Free Son of Orlan (The Chronicles of Kin Roland Book 2) by Scott Moon

hadn’t been realized. Gunfire boomed
from the bend in the trail. Kin approached and watched as Orlan lobbed rounds
at a pathetic Reaper trapped on a ledge.
    The Reaper hunkered against the cliff wall as high velocity
bullets struck one at a time. Orlan didn’t have the angle for a kill shot. He
fired, checked for results, moved and fired again. A good trooper conserved
ammunition and Orlan was one of the best.
    Kin activated his FSPAA direct radio, then spoke. “Roland to
Orland, I’m coming up behind you. Cease fire.”
    “Hero of Man to the Enemy of Man, kiss my ass. I’ve got a
Reaper here.”
    “It’s not a Reaper.”
    “The hell you say.”
    Before Kin could argue, William jumped from the ledge and
fled, taking advantage of Orlan’s momentary distraction. Orlan, who had seemed
rooted to the ground in the heavy armor, sprinted after the Reaper. His boots
churned up dirt and rocks, spitting the debris behind his sudden acceleration.
    “Orlan!” Kin chased the trooper, fighting for speed. Orlan’s
suit was more advanced and better maintained than Kin’s unit. Yet Kin’s FSPAA
piloting skill remained superior, even after years without training and
practice. Catching the filicidal trooper proved difficult. He closed the
distance with effort and concentration.
    Orlan looked back. “What the hell are you doing Kin?”
    Kin surged forward, straining the gears of his armor, and
tackled Orlan.
    Together, they slammed face first.
    Kin recognized a good idea when he saw one. How had tackling
Orlan—the biggest, strongest, craziest man Kin had ever met—qualify for
consideration? Sleeping late: good idea. Carrying a backup weapon: good idea.
Fighting Sergeant Orlan, Class III weapons master and veteran killer: not a
good idea.
    Advantage came with surprise. Kin pinned the man’s arms to
his waist, taking his weapons out of the fight. But Orlan rolled on his back,
crushing Kin beneath him.
    Sprawled on the rocky ground, Kin held on. The weight
pressing him against the sharp soil wasn’t an issue. Armor protected him. The
problem was his inability to move. He couldn’t attack. He couldn’t retreat. He
couldn’t squirm from under the trooper pinning him.
    Orlan lashed his head backward, striking Kin’s face plate.
Digital alerts scrolled across Kin’s visor. A sidebar graph rated the reverse
headbutt equivalent to a bullet strike.
    Still facing the Crashdown sky, as was his victim, Orlan
lifted his feet toward his head, displaying not only his surprising flexibility
but that of his advanced FSPAA unit as well. He paused, reached his legs back
father until his feet were near his helmet, and thrust them forward and down. The
momentum pulled him into a standing position, dragging Kin up with him.
    Kin tightened his grip. “Orlan, listen to me.”
    Orlan flipped forward on to his back, slamming Kin with a
suicide throw hard enough to rattle his teeth inside the FSPAA helmet. Jumping
off the cliff had been worse, but not by much. He hadn’t felt the force of an
extra three-hundred pounds during that particular crash landing.
    Kin hooked his legs around the trooper’s knees to prevent a
repeat of the stand-and-slam tactic. “The Reaper is a shape changer, Orlan.
He’s your son.”
    “What?” Orlan broke the hold and scrambled to his feet.
    Kin retreated, holding both hands up, palms toward the
trooper, who paced and clenched his fists.
    Anger and frustration trembled through Orlan’s armored
gauntlets as he began to stride near Kin. “Are you drunk? Never thought you
were an alcoholic, but you’ve got to be drunk or stupid. William can’t change.
That’s why Tabitha abandoned him.”
    “What kind of Reaper hides on a ledge? You’re calling me
stupid? I saw the Reaper’s total lack of aggression from a half mile.”
    Orlan grunted. He searched for the Reaper and saw nothing.
“Well, he got away thanks to you. That’s your style, Reaper lover.”
    Kin lunged forward and punched Orlan’s helmet. Like a