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CHAPTER 17




Jematé and Timmons stood at the edge of a mass of officers inside a large garage. The large doors were completely open, allowing humid air that reeked of the battlefield to engulf the commissioned leaders of Tabuk City’s defenses.

“This is some happy horseshit,” a female lieutenant colonel said and spat on the oil-stained concrete. “I’m supposed to run a convoy of wounded out to the field hospital at Burat Titi and I get dragged in here for the boss to tongue waggle at us?”

“Hey, my HQ’s not getting mortared or droned for the first time in weeks,” another officer next to her said and chuckled. “I don’t know how Brooks got a ceasefire together . . . but I could be sleeping right now.”

Jematé nudged Timmons with an elbow, then shook his head ever so slightly.

Not once had the two heard any officer speak about the state of the Hegemony or the Highest. Jematé was almost impressed that the news hadn’t leaked further, but the timing of Brooks’ summons didn’t have any other plausible explanation.

And if Brooks knew and used that to broker a ceasefire with the insurgents . . . chances were they knew as well.

“All the exits have Skiens on them,” Timmons said. “I don’t like this, sir.”

“Neither do I . . . we have to squat and hold until we’re released back to the battalion. At least Perrin’s working the problem,” Jematé said.

The garage went silent as Brooks walked in, flanked by a pair of Cataphracts.

The general’s hair had gone slightly gray and his gait was altered, like he’d been drinking. He carried a civilian cell phone in one hand, the screen lit up with an active call.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” Brooks held up his hands, his words slightly slurred. “I have news. ’Tis good or bad, thinking won’t make it so. It is what it is.” He belched. The general unholstered his sidearm and tossed it to the concrete floor.

“The war’s over. The Hegemony, my heart. Your heart . . . it’s all a crock of shit now.” He tapped the screen of his phone. “Yes, Comrade Basa, I’ve got them all here. We’re ready for you.”

Jematé reached for his holster, but there was no sidearm. The guards had collected every weapon as the officers had arrived. The air went cold as officers murmured to each other at the display.

“Iz over.” Brooks stumbled against one of the Cataphracts. “It’s all over. Thank God. I’ll write nice letters to Telemachus for all of you. Long live the king! Or whatever he wants to be . . .”

“What is that bastard talking about?” someone behind Jematé said. “This is treason.”

“We need an exit,” Jematé whispered to Timmons.

“The garage doors might be best if things—so much for that idea,” Timmons grumbled.

A small utility truck rolled into the garage. The driver looked like a local; her hands were white-knuckle tight on the wheel and she wore a red bandanna wrapped around her head. Even from more than ten yards away, Jematé could see she was sweating profusely.

Brooks moved aside to let the truck through. The driver parked next to the general.

“Nobody panic!” Brooks waved a hand over his head. “I’ve worked out the terms of our surrender to the Flags. We’ll be allowed to leave with all of our— Hey.” He put the phone to his ear. “Comrade Basa. I thought you were gonna be in the truck to accept—hello?”

The woman at the wheel held up a detonator and squeezed her eyes shut.

“Out!” Jematé turned and got one step towards a door before the car bomb annihilated the garage and everyone in it with a flash of fire and screaming metal.


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Framed