Page 94 of Rescuing Rebel

“What the hell?” Hank rears back. “Glad they’re on our side. They’re silent as fuck.”

Indeed, the Rufi have arrived, lean robotic canines created for combat. Jet metal black, they’re impossible to make out against the background sky. With weapon mounts and armored chassis, they’re beyond state-of-the-art. This is truly cutting-edge technology.

One of the Rufi extends its neck, an ingenious combination of a head and an arm appendage. It swivels with precision, its eyes glowing with an eerie mechanical intelligence. A torch at the end of its head/arm flickers to life, casting a searing blue flame.

We shield our eyes from the intense light, the air thickening with the smell of burning ozone. The Rufi’s torch hits the rusted metal and liquefies on the spot. Hissing metal turns to slag, accompanied by pops and crackles as molten iron shoots through the air. Sparks fly in all directions, hot and angry, as we step back to avoid the dripping slag.

The grate groans, surrendering to the Rufi’s relentless assault. But it’s not free. It still needs a bit of muscle to wrench it out of place.

“Grab the grate.” I nod to Gabe and Hank, our heaviest hitters.

They yank on the weathered metal with raw, unbridled force, their muscles straining as beads of sweat gather on their foreheads.

Gabe’s face twists in determination, his jaw clenched, eyes narrowed, as he grips the grate with hands that have known labor and struggle. Hank’s biceps bulge, the veins in his arms a vivid roadmap of his strength.

The grate resists at first, but they pull harder. The acrid stench of molten metal, rich and metallic, mingles with the sharp tang of sweat and the bitterness of ozone.

The grate breaks free with a tortured scream, a sound that sends shivers down my spine. It clatters to the ground, and we’re greeted with a gust of cold, dank air from the darkness beyond.

The Rufi’s torch flickers out, leaving us bathed in the unsettling afterglow, our chests heaving.

With their compact bodies, the six Rufi leap effortlessly into the drainage tunnel, landing with a mechanical grace that belies their deadly purpose. I expect to hear their hydraulic limbs, but the Rufi are deathly quiet, a cold reminder of their artificial nature. They line up, standing at attention as we approach.

We crowd around the first of the six Rufi. Assault rifles, ammo, flashbangs, and other weapons are strapped to its back. Each Rufi carries gear for each man on my team, their metal bodies laden with the tools of our trade.

Stitch’s gear, a mishmash of technology and weaponry, is interspersed between them all. Mitzy provided her with a pistol, vest, and a HUD.

As I power on my HUD, anticipation charges the air. The optics flicker to life with an electric blue glow. Lifelike hydraulic movements ripple through the Rufi as they shake out their limbs and await further commands.

Hank reaches for his gear, his hand steady, his eyes never leaving the Rufi. Walt and Blake move in sync, grabbing their weapons, their faces masks of intense concentration. Jeb’s fingers brush over his gear with a quiet reverence in his touch. Gabe’s movements are efficient, with no wasted motion as he secures his equipment.

Stitch, the outlier in our crew, looks at her gear with curiosity and determination. Her fingers, more accustomed to keyboards, hesitantly reach for the pistol. She glances at me with fire in her eyes, a promise she won’t be the weak link.

“Drop successful. Dogs are online,” I murmur into my comm, my voice as cold as the damp walls surrounding us. “Geared up. Oscar Mike.” I notify Command that the Rufi arrived, and we’re officiallyOn Mission.

“Copy that.” CJ’s voice returns through the headset. “What’s the play, Charlie-One?”

I kneel before the Rufi. Intelligent machines, tonight, they hunt with us.

“Hold here and stand guard.” I point toward the tunnel mouth. The Rufi dutifully blend into the shadows. “Status of Alpha and Bravo?”

A soft buzz of acknowledgment comes through the earpiece. The Rufis’ blue eyes dim as they switch to standby mode. The silence that follows is heavy with the weight of what’s to come.

“Holding position outside the walls. Ready to launch a frontal assault on your mark.”

“Kaufman invited me to the auction. Blake and Gabe will stay here. Jeb and Stitch will wrap things up in the communication suite. Hank and Walt, I need the two of you to come up and keep appearances normal. When I head to the auction, you’ll excuse yourselves. No need for Kaufman’s men to get suspicious. Head down and kit up. When I give the signal, you rescue the women. Jeb and Stitch, you must make your way down here unobserved.”

“And what about you?” Gabe gives me a stern look.

“Once Alpha and Bravo engage, I’ll use the chaos to rescue Rebel.”

Jeb looks to Stitch with a smirk on his face. No need to guess what he’s thinking. I stayed up long after my watch last night, trying to figure out how to get my men to the lower levels of Haven without raising an alarm. Pretending Jeb and Stitch are an item, slinking off for a bit of fun, was the easy part. Sending the others below is more problematic, but Stitch figured that out for me.

“Any questions?” After checking out my gear, I remove it and methodically place each piece back on the Rufi’s frame.

My men follow suit, their movements crisp and practiced. I pull out a small earpiece, almost invisible in its design, and place it discreetly behind my ear. This connection to my team is my lifeline tonight, a thread of communication that must remain unbroken.

“None, boss.” Hank’s voice is steady, his eyes locked on mine. Deadly determination radiates from him and the others. They know the stakes, and they’re ready.

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