Bloodbath collapsed backward, her massive frame buckling. Kevin didn’t fight her weight; he rode it down. As she fell to her knees, he slid his left arm tightly around her neck, cinching his forearm against her throat. In the same motion, he jammed the muzzle of his energy pistol hard against her right temple.

  The red bar in his vision depleted rapidly, draining to half capacity. Kevin released RTD, and the world snapped back to violent, real-time speed.

  THUD.

  Bloodbath hit the dirt on her knees, Kevin locked securely against her back. A collective, strangled gasp rose from the raiders and Fairville’s defenders alike. To them, it had been instantaneous: one moment she was swinging a club, and in the next frame of reality, she was on her knees with a gun to her head.

  "What the—" Bloodbath tried to roar, but the sound died in her throat, strangled by the iron bar of Kevin’s forearm crushing her windpipe.

  "Shhh," Kevin whispered directly into her ear. "One wrong move, and I paint the ground with whatever passes for your brain."

  He hauled back on her neck, arching her spine and forcing her to look up at the sky, effectively breaking her posture. The barrel of the pistol dug into her skin, a cold promise of death.

  "Tell them to drop the weapons," Kevin ordered, his voice low and dangerous. He tightened his grip on her throat, cutting off the blood flow just enough to make her vision swim. "Now, or you die first."

  The massive woman froze, her hands hovering helplessly in the air. She realized that despite her strength, she couldn't reach him without catching a plasma bolt through the skull.

  Bloodbath swallowed against his forearm. "Hold position," she called to her raiders, voice roughened by the pressure on her throat. "Don't shoot."

  Kevin rose to his feet in a single fluid motion, hauling Bloodbath up with him, pistol never wavering from its position. Her bound hands and his firm grip on her collar kept her off-balance, her seven-foot frame hunched awkwardly to accommodate his control point.

  "Cindy," he called to the battered scout still kneeling in the dirt. "Walk toward the gate. Slowly."

  The woman looked up, her one good eye darting between Kevin and the raiders surrounding them. Her legs trembled as she pushed herself upright, each movement clearly causing pain. Blood matted her hair and stained her torn clothing, but determination straightened her spine as she took the first hesitant step toward Fairville's walls.

  "That's it," Kevin encouraged, keeping his attention split between the hostage and the twenty raiders whose weapons remained trained on him. Behind them, the chained slaves watched with expressions ranging from confusion to the first fragile flickers of hope.

  Movement caught in his enhanced peripheral vision. A raider on the left, shorter than the others, had his hand drifting toward an energy pistol holstered at his hip. Kevin tensed, calculating whether to shift his aim from Bloodbath to address the new threat.

  A sharp crack split the air. The raider's head exploded in a spray of bone and brain matter, the body collapsing like a puppet with cut strings. From her sniper position atop Fairville's wall, Val smiled at the falling raider, the barrel of her rifle already tracking to the next potential target.

  "Anyone else feeling brave?" Kevin called, his voice carrying across the suddenly silent standoff. No one moved, all eyes locked on their fallen comrade whose blood steamed slightly where it pooled on the ground.

  Cindy had reached the gate, hands pressed against the metal as guards pulled her to safety through the narrow opening. With the hostage secured, Kevin made his next move, one that required perfect timing and the last of his RTD reserves.

  The red bar in his vision had refilled to just over half capacity. He activated it, time slowing to a fraction of its normal pace, and moved. To outside observers, he seemed to vanish from behind Bloodbath, reappearing instantaneously in the center of the raider group before anyone could react. The drain on his reserves was immediate and severe, the red bar dropping precipitously.

  As time resumed normal flow, Kevin stood amid the startled raiders, an energy grenade held in his outstretched hand, thumb resting on the activation switch. His sudden appearance in their midst caused several to stumble backward, weapons swinging wildly to track his movement.

  "This is an MKIV energy grenade," he announced, voice pitched to carry to every raider. "Fifteen-meter lethal radius. When it detonates, it turns organic matter into superheated vapor. Your skin melts before your nerves can tell your brain you're dying. Your eyeballs boil in their sockets." He let the words sink in, watching fear replace confusion in their expressions. "I'm standing in the middle of you all for a reason. Not one of you is outside the kill zone."

  From the walls of Fairville, defenders raised their weapons, energy weapons humming as they powered up. Val's sniper barrel gleamed in the reddish light, her single eye visible through her scope as she tracked targets.

  "Here's what happens next," Kevin continued, his thumb applying just enough pressure to the grenade switch to make his point. "The slaves are going to walk toward Fairville's gate. You're going to back away slowly. When everyone who wants freedom is inside, you get to leave with your lives and your leader." He smiled, a cold expression that never reached his eyes. "Or I press this switch, and we all find out if there's an afterlife. Your call."

  The nearest slaves exchanged uncertain glances, then one, a thin man with a face mapped by old scars, took a tentative step toward Fairville. When no raider moved to stop him, others followed, metal chains clinking as they shuffled forward as quickly as their exhaustion allowed.

  "This isn't over," Bloodbath snarled from where she remained bound near the gate, her massive frame radiating impotent rage. "We'll come back with more men, more guns..."

  "Then we'll kill you all," Kevin interrupted matter-of-factly. "And unlike you, we won't waste time with threats." He kept the grenade raised, eyes never leaving the raiders as the slaves continued their hesitant exodus. "Start backing up. Now."

  The raiders retreated step by reluctant step, weapons still raised but resolve clearly shaken. Without their leader's intimidating presence, their formation dissolved into individualistic self-preservation, each person measuring the distance between themselves and the grenade in Kevin's steady hand.

  As the last of the slaves passed safely behind him toward Fairville's gate, Kevin began his own careful retreat, maintaining eye contact with the raiders. The red bar in his vision had emptied to a thin sliver, barely visible against the HUD's display. If they rushed him now, he'd have no enhanced perception to fall back on, just the grenade and whatever normal combat skills he could muster on depleted reserves.

  But the moment for counterattack had passed. The raiders continued their withdrawal, dragging the bound Bloodbath with them. When they reached the edge of effective weapons range, they broke into a disorganized run, disappearing around a bend in the road with final backward glances filled with equal parts fear and promised retribution.

  Kevin waited until they were fully out of sight before lowering the grenade and removing his thumb from the activation switch. Only then did he turn toward Fairville, where Mayor Curtis stood at the open gate, directing the freed slaves inside with gentle gestures.

  "Get these people medical attention and food," Curtis called to his people. "And water. Clean water first."

  The former slaves moved with the dazed expressions of people unable to process their sudden freedom. Some wept openly; others maintained the vacant stare of those who had survived by retreating deep into themselves. They flinched at sudden movements, clutched at each other for support, and repeatedly looked over their shoulders as if expecting the raiders to reappear at any moment.

  As Kevin walked back toward the gate, the red bar in his vision began its slow regeneration, drawing Redz40 from the ambient atmosphere. He felt the familiar tingling beneath his skin as his enhanced systems absorbed the particles, converting them to the energy that made him something more than human. By the time he reached Duncan's position just inside the wall, the bar had refilled to roughly twenty percent capacity.

  "Risky play," she observed, her tone neutral but eyes communicating approval. "But effective."

  "Sometimes the threat of violence works better than violence itself," Kevin replied, securing the grenade in his tactical vest.

  Above them, Val descended from her sniper position with inhuman agility, landing beside them with barely a sound. Her tail swayed once, ears perked forward. "Nice work, Old World," she said, her single blue eye bright with adrenaline. "Though next time, maybe give me a heads-up before you teleport into a crowd of hostiles?"

  Kevin watched as the freed slaves were guided toward Fairville's medical building, their chains being cut away by settlement workers with bolt cutters. "They'll be back," he said quietly.

  Duncan nodded. "But we'll be ready. And this time, we take the fight to them."

  The red bar continued its steady climb toward full capacity as Kevin turned his attention to the planning that would come next. The Waste Mob had been driven back, but not defeated. The real work was just beginning.

  Chapter eleven

  WHAT IS IT GOOD FOR? ABSOLUTELY NOTHING.

  Fairville's command center smelled of mildew and desperation. Kevin watched as three militia guards wrapped Cindy's wounds with a combination of actual medical supplies and repurposed metal bracers from sports equipment. The scout winced but made no sound as they tightened a bandage around her ribs. Her face was a roadmap of bruises, but her eyes remained clear and focused as she spread her crumpled papers across the folding table that served as the settlement's war room.

  "Sorry about the quality," Cindy said, smoothing out a hand-drawn map with dirt-smudged fingers. "Wasn't exactly equipped for a formal cartography session."

  Kevin leaned over the papers, his enhanced vision catching details that might have been missed by normal eyes. The map showed a twenty-story structure, Harmon Tower, surrounded by crude defensive positions. Nearby sheets detailed weapon caches, patrol routes, and estimated personnel counts.

  "Forty-three raiders total," Cindy continued, tapping a sheet with tallies and descriptions. "Most are armed with improvised melee weapons, but about fifteen have firearms. Mostly old pre-war stuff held together with duct tape and prayers." She winced as a guard secured a metal bracer around her sprained wrist. "Seven have energy weapons they've stolen from caravans. Three work based on what I observed."

  Duncan circled the table, her movements economical and exact. "Guard rotations?"

  "Four-hour shifts, minimal coverage between 0200 and 0400." Cindy pointed to several X marks around the tower's base. "These are blind spots in their security. They're cocky and don't expect anyone to hit back."

  Kevin studied the patrol routes, calculating approach vectors and lines of fire. The raiders had chosen their base well, as the tower provided elevation advantage and clear sightlines in all directions. But like most untrained forces, they'd made critical errors in their defensive positioning.

  "They've concentrated most of their firepower here," he said, indicating the main entrance. "But left their eastern approach undermanned. Classic mistake."

  Movement in his peripheral vision drew Kevin's attention. A young man, barely out of his teens, approached the table with the cautious movements of someone expecting to be struck for speaking. His eyes darted nervously around the room, and his fingers twitched with barely controlled energy. The iron collar had been removed from his neck, but the raw skin beneath told its own story.

  "You... you're going after them?" the former slave asked, voice cracking.

  Kevin straightened, giving the young man his full attention. "That's the plan."

  The slave swallowed hard. "Then you should know about Jan Twotimes."

  "Who's that?" Duncan asked, her posture shifting subtly toward the young man.

  "The Bloodbath's lieutenant. Always says everything twice, hence the name." His hands trembled as he spoke, but his eyes had found focus. "He's got an RPG, a real one, not some jury-rigged thing. Green tube with Cyrillic writing on it. I cleaned it for him. Twice." A bitter smile touched his lips. "He's got six rounds for it. Keeps them in a red metal box under his cot."

  Kevin exchanged a glance with Duncan. An RPG-7 could change the tactical equation significantly.

  "How do you know this?" Kevin asked.

  "I was his personal slave for three weeks before she," he jerked his head toward the direction the Bloodbath had retreated, "decided I'd be more useful elsewhere. I cleaned their weapons, served their food, and heard things they thought I was too broken to understand."

  Val moved closer, her wolf ears perking with interest. "What kind of things?"

  The young man's eyes flicked to her, widening slightly at her animal features before continuing. "The Gulf Confederacy's falling apart. Civil war or something. That's why these splinter groups are moving north into UAC territory. They've got nowhere else to go."

  Kevin felt his pulse quicken. This was valuable intelligence, far beyond the scope of their current mission. If the Gulf Confederacy, the UAC's primary geopolitical rival, was collapsing, it would dramatically alter the strategic landscape.

  "How certain are you about this?" Duncan asked, her voice carefully neutral.

  "Heard it from three different sources. Raiders talk when they think you're furniture." His jaw tightened. "The eastern groups are fighting the western ones. Something about resources and ideology. The Bloodbath's group used to be GC Special Forces before they went independent."

  Val reached into her pocket and pulled out a bright red lollipop, a luxury in this resource-scarce world. She handed it to the young man with a big smile on her face, her tail swaying behind her as she turned to Kevin and Duncan.

  "We have to send a runner to the Western Outpost to get this information to the President in case we get killed or captured," she said firmly, ears pressing against her skull to emphasize her point.

  Duncan nodded, her blonde ponytail bobbing beneath her baseball cap. "I agree. We can't let these raiders have enough time to stabilize, regroup and get an attack force together." She traced a finger along the map. "Cindy's documents confirm it's about a six-mile trek. Given their group size and probable lack of cohesion after our encounter, we can expect them to reach their base in about two hours."

  She glanced at her watch, making rapid calculations. "The Humvee's already charging on the generator. Should give us enough energy to really floor it if we need to."

  Kevin weighed their options. The intel on the Gulf Confederacy's collapse needed to reach Fort DC, but their immediate mission took precedence. The longer they waited, the more time the Waste Mob had to prepare for their attack.

  As he was processing this, Duncan looked over to him pondering, "What are you thinking?"

  "Mayor Curtis can handle getting a messenger to the Western Outpost," he decided, feeling the familiar weight of command settling onto his shoulders. "Our job is to neutralize the immediate threat."

  Duncan raised an eyebrow. "Agreed. But if we hit them hard and fast, we risk missing valuable intelligence on the GC situation."

  "We'll need to take at least one officer alive for questioning," Kevin said, shifting his focus back to the tower schematics. "Preferably this Jan Twotimes."

  Val grinned, her canine teeth gleaming. "I can put a round through his knee from half a mile. He'll talk plenty after that."

  The young slave had backed away, clutching the lollipop as if it might be taken from him at any moment. Kevin noticed his retreat but kept his focus on the tactical problem. Taking down forty armed raiders in a defensive position would be challenging, even with his enhancements. But the alternative, letting the Waste Mob regroup and return for vengeance, was unacceptable.

  "We hit them before they reach the tower," he decided. "Catch them on the road while they're still disorganized from our earlier encounter."

  Duncan nodded, running her fingers over the map. "Ambush position here," she said, pointing to a narrow pass between collapsed highway overpasses. "We can funnel them into a kill zone."

  "And I can set up overwatch on this rise," Val added, indicating a position that would give her clear sightlines across the approach.

  Kevin smiled and clapped Duncan on the back, his eyes hardening with determination. "Alright, let's ride."

  The words hung in the air with the weight of inevitable violence. Around them, Fairville's command center buzzed with renewed purpose. Militia members checked weapons, messengers prepared to carry the Gulf Confederacy intelligence westward, and medics gathered supplies for the wounded who would inevitably return.

  But Kevin's world had narrowed to the mission parameters unfolding in his mind. Strike fast. Strike hard. Eliminate the threat.

  The Humvee's electric motor emitted a soft whine as it drew power from Fairville's generator. Kevin secured his equipment in the vehicle's storage compartments with methodical care, each item placed for maximum accessibility during combat. The standard UAC energy weapons were reliable, but experience had taught him to prepare for contingencies. When ammunition ran out or power cells depleted, a good blade never failed.

  A Fairville resident approached. He was an older man with leathery skin and hands that bore the calluses of someone who'd spent decades creating weapons from scrap. He carried a machete that had clearly begun life as something else, perhaps a truck's leaf spring, now ground and sharpened into a wicked cutting edge.

  "Heard you're going after those bastards," the man said, offering the weapon. "This'll serve you better than those fancy energy guns when you're up close. It doesn't need charging."

  Kevin accepted the machete, testing its weight and balance. The handle had been wrapped in strips of tire rubber for grip, the blade itself showing small chips and a well-maintained edge. He ran his thumb lightly along the cutting surface, feeling its sharpness. Not military grade, but serviceable, and in some ways, preferable.