by G T Almasi
“Scarlet, be advised you have five hostiles coming your way. Another four have exited onto the roof with the subject.”
Mom!
“Roger that, Solomon.” My jaws are clamped tight. Only my training and the drugs keep the screams inside. I stand at the door and flash hand signals to my guys: Five enemies approaching from front. Raj and the Squad are set up on the steps below my door. I’m on point, at the top of the stairs, monitoring Li’l Bertha’s bad guy detector.
When I see movement in the passageway, I pull the door open, uncork a grenade, and toss it out into the hall. They’re only a few feet away, much closer than I thought. One of them yells “Grenade!” and winds his leg up to boot it back at me. I slam the door shut and brace myself between it and the stairway’s handrail. The door bucks into my back as the bad guys try to kick it open. Then the grenade blows the door completely off its hinges, and my featherweight self catapults down the stairs past Alpha Squad.
I tumble down the steps as Raj opens up with the Bitch. Imagine five Mack trucks crashing into each other at full speed. That’s almost how loud a 50-mm grenade blaster sounds in an enclosed concrete stairway. My ears are ringing as I hustle back up the stairs, and Raj steps to the side to let me pass. He needs to reload, and the Squad can mop up whoever survived that boom plate special we just served up. I lead the Squad through the shattered doorway and onto the top floor. We find a seven-hundred-square-foot area completely covered in blood, limbs, heads, and mangled torsos. One of our victims is still alive even though he’s lost both arms and his chest is blown open so wide that I can see right through it. He sits on the floor and breathes with shallow gasps. His eyes swing from one blood-gushing shoulder to the other. Then he shudders, coughs, and stops breathing.
Raj finishes reloading his gun and rejoins us. Back to work. “Solomon, this is Scarlet, direction.”
“Take a left out of the stairway, go straight to the corner, and up the maintenance stairs to the roof.”
“Hostiles?”
“I’ve got eyes on four hostiles on the roof.” A pause. “Hurry, Scarlet, they’ve got her with them. We can’t risk it with the choppers.”
I rocket down the smoking, bloody hallway. Raj and Alpha Squad barrel along after me. They know what this means to me and that I’m done with any kind of strategy. We soar up the stairs. Raj and I hit the roof door simultaneously. The door flies open, and Raj and the Squad troops deploy into a kneeling perimeter around the doorway.
I’m so cranked up that my teeth chatter. Time moves at one-tenth its normal speed, and everything sounds murky, like I’m underwater. The four hostiles are gathered around Cleo behind some giant air conditioners. The two guys in the middle have their guns pointed at my mom. Her eyes go wide when she sees me, but she doesn’t move or cry out. ExOps’ mandatory training for agents’ family members taught her to keep quiet in exactly this situation.
Li’l Bertha goes into Sniper mode: .30-caliber slugs, fired singly, no bursts. Her gyroscopes spin up so I’ll be able to hold her steady despite all the natural and artificial chemicals zipping through me. Her sensors label the group as Hostiles 1, 2, 3, 4 and Subject. Hostiles 1 and 4 stand in the open a few feet away from my mother, so I pick them off first with shots to both eyes, both guys. Ba-bam! Ba-bam! They’re still falling as I charge toward Hostiles 2 and 3 to take away their cover. I’m almost all the way around the ventilators when they instinctively point their guns at me instead of my mom.
Now they die.
I leap in the air to throw off their aim. My jump peaks at about fifteen feet. Li’l Bertha spits out shots for each of the two remaining kidnappers, one at each of their guns. Before these fuckos realize they’ve been disarmed, I land right in front of them. Time to F.U.C.K. them up. I smash Li’l Bertha’s barrel into Hostile 2’s neck so hard that it slashes his carotid artery open. He screams, and a quart of his blood splatters all over me. I turn to Hostile 3. His eyes are wide open, and his mouth makes a silent little circle. I rear back and smash his chin with a right-handed uppercut that crushes his jawbone into jelly. His teeth shatter, and blood squirts out of his eye sockets. His face turns dark purple, and he tips over like a fallen tree. Something gray spurts out of his nose as he lands flat on his back.
I shut off my neuroinjector’s flow of Madrenaline, and my sense of time whooshes back to normal. Mom isn’t hurt, so I check myself for wounds. I’m not shot, but my right hand is pointed the wrong way and is throbbing with pain. I’m covered in blood, guts, and eyeball goop. Little bits of bone, shards of teeth, and pieces of skin are stuck to me like glitter.
My stomach churns, I wheeze when I breathe, and suddenly I can see only in black and white. My head and my guts race to see which I do first: pass out or lose my lunch. My legs feel like rubber, so I sit down among what’s left of the dead guys and sob so hard that I can’t even throw up. My mom says my name, and even though I’m all covered in dirt and gore, she kneels down and throws her arms around me.
I don’t know what I’d do if I lost my mother, but I do know she has the best daughter in the whole fucking world.
Washington Times-Herald, May 3, 1980
Residents Mistake Planned Demolition for Gun Battle
QUANTICO, VA—The Quantico police department was flooded with calls from local residents reporting gunshots and explosions at a nearby office park yesterday afternoon. Liam Parrish, a longtime Quantico resident, said, “It sounded like World War III over there.”
Apparently, an out-of-state construction crew simply forgot to notify the town of the planned demolition. The police are investigating the incident to ascertain if the crew had the required permits. Police Chief Gary Ren told reporters last night, “We’re definitely looking into this. It’s not like we just let people come into our town and blow things up.”
CHAPTER 7
NEXT MORNING, SATURDAY, MAY 3, 9:00 A.M. EST EXOPS HEADQUARTERS, HOTEL BETHESDA, WASHINGTON, D.C., USA
Overkaine is funny stuff. I normally run it in the middle of a mission, when my pulse is up and its effects are muted by the other drugs sloshing around in my brain. Now, sitting in Director Chanez’s sleek and spacious conference room, I can really tell how strong this shit is. I can’t feel my broken right hand at all. The painkillers have even affected my taste buds, because the doughnuts I’m noshing on normally seem a lot sweeter than this. I’m on a strong localized dose of Overkaine until I can get into surgery.
My hand is ruined from punching that last kidnapper’s head so hard. Dr. Herodotus has me scheduled late tonight for a complete replacement from the wrist down, which I have mixed feelings about. Losing this piece of me feels like I’m dying a little bit. But having a synthetic hand could be a great boost for my career, because the next time I smack some fool in his head, it won’t be my hand that breaks.
Meanwhile, my head swims and my right arm is all pins and needles. My undamaged left hand pops a bite of doughnut into my mouth and picks up my third cup of coffee this morning. I slept like crap last night. I’ve built up so much Post-Stimulant Sleep Disorder over the last two days that it feels like I’ll never sleep again. I guess I’ll get some rest during my surgery, if that even counts.
The door to the conference room opens, and everyone else streams in: Cyrus, Cleo, Patrick, and Patrick’s immediate superior, Information Coordinator William Harbaugh.
“Oh, there you are,” Cleo says as she pulls out the chair next to me.
Patrick sits on my other side. “Look at you, first one here.”
“Yeah,” I say, “I thought I’d get a head start on the doughnuts.” Everyone chuckles as they all take their seats. Levels are notoriously late for meetings, and greater incentives than free pastries have been employed to encourage punctuality.
Director Chanez walks in with his arms full of paperwork. He chats with a fiftysomething man I’ve never met. The mystery man is medium height and slim, has salt-and-pepper hair, and wears an expensive-looking suit. His lined face is very sharp and hard,
like it could split firewood. He’s familiar somehow.
Chanez sits at the head of the polished table and lays his papers down in front of him. Cyrus and Harbaugh arrange themselves on the opposite side from me. The fiftysomething man graces the chair at the foot of the table with his Brooks Brothers butt.
“Welcome, everyone,” Chanez says. Then to me, “How’s that hand, Scarlet?”
“Pretty numb, sir.”
“Hmm, yes.” He nods. “Will you be able to get into surgery?”
“Yes, sir. Tonight, at twenty-three hundred. It’s the best they could do on such short notice.”
“Well, let’s get started, then.” Chanez holds his hand toward the man at the foot of the table. “I’ll begin by welcoming our guest, Director Jakob Fredericks of the Strategic Services Council. He’s here to offer us his broad view of the international clandestine landscape.”
That’s where I know this guy from. He’s one of the district’s biggest brainiacs. Fredericks runs his own think tank on K Street, but he used to be ExOps. In fact, he was my dad’s Front Desk, the same as Cyrus is for me now. Except Cyrus isn’t a self-centered, conceited son of a bitch. It’s been a while, but yeah, I recognize this guy now.
Fredericks briefly flashes a row of perfectly straight teeth. “Hello, everyone,” he says. “It’s good to be back where the action is.”
Next to me, Mom sniffs sharply. She retains a polite expression, but I can tell that she’s uncomfortable. There’s an awkward pause, then Fredericks says to me, “Alix, you remember me, don’t you? Your parents had me over for dinner a few times.”
Cleo answers, “I doubt she remembers, Jakob. That was a long time ago.”
Fredericks doesn’t shift his attention away from me. “Yes.” The look in his eyes makes me feel like a prize sow at the county fair. “It was.”
The drugs and the situation prevent me from summoning one of my charmingly sarcastic replies, so I simply say, “It’s good to see you again, Director Fredericks.”
He nods, pauses, then swivels in his chair. “All right, Ed, let’s see what you’ve got.”
Director Chanez stands in front of the blabscreen on the wall. “In the last twenty-four hours we’ve had two major incidents, both involving Scarlet here. Cleo, I know you’ve already filed your report on your kidnapping, but can you summarize it for us?”
“Yes, Director.” Mom leans forward. “They were Russians. The way they handled their weapons told me they were professionals, but there was something strange about how they carried out their mission.” She tells us that the team leader had to repeat his instructions to his men and how confused the group behaved after they took her to the unused office park in Quantico. Tasks weren’t clearly assigned, and it seemed like they hadn’t had time to rehearse.
Mom continues, “Just before the ExOps team arrived, I saw the kidnappers’ leader arguing with one of his lieutenants. I didn’t catch all of what they said, but I got the impression that they had been abandoned by their handler. The whole operation seemed poorly planned and rushed.” She leans back. Under the table, she wraps her fingers around my left hand.
Fredericks has pulled out a fancy silver pen. He slowly twirls it in his right hand. “Cleo,” he says, “am I to understand that you’ve been transferred from Administration to Operations?”
The muscles in Mom’s jaws tighten. “No, Jakob, but I’ve sat through enough meetings like this to know a blown op when I see one.”
Fredericks’s eyelids lower a little bit. “Of course.” He looks at Chanez and gestures for him to continue.
“Thank you, Cleo,” says Chanez. He reaches into the papers in front of him, plucks out a dossier, and reads from it. “Our after-action analysis of Cleo’s rescue found that all the competitors had been killed during the assault—” He glances at Cyrus, then at me. “—which was unfortunate.” Meaning ExOps couldn’t interrogate anyone because Raj and I pounded them all into guacamole.
Chanez picks up another sheet of paper. “The analysis of the firefight scene in Manhattan shows that none of the gunmen were captured or killed, but the pilots and crew of the helicopter perished during the event.” He flips a page and continues. “The wreckage of the helicopter was sifted, and the aircraft was traced to a military salvage facility in Tucson, Arizona. The records for this helicopter are incomplete, and an inquiry has been filed.” He flips the page again. “The remains of the two pilots and crewmen were examined, and their DNA was matched to the DNA records of four retired marines. These men served together as part of the United States First Naval Air Command in Tokyo. All four were dishonorably discharged three years ago for repeated violations regarding the transport of nonmilitary personnel.” Chanez raises his eyebrows and looks up from the report. “They were airlifting prostitutes from Tokyo to the USMC base on Okinawa.” He returns to the sheets. “Since then, their whereabouts and activities have been unknown.”
Chanez lays the reports down on the table and studies me. “That was quite a crew you took on, Scarlet.”
My cheeks flush. “Yes, sir.”
“Cyrus,” Fredericks says as he calmly regards his pen. “I must point out that when I had your job, I never would have assigned that mission to such an incompetent Level.”
“Hey!” I blurt. “I’m right fuckin’ here, you know.” I tap my chest.
Fredericks, unfazed, continues to address Cyrus. “She can’t even control herself in a meeting.”
I holler, “Well, I’m not some lily-livered desk jockey who falls apart every time the shit hits the fan!”
That gets ol’ Jakey’s attention. Fredericks swivels toward me like a turret on a battleship. “Scarlet, you blew your cover on a Level 12 covert operation! Not at some damned meeting of the Five O’Clock Club!” He slaps the table. “If I were your boss, I’d put you in front of a review board.”
My lip curls into a snarl. I lean forward and—
“That’ll be all, Scarlet!” Chanez snaps. “Thank you for your input, Director Fredericks. Be assured that Cyrus and I are working with Scarlet to optimize her Development Schedule.”
Fredericks locks eyes with Chanez for a moment. “Very well, Ed. Let’s get on with this.” He smoothes his hair and resumes twirling his pen across his fingers.
“Son of a bitch!” I comm to Trick.
Trick comms back, “Don’t let him get to you.”
“I am not incompetent!”
“Settle down, Hot Stuff. Here’s something to consider. Fredericks thinks you were assigned to the Hector job.”
I try to slow my breathing and comm, “Huh, yeah, I guess he does. Is Chanez gonna tell him that I, um, took the initiative on that one?”
“It doesn’t look like it.”
Chanez selects another file from his heap and hands it to Harbaugh. “Bill, this is your signals intelligence report. Why don’t you walk us through what your people have found.”
Harbaugh stands up and takes Chanez’s place in front of the blabscreen. He adjusts his tie and clears his throat. “We picked up Hector’s comm signal at the airport in Paris, which is how we knew to tail him when he landed in New York.” Harbaugh informs us that there was no related comm activity until Hector and I got to the restaurant in Manhattan. Once inside, things picked up speed and the comms started flying.
“The comm calls were very heavily encrypted, and their origins and destinations were spoofed in a maze of routers and proxies. We may never unravel the locations except for the comms we intercepted at their origins. But after twenty-five hours we cracked the encryption.”
Ooh, this sounds good. Everyone perks up. Fredericks is especially interested. He sits up straight and stops fiddling with his pen, his mouth hanging slightly open.
Harbaugh says, “The calls were sent without any vox data, so we don’t have their voices or inflections.”
Fredericks shuts his mouth and glances around the room. I quickly look to the front of the room as Harbaugh uses a small remote control to activate the blabsc
reen.
“We’ve assigned labels to the unknown suspects—XSUS One and XSUS Two—and used names for the suspects we do know. Once Hector went into his meeting with the female Protector, we began directly monitoring the restaurant. This is how we nabbed their comms as they were transmitted. Scarlet, you’ll appreciate the name we’ve given the Protector.”
He brings up a slide of text. On the screen we see:
Jackie-O to XSUS One: “Our guest says, ‘I thought you should know, the report about the Beast is false. He is alive and has been transferred to Carbon.’ [pause] I am being watched by an unknown competitor.”
Harbaugh comments, “That was the Protector relaying the message she got from Hector. An image file was attached. We think she took a picture of Scarlet with the cameras in her lenses. After the image was forwarded, we have this.”
XSUS One to Jackie-O: “Keep the competitor in place. Stand by for further instructions.”
Harbaugh pauses to let us read the line, then says, “Thirty minutes later, XSUS One is back.” He clicks his remote, and the next line of text appears on the screen.
XSUS One to Jackie-O: “Help is outside. Dismiss guest and terminate competitor.”
“And … well, we all know what happened next.” Harbaugh’s eyes dart my way. Everyone looks at me. I gulp down the last of my coffee and try to act like it’s no big deal to be the center of this much high-ranking attention. Trick’s hand squeezes my thigh under the table and he tries not to smile. I look past Trick’s face and see Fredericks pull a handkerchief out of his jacket pocket and pat his forehead with it.
Harbaugh brings up several more lines. “Seven minutes after the firefight, this comm was sent. We were tracking Hector, so we know this is from him. Here we meet our fourth player, whom we’ve labeled XSUS Two.”
Hector to XSUS Two: “Message delivered, but the meeting ended abruptly.”
