by G T Almasi
I decide to comm anyway. If I keep it short, hopefully Raj won’t pick it up.
I comm to Trick, “What’s going on?”
He comms back, “You’re in the doghouse, Hot Stuff.”
Now I don’t care whether Raj hears us or not. I shriek, “Are you kidding? What for? I kicked ass!”
“I guess the Front Desk thinks you overstepped a bit,” Patrick mumbles.
“How was I supposed to know it was such a crazy mission? It sounded like a basic Creep ’n’ Peep.”
Raj leans forward and shouts, “Scarlet, all Level 12 jobs are crazy!” He sits back and adds, “Dumbass.”
I turn around in my seat and yell back, “Rah-Rah, the brief listed a single fucking objective: follow one goddamn guy. No big deal.” Raj crosses his arms and glowers at me until I give up and face the front again.
Trick says, “We picked up a flurry of unusual comm calls after you got to the restaurant.” He tells me the Info Department is still decrypting it all, but what’s obvious is that the mission changed dramatically once I was in a static situation with Hector. The potential for sudden, unexpected shifts like this are why the job was Level 12 and not Level 4.
“By that time, it was too late to pull you out,” Trick finishes. “But that kind of surveillance is what guys like Grey are for.”
Grey is the Level 12 Infiltrator who was originally assigned to follow Hector. I happened to be in the Front Desk’s office when Grey called in sick. When my boss asked me to make sure that Virgil, our notoriously slow dispatcher, set up a replacement right away, I ran downstairs to Virgil’s desk, where I may or may not have ad-libbed that the Front Desk wanted the replacement to be me. Then I may have mistakenly given him my father’s ID number instead of my own. But still, if he’d even bothered to check it …
I stare out the car window. Yesterday’s mission seemed like a great idea until that Jackie-O chick took a shot at me. I decide not to tell Trick that I borrowed his precious Redskins cap and then lost it. I’m in enough trouble with my boss. I don’t need static from my partner, too.
As we pull into the underground garage at Extreme Operations’ headquarters, I grimly brace myself for a world-class chewing out.
A brief introduction to the Shadowstorm and Level Classes
The roots of today’s hypertense political jungle were sown during World War II (1939–1944) as Germany, Russia, China, and the United States all found success on their respective battlegrounds. They also found myriad reasons to mistrust one another. The time and effort spent spying on their wartime foes was nearly matched by what they spent spying on their wartime friends. This mistrust turned to paranoia and the four megastates, now known as “The Four,” launched what have become nearly constant intelligence operations against one another. Too often this cloak-and-dagger activity gets out of hand and the overworked embassies must put out yet another diplomatic fire.
Despite the underlying tension, a surface peace has been maintained. Rather than risk another all-out war, The Four have sought to resolve their conflicts in silent shadows with anonymous agents. Many of these spies endure a series of medical procedures to increase their speed, strength, endurance, and agility. Each series of modifications and enhancements brings the operative a new level of performance, hence the name for these agents: Levels.
The best-funded agencies train their Levels to be specialists, the most common of which include:
Infiltrator: Undercover specialist. Infiltrators receive highly covert long-term solo missions and receive Info support via commphone.
Protector: Security work and bodyguard. Protectors are well equipped, but their clearly visible optical equipment makes them suitable for noncovert work only.
Interceptor: Short and medium-length insertions, usually on foreign soil. An Interceptor typically works with an intelligence-enhanced partner known as an Information Operator.
Vindicator: Short-term insertions, heavy support, and leadership roles. Vindicators tend to receive noncovert missions and usually work as part of a team.
Malefactor: Long-range terminations and passive intel collection. To remain undetected until needed, these agents are sometimes injected with sleeper directives.
Liberator: Master of all specialties, extremely rare.
Most agencies prohibit nonenhanced field agents from engaging these terrifying marvels. It is no overstatement to say that because of their infiltration abilities, destructive potential, and mission dedication, Levels have become the most important field assets in the twentieth century’s Shadowstorm.
CHAPTER 4
SAME MORNING, 8:10 A.M. EST EXOPS HEADQUARTERS, HOTEL BETHESDA, WASHINGTON, D.C., USA
The Front Desk isn’t a piece of furniture; it’s a job title currently held by Cyrus El-Sarim. Cyrus runs the German Section, where I work. He’s a sizable swarthy guy who looks like he could have started the Persian Empire. He was known as Sheik when he was an ExOps field agent back in the Stone Age.
Cyrus goes way back with my parents, so I’ve known him all my life. I can read his face and body language like a book. When he’s happy, his mustache makes two hairy arches. When he’s mad, his bushy eyebrows touch each other.
I get off the elevator. I can see all the way across the floor to his office. The eyebrows are grinding together like a pair of Latin dancers. The eyes shoot daggers at me as I walk across the bustling main office where telephones ring, secretaries scuttle, and dark suits huddle around stacks of paperwork. A few faces look up at me as I pass by. Levels are the rock stars here, so people notice when we’re around—especially when the Front Desk is yelling at us before we’ve even made it into his office.
There’s two ways I can deal with Cyrus right now. I can grovel and beg forgiveness, or I can act like a big shot. I dial up big shot, waltz into his office, and grace his guest chair with my ass. He continues to rage. It’s impressive; he still hasn’t paused for breath. He finishes his bluster about my reckless gunplay and launches a harangue about me losing Hector.
I examine my fingernails. I can’t keep them nice doing this kind of work. It’s too bad. I’d have great-looking hands if my nails weren’t so chipped.
Cyrus finally runs out of breath and plunks down in his chair. He groans. “I’ll never hear the end of this. The damned job wasn’t even in our section. We only picked it up because Hector is based in Germany’s half of the Middle East.” He winces and gingerly places his hand over his stomach. “Do you know how many Levels I have that give me the ulcers you do?”
I stop examining my nails and chirp, “Don’t you want to see my new toys, Cyrus? Here, watch me pick up your desk.”
He looks away and gives me the hand, like a cop stopping traffic. He gently rubs his midsection and mutters, “For Christ’s sake, Alix. You’ve worked here for over four years. You know I can’t have you accelerating your Development Schedule.”
“Well, how about yesterday? I’d be a pile of paprikash right now if I hadn’t gotten my new Mods.”
Cyrus says, “Scarlet, your Development Schedule does more than extend your physical abilities. It also strengthens your emotional capacities.” He’s still rubbing his stomach. “I’m concerned about the effect this job may have had on you. You know, when I was your age—”
I cut him off. “You were blowing stuff up and killing people, just like me.”
His hand comes off his stomach and slams the desk in front of him. “I was not pulling Level 12 missions by myself!” Cyrus stands up and paces around behind his desk. “I thought I was seeing things when I read your father’s name on the mission summary yesterday. How the hell could you pull the sheet for that Job Number? You knew it was way too high for you.”
“I knew I could do it, and Virgil didn’t say anything—”
Now it’s his turn to cut me off. “That’s because Virgil is a well-connected moron! You haven’t even done a solo 5 yet and you try to pull a solo 12—in the middle of Manhattan!” He’s gotten loud again. “How much competition
was in that restaurant besides Hector and the girl you terminated?”
Well, let’s check the ol’ memory cache and find out.
One of my Mods is a government-only device called Autonomous Single Day Memory Recall Loop, or Day Loop for short. It contains a digital record of everything I’ve seen and heard during the past twenty-four hours. Yesterday’s lunch was only nineteen hours ago, so it’s still in there. I center my Day Loop in my Eyes-Up display and rewind it to the event.
“Not sure,” I say, “but I met her grieving friends outside.”
Cyrus is not amused. He puts both hands on his desk and leans toward me to growl, “Exactly! You had no idea how much competition there was. What if the woman sitting behind you was working with the girl?”
“There was no woman behind me. It was two men in shirts and ties. One had a brown jacket.”
While I continue to review my Day Loop, I completely miss what Cyrus is trying to tell me, that is, until he shouts, “Don’t get smart with me, Alix! Not now. Your situational awareness was shallow at best. You had no backup. You could have wasted over thirty civilians with that goddamn barrage of yours. It risked everything we’ve put into you, and for all you know, it took out some of our own agents!” That had never occurred to me. A solo is a solo, I thought. Then again, it is ExOps.
“Was I alone?” I ask.
Cyrus leans back off his hands, stands up, and paces around some more. “Yes, but only because the Job Number was designed for an Infiltrator.” Cyrus lectures me that following a Russian Level like Hector requires proper experience and training. Hector is retired, but he still has his Mods and Enhances.
The CIA wanted us to find out who he was visiting in New York. They think Hector is freelancing for someone, and if that someone is an American, he’s probably up to no good.
Cyrus says, “We expected something, but that situation escalated much faster than we thought it would.”
“Who was the chick with the big sunglasses?”
He looks out the window and answers, “Your picture of her told us she was a Protector, but we don’t know who she was working for.”
A Protector. Of course. Those weren’t sunglasses; they were external optics.
Cyrus continues, “We’ve been trying to trace her origin since yesterday afternoon, but the Information Department hasn’t found any connections to the Germans, the Russians, or the Chinese.” Cyrus adds that it’s odd that her employer would send a Level like her on that kind of job. Protectors usually work as high-visibility bodyguards, not undercover agents.
I foolishly ask him what happened to the restaurant. His subsequent tirade loudly informs me that he’ll spend months filing reports about all the collateral damage. I try to tell him that most of the destruction was done by the competition, but Cyrus shouts, “No excuses! It was a close-quarters urban Job Number. That’s why we assigned this to Grey in the first place.”
Stealthy, careful, and methodical, an Infiltrator like Grey would be exactly the kind of Level to put into a crowded city restaurant. Not a cocky Interceptor with an outrageously powerful handgun.
As if Cyrus can read my thoughts, he yells, “And where the hell did that sidearm of yours come from, anyway? I know you tested well, Alix, but you’re not cleared for custom ordnance.” He’s right. My small arms skill is 10, so I was issued an LB-502, which has the standard targeting software and fires only 30-caliber ammo. I’m trying to think of what to say besides “Actually, boss, it’s the Level 20 weapon I swiped from my dead dad’s safe full of classified ExOps bullshit,” when Cyrus gets a call on his commphone.
“Front Desk,” he barks. His eyebrows drift apart, then slam back together as he listens to the caller. I expect him to comm silently, but he continues to comm out loud: “Read me the address again … Okay, that’s what I thought you said. When did you receive this? All right, send this intel to the Info people, prep two Squads ASAP, and find me a Level who can lead a Smash ’n’ Grab. No, from my section. Yes, he’ll do fine. Put one Squad under Scarlet. Yes, I know. I’ll clear her with Chanez.” He comms Patrick. “Solomon, meet me in the garage right away.” My pulse speeds up, because when Cyrus uses our field handles, it means we’re on the clock.
Then he says to me, “Scarlet, there’s been an incident at your house.”
CHAPTER 5
SAME MORNING, 9:30 A.M. EST CRYSTAL CITY, VIRGINIA, USA
The front door of my house has been smashed open. Inside it looks like a hurricane blew through. Patrick runs a scan for heat signatures, but it turns up negative. Mom’s car is in the driveway, but nobody’s home. Nobody warm anyway.
“CLEO?” I run around the first floor and shout, “Mom? Where are you?” It’s such a disaster in here—the inside of my house is almost unrecognizable—that it feels like a different address. Cyrus and I go upstairs to search for clues. Every cabinet, drawer, and closet has been opened and rifled through. They even punched holes in the walls to look for secret hiding places.
Cyrus asks, “Scarlet, did your mother go to work today?”
“No, she was working from home. The water heater crapped out and she needed to be here for the plumber.”
Downstairs, Trick examines the house with his scanners. Suddenly he comms, “Oh, shit! Scarlet! Cyrus, sir! Time to go!”
Cyrus and I look at each other. I comm, “Time frame?”
“Right now!” Trick shouts as his footsteps run out the front door.
Cyrus and I each leap out a window and jump off the porch roof. We land halfway across the front lawn. Cyrus drops to the ground and ends up flat on his stomach. I come down on my feet, but I’m immediately knocked off them as the home I’ve grown up in explodes with a shattering roar. I sail across the street and bash into my neighbor’s garage door. The little windows in the door shatter and shower me with glass shards. Trick is there a few moments later, followed by a hailstorm of house chunks and everything they used to contain.
“Alix! I mean … Scarlet, are you all right?” It’s touching how concerned he is about me. Most people don’t have that kind of person in their life, so I consider myself lucky. He’s not supposed to call me Alix when we’re on a job, but he sometimes loses his composure when I go flying around.
“Yeah …” I wheeze. “Wind … knocked out of me.” I groan as I brush off dust and broken glass. I climb to my feet and stagger out to the street so I can watch what’s left of my house burn to the ground while I try to get my breath back. “Trick, you’re sure there was … nobody in there, right?”
“Absolutely. I checked infrared, spectral, aural, positronic—”
“Okay, okay, I got it. Good. Where was the bomb?”
Trick runs his hand through his hair. “Down in the basement, behind the furnace. I didn’t get a chance to examine it, but I heard a mechanical timer ticking.”
Cyrus walks around the burning pile of rubble and examines the smoking house bits. “The people who set this device would have given themselves time to get away, but not much more. We aren’t far behind them.” He walks over to the two of us and says, “The debris pattern is fairly broad, and the individual pieces are relatively small. I’d say this was about twenty ounces of RDX or maybe a pound of HMX.” He’s been on the job for so long that he can tell what kind of bomb it was simply by looking at the mess it leaves behind.
Cyrus comms back to HQ for some Tech Specialists to scan the area for intel about who did this and where they went. I turn away from the blazing wreckage only to see my family’s ruined possessions sprayed all over the neighborhood. Up and down the street my neighbors stand on their front lawns watching the show.
Until I was four years old we moved every six months or so, but we’ve lived here for fifteen years now. Even when my dad died, Cleo and I still had the house. Now she’s missing, I’m homeless, and all my stuff just got blown to hell. My breath comes in little gulps, and my eyes can’t focus. I’m tempted to take some Kalmers, but I’m supposed to use my meds only when I’m in the field.
Cyrus finishes delivering his directions and turns around to look at me. His eyebrows move apart, and he walks over and wraps one of his big arms around me. I lean into him, close my eyes, and cry into his shirt.
She’s fine, she’ll be fine.
I stand in the circle of Cyrus’s arm. I decide that I’m in the field and tell my neuroinjector to give me a hit of Kalmers. The Tech Specialists arrive. Patrick takes them around the site before rejoining Cyrus and me.
The three of us drive back to HQ. Patrick zips upstairs to use Info’s jackframes, Cyrus heads for his office, and I clatter down to the armory to get heated up and meet with a group of Squad guys. I walk by rows of armored suits, all different shapes and sizes. The really enormous suits are exoskeletal robots used deep underwater or in other hazardous locations like erupting volcanoes.
I don’t need a primary gun or communication stuff, but I need everything else. I load up on ammo, grenades, and a full suit of SoftArmor. I keep a small mirror in my locker, and as I dress, I see that I’ve got dust all over my face and the bandage on my cheek needs to be replaced. On the wall behind me is a rack of mechanical devices that look like body parts. These are the neuroprosthetics for people who have had hunks of themselves blown off. Hands, feet, legs, arms—all the body’s parts except heads and chests. There’s even a lower torso kit that includes a full set of legs complete with pelvis. I try to imagine how someone who’d lost that much of her body could possibly survive long enough to have this huge prosthetic installed. Nothing pleasant comes to mind.
Trick comms in, “Scarlet, she’s okay. They’ve got your mom in an office park near Quantico.” Trick is the fastest jackframe operator in the organization, which I appreciate now more than ever.
“Thanks, T,” I comm back.
He tells me, “We’ll find her, babe. Then you can give ’em the F.U.C.K.,” and comms off. Trick and I have a little in-joke about how many acronyms everybody uses at ExOps. One day at lunch he came up with Freaking Unstoppable Cranium Krusher, and I laughed soda out my nose.
