Shadow Strike

by P. R. Adams

  “That bomb wasn’t meant just to create chaos.”

  “I know.” Benson didn’t know why she whispered that. Everything about the last couple months had the feel of something carefully architected. It wasn’t just a handful of SAID agents. It wasn’t just the powerful Patel family. Things ran deep. And wide. Her being in a prison—protective—cell wasn’t coincidence.

  Halliwell kicked at something imaginary on the floor. “I’ve been thinking about this.”

  “The bombing?”

  “The whole thing—you getting stuck on the Pandora, Martinez cracking and getting people killed, Stiles and that Penn guy and the whole spook thing.”

  “It can’t just be the SAID.”

  “I know. The GSA’s in it, too. Some of them. And then Gadreau just happens to be your Marine detachment commander on the Clarion?”

  “He seemed tight with Agent Patel.”

  Halliwell smirked. “Real tight. And then Patty.”

  “Commander Scalise? You think she’s in on this?”

  “No. But she’s the perfect patsy.”

  “They were using her?”

  “She’s not good at politics and diplomacy, but she’s great with a grudge.”

  “Calling you a criminal?”

  The staff sergeant squinted hard. “I’m not a criminal.”

  “I know.”

  Grier tensed. “But he’s all about keeping secrets.”

  Halliwell glared at her. “Shut up, Toni.”

  “Nope. Because I understand what you’re saying now. Shit. I didn’t—”

  “Drop it.”

  But the corporal turned to Benson. “What he’s saying without saying is that you’ve been set up. Fuck!”

  Benson caught the look of pain in Halliwell’s eyes before he turned away. She wanted to reach for him. There was so much hurt in his life, emotional pain that went beyond the scars left by his service. “Corporal, what do you mean set up?”

  “The Pandora. That was a dead-end job for you. Everyone got it. A beat-up old bucket, a drunk head surgeon, a couple Marines with bad history, a sloppy commander and his pet engineer—don’t you see?”

  “No. I see that I made a bad deal out of something that should’ve been—”

  “Commander, they stuck you on that boat because they knew you’d end up fucking Clive. And they knew they could smear you with my record, too. Shit!”

  Benson reeled. Her heart pounded in her chest. “Corporal Grier!”

  The muscular woman shook her head. “Hear me out, ma’am. Okay? Fuck! I feel so stupid.” A tear trickled down the corporal’s cheek. “My alcohol problem, the whole Dramoran thing. Clive’s refusal to turn in people.”

  “Stop. Right now.”

  Halliwell shrugged. “Toni’s right. We’ve been hiding so much, it took us a while to see it.”

  “Hiding what?”

  Grier knuckled another tear away. “About six months before I went off to boot camp, my girlfriends and I went rafting. White water. Not something you mix with alcohol, right? We did. And I…” She let out a shuddering sigh. “I made a bad call. The raft…”

  The staff sergeant took a step toward Grier but stopped himself. “She’s the only one who made it out of the river. Her recruiter kept it out of her records. And when I found out, I didn’t turn her in. Same as I didn’t turn in my parents.”

  Pressure built behind Benson’s eyes. “Why would you turn your parents—”

  “Because they were involved in the Gosset smuggling operation.”

  Gosset. Jaqqi Gosset. His high school sweetheart. The one Scalise had insinuated something about. “You’re not responsible for what your parents did.”

  “But someone figured it out. When I told you about doing that anti-piracy work? When I met Gadreau? He tried to recruit me. He knew about my parents.”

  Grier nodded. “And they figured out about the rafting thing. And Dramoran.”

  “Stop it with Dramoran, Toni.” Muscles bunched on Halliwell’s thick arms. “That wasn’t your fault. That’s just them trying to cover up for Gullaly.”

  “No, it was my fuck-up, and you covered it up.”

  “Dammit, I told you, there was nothing you—”

  Benson held up a hand. “Stop. Both of you.” It was like pieces were falling into place in a giant puzzle in her head. Scalise. Gadreau. Martinez. The Pandora. “Okay. You’re right. I think. This thing. The bombing. The attack on the fleet.”

  Grier bowed her head. “Someone’s been planning this for years.”

  “A coup. And they needed people to take the fall. That’s what you’re saying?”

  Halliwell grunted. “Not down to the last detail, but yeah.”

  The corporal pressed her face against the bars. “We’re all compromised.”

  Protecting Dietrich. Getting involved with Halliwell. The fights with Martinez and the damage they did to evaluations, no matter what the grades said. A radical politician for a mother.

  Compromised. Damaged.

  Someone to take the fall.

  The outer door to the cell block buzzed open, and two Marine guards entered the small barred space just outside the hall. A woman in a smart GSA uniform followed behind them. She had gold hair brushed back from a plain face. Her tailored uniform advertised a slim body made almost awkward by height—taller than the Marines, nearly as tall as Benson and Halliwell.

  Grier snorted. “Another hot one for you, Clive. Captain Ice Queen. He likes them tall, if you didn’t know.”

  Halliwell glanced toward the opening inner door. “Shut up, Ton—”

  “See? Took his breath away.”

  “She’s not GSA.” Halliwell pushed up against Grier, voice hushed. “SAID.”

  “What? That’s a GSA uniform.”

  Benson could see the uniform, though. And there was something…off about the way the woman wore it. She seemed uncomfortable in it. And the uniform itself seemed freshly printed. Neither was meaningful on its own, but Halliwell’s words made it all meaningful.

  The lead Marine tapped a code into a shielded panel on the other side of the cell door as his buddy leered at the Ice Queen’s back. They were both bodybuilder types, men used to overpowering troublesome prisoners. The one typing in the code had black, spiked hair and acne scars on his bronze, squarish face. His buddy was pale, round-faced, with small eyes set far too close.

  Small Eyes drew a stun baton out and activated it.

  Acne Scars stepped back as the door slid open, and dropped a hand to the stun baton hanging from his belt. “Visitor for you.”

  Halliwell pulled Benson back with him and gave her a look: Be ready.

  Grier stepped back as well, hands up. “We don’t want any visitors.”

  Ice Queen tilted her head, and her lips ticked up, almost like a smile. “Just questions, Corporal.”

  Acne Scars twisted around to nod at the tall, pale woman. “Lots of people trying to get answers to what happ—”

  The tall GSA officer whipped something from beneath her coat and drove it into the Marine’s face. The tip of a blade punched through the back of his skull, and thick blood gushed out.

  Small Eyes’s eyes widened. “Hey!”

  Ice Queen spun and thrust the weapon into the other guard’s belly, then twisted her wrist. Blood whispered out and he dropped his baton with a high-pitched gasp, then his knees gave out, and he slid to the floor, clutching his gut.

  Grier didn’t wait for a signal from Halliwell but growled something and launched over Acne Scars and into the tall assassin.

  The blade came around and caught Grier in the side, but the muscular woman held on, thick arm wrapped around the other woman’s neck.

  Then Halliwell darted out.

  He caught the assassin’s wrist on the second thrust, before it could drive all the way beneath Grier’s left breast.

  Blood darkened the corporal’s T-shirt, and she shrieked.

  But she kept squeezing.

  Halliwell held the assassin
’s wrist with one hand and pummeled her face with a fist. The nose, the lips—bones cracked, and blood spurted.

  Then the assassin made a snort-like groaning sound and the blade dropped.

  Grier moaned. “Fuck! Fuck!”

  She twisted the assassin’s head around, and a snap echoed in the concrete hallway.

  Halliwell tore his T-shirt off. “Toni?”

  “Fuck! That knife!”

  Benson staggered into the hallway, blinking at the gore and decimation. They’d sent an assassin. Things must be moving—

  Something rumbled through the foundation: an explosion.

  More followed.

  Halliwell had Grier’s T-shirt up. The wounds were ugly, and they were bleeding heavily. He pressed one hand against the wound beneath her breast and the other against the deeper wound.

  Grier hissed but chuckled. “Damn, Clive. Is that all…it took to…get your…hands on me?”

  “Shut the fuck up, Toni. Okay?”

  Benson grabbed the knife and wiped the blade against the assassin’s uniform. She searched for another weapon, but there didn’t really need to be one, did there? The knife, the way she moved with it.

  A pistol. A small one. In the crook of the woman’s armpit, under her shirt. In a flesh-like holster. Only a thorough pat-down would have caught it.

  Automatic gunfire chattered somewhere outside, occasionally drowned by more explosions.

  A coup. Sheathed in the lie of bringing about stability.

  Benson tossed the holster and pocketed the gun. “How is she?”

  “Bleeding. Bad.”

  The T-shirt would be enough. Benson took the belt off one guard and used it to pin the bunched material against the worst wound.

  Grier shuddered. “A threesome, ma’am? That’s…nice.”

  Halliwell leaned in close to the wounded Marine. “Watch it. Okay? You don’t want to say something you’ll regret.”

  “No regrets…big guy. All I ever wanted…” Grier’s voiced faded off.

  “No.” Halliwell’s voice was a deep, throaty sound, pure animal pain.

  It was a pain that punched Benson in the gut. She felt even more like an outsider. “We have to get out of here.”

  Halliwell’s face was red. Muscles bunched on his jaw.

  “Clive! We have to go!”

  He blinked. “You even know where we are?”

  “I have a good idea, yes. Plaza security. An older facility.”

  The staff sergeant stood, effortlessly lifting Grier onto a shoulder. “Lead.”

  It was a demand. An expectation. She had no choice.

  Benson retraced the steps they’d taken to get into the holding cells.

  Protective.

  There was a parking lot at the side of the building, where they’d been unloaded by their Marine escort. They needed to go up a flight of stairs. Benson took a different route, a different set of stairs. Another GSA officer waited at the top, assault rifle in hand, back to her, watching the door to the stairs they should have taken. He was older, the sort who could pass for a manager, dressed as a major.

  And he was surprised, confused.

  Benson rushed him and thrust the knife into his gut before he could get the gun around.

  He let out a pathetic groan.

  She thrust again and again, and he dropped. His uniform was blood-soaked.

  When he fell, she took his weapon; he didn’t have an extra magazine.

  Windows were interspersed along the outward wall—barred and grimy, the few smudge-clear spots haloed by hazy late afternoon sun. Other than Benson and the dying GSA officer—SAID agent, more likely—the hallway was empty.

  She waved Halliwell up. Blood dripped down his chest, but other than an anxious look he seemed to barely notice Grier’s weight.

  Benson headed for the parking lot door, then stopped. She peeked through one of the windows.

  The lot was vacant except for a sleek, black shuttle. Four men with assault rifles leaned against the corners. They didn’t even bother to act like they were anything other than enforcers.

  In the distance, fire clawed at the sky, which was clouded by dark smoke.

  There were too many. If she could get the door open or knock out a pane of glass without being noticed…

  Halliwell looked up from patting down the dying man. “What’s wrong?”

  “Four guys. Assault rifles. They’re guarding the only vehicle.”

  “Kill them.”

  It was typical Halliwell. Typical Marine. “We can’t get caught up in an extended firefight. Maybe there’s another vehicle out front.”

  An engine whine grew louder, drawing Benson’s attention up, where another shuttle descended, this one larger and dark gray. The four men gazed skyward, still calm; they seemed to recognize it. One of them ambled toward the other vehicle once it set down, gun at the low ready position, finger on the trigger guard.

  Reinforcements. Someone had figured out what had happened.

  The gray shuttle driver door opened.

  And the man’s head rocked back as a pistol crack thundered.

  Stiles slid out and crouched slightly behind the door, then dropped another of the SAID enforcers before they’d raised their weapons.

  That left one of the SAID agents on the near side of the black shuttle, crouched low. The one on the opposite side dropped behind cover. He wouldn’t be able to see Benson, and the agent exposed to her was a good target.

  She braced against the wall, sighted on the agent, and fired a burst.

  The weapon kicked a little more than she expected, but she shattered the window and put a round into the vehicle near the agent.

  His head came up, searching, then when he saw the broken window, he backed around the car front, weapon tracking around to her position.

  Before he could fire, she did.

  He flopped backward.

  When she turned her attention to the last enforcer, he was already down.

  Stiles waved.

  It had happened so fast that the idea that it was all a setup nestled in Benson’s head.

  Halliwell was at the window beside her. “Is that Stiles?”

  “It is.”

  He reached for the door. “Let’s go.”

  “Wait. She just showed up—”

  “Sure. And she’s got a shuttle.”

  “This could all be…”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know. Some sort of trap.”

  “Faith, that lady down in the prison was an assassin. I saw her years ago. With Gadreau’s people. She was SAID.”

  “So maybe Stiles is in with them.”

  He pulled the door open. “She’s not in with them. She killed Patel, remember?”

  Benson readied to shoot the pretty GSA officer, but the smaller woman jogged forward to help Halliwell, then when brushed off gathered weapons from the dead.

  Not SAID. Not part of the group sent to assassinate.

  But can I trust her?

  Stiles turned to the door where Benson stood. “Commander? Are you okay?”

  “I-I don’t know.”

  “We need to find a safe place.”

  Benson took a step. “Is there?”

  “Someplace safe? I don’t know, ma’am. But staying here isn’t an option. This was an SAID hit team.”

  “I gathered as much.”

  Halliwell stood beside the gray shuttle, hand on the door. “Are you coming?”

  Is there a choice, really?

  The commander followed Stiles back to the vehicle and climbed into the back. Whatever was going on, they were all in it together.

  19

  Morganson traced a finger along the surface of his command station console and tried to remember what it had looked like the day he’d been assigned command of the Spear of Destiny.

  Bright. Polished. Crisp. No trace of a smudge from his fingertips.

  The display would have shown the entire fleet, too.

  And there would h
ave been the smell of burn-in, equipment cooking off thin insulation layers that weren’t necessary.

  He’d been alone on the bridge then. Staring into the large display, taking in the grandeur of space.

  How vast was that space? Vast enough there was no reason for expansion.

  Not for generations. Not for millennia.

  Yet the fleet had been purpose-built for just that: expansion.

  “Rise to the occasion, Bryce. Meet your potential. Take us to our destiny.”

  The Supreme Leader might have been Morganson’s father, but it was always the words of his…creator that came to mind. The Architect. Somehow, destiny wasn’t seen by others as a religion, despite any lack of grounding in science or logic. It was clutched to bosom and shouted from the highest ramparts.

  Yet the Architect still held a place in the captain’s thoughts.

  In my heart? Is that what I was thinking? While scoffing at the fools who worship destiny, I turn to the notion of “heart.”

  He chuckled softly. It wasn’t enough to gain the attention of his crew. They were hunched over their stations, even more focused than him.

  Because this was the moment.

  Lights teased, then bloomed, then settled in, if not as bright as normal then bright enough. Humming came from the vents overhead as the scrubbers and atmosphere circulation system came back online fully. Slowly, measured in long seconds and then minutes, the musty stench drained away. All across the helm station, the officers’ panels first dimmed into some sort of resolution, then brightened to reveal the specific controls.

  Unsurprisingly, Ensign Ostmann spun around first. “Weapons system operational, Captain!”

  Francisco and Mencias were less enthusiastic announcing their status.

  But it was the same. Everywhere, all across the fleet, systems had come back online following a final reset to synchronize everything.

  Morganson had his fleet again!

  At least, what remained of it.

  That was the ugly part that remained. He patted the command console as one might a pet. “I expect a full report of capabilities within the hour.”

  Ostmann snapped his heels together. “As you command, Captain!”

  The hatch to the bridge opened, and Commander Voegel stepped through, crystal blue eyes immediately drawn to the helm station. Her skin was ghostly against the black of her uniform. Bright red lipstick highlighted shapely lips.