Ghosts of War: A Tale of the Ghost Read online

  “Good God,” said Donovan. “If there's a connection…”

  The Ghost slipped the photograph inside his pocket. “I think it's time I checked on Senator Banks, don't you?”

  Donovan nodded. “But be careful, Gabriel. He's a dangerous man to find yourself on the wrong side of.”

  “I rather think that's the point, Felix. But anyway, I need to get Ginny back to her apartment first.”

  “Ginny?” Donovan asked inquisitively.

  A smile curled at the edges of the Ghost's mouth. “She's a friend.”

  “And you brought her here?” Donovan queried, incredulous. “Does she know…?”

  “She knows.”

  The inspector gave a plaintive sigh. “You're playing a dangerous game, Gabriel,” he said. He left the next sentence unsaid, but the Ghost caught his meaning. Remember what happened to Celeste.

  “Don't worry, Felix. I left her in the car, and she's going straight back to her apartment.”

  Donovan nodded, but the skepticism was clear on his face.

  “I take it you'll preserve all of this?” the Ghost said, changing the subject. He tapped the wall with his hand, indicating the spread of remaining documents. “That list of names and addresses might prove useful.”

  “We'll take it all back to the station in the morning,” Donovan said between drags on his cigarette. “The body's being collected in an hour. Then Mullins will start going through the files.”

  The Ghost started toward the door. “I like Mullins. I think he shows promise.”

  Donovan laughed. “Get out of here, Gabriel. I have work to do.”

  Outside, the cold had set in, and the Ghost felt the chill even through the thick fabric of his jacket and coat. He could see across the street to where Ginny was still sitting in the passenger seat of his car, huddled up against the cold, puffing on a cigarette. Her red cloche was pulled down right over her head, and she'd brought her knees up to her chest. She looked up and waved when she saw him coming.

  He was just about to raise his hand to wave in response when he heard a chittering sound from somewhere above. He looked up to see two of the raptors gliding across the canopy of the night sky, their long, membranous wings outstretched, their propellers whirring as they cut a swath across the rooftops.

  It took only seconds for the Ghost to respond. He flicked his wrist and heard the satisfying crank of his fléchette gun snapping around on its ratchet. He palmed the pneumatic bulb and dropped to one knee, raising his arm to the sky and squeezing off a staccato volley of shots. The raptors screeched in fury as the tiny metal blades drummed against their underbellies or pierced the fleshy membrane of their wings.

  They both turned, parting in midformation, one darting left, the other right. The Ghost tried to keep them both in view, but lost track of the one on the right as it glided off across the rooftops. He concentrated on the one he could see, squeezing off another shower of fléchettes. He aimed for its wings, hoping to disable it so he could bring it down. On the ground he stood a much better chance of beating it in a fight, and if he could ground it, he could pull it apart and find out what made it tick.

  The Ghost snapped his head around at the sound of the car door clicking open. Ginny was halfway out of the vehicle, one foot already on the tarmac. “Get back in the car, now!” he bellowed. He turned back to the raptor, but he'd taken his eyes off it for too long.

  The mechanical creature, diving at him from upward of twenty feet, collided with him at full force. The blow sent him reeling, and the raptor's talons raked his chest as it made a grab for him, trying to drag him away into the air. He twisted, desperately slapping at its brass legs as it pulled him along the ground.

  With an almighty effort he managed to wrench himself free of one of the claws, but he was forced to keep both hands on it to hold it at bay. The claws flexed and scrabbled, searching for purchase as the creature tried to reassert its hold.

  The raptor screeched again, dragging him along the road. It lifted him a few feet and then dropped him again, one of its talons still buried in his chest. His head slammed against the tarmac as he came down, and the raptor repeated the motion, trying to daze him, or worse, to split his skull against the road.

  Half delirious, lolling in the raptor's grip, he caught sight of the second one, now circling in the sky high above, like carrion attracted to a kill.

  He looked up into the strange, skull-like face of the one that had hold of him. There was malice behind those glowing red eyes—dark, inhuman malice. It was if something intelligent was haunting the machine, as if some malign spirit had somehow gotten inside it, inhabiting the brass shell. The thought didn't offer a lot of comfort, as the raptor shook him from side to side and slammed him down against the ground once again, doing its utmost to knock him unconscious.

  The Ghost tried to free his right hand, to bring the barrel of his fléchette gun around to give him a clear shot, but the raptor was waiting, and as soon as he released his grip on its other limb, the claws were digging into his chest, and the raptor was turning, lifting him into the air in a slow spiral.

  He knew what was coming next. The creatures weren't likely to take him back to their lair. Not after he'd shot at them. It was going to try dropping him from a height.

  Together, the Ghost and the raptor continued their spiral climb. His chest felt like it was on fire, and he could feel blood oozing from multiple puncture wounds beneath his jacket. The back of his head was throbbing, too, where it had repeatedly struck the tarmac. He realized that, once again, he'd lost his hat at some point in the chaos.

  As they climbed higher and higher, the Ghost felt himself beginning to swoon. The pain in his chest and his head were threatening to overwhelm him, to put his body into shock. He fought against the tide of blackness and shook his head to clear the syrupy fog that was clouding his vision.

  And then someone was shooting.

  The raptor reeled and shrieked, spinning in the air as a bullet tore through its left wing. The Ghost craned his neck, trying to see what was going on as the raptor beat its damaged wing and whirled and spun, trying to maintain altitude. He caught sight of Ginny far below, standing on the sidewalk beside the car, two of his pistols in her hands, taking drunken potshots at the mechanical beast.

  What was she doing? She risked being attacked by the other raptor, or worse, hitting the Ghost himself if one of her shots went wide. She moved slowly, both of her arms outstretched, tracking the struggling raptor across the sky.

  She fired again, and her aim was perfect. The Ghost felt the raptor buck and thrash as twin bullets tore through its other wing.

  And then he was falling, tossed away by the desperate creature, tumbling over and over in the air as he hurtled toward the ground.

  A strange sense of serenity passed over the Ghost. He felt the cool wind rushing around him as he fell, felt as if the world had suddenly slowed. He felt peaceful.

  Then he caught sight of the second raptor, diving toward Ginny, and his heart stopped.

  He reached inside his trench coat, grappling with the pull string that would ignite his ankle rockets. His chest screamed in pain with every movement. He gave the cord a sharp tug, and then he was hurtling upward again with no sense of direction or control.

  The Ghost fought to right himself, to make sense of what was happening. The first raptor—the one that had attacked him—was still attempting to right itself in midair, screeching and flapping in desperate abandon. Ginny was still shooting, and the other raptor was descending on her, its vicious talons raking the air before it.

  Ginny didn't have the Ghost's physique, nor his combat skills or protective suit. The raptor would rip her to shreds in seconds.

  The Ghost twisted in the air, bringing his legs together and folding his arms across his chest. He went into a steep dive, matching the raptor's trajectory, hurtling toward Ginny and the sidewalk.

  The two figures streaked out of the sky like falling comets, mirror images of one another, plumm
eting toward the stricken Ginny. The Ghost was a dark blur riding a plume of searing orange flame, the raptor his gleaming opposite, its brass fame shimmering in the reflected moonlight.

  Ginny screamed, and the sound was shrill and piercing in the empty street. She fired indiscriminately at the onrushing raptor, emptying the chambers of both guns, forgoing all sense of aim or purpose to simply shower the thing with as many bullets as she had left. They bounced off its brass chassis like pebbles pinging off a lover's window.

  The Ghost could hardly breathe as he swooped low, only a few feet from the ground, and made a grab for the woman. He collided with her, bowling her off of her feet, but somehow managed to wrap his arms around her protectively, sweeping her away from the raptor. He clutched her to him triumphantly, holding her close as he spiraled up into the air, feeling her gasp in fear and amazement as they soared away into the frigid night. The wounds in his chest screamed for attention.

  The raptor shrieked in frustration, its talons raking the ground in a shower of sparks where only seconds before its prey had stood rooted to the spot.

  Ginny clung on to the Ghost tightly as they wound their way up and up through the sky, heading for the rooftops. He was trying to put some distance between them and the baying mechanical beasts.

  The two raptors were circling now, watching to see what the Ghost would do next. The one with the damaged wings had managed to right itself, and while it was clearly struggling to maintain altitude it still posed a significant threat.

  The Ghost knew he couldn't stay airborne for long, not like this. Here, he was exposed, and the extra weight of Ginny would slow him down, limiting his options. He angled his body, skimming across the rooftops of the nearby buildings, looking for a place to set Ginny down. The roof of the apartment building—the one in which he and Donovan had been standing over the body of the murdered man just a few moments earlier—looked as if it might provide some limited cover. For whatever that would be worth.

  He pulled Ginny closer. “Pull that cord!” he called out to her, as they shot over the rooftop, rolling in midair to narrowly avoid slamming into a large, squat water tower.

  “What? Which cord?” she shouted back in confusion. He could feel her warm breath on his cheek and smell the residue of the gin she had consumed at the party.

  “By your right hand!” he said, desperately. “Just inside my coat.”

  Ginny struggled in his grip, trying to free her arms. “This one?” she replied, yanking hard on the dangling cord.

  The spurs of flame from the Ghost's ankle boosters guttered and died, and the Ghost held Ginny tight as they careened across the rooftop, dropping out of the sky and bouncing across the paving slabs like a stone being skipped across the surface of a lake.

  The Ghost pushed Ginny's face into his shoulder to protect her head as they rolled and rebounded. His right shoulder jarred painfully against the edge of a roof light, and then they were coming to rest, inches from the edge of the building itself.

  The Ghost gasped as his body lit up in pain. He'd taken a series of knocks as they'd come down, skidding to a stop by using his elbows as brakes. His trench coat was shredded, as was the fabric of his jacket beneath. But he was okay. He could live with bruises. If the raptors didn't get to him first, that was….

  He looked down at Ginny, who was limp in his arms. “Are you all right?” he breathed. There was no reply. He felt suddenly hollow, as if the bottom had just been pulled out of his world. “Ginny! Are you all right?”

  She stirred beneath him and looked up into his face. Their eyes met. “Yes,” she said breathlessly. “Yes, I'm all right.” Her eyes widened suddenly, and the Ghost felt her stiffen in his grip. She'd seen something over his shoulder. The raptors were coming.

  The Ghost rolled again, taking Ginny with him. As he went over onto his back, he scanned the sky above them, getting a measure of the situation. The raptors were coming right for them. There wasn't going to be time….

  “I'm sorry,” he said to Ginny, softly. “I'm so sorry….”

  The second raptor—the one whose wings were still intact—was heading right for them, its talons flashing. Any second now…

  The Ghost thrust Ginny away from him, flinging her forcefully across the rooftop, putting all of his momentum and weight behind it. She squealed in shock, striking the flagstones hard. The Ghost, on his back, raised his arm, a hopeless last gesture of defense against the mechanical monster.

  There was a crack of gunfire, and the raptor suddenly changed its course, swinging around and climbing, two perfect round holes in its wing. The Ghost glanced at Ginny to find her lying on her back, two smoking pistols in her fists. His hands went instinctively to his belt, and he couldn't help but grin. She'd pulled them from his holsters while he'd been on top of her.

  He scrambled to his feet, ran over to her, and helped her up.

  “Thanks…” he started, but Ginny shook her head.

  “No time,” she said curtly, nodding over his shoulder. The raptor was coming in for another attack. She raised the guns and snapped out another round of shots. But this time the raptor wasn't going to be dissuaded.

  Behind her, the Ghost saw the other raptor—the one with the ragged wings that had dragged him across the ground—drop to a roof a few feet away. The things were trying to pin them in place.

  “Get behind me!” he barked, and she did as he said, pressing her shoulders against his so that they stood back-to-back, each of them facing one of the oncoming raptors. “Concentrate your fire on its wings,” he shouted, and he felt her nod in acknowledgment. But he knew that would only work for so long. And so did the raptors.

  Once they were on the rooftop, they didn't need their wings.

  The Ghost palmed the trigger of his fléchette gun and released a hail of silver shards. The raptor, the one that had landed on the roof and was marching menacingly toward him with its clawed hands extended, continued undeterred. The tattered remnants of its wings fluttered in the wind, semitranslucent in the moonlight. Its red eyes glowed like the burning embers of hell.

  Ginny followed his lead and started shooting again. He didn't dare take his eyes off the metal creature charging toward him, but he feared Ginny's shots would have little or no effect on the other raptor.

  He couldn't fight them both at once. He couldn't protect her. But he couldn't let it happen again. He couldn't see another person he cared for torn apart because of him, because of who he was. He roared as he unleashed everything he had at the raptor, filling the sky with a snowstorm of a thousand razor-sharp fléchettes.

  There was a whooshing sound from somewhere across the other side of the rooftop. Suddenly, everything was on fire. Ginny was screaming, and the Ghost's ears were ringing with the echo of an almighty explosion.

  He fell to the ground, bowled over by the force of the explosion, as if a hand had shoved him firmly in the small of his back. He felt the patter of tiny, burning fragments showering down upon him and realized that the raptor—Ginny's raptor—had exploded. He was facedown in the gravel. He blinked, spitting dust.

  The Ghost glanced up, suddenly remembering the other raptor. It had also been bowled over by the force of the blow, but was already picking itself up, chittering insanely as it leered at him.

  The Ghost followed suit, pulling himself to his feet. His body groaned in protest. He risked a glance behind him to see Ginny on her knees, still covering her eyes with the crook of her arm. The sky was alight with a rain of burning components, and he watched them tumbling over the precipice of the building, twinkling stars falling to the sidewalk far below. Thick, black smoke curled from the ruins of the machine's torso, discarded a few feet from Ginny.

  “What did you do?” he said, urgently.

  Ginny peered up at him, as if only just realizing that she wasn't dead. “What? I didn't…”

  Realization struck, and the Ghost swung round to catch sight of Donovan on the far side of the roof, standing over a tripod, upon which sat the stocky cylind
er of the British spy's portable rocket launcher. He must have heard the commotion and come to their aid. The Ghost was just thankful he'd had the foresight to make use of the weapon cache they'd uncovered. He wondered if anything less than the explosive mortar would be enough to take one of the raptors down. He was about to find out.

  The raptor leaped at him from at least ten feet away, the propellers mounted on its shoulders roaring with power as they drove it forward.

  The Ghost sidestepped to avoid a swipe from its left arm, but wasn't quick enough to dodge the one that followed from the right, striking him on his upper arm and drawing blood through the ragged remains of his costume.

  He struck out in response, punching it hard in the face, but his fist rebounded painfully from the brass skull and the raptor hardly seemed to notice. It let out another chittering cry and thrashed at him with both claws.

  The Ghost brought his arms up, parrying the blows, and kicked out at the thing, striking it in the midriff, just below the rib cage. It staggered back under the force of the blow, but it was barely enough to halt its attack, and in seconds it was on him again, its claws scratching at his face, the bony remains of its wings beating him back.

  Desperately he caught it by the arms, trying to pin it in place, but this only aided the creature, providing it with a pivot, which it used to swing its legs up so it could bury its talons in his belly. He felt the daggers tear through the thick fabric of his jacket, and he staggered back, trying to hold it at bay.

  Again, the raptor capitalized on this, its propellers roaring, forcing him farther back, unable to stop his boots from sliding on the ground, unable to prevent himself from being forced farther and farther toward the edge of the roof.

  He heard Donovan shouting his name, but he paid the inspector no heed, remaining focused on the raptor, on using every ounce of strength he had to push back against it, to keep its talons from rending his flesh.

  He took a step back and felt the lip of the building with his heel. He only had to hold on a little longer. Just a little longer…

  The raptor shrieked as it strained against him. Its engines were whining with the pressure, the blades beating at the air with a steady roar. He gazed into the creature's eyes. Creature was the right word for it. This was no simple machine.