But that still left the problem of Wolfe. He strode over to the table and picked up Riath’s comm device. “Any chance you can tap into this and track Wolfe’s location through the call logs?” he asked Taia.
“I can try.” Steel filaments extended from the wrist of his gauntlet and slithered into the comm device’s metallic casing. “Though I’d expect it’ll be a burner phone, and probably trying to make a call to Wolfe’s equally hard-to-track phone.”
“If anyone can do it, you can.” Nolan’s brow furrowed. “While you’re at it, see if you can use city cams to track him down like you’re doing with Gustav. We have to find Wolfe, and sooner rather than later. Knowing him, he’s not going to stop until he’s sure he’s got the gimp who put down Ledren.”
“You think he won’t be satisfied with the drive-by on the Spacer’s Paradise?”
“He can’t know it was his guys,” Nolan said, gesturing to the four bodies on the floor. “Which means he’s still on the hunt for me. And more bodies could drop unless we stop him.”
“Even though you believe Agent Styver intends to use him to take over the White Sharks?”
Taia’s question stopped Nolan in his tracks. In his anger at the thugs’ actions, he’d forgotten that minor detail. He ground his teeth, his mind racing. He couldn’t afford to actively make moves against Agent Styver and the Protection Bureau, not if he wanted to leverage them to get Jared out of the Vault. But the thought of Wolfe taking over the second most powerful gang in New Avalon filled him with disgust. How many more people would suffer with that bastard at the helm?
“Speaking of the White Sharks,” Taia continued, as if she hadn’t noticed his silence, “I’ve just lost Gustav and Declan’s skimmer in the Shipyards.”
Footage flashed up on Nolan’s HUD, showing Gustav’s vehicle turning down a side street that ran between two huge warehouses.
“I can’t pull more footage or get a better angle from the Shipyards’ cameras, not without hacking the security protocols, and that’s guaranteed to draw the wrong kind of attention, especially after our adventures there the other night.”
Nolan grimaced. He’d wasted the better part of an hour dodging the Strongarms, who had proven far more competent than he’d wished. “Keep an eye on every camera around the Shipyards’ perimeter, then,” he growled. “The moment he pops his head up, I want to know.”
“Agent Styver could get us access to the Shipyards,” Taia said. “The Protection Bureau has resources that would make tracking Gustav and Wolfe—“
“No,” Nolan snapped. “No Agent Styver, no Protection Bureau. We’re handling this ourselves.” Better to ask for forgiveness than permission.
“Understood.”
Was it his imagination, or did Taia’s artificial voice suddenly take on a new frosty edge?
“Look, Taia, I know it’s going to be tricky, but if anyone can find the two of them, it’s you.” Nolan sighed. “Besides, it’s going to take a few hours to get back to the workshop and make repairs on the suit, so we’ve got the time to spare. Make sure we’ve got everything ready the moment Gustav surfaces once more.”
“Understood,” Taia said again, albeit without a tone to her voice. Then, she suddenly burst out, “Shit sticks!”
Nolan raised his eyebrows at the uncharacteristic outburst. “What’s the matter?”
“It’s as I suspected: this comm’s a dead end.” The smart filaments detached from the device and retracted into Nolan’s gauntlet. “If Wolfe had picked up any of Riath’s calls, we might have been able to get a lock on him. But because the calls never connected—“
“The signal never bounced off any towers,” Nolan finished. “Shit sticks, indeed.” He ground his teeth. “This just can’t get any easier, can it? Come on, let’s get back to check on Bex and…”
He set the comm device on the table and was about to turn away when something caught his eye. A small glass vial sat among the bottles of beer and liquor scattered across the table. The pink liquid within that vial shimmered in the sunlight streaming through the window.
A bottle of Blitz. Enough to keep a man—or woman—high for twelve blissful hours.
And it wasn’t alone. More pink glittered among the table’s contents. Half a dozen vials scattered around, complete with a half-full applicator.
Nolan’s mouth went suddenly dry, and the world faded to a noiseless blur, broken only by the hammering of his heart. His eyes saw nothing but those little vials. Vials filled with the only thing that had given him an escape from the misery of his life after the Silverguard.
His hands shook, little more than a tremor, but enough for him to feel it all the way to the core of his being. He’d been clean for four years, ten months, three weeks, and three days. A long time, yet not long at all. Not for someone who needed to forget as much as he did.
Forget the faces of the friends he’d lost on Terra Omega. Forget the bone-shattering, white-hot pain running through his spine, then the utter absence of sensation that had been his daily life for more than five years. Forget the image of Jared, gaunt and motionless, floating in the Reformation tank, an Imperial prisoner. Forget the screams of the terrified men and women in the Spacer’s Paradise, the blood pumping from the wound in Jadis’ neck. That had happened because of him—a fact he ached to wash away beneath a torrent of mind-numbing bliss.
Nolan licked his lips, swallowed, and tried to move away. His brain refused to send the signal to Taia to activate his combat suit’s legs. His fingers twitched, his hand moving at his side. Slowly, lifting toward the comm device, inching forward across the table toward those vials.
He hated himself. Hated the fact that he felt so powerless against the allure, yet could do nothing to fight it. All he could do was turn his helmet away so Taia didn’t see him grabbing two vials and the half-full applicator of Blitz and stuffing them into his combat suit’s pack. He didn’t need her worrying; she might not understand.
The sound of approaching IDF sirens suddenly filtered through the blood rushing in his ears.
“…you hear me, Nolan?” Taia was saying. “We’ve got to make ourselves scarce before the Doofs arrive.”
“O-Of course.” Nolan blinked, coming out of his trance. He swallowed and pushed away the mental image of that shimmering pink liquid. “Out the same way we came in.” He raced toward the window and leaped through the opening, triggering the anti-grav boots to full function.
Yet, as he hurtled across the open air toward the building across the street, he felt suddenly buried beneath an immense new weight.
Just in case, he told himself. But those words did little to lighten the burden of the tiny vials of Blitz in his pack
Chapter Seventeen
“Confirming, suspects in custody,” the voice of some unknown officer squawked over the IDF scanner. “One male suspect DOA, three more alive. Have medical meet us at the precinct. Someone worked these White Sharks over good.”
Nolan felt a grim satisfaction at that. The bastards deserved no less. New Avalon would be a far better place with them off the streets.
“Any connection to the SST?” asked another voice.
“No link to terrorism evident at first glance,” responded the first speaker. “But forensics will crawl the scene and get what they can from it.”
Nolan racked his brain for any evidence he might have left behind; his combat suit shouldn’t have left even a trace of DNA for the IDF to find, and Taia would be scrubbing CCTV footage on his trail. Even now, as he raced across the rooftops of the Bolt Hole, he knew the AI was covering tracks behind him. Anyone searching for a suspect fleeing the scene of the assault would see nothing but clear skies and empty rooftops. Taia was just that good.
As he skim-skated across the rooftops at a blurring speed, he listened to the chatter over the IDF scanner. It seemed the Doofs, at least, were writing off the attack as nothing more than gang-related violence. Not exactly comforting, but the less they thought to connect it to him or the bodies he�
��d dropped in the alley, the better.
“Taia, what’s the word about the attack on the Spacer’s Paradise?” Nolan asked the AI. “What’s popular opinion calling it?”
The serious-sounding voice of a news anchorman echoed in Nolan’s helmet. “Sources within the IDF believe that the attack might be retaliation for the murder of German French, leader of the Rücksichtslos, two nights ago. However, with the identity and whereabouts of the suspects unknown, local authorities are still scrambling to find motive for this horrific attack.”
A moment later, a new voice came on, this one loud, strident, and driven by all the passion of a self-important windbag. “You’re hearing it here first, folks. This is the work of Terran League terrorists, plain and simple!”
Nolan grimaced; he’d never liked men like this bombastic, self-aggrandizing blowhard. They tended to use events like today’s to perpetuate their own opinions—opinions seldom based on anything remotely resembling facts.
“The Imperial Defense Fools will cover it up and spin it off by telling you that it’s nothing but local gangs acting up, but that’s just a ruse to conceal the truth. And the truth is that the Terran League is never going to let the war be truly over, not until they’ve freed themselves from Imperial rule. This is just the latest in a string of SST attacks that our government will never tell you about. Tune in to the Jonas Alex show again later tonight, and listen as I uncover the conspiracy to—“
“Switch that shit off, Taia!”
“Certainly.” The voice of the pundit fell blessedly silent, replaced a moment later by another newscaster reporting facts similar to the first speaker.
As the rooftops of Grove District’s rundown tenement buildings flashed beneath him, Nolan half-listened to the broadcasted reports of the attack. Most semi-rational people seemed to believe that the attack was gang-related violence—good for Nolan’s cover identity, not so good for the future of New Avalon. If these assaults whipped the various gangs into a frenzy, the situation could escalate out of control.
All the more reason I need to find Wolfe and put him down. The sooner he stopped the White Sharks lieutenant from flooding the city with goons hunting for the man who’d killed his brother, the sooner the threat of violence would pass. Especially with the leadership of the White Sharks off the board.
“Any luck finding our targets?” Nolan asked.
“Not yet, but I’ve got a close eye on the Shipyards. The moment Gustav and Declan pop up, you’ll be the first to know.” Taia paused for a long moment before continuing. “And my efforts to locate Wolfe have proven equally ineffective. Are you certain this isn’t a job to bring Agent Styver in on? With the Protection Bureau resources, we could find them—“
“Not yet, Taia.” Nolan had to placate the AI—she was, after all, just following her programming to try and find the most efficient way to complete the tasks assigned to her. “But if we keep coming up empty-handed, then we’ll loop him and the Protection Bureau in.”
“Copy that, boss.”
With a nod, Nolan leaped over the last alleyway that separated Grove District from Shimmertown. The flashing billboard shone garish and bright even in full sunlight, but Nolan ignored the animated figure as he ground to a sliding halt and strode toward the durasteel shaft that led into his apartment. With his boot thrusters on the fritz, he had no choice but to climb down the creaking, rusty rungs of the ladder. The descent down the unlit four-story shaft seemed to take so long he finally decided to drop the last two stories, letting the combat suit absorb the impact.
“How’s Bex?” Nolan asked as he strode down the dark, stale tunnel that led toward the hidden door in his workshop—careful, as always, to avoid his booby traps.
The image of Nolan’s living room popped up on his helmet’s HUD display. Bex hadn’t moved from the couch, but appeared to be sleeping as peacefully as someone in her state could.
“Medications and IV nutrients have worked better than I anticipated,” Taia chirped. “The last scan of her internal organs revealed significant improvements in her liver and kidneys, and metabolic and respiratory function have increased to within acceptable parameters.”
“Acceptable?” Nolan cocked an eyebrow. “You mean she’s ready to begin Hell Week?”
“All signs point to the affirmative.” Taia zoomed in the camera, giving Nolan a better look at Bex’s face. Already, color had begun to return to her gaunt cheeks, and the dark circles around her eyes had lightened. She was still sweating heavily and occasionally gripped by tremors, but she appeared visibly healthier than the last time he’d seen her. “I will still have to be careful with the dosage, but I believe she is ready for the Heavy Detox protocol as soon as this last dose of Blitz wears off.”
The door to his workshop unlocked and slid open at his approach, and the cold blue fluorescent light winked on.
“How long will that be?” Nolan pulled off his helmet and set it down on the workshop table, then lifted his arms to allow the robotic arms to remove his combat suit’s legs and lower him to his wheelchair.
“Within the hour,” Taia replied. “I will begin administration of one final round of IV nutrients in preparation for the Heavy Detox.”
“Good.” Nolan nodded. “She’ll need it.”
The memories of his own Hell Week, what little he could remember, still haunted him. The endless sweat-drenched, nightmare-racked hours—hours that had felt like weeks—vomiting, itching, and full-body pains had been far worse than the harshest day of his Silverguard training. He had nearly died; hell, he would have gladly died than live through what he’d endured to get clean. The knowledge of what he’d have to go through to get clean again had been one of the greatest deterrents against his relapse.
But for all the misery, he had come out better for it. Clean, if nothing else. Clear-headed, able to think straight, no longer desperate for a fix to keep him riding the high.
So why, then, had he made the choice he did back at the White Sharks’ safe house? His eyes darted to his pack, lying on the workshop table next to the other components of his combat suit. A slight tremor raced through his hands.
No. He bit down hard on the cravings, trying to push them away. Now isn’t the time. He had things he needed to do.
With effort, he forced himself to move around to the far side of the table, opposite the pack. “Taia, do a thorough diagnostic of the suit. The boot thrusters are already on the fritz, and I want to know if anything else is going to give out on me at the wrong time.”
He settled back into his chair’s comfortable cushions as Taia’s robotic arms arranged his combat suit pieces and her camera scanned the armor. The quiet whirring of the electronic mechanisms and the low hum of the workshop’s ventilation system came as a welcome change from the noise and chaos of the world outside. Here, he could try to forget everything that had happened—because of him. At least for a few minutes.
“Structural integrity of the chestplate is questionable,” Taia chirped in his earpiece. “I calculate its chances of stopping a blaster bolt at 83.5%, but that number drops significantly should you face more heavy-arms fire.”
Nolan raised an eyebrow. “You’re expecting trouble?”
“On thorough analysis of the video footage from Gustav’s meeting, I noticed this.” Taia brought an image up onto the screen, highlighting the guns held by two of the White Sharks.
Nolan swore. “More IAF weapons in the wrong hands.” The thugs each held Machnikov X-ARs, the same weapons carried by the goons that had tracked him after the German French hit.
“While those are the only two at this meeting that appear to be so heavily armed, it would be prudent to take extra precautions, just in case.”
“Right.” Nolan’s brow furrowed. “Recommendations?”
“I can put in the order for a new chestplate, but that will take at least five days to arrive.” The AI-controlled robotic arms whirred as they turned over the armor for the camera to scan. “But for the short term, the best I can d
o is insert more carbon nanofiber filaments to absorb and deflect impacts. That will, however, only increase armor efficiency by 15.4%.”
“Do it,” Nolan told her. “And get those boot thrusters operational.”
“Of course.” Taia set to work using the robotic arms to dismantle the chestplate, exposing its inner mechanisms. “The smart recommendation would be for you to avoid any encounters with hostiles until your regular suit is back in action. But that’s not really an option for you, is it?”
The question surprised Nolan. It shouldn’t have. Taia had spent the better part of five years with him, hearing him talk, reading every electrical signal that passed through his brain. She’d know him better than anyone.
“Not after what they did to Jadis.” Nolan’s gut twisted. The image of her being rolled out on that stretcher, blood gushing from her throat, barely clinging to life, still haunted him. He could have asked Taia to give him whatever cocktail of neurochemicals or electrical stimulation would push down the memory. But he couldn’t do that.
“Any word on Jadis?” he asked in a quiet voice.
A moment passed, then video footage from an operating theater appeared on his screen. The bird’s eye view of the surgery made his breath seize up. Jadis lay on the table, silent and still, connected to a mess of tubes, cables, and monitors. Three doctors and a bevy of nurses scrambled to keep her alive and repair the damage to her neck. Blood—so much blood—stained the doctors’ gowns, gloves, masks, tools, and medical devices.
Nolan felt the surge of acid rising in his throat. He’d seen enough wounds in his lifetime to know Jadis’ chances of survival were slim.
“Turn it off.” The footage disappeared, leaving the wall nothing but a blank screen. Yet that image had been burned into Nolan’s brain.
Assassination Protocol: An Intergalactic Space Opera Adventure (Cerberus Book 1) Page 14
