Sungrazer

by Jay Posey

  Elliot flicked his eyes left and right in a quick scan, soaking up the environment in a split-second glance. Several of the other customers were looking in his direction; a natural reaction to any sudden, loud noise. Two guys in the back corner were working a little too hard not to notice. Dillon’s guys, then.

  “Now you,” Elliot continued, looking back at Dillon. “You’re a little too on-the-nose for a cop. You look like a cop. You smell like a cop. And you don’t seem bright enough to me to try the old reverse psychology trick. But you,” and here he kept staring at Dillon, while he pointed at Wilson. “You never check six. You talk too much.” Now he shifted his gaze over to Wilson. “And you walk right into what’s obviously a setup without asking yourself who actually did the setting.”

  Wilson blinked a half dozen times, and then stammered, “I don’t know what you’re talking about, man.”

  “That doesn’t surprise anyone, Wilson,” Elliot answered. He turned his attention back to Dillon. “So, that leaves us with you, Dill. Which is so predictable, it’s boring.”

  Dillon sat back again, his brow creased. He was an intelligent man; Elliot could see it in his eyes. Smart enough to know that even if he’d thought of everything, he probably hadn’t thought of everything. He was working through it now, trying to puzzle out whether he’d missed something or if Elliot was just bluffing. Elliot had to keep him in that space, slightly off-balance, couldn’t give him the time to work it out.

  “Which means the only real question is, are you Central Martian Authority, or just a local guy?” Elliot said.

  Dillon shook his head almost involuntarily.

  “Or are you Internal Security?”

  The suggestion was preposterous on its face; Elliot knew for a fact Dillon couldn’t be part of the Republic’s Internal Security Services. They were never so conspicuous, never confrontational, which made them exponentially more dangerous. ISS agents had a way of putting people at unusual ease, asking easy questions that somehow led to hard places. A good one could sell you a rope and keep you smiling while you tied your own noose. Even if Dillon had been law enforcement, which he clearly wasn’t, there was no way they’d ever let him be Internal Security. But just mentioning the agency planted the seed in Wilson’s head, and had an unsettling effect on Dillion.

  “I’m not any of that,” Dillon confessed, now defensive. He tried to get back on top of the conversation. “You have no idea who I am.”

  “Sure I do. You’re my supplier, and Wilson’s your cutout. Or, to be technical about it, your boss is my supplier. He just doesn’t know that, does he?” It was a shot in the dark, a hunch that Elliot hadn’t realized he’d had until he heard himself say it. But Dillon’s face shifted just enough to tell Elliot he was right.

  So then, Elliot figured, Dillon had set up a little side business for himself, siphoning off hardware, selling it directly to buyers for three or four times the market rate, which was already substantial. And that was Elliot’s point of leverage.

  “At least, he doesn’t know it yet,” he said. “You know, cutouts work better when you don’t meet face-to-face with your actual clients. That’s sort of the whole point of having a cutout, so you–”

  “I don’t know what you think you’re trying to pull off here, sport,” Dillon said, cutting him off, “but it’s not going to work.”

  Elliot held up a placating hand. “All I’m trying to do is make sure I haven’t been wasting my time and money. I’m guessing you got spooked when I started asking questions about where else you’ve been distributing your gear. I can understand that. I can appreciate it.”

  He reached over and made a point of picking up Wilson’s glass of water, took a very deliberate drink of it before continuing. “I’m a careful man, Dill. Guy with my unimpressive physique can’t afford to be anything but careful. I run a legitimate business, everything strictly legal, to the absolute letter of the law. To the tiniest dotted I and even the Ts they forgot to cross, you understand? A substantial portion of my resources goes to make sure I’m staying right in between the lines, and I assure you my resources are significant. So this is only going to play out one of two ways. One, you’re going to try to build some kind of case up against me, over the course of which you’ll get to learn a life lesson about how the legal system actually works–”

  “I’m not a cop,” Dillon said, a little too loudly. Now he was getting angry. Elliot ignored him, which was sure to make him even angrier.

  “Or two, you can keep your little charade intact and go snare some actual lawbreakers out there. Either way, you’re wasting your time with me. I’m giving you the choice, the opportunity, to keep everything you’ve built up to this point. I’m sure you’re making a nice little bonus on top of all your work for the greater good. And listen, I’ll even continue to do business with you, if you’re man enough to stomach it.” Elliot flashed a smile. “It’ll be good for your market legitimacy, I promise.”

  Dillon shot Wilson a look, and then growled at Elliot, “You think you’re some bigtime player? Well you’re not. You’re not even half of my best client. Not even a tenth. I could crush you without even blinking. No one would ever find the body. No one would even come looking for it.”

  “And my ex-wives would probably thank you for your service,” Elliot answered, reaching out and breaking the corner off one of the pieces of flatbread in the middle of the table. He popped it in his mouth, and spoke while he chewed. “But you gotta ask yourself, Dill, if you’re in control, why am I sitting here so casual?”

  That was the part Dillon couldn’t work out. That was Elliot’s lifeline. He glanced down at his fingertips, saw that the oil from the bread had sheened them. He reached over and very deliberately dipped his fingers in Dillon’s glass of water, then wiped them off on the table cloth.

  “What do you say, Dillon,” he said. “Do you and your two friends back there in the corner want to walk out of here still business partners? Or are you going to have to see for yourself why I’m so unconcerned?”

  Dillon just stared at him, hard. Still a dangerous moment. There was silverware on the table. Elliot really did not want to get stabbed with a fork. Not again.

  “That’s what I thought,” Elliot said. “Thanks for the time, gentlemen.” He stood up casually, careful not to make any moves that would suggest a threat, nothing that would set Dillon’s reflexes off. “Nice to meet you face-to-face finally, Dillon. And to get your name.” He smiled when he said it, then gave Wilson a little nod.

  “Wilson, always a pleasure. I’m going to go ahead and take a twenty percent discount on that shipment this time. To cover this.” He waggled his hand vaguely over the table.

  Wilson stared up at him, his mouth slightly open.

  “I’ll be in touch,” Elliot said. “You two enjoy the rest of your day.”

  Before Elliot turned his back, he looked over at Dillon’s two associates in the back corner, made eye contact with one of them. Gave him a little wink and nod. As he turned to leave, he heard Wilson whisper, “Hey, are you a cop, man?”

  Poor Wilson. Elliot genuinely hoped that they’d be able to keep their arrangement, but he wasn’t sure if he’d ever see Wilson again.

  He kept his pace steady and his ears attuned for any sudden movement. Twenty steps to the door. If he could make it that far, there was a better than coin-flip chance he was going to make it out. Fifteen steps. Ten.

  And then he was there, opening the door, stepping out under the Martian sky. And it took every ounce of his remaining resolve to keep himself from sprinting to the vehicle that was waiting for him in the parking lot.

  TWO

  If it had all gone according to plan, no one would have gotten hurt.

  But, of course, things pretty much never went according to plan.

  Captain Lincoln Suh shoved the VIP up and over a waist-high wall, then leapt after the man. On the other side, he slammed his back against the aging concrete and dragged the VIP down with him. A moment later, Master
Sergeant Wright flew over head-first and barely missed landing on their precious cargo. Incoming fire followed immediately after her, hissed overhead, popped concrete chips and chunks off their meager cover. Wright scrambled back against the wall, sandwiching the VIP between Lincoln and herself.

  “Mike,” Lincoln said into his comm channel.

  “One sec,” Mike answered, voice cool, steady. Three seconds later the incoming fire stopped. Lincoln hadn’t heard the shot, but he knew Sergeant Mike Pence, the team’s sniper, had done some work. “‘K, one down. Rest fell back to an alley, twenty meters from your position. Marking.”

  A bright orange indicator appeared in Lincoln’s view, designating the location. Lincoln nodded to Wright; off his signal, she swiveled, peeked up over the wall, and then brought her weapon up over the top and squeezed off one burst, then another.

  “Move!” Wright called, continuing to fire controlled two- or three-round bursts back at their pursuers.

  “Moving!” Lincoln answered. He grabbed a handful of the VIP’s jacket, up near the scruff of the man’s neck, and pulled him to his feet.

  “This way, this way, this way,” Lincoln said, shepherding the man forward as they bounded across open ground to a stubby, one-story building. When they reached it, Lincoln shoved the VIP up against the wall and then backed against him, covering as much of the man as he could with his own body. They’d had to run the op plain-clothes, so the only protection Lincoln had was the thin vest of armor under his shirt. Not much, but maybe enough to keep the rounds off the VIP at least, if it came to that. And it looked an awful lot like it was coming to that.

  Lincoln braced his weapon against the corner of the building, sighted in on the entrance to the alleyway where the hostiles had taken cover. From this angle, he couldn’t fire down the alley, only across the mouth of the entryway. But as long as they didn’t get brave enough to rush out all at once, he probably had enough coverage to keep them suppressed. Probably. The light was still gloomy, an early-dawn grey, but the light-enhancement protocol of Lincoln’s lenses compensated. He could clearly make out one of their pursuers, lying face down in the dusty street, arms limp and trailing by his sides like he’d fallen asleep in the middle of running. Mike’s work.

  “Set!” Lincoln called to Wright.

  “Ready!” she answered.

  “Move!”

  “Moving!”

  Lincoln opened fire, patternless single shots without rhythm, his rounds chewing bits out of the walls on either side of the alley. Wright sprinted across the gap. As she moved, one of the hostiles dared to lean out of his hiding place, despite Lincoln’s suppressive fire. Lincoln shifted his aim. The hostile squeezed off a burst in the same instant that Lincoln fired three quick rounds, pat-pat-pat. The man fell back, though Lincoln couldn’t tell if he’d hit his target or not. Out of the corner of his eye, Lincoln saw Wright stumble a half-step. Somehow she seemed to recover mid-stride and a few seconds later skidded in low, coming up close alongside Lincoln in a crouch. An instant later, her weapon was up and trained on the alley, spitting deadly rounds in sharp volleys.

  “You hit?” Lincoln called down to her. “Are you hit?”

  “I’m good! Where’s our ride?”

  Lincoln stepped backwards, shoving the VIP further along the wall away from the corner of the building. As soon as he moved, Wright flowed into the vacant space, continuing to suppress the alley.

  “Sahil,” Lincoln said through comms, “you got an ETA?”

  “Ninety seconds,” came Sahil’s response. “And we don’t wanna hang around for long.” His tone was even flatter than usual, clipped but emotionless. Which meant he was probably driving way too fast, and most likely taking some heat along the way.

  “They’re splitting up,” Mike said. “Finding another route.”

  “How many?”

  “Three staying, five on the move. Check that, six. Six on the move,” he answered. Then added, “Intel nerds only underestimated by half this time. Getting better.”

  “It was our intel, Mike!” Wright snapped.

  “Oh,” he answered. “Not so hot then.”

  Lincoln glanced around, checked the distance to the rally point. Forty meters. Did some quick math. Move too early, and he risked pulling the bad guys along with them to the pickup. Too late, and Sahil would be sitting there exposed, waiting for them to arrive. And if the bad guys moved fast enough, and maybe got a little lucky, it wouldn’t take much for them to pinch Lincoln’s element in. Lincoln never counted on luck, unless it was the bad kind.

  “Getting low here, Link,” Wright said over the sound of her gunfire. “What’re we doing?”

  Lincoln glanced down, saw the line of slender canisters strapped on Wright’s back, up near her right shoulder. Red, white, white, grey. He grabbed the grey one.

  “Smoke out!” he called, as he activated the smoke grenade and tossed it back the way they had come.

  “Bad toss!” Wright said. Not a criticism, just informing him that he’d missed his mark. The smoke blossomed out, dense, but too far out to cover their movement.

  “Give it a sec,” Lincoln answered, hoping it would have the desired effect. “Mike, you got eyes on the bad guys?”

  “Scopes only,” Mike said. “No shot.”

  “They moving?”

  “Yeah they’re shuffling around… looks like, uh…” he said, breaking off. “They’re splitting up, looping around.”

  “Sixty seconds,” Sahil said.

  “Twenty seconds, then we go,” said Lincoln.

  “Dry,” Wright said. She ducked back, dropped the magazine from her weapon. Lincoln stepped up to the corner, squeezed off four rounds. Just under two seconds later, Wright said “I’m up!” and resumed fire.

  “Mike,” Lincoln said. “What’re the bad guys doing?”

  “Three of ‘em are still sittin’ there. Other group’s maneuvering on your smoke.”

  Good. They took the bait. Hopefully the misdirection would buy them enough time.

  Lincoln mentally counted off the remaining seconds.

  “Moving to rally!” Lincoln called. He patted Wright’s shoulder, hard. She stood, braced her weapon against the corner of the building, and opened up full-auto on the alleyway. Lincoln spun, took hold of the VIP, and drove the man forward ahead of him. “With me now, with me, we’re almost there.”

  Together, they crossed the gap to another building, then down a narrow side street. Behind them, Wright’s weapon went silent. The side street intersected with a wider road, and as Lincoln and his charge approached it, he heard the roar and whine of an engine. Moments later, an old pickup truck flew into view, braking hard and sliding past the side street. Lincoln didn’t even need to look in the cab to know Sahil was behind the hijacked console of the vehicle; he could tell from the driving.

  “Up, in the bed, go!” Lincoln told the VIP, practically throwing him up and over the edge, though the man hardly needed any prompting or aid.

  As soon as the VIP was over the edge, the truck started rolling forward. Lincoln catapulted into the bed, scrambled over to lay on top of the VIP, shielding the man as much as he could. A few seconds later, another body came flying in and landed full force on Lincoln’s legs.

  “Go go go!” Wright called, and as the third word was leaving her mouth, the truck lurched forward. The sudden acceleration sent the three people in the bed sliding backwards, towards the tailgate. The master sergeant tumbled awkwardly into the rear corner, up on her back and shoulders, and let loose with some premium mil-spec cursing while she struggled to right herself.

  “Mir, ow!” Lincoln said, as Wright’s elbow dug into his lower hamstring. “My knee!”

  “Well, why’s it under me?” she snapped. He kicked his leg up, giving her a boost. She flopped to one side, rolled onto her back, sprawled her legs and fished her feet around for purchase against either side of the truck bed, near the tail gate. That was as stable a base as she was going to get in the vehicle. She kept as
low a profile as humanly possible, her weapon laid flat along her body, muzzle pointing back behind them, just high enough to clear the rim of the truck bed. It’d taken her maybe five seconds to go from upside down in the corner to on point, ready for action. In the back of a swerving truck. Watching her move with such efficiency and control, Lincoln was once again struck with just how experienced an operator she was. An absolute pro. He hoped he looked half as cool as she did, though he knew that was unlikely. Particularly since he was perched on top of their precious cargo like some sort of human rucksack.

  “Thumper,” Lincoln called over comms, “We’re en route to extract.”

  “Roger that,” Thumper answered. “I’m tracking you. Local security commo traffic is picking up pretty heavy. Not sure how much longer I can keep it rerouted.”

  Thumper, the team’s resident tech wizard, was set up in a safehouse well outside the target zone, running her mobile surveillance rig and working her magic on all manner of systems in the area.

  “Alternate pick up zone still clear?” Lincoln asked.

  “For now. Saber One One is on standby, and I’m keeping them apprised. They’ll be there when you are.”

  “Mike, status?” Lincoln said.

  “Bad guys are scrambling. Looks like you caught ‘em off guard and they’re short a vehicle. You’re gaining time on ‘em.”

  “You clear?”

  “Clear enough,” he answered.

  “All right, pack it up, get back to the house.”

  “You got it.”

  “Thumper,” Lincoln said. “You got coverage on Mike?”

  “Yes sir,” Thumper said. “Two skeeters on his wings, and a Dragonfly on station.”

  “Move that ‘fly up close on Mike’s location, cover him on the way out.”

  “I’ve got a good route,” Mike said. “Shouldn’t need it.”

  “Shouldn’t doesn’t mean you won’t,” Lincoln said. “Thump, move it over.”