Machine State

by Brad C Scott

  “Orders?” I ask.

  “The hovership crash wasn’t an accident,” he says. “Sabotage, just as you said it was.”

  “You’re telling me this now?”

  “I didn’t want to distract you, not after the memorial attack. And I didn’t believe there was a connection to what’s happening. Now, I’m not so sure.”

  “Thanks for telling me,” I bite out. “So, your orders?”

  “Act at your discretion.” He shoots me a tired smile. “I was set to shoot down your plan for a joint op with Henrikson’s crew. Spitefulness, really, though it is outside the lines. Fuck it, go ahead with it. Use whatever resources you need. If Connor won’t cooperate, make him. We need the win, Malcolm – the Capital will be watching. If we can’t achieve it…”

  “I’ll get it done.”

  “Do it quickly, tomorrow will be too late. Good luck and be careful.”

  I take a last look over the railing at the insanity playing out in the streets below. “The days of playing it safe are over.” We shake hands one last time.

  When I exit the elevator on the first-floor lobby, the security situation has worsened. One of the lobby windows got blown out, glass fragments spread across the inlaid marble. The dozen reclaimers crouched behind the temporary barricades all train their weapons toward the entrance and the street beyond. No bodies or active contacts in view, though, so that’s something.

  Henrikson leans against one wall, a lit cigarette in hand, speaking into a commset. He ends the call as I approach, looking me up and down.

  “We’re on,” I say. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “Good,” he replies, flicking the cigarette away. “We’re missing all the fun.”

  “Fun?”

  “Come on, Adams,” he says, giving me that demented grin, “looking up the devil’s skirt is always a good time.”

  CHAPTER 29

  “I’m beginning to believe the rumors,” says Henrikson, frowning around his cigarette.

  “Is that really necessary?” gripes Evans, shooting him a lethal look and waving a hand at his smoke.

  “Yeah, sweetheart, it is.”

  The air’s certainly close with the four of us bunched up together inside the command vehicle. Carson, the hulking associate who accompanied Samantha to St. Louis, flips a switch and the smoke gets drawn into the air scrubbers. Turns out he’s Henrikson’s second, a drone and ordnance specialist. While the two of them handle mission prep, manipulating the touchscreens plastered to the walls and speaking into commsets with their men, Evans and I sit by the gear racks awaiting our cue, the translucent green image of the target facility between our knees.

  “What rumors?” I ask, rotating my knife’s blade open and shut for the umpteenth time, thankful I don’t have any nervous habits like smoking.

  “That you have a death wish,” says Henrikson. “I’ve also heard it said you’re good at what you do, whatever that is. I’ll reserve judgment until your plan plays out.”

  “Are you sure we can trust your source?” asks Evans, not for the first time, the holomap’s green glow amplifying the intensity in her eyes. “Malcolm, she’s a jumped-up whore.”

  “Who I’ve known for close to a decade.” Evans opens her mouth to retort, but I raise a hand to cut her off, my left, wincing at the pain. Even with my hard suit configured to keep it restricted to a limited range of motion, it still bloody hurts. “Kari, I gave her my word. We wouldn’t even be here without her.”

  Evans rolls her eyes before tilting her head back to stare at the van’s ceiling.

  “Bolts three and four,” sends Henrikson, “hold position. Bolt five, clear to ascend.”

  Six screens display the night vision feeds from Henrikson’s men, the surviving members of his Task Force 1115 squad. They’ve already performed a stealth reconnaissance around the old National Guard Armory where we’ll be meeting with Connor. With guidance on our end, they maneuver into positions to cover each of the exterior access points. A tactical drone accompanies each two-man team for support, more screens showing their feeds. Other displays show the feeds from spy drones deployed into the armory itself.

  “Henrikson’s right,” says Evans. “How do we know the cartel won’t murder us?”

  “We don’t.”

  She gives me that look meant to indict me of all things moronic.

  “It’s not too late for that desk job you always wanted.”

  “Bolts one and two,” sends Henrikson, “maintain position beyond the highway pylons. The main entrance is yours.”

  “The cartel doesn’t worry me,” I say. “Our adversaries crashing the party does. They probably have informants within DSS, Monroe knew about our op, so we can assume they do, too. They’ve been after Connor as hard as we have.”

  “What if they decide to nuke us? One guided missile would do it.” She mimics an explosion with her hands. “Boom. There goes all that vacation time I haven’t used.”

  “Patton and Gypsy would prevent it, but I’m gambling they won’t have to. If Krayge’s calling the shots, he’ll want to look me in the eyes before he strikes – it’s personal for him. Even if he’s not and Leeds or that gray-eyed bastard’s running things, we’ve got enough firepower to stop any open action. And if they’ve already gotten to Connor, we call in the troops.”

  “A lot of ‘ifs.’”

  “Death is the only certainty.”

  “Thanks for putting my fears to rest.” She turns her head and mutters, “Asshole.”

  That gets a chuckle from Carson, earning him a dirty look from me.

  “Listen,” I say, “storming the facility won’t get us what we’re after. We need answers, not bodies. Words before weapons – there’s a chance to negotiate, so we take it. Besides, Connor might slip away if we go in hard.”

  “I’m not a fan of being live bait. I hope you know what you’re doing.” She glares down at the holomap like she can force the future to reveal itself.

  We’ve already memorized the structural layout, our continued study of the holomap focused on the red icons within the translucent green walls. Thanks to our spy drones, we know the numbers and positions of potential hostiles inside the armory. Twenty men and six sentry drones are spread throughout the vast, ancient structure. It’s clear from their positions, with most posted near the three entrances, that they’re prepared to defend it.

  “We’re not walking in blind,” I say. “This time, if there’s a trap, we turn it.”

  “We’re ready,” says Henrikson. “Some of the spy drones got zapped, but we still managed to map about eighty percent of the interior. I’d gamble my pension they’re hiding something in that twenty percent we can’t see, so watch your ass for surprises.”

  “Just be sure mine’s ready.” I check the time: six minutes until twelve. “Let’s go.”

  “Have fun talking to the murderous sons-of-bitches,” says Henrikson.

  Reaching for the hatch, I open it and step down out of the van, Evans in my wake. The night air chills our faces, while light from a three-quarters moon limns the industrial structures rising to either side of the back-alley lot. Nodding at Gypsy, parked nearby and ready to defend the command vehicle, we set out on the quarter-mile walk to reach the armory. Plenty of time for second-guessing.

  “How’s the arm?” asks Evans, striding beside me, marksman rifle held at the ready.

  “Just don’t ask me to do any push-ups.” I shouldn’t need the left arm – the right is enough to use the SWAT pistol holstered on my thigh. Wishful bloody thinking, though, that I won’t need to use both arms. “Hawk,” I send over our secure channel, “status?”

  Henrikson may be running ops and providing tactical support, but this is a DRR show. With Keeland’s carte blanche on resources, I grabbed everything and everyone our prep time allowed, putting myself in the hole for some big favors. Should things go south and I give the go-ahead for a raid, four squads are ready to roll. The main concern is our staging area, farther off than I’d
like, a necessary precaution to avoid spooking Connor with a big show of force. Only Henrikson’s men are positioned to provide direct fire support when Evans and I go in.

  “Ready, First Redeemer,” transmits Hawk. “All squads awaiting deployment.”

  “Copy,” I send. “We’re inbound now. Status on storm wing?”

  “Restless,” transmits Hawk. “I’m concerned she’ll go off plan.”

  “If she does, adapt, I trust her judgment. Any other concerns?”

  “Plenty, but no deal-breakers. Good hunting, First Redeemer.”

  “Copy that. Out. Break. Patton, how are things on your end?”

  “First Redeemer,” he transmits, “all quiet. Ready for deployment at your command.”

  “Any last-minute thoughts on the mission?”

  “As I stated during the briefing, there is a significant probability that the facility is rigged with explosive devices. It’s vital that you confirm whether this threat is real and, if so, prioritize your actions to neutralize it.”

  “Noted. Just be ready should hostilities break out.”

  “When they break out,” interjects Evans. “You’ve got our backs, Big Guy.”

  “Not just our backs,” I send. “Storm wing’s the priority.”

  “I will be vigilant,” transmits Patton. A short pause, then he ends with, “Good luck.”

  Evans looks at me sidelong.

  “Don’t look at me,” I say. “You know my position on luck.”

  “Yeah, it’s all bad.”

  Finishing our walk, we approach our target from the east, the armory facility a massive three-plus story structure with an inset, peaked roof. Clad in brown brick contrasted by whitish limestone, the place has an old-world, gothic feel to it. Castle-like towers anchor the corners, the walls between ribbed vertically by enclosed columns. Limestone abutments topping the columns serve as wide-spaced crenellations along its battlements, good spots for snipers. Tall rectangular window openings, most divested of their glass, rank along its sides like a giant’s arrow slits, and by the darkness therein, passersby would be deceived into thinking it abandoned. As holdouts go, not bad: secretive, imposing, and defensible.

  Twenty meters from the open dock entrance, we stop and wait.

  Their move.

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  “Come on forward,” says a masculine voice from the darkness within the dock.

  “Here we go.” I stride forward, Evans at my side.

  As we approach, electric lanterns activate, shedding light on four men standing inside the dock entrance. Gang enforcers, each wearing a unique blend of combat clothing and tactical gear, faces covered by bandanas or balaclavas. Two have automatic rifles at the ready while two hold lanterns and submachine guns. None look happy to see us, but gangsters never do.

  “That’s good,” says a fifth man, what must be the delegation’s leader, stepping into the light. Unlike his associates, he’s not dressed for combat success, or any other type, wearing a maroon suit jacket over a pink t-shirt and beige slacks. A real dandy, this one.

  We stop in place, just inside the dock entrance. The roll-up gate closes behind us.

  “So,” says Fashion Police. “To whom do we owe the pleasure?”

  “I’m Malcolm Adams. This is my second, Kari Evans. We’re here to see Connor.”

  “Yeah,” he says, scratching at a bedraggled goatee, “I know. So. You’re the guy, the hot-shit redeemer who survived all that bullshit in LA.”

  “That’s me.”

  “Huh. All right. So tell me, Malcolm – you know what you’re getting into here?”

  “I’ve got a pretty good idea,” I say, giving this joker my full attention. He’s the gatekeeper. Unless he’s convinced that I pose no threat to his organization and have something to offer, we’re not getting in. And if we don’t get in, we don’t get out, either.

  “Yeah.” He sizes me up through his dark shades. “You do know, don’t you? Huh. At least you think you do. OK, OK. So – qué queres?”

  “Vengeance,” I say, speaking their language.

  “Right,” he says, nodding. “Against who?”

  “Against the fuckers who killed all those people at the memorial ceremony. And I don’t mean the jihadists, I don’t mean you and yours, I mean the ones behind it all, the same ones who hit your organization a few days ago.”

  “OK.” He looks me over, jaw working. “But what do we have to talk about? Are you offering to help us with our little problem?”

  “Point me and mine in their direction, and we’ll end them.”

  He nods, looks me up and down again. Smiling, he turns and says, “Let’s go.”

  Fashion Police leads us through the dock and into the massive chamber at the armory’s center. The vast three-plus story space stretches about seventy meters in length and half that in width, the gabled roof some twenty-five meters overhead. We walk across the ripped artificial turf and reddish dirt that once served as an indoor baseball field, passing by an infield groomer rusting on its axle. The shadowy illumination of filtered moonlight offers ample concealment for any posted snipers. Looking about, I count two, no, three armed guards watching from the railed walkways nestled within the metallic rafters on the third floor. Empty spectator stands slump on the second-floor landings at the chamber’s ends while the enclosed stadium boxes overlook the field, all dark save one opposite us along the long southern wall, our destination.

  Patton, I thoughtspeak, we’re in.

  Understood, he replies. All units standing by.

  We make our way upstairs to the stadium box. The rest of the facility may look unused, but not this place. The walls are wood paneled, the floor covered with expensive-looking rugs. The purple felt on the pool table looks pristine. The polished oak bar glows amber in the soft illumination of hanging electric lights, scores of multihued bottles shelved behind it. A vintage jukebox flows with color against one wall, a synth-noir melody haunting the smoke-hazed air.

  Fashion Police gestures toward the only occupied table, in shadow near the back wall. At my nod, Evans follows him to the bar, leaning back against it for a ready view of the area. We’re definitely outgunned here – four armed men stand about, all with mismatched gear like those we saw at the entrance.

  Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  Connor Montoya leans forward into the light, his indolent expression ruined only by the keen interest in his black shark’s eyes. “Well, if it isn’t the fucking cavalry,” he says in a barker’s tone, spreading his hands wide, “here to save us all. My fucking hero.”

  I pull my helmet off. “Seems you should’ve taken your own advice.”

  He bares his teeth at that, recalling his warning to me at Gatekeeper. “I’m still alive, aren’t I? And so are you. Pull up a seat, Redeemer.”

  Taking a seat and setting my helmet on the table, I try for a read. Same half-lidded eyes nested in worry lines, same scarred face, same designer suit; different vibe, though, a suggestion of edginess in his posture, Connor’s eyes the eyes of a man in a cage about to launch an escape plan. But escape from what?

  “So,” he says, “what are you having?”

  “Whiskey.”

  “Whiskey it is. Danilo!”

  Fashion Police brings over a bottle and two shot glasses, setting them on the table before returning to the bar. Connor pours the whiskey.

  “To your health,” he toasts.

  We both throw it back.

  “Well,” he says, pouring two more shots, “you can imagine my surprise to hear from our mutual friend that you agreed to a little chat. Now I can tell you know how business works in the zone, even without your reputation – considerable, I might add – so it made perfect sense that the two of us should talk. My only complaint is that we didn’t do this sooner. Cheers.”

  He downs the second shot. I hold onto mine.

  “So, hero, you can see what I’ve been reduced to, hiding like some rat from the ship�
�s cat in the bowels of a sinking ship. You can imagine what it’s been like, wondering if it’s the cat or the rising water that will get me first, with little chance of me getting out from under the threat of both let alone one or the other. And now, wonder of wonders – the cat is here not to disembowel me, but to see if he can’t save me from a miserable drowning death. You can understand, then, if I’m somewhat skeptical of your intentions.”

  “We know you had a hand in the memorial bombing,” I state.

  “Do you?”

  “Los Santos provided logistical support to Jund Ansar Allah. You obtained details on the security arrangements from informants within the constabulary and brokered that information, along with certain other resources, to the jihadists.”

  “Well,” he states, blank-faced, “that’s an interesting theory.”

  “We also know a third party was involved, that scorpion riding your back. They used the jihadists as their proxies and scapegoats. They hired you to act as the go-between. And then they tried to kill you. So either they were pissed you led me to them – Gatekeeper, remember? – or it was their intention all along to eliminate loose ends like you once the job was done.”

  Connor tilts his empty shot glass about in one hand, his other hand grasping the bottle. Throughout the conversation, his black eyes have not left off from mine. “Let’s just say, for the purpose of pursuing this line of reasoning, not that I’m admitting to any of it, but let’s say it’s true. What’s it to me?”

  I spare a look about the bar, motivated by a feeling of eyes on my back. Evans still has the watch, eyes roaming for threats. The cartel thugs are also alert, two keeping close tabs on our meeting. Chances are, Connor’s position is tenuous after all the setbacks suffered by Los Santos – he can’t afford to look weak. Undermining him in front of his men won’t help matters.