To Arnold Yoxall, it seemed as though the Taurox Prime driver was hitting every pothole in the road. Each time the vehicle’s massive treads dipped into one, a shudder reverberated through the hull of the APC and rattled every Kasrkin sitting in the troop compartment. Nobody outright complained, but each time they were rocked, there was a muffled chorus of groans and swearing.

  He surveyed his squad, illuminated in the scarlet-colored interior lighting. They leaned forward or gazed up at the vehicle’s roof. Some wore bandannas across their faces, others had visors that provided lower facial protection. Nighteye goggles were attached to the mounts on the front of their helmets, though no one had fixed them over their eyes yet. Legs bounced and fingers tapped against chest rigs; this was not fear, but eagerness and anticipation to execute the operation.

  Sitting directly across from Yoxall was Lance Sergeant Valens, who had once been the 1333rd Regiment’s pict-capturer. He had swapped his picter for a Meltagun—or so he liked to say; everyone in the platoon knew he still owned one. It was easy to remember the young man when he was shy, small, and ineffectual. Now, with the biological enhancements every new Kasrkin was subjected to, he was taller and stronger. Calm confidence replaced his bookish, imprecise gestures and mannerisms.

  Beside Yoxall was Rowley, his Voxman. She had slid the handset up into her helmet so she could monitor the traffic. Although she had yet to reach the age of majority, Marsh Silas’s insistence that all the 1333rd survivors be allowed to join the 10th Kasrkin Regiment was enough to gain her entrance. Of course, she trained at the same Scholas everyone else in the platoon had and her combat record was beyond sufficient. That quivering Whiteshield was long gone.

  Across from her was Corporal Lynwood, the medic. He was one of the few survivors from the 1333rd’s 2nd Company. A quiet chap, no doubt harboring the horrors of the Battle of Army’s Meadow, he was still very reliable in and out of a fight.

  Everything for Yoxall, from his promotion to squad leader and advanced training centers to all the new faces, felt so surreal. He never imagined entering the Kasrkin, let alone a regiment as prestigious and rough as the 10th. Sometimes, when he was waking up for morning roll or in these tense spans of time waiting to get on-mission, he sometimes forgot the eagle-brand on the back of his neck.

  “Gunny, where’d you get that?” Valens suddenly asked, motioning to the sidearm Yoxall held. It was a Mars-Pattern Inferno Pistol, effectively a sidearm-sized Meltagun. To the uninformed, it might have appeared as a Bolt Pistol. But the large, vented, cylindrical barrel was a clear indication of the weapon’s class to the trained eye. Compact and sleek, the Inferno Pistol bore a black finish and a reflex sight mounted on the top trail.

  “Family heirloom, passed down by seven generations of Cadians. My uncle had it last and he said to me I could bear it when I finally distinguished myself.”

  “I fought with you many times,” Valens said. “You ought to have gotten that a lot earlier.”

  “He’s a hard man. Never forgave my father for donning a priest’s garb, so he made life hard on me.” Yoxall held it up in the dull light and ran his hand along it. “But my uncle is no Kasrkin. On my last furlough, I marched myself up to that fellow and said, ‘Sir, I am here for my father’s pistol. Will you deny a Kasrkin?’ Why, I never saw the old bastard move so quickly. Didn’t spare him another word. The business was done.”

  Yoxall suddenly felt embarrassed. He lowered the weapon and attempted to think of something humorous to change the tone. Before he could, Rowley lowered the handset briefly.

  “Don’t listen to Gunny, you know he stole it,” she joked. “He’s a damned liar.”

  This earned a few snickers throughout the compartment and Yoxall himself couldn’t help but smile. The air became more relaxed as Kasrkin exchanged glances and smiles.

  “Aye, but a very good one,” Yoxall added. “An articulate lie is always better than a quick excuse.”

  His helmet’s micro-bead crackled to life. Chatter ceased as the squad prepared to listen to the platoon-net transmission.

  “All call-signs, this is Red Six. Eyes on target building. Disembark and proceed to your devotions. Emperor bless us all, out.”

  The Taurox engine cut and the interior lights turned off. Yoxall stood up, fixed his Nighteye goggles, and the cabin became illuminated in a clear green hue. He walked down the troop bay, his Kasrkin all tugging their goggles down as he passed by, and stood by the rear door. Click. Click. Click. Safeties were turned off and weapons hummed with energy. The squad leader held up one finger and received nine reciprocating gestures in return.

  “1st Squad, on me.”

  He hit the switch, the hatch opened, and he jumped out. In that brief instant, he saw Kasrkin piling out of the other APCs in the convoy. The dilapidated buildings of Kasr Varn’s northern district loomed over them. Shattered buildings of broken rockcrete and exposed rebar were packed along the jagged roadway. The small kasr hadn’t conducted repairs from the battle a few months ago. As he waited for the rest of his squad to disembark, Yoxall was reminded of the cold, toxin-ridden ruins of Kasr Fortis. That was a night worth forgetting.

  The squads assembled and proceeded to their objectives. A half-destroyed tower barracks stood in the center of a triangular plaza with a north, east, and southern roadway. Having come in from the south, their convoy waited at the mouth of the street. 6th Squad—Red Eleven—split and formed a security cordon at the front and rear of the Taurox Primes. 5th and 7th Squads—Red Five and Red Twelve, respectively, proceeded to the north and eastern roads to establish security cordons. They would prevent any squirters from leaving the area as well as prevent enemy reinforcements from attacking, if there were any. Not much of the building was left, however; there were only two entrances, only the ground and second floors were accessible, and most of the rooms were caved in by rockcrete.

  2nd and 3rd Squads looped around the building to infiltrate through the other entrance. Yoxall, along with the command element and 4th Squad, approached the front. There were no lights burning as far as he could see.

  By the time Yoxall picked his way through the rubble and slid along the wall beside the door, Marsh Silas was already stacked against it with Hyram. It felt good to have the executive officer with them. Yoxall trusted Marsh since they were Whiteshields; he had gotten them through many hard years of fighting and no one forgot his actions at Kasr Sonnen. But Hyram was their platoon leader for two solar years and proved himself many times over to be brave, intelligent, and inspiring. He too had shed his own skin on the battlefield nearly five solar years ago. To have them both present on the mission fostered a feeling of security and strength.

  “Red Two, Red Three, this is Red Six,” Marsh said over the platoon net. “Breaching in five, sync?”

  “Sync.”

  “Sync.”

  Yoxall heard Marsh whisper his count. He threw the latch of the damaged door and slipped inside. In a second, Yoxall was right behind him. Raising his sidearm with one hand, he gripped Marsh’s shoulder plate with his left as they proceeded down the hallway. There were four rooms on the ground floor, two on the right, one on the left.

  “Hallway clear.”

  Coming down the opposite end, Monty Peck and Foley stacked up against the first room. Just as Yoxall and his element approached their room, a hooded figure armed with an autogun walked calmly out. Thunk! Marsh’s suppressed Ripper Pistol went off and the man toppled over. “Enemy down,” he whispered emotionlessly over the net.

  The pair stopped at the door. Yoxall’s hand continued to clutch Marsh’s shoulder plate. Behind him, he felt Rowley pressed against him. Yoxall tapped Marsh’s plate and they moved in. Marsh went left, Yoxall went right, and Rowley came down the middle, clearing the doorway. There was a large breach in the wall on the left side of the room—something their intelligence reports hadn’t indicated. It led into the next target location. Adjacent to it was a bunk bed pushed up against the far wall. Beside that was a boarded up window and a few supply crates. Someone was wrapped up in the blanket.

  Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  Marsh approached the side of the breach while Rowley and Yoxall trained their weapons on the slumbering enemy. He peeked into the next room, then leaned back.

  “Rowley, with me, cover. Yoxall, do it quietly,” Marsh whispered. Yoxall holstered his weapon, slowly passed the pair who were monitoring the side room, and drew his knife. He felt other squad members filling the room behind him. Stepping gingerly onto the bottom bunk, the gunnery sergeant raised himself up and clamped his hand over the sleeper’s face. With one swipe, he cut his throat. Blood leaked out of the wound, staining the blankets black. Yoxall didn’t take his hand away until the heretic stopped squirming.

  “Enemy down,” he hissed over the micro-bead.

  “Clear,” he heard Valens whisper.

  “Room A, clear.”

  He pressed into the next room with Marsh and Rowley. The heretics were using this as a depot; Departmento Munitorum storage crates were stacked all the way to the ceiling. Yoxall took a moment to inspect the tags after Marsh uttered, ‘Room B, clear.’ Mortar shells, grenades, sets of Flak Armor, M36 lasguns, charge packs, even grenade launchers and Heavy Stubbers were inside.

  “Rooms C and D clear, negative contact,” Foley communicated. “Entering hallway.”

  “Roger,” Marsh said, waiting by the door with Yoxall. The platoon leader turned around and placed his hand on top of his helmet. “On me.”

  The four squads regrouped at the bottom of the staircase. There were six rooms on the second floor; everything above it was destroyed. Marsh Silas took the handset off of Drummer Boy’s Clarion Vox Array and keyed it. “Avalanche Six, Red Six…two enemy-KIA, negative on hostages. Proceeding to next floor, out.” As he said this, he pointed at Yoxall.

  Nodding to his squad, Yoxall took point. He kept his Inferno Pistol up. The barrel of Rowley’s Mk. 2 Hellgun was visible in his peripheral vision. Slowly, deliberately avoiding the fallen bricks of rockcrete, the squad moved up the stairwell. The top was clear of any hostile heretics. As the squads filed up, Yoxall took his Kasrkin down the left corridor. Just as he approached the entrance, which was blocked by a cell door, he heard voices from inside.

  “...you thought wrong. We serve other lords—better lords, then your own. Now, you will be sharing your secrets with us.”

  Yoxall’s breath hitched in his throat as he leaned around the corner. A lamp pack glowed atop a steel drum just off-center of the room. Beside it were two bound men sitting in chairs. Blood glistened on their temples and their faces were so bruised they were purple. Each one breathed raggedly and their shoulders heaved. The lankier of the pair, clad in Imperial Navy blue, dared to look up at his captors.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he moaned and shivered.

  “You don’t know what you’re doing,” growled the other man, who was taller and well-built. He was dressed in a blue Naval Security form with medals on his tunic. “Try to take me away and they will come.”

  “I do not fear them,” sneered the captor. These men were less weathered-looking than the ones on the first floor. They looked and held themselves like Guardsmen. Clutching lasguns and wearing Flak Armor, the three guards were spread across the room. One leaned on the far right wall, another sat on the opposite side of the drum eating a cutlet from a standard ration, and the third stood in front of the prisoners. “You will work for us or I will have your heart, here and now.”

  Yoxall leaned back from the door. As Rowley kept her weapon up in case they ventured out, he motioned to Marsh Silas and Hyram that the hostages were in the room. Marsh nodded and pointed rapidly. Metcalfe’s squad quickly streamed by the door to provide security on the opposite side. Yoxall positioned half of his squad members there as well to enter from the opposite side.

  It was time to make a decision; how to breach. There was no kicking the door open. Even if it was unlocked, opening it by hand would cause too much noise. One of the charges they built for the mission would do well, but now he was concerned shrapnel would hit the hostages. He did not want to take that risk: they were the mission.

  Yoxall looked down at his Inferno Pistol. After a few seconds, he nodded at Lynwood who was standing across from him. He motioned to his sidearm and then to the lock. Lynwood held up his forefinger in acknowledgement.

  With one last prayer, Yoxall pressed the barrel against the lock. Lynwood poised himself to open the door. Rowley stood beside Yoxall, her Mk. 2 ready. Yoxall squeezed the trigger. Zap! A white flash melted the lock. Lynwood tore the cell door open. Rowley stormed in, Valens went next, and Yoxall followed.

  Lasbolts cast red glows in the dark room. Rowley dispatched the guard standing directly in front of the hostages and then the one leaning on the right. Valens, going left, fired his Meltagun and burned the man’s chest out.

  Yoxall came down the middle, his weapon up. The security officer, having thrown his chair over during the shooting, picked his head up.

  “There’s one more behind the barrel!” he screamed. Just as he did, the final heretic jumped up with an M36. Yoxall was faster; the golden beam from his Inferno Pistol struck the traitor right in his face. Flesh slipped off his skull and the body crumpled backwards.

  “Clear!” Yoxall shouted through the door, then turned back around. “Secure the hostages,” he ordered his squad.

  “Bloody hell, Kasrkin,” said the security officer. “The Emperor must’ve heard my prayers.”

  Marsh Silas and Hyram entered while the other squads continued their sweep of the floor. They approached the two captives, activated their Slate Monitrons, and displayed holographic images of their targets. Both were matched to the damaged faces of the men before them.

  “Get those binds off them and prepare to exfiltrate,” Marsh ordered, then took Drummer Boy’s handset. “Avalanche Six, Red Six…hostages secure. We are—”

  Shots rang out down the hall.

  “Contact, contact, contact!” Metcalfe shouted. “Contact at Room H!”

  Yoxall ran out of the room and turned left. Bolter rounds streamed through the open door of the next room. They smashed against the opposite wall, tearing chunks out of the worn rockcrete. 4th Squad was stacked on either side of the door, unable to lean in to fire back. Metcalfe pointed at his Breacher, Crazy Stück. Laughing, he pulled the pin on a grenade and tossed it inside. Almost instantaneously, the firing stopped and then there was a loud bang! When Metcalfe tried to run inside, however, the Bolter fired again. He was pulled back by his volley gunner, Effelmen, just in time. Again, they threw another grenade, the firing stopped, and then it exploded.

  “Hold!” Hyram shouted before Metcalfe and his men could enter. Yoxall followed Marsh and Hyram to the door. Hyram peered inside as a dust cloud billowed out. “Too much debris and dust,” he said after stepping back, “I can’t see a body. If he survived the first, he may have survived this one too.”

  “Cobb, get that flea bitten mutt to Room H,” Marsh ordered over the net.

  Less than a minute later, a Kasrkin still at the stairwell approached. On a leash was Bloody Platoon’s military working canid, Freya. A lean and muscular dog, she wore a helmet with holes cut in the top for her ears and a flakweave jacket around her torso. Panting eagerly, she waited alongside Cobb as Marsh explained the situation.

  Cobb took off Freya’s muzzle and led her to the side of the door. Holding her collar with one hand, he unclipped the leash with the other.

  “Find’im!” he hissed. Freya disappeared into the room. Yoxall heard her paws padding on the floor. He waited for a shot. Suddenly, there was a loud, shrill scream. Lifting their Nighteye goggles and activating their lights, the squad filtered into the room. “Dog on bite!” Freya had clamped her jaws on the heretic’s right arm—his shooting arm. He could not bring his weapon to bear. As hard as he beat his other hand against her helmeted head, she wouldn’t let go.

  Raising his Hellpistol, Cobb fired a burst which tore the man’s chest open. “Enemy down!” Freya was still wrestling with his arm after he fell over. Amid cries of, ‘clear,’ Cobb raced over and restrained Freya by holding her vest and issuing orders. When she finally let go, he clipped the leash back onto her vest and then slipped the muzzle back. “Dog muzzled.”

  Marsh Silas called for a SITREP and all the squad leaders reported their sections were clear. The other teams had cleared the floor, encountering no hostile forces. After acknowledging their reports, he turned back to Cobb.

  “Well, looks like that thing can make itself useful after all,” he said in an even tone. Cobb just nodded while he took Freya out of the room. Marsh Silas then walked over to Yoxall and smiled. “Smart job with that lock, that was good thinking. Your squad did well, brother.”

  “Aye, it’s almost like we know a thing or two about this business,” Yoxall remarked. But his smile quickly faded. He picked up the Bolter and examined it. “Nothing in the intel report said anything about Bolters, lasguns, or a weapons cache. That wasn’t just forage or scavenge in that storage room. Some of those crates don’t even look like they’ve been opened. Which means they stole them directly from a Munitorum depot, or somebody smuggled them out.”

  He stood up and handed the Bolter to Marsh Silas. The platoon leader tested the weight and pressed it against his shoulder momentarily. Hyram sidled over and glanced at it as well.

  “Think it might be connected to the rat?” Marsh murmured.

  “Some of the documents you recovered were supply manifests. If we can correlate the contents of the cache to the listed items, it could signify a connection.”

  “Aye, it could,” said a voice. Everyone turned towards the doorway to see Metcalfe supporting the Naval Security officer. “I’ll be able to tell you what that connection means. Might I have my Bolter back?”