Running Black (Eshu International Book 1)

by Patrick Todoroff

  “Yes, sir.” His secretary was halfway out the door when she paused, touching the earbud on her right side. Frowning, she turned back and brought up the video on one of the large flatscreens on the office wall. “Sir, I think you’re going to want to see this.”

  A news report about a shooting in the Northern District came on.

  ----------------

  Asian Pacific Consortium N. EU Division Regional Offices, Amsterdam, Netherlands Zone. 11:11 a.m. Day Four.

  “Complications?” The word hissed through Avery Hsiang’s clenched teeth like steam from a ruptured pipe.

  The female agent looked back at him from the screen, unfazed. “Our initial contact didn’t go as planned. The mercenaries were uncooperative, and we’re continuing our search.”

  “How soon will you have the device?” Avery demanded.

  “That’s impossible to determine at this point.”

  “Impossible to determ—?” Avery choked, an incandescent rage blinding his thoughts momentarily. He bit down and tasted blood. “I gave you simple orders: get the device from the mercenaries! Now you’re telling me you can’t?”

  The shinigami looked directly at Avery, her eyes cold and flat like two black stones. “Dawson-Hull has mobilized significant resources to regain possession of their item,” she explained slowly. “They have the full cooperation of the Spanish government and police force, and have the entire area of operations under civil lockdown. There’s heightened surveillance, armed patrols, and tight travel restrictions.”

  “Excuses!” Avery screeched. “You’re supposed to obey, not justify your failures.”

  “We won’t fail.”

  “You did. You told me—”

  “We need Maximum Sanction,” the agent interrupted.

  “What?” Avery paused. “Why?”

  “Our new plan requires use of Trade Legation resources.”

  “They’re already at your disposal. Colonel Otsu was ordered to render you every consideration,” he snapped.

  “We need him to effect an intrusion into the Dawson-Hull Communications Net for us.”

  “Impossible. That’s a direct action against a corporate entity.”

  “Isn’t direct action what you ordered, Executive?” the agent replied.

  “Not to the point of corporate conflict.”

  Avery could have sworn the agent smirked. “You risked that the moment you contracted the Toulouse infiltration.”

  Avery’s eyes narrowed. Like it or not, this cloned bitch was correct: the die was cast and there was no retreat now. Failure would be finish him once and for all. But his talk of Maximum Sanction had been more a goad to Otsu than an actual consideration. “And this intrusion will achieve what?” he finally asked.

  “It will get you the device, Executive.”

  “When?”

  “Thirty-six hours at the latest,” she said.

  Avery Hsiang tapped out a simple alphanumeric code on his keyboard. “Bring me the N3.”

  “We will not fail,” the agent replied, and the screen went blank.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO: GRAVEYARD ANGEL

  Barcelona Port Complex, Asian Pacific Consortium Trade Offices, Bureau D. South Dock, Level Five. 11:50 a.m. Day Four.

  “You want what?” Colonel Otsu sat back in his chair, unsure he’d heard the female clone correctly.

  “In order to locate the mercenaries quickly, we require access to the Dawson-Hull tactical communications net,” she said from the monitor. “We’ve penetrated the Barcelona police channels, but that only provides half the conversation, and half the information.”

  Colonel Otsu was stunned. “You’ve hacked the national police band, and now you want me to initiate an intrusion into a corporate security net. What for? You were supposed to arrange for the delivery last night. What happened at that mosque?”

  “The meeting didn’t go as planned,” the woman said in a dead voice.

  “Didn’t go as planned? There’re reports of shooting all over the news.”

  “The mercenaries were uncooperative.”

  “This is supposed to be a routine pickup, not a hostile takeover,” the colonel practically shouted.

  The woman shrugged. “We are revising our method: with Dawson-Hull and Spanish authorities mobilizing significant manpower, it is far more effective to let them lead us to the item and intercept it. But we need complete access to their communications, and only the Trade Legation has the computing capacity to decrypt Dawson-Hull’s communications. “

  “If Madrid finds out and traces it back, every Asian Pacific concern in the region will be threatened. The company would be PNG’d, our offices closed down. The loss would be incalculable. Mr. Hsiang would not be pleased if—”

  “The executive is concerned about the device. I will inform him as the situation demands.”

  “As the situation demands…?” Colonel Otsu was dumbfounded. Action like this was outright provocation that could spark worldwide reprisals and corporate censure. “Dawson-Hull counter-intelligence would detect an attack in days, if not hours. My unit would be ejected from the country, the entire Legation closed down. I need authorization from Tokyo for something like this.”

  “I’m not interested in what might happen to you. As for authorizations…” the girl tapped her keypad, and a secondary window opened on Colonel Otsu’s screen. “The ‘Maximum Sanction’ designation subordinates all local corporate resources to my cell for the duration of the mission. That includes you, Colonel. All information regarding this mission is classified ‘black’ until further notice. Now get us into the Dawson-Hull Net.”

  Colonel Otsu felt the air grow thick. The Tier Two codes in the pop-up window were authentic. Hsiang had actually done it. Clone units had been given Maximum Sanction… This dirty little incident had just moved light years past the usual black-ops squalor.

  He drew two labored breaths before speaking again. “I need twelve hours to effect the intrusion.”

  “You have eight. In the meantime, we’ve extrapolated several possible locations for the mercenaries from the police chatter, all of them in the northern Sant Adrià de Besòs district where the mosque was. We’re going to investigate. Keep transportation on stand-by in case we’re successful and locate the device.” She reached forward to sever the connection and the movement jogged the colonel’s memory.

  “Lieutenant Kaneda… where is Lieutenant Kaneda?”

  The girl turned back to the screen, her beauty as frozen and lifeless as a graveyard angel. “The officer was killed due to the confrontation with the mercenaries. But don’t worry, we disposed of the body.”

  With that, the screen went black.

  ----------------------

  Barcelona Metro Zone, Sant Adrià de Besòs district. Callejón del Apuro, “Trouble Alley”. 2:18 p.m. Day Four

  Hermano swayed to one side and cuffed his runny nose. His eyes were watering hard from that last shot of Orujo. He let out a deep belch, and vomit rose, burning the back of his throat. He blinked hard, swallowing it down. Then with a satisfied grunt, he rubbed a meaty fist-edge on the filmy glass and squinted through the smear for the hundredth time. Behind him, the bottleneck clinked against a glass again, and he heard his cousin mutter something.

  “They’re over there I tell you. You wait, wait and see,” Hermano growled back over his shoulder.

  His cousin Gaspar sat in rumpled militia uniform in Hermano’s favorite chair; a dumpy, soiled heap of baby blue spilling over the torn and faded paisley.

  “You’d better be right, Mano. I have been waiting—waiting all morning.” He slurped noisily from his glass. “I didn’t come all this way for nothing, you know,” he added importantly.

  “Where else do you have to go?”

  “I have my duties. I’m the third officer on watch tonight.”

  “Ha. There are only three of you on nightshifts anyway.”

  “No matter!” He heaved forward, muffled gas sounding in the seat cushion. “I am a man of i
mportance in this district. I am authorized, authorized, you know? I have a pass card even. For when my official duties take me to UpCity.” Gaspar’s piggish face reddened with cholesterol and umbrage. “What do you do? Drive a forklift on the Docks, bah.” He frowned.

  Hermano scowled but held his tongue. He doubted they ever let fat Gaspar anywhere near Old Barcelona, let alone gave him a pass card. He may not have a uniform, but at least Hermano worked a real job, a man’s job, instead of taking bribes and shaking down venders and hookers for small change. Hermano despised Gaspar and his kind almost as much as Anglo supervisors like Mr. Vandarm.

  A thought rattled around in Hermano’s brain: maybe he should kick Gaspar out. Worthless pig. He’d throw his pompous militia ass right out of his flat. He turned around, squinting hard at his cousin now, images of Gaspar red-faced and puffy sitting startled on the sidewalk, Hermano on the stoop shaking his fist in righteous anger while his neighbors looked on impressed. Hermano’s chest swelled with pride. His cousin looked at him suddenly, and he deflated.

  Slug though he was, he was still a district militiaman, and as such, he could cause trouble for Hermano if he bent his little mind to it. Besides, Hermano needed him to verify the claim, get the reward money; and Gaspar—as family—would only take half. He let his face soften and tried a different tactic. Hermano spread his hands and smiled sheepishly.

  “But, Gaspar, you’ve been watching the girls more than that apartment.” He gave a clumsy wink.

  “I have to make sure none of them are suspicious,” he grumped.

  “And drinking all my booze.” Hermano wagged a thick forefinger.

  “Sharpens my police instinct.” Gaspar tapped his head and sloshed his drink in cadence.

  “Empties me out more like it.”

  “If you’re right about la cuadrilla del narcótico, Hermano, you won’t have to worry about it,” Gaspar intoned piously, farting again as he leaned back in Hermano’s chair.

  Did he have to do that? Hermano grimaced.

  Gaspar, oblivious, went on, “Think about the reward. Besides,” he waved his hands again, spilling more of Hermano’s liquor. “Even if it’s not them, I’m sure we can find some reason to detain the whole bunch.” Gaspar’s face brightened and Hermano saw a thought emerge in his cousin’s mind. “Perhaps they even have money to stay out of jail, eh?”

  Hermano nodded silently, clenching inside. He turned back to the window and stared sullenly across the street. Behind him, his cousin let off another muffled explosion.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE: RED FLAGS

  Barcelona Metro Zone, Sant Adrià de Besòs district. 4:30 p.m. Day Four.

  Hester stood at a metro stop a block away from the mosque. The area was still cordoned off, but he had a clear line of sight to the entrance. The place was swarming with police and news crews—far too many people around for him to get in and rummage for clues. Maybe tonight, he thought, and he was eyeing the tenement balconies nearest to the mosque’s roof when the link in his ear beeped.

  “Hester.”

  “Mr. MacKinnon?”

  “Have you located them yet?”

  “Nothing solid yet, sir, but I’ve got eyes on a lead as we speak. Local fuss: gunners in a mosque, bit of a bloodbath… seemed a bit sketchy so I popped over to take a look.” Hester checked the time. “I was going to brief you later this afternoon—”

  “Never mind that. There’ve been some new developments.” Director MacKinnon’s voice spoke inside Hester’s head. “My source inside Asian Pacific reports that in his eagerness to get his hands on our item, their man crossed a line and attracted some unwelcome attention. Evidently, he requisitioned several combat bio-units from their black labs on his own authority. Atrocious violation of procedure. All sorts of red flags went up.”

  Hester moved out of the metro shelter and started down the street. “Next you’ll tell me he sent them here.”

  “Well, I thought you’d want to know. They’re covert ops prototypes; infiltration and wet-work conditioning, but untested. And apparently a bit on the psychotic side.”

  “All right, sir, but other than psychosis, what is the clones’ recognition feature?”

  “That’s another challenge,” MacKinnon said. “Their scientists didn’t code any of the customary distinguishing marks into this series. In fact, they’ve apparently developed a way to imprint racial types on top of a base physiology. They can program their appearance to whatever they need and slip them into a local population. I’m told these things can look like anyone. Clever work, I’ll have to speak to Brenton about that. I hate playing catch up.”

  “You’re saying on top of the contractors, I have to watch out for three crazed Spaniards in Barcelona now?” Hester asked. “That doesn’t narrow it down much, sir.”

  “I understand. That’s why I called. You need to stay on your guard.”

  Hester frowned. I thought this was too easy. “Yes, sir. Trouble usually comes in threes. Is there anything else?”

  He heard a rather joyless chuckle. “Indeed. Because of those clones, Yoshio Tetsuo, a member of their Board of Directors was alerted. Not a fan of Hsiang, there’s a very strong chance he’s going to intervene, if he hasn’t already. We were counting on Hsiang’s monumental self-interest to circumvent normal security procedures, but Tetsuo is a senior director, and far more circumspect. We don’t have time for that sort of thing. Long and short of it is that you need to be prepared to take matters into your own hands. Do you have a problem with that?”

  Hester considered what that meant. “No, sir. But if this Tetsuo is such a concern, why not drop breadcrumbs for these clones? Kill two birds with one stone.”

  “Because killing is the issue. Mr. Hsiang’s attitude toward the contractors is less than generous, and with him unaware the nanotechnology utilizes a host, I’m concerned all our hard work and preparation would get caught in the crossfire. We’re too close, I can’t risk it.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  “I knew I could count on you.” The voice of Director MacKinnon paused. “How’s our dear major getting on?”

  “Tearing through the sprawl with her crunchies on. Not ladylike at all.”

  “But you’ll keep an eye on her as well?”

  “Of course. She’s already here with me in the neighborhood.”

  “She’s off limits, Hester. I want that boy to stay in one piece, so do whatever’s necessary, but don’t let her come to any serious harm. You’re creative. I’m sure you can think of something.”

  “Already have, sir.”

  “Good. MacKinnon out.”

  The link went silent, and Hester recalled details from the news reports. Two shooters, seventy-eight killed, six wounded. That right there is a bit on the psychotic side… in fact, it’s well over the line. A familiar wariness edged into his mind.

  With one last backward glance at the mosque, Hester checked the time on his watch and started walking faster.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR: GROWING MADNESS

  Barcelona Metro Zone, Sant Adrià de Besòs district. Callejón del Apuro, “Trouble Alley”. 5:15 p.m. Day Four.

  Tam, Poet and I were in the cellar that evening sorting through our gear when Alejo walked in.

  “Can you stash them for us?” Tam asked, pointing at our Mitsubishi suits. “We’ll come back later when things have cooled down.”

  Alejo nodded. “No problem. So you’re definitely leaving then.”

  “WeatherNet says there’s a storm coming, so as soon as your friend at the Docks is ready, we’ll be off. Jace will go back to that café tomorrow and let Rao know what’s happening. Best thing all around.”

  “And the boy?”

  “Gibson’s coming with us,” Tam said too firmly. “The captain will have to take payment after we get back to Belfast. Think he’ll have a problem with that?”

  Alejo waved that thought aside and looked directly at Tam. “You can leave him here. We’ll look after him.”

  Tam focused on the
spare magazines for his Tavor rifle. “Thought we’d had this conversation already… Thanks, but no. You and Carmen have stuck your neck out far enough. I don’t want to risk any more trouble for your family.”

  “You going to shop him to some other corporation?” the old Spaniard asked.

  “Sorry?”

  “You heard me.”

  Tam sighed. “Al, drop it, will you? Take off the Jesus-colored glasses for a second; you must remember how things work in the real world.”

  “Boss…” Poet9 interrupted. “You might want to cut him some slack.”

  “It’s OK, Devante,” Alejo said evenly. “I do remember, Tam… that’s why we came to faith; it was the only thing left that made sense.”

  “If it works for you, what can I say, right?” Tam started disassembling the short bullpup assault rifle.

  “It would work for you too. If you’d ask.”

  “Well I’m not.”

  Alejo’s eyes narrowed. “What’s your problem with God, Tam?”

  “No problem here. He leaves me alone, I leave Him alone.”

  “There is a problem, but I have no idea what it is.” Alejo settled into his old leather chair. “You say you trust us, yet when I talk about Him, you slam shut like a broken window.”

  “Let’s not go there. It’s your home, and I don’t want to disrespect you.”

  “You’re leaving soon,” Alejo grinned. “Humor me.”

  Tam worked the bolt on the weapon several times before answering. “It’s dangerous,” he said finally.