Storm of Locusts

Chapter 24

“The Tank is on the top floor of the building, at ground level,” Aaron explains as we make our way up the stairs. He’s somber. The lightness in his personality seems to have leeched out of him along with his friends’ blood. We didn’t ask what ultimately happened to Wyatt, because we didn’t want to know. But Aaron doesn’t seem worried about anyone following us, so that’s likely explanation enough.

“The Reaping Room was at the bottom level, four floors down. Once we get to the Tank, we grab your weapons, load the plane, and leave. If we’re lucky, everyone will be at the auction, where they’re supposed to be, and no one will even notice we’re missing until we’re airborne.”

“There’s one thing you forgot,” I remind him. “Ben.”

He looks at me blankly.

“You promised you’d help us find our friend Ben. The girl who was on the bike with me, out in the canyon. We need to rescue her, too.”

“Ahhh . . . ,” he says, scratching at the scars on his face. “That might be a problem.”

“How’s that?” I ask, my voice as sharp as a surgical blade.

“I’m afraid it’s too late for her.”

“Too late?”

“She’s not dead,” he says quickly. “She’s getting married.”

I stop, plant my feet on the stairs. “Explain.”

He hesitates, mouth twisting up like he’s searching for the words. “I’ll tell you everything,” he says finally, “But keep moving.”

The landing in front of us is marked with a big number two. Halfway there. I glare at him but start back up the stairs.

“Every second month, Bishop holds an auction. People come from all over. The Burque, Hopiland, the Kingdom. A delegation even came from New Denver once upon time, looking for a real specialty item. And these are important people. Wealthy.” He rubs two fingers together. “People looking for goods they can’t get anywhere else, if you catch my drift.”

“Body parts,” I say flatly. “We’ve established that. What else?”

“We make knives, of course. It’s in the name. Guns, too. Explosives. But we also sell labor and the occasional exotic.”

I frown. “Exotics? Labor?”

“Slaves,” Rissa says, her voice sounding tired. “He means slaves.”

I stare, aghast. “You’re selling Ben as a slave?!”

“Not me!” he says quickly, hands raised. “Bishop. I got no part in that side of the business.”

“You clearly have a part in it if you’re here, serving him, working for him.”

His rubs at his scars again. “My choices are obey or end up downstairs on a steel table. What would you have me choose?”

I breathe in, try to steady myself. “What happens to Ben if she goes to auction?”

“A young girl like that? She could go as a house girl, but most likely she’ll go as a wife.” He narrows his eyes. “She’s bled, right? She can have babies?”

“What the fuck, Aaron?”

He shrugs. “It matters.”

“And how is that different from rape?” Rissa asks. “How is that different from what your two buddies were thinking they could do to us?”

He looks genuinely taken aback. “It’s marriage. She’ll have babies, raise a family.”

“And what if she doesn’t want any of that?!”

“All women want that.”

Rissa and I exchange a look over Aaron’s shoulder. He shakes his head, clearly confused. We’re at the top of the stairs, facing a thick gray metal door. There’s a caution sign on our side, warning against cross traffic. Aaron looks up as if he’s contemplating the caution sign.

“It’s the best life that the Malpais can offer. She’ll have a rich husband if he can afford the auction. And a home of her own. Better by yards than what happens to most kids who grow up out here. Better than what we had planned for you both.”

“But Ben didn’t grow up out here. She’s from Dinétah. She’s with us.”

He shrugs, still not getting it. “Shitty luck. Just didn’t go her way, then.”

“Hey,” Rissa says, grabbing his arm. “She’s a sixteen-year-old girl. You’re going to help us, right?”

He looks at her like a drowning man looks at the shore—wondering why he ever left and wishing like hell he could get back. He exhales heavily, bending over, his hands on his hips. He shakes his head violently like he’s trying to shake off whatever emotion he’s feeling. And then he kicks the door in front of us. Once, twice. He’s wearing a steel-toed boot, and the door bends where he makes contact. He slams his head against the door with a strangled growl, hard enough to leave a dent.

We watch in silence.

Finally, he stops. Leans forward on the door, arms folded and head resting on his forearms. “Okay,” he says, mostly to himself. “Okay.” He scrubs a hand across his face before he stands straight and faces us. “I’ll help you get your Ben, but then you are taking me to Dinétah.”

“That was the deal,” Rissa says.

He nods once. “There are some things you should know. This is the Tank, but the auction will be across the road in the big tent. There’s only two ways in and out of the tent. One in the front and one straight back. Like a barn. There’ll be security. The auction draws a big crowd.”

“How big?” I ask.

“Tonight? A hundred? Maybe more. The Familias were already arriving when I came down to the Harvest Room. And I’m sure there’ll be some representative from the Kingdom. Even a Swarmer or two from Amangiri.”

I look up. “Amangiri?”

He nods.

“You know Amangiri?”

“Yeah.”

My heart ticks up a beat. “Can you take us there? In your plane?”

“That wasn’t the deal.”

“We can talk about that later,” Rissa interjects, throwing a pointed look my way. “Right now we need to focus on getting Ben out.”

It hurts, but I let Amangiri go for now. Knowing Aaron knows about it, that it’s a real place that actually exists at all, is enough for now. Rissa’s eyes linger on me until she’s sure I’ll keep my mouth shut before she turns back to Aaron.

“Is there anything else we need to know?” she asks.

He says, “Bishop’s a crazy man. Not reasonable like me. And you can’t buy him over, neither. He catches us, we’ll be made an example of.” His fingers run across his scars again unconsciously. “For stealing his property, he’ll cook up something extra nasty, I suppose. A skin flailing. Feedings us to the sporting dogs. Maybe a chase down in the desert.” He shudders. “He’s a monster.”

I want to yell at him that Ben is no one’s property, but the adrenaline’s kicking in now, and I can feel my clan powers rising again, waiting. Hungry. I still plan to keep my promise not to kill anyone, but I can certainly make these sick bastards suffer.

“I know we haven’t officially been introduced, Aaron,” I say, “but they call me the Monsterslayer. I think I can handle Bishop.”

The Tank is a massive hanger. The center is dominated by the airplane we saw out on the road, and around it are the outfitted battle trucks and metal-plated cars like the ones that chased us down. There’s also a dozen motorcycles, and at the end of a line, up on blocks and in parts, our bikes. They’ve claimed them as their own.

“Well, there’s no getting those back,” Rissa says, sounding bitter.

“Everything for a price,” Aaron says.

“They’re my bikes,” she says, outraged.

“Not anymore.”

“What’s in the cage?” I ask, eyeing a fenced metal cage at least the size of my trailer. My question is a little rhetorical because I can clearly see what’s in the cage—shelf after shelf, case and case, filled with weapons.

“Holy crap,” Rissa whispers as we make our way over. I rattle the door. It’s locked.

“You still got those keys?” Aaron asks. I hand him the key ring, and he unlocks the weapons cage.

“If you have all these weapons, why did you come after us with blades and baseball bats?”

“There were guns if we needed them, but Bishop says guns are too easy. He wants to see us get bloody. Says it keeps us sharp.”

“Sharp? Or dead.”

Aaron shrugs. “Better to know sooner than later if you can’t survive in the Malpais.”

“These are all for sale?” Rissa asks, eyes on the massive arsenal.

“We hold them here until the auction’s finished. No weapons are allowed inside, ’cept each representative gets a personal bodyguard. Personal weapons only. The auction operates under truce.”

“Honor among thieves,” I say. “Great for us.”

Rissa admires what looks to be modified Heckler assault rifles. “It’s like early Keshmish,” she whispers, running a hand over the gun.

I laugh, and she laughs back. Gives me a genuine smile.

Aaron hauls up a plastic crate in which our stuff has been unceremoniously dumped. “I was going to sort it and categorize it tomorrow, but I guess I don’t have to now.” He gestures to the crate. “Have at it.”

I take my knives out first. Tuck them back in place next to the razors, which I decide to keep because why not. I put my Böker into the sheathe on my hip. Retrieve my shotgun. Attach my ammo belt. And there, still in its scabbard, still wrapped in black cloth, a thin ribbon of suede tying it all closed at the hilt, is Neizghání’s sword. I exhale a nervous breath, relieved to see it.

Rissa’s rearmed, too, her familiar AR over her shoulder, a Sig on her hip. She runs a hand over one of the Hecklers again, hefts it up, testing the weight. “It wants me to take it home,” she murmurs. “Don’t you, baby?”

“I helped modify those myself,” Aaron says.

“That’s nice,” I say. “Rissa, bring an extra gun for Ben. I don’t want her defenseless.”

“Maggie!” Rissa squeals with delight. “Look at this!” She picks up something from a bucket on the floor and holds it up. A hand grenade. She tucks a few in her pocket, looking like a kid who found a candy stash.

“We ready?” I ask.

“I’m ready,” Rissa says. “But what’s the plan? Do we just go in swinging?”

“If I may,” Aaron says, face wrinkling in concern. “It’s just, seeing you like this, Rissa, it occurs to me . . .”

Rissa looks suspicious. “Seeing me like what?”

“I was thinking,” he says. “If we’re going to have a chance of getting to your friend, we might need to be more subtle than”—he swings an arm, taking in the weapons cage—“all this.”

“I’m not putting my guns back,” I say.

“Not you. No one would believe you as a fine lady. But Ms. Goodacre . . .” He turns and gives Rissa a little bow. I feel like I should be offended, but I’m so far from offended. Being a fine lady sounds like a fucking nightmare.

“What’s going on?” Rissa asks, suspicious.

“How would you like to make your auction debut as the heir to the Goodacre empire and a rising player in the Harvesting business?”

Rissa’s face darkens. “What do you mean?”

“You won’t have to buy anything. Just look the part.”

“How?”

“Any and everything for sale, including a closet for a queen.” He gestures toward another section of the Tank, where I can see mountains of fabric and discarded clothes. Rissa’s eyes follow, too, and I watch as she takes it all in.

“Do I get to wear a fancy suit?” she says finally.

He grins. “You can wear a tiara if you want.”

“No,” she says, already putting her guns back where they came from. “We’ll do this right.”