The Harvest Read Online Free PDF Page B

“That wasn’t easy for me.”
    “It wasn’t easy for any of us,” Lane says.
    Back then, a year ago, the pieces of the Saranyu fell—streaks of bright blue and fire red against the black of the sky. It was, indeed, Killian who said they had to come to this place. They were going to pilfer it—pick over its bones like a skull-vulture, then take off with their bellies full of plunder. But when they got here, Lane felt something—an idea, scratching at the back of his head like a dog wanting to be let in the door. And then the Empyrean showed up.
    The battle to hold the wreckage of the Saranyu was long, protracted, an even uglier fight than the one at Tuttle’s Church.
    It was Rigo who won them that battle.
    Rigo, poor Rigo.
    Rigo said: “I bet the city’s defenses could be activated.” He thought if they turned them on, the big sonic cannons could be used to blast the skybastards out of the air. They were up against time. Death was on them like a stink. Back then, Lane was confused, the Sleeping Dogs were down too many, and Killian was already ravaged with an infection, a sickness from his injuries that ran through him like a herd of spooked cattle. But Rigo’s idea saved the day. He and Lane together went to those cannons. They got them working.
    And sure enough, they shot those Empyrean sons-a-bitches out of the air.
    The Empyrean retreated, and as the days and weeks went on, other Sleeping Dogs—and soon other Heartlanders—wended their way to the Saranyu’s wreckage. And any time the Empyrean showed their heads, they got smacked on the nose by sonic blasts and sent back to the sky.
    Killian’s sickness changed him, though. Hard, high doses of Annie pills kept him alive—but for the pain, he began to take Pheen. And drink, too. It saved him. Maybe. But his body has been weak. Ravaged by the teeth of the infection—and the drugs did a number on his mind, too. Now he wanders about like a ghost.
    Lane thinks: I’m too hard on him . He’s always been that way. Hard on his father, on his mother, even on his friends.
    Guilt pecks at him like a bird looking for worms.
    Shit.
    His frustration crumbles, and he moves to Killian and holds the man’s hands, then cups his face. “I’m sorry. Okay? I know none of this has been easy. And I know you need . . . to self-medicate. Just try to ease off a little. Because damnit, man, I need you sharp. I’m lost out here. You’re my sail, my rudder, my everything. Keep me pointed straight, yeah?”
    The former captain grins and kisses Lane just under the jaw. Lane tilts his head back, feels the warmth of lips trailing down his neck.
    “Anything, Mayor Moreau. Anything at all.”
    Killian’s hands lace behind Lane’s back.
    “Mayor Moreau,” Killian repeats. “See, now I’m liking it. Are you?”
    Lane moans.
    Across the room: ding .
    Lane’s visidex. Incoming call.
    Killian holds him still. “Don’t take that call.”
    “I need to,” Lane says. “You know I need to.”
    “You need me ,” Killian slurs. His breath is off—something rotten in there somewhere. A foulness, wet and fungal. Like the cure for the infection never took hold, like it’s still in there, somewhere, hiding not far out of sight.
    Lane pulls away and takes the call.
    On the other end: Luna Dorado.
    “The facility is ours,” she says. “I’m coming home, and I’m bringing friends.”
    “We gave ’em the kiss-off,” Luna says, a mad spark in those green eyes—like lightning flashing in emeralds. “Lost a few of our own, may the Lord and Lady put ’em to work. Lost Pablo Riggins. And Chick Bailey. Dagmar is alive, but she’s gonna lose an arm out of this, guaran-damn-teed. But it’s done. It’s over. The mechanicals are scrap. The place is ours.” She bites her lip, pumps a fist.
    Luna Dorado is Lane’s . . . well, everything’s a little ragtag here, so right now she’s called “Captain of the Guard,” but that’s a bullshit descriptor if ever there was one. Luna