Aubry felt his face grow hot, and tried to find a retort. His thoughts were interrupted by the buzz of a jeep coming over the paved road leading from a group of dusky buildings. The man driving the jeep was small, seemed plump, and his face was hard.
The jeep halted in front of them. The driver vaulted from behind the steering wheel with surprising lightness … in fact, as if he weighed almost nothing at all. His right hand dug into his front trouser pocket, and emerged with a silver dollar. He flipped it and caught it, with a totally unconscious motion, as if he had done it twelve million times before.
He was Hispanic, a little bigger than he had seemed behind the wheel of the jeep—but not much. He looked at them critically. A group of twenty men and women lounged on the tarmac, sitting on their duffel bags, eyes cool and disinterested. The little man’s eyes were very bright. “I am Guerrero,” he said. “I have six weeks with you.” He looked them up and down with the expression of a man who has found a turd in his tuna salad. “You are the best that the Ortegas have to offer? No wonder they are in so much trouble, eh?”
Aubry watched, amused. Chan uncoiled from her seated position like a cat disturbed from its dinner. Guerrero stood flipping his dollar up and down, unaware of the shift in moods. Aubry was hypnotized. It caught the sliver of sun on the horizon, and threw it back. It glittered. It sparkled.
Chan towered over the smaller man, radiating challenge. Dwarfing him. Although both of them stood in plain sight, Guerrero in his crisp fatigues, and Chan in her rumpled jumpsuit, all eyes were riveted on Chan.
Except Aubry’s. He watched Guerrero. And the coin. Up. And down.
Chan said, “What the hell are you supposed to teach us?”
The coin disappeared. Aubry was watching. It was almost as if Guerrero had tossed it into the air, and it failed to come down. Guerrero’s right palm was there to catch it, and it didn’t arrive.
Chan’s eyes flickered there for an instant. The coin appeared in Guerrero’s left hand.
“What kind of shit…?”
“I’m going to teach you to think,” Guerrero said. He tossed the coin up, and caught it. “Every one of you is here because you have proven yourselves in the kind of combat that the Ortegas call war. Well, it’s bullshit. Bullshit, and if you go up against the Conquistadores with the training and the attitudes that you have now, you’ll all be dead.”
The coin flip-crawled across the back of Guerrero’s hands as he talked.
Aubry watched, fascinated. It was perfect. The coordination was perfect, completely effortless. Like the jump out of the vehicle. The hair on the back of his neck prickled.
“What do you think you can teach us … sir?” The way she emphasized “sir” made it worse than if Chan had said “asshole.”
Guerrero smiled. The coin flipped into the air.
Exactly to the height of Chan’s eyes …
And seemed to hover there for a second.
And then Chan was on the ground, holding her left leg, up high near the groin, making a mewling sound. All of her wiry musculature was contracted, her mouth open in a silent O.
Guerrero caught the coin.
Aubry hadn’t even seen the move.…
Suddenly, the group was very quiet.
They came to their feet, their eyes on the little man in the rumpled fatigues. He looked at them with a hint of amusement. He turned his back to Chan. “During the next six weeks, I am going to teach you to be soldiers. You will learn to use the most modern military equipment, using the most advanced teaching techniques in the world. And then you are going to execute your mission …”
As he spoke, Chan was getting up from the ground. She shook her head like a bull gorilla, clearing it. Her eyes were red with rage. For all of her size, she was almost silent, and she had dropped into kill mode. Guerrero’s back was still to Chan, and he seemed to be unaware of what was going on around him. The coin went up and down, up and down …
“And you are going to execute your mission flawlessly, because if you don’t it’s not your ass on the line, it’s mine.”
“You’ll be going in with us?” someone asked.
Guerrero nodded. “I am not a theoretician.”
Chan drew her knife. It was a Loveless chain model, razor kill-strip whirring silently around the edge. She was only a fraction away from full commitment.
Aubry felt admiration for Guerrero. Liked the little man. And hoped that he had provided in his will for the doubtlessly plump wife and children who would shortly be widowed and orphaned.
Chan sprang.
Aubry’s eyes couldn’t catch what happened next, but Guerrero was behind Chan. Chan was on the ground, unmoving. The chain knife was three feet from her hand, whirring. And that damned coin was rolling on edge on the tarmac.
As Aubry watched, blood began to ooze from above Chan’s eye.
The coin rolled, and slowed … and fell onto its side.
Had Guerrero turned, and thrown the coin into Chan’s eye, deflected and disarmed and rendered unconscious all in one seamlessly meshed motion?
Whatever the hell Guerrero was, he was for real, and impressive as hell.
And just like that, the seventeen-year-old Aubry Knight transferred his allegiance from Chan to Guerrero, and promised himself that he was going to learn to do what Guerrero had done.
Or die trying.
9
FEBRUARY 15, 2011
Aubry Knight lay belly down against the cool plastic floor of a glide simulation unit, floating silently over the Atlantic Ocean, just a mile out from São Paulo now. He was under the military radar, above the civilian screens. His little stealth unit, towed up and cut free now, was guidance-linked directly in with his reflexes, his vision, his hearing. It was like swimming through air, close to flying. The little patches at the base of his skull and his temples fed information to some kind of computer thing. His goggles both recorded eye movement and provided additional visual input.
The villa was below him, a glowing series of concentric rectangles: guesthouse, pool, piazza, guardhouse. It sat on a bluff, overlooking the ocean. The cliff made penetration difficult. The electronics, more so. The entry had to be first-time perfect. Kill ratio perfect. Extraction perfect.
A team would ascend the bluff, coming up from the surf. They would cover the escape route, take out the guards at the dock.
But Aubry had to get past the first defenses.
He heard a voice in his ear—just a buzz, really. “Course correction,” it whispered.
And he felt himself respond. This was wild. He was in some kind of a machine, he knew, but it was easy to forget, forget that this was just a simulation, and—
A buzz, and a little electric jolt. The world went red.
Dammit, he had lost concentration. All right, motherfuckers. Focus you want, focus you get.
He heard his own breathing rasp in his ears. Concentrate. Another loop, and—touch down. Barely a scratch. He was third down, behind the strike leader, Guerrero. He was supposed to circle around again, and land twelve seconds later. But, dammit, he could feel the approach, knew that he could get in now. He would beat Guerrero down—that would catch his attention.
Nothing else he had tried for the past week had done the job.
Guerrero’s virtual image touched down. Aubry did everything that he could to imitate that smooth descent—
The world went white. Lights came up. He stripped the goggles from his eyes and wiped his forehead. He was breathing hard. (Just a simulation!? Damn that was fun!) And he turned, eager for praise.
The magnetic coils in the floor had calmed, and no longer levitated him into flight position. The room was white and circular. A series of concentric tiles ringed floor and ceiling. A door opened at the far end, and Guerrero entered.
The smile on Aubry’s face died when he saw Guerrero’s expression. “What the hell was that?” Guerrero’s voice dripped acid. His face was livid. “You had your instructions. You were given your timing. Why the fuck
didn’t you stick to it?”
“I—”
“You nothing!” Guerrero’s voice was scalding. “Six of you are coming in aerial. Anybody hotdogging it throws off the entire approach. You just killed your entire team, Knight, do you realize that? And for what?”
Aubry felt as if his face had been caught in a furnace blast. “I beat you down …” he began lamely.
The rest of the team came in behind Guerrero. Several of them smirked. Something was supposed to happen now. He felt it. He just didn’t know what to do.
“Back off, man,” he said.
“What?” Guerrero stepped a little closer.
“BACK OFF!” Aubry said. “I did the best I could. I was coming in low, and coming in good. I just took the window. You can’t handle that, then fuck you.”
Guerrero looked at him, and closed his eyes. Then, very quietly, he said, “You’re out, Knight. Get your things. Report to the air pad at fourteen hundred hours.” He turned, heel-toe, and left the room. Aubry stood, for a long moment disbelieving, shocked. And then ran after him, past the others.
He caught up with Guerrero in the hall, and said, “Hey!” Guerrero turned, just before Aubry would have … touched him? Or something. Their eyes locked.
The air between them shimmered. Aubry had never wanted to hit anyone so badly in his life. Not even the memory of Chan, bleeding and broken on the tarmac, could have stayed his hand.
Something else did.
Something made him swallow the hurt, and the pain.
What?
He had only been in Manitou Springs for a week, but he had seen … things. He saw men in uniforms, men who walked with purpose and pride. Men who spoke in calm, confident voices. Men whose laughter was not cruel. Men whose eyes seemed filled with something beside the constant, predatorial search for … what?
“Don’t dump me, man. I want this. Want it bad.”
“That’s not enough.”
Aubry paused.
Guerrero studied him. “You wanted to hit me. What stopped you. Chan?”
Aubry shook his head.
“I didn’t think so. You’re not afraid of me. Why?”
“Ain’t afraid of nothing.”
“Do you know the definition of a good lie?”
“What?”
“One that gets you through the night.” Guerrero narrowed his eyes. “Why do you want another chance?”
“I don’t want to fail,” Aubry said. “Can’t fail. Gave my word.”
“To who?”
“To Luis.”
“Luis Ortega?”
Aubry nodded. “He gave me this chance.”
“To go and kill people you’ve never met, and probably die.”
“I’m a soldier.” When Aubry said that, his shoulders went back a little. If he struggled with it, he heard what might have been martial music in the background.
“No, you’re not,” Guerrero said. “But you could have been.” He laughed sourly. “I’m probably going to regret this. Come to my office at thirteen hundred hours.”
And then he strode briskly away, a plump little man who moved with a sense of self-possession that a boy named Aubry Knight had never known.
10
Seventeen-year-old Aubry sat in a straight-backed chair, in a room with plain gray walls. Guerrero sat behind the desk before him.
He had just asked Aubry Knight what he wanted.
“To do the job,” he answered. He felt a little uncomfortable. What did he mean, “What do you want”?
Guerrero waited. “Why?”
“I want to fit in.”
“Why?”
Aubry felt himself flare with heat. What kind of game is this? Still, he had to cooperate.
“I like it, man. Where I came from, ain’t many things to like. Takin’ out some motherfucker messed with you. Gettin’ laid.”
“And if you do this job, you get both?”
“Sure.”
“And after you’ve done those things? After you have a steady supply of sex, and after you have killed your enemies, what then?”
“There’s always more pussy. And more fools.”
“In your vast experience.”
“Yeah. In my experience.” That heat-prickle was back, creeping down his neck, and spreading across his chest now. “What is this all about?”
“I’m supposed to go into São Paulo, supervise your mission.” Guerrero shook a cigarette out of a pack, offered one to Aubry. Aubry shook his head. “I need to know what material I have to work with. Twenty men and women. You’re the youngest. You have a street reputation. Tough man. No nerves. You like pain. Good skills.” He pointed out through the window, to the obstacle course where the other Ortega men were drilling, turning themselves into a unit. “Physical skills are extreme. Fitness extraordinary. You are learning the weapon skills rapidly.” He smiled thoughtfully. “Frankly, there is teaching equipment that I can’t use with you—the clearance isn’t high enough.”
“You mean—we’re not important enough.”
“This operation is extremely illegal.” Guerrero’s grin was pure predator. Aubry liked that. “But you’re important to me. My ass will be on the line.”
Aubry waited. There was something more. Guerrero stood, looking out over the exercise yard. The distant crack of gunfire echoed from the mountains.
“So what do you really want, Guerrero?”
The little man stood, so that he was partially in the light, and partially in shadow. “I … wear several hats. I am involved in training. Covert operations. I occasionally act in the field. My commitment is to my nation.” He paused. “But my interest is human beings.”
“Well, you should be happy.” Aubry slapped his chest flippantly. “All meat, no by-products, man.”
Guerrero didn’t smile, didn’t change his expression or his voice. But suddenly, the atmosphere in the room was charged. Suddenly, the funny little man was gone again, as he had vanished during that first afternoon on the tarmac. The funny man was sometimes there during a lecture, but never present during tactical maneuvers. During anything physically stressful Guerrero seemed to split, and from the middle of the soft little man came … something else.
“Aubry,” he said softly. “You have a potential for violence which is … exceptional. But there is more to you than that. With most human beings, there is a difference between our words, and our actions. A split between our heads and our hearts.” He tapped his brow and his chest with a forefinger. “It is my job to take you, and make the different parts of you work together, in … congruence, for long enough for the mission to be accomplished.”
“And for us to get out alive?”
Guerrero’s eyes glittered. There was no spoken answer, and none was needed.
“Oh,” Aubry said quietly.
“May I speak plainly?”
“Go right ahead.”
“You’re scum, Knight. A criminal. A hired killer. Ignorant. You have a small, petty mind. But there is something in you that goes beyond that. It will probably never have a chance to emerge. What I want to know … all I want to know is … would you like it to have a chance?”
Aubry felt that sensation of heat crawl down his chest, inflame his buttocks. It was a sensation similar to sexual excitation, but more generalized. “What do you mean?” He barely recognized his own voice.
“Are you tired of being an animal, working for animals?”
“What the hell are you doing?”
“I believe in our country,” Guerrero said. “I believe in the dream of America. And I am willing to do whatever it takes to protect her.”
“What’s the difference between what you do, and what I do?”
“You do what you do out of anger. Out of fear.”
“What the fuck do you mean?”
“And I do what I do out of love.”
The flush had grown into a roaring, and it was as if Aubry sat at the foot of a falls, and the roaring grew until it drowned out thought, and left on
ly sensation.
“What do you love, Knight?”
Aubry didn’t answer, still locked in his cocoon of roaring silk.
“Aubry Knight. If you survive São Paulo, would you like to come here, and work with me?”
The words reached him like echoes heard at the bottom of a rain barrel. His mind scanned back over his life … what he could remember of his life. It couldn’t penetrate the blocks of dark, heavy, cold matter that stood between him and his past.
“I don’t remember much,” Aubry said thickly. He felt drugged. “All I can remember is trying to survive. There was one man, once. He was good. I watched him die.”
“How did he die?” Guerrero asked, not unkindly.
“He was stabbed. And stabbed. I remember him holding up his hands. I remember his hands. They were bleeding. I remember that he tried to hold me. And couldn’t.”
He was in the room, and apart from it, sliding further and further down toward … what?
With a sudden effort of will, Aubry tore himself away from that path, and focused on the room again.
“I got a job, man,” he said, putting as much flippancy into his voice as he could. And was not entirely surprised to find that he didn’t completely believe it.
“We will talk, later.”
“I got a job.”
“Yes. But how would you like a life?”
11
APRIL 16, 2011. SÃO PAULO, BRAZIL.
Aubry Knight felt the movement of the air on his body as he fell through the clouds in the little one-man glider. The night was clear, and cool, and calm. The moon rippled on the water like a single cool eye, mocking his fears. Around him were five men and women. His Ortega family. But he already felt apart from them. Not one of them anymore. What he was something joined to a man named Guerrero. And that was stronger than the bonds that he had experienced with the others.
And it gave him the possibility of a future.
He glided through the clouds, and ahead of him was the villa where, according to all intelligence data, the leader of the Conquistadores could be found. If the intelligence was wrong, the wrong people would be killed, and that was just too fucking bad.
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