Bone Rider (4 page)

Two down, one to go. Heartened by their success, Brennan and his men picked up their bloodied comrades and swarmed toward the southern side of the crater, where Charlie squad was scrambling to stay alive. They ran uphill, panting, high on adrenaline, and then there was this sound, a deep, flat
whooomph
, and the ground shook once, hard.

Brightness erupted from the crash site, fire and smoke forming a mushroom cloud that eclipsed the sun. It should’ve burned them all, but the edge of the crater shielded them somewhat and the heat wasn’t as extreme as Brennan would’ve expected. He noticed an odd scent in the air, unlike anything he’d ever smelled before, acrid and sweet at the same time, and he thought, way back in the back of his mind, that the aliens must’ve activated some kind of self-destruct mechanism. It was what he would’ve done had he gone down on an alien planet and realized the few of his men who’d survived the crash were losing their battle with hostile native forces and they were all about to become prisoners or worse. There was a moment, brief and almost lost in the roar of the explosion and the stutter-focus of his awareness, when Brennan felt a deep stab of sympathy for the unknown alien commander who’d had to make that call.

It lasted until he heard one of his men scream and looked up to see the last remaining alien tear into Sergeant Harris and rip him apart with inhuman strength. Illuminated by the falling tower of flame behind them, the creature hacked and sliced through Harris’s flesh like a madman even after he’d stopped shrieking, right until the pointed warhead of a Spitfire missile hit them both and stopped it. And if this detonation looked a bit different than the other two… well, Brennan was too distracted to care right then and so were his men.

T
HUS
ended the first encounter between humans and extraterrestrial life-forms, with twenty-one dead and four injured American soldiers, a total of thirty-nine dead aliens (including six armor hosts and five bone riders), a spaceship blown to smithereens, and a huge hole in the ground. All in all, it could’ve gone better.

I
N
CONTRAST
to popular belief, Area 51 was not the place where the US military stowed alien remains and UFO wrecks. That was primarily because there hadn’t been any until the Widowmaker and her crew met their end in the Texas hill country. That didn’t mean the military didn’t have bases equipped to deal with the unexpected. In the wake of the crash and subsequent confrontation, it was quickly decided to transport the alien bodies to the closest of these facilities. This happened to be Camp Jackson, located in the New Mexico desert north of Silver City. Nicknamed the Basement because most of the site was hidden deep underground, Camp Jackson could provide more than just safe storage. It was staffed with some of the finest scientific personnel employed by the United States military and housed a battalion of Army Rangers. Secure enough, the Powers That Be concluded.

Moving the alien remains took priority for the simple reason that organic matter is almost always prone to disintegration. Flying was out of the question since there was no telling what effects the changing of air pressure would have on the already somewhat porous cadavers. Instead, the bodies were carefully transferred into hazmat containers, labeled, and loaded into the cushioned backs of three military transport vehicles while the Army set up a perimeter around the crash site. The crater itself couldn’t be approached yet because the ship hadn’t merely exploded, it had melted into a steaming, highly corrosive mess and was still in the process of dissolving further. So far it had been impossible to collect samples and it didn’t look like there’d be enough left in the end to study.

The convoy transporting the bodies consisted of three cargo and two gun trucks. It left as soon as its top secret freight was secured, but by the time it made its way slowly along the winding gravel and back roads to Route 173, the sun was setting, and when they finally merged onto I-10 West, it was pitch dark. In the cargo areas of the first two vehicles, the coffin-like boxes that contained what was left of Jas and Kir vibrated gently in tune with the hum of tires on tarmac. Both of the bodies were forever merged with their armor systems, host and symbiont inseparable even in death.

The final box wasn’t quite as peaceful, though. Had the men placed with the containers not been so busy speculating about what exactly they were guarding, they might’ve heard a thin scratching from the inside. Had the interior of the cargo area not been so dimly lit, they might’ve noticed the tiny crack that opened up at the bottom of the metal crate, or the stream of what looked like quicksilver oozing from the fracture and through a gap in the floorboards. However, it was dark and the men didn’t have orders to stay silent, so System Six managed to slip out unnoticed.

The renegade bone rider clung to the undercarriage of the truck until every last bit of him was free of Rik’s charred body and what he thought was some kind of alien corpse-carrying-box, and then he dropped to the ground with a soft, liquid sound and lay still. The rear guard passed right over him, but the driver didn’t recognize the significance of what to him looked like a puddle on the otherwise dry road. No alarm rang out, nor the squeal of brakes. After a while, the taillights of the trucks disappeared in the night.

System Six was free.

I
T
WAS
just past midnight when a battered, black pickup truck crested the hill not far from where the military convoy had lost part of its unusual cargo. The truck had seen better days, but its engine ran smoothly and its tires ate the miles with a monotonous, satisfying hum. Like its driver, the truck was used to being on the road, accustomed to the endless band of highway in front and behind and the changing scenery rushing by in patterns of stillness and motion. The hands that held the wheel were big and steady, scarred from working and fighting, gentle enough to soothe a skittish yearling and dexterous enough to perform all the nifty bottle acrobatics expected from a big-city bartender. The feet working the pedals were protected by a pair of comfortably worn-in biker boots, as hardy and reliable as their owner. The rest of the trim, wide-shouldered body lounging on the scuffed leather of the driver’s side bench seat was wrapped in sun-bleached denim and a Southern Screw employee shirt that smelled of smoke, sweat, and faintly of spilled alcohol.

Had the circumstances been different, Riley Cooper might’ve enjoyed this late-night drive. He was a man who appreciated being on the road, took pleasure in going places and discovering new things. With no family left to tie him down, no home but the memories of what had been, Riley had spent most of his adult life drifting across the continental United States like tumbleweed. He didn’t need much to be, if not happy, then at least content. Give him space to move, good music, a little money, and something to occupy his mind, and Riley was doing just fine. Emotionally fucked-up enough not to care when life got lonely sometimes, he’d mostly managed to get by without forming any lasting emotional attachments to people bound to break his heart one way or another. The key word, unfortunately, being “mostly.”

As it was, Riley had had better nights. He was tired, footsore, and more than a little unsettled. He’d left San Antonio in a hurry, grabbing only his bug-out bag, which left him with the bare necessities and not much more. He wasn’t broke, but he’d just ditched a very cushy job in a fit of what had probably only been paranoia, and that meant he’d have to watch his expenses if he didn’t want to touch his savings. That he was used to it didn’t make him any less irritable about it.

The only reason Riley hadn’t already turned around and driven back to San Antonio was that it was possible that maybe, just maybe, his paranoia wasn’t entirely unfounded. Better safe than sorry and all that. He hadn’t known the risks when he’d gotten involved with Misha, but he knew them now, and it was the kind of knowledge that couldn’t be undone. Shouldn’t be undone,
wouldn’t
be undone, because he had no intention of getting caught off-guard like that ever again. It still grated. Riley knew people, was good at reading them, seeing behind their public personas. He’d thought…. For a while there, he’d really believed…. He swallowed, hands tightening on the wheel. No. No thinking about that anymore. He’d fucked up. He knew it, he’d accepted it, he was over it. It still stung, would sting for quite a while, but damn if he was going to let it bring him down.

That was another thing though. Riley didn’t let broken relationships haunt him. He wasn’t used to being so jumpy, didn’t like how the mere possibility of pursuit made him turn tail no matter how reasonable this kind of response might be in this particular situation. When Riley moved on, he did so because of job-related reasons or because he felt like it. He didn’t grab the essentials and take off like a bat out of hell just because he thought he’d seen a familiar face in the crowd. He hadn’t even given his notice, which annoyed him to no end. He’d liked working at the Southern Screw and it bugged him that he’d had to leave his boss and colleagues hanging. Nothing he could do about it, either, because he’d tossed his cell phone in the trash on the way to his apartment. At least nobody could accuse him of doing things halfway. Hell, he’d startled so badly he’d splashed coconut rum all over his shirt. He hadn’t spilled a drop in years, but when he’d thought he’d spotted Kolya, he’d almost dropped the entire bottle.

He wanted to consider this a one-time strategic retreat, but the truth was he’d been on the run since New Orleans. Two months of always looking over his shoulder, feeling like a fool, being angry and hurt and missing Misha despite it all, because he was just that stupid. Had been just that much in love. It was enough to make him want to punch somebody, preferably the fucker responsible. This was exactly why he didn’t do relationships.

In addition to feeling sorry for himself and like a chickenshit idiot to boot, Riley was getting beyond tired. It was past midnight, and exhaustion was sneaking in on velvet paws. He’d worked a double shift tending bar at the Southern Screw and hadn’t had time to rest before his unplanned and very hasty exit, so now he was trying to hold back the fuzziness with all his might. The radio was blaring, Nancy Sinatra singing about how “these boots were made for walking.” The windows were rolled down to let in the warm night air and with it the smell of the road, the day’s heat still radiating from the sun-bleached pavement of the I-10. The cracked cup holder cradled an enormous paper cup of cooling coffee, black as the night outside and bitter as could be. It wasn’t really how Riley preferred it, but he hadn’t had the time or patience to dig through mountains of artificial sweetener on the off chance he’d find some actual, real sugar somewhere. Without it, the gas station coffee tasted almost as bad as Misha’s fancy concoctions. The man wouldn’t have known a good cup a’ joe if it had jumped up and kicked him in the face. Not that Riley gave a damn anymore. Or thought about it a lot. Uh-uh.

The broken white lines were starting to blur and blend with the gray asphalt, so Riley reached for the cup again, grimacing in advance. It was probably time to stop for the night, but the itch to keep moving was stronger still. There was nothing around but wide-open hill country and the occasional rest area anyway. Might as well keep driving for a while longer. Much as he hated that he’d bolted like this, his gut told him to keep hauling ass and Riley had learned to listen to his instincts. The only time they’d failed him had been with Misha, though he suspected that might’ve been due to thinking with his dick.

As he took a sip of coffee, nose wrinkling in disgust, he glimpsed something over the rim of the cup, something like a puddle, but the truck was there and rolling over it before he could really process the image. It made him frown a little because the weather was dry, had been dry for a while, and the puddle hadn’t looked like an oil spill. He was too tired to do anything but glance in the rearview mirror out of curiosity. There was nothing on the road behind him, so he figured it must’ve been a trick of the light, maybe a heat mirage. He didn’t know if that was possible in the middle of the night and he didn’t care.

Five minutes and as many drinks of coffee later, the engine stalled. Riley cursed, shoved the cup back into the holder, and quickly guided the car onto the emergency lane. He wasn’t all that surprised. Middle of the night, nobody around, in a hurry…. Of course the truck would pick this moment to get crotchety. If you could count on nothing else, you could always count on Murphy’s Law. He pushed open the door with his elbow, cringing a little when the capricious hinges creaked loudly in protest. The night was warm and quiet, the only sounds around the ever-present buzzing and chirping of insects and the rustle of wind in the hardy little shrubs all around.

Deciding that a break was a break, Riley took a moment to stretch the kinks out of his back and take a deep breath. The air smelled like desert, dry and dusty with a hint of sage and bee brush. Above him, the sky was pitch black and glittering with stars, remote and familiar at the same time. Weary as he was, he found he appreciated it; big cities offered their own comforts, but he’d grown up in the boonies and there’d always be a part of him that preferred the simplicity out here to the complicated bustle of city life.

As pretty as the stars were, though, streetlights would’ve been nice. The moon was full and bright, dipping the whole world in silver, but the luminescence was superficial, more likely to create shadows than vanquish them. Riley grumbled a curse and reached over to dig his flashlight out of the glove compartment before he climbed out of the truck and popped the hood.

“All right,” he muttered, leaning forward. “Let’s see….”

There was silver all over the engine block, and it had nothing to do with the moon. It was moving, shifting, slithering around. Riley stared at it uncomprehendingly for a second, his fatigued mind too sluggish to go from “huh-pretty-what-the-hell” to “gah-moving-get-away!” in time to duck when the writhing mass attacked.