Wrath and Redemption (Wrath Book 3)

Acknowledgments

I’d like to thank some folks who helped me along the way. My mother and father who infused me with a love of words from the time I could walk, and have encouraged my writing career for decades. My wonderful found family, Sandra and Burt, who still try to teach me to be a better man. My brother Greg, who is a wonderful friend and source of ideas. Felicia A. Sullivan, my editor, who makes my words better. Permuted Press for signing me and putting my books out there. Finally, to Alexandria, William, and Henry, for being you.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Dedication

Acknowledgments

Part One

1- Chapter One

1- Chapter Two

1- Chapter Three

1- Chapter Four

1- Chapter Five

Part Two

2- Chapter One

2- Chapter Two

2- Chapter Three

2- Chapter Four

2- Chapter Five

Part Three

3- Chapter One

3- Chapter Two

3- Chapter Three

3- Chapter Four

3- Chapter Five

Part Four

4- Chapter One

4- Chapter Two

4- Chapter Three

4- Chapter Four

Part Five

5- Chapter One

5- Chapter Two

5- Chapter Three

5- Chapter Four

5- Chapter Five

5- Chapter Six

Afterward

A Note From the Author

About the Author

Part One

We Russians are a fatalistic, melancholy people. We throw up our hands and say, whatever is done is for the better. This attitude was in the Russian soul long before The Bleeding. The vast scale of our country, our orthodoxy, and centuries of submission to oppressive, autocratic governments made this fatalism inevitable. The peasant would say God is too high and the Tsar is too far away. It was better to accept poverty and hardship than attempt to change the unchangeable. Easier to retreat into the womb of religion, the religion of nationalism.

We are also courageous. We fought great wars and our blood stained the winters. But then we discovered the next ruler was no better than the one before. The Mongol, the Tsar, The Party, all left an indelible imprint upon our collective psyche.

What we call The Bleeding, North America labels The Fall. Both the similarities and the differences between the terms used to describe the end of the modern era transcend language. In Russia, we bled and died in numbers approximating the losses the United States experienced: we now know that after a period of five years, global population decreased by ninety percent. To the North American, the lack of hope was inconceivable. To the Russian, fate has always been bloody.

Tsar Peter Romanov did not merely fill a power vacuum, he gave the people hope when all hope seemed lost. The seeds of hope and change were sown then. When Tsar Romanov decided to avenge The Bleeding, our people accepted this with a typical mix of Russian pride and fatalism.

My grandfather was called many things, among them hero, traitor, murderer. Whatever his titles, he changed Russia, and ultimately the course of human history.

The Bleeding and The Fall: A History

Alexandra Kutusov

St. Petersburg, 2061

Chapter One

Thirty grueling miles into the final test, Ryder thought about quitting.

He shrugged off his sixty pound ruck with a wince of pain and placed it next to a massive gray boulder, taking care not to foul the muzzle of his carbine. He sat down with a grunt and put his back against the rock, his shoulders burning and his thighs and calves aching.

The wind moaned over the rocky peaks surrounding him. He gazed at the frozen, high mountain lake, remembering. He had been here at Lake Solitude once before, camping downslope with the Old Man. That had been a time of joy and wonder, of summer and possibility and a gentle breeze. Today the surface of the lake was gray, and Ryder was depleted.

He checked his watch. He had to cover another twenty miles, and he had only six hours left. There was no way he could do it.

About every ten miles there was a checkpoint, where he would be given a specific destination by one of the instructors. There were no trails, no markers, only the wild mountains. He relied on a map and a compass, and he was expected to figure it out.

The instructors, he decided, had plotted his trail with sadistic glee. The checkpoints had already taken him higher than ten thousand feet into the Tetons, then plunged him back down through the rugged Cascade canyon. While the descents were easier, Ryder raged against them because every step down was like losing ground in a battle. He had fought hard to hike that high. Here he was again at nearly eleven thousand feet, where the trees were stunted, the snow was still thick, and the wind lashed at his face.

Final Selection was designed to push each soldier to the edge of his limits. If he passed, Ryder would be a member of the most elite Special Forces unit in the world.

Four years ago, when he had turned fifteen, he endured Basic Training, joined the recently formed Army of the New America. Despite his youth, he had graduated second his class. Two hundred other young men had gone in with him, but he had outfought, outsmarted, and in the end, won over his fellow recruits. However, these mountains did not care what he had accomplished in the past any more than his instructors did.

On your feet soldier, Chilli barked, striding forward, a ghost materializing from nowhere.

Ryder groaned out loud. Great. He stood, tried a defiant, cocky smile that had less certainty and more pain in it than he intended.

What are you doing sitting down! Chilli screamed into Ryder's face, less than in inch separating their noses. You are a worthless excuse for a soldier. You're sitting down because you want to quit, RIGHT?

No sir!

Ryder endured a barrage of expletives and spittle.

Chilli lowered his voice, changing tactics. At ease. You can ride with me back down the mountain right now. I've got a horse waiting for you. Nice hot meal back in the Hole. Big juicy steak and a warm fire. Give me the word, son.

Sir, no sir! This soldier requests the next coordinates, sir!

Chilli shook his head, took a step back. How about this? I'll vouch for you. We'll tell your old man that you sprained your ankle. There's no dishonor in it. You can try again next year. You're hurting, you're cold, you're tired. You won’t make it now. There's no way. You might as well call it before you get clumsy and break your neck. Let me help you.

The hard-nosed instructor had been replaced by the man Ryder had grown up loving and respecting. Chilli was acting like Uncle Chilli again, kind and steadfast, singer of songs and drinker of ale on holidays. The man who had saved the Old Man’s life more than once.

Sir, I respectfully decline your generous offer, Ryder said.

Sit down, Chilli said.

Ryder plunked down next to his rock, vaguely annoyed he had been ordered to stand and then sit, though mostly glad to be off his feet. He had grown accustomed to the head games and theatrics employed by the instructors. That he faced Chilli at this particular juncture, though, was dangerous. Chilli knew what buttons to push.

Look, son, Chilli said, his tone almost pleading, your mama would kill me if you bought it on some dumb training exercise. And if she didn't, you know your dad would for sure. Help me out here. Come on back with me.

Sir, no sir.

They've already lost one child. Don't put them through it again. It would be more than they could bear.

That was the moment Ryder considered quitting. He stared at Chilli, trying to decipher the man.

Chilli waited him out. He was probably right about Ryder’s mother. She was a tough woman, but losing Grace had made her more protective than a mama grizzly in the spring. Ryder clenched his jaws.

His sister was a tender subject. Ryder was there when Grace had been taken away ten years ago. He had hurled himself against a man with soulless eyes, pummeling the Gideonite with childish, ineffectual fists, until the man knocked him senseless with a pistol butt. Ryder had been with his parents in an airplane hangar when his father learned Grace had been murdered by Gideon with a lethal dose of Tarantula. Chilli had been in the hangar too, had dropped the Old Man with a single blow because Dad couldn't take the news his daughter had died, had needed to lash out with a violence Ryder understood.

For a few breaths there was a kind of ebbing in him, an exhalation of the spirit. He was hungry, sleep deprived, and the cold had gotten inside his bones where it gnawed and ached.

Where is the next location, sir?

Chilli winked at him then, handed Ryder the next set of numbers written on an old personal check. Nobody used checks anymore, and paper of any kind was useful.

Be safe. I'll see you at the bottom, Chilli said.

* * *

Two hours later, heading back down from Hurricane Pass, Ryder was feeling better. He was taking a big risk, climbing down sheer rock without the use of proper climbing equipment. He had no lines to secure him to the cliff face, no pitons, no ice axe. His boots were soft leather, handmade by the Shoshone, and his hands were bare to the wind. He was free climbing straight down.

He made the decision to take this route after studying his map, seeing that he could potentially cut several hours from his time. His Army buddy Caleb had climbed this route last year, so Ryder reasoned it was possible. Perhaps it was his rebellious streak, his need for freedom that made him catch a second wind, but he felt renewed.

More than five hundred feet below him was a rock fall. Between the peaks, the valley floor spread out, a patchwork of forest and field. He was so high the view was as grand as it might have been from an airplane. He ignored the scenery and focused on climbing. One handhold in a limestone crevice, one narrow lip of rock to place his boot, the wind tearing at him with relentless ferocity. His legs were quivering, and his hands were on fire.

Halfway down, his spurt of euphoria evaporated, and a sense of real danger tapped him on the shoulder. His ruck got hung up on a rock for a moment. He was off balance, and his left hand and foot were swinging free in the thin mountain air, the fingers of his right hand gripping the rock by sheer force of will. He grasped at the rock face, found a hold, and searched with his boot until his toes found a tiny ledge. He remained there for some minutes, breathing hard and concentrating on lowering his heart rate, letting the sudden influx of adrenaline burn off.

After that, he slowed his rate of descent, each motion deliberate and careful, the realization that he could die a foolish, lonely death permeating his youthful head.

When he reached the bottom of the cliff, he lay on his back atop a rock that had torn away from the mountain, looking up at the lonely cliff.

Well, that was dumb, he said out loud.

He rested for a few minutes and took off again, picking his way through a place where an avalanche had splintered trees and flung rocks down the mountain. He took long strides, jumping from boulder to boulder. Night was falling, and he needed to get clear of the rocks and back onto more level ground.

* * *

You’re sure he wasn’t injured? William asked.

Relax, brother, Chilli said. Have faith in your boy. He’s as tough as they come. He’s got good genes.

I hate this.

’Course you do. He’ll make it though. I saw it in his eyes.

William regarded his friend. Chilli was in his fifties, his red hair a mane blowing in the daggered spring wind. His eyes were the striking blue of an alpine lake, placid and clear. His face was ruddy, bearded and lean, and the crinkles around his eyes and on his forehead spoke of battles won and lost. He was a big man with the soul of a lion and the heart of a warrior.

They stood at the dock on Jenny Lake. The glorious peaks of the Grand Tetons caught the early morning sun in a way that made them seem gilded, ethereal, and benign. However, William knew beauty made them no less deadly.

I almost got him, Chilli said. But it wasn’t fair.

What do you mean?

I hit him with Grace and his Mama.

William was about to say something he would regret, then bit off the acerbic remark. Final Selection was more about mental toughness than physical ability. Candidates never made it to the last test without being in excellent condition. But to be a Ranger Fox, the soldiers had to possess an iron will. Chilli was doing his job by attempting to make Ryder crack.

Fair enough, William said. I can see where you might have gotten to him, especially considering what Crystal put him through when he reenlisted and decided to try for the Foxes. His mother had cried and pleaded. Ryder had promised her he would be careful, but he had not given in.

He wants to make you proud, Chilli said.

He does make me proud, William said. I tell him that.

Hmm, Chilli said.

William faced mixed emotions about Ryder being in the military in the first place. He wanted his son to find his way in the world, be a strong and good man who could be relied upon. However, he also wanted Ryder to have a family, grow old and wise. In his heart, William hoped for more than a soldier’s life for his only child.

You cast a long shadow, my friend, Chilli said. He’s heard the stories, seen the way everyone treats you. He wants to be a part of it, figures he’s got some stories in him too.

That’s what I’m afraid of, William said.

We were that young once, Chilli said. Hell, I remember you when you were his age, full of purpose and fury. There’s no doubt he’s your son. He comes by that stubbornness honestly.

William was only forty, and despite his conditioning, he felt the weight of every year on him. His leg ached on cold, wet mornings, an old wound that reminded him both of his lost child and the fact he was lucky to be alive. That pain seemed fair. His back sometimes betrayed him under the weight of a heavy rucksack, and his eyesight had begun to decline over the last two years. He wasn’t as good a shot as he had once been at long range. But at six-four and a lean two hundred twenty pounds, he was still a powerful man. He hoped that what he had lost in reflexes, he made up for in wisdom and experience. The many scars told a story of violence etched into his body and soul, each the mark of a lesson hard learned. His salt and pepper beard was short, and his brush cut hair was shot through with gray, high and tight on the sides so that his shot-off ear was impossible to ignore.

Ryder had inherited William’s broad shoulders, although he was not yet as barrel-chested, and was blessed with his mother’s blue eyes and fair complexion. He had also inherited, or worse, learned, William’s penchant for taking risks. This worried William.

A father’s most important job was to keep his children safe. Knowing the peril Ryder was running towards, not only with the Final Selection, but with the blood and death that was the life of a Ranger, particularly with the current rumblings in Russia, left William feeling like a failure. Like he’d let his boy down.

You’ve gotta let him fly, Chilli said. You can’t protect him forever.

I know, William said. I don’t have to like it though.

* * *

On the other side of the world, General Leo Petrovich declined the vodka with a wave while he feigned interest in what Romanov was saying. The Tsar droned on, fond of his own voice as always, speaking about parades and politics, then seemed to catch himself.

We don’t mean to bore you. We are glad to have you back in St. Petersburg, the Tsar said. How long has it been? Two? Three years?

You have kept me busy, Your Highness.

And you are our greatest hero. You have brought glory to Russia again.

Thank you, Your Eminence. I am just a soldier, Leo said.

Ah, but you are so much more. The children sing songs of you. Women name sons in your honor. You have etched your name forever in our history.

Peter Romanov downed a full glass of clear vodka in a single swallow and smiled broadly. Leo noticed a redness of the nose and eyes in the Tsar, a slight tremor in his hand as he placed the crystal back on his desk.

It was true that songs were sung, but the type of song depended on the region; Leo was hero to some, the devil to others.

You must be wondering why we have summoned you, the Tsar said.

Yes, Your Highness, Leo said.

You have brought order to the east. You have crushed the rebels in the south, yes? Our empire again stretches to the Bering Sea. Our harvests are greater every year, our factories produce weapons. The people are fed and happy. Roads and babies, my friend.

A testament to your greatness, Leo said. He chafed against the titles, the pomp and ceremony that had become the norm in the capital. The Tsar made it sound as though Russia was the grand empire it had once been. It was not, and they both knew it. The cities were mostly small towns between vast tracks of tundra, mountains, and radioactive wastelands. The trains were running again, though they did not always arrive on the eastern coast. The distances and sheer size of the empire made governing nearly impossible.

To the south, ethnic divisions lingered. General Leo had been brutal. Bows and arrows were no match for tanks and machine guns. But a lasting peace? No. Christians slaughtered Muslims; Muslims killed Christians. It was sickening. Leo felt that Russia was better off without the southern districts. They were nothing but trouble.

The Russian people are a great people. We are no strangers to hardship, the Tsar said. But they rejoice at our empire. It gives them hope. People need to believe in something.

General Leo nodded, met the Tsar’s stare. The Tsar was old. His hair was white and his skin had a papery, translucent look to it, as though at any moment he might tear. Leo had known the man for sixty years. The Tsar had been his father’s best friend, a career politician before The Bleeding. After that terrible war, when people were eating each other in the winter, as the armies disbanded and murderers and rapists roamed the streets, Peter Romanov, known then as Peter Zhukovsky, organized a militia. He brought order first to St. Petersburg, and over the last twenty-seven years, he had expanded his power. He was a man of vision, a leader who took the long view, and General Leo had been the tip of the spear. There were things Leo regretted, found ways to justify. Still, order was better than chaos.

So, the Tsar said. We want to give you a reward.

Are you going to let me retire? A quiet place on the water perhaps, somewhere not too cold. He might marry again, have a child. That would help atone for all the killing.

If that is what you decide, we will release you. However, we think you will choose otherwise.

What does Your Highness have in mind? Leo asked, a smile in his eyes if not on his stoic face.

The Tsar leaned forward, and his eyes were bright and clear in that moment. Revenge, he said.

Chapter Two

Ryder got lost during the night by confusing two similar ridges, and humped in the wrong direction. When he realized his mistake, he sat down on a rotted log and laughed. He could either get angry, or keep going. He pushed himself to his feet and sang bawdy songs as he marched through the dark forest, trying not to think about the hours and energy he had squandered.

After he crossed his earlier trail, he smelled a rotting carcass and stopped cold. In early spring, the snows melted and revealed the sick and old animals that had not made it through the winter. These dead animals were a favorite easy meal for hungry bears emerging from hibernation.

Ryder tilted his head and sniffed, trying to figure out the direction of the wind, held his breath to listen. He was in a broad valley of open grass and rock, following a burbling mountain stream.

He heard a huffing sound ahead and backed away. The stars were bright above him and he could make out the dim outlines of rocks and shrubs around the stream. One of the rocks moved and Ryder froze. He could try for his rifle, but that might make things worse, might alert the bear to his presence.

He heard splashing, and saw a bear cub heading toward him. Ryder took off his rucksack, cringing at the sound, and removed his carbine, taking care to be quiet.

The mother grizzly emerged from bushes ten paces away on all fours, pawing at the ground. Ryder crouched then, trying to make himself small, less threatening. She roared, jowls shaking, teeth bared, a terrible sound Ryder felt in his bones.

Go on now, Ryder said, using the voice he used with his wolf pups. You don’t want me.

The bear rose on her hind legs, towering over Ryder. He did not want to shoot her, partly because she had cubs, but more than that, he knew he might not kill her before she tore him to pieces.

He thumbed the selector on his weapon to full auto and fired at the ground.

The bear dropped down to all four legs again and tore away, the little cub behind her. She roared one more time, a final warning, then vanished into the night.

After that, Ryder sang louder and did not stop. Better to let them know he was coming than stumble upon another grizzly in the dark.

He made the last checkpoint before dawn. The instructor there did not say a word. There were three candidates sleeping next to a fire, and the instructor was drinking hot coffee, looking amused as Ryder asked for the final checkpoint.

One of the other men looked up at Ryder with bleary eyes. You’re going on? Why bother? he asked. We’ve already failed.

Ryder shrugged. I don’t have a choice, he said. He set his teeth and strode into the darkness, wishing he had not seen the fire. It hurt his night vision.

Ryder was delirious by the time he made it to the relatively level loop around the lake. He attempted to jog, his feet dragging and scraping the old paved path, and he was moving at a tortured pace that a toddler could have maintained. His vision was blurred and his body ravaged by lacerations and bruises. He had missed the cutoff time for the final test by five hours, and the sun was rising over the eastern slopes.

He rounded the final curve, saw the dock, and smiled. He had failed the test, but he had learned that his limits were more elastic than he ever imagined. He had gone sixty miles without stopping, gaining more than two miles of total altitude, carrying an extra sixty pounds on his back. That was something he never thought he would have been able to do. The test had not started until he’d been sleep deprived for an entire day. He could look himself in the mirror without flinching. He’d given his best.

We’ve got one! someone shouted. A pair of medics pounded the asphalt toward him.

Are you injured? asked a young woman with short hair and a tense smile.

No, ma’am. Tired is all.

Let me help you, the other soldier said.

I made it this far. I can manage to hobble the next hundred yards.

You’re the only one, the woman said.

No one else is back yet?

Let me get your gear, she said.

Ryder smiled at her. He quickened his pace, tried hard not to stumble, but did not surrender his ruck.

Two large men rose from lawn chairs on the dock and ambled toward him.

I told you, Ryder heard Chilli say.

I guess you’re okay? his father asked. The Old Man cocked his head and looked Ryder up and down.

Yes sir. Sorry I’m late.

Chilli and the Old Man both chuckled.

Have a seat, son, his father said. Get the medics to look at your feet first, put some balm on those blisters. Nothing broken? Nothing sprained?

I’m good to go, Ryder said. He removed his rucksack, then sat down and let the medics take off his boots.

Welcome to the Foxes, son, said his father.

What? But, my time— I’m not even close.

That’s the whole point of Final Selection, Chilli said. It is impossible, no matter how good you are, to make the time. The point is not to quit. To see it through when you know you’ve failed.

Oh, that’s nasty, Ryder said with a laugh. Coming out of the Army, he was programmed to adhere to a strict timetable. Chow at oh-five-hundred meant just that. If you were a minute late you didn’t eat. Every benchmark and goal along the way he had striven for was specific and measureable. This test was rigged.

For the last five years now, we’ve had between thirty and fifty candidates make it this far, Chilli said. "Only a few each year make it. Now