faced a hundred ragtag Afghanis—those dudes were tough as knotty oak—but my bet was the vast majority had decamped.

  Didn’t matter. I’d kill until the fire raging inside me retreated. It never withdrew for long, but I’d learned to control it, turn it to my advantage so it worked for me not against me.

  “Coming with me?” I asked the eagle.

  “Still here, aren’t I?” Talons dug into my shoulders, treating my layers of cold weather gear as if they weren’t there. Blood trickled down my back and chest. I diverted a shot of magic to seal the wounds.

  Holding an image of my destination firmly in mind, I wound fire and air into a transport spell. It would take a little longer, but it freed up earth and water to weave into a wave of destruction.

  I’d hit the fucking ground on all fours, running for all I was worth. They’d never know what hit them, and maybe I’d get my chopper back. If they hadn’t stripped it for parts. Most of the Bell AH1-W’s components weren’t interchangeable with the Sikorskys—carryovers from the Russian occupation—favored by the Taliban,

  Rather than ripping the Bell to shreds, they’d be smarter to fly it back to Taliban central. It pained me to admit it, but my current adversaries weren’t short on brainpower. If they’d been inept, their regime would have caved, outsmarted by Western forces.

  Training them had been one of the US military’s dumber moves.

  “I’ll take stragglers,” Gwaihir announced.

  “Eat a few eyeballs for me.”

  The bird huffed laughter. “I can save you some.”

  “Nah. They’re your favorite. Pay attention, we’re almost there.”

  Power crackled between my raised hands as I prepared to lay a sheet of death a quarter mile wide in my wake. But first, I had to make the transition from teleport channel to terra firma. For a split second I’d be vulnerable, and it would be a pain to have to regroup if someone caught me half in and half out of teleport mode.

  The eagle’s weight shifted as he spread his huge wings. Seeing him airborne would be enough to send the superstitious jerks ranged against me into a tailspin. Viewing me unshielded, power bubbling around me, ran a close second.

  More than ready, I channeled Death’s presence. I was her agent, doing her work, even though she’d been horrified the time I’d suggested as much. And I’d been exasperated she refused to dive into the nitty-gritty delight of eliminating marks who were a waste of good air.

  We’d agreed to disagree, but one of these days we’d have a rematch, she and I. The deep gray of my journey channel exploded, leaving me in roughly the spot I’d left. No more phut-phut-phut from rifles, but I didn’t let that stop me. Everywhere I sensed life, I sent power chasing after it intent on finishing what I’d begun.

  Chapter 2

  Squeals, screeches, and moans rose all around me in a sweet symphony of lives snuffing out. Gunfire started back up. I ignored it. Bullets are an annoyance. They can’t do me much damage. Facing a magical adversary might be fun for a change. Mortals weren’t much of a challenge, like mowing through kewpie dolls in a gallery. The eagle’s excited cries rose above the barrage of bullets. He was having a good time.

  Magic jetted from my hands as I strode forward. It’s rare when I drop the glamour that makes me appear more or less human and show my true form. Not that I couldn’t pass for mortal, but I was closer to seven feet than six. Dark hair streamed down my shoulders and back, accentuating the Slavic cast to my features. Yeah, I could pass so long as no one noticed my eyes. Like all earth wizard eyes, they’re bronze with deep-green centers. I’ve seen dragons with eyes like mine, but not for a long while.

  I didn’t need layers of winter gear to stay warm; borrowing heat from the Earth’s core was a simple matter, so I settled for unzipping my oversuit. So far, this was too easy. Ceding to power that scrambled their nervous systems until they forgot to breathe, the Taliban force melted to piles of broken flesh and bones all around me. I latched onto the simple joy winning always brought. Sucking air deep into my lungs, I gloried in the copper stench of blood and the nasty reek of spilled entrails. Some things never grow old.

  A field littered with the slain was one of them.

  The eagle swooped low, casting long shadows in the newly breaking dawn. A few brave rebels fired at him, but he evaded them easily. I’ve always assumed my sidekick is immortal. If he isn’t, he’s so long lived it scarcely matters.

  Another wave of destruction rolled from me. Damn it. This really was too straightforward. Borrowing liberally from my earth-linked magic, I spawned mini quakes; they rotated beneath my feet, making the ground buck and heave. Maybe that was the coup de grace because the next time I checked for life, the survivors had all left the immediate vicinity. Truly left, not just crouched behind something.

  “No more fun,” Gwaihir crowed mournfully and circled to land.

  “Nope.” Riding high on adrenaline and bloodlust, I’d have agreed to damn near anything. I loped to the helicopter and checked to see if anybody had been near it since my walkaround pronounced it airworthy.

  “Is anyone else out there?” I asked the bird to take advantage of his aerial perspective.

  “Aye. Cowards, one and all, though. They’re running the wrong way.” He perched on
top of the rotor. “Want me to flush them out and head them back toward you?”

  It was tempting. If I’d been on a rogue mission, I’d probably not have stopped until everyone who’d so much as twitched in my direction was dead, but I had higher obligations. The military was solid as employers went. They paid well and asked very few questions. The main one was whether I’d fulfilled the terms of my contract; a fancy way of inquiring if the target would bother anyone again.

  So long as I said yes and flashed a few pictures around, we were golden, and I’d retreat to one of the spots I hang out in between jobs. Losing this chopper would be a black mark, so I tugged the door open. “Coming?” I asked the eagle.

  “In that?” He hooted the avian equivalent of laughter.

  “Silly of me to ask,” I concurred. “You might want to move off the rotor.”

  Gwaihir spread his substantial wings. After a couple of flaps, he vanished from sight. Either he’d dialed up his version of supersonic speed, or he’d launched a teleport spell. We’d catch up later at a country house I keep north of Inverness. Not that we’d discussed post-mission plans, but after all the time he and I had put in together, he could second guess my movements.

  It cut both ways. I could predict his too.

  I shucked my pack and rifle and ferreted out the chopper key from one of many pockets. After fitting it into its slot, I hit the ignition. It took a few tries before the engine sputtered to life, and the propeller spun in lazy circles. I activated the tail rotor next. It might not look important, but it counteracted the force of the main blade and kept the craft flying straight. While everything was warming up, I ran my fingertips over the controls for the craft’s weaponry. Bristling like an outraged hog, the Bell had more firepower than she’d probably ever need.

  Half expecting a regiment to rise out of nowhere, intent on separating me from the Marine aircraft, I didn’t tarry. As soon as my instrument panel said I was safe for flight, I nosed the throttle out. Nimble despite its guns and rocket launchers, the craft leapt skyward.

  I can fly anything. Don’t spread it around, but I enjoy the rush of defying gravity. Modern aircraft are primitive by magical standards, but I still get a kick every time a hunk of aluminum parts company with the ground.

  Time to think ahead. This job was over. It hadn’t been a clean sweep, but a significant chunk of the Taliban force was dead. More would pop up behind them, but they weren’t my concern. My assignment had been to locate a particular pod and snuff it out. Normally, I prefer working in tandem with Gwaihir. I’d tapped Leon and Rafael because the assignment had specified a force of three. If one of them hadn’t been available, I’d have found a replacement. The well was reasonably deep in our exclusive guild. I’ve never had to scramble to locate mercenaries who live for the days they don camo and a bulletproof vest and kick some serious ass.

  Would the Marines fly us back to London? It was where we’d picked up the specs for this job and met a chopper somewhat bigger than this one that had dropped us at Camp Leatherneck. If they returned us to the UK, Rafael would head for his home in Ukraine. Leon might stick around or fly back to the States. I wasn’t exactly sure where his home base was. Like I said, personal info is on a need-to-know basis. If they were smart, even their names were phony.

  Mine wasn’t, but it was only part of the story. Quinn is my given name, first, last, only. I’d been fielding queries about my last name—or my first—so long, I’ve developed a few pat answers designed to shut people up. Along with my solo name, I’ve never signed up for any official documents. Everything from my driver’s license to my various pilot licenses and passports were false. Some listed me as Quinn McCullough, others as Richard Quinn. I had go bags stashed in so many locations I sometimes unearthed one I’d forgotten about, one where the phonied-up ID had passed its expiration date.

  The high mesa where I’d left my companions spread below me. Were they still asleep? Or had they begun hoofing it for the Marine camp? I focused jets of seeking magic, intent on figuring it out. They’d hear the Bell overhead; hopefully, they’d figure out it was me. It would be a bitch to be this close to returning the craft only to have it shot down by my associates.

  The spot I’d left Rafe and Leon was empty. I didn’t see them, but they could have ducked behind something when they heard the whine from my rotors. My earpiece was still in place.

  “Rafe. Leon.” I augmented their names with magic since the communicators weren’t exactly designed for this range.

  “Who?” crackled through my earpiece. Rafael probably recognized my voice, but he was playing it safe. In case someone had hijacked my ride—and my communicator.

  “Quinn. Went back for the bird like I said.”

  He and Leon melted from the spot they’d sheltered the moment they heard the squeal of my rotors. I set a flight path and circled to land. Bending low to avoid the rotor wash, they piled in, tucking field packs and rifles behind the seats. Questions hit me from all sides. I answered a few, mostly about how many more I’d killed and whether I’d had to fight my way out of there with the helicopter.

  “Can’t believe they just gave up,” Rafael mumbled.

  “I can be damned persuasive. Anyway, we did good. Job accomplished.” Turning, I offered high fives. We could celebrate later. I keyed the mic and alerted the camp I was inbound.

  The next several hours sped past. We were debriefed, collected the other half of our money, and hopped a ride on a military jet. It stopped a couple of places, so it was late by the time we debarked at an RAF base in North Yorkshire. After a few back slaps and “until next times,” Rafael and Leon grabbed rides to Heathrow.

  I said I’d find my own way back and walked away from the base, field pack dangling from my shoulders. We’d left the Russian Kalashnikovs with the Marines. Easier that way since they were illegal most places. No one questioned me about my travel plans or anything else, but I hadn’t expected them to. I could have teleported from Afghanistan, but it would have been much harder to explain. Less attention drawn to me by taking the offered transport. The men I worked with accepted I was odd, but they also lapped up perks, like me rescuing the helicopter.

  The area around the RAF base was dark and quiet, mostly rural. I walked for an hour, decompressing and wiping out memories of the Afghan countryside. What a grim, depressing place. Some war zones had been beautiful once, but not the Middle East. Unless you counted the mountains. They were high and stark and stunning.

  After a quick look around reinforced that I was alone, I whisked myself to the closest of my many homes. I’ve always loved my manor house in the Scottish Highlands. I picked it up for peanuts in the middle of the 1800s and have putzed around modernizing it ever since. Plastering and replacing fixtures is mindless, restful in between jobs. I’d deliberated between the place I bought and a falling-down castle on one of the Outer Hebrides. The island location would have been more private, but I’m not totally antisocial.

  I like the option of dropping by the local pub and hefting a few pints with the guys as we ogle the local lassies. My enclosed courtyard shaped up around me. The fence was built from rocks like most barriers in this part of the world. Trees are scarce because so many had been sacrificed for building materials and fires to warm dwellings.

  Gwaihir glided silently to one of many perches near me and fluffed his wings. “Took you a while,” he observed.

  I shrugged. “Anything new here?” The question was rhetorical. I wasn’t expecting an answer, and I didn’t get one. I did pull out my phone, though, and flicked it on. Pings, chirps, and other assorted noises heralded texts, email, voice mail, ad nauseum.

  Whoever invented cell phones should be shot. I’d even resented landlines back in the day. But offering any stray person the ability to tag me any time of the day or night was a major invasion of my privacy. I couldn’t not have a phone, so my answer to the whole conundrum was to leave the bloody thing off as much as possible. I shredded my latest round of grisly battlefield photos.
No need to hang onto them. The Marines had their proof.

  The evening was tolerable, by Scottish standards. It wasn’t raining or sleeting or snowing. Stars peeked from behind clouds that never departed the northlands, and the start of half a moon was visible. I went through a routine that never varied, checking if my home had been disturbed before I strode inside and dropped my pack in the front hall. Like most buildings of its vintage, the downstairs featured a long hall that ran the length of the structure with rooms opening off both sides. Each room had an individual hearth. The two upper floors held bedrooms, baths, and an armory I’d built myself.

  The basement was devoted to an arena where I kept my skills sharp. This was my primary home. Others were more stopping off points, places I stayed if I happened to be close. In truth, I didn’t need half-a-dozen homes, but what else did I have to do with my resources?

  Yeah. Not very much. How many fancy cars or planes or houses can one man buy?

  After reassuring myself no one had been here, I snagged a couple of bottles of Guinness from the double door stainless steel fridge in the remodeled kitchen and returned to the terrace where I’d left the eagle. He was still there, head tucked beneath a wing as he waited to see where we’d go next.

  I dropped into a chair, flipped the cap on one of the beers, and tipped it back, enjoying the bitter bite of hops as the ale drained down my throat. I finished it before settling in with all the messages. Most went to trash, but some had potential as new jobs.

  “I should take a break,” I mumbled. “A vacation.”

  “You always say that, but you never do,” my sidekick observed and repositioned his head so he stared right at me out of shrewd avian eyes. The eagle didn’t miss a lick. Ever.

  I swiped the empty bottle in his direction; he didn’t even flinch. He knew I wouldn’t hit him. I was annoyed with myself for a whole lot of things, but the biggest one was lying about how great my mercenary lifestyle was. It met my needs, but it had costs.