“What the fekk is this?” Tychus demanded, as he eyed the people around him. “A tea party? We have POWs to load. Get to work.”

As the others left, Tychus put a huge arm around Raynor’s shoulders and helped him walk. “You done good,” Tychus said gruffly. “Thanks to you the POWs are ready to go.”

Raynor stopped short and looked back at Hickson, who was being carried away on a stretcher. He was awake now, and even managed a wave.

Raynor gave him a nod, took a shallow, excruciating breath, and allowed himself to be led away. Just then three Hellhounds broke through the screen of Avengers circling above and blew one of the incoming dropships out of the sky. Huge chunks of flaming debris cartwheeled down and cut one of the buildings in two. That triggered a fire, which lit up the night. “Cap-One to Sierra-Six,” a voice said, as a second dropship went down. “I’m sorry to say that we have ten bandits at angels five. Your buses are turning back. They’ll try again later. Over.”

“Roger that, Cap-One,” Tychus said, and swore once the connection was broken.

“The dropships aren’t coming, are they?” Raynor inquired.

“No,” Tychus replied, as a Hellhound cut across the valley, guns spraying red death at the ground below. “They were forced to turn back.”

“I had a good view from up there,” Raynor said, as he jerked a thumb back over his shoulder. “The KMs have quite a few trucks on the base and some other vehicles, too. Let’s load ’em up and haul ass.”

Tychus frowned doubtfully. “To where?”

“The disputed zone,” Raynor replied. “It sucks, but it’s better than this.”

A series of rockets slammed into the camp as if to emphasize Raynor’s point. It was clear that the KMs planned to kill the POWs rather than allow them to escape. “Roger that,” Tychus said calmly. “We’ll give it a try. And find some clothes. You look like shit.”

Max Speer had been aboard the single dropship that managed to touch down safely. He smiled broadly and continued to record as the soldiers departed.

The Avengers had regrouped by that time and took off after the Hellhounds. One of the enemy fighters took a hit from a missile, roared over the camp, and slammed into the hill designated as “Charlie.” The fighter was carrying a full load of ordnance plus lots of fuel. The resulting explosion shook the ground and a red-orange fireball floated up into the sky as members of the STM platoon rushed to collect the POWs.

And that was when they discovered that, having been tipped off by Raynor, the prisoners had organized themselves into small groups and were ready to board the dropships. The weakest POWs had been spread across all of the groups so that the stronger ones could assist them, and all the “platoons” were gathered near the Kel-Morian landing pads waiting for ships that weren’t coming. It was a bittersweet sight for Raynor, who was determined to finish what he started.

High on the stimpack Doc had given him, Raynor insisted on taking charge. He could see the drug’s appeal for the first time; it seemed to erase his pain, at least for a little while. The mental anguish he’d just suffered would take more than a drug to ease—but there was no time to think about that now.

Raynor knew where the camp’s factory was, and led a posse that consisted of Zander, Doc, and a couple of STM troopers to the low-slung structure. And just in time, too … because as he and his companions jogged up the road Raynor saw headlights and knew some of the KMs were going to make a run for it. “Stop them!” he shouted. “But don’t destroy the vehicles.”

There was a sharp exchange of gunfire as the groups clashed. Some of the KMs—those who’d been on guard duty when the attack began—were wearing armor. The rest were wearing vest-style chest protectors. As the defenders charged, Ward fired a salvo of rockets at them even as Harnack opened up with his flamethrower. There were three overlapping explosions, so only two of the armored KMs staggered out of the raging inferno, and they were on fire. The STM troopers triggered their gauss rifles and the enemy soldiers fell.

As Raynor stepped under a harsh light and bent to retrieve a Kel-Morian assault rifle, he heard a powerful engine start. Zander shouted, “Watch out!” and Raynor found himself pinned in the glare of two headlights as tires screeched and a huge saber command car barreled straight at him!

Raynor threw himself to the right, felt a searing pain as the loose gravel ripped some skin off, and fired a short burst. The fact that a bullet whipped through the driver’s side window and blew Taskmaster Lumley’s brains out was a matter of luck rather than marksmanship.

But the effect was the same as the vehicle swerved, skidded, and came to a halt. By the time Raynor got up and rounded the back of the vehicle, Overseer Brucker was out of the car and waddling away.

“There! Behind the car!” Doc shouted.

“Stop, or I’ll shoot!” Raynor yelled as he scrambled toward Brucker, positioning himself within range, but the Kel-Morian officer kept going. Then, before Raynor could pull the trigger, Zander fired a single shot. Brucker stumbled and fell.

Doc had chosen to shuck her armor because it was difficult to treat patients with the hardskin on. By the time Raynor reached them she was already kneeling next to Brucker with her medical pack opened at her side. A red stain could be seen on the officer’s right thigh and he was gritting his teeth in pain. “It looks like the bullet missed bone,” Doc said matter-of-factly. “He’ll be fine.”

“That’s Overseer Brucker,” Raynor said, “the guy the POWs call ‘the Butcher.’ They’ll be thrilled to hear that he’s going to recover.”

“I need to slip a plastiscab bandage in under the exit wound. Do me a favor, reach under his knee and lift it up.”

“I should have shot you,” Brucker said bitterly, as Raynor lifted the officer’s leg.

“Yeah, life is filled with missed opportunities,” Raynor observed.

“Thanks,” Doc said. “You can put it down now. And Jim …”

“Yeah?”

“Once you find some clothes, track me down. I’ll give you some more happy juice and put antibacterial dressings on the worst of those needle holes.”

“Okay,” Raynor agreed as he eyed a trooper. “You’ll guard him?”

“Sure,” the other soldier agreed. “No problem.”

As Raynor left, Doc applied a plastiscab bandage to Brucker’s entry wound and taped it in place. Then, having removed a disposable syringe from her bag, she withdrew ten cc’s of clear liquid from a small bottle. “What’s that?” Brucker inquired.

“It’s a painkiller,” Doc replied, as she examined the inside surface of Brucker’s arm. The light was poor, and the patient was obese, so it took a moment to find a vein. But once Doc had it the needle went in smoothly.

That was when she leaned in close. Her voice was little more than a whisper. “Colonel Vanderspool asked me to give you this message… . If you thought you could get your grubby little hands on his trucks, you thought wrong. Attacking Fort Howe was a serious mistake, and the last one you’re ever going to make.”

Brucker’s eyes opened wide and he tried to jerk his arm away as he realized what was going to happen. But it was too late by then. The poison was already in his bloodstream. He jerked convulsively, tried to say something, and died.

“Damn it!” Doc said regretfully, as she got to her feet. “The fat bastard had a heart attack! Oh well, you can’t win ’em all. Drag him off the road, Max… . The last thing we need is a speed bump.”