Apache Dawn: Book I of the Wildfire Saga (54 page)

Bend, do not break
, whispered Red Eagle.

Denny staggered to his feet one more time and rocked backwards, narrowly missing a haymaker that would have broken his jaw for sure. He felt the wind on his face as the Russian’s massive fist cruised past his face.

Denny could see in the Russian's eyes that his enemy knew he was off balance, but the cocksure invader didn’t seem to be worried about Denny mounting a counter-attack.
 
Denny saw only arrogance and contempt on the Russian’s broad Slavic face.
 
Suddenly, a burning spark of rage flared to life in his gut, shattering what concern he had for his own safety as he was consumed in a white hot fury.

Denny whipped the tomahawk up in a vicious arc and was well-satisfied by the choked-off scream the Russian let fly. The 'hawk sliced right through the invader's right arm at the bicep. It wasn't a fatal wound, or even crippling, but it put the Slavic bastard on notice that Denoya Tecumseh was not about to go down without a fight.

Denny stepped back into a fighting crouch, left arm up and forward, right cocked back, the tomahawk waiting to taste flesh again. A new sense of strength flowed through his veins. He grinned at the surprised look on the Russians face.

"
I am Shawnee!
" Denny roared. He stepped forward, thrust his chest out and arms wide in a show of bravery and contempt for his enemy.
See? Here I am, unarmored, unafraid, unconquered.
 

"I am a warrior like my fathers before me!" He lunged to the left, making the Russian dodge right, exactly where Denny wanted him.

Denny was fast, and the tomahawk flashed like lighting as it caught a stray beam of sunlight piercing the canopy above—but the Russian and his smaller knife were faster. Sparks flew as the knife glanced off the tomahawk. He had deftly blocked Denny, but only just so. Denny spun around and swung a backhanded blow to keep the Russian at a distance.
 
Again the Russian countered, but just barely managed to block the tomahawk as it sung through the air.
 
Denny could feel his confidence rising and launched his war dance in earnest.

Back and forth, twirl, upper cut, backhand—the tomahawk sang to Denny as it whistled through the air, coming closer and closer to its final kiss on the Russian’s neck. Again and again, the big European parried and dodged as he back-pedaled and weaved to avoid Denny's sudden, furious onslaught.

When the Russian, panting with exertion in his fancy-looking ballistic armor, paused to flip his knife into a reverse grip, Denny saw his chance and made to strike the man's wrist with his own blade. The Russian flinched just enough to miss the tomahawk’s bite, but that was what Denny wanted. With a flick of his own wrist, he brought the hard-as-iron hickory handle straight into the invader’s face and felt the satisfying crunch of the man's nose through the shaft.

The Russian grunted and staggered back, dark blood streaming down his face. He screamed, a low, growling primordial sound, and charged. Denny waited for him and held his ground. With his arm down there was not enough time to raise it and strike or parry, anyway. The Russian stabbed and Denny weaved, pulling his arm up and the tomahawk blade easily buried itself in the Russian's crotch.

An unearthly wail escaped the big man's face. He froze.
 
Denny shoved him backwards and watched the arrogant bastard fall on his back in a cloud of pine needles.
 
The wounded Russian cried out in pain as his shaking hands fumbled at his belt.
 
He began to jabber away in Russian as Denny stood over him, tomahawk raised for the killing blow.

Denny paused, catching his own breath, and realized his ancestors must have experienced the same thrill, fear, and anger.
 
He wanted to savor the moment of victory, and truth be told, wasn’t all that excited to bury the tomahawk in the Russian’s neck and -

The Russian had pulled a sidearm free and had it pointed right at Denny's chest. The dark, open-end of the barrel—looking like a cave to Denny—wavered back and forth in the Russian’s blood-slick, trembling hands. He smiled a red smile and spat something Denny thought was probably along the lines of
see you in hell.
 

Denny sighed and closed his eyes. Deep down he knew this was the end of his life. He had lost. His ancestors, as he had long feared throughout his life, would scorn him for wasting the gift they had bestowed upon him through countless generations of struggle and sacrifice. He accepted his fate and waited for death.

 
Stupid. Stand there holding the tomahawk and let him pull a gun on you. Idiot.

A single shot rang out in the forest. He flinched, stunned he felt no pain.
Sometimes that happens, I guess.
 

When he opened his eyes, he was really surprised. He’d fully expected to see Grandfather standing before him.
 
All he saw was the forest: mountain pines, scrub brush, a sloping terrain, dirt, rocks, pine needles.
 
Wait, aren’t
you supposed to see your family when you die?

He looked down, expecting to see his body.
 
Instead, he saw the Russian, dead, missing half his head.
 
Bright red blood had sprayed out all over the tree trunk next to the body.
 
It looked like someone had splattered cherry cobbler on the ground at his feet.
 
Denny looked at his own chest quickly, but felt only his dirty, sweat-soaked shirt.
 
No bullet hole. Then it dawned on him that the shot he’d heard had come from the
left
—upslope from his position, toward the lake.
 

The helicopters.

He turned slowly, tomahawk still in the air ready to strike. Facing him were three men in blood-splattered white camouflage, all with rifles trained on him. One stood in the middle, flanked by one crouched low, and the third, leaning against a tree. All three had snow white balaclavas covering their faces. He could see no insignia.

Who the hell are
these
guys?

"Drop it, sir," the tall one said in a commanding, if not unfriendly Midwestern voice. "After what you did to these Russian bastards, I'd hate to have to shoot you, too." He could almost hear the grin in the man’s voice.

Denny lowered his arm. He suddenly felt very tired. The tomahawk felt as if it weighed a hundred pounds. He loosened his grip and heard the soft thump of the blade hitting the pine needles at his feet.
 
In the distance, he heard more helicopters.
 
The thunderous roar echoed and thundered around him—it felt like the forest itself was vibrating.

"Who—" Denny said. He swallowed and cleared his parched throat. "Who are you?"

The tall man lowered his rifle and slung it over his shoulder before stepping forward. As he did so, the two men with him turned in opposite directions and swept the forest around them, weapons pointed toward the trees.

The tall one approached and pulled his balaclava down, revealing a hard face and bright blue eyes under a white helmet.
 
Denny could see the man’s shoulder was stained with dried blood and there was a tear in the camo jacket.
 

"Captain Derek Alston, US Army."
 
He extended his right hand.
 

"Rangers!" added the kneeling soldier.

"Hooah," grunted the third.

 
Denny happily shook the proffered hand and said: "My ancestors will probably roll in their graves to hear me say this but…God-
damn,
I'm glad to see you.”

C
HAPTER
22

Washington, D.C.

The White House.

Presidential Emergency Operations Center.

Y
ES
G
ENERAL
, I
UNDERSTAND
.
 
I assure you—no...I see.
 
Yes, sir.
 
Trust me, General Korolev, I am just as saddened as you are over....no, it was
not
....it was a civilian action."

The President listened to the phone for a moment, then frowned.
 
"Yes,
General, I fully understand the effort that goes into training your....yes, I understand, they...."

The frown hardened.
 
Being chewed out by the Governor General of Russian forces in America was
not
on his list of items to accomplish today.
 
"General, I sympathize with you but my military had nothing to do with this.
 
Perhaps if your soldiers were not so harsh with my citizens they would not resort to such violent outbursts.
 
Be glad you are not experiencing more of this!"

He hung up before the Russian pig could butcher the English language any further.
 
Leaning back in his chair, he sighed and loosened the collar constricting his throat.

Next to him in the main conference room, the Secretary of Defense quietly hung up his receiver.
 
"Well,
that
went well."

"Can you explain to me," President Barron said wearily, eyes scanning the ceiling tiles, “Why the Russians are so upset that they lost four men up in the wilds of Idaho?"
 
He waved a hand.
 

"I’ve confirmed with General Harrison that the Source and his escort have yet to reach Salmon Falls.
 
It was odd,” Secretary Troyes said, “he almost seemed happy that we’ve lost the signal from the GPS tracker in Mr. Huntley.
 
At any rate,” he said with a shake of his head, “The Russians are more than likely just as embarrassed a group of hunters took down four of their soldiers..."

How prideful these military types are
...the President thought.
 
It seemed that sentiment was true across nationalities—his own Marine Corps Commandant was about as full of pride as the pompous Russian, General Korolev.
 
The stuffed-up old goat had been nagging him daily about the occupation of American soil by U.N.-sanctioned troops.
 

As if they were a conquering army,
he thought angrily.
 
Hell
,
we asked them....well,
Reginald
asked them to come here.

Still,
he mused absently,
Generals Harrison and Rykker will deserve watching, now. Everywhere I look, I see dissension in the ranks.
 
I really need to make sure the Joint Chiefs are loyal to me.
 
He jotted down a note to have replacements vetted.

The monitor in front of the Secretary chirped and lit up.
 
The President watched the Secretary of Defense read for a moment.
 
"Sir," he said softly.
 
"Another riot has started.
 
Boston."

The President sighed.
 
"When will they realize the Germans are there to
help
them?"
 

"I believe we'll be ice skating in hell before that happens, sir."

The President sighed once more.
 
“Here we go again. Just like Philly.
 
All right,” he said, bringing his attention back down to the conference table.
 
“How bad is it, this time?”

“Looks like the Germans lost another eleven men last night.
 
Three more this morning.
 
The usual M.O.: Molotov cocktails, rocks, small arms fire and a few snipers using hunting rifles from the distance.
 
How they keep smuggling these damn things into the towns that are blockaded is beyond me…

“Damn!” muttered the President.
 
Reginald would not be pleased.
 
He seemed to take a European death as a personal affront during this little adventure of his.
 
Though it had been a few days since he had spoken directly with Reginald.
 
All his communications of late had been through…

Jayne.
 
The President had to force himself to not think of her and focus on the older man next to him.

“Okay.
 
So what happened?
 
How many American casualties?” the President mumbled.