Control Point (41 page)

“Morning, campers,” Fitzy said, pleased at their surprise. “Allow me to introduce Captain Day from BIA’s law-enforcement division. Command has, despite my better judgment, determined you to be at a stage in your training where you can be of use to your country in something more significant than mucking about sewer systems or beating up on the locals here.

“The Great Reawakening has given a lot of people some funny ideas. The funniest are held by the Mescalero band of the Apache nation, who occupy a substantial swath of New Mexico. These folks got the idea that not only is their territory autonomous, it’s sovereign, and they fully seceded from the United States of America. The first thing their tribal council did was to legalize the use of magic in the confines of this supposed sovereign state, with results that you have seen. The death toll in this insurgency currently stands at over two thousand US armed services personnel, with an additional five hundred sworn law-enforcement officers and an undisclosed number of civilian advisors.

“Even worse, this minority of Selfers keeps the majority of law-abiding Apache from living in peace with us. They want to return to the ‘old ways,’ whatever the hell that means, and
consider anyone who doesn’t agree with them as an enemy collaborator worthy of death.

“Keep that in mind when you consider the crocodile tears of all these sympathizers who’d like to see these folks cut loose. Unregulated magic is a pretty idea for those who don’t have to deal with it, but I’m sure Captain Day here will agree that the real thing is nasty business.

“You’ve got a rare opportunity to stop this death toll in its tracks, and Captain Day is going to tell you how.”

“Gentlemen.” The BIA captain’s voice was high and nasal. Britton couldn’t tell whether or not he deliberately ignored Downer’s gender. “We have a rare opportunity to make a serious dent in the enemy’s order of battle. The tribal council’s most important general is a Selfer called Chatto.” Captain Day turned to the overhead-projection image displayed on the whiteboard. It depicted a man with old eyes. His leathern, wind-scoured skin made his age difficult to discern, but his long black hair, tied with a red bandanna, looked thick and young.

“Don’t get nostalgic for the noble savage getup. This man is personally responsible for the Ruidoso massacre, including taking out the airlift that went in for the survivors. It remains the biggest tragedy American first responders have ever suffered. Chatto’s capture could lead to a ton of actionable information that we could use to wrap up this firefight once and for all. More importantly, Chatto is a rallying point, and taking him out of the fight would seriously lower enemy morale.”

“So, why now? Why’s he suddenly vulnerable?” Britton asked.

“Chatto cast off his wife when she decided she wanted to join the modern world. Cut her up pretty bad.” He toggled the projector and the image changed to a young Apache woman whose beauty had been marred first by hard living and further by livid scars running up her nostrils.

“Apache custom is to slit the noses of women who betray their husbands. They call her
Nalzukich
now. Means ‘slit-nose.’ That he let her live is amazing enough. But now he’s shown a real soft spot. Their daughter just got her period, which gives them four days to have her blessed by their
Gahe
. Chatto invited Slit-Nose to the ceremony.”

Captain Day toggled the projector again. “She got there
early and sent us this video.” The screen displayed a wide stretch of dried badlands under a blanket of bright stars. Scanty scrub growth competed with dry rocks to cover the space. The image looped, again and again. Captain Day looked expectantly at Britton. “We have no idea where it is. But we were hoping it wouldn’t matter.”

Britton watched the video loop and imagined the freezing cold on that near-desert plain. He pictured the smell of dried sage, the allure of the distant stars. He felt his magic pulse expectantly and nodded. “It won’t.”

Captain Day grunted. “In and out. We want Chatto alive if possible, but we’ll accept his death if you can recover the body. It’s critical that all the Mescalero people know he’s down, but not how he got that way. Alive would be better because Chatto can hopefully confirm some ideas we have on where the heart of the insurgency is located. Slit-Nose will meet you at the infil point and take you to the ceremony. There’ll be one
Gahe
there, but that shouldn’t…”

“We don’t speak Apache, sir,” Britton interrupted, to a frown from Fitzy.

Captain Day nodded. “It’s what they call their ‘Mountain Gods.’ ”

Britton recalled a black form, nearly too fast to follow, flashing across a video screen. He shuddered, remembering flashing teeth.

Captain Day patted the air with his palms. “They look scary, but their bark is worse than their bite. Trust me, this’ll be a cakewalk.”

Cakewalk,
Britton thought, remembering Dawes burned body.
I’ve heard that one before.

“I’ll come along to translate,” Day went on, “but once you make the assault, I’m hanging back. I wouldn’t want to get underfoot.”

Yeah, I bet you wouldn’t,
Britton thought, seeing the fear in the man’s eyes.

“Just remember,” Day said. “Slit-Nose may be on our side, but she’s still Apache. You don’t trust her one inch more than you have to.”

“Why can’t she just lead you to the ceremony?” Downer asked.

“BIA doesn’t want in on this op. We’ve got enough of a public-relations disaster out here. Chatto’s a wild animal who needs to be put down, but the press isn’t going to spin it that way. He needs to drop inexplicably. It needs to look like…well, like magic.”

“How do you know she won’t betray us?” Britton asked.

“We’ve been in touch with this particular person for some time,” Day said. “The only person she hates more than me is Chatto. And we’ve got an added bonus. Puberty ceremonies are usually held in the presence of ancestors. They’ll probably meet the
Gahe
on a burial ground.”

“That means corpses,” Truelove said.

Day nodded. “Lots of ’em. The Mescalero have been using the same burial plots for centuries.”

The Necromancer smiled. “Well, all right.”

“Last equipment check,” Fitzy said, as the Coven slammed magazines into pistols and tightened the straps on their body armor. “Stay on my six and remember, these aren’t Goblins, and they sure as hell aren’t tar babies. These are Selfers and no friends of ours. Stay frosty, and for the love of all that’s holy, do as you’re fucking told. There’ll be at least thirty men at this ceremony, and that’s a conservative estimate.”

“Too easy,” Downer said, grinning. “We’re the magic behind the magic, remember?”

“Damn straight,” Truelove said, pale and sweating.

Britton glanced at the video one more time and opened a gate on the flat expanse. He felt a surge of pride at how easily it came to him. The video was clear, but the ground was almost featureless, yet with only a few minutes of watching it, he could guide them there effortlessly. But there was work to do. He could pat himself on the back later.

They stepped through onto the starlit plain. Slit-Nose greeted them, eyes defiant.
“Da go te,”
she said.

“How do you say hello in Apache?” Britton asked Day.

Slit-Nose laughed and smiled wider. “No need. I speak English. We’re not all dumb Indians out here, no matter what this asshole tells you.” She jerked a thumb at Day, who shook his head.

Fitzy swore. “We do not have time for this bullshit. Let’s get this show on the road.”

Day barked a few more words to Slit-Nose in Apache before nodding back to Fitzy. “It’s your show from here on in. Good luck.” He stepped back through the gate and was gone.

Slit-Nose surveyed Shadow Coven for a moment, then shouldered a hunting rifle and moved off into the night. The landscape was unbroken, dotted occasionally by burned-out cars or discarded piles of tires, and Britton felt naked in the open starlight.

“So, you guys are special army, huh?” Slit-Nose asked. Her voice was deep, worn.

“We’re interested parties, ma’am,” Fitzy whispered. “We want to see peace restored to the Apache nation.”

Slit-Nose laughed at his attempt at quiet. “We won’t be there for a while. Nobody can hear us here but rabbits.”

Fitzy cursed under his breath, and Britton had to stifle a chuckle. “All the same, ma’am. We’d rather not talk. The sooner we take custody of your husband, the sooner we can return to peaceful relationships between our peoples.”

Slit-Nose stopped and glared at him. “No peaceful relationships, white eyes. You get your man, then you
leave
.”

Fitzy looked as if he would reply, then considered Slit-Nose’s hard look. At last he nodded, and they went on.

Britton recalled Fitzy’s words.
This minority of Selfers keeps the majority of law-abiding Apache from living in peace with us.
At least one law-abiding Apache didn’t seem to want anything to do with them.

They followed Slit-Nose in silence for about ten minutes before she stopped them just shy of a stack of abandoned cars strewn with trash. Firelight flickered on the horizon. Britton could barely make out the specks of black shapes around it. In the center was a series of white domes—canvas wickiups.

“All right. Keystone, I need you and Prometheus on the far side of the ring. Can you sight it from here?” Fitzy asked.

Britton nodded. “I can get off to the side. We should be well covered by darkness. Who’s going to take care of you, sir?”

“Oh, I think we’ll manage,” Richards said, spreading his hands. About his feet, a small throng of jackrabbits, spiders, and snakes had already gathered in silent, ordered columns
beside four coyotes. As Britton watched, one stepped forward, sitting back on its haunches and saluting smartly.

“We’ve got more inbound,” Richards said.

Britton smiled and opened a gate on the MAC practice tent. “Okay. I’ve got a good spot.”

Fitzy nodded, tapping the commlink in his ear. “I’ll radio when it’s showtime. Warn me if you see anything from that angle that I should know about.”

A moment later, Britton and Downer crouched behind a broken boulder covered with painted handprints, barely discernible in the darkness. A small crowd of Apache, mostly men, were dressed in jeans and T-shirts. They surrounded a circle of white canvas wickiups and were chatting amiably, with no evidence of ceremony. He pulled night-vision binoculars from his belt and sighted down them. In the distance, he could make out Fitzy, Richards, and Truelove approaching at a crouch. Richards’s small army of animals slunk along behind them. Slit-Nose must have bugged out. Britton’s stomach went cold at the thought, but there was no time to worry about it.

Britton and Downer jogged to crouch behind an abandoned car that offered a better view of the circle. They were getting close, and Britton could hear snatches of conversation. He couldn’t count the number of people around the canvas domes, but there were far more than thirty, talking in low voices around a raging bonfire. Downer paused, beginning to stand until he yanked her down.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” he asked.

“Something’s…can you feel that?” she replied.

Britton paused, focusing. The cold air made his shirt stick to him beneath his armor, his ball cap itching on his brow. The magical currents on the Home Plane were so much fainter than the Source that he had scarcely noticed them despite so many Selfers in one place.

But once he focused, he picked up one current stronger than the rest. And close.

He moved to open a gate as his magic rolled back, and an elbow crashed into his ear, smashing the commlink and sending him sprawling. Four men emerged from the car they had chosen as their hiding place. Two wore jeans and T-shirts, pistols in their hands. The other two were stripped to the waist,
their bodies painted entirely black. Their heads were enclosed in horned wooden masks, carved surfaces painted with leering, fanged smiles. The magical current, now Suppressing Britton’s own, came from one of them. The other reached out to Downer, Suppressing her as well. The Selfer Suppressing Britton reached down and unsnapped Britton’s holster, retrieving his pistol. The other Selfer advanced on Downer, who had begun to backpedal.

Downer raised a hand to her commlink. “One, one, this is Prometheus,” she said.

One of the other men raised his pistol to her face. “Don’t be stupid,” he said. His English was flat and slightly accented as Slit-Nose’s had been. “Give me your gun.”

He turned to the masked Apache Selfer Suppressing her. “She’s got a current?”

“They both do.” The Apache started forward, the mask leering. “How many more of you are there?”

Britton scrabbled in the dust, groaning. Even if Slit-Nose hadn’t sold them out, he should have known that they would have lookouts on the perimeter. Downer’s commlink buzzed in her ear, but she didn’t dare answer, staring at the muzzles of the guns, fingers tensed on the triggers. The Selfer Suppressing Britton kicked him again and again, then leaned over and punched him in the temple. Britton’s head rebounded off the packed earth, and he saw stars, as he fought to cling to consciousness.

“You got nothing to say, white eyes?” the masked Selfer before Downer asked her. “Maybe I’ll fuck it out of you. Maybe you’ll scream loud enough for your friends to come. Your boyfriend here”—he paused to add his own kick to Britton’s stomach—“can watch.”

One of the men pinned her elbows behind her back while the second covered Britton at a gesture from the masked Apache.

He nodded to the Selfer Suppressing Britton, who gave him a final kick, then turned his current to Suppress Downer while the other Selfer dropped his Suppression. “Watch and learn,” he said to Britton, easing his manhood out of his trousers.

“That’s too small to make me scream,” Downer snarled, struggling.

“Heh. White eyes bitch. I’ve got something for you,” the
Selfer said from behind his mask, bursting into flame below the waist.

Britton’s stomach was a mottled pit of agony. His own magical tide drifted far from him, hidden in a haze of agony. But he saw the Apache Selfer step toward her, his manhood and pelvis engulfed in fire, reaching for Downer.
If I don’t do something, she’s going to suffer. Dig Deep.