No I in Team
"The infuriating thing about an individual way of living. People are always angry at anyone who chooses very individual standards for his life; because of the extraordinary treatment which that man grants to himself, they feel degraded, like ordinary beings." —Friedrich Nietzsche.
8. End of an Era
Location: Just outside Lagos, Nigeria
20,000ft and descending
22:30 HRS
James took a deep breath and tried to silence his stomach, which was currently complaining loudly about Bradley's handling of the airplane. He wasn't a great flier even in the best of circumstances, and these definitely weren't the best of circumstances. There was just something inherently wrong with a man piloting an aircraft using the power of his mind. Granted, Bradley was a qualified pilot, thanks to his extensive military training, but pilots ought to keep their hands on the damn controls… or at least sit in the cockpit so they could see where they were going.
"I've never crashed a plane yet, Logan," Bradley reminded him cheerfully.
"First time for everything," he managed to reply.
"I don't get it, man," said Wraith. "You'll happily charge a dozen armed enemies without any sort of shield, but even the thought of flying makes you go green."
"That's because I know I can survive a bullet-shower. I'm not so sure about a plane crash, and I'd rather not find out."
"Relax, Captain. We'll be on the ground in less than ten minutes," said Bradley.
"Just make sure we get on the ground safely, Bradley. Take extra time, if you need it."
The young mutant closed his eyes and resumed remote-controlling the plane with his mind. He claimed he didn't need to look out of the window, because the plane's equipment told him everything he needed to know about wind speed, air pressure, approach vector, and all sorts of technical sounding stuff that, if interpreted incorrectly, could end in the plane hurtling into the ground in a massive fireball. But Bradley's claims did nothing to calm James' nerves, which made him feel a little guilty. He trusted Bradley… he just didn't trust planes. Too much could go wrong with them.
In the silence of the cabin, small noises stood out. The engines seemed to throb and whirr – was that natural? Hard to say. Each plane engine had its own unique sound, its own voice, just like each person had his own individual voice. What was the engine on the medium-sized cargo plane saying now, he wondered? Yes, I'll happily land safely on the ground, no problem at all. That's what the engine sounded like it was saying. It's what he hoped it was saying.
His own heartbeat was a loud, fast-paced drum rhythm inside his head. Thud-thud. Thud-thud. Thud-thud. It seemed to reverberate around his chest as it pushed the blood around his body. The noise was amplified by the hollow, round-walled interior of the plane, echoing his heartbeat back to him. It was a wonder nobody else could hear it, even with their inferior hearing.
A metallic srrring, srrring noise provided a steady counter-rhythm to his heartbeat, a result of Wade sharpening one of his swords, though how he could possibly get his already razor-sharp blades any sharper was a mystery. It wasn't a comforting noise; it spoke of a promise of violence, each srrring a threat of what was to come. The blade's owner was currently involved in a staring contest with Victor, sitting opposite. It was hard to tell which of them was winning. Victor's stare was enough to make most people look away quickly, but Wade's survival instincts were often suspect; this one could go either way.
The remaining sound inside the plane was an amalgamation of eight men breathing, every inhalation and expiration filling the air with quiet sighs. Each of them seemed calm and confident—James' flight-jitters notwithstanding, of course—and through the nausea he felt a moment of pride at how far the team had come. Three years ago, they'd had barely any military experience between them and known 'teamwork' only as a word that was largely alien to them. Even when they'd been making their best attempts in the early days, they'd each been one man for himself, trying to work with other men for themselves.
Now, they were a cohesive, functioning unit. They knew each others' strengths and weaknesses, knew their teammates' limits, and their own, and knew how to work together to accomplish their goals. Of course, there was still some friction, some good-natured mocking and self-important strutting, but that was human nature for you. It didn't change just because the humans in questions were mutants.
James glanced to Stryker, trying to work out why he'd ordered the team to Nigeria. He was being his usual taciturn self, operating on a need-to-know basis. Usually that meant the team only needed to know just before the fighting broke out, and this time was no exception. They'd brought their own weapons along, because when you were flying by military craft you didn't have to worry about customs officers freaking out over the large amount of ordnance in your carry-all. Most of the team had been kitted out with automatic rifles, but Zero had his pistols, and Wade his swords.
There was bumping, jerking motion as the plane touched down on the runway, and James swallowed the lump that tried to stick itself in his throat. It wasn't the smoothest landing he'd ever experienced… but not bad for a guy who was piloting a plane using only the power of his brain.
"Alright," said Stryker, standing up and addressing the team as the plane came to a stop, "we don't have far to go, and we'll be going there on foot, through one of the more impoverished districts of Lagos. Crime is rife in this area, so don't expect too much shock from the locals over the sight of guns. We'll be heading to the nearby headquarters of a diamond magnate. His name isn't important. What is important is that he has something I need, and his compound will be heavily guarded. Lethal force is authorised and will probably be required for us to gain entry into the premises. We make our way to the top of the building, where I expect to question whoever is left alive. Let's get going. We're in, we do what we need to do, then we're out and back in the sky. No hanging around, boys."
James checked that everyone was locked and loaded, then followed Stryker out of the open plane door. The air was warm, the sky dark, but no stars were visible from the runway; Lagos' population numbered five million or more, and a city that size couldn't help but put out a hell of a lot of ambient light. The whole sky-line was filled with an artificial orange haze, and James wondered how anyone got any sleep with that much unnatural glow saturating the air.
He glanced around, trying to determine where he was in relation to other geographical features. In the near distance were a collection of high-rise buildings and towering sky-scrapers, surrounded by a sprawling jumble of shanty-houses. He could just about detect the smell of the sea on the warm breeze, and judged the coast-line to be a few miles to the east. The airport itself had only one runway, and it was a small one; probably for use by private charter, rather than commercial airlines.
Stryker stopped on the edge of the airfield, and pointed to a tall grey building looming in the distance. "Our destination, Captain. Would you be so good as to lead the way?"
Translated from Stryker-speak to English, that meant, "Will you take point, in case any disgruntled locals decide to try and stop us?" but James merely nodded and stepped forwards, flanked by Dukes and Wraith. He purposely didn't hold his weapon closer as he took the team into the run-down housing district, choosing to appear confident and unconcerned. He knew that if he looked tense and hostile, it would put the locals on edge, and the last thing he wanted was terrified people panicking and causing problems.
As he walked down the dry, dusty streets, trying his best to ignore the smell of too many humans living in close proximity in unsanitary conditions, he heard the scurry of people moving swiftly out of the way, attempting to hide themselves in the shadows. There was no threat, here. The people smelled of caution, but not fear. Stryker was right; the sight of armed men was no surprise here, and the locals seemed to sense that they were not the intended targets of the foreign invaders. Like herds of wildebeest eyeing up a pride of lions in the Savannah, they kept a close watch but did not start a panicked stampede.
There was no direct route from the runway to their destination, and James was forced to lead the team through narrow, warren-like streets. Everywhere he looked he spotted potential ambush locations, but despite the ample opportunity, no ambush came. Either the men in the tower didn't know that Stryker's team was coming for them, or they just didn't care. Either way, their lack of preparation would be to Team X's advantage. Complacent men were either arrogant or foolish; possibly both.
At last there was an end to the rank-smelling streets, the over-flowing sewer-grates and the piles of decomposing food scraps. James stepped out of the shanty and into the clear area around the base of the tower. Team X were clustered behind him; he'd have to have words with them about that, later. A group of men made for a tempting target. The team would have been better spreading out, but with their minds on the task ahead they likely weren't thinking about strategy.
The fortifications around the base of the tower were a little unexpected, but nothing to be too worried about. A dozen armed guards covered the ground level and a raised fortification, a pair of M2 machine guns were mounted behind sandbags, and there was a single, ancient-looking tank. James had gone up against his share of tanks, in World War Two, and he knew their weaknesses well. As for the rest of it… he was content to wait and hear Stryker's plan.
Stryker stepped forward from behind James, and glanced over the tower's defences. He nodded to himself, as if seeing the fortifications confirmed what he'd already known, then gestured to the armed guards.
"Zero?"
The sharp-shooter smiled and strode forward, and when he stepped close enough to the compound gates to be seen, a floodlight picked him up. There was a frenzy of movement behind the chain fence; men scrambled for their weapons, others called for Zero to put his hands behind his head, and had he been anybody other than Zero, their actions might have had use.
As James watched, Zero reached behind his head, to where his pistols were holstered across his shoulders. His fingers sought out the weapon grips with the ease of familiarity, and as he grasped the pistols he brought them up and over his head, both guns firing with deadly precision. The first four men went down before they even had time to clock what was happening. By the time Zero was running forward, the men in the compound were scrambling to action. A hail of gunfire pounded the perimeter of the compound, countered by Zero taking out the two men behind the M2s. The sharp-shooter launched himself up and over the compound gate, his mutant agility and reflexes carrying him easily over the barbed wire as his pistols continued to shoot with practised regularity.
James pitied the men who fell. They'd been hired to stop local thugs and rival gangs from invading the compound; they hadn't trained to fight against mutants, who had natural advantages, and they stood no chance of succeeding against such well-armed, well-trained opponents. Zero's swift reflexes and damn-near perfect aim made him a potent weapon, and unfortunately for these local toughs, he was aimed right at them.
A mechanical hum filled the outer compound, and James saw movement from the corner of his eye. The turret of the tank was being turned towards the remainder of the group; their presence had finally been noticed.
"Fred?" said Stryker.
"The tank?" the big man asked.
"The tank."
"Yeah, I got that."
Fred ambled casually over to the heavily armoured tank, and peered down the cannon of the main gun. As it prepared to fire, he stuck his large hand into the mouth of the gun, plugging it with his fist. There was a loud boom, and the force of the blast, with no way of travelling forwards, instead was sent back along the length of the gun, causing an explosion in the vehicle's interior. A fireball consumed it, the plates expanding out briefly with the force of the blast, and the whole thing began to smoke.
Victor grinned, pleased with the carnage. "Having fun yet?" he said quietly to his brother.
"Victor," said Stryker, "that explosion couldn't have gone unnoticed. Go topside and keep a look out. If anybody tries to escape, break a couple of limbs."
James watched as Victor loped forwards and extended his claws, latching on to the side of the building. The specially designed boots on his feet gave him a similar grip, and he seemed to flow vertically up the building wall, his body unnaturally defying gravity as he launched himself higher and higher without losing any momentum. It was a feat that should have been impossible, and was impossible… for normal men. For a mutant like Victor, it was just one more trick up the proverbial sleeve.
"Area secure, sir," called Zero. Looking around at the carnage, James saw only piles of bodies, men who had died in the places they had fallen. Some of the corpses still twitched, their muscles in spasm, faces going vacant, eyes going glassy. Sixteen, he counted. Sixteen bloody, holey bodies, and that wasn't even counting the pair in the tank. Sixteen men killed in the space of thirty seconds, and Zero hadn't even broken a sweat.
The sudden weight of that fact hit James, just as the sharp, metallic smell of still-warm blood assaulted his nose, taking him back to every battle and skirmish and war ever fought. He wasn't in Nigeria anymore, he was in in the US during the civil war; he was in the dank, cold trenches of World War One; he was parachuting behind enemy lines in World War Two; he was back in Vietnam, watching Victor crush the wind-pipe of a superior officer with his bare hands; he was in a dozen, no, a hundred, small fights and bar-brawls, each of which hand ended with blood being shed, limbs being broken, and sometimes, lives being lost. Suddenly, he felt every single death as a weight upon his shoulders.
"Good work, Zero," said Stryker. He strode towards the sharp-shooter at the building entrance, stepping over the bodies as if they were nothing but sacks of potatoes. "Keep watch out here in case the men inside have called for back-up. The rest of you are with me."
The rest of the team followed Stryker into the building. James pulled himself together, trying to shake off the excess weight of guilt and death, and with Dukes he took point, senses alert for any further signs of life. When he heard a quiet sniffling sound, James narrowed his eyes, and tracked the noise to a nearby door. He pulled it open, extended the claws from his hand, and lifted it to strike.
He was met by the sight of two women cowering in what turned out to be a janitorial closet. Their eyes were large and terrified in their dark faces, and each of them clutched rosary beads in their hands, praying quietly under their breath in thick accents. He lowered his fist, retracting the bone claws, wrinkling nose at the scent of fear that he picked up from the women.
"If you know what's good for you, you'll stay here and keep quiet," he said.
They nodded, still praying, and he saw true fear in their eyes. They didn't know that he wouldn't harm civilians, that he'd rather cut off his own arm than hurt a woman. They couldn't smell how genuine he was being, and they wouldn't believe any reassurances he gave them. And right then, it hit him. He was one of the bad guys. Somewhere, over the past three years, he'd gone from 'protect and serve' to 'invade and slaughter,' and now the very people who should have felt safe with him around, instead felt as if their lives were in danger.
This is what the US government stands for? he thought. If so, then black-ops was a lot blacker than he'd ever suspected. There were times, like this, when he felt less like a government operative and more like the leader of Stryker's own private task-force. Hell, as far as he knew, the government wasn't involved in any of this at all. Perhaps it was all just one big con, designed to fool him, and the other mutants, into believing they were working for the good guys.
But… no. That was foolish paranoia. Wasn't it?
"Are you coming, Logan?" Stryker asked.
James closed the cupboard and glanced at Stryker. He was standing in front of an elevator, into which the rest of the Team X were walking. All he could do was hope the women would be smart enough to stay put; if they tried to run, Zero would probably shoot them. And if they were really unlucky, Victor would get to them first.
He joined the rest of the team in the elevator, and the doors closed behind him. Naturally, cheesy elevator music was was playing quietly in the background, some song that was probably meant to be soothing but in actual fact was damn irritating. For a moment he considered asking Bradley to change the track; then the elevator stopped climbing. The whole thing went black, and the emergency lighting came on instead, painting the boxlike interior, and its occupants, in a greenish tinge. James heard the man closest to the control panel push one of the buttons a couple of times, but nothing happened.
"Great," said Wade. "Stuck in an elevator with five guys on a high-protein diet."
Stryker sighed. "Wade…" he warned.
"Dreams really do come true."
"Just shut it," said Stryker, in a rare show of impatience. "You're up next." From opposing corners of the elevator, Bradley, Dukes and Wraith grinned, filling the elevator with the scent of humour.
"Thank you, sir. You look really nice today. It's the green; brings out the seriousness in your eyes."
"Oh my God, do you ever shut up?!" Logan demanded, though he already knew the answer.
"No, not when I'm awake."
"Bradley, top floor, please," said Stryker.
James couldn't see the young mutant's face, but he knew he'd closed his eyes and tapped into his power, because a moment later the elevator started moving again and the full lights came back on. The smell of humour dissipated as the elevator continued its ascent, and as the indicator light reached the penultimate floor, Stryker gestured for everybody to stand to the sides and give Wade room.
Nobody needed telling twice. Everybody except James, and Victor who was on the roof, was wearing a bullet proof vest, because a single hit could be fatal – or in the case of Fred Dukes, very painful. Whoever was standing on the other side of the doors obviously knew that the elevator was full of enemies, and that their attempts to shut the elevator down had failed. They'd be prepared, now, and if the fortifications on the outside of the building were any indication, they'd be prepared with a considerable amount of weaponry. None of Team X wanted to stand in the way of a lethal stray bullet… or Wade's katanas.
"Time to go to work," said Wade, as the elevator reached the top floor.
The doors opened and the former merc stepped forward, swords already whirling at top speed, a flashy accompaniment to the sound of automatic weapons fire. Over the sound of the gunfire, James was just about able to make out quiet metallic chink noises, which told him Wade was on top form today. The louder thunk noise was bodies hitting the floor, and James counted eight of them. Then a moment of silence, followed by more gunfire, more deflected bullets, and then a more organic, visceral sound; metal slicing through flesh. Two last thunks ended the show.
"Okay," Wade called. "People are dead."
Stryker stepped out of the elevator, and James followed suit, accompanied by the rest of the team. The major strode forward, ignoring the bodies and the puddles of blood they lay in. James didn't have that luxury; the scent of blood, horrible and sharp and metallic, assaulted his nose, making bile rise in his throat. It was always worse indoors, with no fresh air to disperse the stench.
"If you didn't have that mouth on you, Wade, you'd be the perfect soldier," Stryker said, smelling of barely discernible satisfaction. He was always pleased when his weapons performed to high standards. Wade merely gave a parody of a salute, and stepped back, allowing Stryker to approach the man sitting behind the desk at the far end of the room.
Movement from the corner of James' eye caught his attention, and his head snapped to the left, where he saw a row of tables, and smelt fear and confusion. Then he saw them; men and women huddled behind the desks, staring in fear at the intruders, their worried eyes glancing to the fallen guards. James counted twelve of them in total; six on the left, six on the right. Civilians, one for each desk. He had to give Wade his due; not a single one of the civilians had been hit by a reflected bullet. The man might be an unrelenting verbal pain in the ass most of the time, but when it came to this sort of precision work, he was second to none.
What the hell had Stryker brought them here for? Diamond magnates were not the usual target for US black-ops. At first, James had thought that this might be another Bertelli situation, with the diamond tycoon dabbling in international crime which directly affected America. Now, he saw that couldn't possibly be true. Though this building had been well-guarded, it looked to be a fairly small operation. If a man could make his fortune in diamonds, why did he need to run guns, or smuggle drugs, or resort to blackmail? Diamonds did not depreciate as easily as money.
Suddenly, Wraith teleported, appearing by the side of the man behind the desk.
"I wouldn't do that if I was you, brother," he said, lifting the man's hand from below the desk.
James mentally kicked himself. He should have seen that. Should have anticipated further resistance. But he'd been too concerned with the safety of the civilians to think about retaliation. Luckily, Wraith had been on his guard, otherwise this op might have ended bloody. Well, bloodier.
"Take the diamonds," said the man behind the desk. "They are yours."
"I don't want your diamonds," said Stryker. He stepped forward and picked up a chunk of metallic rock that James hadn't noticed until now. "I want this."
"That? It is nothing. A souvenir."
"Where did you find it? I want the source."
For a moment, James thought the man wasn't going to reply; his smell was confusing, fear and anger and defiance all mixed in together with suspicion and a lack of understanding. But the guy's survival instincts appeared to be intact, because at last he replied.
"A small village. Far inland. Three days from here."
Stryker pulled a folded-up map from one of his pockets and dropped it on the table. "You're going to mark the village on the map, and I suggest you think carefully about where you mark it, because if it's wrong, we're going to come back and ask you again. Only next time, my men won't be so polite."
The man looked around at the dead bodies, and James could almost hear his thoughts. This is polite? It wasn't as if he had much choice, though. All of his guards were dead; there was nobody left to protect him. But it wasn't all bad. Guards could be replaced, and Stryker had no interest in taking the diamonds. If making a mark on a map was all it took to get rid of this American and his bunch of freakish soldiers, then so be it. At least he still had his life, and his wealth. He picked up a pen and made an X mark on the map.
Stryker said nothing; merely picked up the map and turned back towards the elevator. Dukes, Bradley and Wade followed him, and James took a last look at the frightened faces of the civilians. He'd seen their expressions a dozen times. A hundred times. Too many times to remember each one. The shell-shocked looks on their faces were echoed throughout his long years of fighting and killing. But he'd never been the source of that look before. It had always been a symptom of something larger; wars which sucked up everyone in their wake, air raids which devastated towns and cities… never before had innocent people had cause to fear him. He realised, then, than in joining Team X, in working for the US government, he'd become part of something larger. A small cog in a big engine, powerless to halt the machine from within. The thought left a sour taste in his mouth.
"Y' coming, Logan?" Wraith asked. He'd paused by the elevator, his rifle, as yet unfired, held casually across his chest.
"Yeah, I'm coming," he replied. But, for the first time, he wished he could disobey his orders. He wished he had the strength to just walk away.
o - o - o - o - o
Location: Unnamed village
Three days travel from Lagos
23:00 HRS
"For three days, Team X walked through the dense, hot jungle. Their goal; an X marked on a map, put there by an unreliable source. What would they find when they reached their destination? They did not know, but they walked anyway. Their diet of polystyrene-flavoured military rations was supplemented by watermelon and mango and, in the case of Victor, a chimpanzee which had been stupid enough to venture down to ground level. Conditions were grim; the heat and humidity were almost unbearable and insects swarmed both day and night, biting at hard, sweat-slicked bodies that glistened alluringly in the sunlight.
For three days they walked through that torturous terrain, hacking at plants and sometimes animals, until at last they reached their destination, that tiny little black ink X smack bang in the middle of nothing but trees. It was night time, the sun long past fading from the sky, and the team clustered together in the shelter of the trees, just on the outskirts of the village, hidden from the firelight by the dancing shadows of the jungle. There, they stood, tense and alert, waiting for their next orders."
"Who are you even talking to?" Zero demanded.
"My adoring fans," said Wade. "Just giving them the short version of how we got here."
"Enough of this," Stryker said. "Now isn't the time for games. We have a job to do."
"What job?" James demanded. "What are we even doing here?"
"The work of the US military, Logan. I don't question my orders, and neither should you. Now, Wade, did you learn the language, like I asked?"
"It was difficult," replied Wade. "Nowhere near as easy as Italian. Took me two days to—"
"I didn't ask for your goddamn life story, Wade. Just answer the question."
Wade rolled his eyes at Logan—the heat seemed to make the Major grouchy—before turning his attention back to Stryker. "Yessir, language learned, sir."
"Good. Logan, I want you and the rest of the team to round up the villagers and put them in the village centre. Wade, find the chief and separate him from the others. Bradley, contact base and let them know we've reached our destination."
Bradley nodded. 'Base' was a small group of soldiers who'd already been waiting in Lagos for the team's arrival. Stryker had checked in with them after raiding the diamond magnate's compound, and they'd provided a couple of jeeps to take the team as far into the jungle as the vehicles could manage. Most of the journey had, unfortunately, been on foot.
Whilst Bradley was busy with comms, James gestured for the rest of the team to follow him closer to the village.
"Wraith, Dukes," he instructed, "circle around to the other side of the camp. Wraith, you're on round-up duty. Zero, Wade, head on in the opposite direction in case anyone tries to flee towards the river. They've probably got small boats moored nearby, and if they make it to them, we'll never catch them. Victor, you're with me."
He'd learnt long ago to keep Victor within his sights. Even when he was being watched, though, his behaviour remained erratic. Victor was a volatile man, liable to burst into a fit of violent rage at any minute. Usually, blood was the trigger, but sometimes it could be something as innocuous as a look. If Victor thought someone was looking at him 'funny,' then God help that man.
Wraith teleported with Dukes, who wasn't prone to moving silently, and both Wade and Zero disappeared into the jungle. There was a time when James would have needed to use a radio to co-ordinate the attack, but three years of working with his team had taught him a lot about timing. He knew that Wraith and Dukes would already be in place, and that it would take the other pair only five minutes to reach their assigned points.
When he judged the time to be right, he glanced at Victor and nodded. His brother smiled, cracked his knuckles, and stepped forward. James followed close, prepared to hold Victor back if necessary.
The first of the villagers saw one of Team X approaching, and raised the alarm. Men and women began to flee, shouting in a language James did not understand. He saw Wraith teleport to block off the escape of two women, and Wade move to intercept a group of men. James no longer had to say 'no casualties' before every mission. His men knew him well enough, by now. They knew how he worked, how he ran the team whenever Stryker gave a loose rein. They knew that killing, unless told to kill, would land not just themselves in trouble, but the rest of the team along with them. Even Sun Tzu would have been impressed by their efficiency.
It was chaos, but Team X were used to operating under conditions like these. The semi-darkness was no barrier for them, not just because they were mutants, but because James had trained them long and hard in night-time manoeuvres. As the villagers ran, the team rounded them up, Wraith teleporting to and fro, Victor pouncing on an unwary victim here and there, Zero and Wade working together to intercept stragglers. James used his heightened senses to track down a couple that the others missed, and marched them back to the centre of the village.
The stench of fear was palpable, flooding the air, making James feel sick. There were times that he wished he could just give up his superior senses, and this was one of them. He couldn't help but feel choked by the panic, couldn't help but see the confusion painted on the men, women and children who'd been rounded up and forced onto their knees by armed invaders. Whatever Stryker's reason for bringing them here, it better be a damn good one. These people didn't deserve the treatment they were receiving at the hands of a government which sold itself as the lesser of two evils. Invading place by force, using fear and coercion on helpless citizens… these were the actions the Americans accused the Russians of. How conveniently they could forget that fact, to serve their own interests.
Stryker strode into the village centre, followed by Bradley. Wade had singled out one of the men, an ebony-skinned guy wearing a colourful shirt, khaki shorts and a pair of dusty brown sandals. The man's face was lined, but not overly so, and he showed only the faintest spattering of grey in his hair.
"This is the village's chief?" asked Stryker.
"Yes sir," replied Wade.
The major shrugged off his backpack and opened it up, taking out the shiny piece of rock he'd appropriated from the compound in Lagos.
"Tell him this rock is more valuable to me than his life." There was a hard look in Stryker's eyes. "Ask him where he found it."
Wade obeyed, speaking in the same language that the villagers had spoken. The man replied, a fast stream of words, but Wade cut him off and said something in a questioning tone. The man replied again, then Wade looked up at Stryker.
"Okay." There was a confused look on his face. "He says it came from the sky."
Suddenly, pieces of the puzzle clicked into place in James' mind. The rock, the mission to the geology camp in the Yucatán, now this village… Stryker was looking for something that didn't belong. Something from outer space. But… a meteor? That seemed a little contrived. Perhaps what Stryker was really looking for was an alien ship. James wasn't sure whether he believed in aliens or not, but alien technology sounded like a more feasible target for the US military than space rocks.
He saw Stryker glaring at the man, and spoke up.
"He's telling the truth."
"You don't know the language, Logan," Stryker countered.
"It's a meteor fragment."
"I know what it is. I'm asking him where he found it."
"Sir," Bradley interrupted, his hand to his temple as he received a transmission, "base wants an update."
"Shut them down."
"Yes." Bradley nodded, and severed the connection. Ordinarily, comms to a place three days' journey away would have been impossible, but it was little issue for a guy who could bounce electrical waves off a satellite using only the power of his mind.
Stryker stepped forward, closer to the chief, and leaned down in front of him with the rock held out. "Tell him everyone here will die unless he tells me where he found the rock."
James held his breath for a second, trying to determine whether that was an empty threat, and decided it wasn't. Stryker really would order the deaths of everyone in this village just to get his hands on the source of the rock. It meant that much to him, and he was so desperate to find it, that he would massacre men, women and children. That threat finally gave James the courage and motivation he needed. This was it. He was done. He wasn't going to hurt another person under Stryker's command. Regardless of what happened here tonight, James' part in it was over. He looked up, trying to catch Victor's eye, to convey to him that this had gone too far, and when Victor saw his expression, he smiled. James shook his head, making it an official command, but he suspected Victor wasn't listening anymore. Maybe he'd never been listening at all.
Wade conveyed Stryker's words to the chief and there was further discussion. At last Wade sighed, and gave a small shrug of defeat.
"He says that it's sacred."
"Okay, fine." Stryker stood up and turned away, laying his free hand on Victor's shoulder. "Victor?"
It was not only a word, it was a command. To Victor, it was an invitation to do violence, and it made James' heart freeze. He tried to catch Victor's eye again, to tell his brother to stop, but realisation hit him like a punch to the stomach. Victor didn't care about going too far. He followed the orders of whoever gave him permission to do violence, not because of some sense of loyalty, but because it served his own desires. Over the decades, James had told himself that Victor's mistakes were not his fault, that his mutant genes caused him to get caught up in the moment, and lose himself to the animal within. Well, James had an animal within, too, but he knew how to control it. He chose to control it. Victor welcomed his own animal with open arms.
A languid smile of pleasure stole across Victor's face as he looked down at his helpless victim. James watched in horror as his brother reached out and with no more effort than if he was plucking a flower, snapped the neck of the village chief.
It was like throwing a match into dry kindling. As the body slumped to the floor, women began to scream, and the whole village erupted to chaos. People jumped to their feet and began to run. James saw Bradley fend off a man who tried to grab his rifle, and the flash of Wade's blade as they were unsheathed, but he didn't have time to react to either. The blam blam blam of Zero's guns caught his attention, filling his ears with that deafening thunder-crash, and he saw bodies fall. He launched himself at Zero, knocking the marksman to the floor, then pushed himself up quickly. Victor had just grabbed another villager, and was preparing to make mincemeat out of the man's face with his claws.
James reached his brother just in time, catching Victor's falling hand in his own. Victor looked at him, confusion flickering through eyes which mostly portrayed intoxicated excitement. Tension thrummed through the air, filling every muscle in James body until it seemed that something had to break or bend. His arm began to shake with the effort of holding Victor's hand away from his victim's throat.
"Don't even think about it," he growled under his breath. Victor grimaced and tried to free his hand. "We didn't sign up for this," James told his brother. "Put him down."
Victor finally released his hold on the villager, and James let go of his brother's arm. He took the opportunity to glance around at the rest of the team, saw that the panic had mostly died down. There were some bodies on the ground, courtesy of Zero's guns, Wade's swords and Victor's hands. Dukes, Wraith and Bradley had, thankfully, hesitated before opening fire with their rifles, and a good job too, because at such close quarters it would have been a blood-bath of friendly fire.
"What are you doing?" Victor demanded. His breathing was heavy, rapid, but James could see the adrenaline wearing off now that the fighting had stopped. "We finally got a good thing here. Don't you screw this up."
"That's enough, Victor. We've done enough." For the first time in three years, he realised how tired he truly was. Not physically tired, but mentally and emotionally. Three years of leading the team—of following orders he didn't trust and being responsible for things which, once upon a time, would have shamed him—had left him feeling exhausted.
"Who do you think you are?" Victor growled. "This is what we do. Maybe you'd rather be rotting in a hole somewhere, till they figure out a way to do it to us. Is that it? Huh?"
"I'm done," James said. He looked his brother straight in the eyes. "You coming?"
There was no reply. There didn't need to be a reply. James could see the answer clearly in Victor's eyes. No. He wasn't coming. Victor had finally found a place where he could be as violent as he wanted and still enjoy the perks of a civilised life. He wouldn't leave, even if it meant losing his brother.
James turned and walked away from the firelight, setting his sights on the tree-line, feeling with every step as if a weight was being released from his shoulders. He was almost to the trees when a voice stopped him mid-stride.
"Jimmy!"
He turned back to look at his brother.
"We can't just let you walk away."
Fighting back a snarl of disgust, James reached up to his chest and pulled off his dog-tags, felt the chain snap easily as he yanked it away from his skin. Then, he tossed them down, and they landed beside one of the blood-soaked bodies. Never again would he wear such chains. They were shackles which tied him to a life he didn't want to live, and a person he didn't want to be. Victor was wrong. He could just walk away. They couldn't stop him, and they all knew it. They knew what he was capable of. Just because he kept the animal inside leashed didn't mean that he wasn't capable of letting it out, when needed.
He turned back to the forest, felt the leaves sweep against his skin as if welcoming him home. The smell of blood began to fade, the tension in the air began to dissipate, and every step that took him further from the village, took him closer to his new life. He didn't have a damn clue about what to do next, but he did know one thing; it would be something of his own choice. He would never let himself be used again.
"Jimmy!"
Victor's call was like a cry of pain which echoed throughout the jungle, but James ignored it. He'd given Victor a choice, and Victor had chosen to stay. To be a tool of a government which cared nothing for the sanctity of life. He'd chosen his own pleasure and comfort over family, and James would not forget that fact.
A clap of thunder echoed around the sky, preceded by a flash of light, and the air seemed to grow cooler. James smiled to himself.
"Jimmy!"