But mostly she felt hollowed out inside. All the work, everything she'd done in the endless days and weeks of her clandestine investigation, now
was unraveling all around her. She had destroyed her career for the sake of something that only she seemed able to see, for a truth that no one
else wanted to face.
As she walked the short distance to the lobby of the building, the question echoed in her mind. Was it worth it?
Inside, she thumbed the entry pad to her apartment and ignored the glow of the messaging system, dropping the packet she had carried all the
way from the 10th Precinct on the sofa. In the living room, the television activated automatically, blipping to the local Picus News affiliate
preset. The screen showed a report about the upcoming National Science Board caucus on human augmentaion; the conference was getting a lot
of heat from the pro-human, antienhancement lobby, and it seemed like every day a new busload of protestors arrived in the capital.
She ignored the low burble of the screen and fished out her vu-phone, leaving it on the countertop in the small, plastic-white kitchen,
mechanically moving through the motions of swigging milk from a carton in the refrigerator. The apartment was dim; the sunny magnolia colors
did little to lift the tone of the gloom leaking in from the dull, low cloud smothering the sky.
Anna grasped the carton in her hand, her fingers deadening with the cold. Was it worth it? The question hammered at her in the silence.
A grimace crossed her face and she went to the alcove where her laptop sat inside an old cedar bureau. The computer woke at her touch, and
she pulled her federal ID from her pocket; the machine automatically pinged the arfid in her badge, but the data chip did not reply. Instead, a
small panel opened on the screen. The text it contained was a paragraph of legal boilerplate reiterating what Temple had told her in the holding
room, but the meaning was clear. Access denied. Clearance revoked. Even the most basic level of entry into the agency network was sealed off
from her.
She sat in the dimness, lit only by the glow of the screen, and began to wonder what else had taken place while she was in New York. Temple
had reamed her files, that much was certain ... but had he sent agents to her home as well? Anna looked around. She saw nothing out of place.
A sudden impulse pushed her up from the chair where she sat, and she crossed to the closet. Inside, hidden behind the hanging clothes, the
safe-locker she'd installed back when she moved in was visible, the door still sealed shut. She typed in the entry code and found the contents as
she'd left them. A box of what little jewelry she had, some cash and papers—and in a separate section, a short-frame Zenith 10 mm automatic,
two full ammo clips, and a small flash drive.
Anna took the gun and checked it before loading. The weapon was legal, licensed and clean. If anything, the flash drive was the more dangerous
item; inside it was an encrypted copy of everything she had worked on, every bit of data gleaned along the road to this moment.
She turned the memory module over in her hand. All that work, all the lies and secrecy, the nights she stayed late at the agency offices digging
into files she should never had accessed, the legacy of the stims she'd taken to keep awake, to keep going ...
Was it worth it?
A chime sounded though the apartment, and Anna flinched in surprise. The house was announcing a call on her vu-phone. She left the gun and
the drive on a shelf in the closet and went to the handset.
The caller ident read Matt Ryan. Anna had been maudlin about deleting his name and number from the phone's memory. It was a foolish, silly
thing, but she'd kept putting it off; perhaps on some level she was denying the reality of what had happened six months ago on Q Street.
She gripped the handheld, her knuckles turning white around the silver casing. Slowly, Anna raised it to her ear, tapping the answer pad. "Who
is this?"
The voice at the other end was electronically distorted, all trace of identity bled out. "You and I need to have a talk." Kelso's training
instinctively kicked in; she tried to listen through the masking filter, looking for the cadence and pattern of the voice, profiling the speaker in
her mind.
"Whoever you are, you're not Matt Ryan. So I'm hanging up—"
"That would be a mistake ," said the voice. "I spoofed the caller ID so youd pick up. Because I'm guessing right now that you're not in the
mood to talk to people. Not after what happened at the pier."
Her throat went dry. "What pier?"
"Don't talk to me like I'm stupid, Agent Kelso. I really hate it when people do that."
"Then show me the same courtesy," she snapped, her patience wearing thin. "Who the hell are you and what do you want? Answer that or get
lost."
Anna heard a faint sigh. "You can call me D-Bar. And like I said, I wanna talk to you."
"We are talking."
"Well, when I say I want to, I really mean we want to. And not over an open line. In person."
She drifted back toward the closet, reaching for the pistol. "Uh-huh. And who is 'we'?"
"A group you may have heard of. We call ourselves the Juggernaut Collective. We're kind of a big deal."
Anna's hand froze on the gun. "If you know who I am and what happened out at the pier, then you know the last thing I'm going to do is talk to
a terrorist." She should have disconnected, right then and there; but instead she waited.
"One man's terrorist is another man's freedom fighter. Yeah, trite, maybe, but true." The sigh came again. "Look, let's cut to the chase, 'cos
I'm not sure how much longer I can keep this conduit secure. You went to that wannabe Widow and her crew and they gave you some
scraps. But the fact is, she's a bottom-feeder and she was never going to get you what you need. We can. We're looking for the same thing."
"I don't know what you're talking about—"
"The Tyrants. Do you want to know who they are or not?" Anna said nothing, and after a moment the voice returned. "I'll take your silence
for a yes. Check your messages. If we see anyone but you, that name will be all you'll ever get." The connection cut with a click; a moment
later, the vu-phone beeped. In the message cue was a street address in downtown Washington, D.C., and a meeting time two hours hence.
In the bathroom she paused to splash a handful of cold water on her face. Two hours; that barely gave her enough time to throw on a fresh set
of clothes and bolt out the door.
And she was tired. The events in New York, the time in the cells, the nervous tension of the flight home ... The fatigue from all of it was exerting
a heavy, tidal drag on her. She couldn't afford to do this half-awake. She couldn't afford to miss something.
Anna reached for the door to the medicine cabinet without looking in the mirror.
Knightsbridge—London—Great Britain
The town house had once been a hotel, an exclusive boutique lodge in a shady mews just a few blocks away from the greensward of Hyde Park.
Like so much of the city, it sat in unconcerned contrast with the sheer-sided corporate towers emerging from the streets around it, the pale
stone of the five-story exterior understated, the rectangular windows lit from within by a warm glow not lost through the thickness of armored
polyglass. From the outside, it seemed no different from any of its neighbors; but the structure of the town house was reinforced and hardened
against anything up to a rocket attack.
Saxon glanced around the fourth-floor room and took in the clean, sparse decor; white walls and chrome-framed furniture. A print of Rubin's
The Flute Player hung on one wall, a
large thinscreen monitor mirroring it on the far side of the room. The six operatives sat around a long,
glass-topped conference table, each dressed in what passed for civilian attire—although to a trained eye none of the Tyrants could shake the
aura of a soldier, even when armor and weapons were out of reach.
At first, Saxon thought the town house was some sort of operations center, perhaps the London base for the Tyrants; but then he had glimpsed
slivers of the rooms on the lower floors through half-open doors. He saw living spaces, a study, a kitchen—and dotted around, the touches that
showed a family lived in this place. On the third-floor landing, Saxon passed a framed photo and had to look twice; Jaron Namir gazed back out
at him, dressed in a suit and wearing a yarmulke, smiling broadly. A woman in yellow and two children, a boy and a girl, shared his good cheer.
The image was jarring; try as he might, Saxon couldn't connect the man in the picture with the man he had seen kill silently with no pause, no
flicker of remorse.
They were in Namir's home. Something about the idea of that ground against Saxon's every ingrained instinct. The idea of a man like him, a
man like Namir having a life and a family outside the unit, seemed false. Somehow, unfair.
In the wake of the mission in Moscow, the team had gone through a cursory review aboard the transport plane as it flew west, back into
European airspace. As with every other operational debrief, Saxon had felt as if they were going through the motions, not just for themselves,
but for some unseen observer. The people who gave the orders were watching, he was certain of it. Not for the first time, he wondered if they
would ever show their faces.
Seated around the table, Namir led them through the postmortem once again. On the plane, they had given their reports one at a time; now,
with all of them together, Saxon felt the pressure of the unanswered questions in his thoughts.
He leaned forward. "I could have brought Kontarsky in alive."
Hardesty gave him an arch look. "Was that ever the objective?"
Saxon ignored him, turning to Namir. "You said Kontarsky was working with Juggernaut. He was a high-value target. He must have had intel
we could use."
"The minister was compromised," Namir replied. "Anything we'd have been able to compel from him through interrogation would have been
marginal at best. We didn't need what he knew."
Saxon's eyes narrowed. Despite what Namir had told him earlier, he was sure of Kontarsky's reaction when he mentioned Operation Rainbird.
The name meant nothing to the man.
Namir saw his train of thought and headed him off. "You need to see past this, Ben. Don't make it personal. Kontarsky was a cancer in the
Russian federal government. We cut him out."
"Sends a message," offered Barrett in a languid tone. "Anyone deals with Juggernaut, they're not protected."
"We're not in the business of taking prisoners," Namir went on. "You know that."
Hardesty leaned back in his chair. "As we're on the subject, maybe the limey can explain why it is he didn't just double-tap the creep the
moment he found him?"
"I told you. I could have brought him in."
"You don't get to make that choice," Hardesty replied. "You're not in command of this unit.
We're not your little PMC scout troop, Saxon. You lost that, remember?"
Saxon studied the other man. "Maybe if you were actually on the deck with the rest of us, instead of hiding behind a camo net four hundred
meters away, I might have some respect for your opinion, Yank" He gave the last word a sneer. "Don't make the mistake of thinking you see
everything down that rifle scope."
"What I did see was you talking to the mark," insisted the sniper. "And someone else, too, maybe?"
"Kontarsky was the only one in the room," Saxon replied, a little quicker than he would have liked. From the corner of his eye, he saw
Hermann, Federova, and Barrett watching the exchange, gauging his reaction.
Do you know what you are doing, mercenary? The ghost-voice's questions returned to him. Do you know what master you serve?
The misgivings muttering at the edges of his thoughts were there, clear and undeniable. Saxon broke eye contact with Hardesty as Namir stood
up and crossed the room to a window.
"I understand your intentions," said the commander. "But I need all of you to follow orders when I give them. We may not have allegiance to a
flag anymore, but we all must share allegiance to the Tyrants. If we don't have that, then we're no better than Juggernaut or any of the other
anarchists out there." He threw a look toward Saxon and Hermann. "You two are our newest recruits. You both understand that, don't you?"
"Of course," replied Hermann, without hesitation. In turn, Saxon gave a wary nod.
Namir went on. "There are reasons for everything we do. Reasons for every order I give you. Every mission." He smiled slightly, the craggy
face softening for a brief moment. "We cannot bring stability if we don't have equilibrium in our ranks." Namir's gaze crossed to Hardesty, and
his tone hardened again. "Clear?"
The sniper pursed his lips. "Clear," he repeated.
He will never tell us, Saxon realized. Whoever is pulling the strings, he's never going to pull back the curtain on them. The question that came
next pressed to the front of his thoughts: Can I live with that?
In the months since Namir had plucked him from the field hospital in Australia, Saxon had earned more money than he had in years of service
with Belltower and to the British Crown. The Tyrants had fitted him with high-spec augmentation upgrades, given him access to weapons and
hardware that had been beyond his reach in the SAS or as a military contractor. Downtime between missions was spent at secure resorts, the
likes of which were open only to corporate execs and the very rich. And the missions ... the missions were the most challenging he'd ever had.
Putting aside Hardesty's irritating manner, Saxon meshed well with all the Tyrant team members. He couldn't deny that he liked the work.
They were free of all the paperwork and second-guessing he'd waded through as someone else's line soldier. None of the Tyrants wasted time
saluting and sweating the trivial crap; they just got on with the business of soldiering, and the appeal of that simple fact held Ben Saxon tight.
He liked being here. Despite all the doubts, it still felt right. After all the two- or three-man operations, the tag-and-bags, the terminations and
infiltrations, and then the Moscow gig, Saxon felt as if he had graduated. He was in; but part of him remained troubled, and it annoyed him that
he couldn't fully articulate it.
Was it the secrets? It seemed foolish to consider it; as a spec ops soldier, he'd spent most of his career working in the dark ... but with the
British Army and then with Belltower, he'd at least had some grasp on what he was risking his life for.
In the humid night air of the field hospital, Namir had offered him a second chance. He had offered the opportunity to make a difference, but
more than that, Namir had offered Saxon trust.
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