The Last Roman (Praetorian Series - Book One) Read online

  Too soon. The trucks behind us would make it out as well.

  My apprehension was quelled a bit when we arrived at the cave entrance where I saw six bodies crumpled on the ground, blood oozing from shots to their chests.

  That’s my girl.

  It was at about that time when I also began to see the lights strung along the tunnel behind us going out, with the dust cloud getting closer, the cave collapsing. Maybe I could lose them in the cloud, if I wasn’t caught in it as well. Just as the cloud reached the last truck, I blew through the entrance and never looked back.

  Outside the narrow tunnel, I immediately swerved the truck violently, hoping to throw off the fire that was now incoming heavily. The enemy trucks that managed to escape as well spread out in a long line, and fired on us simultaneously. My passengers in back were now at a disadvantage, and were reduced to keeping their heads down and hanging on for dear life.

  I couldn’t see Helena, but I saw an update on my eye piece, which I called up with one hand on the wheel. It showed a solid green dot on a side street, with a timer running steadily towards zero. She’d be ready at that position in twenty seconds.

  Within that time, I noticed two of the trucks behind us swerve out of control with one neat little hole a piece through each front windshield. These trucks didn’t receive the punishment from the gunners in my truck, so it must have been Helena.

  And she didn’t think she could handle it.

  “That girlfriend of yours can really shoot, Jacob,” Santino commented from the flat bed.

  “Shut it,” I replied, turning the truck through a wicked turn down the side street that Helena had indicated would be her pickup location.

  Slowing as I approached the waypoint, I saw Helena bolt from a side alley and leap into the back of the truck with the same grace she had shown exiting the cargo container earlier.

  “She’s aboard,” McDougal yelled, his rifle ablaze. “Move!”

  I gunned the truck once again, following Helena’s map past the claymores, our pursuers gaining quickly.

  “Those claymore would really come in handy now, Strauss,” I yelled back to her.

  “Give me a second!” She snapped back.

  My map showed we were just past the middle claymore, when Helena blew the first one, then the middle one, and a few seconds later, the final one. Each one going off in succession was enough to shake the town awake. We’d taken care of the trucks in pursuit, but not seconds later, the town’s civilian population apparently decided now was a good time to file out of their homes and into the streets, probably wondering what was happening so early in the goddamn morning.

  Then I saw him. A man. No more than thirty years old, standing in the middle of the street. I know McDougal had said civilians were to be considered expendable, but this man had a baby cradled in his arms.

  In the seconds it took to close the gap between us, our eyes met, and I instantly knew I couldn’t run him down. His face was awash in sheer terror and with my eyes widening, I tried to swerve down another street, managing to do the worst possible thing instead.

  I flipped the truck, and we started to roll. By the time our truck rolled three times, my vision had already flashed brightly behind my eyes before going completely black when my forehead smashed into the steering wheel.

  ***

  Pain induced hallucinations were a bitch. They were the ones that hit deeply, stung like hell, and were just subtle enough that they left you questioning the experience. Then the pain smashed into you like a boulder falling on your head. My particular hallucination this time around was of my father’s disapproving eyes, staring deep into the recesses of my lost soul, before combusting into flames.

  Yeah. Real subtle.

  Just as my head started to clear and my vision return, I felt immense pressure building in my skull. It took me a moment to realize we had flipped upside down, and that I was hanging in my seat, suspended by my seatbelt. Looking over, I could see Wang, similarly dangling and still unconscious. Abdullah was slumped on the roof, bleeding from a gash across his temple. His chest rose and fell, so at least he was still alive.

  Placing one hand against the roof of the truck, I unbuckled my seatbelt and roughly tumbled to the ground. I shook Wang awake, and indicated that he get Abdullah out of the truck. He responded groggily, mumbling something about how he thought Duran Duran really wasn’t that bad. It took him a few more seconds to come around. When he did, I saw him take out his frustration and pain on Abdullah as he roughly tried to eject the unconscious terrorist from the truck.

  Crawling out of where the front windshield had been, I hoped everyone in back had managed to jump away before we’d begun to roll. The first troops I saw were Santino and Vincent running towards my position as I crawled to my feet. They seemed fine.

  “Are you all right?” Santino asked.

  “Yeah,” I replied, smacking my head to clear it. “Help Wang with Abdullah. Where’s everyone else?”

  That’s when I noticed Bordeaux hurrying over with a slight limp. It wasn’t until he reached the light given off by the overturned truck’s headlights that I noticed he was carrying McDougal over his shoulders.

  “He’s hurt badly.” Bordeaux said. “He’s unconscious, and from what I can tell has some broken bones and is bleeding from numerous wounds. We need Wang.”

  I nodded, turned around, and knelt to look inside the cab. I saw Wang hauling Abdullah forcibly out the passenger side window. He handed him off to Vincent and Santino and immediately went to work on McDougal.

  I looked around, surveying the damage, waiting for Helena to arrive.

  “Where’s Strauss?” Wang asked as he started checking McDougal’s vital signs and shining a small flashlight in his eyes.

  Everyone looked around, but each shook their head in turn, unable to locate her.

  “Stay here with McDougal,” I said. “I’ll find her.”

  I tried to determine her position via her GPS locator beacon, but where it indicated she should be she wasn’t. It wasn’t until I saw a leg, clad in the rubbery material of a dive suit hanging out of a window that I found her.

  I ran to the window praying to God I hadn’t killed her. Fearing the worst, I found her sprawled on a wooden table, the leg dangling from the window thankfully still attached. She must have been thrown from the truck, lucky she hadn’t hit the wall, not to mention the fact that the window didn’t have any glass.

  Lucky or not, she was still bleeding from a head wound and had an extremely nasty gash on the leg sticking out the window. The wound wrapped a third of the way up and around her thigh, circling from the front of her leg, around the outside, and up near her hamstring, but at least it didn’t seem too deep. Looking back to call for Wang, I saw he was still working on McDougal.

  We didn’t have time for this. We needed to get the hell out of here. Our best bet was to get to that equipment cache and regroup.

  Moans from inside drew my attention back to Helena. She was regaining consciousness, and started mumbling a name. I couldn’t make it out, but it sounded distinctly masculine. I put my hand behind her neck, propping her head up, and snapped my fingers in front of her face.

  “Helena. Wake up. We’ve got to get out of here,” I offered before lightly smacking her cheek, again to little affect. “Wake up.”

  She wasn’t responding, which was probably a good thing considering what I was about to do to her leg. Pulling out my knife, I tore open more of her wetsuit around the wound to make room for a battle dressing. I retrieved a packet of QuikClot from my pack, a powdery like substance that helped open wounds clot so the patient didn’t bleed out. She’d have a scar, but at least she wouldn’t bleed to death, and Wang could properly stitch it later.

  Unfortunately for her, the stuff stung like hell.

  I paused just before dumping it on the wound.

  “I’m sorry, Helena,” I said to her unknowing form, “but this is going to hurt. A lot.”

  Her reaction was as expe
cted. The jolt of pain snapped her awake as though she were struck by lightning. She sat up involuntarily and threw her arms around my neck, shaking uncontrollably.

  “It’s okay. It’s just a scratch. Just hang on while I dress the wound,” I told her while pulling out a bandage

  “Th-thank you, Jacob.”

  “Hey. Rescuing damsels in distress is part of the job.”

  I thought I felt her slug me in the arm, but I couldn’t be sure. If she hadn’t, it wasn’t a good sign.

  I attached a few butterfly bandages to keep the wound closed despite the QuikClot, and wrapped gauze around her leg several times, tying it off as tightly as I could. She cried out in pain again, and she buried her head in my neck, trying to force away the pain

  “Sorry, but it’s got to be tight, now hang on.”

  She clasped her hands around my shoulders, and pulled herself in close, keeping her head against my neck. Determined she was secure, I wrapped my right arm around her waist, my other under her legs, staying clear of the wound, and gently extracted her from the window. My adrenaline pumping, she felt as light as a feather.

  Helena in my arms, I made my way to the truck.

  “Put me down, Jacob. I can manage.”

  I did as I was told, only to have her stumble under her own weight. I had to scoop her back up into my arms before she put any more pressure on her cut leg. She must have hurt her other ankle as well.

  She smiled up at me, eyes lulling. “Never mind. You’re doing a great job.”

  “Just don’t get too comfortable. You’re not as light as you look.”

  I waited for her head to turn and glare at me, but it only slumped against my shoulder instead.

  Definitely not a good sign.

  Back at the truck, Santino and Vincent had set up a perimeter at the end of the alley, and were already trading fire with enemy combatants. It was still dark, so we had the cover of night and the advantage of our NVGs, but we couldn’t hold out forever, especially since a third of our squad was combat ineffective.

  “How’s he doing, James?” I asked Wang.

  He looked up, and shook his head. “Not well. I’ve stabilized him, but his neck is very nearly broken and he’s bleeding internally. We have got to get him some place safe so that I can perform more extensive repairs.”

  Wang didn’t have anything as complete as a field hospital in his backpack, but his very large bag did have many new features of modern medicine that would allow him to perform much more complete first aid than the combat medics of even a decade ago. All he needed was time.

  “Fine,” I said laying Helena on the ground. “She needs a shot of morphine and a bandage on her head. Bordeaux?”

  “I’m okay. Just a sprained ankle.”

  I nodded. A sprained ankle could wait.

  “Vincent!” I yelled. “We need to get the hell out of here.”

  I saw him look over at me from down the alley, and nod. He patted Santino on the shoulder and indicated with the flick of a hand for him to hold the line. He came running over.

  “What’s our status?”

  “Strauss is immobile, but should be fine. McDougal is in really bad shape. Abdullah is unconscious. Bordeaux has a sprained ankle, and Wang and I seem to be okay except for a few cuts and bruises,” I summed up.

  “All right,” he said, rubbing his rough chin. “Bordeaux, you take McDougal. Hunter, you grab Strauss. Wang, don’t forget Abdullah. Santino will be on point, and I’ll be on crowd control in the rear. Let’s move out.”

  We gathered up our charges as gently as possible, except for Wang who had the hardest time with Abdullah. Once we were organized, we set out deeper into the alley and followed our map to the safe house. We needed some place to lay low and tend to our wounded. It was the only viable place we had to regroup.

  Santino was the first to head out as he hauled ass to the front of our rag tag line, and scouted out ahead of us, leaving stealth as a mere afterthought. We managed to sneak around pretty quickly and efficiently despite our loads. Most people we encountered ran back inside immediately after they saw us, but we kept to the shadows as much as possible anyway, avoiding main throughways and homes with their lights on.

  Along the way, Helena drifted in and out of consciousness, muttering in gibberish. Only once did she open her eyes to look at me, brushing my cheek with a hand. I could only imagine what was going through her dazed and confused mind as she uttered my name. Her eyes rolled back inside her head and she slumped into my arms, unconscious once again.

  Hallucinations were a bitch.

  Fifteen minutes later, we reached the building we were looking for. Only a few bad guys stumbled on our position along the way only to be dispatched easily by Vincent. Santino opened the door to the house, and waved everyone inside. Last in, he shut the door quietly behind him.

  The house was barren, lacking any kind of furnishing. Its walls were bare, its windowsills dusty, and it didn’t appear as though anyone had lived here for years. It was only single story, so we headed down to the basement, the only other place left to go.

  The dark, musty, scary basement.

  Wonderful.

  The last to descend into the dark cavern, I noticed the basement door was conveniently equipped with a large wooden plank to secure it. How thoughtful of the homeowners. That would hold off the invading horde for about twenty seconds.

  Once below, we found a few light bulbs dangling from the ceiling. Illuminating them revealed a very plain room, as completely barren as the rooms above except for a few cots and the half dozen metal containers about the size of queen beds stacked along the wall. I gave the containers an annoyed look before heading over to one of the cots.

  I lowered Helena gently onto the soft fabric, afraid almost the slightest impact might break her in half. She looked peaceful in her drugged state, but I knew she had to be suffering. I stayed only long enough to check her pulse and brush some stray locks of hair away from her face. Giving her shoulder a quick squeeze, I stood to survey my surroundings.

  There wasn’t much to see, only a mostly empty basement, but Santino seem perplexed at what he was seeing.

  “What the fuck?” I heard him yell from the rear wall. “Jacob, get over here.”

  My eyebrows creased in suspicion, but I did as I was told. I passed by Wang along the way who was still working on McDougal. He had a scalpel out and looked ready to perform an incision and Vincent was there to assist in any way he could. Not knowing much about medicine, and always rather squeamish during medical TV shows, I averted my attention. Bordeaux, meanwhile, was charged with the duel task of watching Abdullah and the door.

  I found Santino rummaging through one of the containers, already having opened three others.

  “What’s up?” I asked “Did they forget your blankie?”

  He glared. He must be getting used to it these days.

  “Funny. Look at this,” he said, opening another one. “These are filled with enough supplies to last us years. That first one has nothing but MREs, enough to last a year. There’s explosives, replacement parts, ammunition out the wazoo, extra magazines, and even a few rifles, not to mention clothing, cooking equipment, bottled water, filters, toiletries, survival gear, and I’ve only opened half of them. Why would they give us enough supplies to set us up as an independent mercenary force for years?”

  I had no idea.

  “Have you tried your radio yet?” I asked, hoping for some good news.

  “Yeah, but all I get is static. These fucking Ragheads are probably jamming the signal.”

  I smirked. Cultural expert indeed.

  I gave him a doubtful look. “That doesn’t seem very likely considering what we’ve seen from these guys so far.”

  He shrugged. “We know the Russians have been supplying terrorist cells with some of their fancy new equipment. It wouldn’t surprise me if they could block our satellite uplinks.”

  I didn’t have much time to think on it when the door leading upstairs
began to shake.

  So much for our “safe” house. I glanced at Santino. He rolled his eyes, retrieved his HK416, and helped me pile the containers for use as barricades. We stacked them three high and two wide, enough for about ten feet in length and five feet high of coverage. We piled them around McDougal’s inert form, and dragged Helena next to him. Those of us who could, took up positions behind the containers, and trained our guns on the narrow door.

  And we waited.

  I had to give these terrorist bastards some credit, because they were patient and had themselves some style. Instead of merely beating down the door, they used a directional explosive to direct the force of the blast towards us, but we were ready for them. We had decent cover and the additional protection of our electronic ear buds. The little devices allowed ambient noise to flow through the eardrum, but as soon as they detected any sudden deafening noise, would activate to block it from entering the ear. The end result was a few seconds of slight deafness until the filters allowed sound to flow through again, but alleviated any symptoms of distortion that would occur from an explosion.

  When the bad guys set of their charge, we shrugged them off as though nothing happened. Then they started to pour through. One after the other, they came through the door only to get mowed down by precision shooting, and hails of gunfire from Bordeaux’s big ass gun. Ammo wasn’t an issue anymore. Theoretically, we had enough to kill a million of them if we wanted to.

  Hopefully, we wouldn’t have to.

  There were lulls in the battle when either Bordeaux or Vincent would chuck a grenade through the door and force the bad guys to either run or be killed. We timed it so that we had fresh magazines in place before they came back for more. Occasionally, the enemy would lob their own grenades, but our containers were bullet proof and could easily handle shrapnel from second hand grenades. Especially ones that probably began their lives in some shady Russian manufacturing plant. I’m surprised none of them went off in their hands, but so many had been exchanged at this point, maybe I missed one that had.