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The Shot That Kills You – Extract

A Black Library Publication

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THE SHOT THAT KILLS YOU

William Crowe

Concealed by mist and the grey light of dusk, six power-armoured figures stalked their prey across flooded fields. Sen Yamata’s senses were on high alert, nerves taut as he approached the agri complex where the enemy had struck just hours before. No lights illuminated the cluster of blocky warehouses and rust-streaked silos that loomed above the waterlogged terraces. There was no sign of the labourers who worked the fields, nor the local militia who had failed so completely to defend them. It would be easy to believe the place was abandoned if it was not for the screaming.

Ever since the Raptors strike team had made planetfall on Karakopis, desperate screams had been echoing through the veil of fog that permanently shrouded the world. Yamata knew that he was listening to the death-agonies of the isolated colony’s last few defenders, those who had broken and fled rather than face their deaths head-on. Now, the triumphant enemy was running them down, making sport of the killing. The thought filled Yamata with rage. He put that fury to use as he had been trained to, turned it inwards, sharpened it into cold and merciless efficiency.

Apart from the swaying grasses and the drifting banks of mist, nothing moved as the strike team fanned out across the sodden fields. The thick fog deadened sound, but Yamata could just make out the rhythmic slosh of displaced water and the barely audible whine of servos as the warriors to his left and right advanced. The Vanguard Space Marines moved in almost perfect silence, closing in on darkened buildings with swift, sure steps.

Despite the gathering gloom of twilight, Yamata saw the kill-zone clearly, rendered in crisp detail by his armour’s sophisticated auspex. The optical array mounted to his olive-green battle plate whirred softly as it rotated, following the movement of his head, turning its sensitive lenses to map the marshy landscape in dozens of visible and invisible spectra. Overlaid across his vision was a constantly evolving datacloud of auto-sense observations and proximity alerts. A ragged line of green pinpoints swam at the corners of his eyes, marking his battle-brothers’ positions as they formed up to deliver their decisive strike, and a white-hot compass needle dragged at the edge of his perception, indicating distance and direction to the rally point they would withdraw to when the mission was complete. But there was something else out there, too. Spectral smudges of static flickered in the sensor readings, moving almost too fast to follow. Yamata peered into the mist, trying to pin down the fleeting half-shapes.

Nothing, he tried to tell himself. Just echoes in the augurs. Ghosts in the fog.

Then something moved. There was a sudden, unmistakable scramble of motion amongst the tall, bladed grasses, a shadowy suggestion of a figure, all spindly limbs and jagged angles. A ripple of responsive motion ran through the strike team. Bolt carbines snapped towards the disturbance, and Yamata dropped into a firing position on one knee, battle-honed instincts urging him to open fire without hesitation. But the figure, whatever it had been, had vanished already, swallowed by the mists. Yamata fought down the impulse to pursue it, whipcord muscles clenching as he held himself in check. He was a veteran of the Raptors, not some raw neophyte Scout heedless of danger and hungry to prove himself. Long decades of war had taught him control, and a measure of caution. He knew that if the strike team gave away their position too soon, they would lose the only advantage they had.

‘Did you see it, brother?’ The voice was a whisper, spoken close to Yamata’s ear rather than through the squad’s closed vox-network. Yamata recognised the rumbling, dour voice of Brother Cashauk – tough and imposing, even for a Space Marine, but almost silent on his feet when he wanted to be. He leant in close beside his battle-brother.

‘Not clear enough to be sure,’ Yamata admitted.

Cashauk gave a derisive snort. ‘I am sure. The enemy knows we are here.’ Yamata kept any flicker of emotion from his face as he took in Cashauk’s words. If he was right, then their chances of survival were slim. Both men were keenly aware that their strike team was alone on this miserable planet. Both knew that no reinforcements would be coming. Their Chapter’s strength was spread thin across a dozen systems, protecting the fragile interstellar supply lines that brought rations and materiel to the millions-strong armies of the Indomitus Crusade, fighting half a galaxy away. They were a squad of six. Six Space Marines sent to save a world. Yamata framed his reply carefully.

‘If that is true, then we had better move swiftly.’

Evidently, Sergeant Rheel had reached the same conclusion. At that very moment, the sergeant’s voice crackled over the vox, calm and measured as always as he issued his commands. No sooner were the orders spoken than the strike team surged into action, splitting into fire-teams, hurrying to take up their positions. Brother Vipponah, the squad’s dedicated marksman, settled in the shadow of a gnarled and leafless tree, covering the advancing squad with his silenced Occulus bolter. Hunkering low, Yamata and Cashauk raced forward, sweeping around the side of the lightless buildings up ahead. There was no doubt that the enemy held captives within – their screams sang out in the dark, full of pain and terror.

The rest of the squad stuck close to the sergeant, loping directly towards the target. His voice croaked through vox-beads in their ears as he added a familiar coda to his orders.

‘Strike swift. Stay sharp. Remember… you never hear the shot that kills you.’ It was the sergeant’s mantra, one that he repeated on every mission like a benediction. A warning to stay wary and watchful, and a shared joke between battle-brothers who knew that the odds of survival were never in their favour.

Yamata loped across the last few dozen yards of treacherous ground and dropped into a crouch behind the agri complex’s perimeter wall. It was a flimsy defence, little more than a makeshift barricade hastily assembled by the desperate local militia from whatever scrap they had to hand. Terrified and outgunned as they were, they had done their best to hold off the xenos reavers who had descended on their world. Yamata admired their bravery, if not their capability. He could hear their screams growing more terrible with every moment, could make out the distinct tones of individual voices woven together, suffering as one. The enemy preferred to take their time tormenting their prisoners. Yamata tightened his jaw, bit down on his anger, and endured the shrieking. He watched as the sergeant and the rest of the strike team drew up against the barricade on the far side of the courtyard. He saw the sergeant raise a clenched fist. Hold.

The screaming from inside grew ever louder, ever more shrill and anguished. Yamata’s fingers tightened on the grip of his carbine in anticipation. Beside him, Cashauk readied a grenade, eyes riveted to the unguarded, partly open doorway where they would make their breakthrough.

The screams rose towards a crescendo. The sergeant swept his arm down in a jabbing motion. Strike.

Cashauk bowled the grenade through the doorway, and Yamata followed, surging from cover in a burst of motion, gathering speed with each step. The grenade trailed thick black smoke, which filled the doorway, concealing the charging Space Marine as he threw his armoured shoulder to the metal door, slammed it aside, and burst into the lightless chamber beyond. Carried by momentum, Yamata strode forwards, sweeping his weapon through a low arc, searching for targets. But nothing moved in the cavernous warehouse, except for the bodies swaying from the rafters.

The building had been a storeroom once, filled with huge cargo containers ready to be shipped off-world. Now the great crates were peeled open, emptied out by the raiders who had torn through this place. Discarded grain was scattered across the warehouse floor, a golden carpet criss-crossed with streaks and whirls of blood. A great pool of gore had formed beneath the hanging bodies. One glance told Yamata that they were beyond help, mutilated past recognition but still twitching and struggling, still hoarsely crying out for aid or the Emperor’s mercy. Yamata made it quick, ending their suffering with precise, methodical shots as Cashauk swept the chamber, rapidly searching the dark aisles between stacked cargo crates for signs of the elusive enemy. He growled with frustration, voice low and full of fury.

‘They are running us in circles! They’ve left this bloody message to mock us…’

Realisation came to Yamata faster than words, carried on a flood of adrenaline. Not to mock us. To draw us in. He spun back towards the doorway, opening the squad-wide vox. He had realised what Cashauk had not, that these tortured colonists had been used as bait. Yamata had seen – had used – terror tactics of all kinds in his years of service. He knew a trap when he was in its jaws.

But before he could speak, another voice – Brother Vipponah’s – came roaring over the network.

‘Contact!’ The single word of warning was accompanied by a sudden rumble of gunfire, loud even through the warehouse wall.

Ambush.

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