Mandy had always treated everyone in the Mercenaries like family, but there was that one black sheep she would have been happy to slaughter. Certainly, many of them were thugs who wanted a license to mayhem, but even she would attend their funerals.
Angie Vaughn was the only death Mandy would publicly celebrate, if not personally bury. And now Vaughn was heading straight towards Kevin Anderson, slowly and sure as death, and more certain than taxes.
Mandy had watched Vaughn move across the roof one step at a time. The woman was evil, but not stupid. Her weapon swept the roof each time she took a step. This was the caution Vaughn used each time she tortured someone to death. Carefully, slowly, making certain that death would never come until she wanted it.
Mandy watched as Vaughn took yet another step towards Kevin. The image of him caught by Vaughn made her stomach turn in a knot.
Mandy's pale blue eyes narrowed. That wouldn't happen. She would kill Vaughn first. And if that weren't an option, she'd kill Anderson first. She drew her pistol, and slowly leveled it towards the roof. The magnification on her HUD goggles had made targeting easy...now the hard choice was to decide whom to shoot. Angie Vaughn had taken another step, and Mandy knew she had to choose soon. If Vaughn were just going to try to kill Kevin, not capture, that would be one thing. If not…
Vaughn had taken five paces away from the window she came out of, and paused, her sweep hesitated. With a quick motion, she adjusted something on her weapon. She wasn't sure if it was a safety or chambering a round. She just knew that, with one more step, Vaughn would see Anderson. If she didn't turn back now, it was a certainty. The next step would be a killer.
*
Kevin waited, knife in one hand, other hand braced against the roof. One more step would pretty much give him an idea of whether or not he should get ready to be shot at again.
He waited another, long, breathless, interminable moment...
There was a burst of static as a woman's voice said, “This is Angeldust to base. I see an open skylight, I think he's inside.”
“Good work, Angeldust. Come in, we'll flush him out.”
He smiled, and waited for the Mercenary to go back inside. After a minute, he rolled to the skylight he had opened, and carefully watched the Mercenaries sweep through the floor beneath him. Once they were gone, down to the next floor, he would go in and make his move. He waited for a moment, listening carefully. Certain there was no one there, he slipped down, feet first, and landed in a crouch …
And found himself looking down the barrels of three guns.
Kevin blinked, then smiled at the three of them. One of them wore his helmet and a full officer's uniform—it looked like that of a major. The other two were in Secret Service chic.
“Not a bad attempt,” the Major said, not unkindly. “However, we knew you hadn't come in. If you would please be so kind, drop your weapons.”
Kevin Anderson backed up slowly, taking in the situation. The Major and his men had been smart enough to keep their distance, and would probably order him on the ground before taking one step closer to him.
The major cocked his head. “Where do you think you're going, Mr. Anderson?”
I just hope I remember the distances on the building plan. Otherwise, I'll be going nowhere except to jail or to Hell.
“Stop walking, Anderson,” the Major warned, his voice carrying a not-so-vague threat.
“Sure, no problem.” Kevin stopped walking backwards. And instead started running backwards. And Kevin had a skill set that never made it to his personnel file – he could run as fast backwards as he could forwards.
He even fell backwards at the right time, tipping over the edge of the balcony that overlooked the garage, and fell, feet first, onto the roof of one of Senator Wynter's five cars.
He hopped off the one car, and looked at the second: a classic muscle car, used for racing, drag, professional and otherwise. He didn't even think twice as he slammed his elbow into the window—the liquid body armor had turned as hard as concrete on impact, and Kevin had thrown it with the force of his body, essentially focusing over two hundred pounds of force into a concrete ball an inch around.
Kevin casually brushed the glass away and stopped, dumbfounded. The keys were in the ignition. Talk about a woman with faith in her security!
He closed the door. There was an emergency kit in the car. Probably complete with flare. He readjusted the mirror, and saw gallons of fuel for the car lining the wall. And then he remembered something else about Alberta Wynter.
She was a rabid environmentalist.
*
Mandy started at the sound of gunfire. She didn't know whether or not to be worried for Kevin, or Major Rohaz.
The garage door exploded with a large car leaping from the garage. She thought for a moment that it was on fire—until she realized that the flames she saw was actually a streak of light shooting from the car's driver side window. A flare.
The only reason she knew what happened next is because she had a brief, flitting image of Alberta Wynter's second car. Another classic. Another rare car. It ran on hydrogen, which didn't react well to flares.
The garage blew up as Kevin Anderson crashed through the front gate. The fireball ripped the garage roof off, shattered all the windows, and engulfed the entire portion of the house that had been attached to the garage.
She blinked her eyes clear as she watched Anderson speed off into the distance. I guess he's done being subtle.
Mandy must have been staring after Kevin for longer than she thought. She snapped out of her reverie when the sharp voice of Major Rohaz snapped, “Mandy!”
She snapped to attention, slipping off of the wall and sliding down the face of it via her rappelling line. She landed at attention. “Sir!”
Antonio Rohaz stood before her, casually brushing dirt off of his clothes as he calmly said, “My apologies. I knew he was good, but I can't say that I fully believed you until now.”
Mandy smiled. “You'll cancel the open contract?”
Rohaz blinked. He grabbed his helmet and yanked it off, revealing that the lower half of his face had been covered with dirt, while the helmet had kept the rest of his head clean. “Absolutely not! I've half a mind to call out the entire Guild on him.”
Mandy blinked. “But that's—”
“Utterly impossible; too many contracts, too little time, and given the way he works, he'd probably have all of our people shooting at each other.” He looked at the garage and shook his head. “Your boyfriend is very adept at property damage. First the Eiffel Tower, now this. Who knows what's next.” He smiled. “At least we kept him from killing Senator Wynter.”
Mandy blinked. That was so not like Anderson. “He only got the car?”
“Both of them. The one he stole and the one he destroyed. She'll be spitting depleted uranium for weeks. I wouldn’t want to see the other car by the time he’s done with it.”
*
The car was ruined. Beaten in, bashed in, and used as a battering ram. Ironically, by the end of the day, the only real damage had been to the windows and the body. It could still be driven with ease, if you smashed out the windshield completely.
Two days later, Mandy looked around at the highly expensive garage, dressed in what she called “civvies”—casual business wear. The interior of this “garage” was big enough for a car show room, and as empty as the inside of a politician's brain. It seemed that, when Senator Alberta Wynter had her car worked on, no one else was allowed in.
Mandy scanned over the technicians. “Major... are we under obligation to protect Senator Wynter further?”
Rohaz stopped in the midst of lighting a cigar. He carelessly tossed the match aside. “Well, it was never my own personal duty to save her. And, of course, your only mission is to kill Anderson to the committee's satisfaction.”
Mandy raised a brow and smiled. “You mean there really is such a thing as partly alive?”
Rohaz grinned as he lit the cigar this time.
“I'll tell you about it sometime. It involved some old friends.”
Mandy saw Rohaz start to tear up a little. She knew who he meant. “You still miss them, don't you?”
The Major wrapped one arm around himself, and used it as a platform for his elbow as he took a long, hard puff on the cigar, and slowly, thoughtfully let it out. “Every other day.”
Mandy nodded, her gaze continually scanning the mechanics around her as Alberta Wynter looked over her car, hugging it and slathering attention over it. At one point she even hugged the hood of the car. It was grotesque.
“Is there something you're not telling me, Mandy?” he asked.
She stopped, and looked at her commanding officer—Rohaz objected to “superior officer” unless he was dealing with someone decidedly his inferior. “What do you mean?”
Rohaz narrowed his eyes and gave her a tight smile. “Amanda....”
She cleared her throat, turning away from Wynter. “He's not done. He can't be.” She paused. What could she say that wouldn't sound stupid? “I know him. This isn't him. He's not angry; he's enraged to the point where he can barely think. Everyone knows Wynter's love for cars. Would a man that angry leave the car like this? She can walk out of the body shop with it only two days after he blew up her only other car. She has to drive this one.”
Rohaz thought about it a moment. “The logic makes sense, but how would he do it? Most of the time has been spent going over every inch of the car for something … off. They even changed the fluids and refueled the engine.”
Mandy grimaced, and glanced at the Senator; she wore an old granny skirt, with a tacky floral pattern draped over her long-limbed, skeletal frame. The hair was an absurd blonde beehive wig, and matched her equally absurd costume pearls. Her upper lip curved down and over her teeth, giving her a simian look.
“Everyone!” Wynter called out, sounding like a croak. “Vinny had a great idea. Get the hell out!” She slapped a blond mechanic on the back. “This guy is brilliant. I am going to open her up, and just let her rip! Once around the track.” She glanced around once more. “Out!”
The two Mercenaries exchanged a glance, and they slipped out the back way, while the mechanics all moved out the front. Mandy, however, had glanced back for one last look.
Senator Alberta Wynter had revved the engine once when the entire car blew up.
After the fireball had been extinguished and some of the pieces of the ancient senator collected, Major Antonio Rohaz sat in a crouch at the epicenter of the explosion. He watched one wisp of smoke continue to curl and flutter from one smoldering piece of metal. Some of the pieces were still so warm, Rohaz had turned up the air conditioning.
Mandy watched Rohaz work, mentally reconstructing the entire scene, putting the puzzle pieces of the vehicle back together.
After what felt like forever, he glanced at her. “You were about to tell me something else about Anderson, I imagine?”
She nodded. “He has a degree in engineering.”
Rohaz winced. “That would explain it.” He pointed with his cigar to where the liquids were stored. “There’s too much transmission fluid, oil, and fuel still on the shelf.”
She glanced that way, then nodded, following his logic. “No one used them in the car?”
“Correct. And it turned out that one man changed all of the fluids.”
Mandy thought a moment. “That guy. He suggested she start the car in private. Vinny.”
The Major nodded and pulled out a strip of fabric from his pocket. She took it—on one side, the fabric had Velcro. On the other, it had one word stitched into it—“Detta.”
“Detta? Vinny Detta?”
“Vendetta. Who knew he was Italian?” Rohaz rose to his feet. “He replaced all of the fluids in the car with nitroglycerine. He's stopped being subtle, Mandy. We need to wash our hands of this contract, and soon. Either he dies, or you pass it on.” He gestured around with his cigar hand, ashes flying. “Had I paid attention...” He stabbed the cigar into his mouth and puffed on it like a train engine. “You wanted him exclusively. As of now, you have him.”
Chapter 8: House of the Sinking Sun
March 3rd, 2093
Kevin Anderson stepped out of the cab in New Orleans and felt like he’d fallen into a pool of warm water, except he was on solid ground. New Orleans in the predawn hours was not exactly pleasant, since it was the time “in-between”: after the party of one night and before the cleanup the morning after, when every shop took hoses to their sidewalks and sprayed off the three types of beer: split, vomited, and excreted.
“Charming place,” he murmured as he glanced around Bourbon Street, New Orleans’ red light district. He stood in front of the Royal Sonesta Hotel, and looked across the street at a row of strip clubs, bars, restaurants, and tourist traps.
He walked into the expansive hotel lobby, stepping through the glass doors.
Kevin stopped at the front desk and smiled at the young black lady working the register. She returned the smile. “Good morning, sir,” the woman at the front desk said sweetly. “How may I help you?”
“Could I please have a room?” He bit the inside of his lower lip, as though in thought. “My wife told me she made a reservation. There should be something there under Dalton? Moira Dalton?”
The register beamed at him, practically glowing. “One moment, Mr. Dalton, I'll check.” She tapped the computer screen a few times. “You're not in the computer, but I can arrange the room.”
The bellhop took Kevin up to the top floor, since the only way to get there was to stick a floor specific cardkey into a slot in the elevator’s control panel, and then confirm it with biometric fingerprint scan. Kevin gratefully gave the fingerprint scan—he had covered his fingers in a specific latex mold that had matched the prints of a previously-used identity. Granted, when he was with Central Intelligence, he’d had better equipment to work with.
When the elevator doors next opened, they revealed a blue wallpapered hall, and a woman behind a U-shaped desk, her back to the computer, facing the elevators. Young with high protruding Irish cheekbones, she looked almost as though she had just graduated college. She wasn’t an anorexic supermodel, but she was pretty, with enough curves to be attractive.
The bellhops were the first out of the elevator, and Kevin followed them. The woman’s nameplate read “Angelica King.” She had dark honey hair and rich milk chocolate eyes, and stood as the spy exited the elevator. “Mr. Dalton,” she said sweetly, “it’s a pleasure.”
Kevin nodded. “Well, not yet. My wife has yet to show up. If she's even coming.”
Kevin moved to his hotel room, and his false face held up until the door closed. His face sagged more than it fell, and he slumped forward against the door, breathing like he had been hit in the solar plexus. She'll never come...
Kevin was halfway through his list of targets, and he was starting to get tired. He had, somehow, by luck, skill, or audacity—or just all of the above—had managed to get six of them. So far, his work was all a matter of moral jiu-jitsu. It should have taken weeks of planning with several teams; instead, it was just him, over a month, most of that being planning and travel time. And now he was bone tired, ready to fall asleep on his feet, and close to just opening fire in indiscriminate crowds just to get some of these bastards.
But no, that wasn't the way to do it. Justice didn't work like that, not if it could be avoided. Zalak's mistress had been caught in the crossfire of Kevin's manipulations; it still sucked, and it felt like he had sinned, but there he at least had the moral certainty that he hadn't anticipated what would happen. But to slaughter several to get one just because he was tired? That would be sloppy, morally reprehensible, and a sin. There was a difference between a bomber whose explosives kill someone by accident, and a suicide bomber who just didn't care. Kevin was the former, and the moment he turned into the latter, he would kill himself.
It was time for Senator Malik Curtin to go. Originally from Tennessee, Curtin was down
in New Orleans on vacation. But Kevin just needed something to keep him going. Anything to stay on his feet …
And then there was Moira, dead in his arms, the concussion blast having turned her insides to gelatin...
A fresh spike of rage and adrenaline stabbed through the mental and emotional fatigue like a stiletto. He whirled around, stepping into the room. He needed something to keep him going. Music. That would work.
He mentally dove into his mnemonic repertoire, and called upon the first thing that came to mind. The low rolling of a martial drum. Turning into a beat to march to. One long note on a bagpipe, building in intensity for accompaniment. Then the marching drum and the pipes went in synch.
He had always liked March of Cambreadth. Because the refrain was simple, and asked, simply, How many can we make die?
Kevin Anderson looked at his watch. Ms. Angelica King at the front desk would now be out cold. The transdermal patch on his palm would have done the trick when he shook hands with her. It was now or never. He reached into a suitcase and grabbed the only item there that wasn't a heavy rock—his leather jacket.
Kevin stepped out of the hallways, and saw Ms. King sprawled out on the floor. Everyone else was still in their rooms, sleeping off a hangover. He turned right, back down the hallway, and made a left, heading towards the senator's room.
He turned around the corner, and found two Mercs in plainclothes waiting at the senator's door.
Time to send these bastards back to Hell!
Kevin ducked his head and charged. He rammed his shoulder into the first Merc's stomach, lifting him up off the floor and ramming him into the wall. He unleashed a quick flurry of body blows and stepped back. The second Merc had already drawn his gun, swinging it up from the small of his back. Kevin stepped into the arc of the swing, chopping his hand against the inside of the man's arm, making the gun fly off down the hall, and followed up with a backhanded fist against his face.
Codename: Winterborn (The Last Survivors Book 1) Page 9
