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His vision blacked out. His back hit the ground and his pack arched his spine painfully.
Fuck, fuck, fuck. He blinked rapidly, but before he flipped himself around, a massive hand closed around his shoulder and jerked him up onto his own shaky legs. The sound of gunshots next to his ear shocked his eyes into seeing again and he saw another burst of red paint cover the soldier’s chest.
Tar’s familiar scent flooded Fal’ran’s nose as he yanked him back the way Sazahk had gone.
“I’m good.” Fal’ran shook him off so Tar could return both hands to his gun. “Where’s—”
Red erupted across Tar’s jaw, and Fal’ran’s heart stopped in his chest.
He’d seen someone killed before. As a child. In the Projects. He’d seen their skull shatter under a bullet because he hadn’t given someone—
The heavy staff of a gatlung cracked across Fal’ran’s pack and knocked reality back into him. Tar wasn’t dead. He was out of the game.
Like Fal’ran would be if he didn’t get his fucking knife up in time. He threw himself down and swung around to block the blade of the gatlung with the combat knife from his thigh holster. The impact jarred up his arm, but he kept the gatlung’s blade from burying itself in his throat.
Fuck, had the soldier bearing down on him now been planning to stop it in time? An unholy screech drilled into Fal’ran’s ears as their blades scratched together. The gatlungs shone with a brutal keenness. The bastard hadn’t dulled it.
“Now! Get him now!” the soldier above him gritted out and, a second later, hands ripped Fal’ran’s pack away. A blade sliced through the shoulder straps, shearing off a lock of the hair he hadn’t let Bar’in braid.
“No!” Fal’ran twisted to grab for his pack, but another gatlung swung toward him. He jumped away and rolled on his shoulder, putting distance between him and the two men. Too much distance.
One aimed a sidearm at him and Fal’ran readied himself for the fake bullets to slam into his chest. But the man’s eyes fixed over his shoulder and widened. Red paint splattered across his throat and the soldier went down with a gurgling choke, alive but in pain.
“Shit.” The man with Fal’ran’s pack—and the totem they’d taken from Squad J—turned tail and charged into the underbrush, heading north.
“Catch him!” Smith raced past Fal’ran and Fal’ran followed half a step behind.
“Bar’in?” Fal’ran asked as he and Smith sprinted after the klah’eel still within their sights.
“Dead!”
“What?” Fal’ran’s stomach plunged before he could catch it.
“Fake dead!” Smith clarified as he caught a narrow tree trunk to whirl himself in another direction when their query feinted right and pulled left. “He’s fine. But this bastard has all the totems.”
All of them. And heading to the finish line. Fuck! A fresh burst of aggression pumped Fal’ran’s legs faster, and he pulled ahead of Smith, never letting the fast-footed soldier throw him off. The man was tricky, feinting and dodging and trying to lose them in the trees, but Fal’ran saw each time he prepared to throw them. He saw the line of tension pull across the man’s leg, the plant, and the pivot, and each time Fal’ran didn’t fall for it, he gained more ground on him.
They burst out of the tree line, and the bright sun stabbed into Fal’ran’s eyes. No, not out of the tree line, into a clearing. A recent clearing, strewn with fallen trunks and branches and smithereens. The command tower, their goal, stood to the north. Ships that hovered above them. Watching them. Judging them.
Those fucking totems were Fal’ran’s.
And that man was as good as dead.
“Fall back!”
Smith’s words barely registered as Fal’ran vaulted over a fallen trunk. He wasn’t going to fall back. There was no way in hell he was going to fall back. Why would he do that?
“Fal’ran, goddammit, that’s an order! Stop!” Smith peeled off to his right, slowing but not stopping.
“I can catch him,” Fal’ran roared back. Just a few more steps now. The man was slowing down. He couldn’t keep up the pace, but Fal’ran could.
“Fal’ran!”
The desperate urgency in Smith’s voice almost stopped him. Almost. But Fal’ran couldn’t give up. Not now, not when he was so close, not every eye watched him, and everything he’d worked for hovered at his fingertips.
“I’m ordering you—”
The ground under Fal’ran’s foot gave way. Something clicked and—
