Herokiller

by Paul Tassi

  “You should be thanking me you can still talk because your throat isn’t slit,” Mark shot back. But he stayed silent, and let Zhou continue.

  “During Cold War II, when Crayton was supposed to be working his hardest, his interest in news media waned. He owned streams, sure, he put out stories the Ministry wanted here and there, but he was growing increasingly unresponsive.

  “Once you ravaged our country with your cowardly Red Death, Crayton broke off contact completely. He extracted all his finances completely free of the Ministry’s grasp, using his billions for his own sick pleasures. He invented this ‘Prison Wars,’ an entertainment program, and reveled in the attention. He turned his back on the country that raised him as it bled to death across the ocean. Once this ‘Crucible’ was announced, it was clear he had become an unstable liability. Not only that, but he had shamed his father nation. He had stolen billions and negated the life’s work of his surrogate father, Zhu Meng, who now ran the MSS, and countless others who had given him the best training and care throughout his life. He had dishonored China.

  “The problem is that there is no true Manchurian candidate. Someone who walks around asleep until you whisper the right codeword to weaponize them. You have to build a pet monster and then pray they do not devour you when they are grown.”

  Mark nodded. “And that’s where you come in. The monster hunter.”

  Zhou puffed out his chest.

  “Even if China has fallen, its soul lives on in the Ministry of State Security. I was dispatched to US soil to ensure Crayton’s debts were paid in blood, one way or another. It was to be my pleasure to end the life of a traitor of his magnitude. When I saw you enter the tournament, I knew the CIA had their own plans for Crayton, and they likely suspected our involvement. It made the mission all the more urgent.”

  “Well, sorry to fuck all that up,” Mark shrugged. “But in the end we both want this asshole gone. And now you can help us with that.”

  “Only if that deal comes through,” Zhou growled.

  “So even the ‘Soul of China’ has a price, huh?” Mark asked.

  “And what did they promise you, Mark?” Zhou sneered. “A way to put your desire to die to good use? How can you trust the Agency still? If they lied about my death, what else are they keeping from you?”

  “You don’t realize how easy it would be for me to snap your neck before extraction gets here,” Mark said. “So I would stick to the facts on Crayton before you start talking about the past again.”

  Mark heard the hexocopter for certain now, though it was so quiet it sounded like the hum of an electric current.

  “If you tell them,” Mark pointed upward, “what you just told me, they’ll give you whatever you want. And I might be so grateful this goddamn shitshow of a mission is over, I may not even kill you. But no promises.”

  Zhou remained silent, apparently realizing it was probably not in his best interest to goad Mark into murdering him.

  Mark breathed out a heavy sigh of relief.

  Christ, this is it. This is really it.

  41

  THE HEXOCOPTER DESCENDED INTO the lot behind the auto shop and an entire tactical team poured out, spreading out and aiming their rifles with fixed precision. Mark held the bound Zhou by the collar. He’d unhooked him from the chair and dragged him outside for collection. After the team surrounded them, Mark saw two more figures get out of the chopper, Brooke and Gideon. His current and former handlers smiled wide as they saw him.

  “You got one,” Brooke said, beaming. “He say anything?”

  “He has the full story,” Mark said with a less sunny tone. “Give him immunity, relocation, and some cash, and it’s ours. So is Crayton, with everything he’s got to tell.”

  “That’s great work, Mark,” Gideon said, putting a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “This was certainly worth the trip to Vegas.”

  Mark grabbed Gideon by the front of his shirt and pushed him up against the side of the hexocopter. The tac team descended on him, pulling at his arms and neck, and Brooke was shouting at him to get off. Gideon stared at him.

  “Do you know who this is?” Mark shouted as the team ripped him away from Gideon. He pointed to Zhou. “Do you have any idea? Look at his goddamn face and tell me you don’t remember!”

  Gideon looked at Zhou, his lean, scarred face unmistakable. As his handler, Mark knew he would never forget it.

  “Ah,” Gideon said, motioning for the soldiers to stand down. “I see.”

  “You see?” Mark said. “You see?”

  “What is going on?” Brooke asked, looking panicked.

  “He’s the one,” Mark said, spearing Zhou’s chest with his finger. “Who tortured me, who killed my family. He’s alive, and the CIA knew it!”

  Gideon raised his hand.

  “I wasn’t involved, I swear,” he said. “I only found out a year or so ago, and the argument about it almost cost me my job.”

  “But you didn’t tell me then either,” Mark said, still boiling with rage.

  “Because I knew what you’d do. I knew what I’d do in your shoes. Sneak into China and start hunting some ghost who had probably already been killed in combat or was rotting in prison. And you would die in the process.”

  “The Agency lies, Mark,” Zhou chimed in, the blood starting to dry into a red mask on his face. “That is all they do. They—”

  “And you,” Gideon said as he hit Zhou across the face with a closed fist, “can shut the fuck up.” The blow knocked Zhou out cold, so shut up he did.

  Mark threw up his hands.

  “I don’t know what to believe anymore,” he said. “But there he is, all wrapped up in a bow. Our ticket to Crayton. I will deal with the rest of this shit once he’s taken down.”

  “If he gives us what you say he will,” Gideon said, “We can move immediately after the testimony is recorded and verified. I’ll rush his deal through the DOJ.”

  “How long?” Mark said.

  “Day or two, tops. You’ll need to stay in cover until then,” Gideon said, then leaned in to Mark. “And if you want Zhou’s relocation information afterward, I wouldn’t object to letting that slip over a beer or two,” he whispered.

  Mark was too exhausted to be angry at this point, at Gideon or even at Zhou. For now, the man being alive meant Crayton was done; that was the important point. What happened after that was a different story.

  “Just get it done,” Mark said. “This needs to end.”

  “And it will end. This will shut McAdams up for good,” Gideon said. “Exemplary work, Agent Wei.”

  “Talk soon,” Brooke said as she touched his arm lightly. Gideon hauled Zhou into the chopper with the help of the team. “I’m proud of you,” she said, then stepped into the cabin as the rotors started up again.

  Mark stood there silent, long after the hexocopter was a speck in the sky. He saw smoke on the horizon from the burning cars on the road miles away, and he righted the electric bike to return to the scene of the crime, with a tale to tell about how he lost the attacker in the desert. Most of all, he was wondering how Crayton was going to spin all this in his last few days as a free man.

  HOURS LATER, MARK SAT on the grass with his back against the tall willow tree planted on the hill in the middle of Crayton’s compound. His right hand was numb from the ice cold beer he was drinking, a reward to himself for a job well done. He sipped it slowly, watching the pink sunset in the desert. Right about now, his fight would have been starting. Instead, he watched CMI security buzz around the estate like disturbed wasps. Glasshammer had sent a literal army to the grounds to ensure no further attacks were attempted.

  By the time Mark had made it back to the scene of the motorcycle assault, Crayton had been whisked away. Mark was treated for smoke inhalation, a few bruises, and a bullet graze on his side he hadn’t even noticed. Security staff grilled him about the chase, but he maintained he lost the other bike in the desert, and never saw his face. Fourteen CMI guards had been kill
ed, along with two chauffeurs and a valet. Crayton himself escaped unscathed, but no one was offering up any further information about his whereabouts.

  It felt like yesterday that Aria had been dancing in the moonlight just a few feet away from where he was sitting now. He looked down toward the lake and remembered running along it with Moses every day for weeks. All of that felt unreal now, like it was the last, flickering moments of an early morning dream. But they had been real. They had lived, and they had died. For nothing, it felt like.

  All this would have been easier if everyone would have been as hateable as Rusakov or Easton. Those were the types of psycho killers who were supposed to sign up for something like this. Not Aria. Not Moses. Not Ethan, who thankfully could still be saved. Mark could do that much, at least.

  Mark blinked and a call notification popped into his S-lens. With the nearest guards a ways off, he answered it. Brooke’s face sprang into view.

  “Did you see that press conference?” she asked, eyebrow raised.

  Mark shook his head.

  “No, what press conference?”

  “Crayton just gave it from an undisclosed location. I’m guessing a darkroom in the stadium. He’s blaming the attack on Christian fundamentalists trying to shut the Crucible down. You know, all those crazies with the doomsday signs?”

  Mark couldn’t help but choke out a laugh.

  “Yeah, I don’t think I know any local churches with access to illegally modded ultrabikes and machine pistols with armor-piercing rounds.”

  Brooke shook her head in bewilderment.

  “Whatever he says is gospel to the media, and law enforcement too, it seems. He has Vegas PD in his pocket, and his Glasshammer guys were the ones securing the scene, and all the evidence and bodies. Supposedly he’s sparring with the FBI about all of it now. But that doesn’t matter to us anymore.”

  “Zhou still cooperating?” Mark asked, his heart beating a little faster, praying the asshole hadn’t changed his mind.

  Brooke nodded.

  “Will trade for an ironclad deal. That’s being drafted, and will have to be sent up for approval. I think it will fly, no question, but the process is still going to take a little time. We won’t get a sworn statement we can move on for at least thirty-six hours, and that’s with an insane rush on it.”

  “Okay …” Mark said, unclear where Brooke was going with this.

  “The problem is that Crayton wasn’t just playing the blame game with his announcement. He was saying that the Crucible rolls on, and despite you ‘being present’ during the attack, you’re in fine health, and your match has been rescheduled for tomorrow. If you flee now, he’ll know something is up, and will go to ground. Break cover and we could lose him.”

  Mark took another swig of beer and watched the last curve of the sun dip behind the horizon.

  “What are you saying, Brooke?”

  “How do you feel about killing Soren Vanderhaven?”

  MARK LET HIMSELF EMBRACE it. All of it. He absorbed the energy of the crowd, let it race through his nerves like lightning and through his bloodstream like endorphins. Love, hate, it didn’t really matter. This time, he was going to enjoy this.

  Zhou had remained cooperative, and his testimony was nearly a done deal. By morning, Crayton would be in custody, and this entire circus would be shut down. Mark didn’t mind staying in cover for one more fight. His only condition had been that they moved before Ethan had to fight Rusakov, no matter what. This first semi-final was how the Crucible would end.

  He wished he could kill them both. Vanderhaven and Rusakov, avenging Moses and Aria at the same time. But he’d have to settle for Soren, the girl who had slit Moses’s throat because the man had shown a glimmer of mercy toward her. The girl who had giggled and blown kisses while painted in his friend’s blood.

  That wasn’t the angle being sold, however.

  Rather, the fight was all about Soren getting revenge for her lost love, Chase Cassidy, against Mark, the man who had butchered him. She’d been giving tearful interviews all week, and her millions of fans had bought into her story like she and Cassidy were the modern day Romeo and Juliet. Crayton loved his narratives. But so did the audience, which was why they worked so damn well.

  The boos and jeers hit Mark like bricks as he walked through the sand toward his appointed spot in front of Crayton’s box. Mark didn’t care. He raised his arms outward and smiled, embracing the insanity of everything around him for perhaps the first time. His entrance video played, which was now made up of a few of his interviews cut with his brutal fights. A loud, nukecore dance track blasted through the speakers. The crowd was on its feet, to remain there the whole fight. Mark felt that pull again, like he was living history. And there was the self-proclaimed Helen of Troy standing in front of him.

  Soren wore her trademark armor, which featured much more skin than metal, but it hadn’t failed her yet. Creeping up her exposed abdomen were the remnants of the sickly bruise she’d sustained in her fight with Moses, though either it had mostly healed, or it was covered with make-up. She wore a ribbon around her bicep, crimson and gold, with tiny little lion’s head tassels on the end, a tribute to her fallen “love.”

  Mark hadn’t realized just how long her spear was. It really was massive, towering above both of them at least nine feet from tip to tail. It was incredibly thin, but that made it pliable and easy to wield for someone of her size, and it gave her pretty much Rusakov’s level of reach when she needed it.

  Now, though, she held the spear outright and pivoted around toward the crowd. Mark turned and saw a cluster of fans near the front holding a collection of signs. On one end, there was a headshot of Chase Cassidy looking especially handsome and heroic in one of his windswept headshots. On the other, there was an old, blown-up photo of a younger Shin Tagami in full military uniform, an almost saint-like portrait. In the middle, more enormous signs held by fans spelled something out in black paint.

  H-E-R-O-K-I-L-L-E-R.

  Soren brought the spear back around and pointed it toward Mark, a beautiful, horrible smile on her face.

  Maybe this was a bad idea.

  42

  THE SPEAR WAS A different animal than Tagami’s staff. It was incredibly long and flexible and whipped around in entirely unpredictable ways. As soon as the contestants said their last words (Soren dedicated the match to Chase, Mark buttered up Crayton by thanking him for the chance to fight) and the countdown hit zero, the spearhead was constantly inches from Mark’s body. No matter how much he swatted it away with his blade, Soren kept the razor’s edge dancing dangerously inside his reach. Cassidy was methodical and controlled compared to her. Tagami was fluid and measured. But Soren Vanderhaven was a Fourth of July fireworks show, a never-ending explosion of color, noise, and fury.

  Soren thrust the spear directly toward his helm, and Mark barely wrenched his neck out of the way before countering with a slash of his own. The blade missed its mark by a mile, the woman simply too far outside his range. He barreled forward, trying to close the gap, but Soren twisted the spear and the back end of it cracked across his armored jaw, causing him to stagger. Instantly, the bladed end was back, and Mark winced as it dug into his shoulder. He slammed his sword hilt into the spearhead, freeing the tip from the wound, and drank in air, trying to keep his concentration. Was there drexophine in his system? It felt like the cut should have hurt more than it did.

  Mark had no time to consider it as Soren charged forward with a lower thrust. This time, Mark leapt up and stomped on the spear, but the metal flexed without bending permanently. Soren actually dropped the spear, but came at Mark with a no-handed cartwheel kick that struck him hard across the chest, her metal boots plowing into his own plating. The unexpected acrobatics bowled him over, and Soren tumbled and reclaimed her spear when he fell. From the ground, he twisted backward, just in time to deflect a new strike with his sword, and quickly leapt to his feet once the spearhead had bounced away from him.

  Mark tri
ed to catch her thigh with a quick jab, but Soren blocked the move effortlessly, along with the next two. He turned to try and thread his blade into her midsection, but she used the center of the spear expertly, twirling away his blow like he was trying to stab through a whirring fan blade. He nearly lost his grip on his sword as Soren rapped the spear shaft across his hand, then immediately jumped backward and raked the spearhead across his wolfshead chest armor, which left a jagged scratch, but hadn’t pierced the plating. Before Mark even realized he wasn’t hurt, the back-end of the spear swung back toward him, cracking across the side of his helmet with surprising force. The crowd cheered wildly as Mark shuffled back, disoriented.

  Soren dragged the tip of her spear across the sand in front of her, drawing a curved line she dared Mark to cross. The tiny, tan woman in front of him exuded power in a way that was almost impossible to quantify, and it chilled Mark to his core. The vast majority of the 250,000 screaming fans were on her side and she knew it. So were the tens of millions at home, and she was riding them all like a wave. She wasn’t simply fighting not to die, she was fighting for the chance to conquer the world as champion. She wanted to be worshiped.

  Mark remembered Dan Hagelund, limping around bleeding from a dozen spear wounds. He remember the gurgling sounds coming from Moses’s throat as he died. She’d smiled. And laughed. And the audience loved her.

  He thought of the locker room, and those little waterfalls dancing down her flawless skin, which was exactly what she wanted him to think of in this moment, instead of focusing on ways not to get killed in the next few minutes. He thought of that hard, cold smile and that pretty face, masking something dark and insane and sickening underneath.

  She was the last doorway before Crayton. All he had to do was get past her. And despite her aspirations, she wasn’t a goddess. She was very much mortal, a lesson Mark desperately needed to teach her. He sprinted forward across the sand.