“No, but this is what you have. And you can face it with God, or without Him.” She placed her hands on his shoulders. “He’s a prayer away, Gibson.”
“I don’t know how to pray,” Gibson scoffed. “All I do is jack in and run the net.”
“Faith is like the net, remember? You have to go and find out for yourself, but when you do, God promises you’ll find Him when you look for Him with all your heart. Here.” She placed the Bible on his lap. “Look at Psalm 139 again while I get your medicine.”
She rose and slipped out the door. Behind her, Gibson opened the small black book and started reading.
------------------------
Barcelona Metro Zone, Sant Adrià de Besòs district. 6:40 a.m. Day Five.
“Three hundred?” Jackson MacKinnon’s voice was crystal clear inside Hester’s head. Uplink tech is getting better every mission, he thought. “You started a riot and three hundred sprawlers end up killed?”
“I had to slow things down, sir. I’d mentioned the major was in the neighborhood.”
“Yes, but a hundred wounded?”
“Well, I wasn’t doing the shooting, sir.”
“That’s not what I meant, Hester,” his boss grumbled. “You say Eames is unharmed?”
“Of course, sir,” he replied. “And all the Special Deployment units are intact. Beg your pardon, but speaking of the major, why don’t you just yank her chain and call her off? That way this Eshu outfit come out of the cold unscathed.”
“Too obvious,” Director MacKinnon said. “It has to appear to be a close thing. Asian Pacific’s man is a monumental paranoid, as well as ruthlessly ambitious. He can’t have the slightest hint of suspicion. I’ll spin your little commotion to serve our purpose. A little brutality will make us look nicely desperate. Just locate our asset, and no matter what mischief you instigate, I’ll keep Major Eames chasing her tail.”
“Very good, sir. Any preference on the mercenaries’ final disposition then?”
“No. Not really. If Toulouse is anything to go by, I’d say they’re a highly skilled outfit. Shame to waste talent, but left-hand work is contracted precisely because it’s disposable. Still… if they survive Eames and Asian Pacific, I’m confident we could put them to use somewhere.” Director MacKinnon paused. “If you get a chance, see if they’ll come around. If they sign on, I’ll make sure the lads in the dark room have a chat with them. But… to be perfectly clear; they are secondary to our package getting into Asian Pacific’s hands.”
“Will do, sir. Deadline?”
“Yesterday. This one has the latest version of nanotech, but Brenton and his lab rats can’t say with any certainty how long it will remain stable. According to our profile on Hsiang, he’s angling for a seat on their Board, and the psych boys say there’s a very good chance he’ll want to show off, give a demonstration and play the hero. That is precisely what we want. The nano-host platform needs to remain viable until then. It is vital this little venture goes off as planned, Hester.”
“And the clone afterwards? Termination?”
“No, no. That will take care of itself: planned obsolescence. Labs are already working up the next version. We might even get a breakthrough there as well. Regardless, I need this one in the wog’s hands still functioning. Am I clear?”
“Crystal clear, Mr. MacKinnon. I’m on my way to a probable location right now.”
“Perfect. I’ll be in touch.”
“Yes, sir.”
COLLISION
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN: BLACK SNAKE LINE
Barcelona Metro Zone, Sant Adrià de Besòs district. 8:25 a.m. Day Five.
Major Eames caught herself as the armored car lurched and weaved through the broken streets. A large pothole slammed everyone in the troop compartment sideways and caused her data pad to smack her in the face. Gears grinding over the ripe profanity, the vehicle shuddered back up to speed and they headed toward the suspect’s location. Colonel Estevana swayed side to side next to her, holding an overhead handgrip.
She focused on the pad’s small screen. “You’ve confirmed this is the place?” Live feed from a Predator UAV focused on one of the large anonymous tenements jammed in a maze of streets and alleys.
“Yes, Major. One of the district militia is watching the building. The suspects keep to the bottom floor and don’t seem to go out much. He says they’re in there now.”
“Other people in the building?”
“We estimate two to three hundred. They’re all on the upper floors. Many are working jobs, day labor, so that number’s probably cut in half this time of the morning.”
“OK.” She faded the screen and stuck the pad back on the velcro patch on her vest. “My men will block the stairwells and breech the apartment. Make sure the sniper team is on the roof, and have your squads seal off the intersections. Every exit and window out of the building needs to be covered. I don’t want a stray dog leaving without permission.” She punched in a code on her forearm PDA. “I’ve ordered another Pred on station as eyes in the sky, so smile pretty for the folks back home. Remember: the boy is solid gold—everyone else is target practice. Am I clear?”
“Si, Major.”
She looked out one of the large vision slits and watched the backdrop of soot-black, cracked cement slid by. Sprawl stench forgotten, she felt the iron-wired twinge of adrenaline singing in her veins as they rushed closer. Her troopers were rolling hard, and with a little luck this would be the jackpot. Grease the scabs, grab the boy, and go home. A good day in her book.
She grunted with satisfaction as call signs for the Spanish units sounded out over the radio. All units were on location, tightening the noose.
“One minute!” the driver called out.
Run and gun. I got a green light, baby.
She breathed in slow, filling her lungs and calming her heart rate. The trucks gunned their engines one final time and roared around a corner, then cut their motors to coast in silence the last 300 meters.
The urgent call of “Go, Go, Go!” filled their headsets, and even before the vehicles jerked to a stop, hatches swung open and troopers leapt out. Civilians scattered as her men ran to the main entrance. Jessa Eames joined herself to the primary breeching team as they went straight into the main lobby.
Inside, a dog was barking, and somewhere up above a chorus of brats squalled, the tinny wails carrying down the moldering stairway. In the dingy gloom, a hunched row of black armored troopers scuttled into position on either side of a green wooden door.
Eames took anchor position—fifth and last one in—and her vision tunneled. Everything went snapshot still and she breathed in the coiled moment.
5, 4, 3, 2, 1…
The tiny LED on everyone’s wrist blinked from yellow to green. The point man lashed out, the door blew in, and the black snake line surged forward.
The lead trooper flowed through the shattered frame shouting. She heard shotgun blasts and as she brought up her pistol, his body flew backwards onto the floor.
More blasts and the second trooper in line snapped upright, head deformed, blood jetting in an arc through the face visor. He too dropped backwards out of sight.
She suddenly heard the furor of automatic weapons fire, frantic shouts and counter-commands from the rear of the apartment, as if someone had just turned on the sound. The second breeching team had entered the apartment.
Another step and something ticked in her mind: the buzz of a full auto flechette gun. There was no chance to pin it down; muscle memory and training had her committed in fast-forward.
Another step and an explosion rocked the floor, its pressure pushing past her. The third trooper fell.
She was three steps from the door. The soldier right in front of her, Corporal Kellerman, tried to jump over the bodies, but stumbled as he broke left into the room. Major Eames could hear men screaming now, the sound of auto fire, flechette buzz, ripping through the apartment. Murder crackled in the air. She bared her teeth and swung around the splint
ered doorpost, gun up and tracking for targets.
The room was filled with smoke, but the bodies of three civilians were sprawled on a worn sofa. Training recorded it: one woman and two men. Bullet holes in the center of their heads. One man was missing the fingers on his right hand, his throat cut, Pollock arterial spray on the walls. Déjà vu: torture and execution.
Her pistol jerked, frantic for a target. Nothing. Kellerman had stayed on her left, covering the kitchen, so she stepped toward the bedroom hall looking for someone to kill.
Suddenly, another flurry of cries erupted in her headset, answered by a roar of gunfire. A second later, a figure popped into her peripheral vision: a large Spanish man had come out of the kitchen with an auto shotgun.
She twisted around for a shot, but he was inhumanely fast. The AA-12 fired and Kellerman came apart. Finger still on the trigger, the big man pivoted, slamming twelve-gauge rounds across the wall toward her.
Off-balance. Bright muzzle flashes. She wouldn’t get her pistol up in time.
Screaming, she pulled the trigger anyway. “Burn in Hell!”
She let herself drop, hoping to fall below his line of fire, but two rounds hit and the impact spun her around. Agony spiked deep in her chest, and she landed face down behind a broken chair.
Biting back the shock, she spied him through the shattered chair legs. He was moving towards her when a second person, a woman, stepped out into the hall and spoke in what sounded like rapid-fire Asian. He answered in the same language, and surveyed the living room.
Jessa Eames froze.
After a moment, he followed after the woman and was gone.
Warmth was spreading under her, soaking into the filthy carpet, and she couldn’t catch her breath. She’d seen the big man’s face before he’d turned away. There was no flush of fear, no panting or rage. Nothing but dead calm.
A stray thought clicked in place right before she blacked out: there’d been Shredder darts in the fight pit in that basement.
These were the shooters from the mosque.
------------------------
In his apartment, Hermano stumbled in from the bathroom and found his chair empty. He was confused until he spotted Gaspar staring out the window holding another bottle of Orujo. Hermano knew it was his last one and was about to say something until he noticed his cousin was staring intently out into the street.
“What? What is it, Gaspar?”
“Could be some action on the other side,” he mumbled back.
“You see one of the terroristas? I told you. See? Didn’t I tell you?” Hermano lurched toward the kitchen window, trying to see if the police were arresting people. This meant payout time. He elbowed Gaspar. He wasn’t about to let his fat cousin ruin his view, or claim all the reward, but Gaspar didn’t budge.
As Hermano stood by the sink, he heard the shrill scream and giggle of girls outside. In front of him, Gaspar grunted and licked his lips. “Hot action indeed. You think their mothers know they dress like that?” Gaspar turned back to leer at him, reeking garlic and booze breath all over Hermano’s face. Then he peered out the window again, sniggering.
“Fah!” Hermano turned away, disgusted. Staring at girls not much younger than his daughters: cousin or no, this was the last straw.
I’m throwing him out, he thought. I’m going to report this fat slug for extortion, and take the reward myself.
He took a deep breath to clear the Orujo fog and braced himself. He would kick Gaspar out, but he couldn’t decide if he should shove him first, or yell an insult.
Behind him, there was a sound like a spring releasing and Gaspar’s lecherous giggling turned into a gurgle, as if he were choking.
Serves him right. Pervert.
Hermano decided he should yell first, but then he heard the bottle smash on the floor. Gaspar dropped his last bottle? Clumsy and a pervert.
He was really mad now, but when he looked, his cousin was doubled over, clawing at his own neck with pudgy sausage fingers.
Maybe it’s a seizure… or a heart attack, Hermano thought. That worried him because Hermano didn’t want to get blamed somehow. Gaspar’s motions became feeble, and a cold fear gripped Hermano’s tiny mind. He hoped he wouldn’t have to drag him out of his apartment into the back alley. He crept closer. Gaspar’s hands fell away and he sagged to his knees.
Hermano pulled up short and stared. A dull metal shaft was sticking at a right angle out of the side of Gaspar’s neck. It had black feathers on the end. Gaspar jerked his purple-blotched face toward Hermano, terrified piggish eyes looking up at him. He was pleading, his mouth moving; but no sound came out except a nasty gurgling. Hermano saw blood now, just a little seeping down the shaft. Rooted in place, Hermano stood there watching, unable to look away.
All of a sudden, the reek of excrement filled the air. Gaspar’s bowels had released and a dark stain formed on the front of his pants. Hermano saw his cousin’s eyes pop open wide, and then fade as the light went out behind them. With a final sigh, Gaspar slumped to the floor.
Hermano’s mind was stuttering: he didn’t understand what had just happened. He looked at his cousin, to the window, then back to his cousin again. Had someone thrown that thing, that arrow, through the window? As he bent over for a closer look, he heard the sharp twang sound again, and like lightning, a searing pain flared in his own throat. He staggered and caught himself on the sink. He reached up carefully and felt feathers. There was an arrow thing in his neck now. He tried to yell, but the only sound that came out was that hideous burble. He looked around frantically for his phone. It was gone.
Frantic, he tried to pull the thing out, but it wouldn’t budge. He felt himself leaking out, getting weaker, and after a helpless minute, he slumped to the ground. His fading eyes caught movement in the hall darkness inside his front door. Someone was there, he didn’t know who.
His last thought as he collapsed was: I just went to the bathroom. At least they won’t find me with a load in my pants—fat bastard—then he flopped onto his cousin’s body in an awkward embrace.
When he was sure they both were dead, the man called Hester stepped out of the hallway. He touched his hand to his ear and murmured a command that muted the chatter from the communication nets he’d been monitoring. Looking around, he found it odd both the Barcelona police and Dawson-Hull Security had tagged this location as a low priority lead and left it under surveillance by this militia buffoon and his friend. Hester considered himself lucky.
Sifting through the Spanish and Dawson-Hull communications, Hester had compared them with the files Mr. MacKinnon had sent. He’d noticed an interesting correlation and followed a hunch. Apparently, a former ship captain and suspected smuggler named Alejo García had been mixed up in a lot of mischief in North Africa and the Med around the same time a certain Tam Song had started a freelance career with a Canadian vet named Jace Manner. It seemed the two outfits had crossed paths more than once back in the day. After Alejo García had retired from the sea, he’d settled in the Barcelona Metro Zone, and oddly enough, his current residence was listed in the building right across the street.
In several quick motions, Hester pushed the bolts through the necks of the two men, wiped them clean, then disassembled his crossbow and slid everything back into his pack. Once that was finished, he stepped around the two bodies and went up to the window at the sink. Peering past the dirty curtains, he spotted a gaggle of teenage girls in skimpy summer wear, all clustered in front of the massive flat-front tenement across the street. Scattered cars and trucks zipped by. This was a relatively quiet block, almost a family neighborhood, he thought wryly. As Hester moved in for a better view up the avenue, his shirt pocket abruptly started pulsing more rapidly. He smiled and patted the small tracker.
Yes. He’d struck it lucky indeed.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT: OBLIGATIONS
Barcelona Port Complex, Asian Pacific Consortium Trade Offices, Bureau D. South Dock, Level Five. 9:07 a.m. Day Five.
“An
d where are these contractors now, Colonel?”
“We have no idea, Mr. Director. My liaison officer was killed, and the clones have been unable to reestablish contact.”
“I can see why that might be a problem, after this mosque incident,” the director said dryly. “The Type Fives suffer from a lack of imagination, among other things. And now they’re demanding access to the British security force’s communications net...”
“Yes, sir,” the colonel answered.
Director Tetsuo frowned. “Given all these precarious irregularities, why didn’t you contact Head Office?”
Colonel Otsu bowed his head. “Director Tetsuo, the executive stated this mission was critical to corporate interests. My unit is assigned to his division, and I assumed he was working in the Consortium’s best interests.”
“You can assume executives work in their own best interests, Colonel. Your loyalty is commendable.” The aging director stroked his chin. “As dubious as the objective was, you’re telling me the team Hsiang hired actually obtained the prototype?”
“Yes, sir, our last communication indicated they were ready to turn it over. The meeting in the mosque was supposed to arrange for delivery,” Colonel Otsu answered.
Yoshio Tetsuo’s face crinkled with concern. “And now you say there’s been some sort of riot in the same district?”
“Yes, now we don’t know if the two incidents are related, but Guardia Civil troops were already engaged in a massive hunt for the mosque gunmen, in addition to supporting Dawson-Hull Special Deployment units. They’ve placed the outer districts under civil lockdown.
The director gave a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Avery Hsiang is not known for subtlety, but this is extreme.” He waved a small wrinkled hand. “No matter, the oversight of Barcelona Trade Legation was transferred to my office last night. Until this matter is concluded, you are to report directly to me.”
Running Black (Eshu International Book 1) Page 21
