The bottle shattered on the street as they scattered, with Glain herself covering Wolfe and shoving him toward a doorway as she fired upward. Jess felt the sudden, strange feeling of an indrawn breath on the back of his sweating neck, and then the thick, clinging substance known as Greek fire that had been contained within the bottle ignited with a hissing roar. The heat flashed over him, and for a moment he feared he was caught in the flames, but when he turned to look he saw a huge, burning column rising to the sky.
This is not a test. That was not half-strength. A million questions raced through Jess’s mind, but all useless now. Surely Santi couldn’t have known and hadn’t agreed to this. Wolfe wouldn’t have, if he’d been able to refuse.
Didn’t matter. The force on the roof had weapons of their own, besides the shock tactic of Greek fire. That attack seemed to have missed all of them, and now Jess’s squad had taken the meager shelter available in doorways, and bullets—not half-strength, either—shattered holes in the bricks near them. Glain broke the dirty glass of a wide shopwindow and ordered Helva through to check the room while she covered Wolfe, who crouched to present a smaller target. He looked, as always, focused. Tense. Ready.
Unarmed and completely vulnerable.
Jess tried to control his shaking. Though he knew he ought to be frightened, his trembles were more from adrenaline, eagerness to take the fight to the enemy. He was angry, he realized. Angry that he’d been dumped, once again, into a situation beyond his control, and with utter disregard for his survival. Angry that Glain, Wolfe, and these comrades he’d tried so hard not to care about might pay the price again.
He saw a target on the rooftop, aimed, and fired, and saw the impact. Someone went down, just a dim shape against the glare. Good. He aimed again, fired, and missed, but got a hit on the next shadow that appeared.
He cast a quick glance toward Glain and Wolfe, just to be certain they were still secure; Glain was in perfect form, face calm, eyes bright as she aimed and fired, and every shot counted. The sheen of the greenish Greek fire against her skin made her look almost like an automaton herself . . . except for the slight contented smile on her face.
Glain had found her perfect moment, it seemed.
Jess ignored Tariq’s movement from his post nearby at first, thinking his comrade was looking for a better firing angle up. But he watched him, anyway, out of instinct and the sense memory of getting shot in the back. Tariq wasn’t looking up at their attackers, he realized after a second. His squad mate was staring straight at Glain and Wolfe, and the steps he took from cover were angled to put him clear of Glain and give him an open shot on Wolfe’s unprotected body.
Jess didn’t believe it, not instantly. He comprehended, but belief came a second later, as Tariq raised his weapon. Wolfe, without armor, without protection, wouldn’t be as lucky as Jess had been in the same situation—and this was no shock-weapons exercise. Half-strength rounds could maim and kill . . . If Tariq was armed with half-strength at all. Somehow, Jess knew in a flash that he wasn’t.
Tariq had been ordered to kill Wolfe.
Jess felt it in his gut, a conviction so strong he didn’t question where it came from. Tariq, who’d been given orders to fire on his own squad before, might not even know what he was doing was wrong. He might be completely innocent.
He would still be the instrument of a Scholar’s death.
Jess realized he didn’t have enough time to reach Tariq and warn him or spoil his shot. There were no good options.
He raised his weapon, aimed, and fired before Tariq pulled his own trigger.
His squad mate, his friend, collapsed against the wall with his mouth a dark O of surprise, and the weapon slid out of his hands to crash on the cobbles.
Then Tariq sagged down to a sitting position, hunched and breathless from the shot Jess had placed right in the center of his chest, and his face turned a terrible creamy shade just as his eyes fluttered shut. Not dead. Please, God, don’t let him be dead. If the Greek fire was real, maybe all the ammunition was real as well. But he’d put it into armor, not flesh. Jess didn’t see blood, which was one small mercy. I didn’t have a choice. It was either Tariq or Wolfe.
Jess scrambled from his position to Tariq’s side and pressed his fingers to the young man’s neck. He found a pulse, and pulled the young man to the shelter of a doorway before taking a zigzag pattern toward Glain and Wolfe.
Glain had seen the whole thing, and she swung the barrel of her gun toward him as he neared. “Stop!”
“I saved Wolfe’s life, you idiot!” he shouted back, and ignored her to hug the wall beside the Scholar. Jess faced out, blocking Wolfe from any more possible friendly fire from that angle. “This isn’t just an exercise!”
“Really?” Glain snapped. She sounded lightly annoyed, as if someone had taken the last croissant from the tray at breakfast before she could reach it. “I saw what happened. Tariq was aiming straight for Wolfe. Did you kill him?”
“No.”
“Good. Then he can answer questions and get a taste of my boot.” She sounded extraordinarily good-natured about it, which was a little chilling. She cast a lightning-quick look over her shoulder into the darkened interior of the shop and called, “Helva! Is it clear in there?” No answer. She glanced at Jess, then said, “Take him in. Carefully.”