by S. A. Lusher
Time would tell.
They found their contact: a tall, thin, unhappy man. He was bald, wore mirrored silver sunglasses and a big gray trenchcoat.
“Winter,” he said. The challenge.
“Mute,” Drake replied. The appropriate answer.
The man nodded. “Get in.”
They piled into his ride: a battered black jeep with heavily tinted windows. Drake sat up front and Greg, Gen and Eve piled into the back. The man pulled out of the space and got into the traffic that was heading out of the garage and into the colony.
“We've got two leads,” he began. “The first is a black market clinic that we canvased after your guy sent us the data. Once we got his picture, we started discreetly looking around for him. One of our guys managed to track him to a night club last night. We've put together a file on everything back at the safe house. By the way, name's Tanner...what did this guy do?”
“He...” Greg hesitated. To tell or not to tell?
“He sold us out,” Drake replied, his voice flat. “Got a lot of people killed.”
“Ah. That's pretty high up there on the list of shit you don't do and expect to live to tell about it,” Tanner replied knowingly. “I've run more than a few of these ops myself.”
They left the parking garage and began driving through the rainy, neon city. Greg sat back and tried to enjoy the ride.
* * * * *
The safe house turned out to be a dilapidated warehouse on the edge of town. The windows were cracked and dusty, the walls made of corrugated metal, the lot vacant and overgrown with weeds. The place looked either abandoned or like someone was running some kind of extremely low-tech shady operation out of it. Either way, it worked for what they needed. Tanner parked the battered truck around the back, beside a long-abandoned dumpster, and killed the engine. He didn't say anything as he got out and led them in through the back door, which he triple-locked behind them, then down a narrow, leaky stairwell into the basement.
The stairwell ended in a tiny cement room stuffed with all sorts of crap and junk: shelving and piles of crates took up the majority of the space. Tucked away in between two piles of crates was a doorway that looked rusted shut. However, as Tanner approached it, it slid open perfectly smooth and revealed a brightly lit, clean room beyond. As Greg followed the Spec Ops man through, he thought that it was like stepping through a portal into another world. Tanner gave him a quick tour: galley, bedrooms, infirmary, armory and control room. Everything was well-lit, polished and clean. The walls were smooth metal and the floors were finely carpeted. Everything looked high-tech and the small staff seemed competent and capable.
“Holy shit,” Greg marveled.
“Yep, nice set up, huh?” Tanner replied, grinning.
“Very nice,” Greg said.
“And this...” Tanner said, guiding them into the control room where two other men sat, “is the rest of my crew. Forrester and Bennings. We run the safe house and we'll be the ones helping you throughout this op.”
“You have our thanks,” Drake said, some impatience bleeding into his tone. “What have you got for us?”
“Here,” Tanner replied, turning towards a screen that dominated a large portion of one of the walls. “It's not much, I'm afraid.” The screen flickered and then a shot of the front of a nightclub appeared. Everything was saturated in an electric blue neon haze, mostly illuminated by the sign out front: Epicenter. “It's the night club Enzo was spotted at. It's a club, bar and brothel. One of our contacts in the colony spotted him, followed him and reported it to us. He's been there three times, though there's no real pattern.”
The picture changed and this time they were looking at a discreet storefront of sleek silver metal and tinted black glass, it boasted no name and seemed generally closed to the world. Greg imagined it was the kind of place where the only way you could get in is if you had a special invitation. He said as much to Tanner, who nodded.
“Hit the nail on the head,” he replied. “Which is why we've arranged for one. That's the good news. The bad news, which isn't really all that bad, is that the nightclub is closed for the next several hours and it'll take several hours to finish acquiring the invitation. Since we can't afford to blow our cover and have you kick the doors in to anything, you're just going to have to wait. I suggest you take the time to eat, shower, sleep, whatever it is you need to do.”
“Fine. Come get me when it's time to go. I want the night club,” Drake said, turning and leaving the command center.
Gen walked over to one of the screens. “I'd like everything you have on the club, the clinic and the city,” she said.
“You got it,” Forrester replied and began calling up the data.
“He got a chip on his shoulder?” Tanner asked after Drake had left.
Greg turned to face him. “One of the guys that died...his best friend and partner. His brother. They hadn't been out of each other's lives for more than a few days for the past thirty years.”
“Jesus,” Tanner muttered. “No wonder he wants to nail this fucking waste of space.”
“Yeah.”
Greg and Eve left the control room and made for the kitchen. Eve was hungry again. The growth supplements she was taking upped her metabolism and now she was eating nearly twice what she normally ate, which made sense, given all the muscle she was building. They raided the fridge and found a couple of frozen meals.
“How are you doing?” Eve asked after they'd heated up the meals and sat down.
“Good. My stomach's kind of sore, but it's mostly gone away. Hard to believe I have a new kidney in me,” Greg replied.
“Yeah...”
“Are you okay? You've been a little...weird, ever since I got back from that mission.”
Eve hesitated, then sighed and stopped eating. “I'm sorry,” she said. “I'm just...dealing with some emotions.”
“What kind of emotions?” Greg asked cautiously.
“When you were injured...it hit me harder than I thought it would. Don't get me wrong, I didn't expect to feel nothing. I care about you a lot more than I've cared about anyone in a while. It just kind of surprised me how much I cared about you.” She fell silent for a moment, staring at the table, then suddenly looked up at him. “Don't worry. I'm not breaking up with you and I'm not going to ask you to marry me. I just...I've come to learn that simple relationships are better. Easier. And that's what I thought this was. But it's gone a bit deeper than that. I just...need some time to readjust my mental scope is all. Try not to worry.”
“All right, fair enough. But if there's anything you need me to do, even if you just need someone to talk to, or to talk at...I know what it's like to need someone to just sit there and listen, I'm here for you. I care a lot about you, too.”
Eve smiled, reached out and took his hand. “Thanks,” she said. “You're a good boyfriend, you know that?”
“Well...I try,” Greg replied.
She laughed. “You've got that humble thing down.”
“Good to know,” Greg said.
They went back to eating.
* * * * *
Time passed in the underground safe house.
When they were down to an hour, everyone gathered in the command center and began reviewing the information in detail. There really wasn't much. They learned the layout of the night club, the area around it, the kind of people that went to and from it. There was even less information about the nameless black market clinic. They reviewed everything they could think of twice over, and then, as the half-hour mark before the club opened hit, Drake decided he couldn't wait any longer and reasoned that it'd take about half an hour to walk there.
He and Gen secured pistols and a few extra magazines of ammunition, then left the safe house, heading up into the rain.
Greg and Eve watched them go, wished them luck and hoped they wouldn't do anything irrational. The standing orders were still to apprehend Enzo, but Greg had serious doubts that either of them would follow that order. The w
orst part was that he didn't necessarily disagree with them. Now that they were at the endgame, what more could they possibly get out of Enzo? He suspected that Hawkins was just playing by the rules at this point, perhaps trying to appease the politicians and bureaucrats, or maybe even that he felt personally slighted by Enzo and was operating under the notion that life in prison was worse than a death sentence.
Greg couldn't necessarily disagree with that sentiment either.
Before long, the call came through: he and Eve had their personal invitation. They double-checked all the data one more time, then figured it'd be best if they too walked through the city and drew as little attention as possible.
The pair set out into the rain as well.
* * * * *
Drake and Gen walked through the heavy, gray rainfall, down the packed sidewalks of Grimsfall. It reminded him a lot of the crappy colonies he and Trent used to hang out at when they were first getting started, or when they had to a particularly unhappy job because they were hurting for credits. All he wanted to do was to get to that damned night club, find Enzo and beat the shit out of him. And then, when he'd done that, he'd decide whether or not to put a bullet in his head. Part of him wanted to haul him back to the Atonement and throw him in a prison for the next eighty years, but a larger part of him wanted to just end it.
He glanced over at Gen, wondering what she wanted. She had hardly said anything since Trent had died, though they'd spent a lot of time together. They both had something in common: Trent. But he couldn't get a read on her, really. All of their time together suggested that she was particularly good at hiding her emotions.
“What was your relationship with Trent like?” he asked, although he hadn't meant it to come out like that, he'd intended for there to be a bit more of a build up in the conversation. But Drake had always been a blunt man, especially lately.
“Good,” Gen replied after a long time. He wasn't sure if she'd been considering the question or considering answering him. “My lifestyle...it obviously doesn't allow for serious relationships. The last serious one I had was in high school. I joined the military right out of high school and I discovered that I was very, very good at stealth and sniping and all the things associated with doing what I do. I focused wholly on my career, shooting up the ranks...then I took on my real job. It was very liberating. Total freedom.
“That, combined with my natural paranoid tendencies that have only been amplified by my career, meant that I didn't take too well to relationships. Of any kind, really. Which suited me well. I took the occasional lover, had the occasional one-night stand, but...Trent was something different. Part of it was the situation. I found myself around the same group of people for an extended period of time, not something I'd enjoyed for over a decade. And Trent kept hitting on me...men are usually intimidated by me once they learn I can kill them a dozen different ways with my thumb alone. But that didn't bother him. He was just so...easygoing.
“So, for the first time in decades, I was exploring a real relationship with someone I was beginning to trust. He made me feel a way that...I wasn't sure I could feel anymore,” she said, her voice trailing off. “And that was taken from me.”
Drake nodded. “Yes. Taken. I intend to exact the price for that.”
“I do, too,” Gen replied, her voice darkening.
They continued walking until they reached the night club. It was open and already throbbing with activity, a heavy beat coming out of the open doors. They stood in line and scoped the area out while waiting to make it past the bouncer. No sign of Enzo. After a little while, Drake and Gen were finally let in and they spent the next twenty minutes carefully canvasing the interior of the place, then settling into a booth that had a good view of the front door. They ordered a couple of drinks and kept a sharp watch on the area.
“So what was he like, growing up?” Gen asked suddenly.
Drake glanced over at her. This was the most talkative he'd ever seen her. “Pretty much the same,” he said. “He always had that kind of 'big, dumb, musclebound' thing going on. He was smarter than he thought he was. He stood up for people a lot all through middle and some of high school. We dropped out when we were sixteen, not that anyone noticed. But he's always been like that. He hated seeing people fuck with other people who didn't deserve it.” Drake stopped, sighed, rubbed his forehead. “I'm really going to miss him.”
“That makes two of us,” Gen murmured.
As the night continued on, Drake began to notice something. Fewer people were coming in. And then, before long, people were actually leaving. The crowd was thinning out, except for about eight or so men and women that seemed to be sticking around and, when Drake finally noticed them, paying attention to him and Gen.
Not good.
“I think we've been noticed,” Drake murmured.
“No, really?” Gen replied.
“What are we going to do about this?”
“The only thing we can do.”
They both stood up. By now, the club was almost totally empty. Even the bartender had gone. Drake placed his hand on the back of the nearest chair as all of the others stood up. There were nine altogether. They each had the hard, serious look of warriors. None of them looked nervous. Definitely not good.
“I suppose we should dispense with pretense,” Drake said.
“Yes,” one of the nearest ones replied. “We should.”
Drake picked up the chair, took two steps forward and broke it over the man's face. He heard his neck snap as his head twisted around. That got things started. He heard a trio of gunshots from behind him and three more of the hostiles went down. Genevieve. She really was that fast. Drake dove forward, tackling another one. They both went down in a tangle of limbs. He grabbed the man's neck and squeezed, hard, and felt his windpipe crush. Good enough. He rolled away as someone tried to stomp on his neck and found himself staring up into the barrel of a pistol. Then the man who was holding it staggered as a hole appeared in his head.
Drake reached up, grabbed the pistol, having no time to pull his own out, and opened fire from his prone position. He put down another two of the bastards before all was silent again. They had managed to kill all but one of them, and he was down with a gut-shot. He was weaponless, lying on his back, bleeding out, hands clasped over his stomach. Drake walked up to him, stepped on his chest and pointed the pistol in his face.
“Who are you with?” he asked, wanting to make sure this wasn't some kind of mix up.
“You know who,” the man groaned. “Dark Ops. The real Dark Ops.”
“How'd you find us?”
“Piss off!”
Drake moved his foot lower, over the man's hands, and pushed down. He cried out in agony. “What was that? Didn't quite hear you?”
“Fuck yourself!” the man snapped.
Gen put a hand on his shoulder. “They found him,” she said.
“Perfect,” Drake replied.
He adjusted his aim with the pistol and squeezed the trigger. “Let's go.”
* * * * *
Greg looked up at the medical clinic. It looked exactly as it had in the picture. He and Eve walked up to the front door and inserted the card they'd gotten their hands on. It was a slim black rectangle. It looked very ordinary. Greg had worries about it, but, after a few seconds, the door popped open. The card didn't come back. He and Eve walked into the reception area and found themselves in an air conditioned, well-lit, clean and polished environment. Everything looked cutting edge and top of the line. And very rich, too.
There was no reception desk, just some artwork on the walls, a fountain in the center of the room and a handful of comfortable couches along the lobby's peripheral. There was no one present but, after a second, a door along the back of the room slid soundlessly open. An overly attractive woman in a form fitting jumpsuit came out smiling.
“Hello Mister and Missus Williamson,” she said warmly. “I'd like to welcome you to-”
Greg glanced over as another door ope
ned.
A man in a black jumpsuit stepped out.
That man was Enzo.
All at once, everything else dropped away. Enzo slowly looked over and locked eyes with Greg. Recognition ignited in his gaze. Everything seemed to happen in slow motion. Abruptly, he began sprinting directly towards Greg and Eve. Greg took a step back, but Enzo was fast. He hit Greg hard with his shoulder, sending him flying into Eve and the receptionist. Greg scrambled to his feet, already going for the pistol he had tucked inside the jacket he was wearing. “There he goes! After him!” he screamed.
Eve was right behind him as he bolted for the front entrance.
For a cold gut second, Greg thought he'd lost Enzo in the crowd as he stumbled out the front door, brandishing a pistol. But as those around him stepped back to make room, he saw the bastard, running away as fast as he could.
“There!” he shouted, taking off.
Eve raced after him. They shoved their way through the crowd, and when that got to be too much, Greg fired his pistol twice in the air. That got people moving out of their way. Now he had a clear path to Enzo, who was just turning into an alleyway down the road. Greg and Eve sprinted across the street and bolted down the alleyway. Immediately, Greg saw that it ended in a dead-end. Initially, he thought this good, but he then he saw that Enzo had already accounted for this and was scrambling up a ladder. Greg aimed his pistol.
Enzo tossed something that looked vaguely grenade-shaped.
“Back!” Greg screamed, hurrying out of the alley. Eve had only just stepped into the mouth of the alley, so she neatly sidestepped out of the way. Just in time, too. A brilliant flash and a loud crack erupted. Greg and Eve stepped back into the alley. Enzo was just getting up over the top of the building. They ran full tilt down the alley, hit the ladder and began climbing as quickly as they could. Greg hauled himself up over the top of the roof and just caught sight of Enzo. He was running, preparing to leap to the next building. Perfect.
