Free Death's Apprentice: A Grimm City Novel by Gareth Jefferson Jones K. W. Jeter

whisper. “I don’t have a scope. And if I can’t see them, I won’t be able to take them out.”
    “Don’t worry about that. I’ll be with you, and that will be enough.”
    Outside, the moonless Afghan night was so dark that Blake couldn’t see his hand in front of his face. He moved stealthily away from the farmhouse, then crouched down, wondering what to do next.
    “Go left.” A voice whispered at his ear, startling him. “About three yards. Then wait.”
    For a moment, he thought that the Devil had followed him out through the window, and was still beside him. He reached over with one hand, but felt nothing.
    “Go,” the disembodied voice commanded. “Now.”
    Following the voice’s directions, he found himself tucked behind a slight rise, the M16 resting on a stone outcropping.
    “They’re right in front of you.” The Devil’s voice whispered once more in his ear. “There’s a bluff on the other side of the farmhouse. Pull the rifle back so they won’t see the muzzle flash, and fire into that.”
    Blake had already figured out the Devil’s strategy. The sharp crack of the rifle shot, and the rocks dislodging from the bullet hitting the bluff, drew a flurry of surprised voices from the insurgents. And their own shots, directed at the rocks still tumbling down the side of the bluff gave Blake a bead on where the insurgents stood. Aiming just behind the bright flashes from their weapons, he got off a quick couple of shots. Each hit its mark, and he heard the satisfying sound of their bodies falling lifeless to the ground.
    “Stay low.” The voice spoke at his ear again. “They’ve spotted you. Go to the right and hit the dirt.”
    Shots from the insurgents ripped up the ground where he had just been. Rolling onto his shoulder, Blake fired another couple of rounds, one passing straight through the chest of one of the men below him, the next shattering another’s skull and flinging him backward.
    “They’re scattering. Bring your aim twenty degrees to the right. Lower—”
    He peered into the darkness. “I can’t see him.”
    “Just do it. That’s it. Now, fire—”
    Another round was squeezed off, followed by the dull sound of it hitting flesh.
    One by one, Blake picked off the insurgents, heeding the voice at his ear, diving to one side or sprinting to another spot to avoid their return fire. He was pretty sure that the last one had been their leader—from a distance, he could just make out the figure lying on the ground.
    He fired off one more round, to make sure the man was dead. Then the night was silent again. Blake stood up from his hiding spot, then turned and walked back toward the farmhouse.
    “It’s okay, kid—” Only a single candle was guttering inside; by its light, he saw Adeeb crouching in the corner, staring fearfully up at the Devil standing beside Blake. “Neither of us is going to hurt you.” He slung the M16 by its strap over his shoulder. “You’re an innocent in all of this, we know that. So stay here, and we’ll be out of your hair before you know it.”
    “No, Blake. That’s a mistake.” The Devil looked at Adeeb, then turned toward the soldier. “If we leave the boy here, they’ll kill him. His friends will put a bullet through his head, thinking he helped you.”
    Blake knew that the Devil was right. “Then we’ll have to take him with us.”
    “And have him slow us down?” The Devil shook his head. “No. There’s a fuel truck outside that’s fully loaded. Let him take that instead. Then, if anyone questions him about what happened here, he can say he was off delivering supplies.”
    Blake nodded. “That makes sense…” He gestured to Adeeb. “C’mon, kid. Time for you to hit the road.”
    Dawn broke over the Afghan hills. By its first pale light, Blake watched the dust cloud of the truck through a paneless window, Adeeb at the wheel and heading for the nearest town.
    “Unfortunately—” The Devil was standing behind Blake. “That was