by J. N. Chaney
“Here you are, Mr. Lian. Room 802, our penthouse suite.” The receptionist slid the key card across the counter from him. “That’s our most popular. Lucky you booked in advance.”
That sparked Burner’s interest. “Yeah, I’ve always been one to plan ahead. I must have made this reservation, what, two weeks ago?”
The receptionist smiled politely. “More like three. I know that because I’ve had to explain to a couple of shrieking secretaries how much they were beaten by.”
“I’m really sorry about that. We’ll try to be peaceful guests to make up for the trouble.”
She laughed. “That would make you a far cry better than most of the guests we’ve had up there.”
Burner refrained from asking her how many of their guests had used the penthouse’s balcony as a sniper nest before.
The eager bellboy stopped them at the elevator. “I’ll take that bag for you, sir.” He held his hand out to the bag that contained the sniper rifle.
“No, it’s fine, I got it,” Burner said, trying to get around the bellboy to the elevator.
“It’s really no trouble, sir.” The bellboy was insistent. “It’s my job.”
Burner took a good look at the bellboy. There wasn’t any hostility there, nothing that would point the bellboy out as a member of the conspiracy. He was just a kid working a shift where there wasn’t a lot of potential for tips and didn’t want to let the one guest he might see all night slip away.
Shrugging, Burner passed the sniper rifle bag to bellboy. Couldn’t hurt to have an extra set of fingerprints on them, anyway.
On the elevator, they made polite conversation with the bellboy, asking him about the local dining options, entertainment, what the must-see sights of the city were. Sara also made a request for food to be delivered to the room in an hour. In their hands, the texts on their comms held an entirely different conversation.
-So we’re certain this is the target?-
Sara asked.
-It makes the most sense of anyone there.-
Burner wondered if he should try to explain his civil unrest theory. It would be a long text, and he figured Sara was smart enough to figure it out on her own.
-Your list didn’t include an arrival time for him, but I’d bet if you sent another message you would learn that its scheduled for 7 a.m.-
Sara tried to hide the anticipation in her voice as she placed her food order with the bellboy. It made her sound like she was really excited about their late-night snack options.
-I’ll need to call this in with the Union. I don’t know how to explain this to them without mentioning you, though. The course of my investigation doesn’t make sense without you.-
Burner held in his sigh as he took his bag back from the bellboy and handed him his tip. He had done his best to keep his name out of the Union’s sights since his discharge, but since arriving on this planet, he had already used it at a security checkpoint and given it to a Union Constable, and now it was about to be used in conjunction with an assassination plot of a five-star admiral.
He guessed there wasn’t much point in hiding it anymore. Burner wasn’t a criminal, there weren’t any warrants out there for him that he knew about, and while there were certain Union officials who would be unhappy to see him surface, those same officials would keep their distance after getting one look at what Burner had become tangled up in. His priority was to stop the assassination and prevent the deaths of thousands of innocent civilians.
As soon as they were in the room, he gave Sara an approving nod. She went off to one corner to type a long message to her handler explaining the situation in detail. Burner conducted a quick sweep of the room for bugs, which came up empty, but since that hadn’t stopped his captors from listening in on them at the Jump and Dump, they still needed to be careful about what they said aloud. Even more so, now that they were in a suite the terrorists had picked out.
It was a nice suite, though. Burner decided if he had been an assassin, this was exactly the kind of place he would demand being put up in while he conducted his work. Two adjoining rooms, each bigger than the place Burner had been crashing in Zanpus, and both featured a comfortable looking king-sized bed. A separate living area had one wall replaced with a massive screen that was connected to every bit of entertainment media someone could ask for. The kitchen was fully stocked with a minibar. Considering he was on the terrorist’s dime, Burner had no qualms raiding the bar, pouring himself a drink from an expensive looking bottle, and helping himself to a few individually wrapped pastries.
Room service delivered Sara’s order at the appointed time, and they ate while Sara continued to deal with her superiors over messages. Getting through Union red tape was difficult enough when you could verbally communicate with those in charge. Burner could only imagine how frustrating doing it via text must be.
After the meal, he sat on the plush couch and watched some local news to pass the time. He was just starting to drift off when an alert from Sara’s pad brought him back to wakefulness.
-We have a plan. You’re not going to like it, though. We need you to go through with the assassination.-
13
Herod Grand Penthouse, Herod’s District, Dobulla UX8, Union Space
Burner’s experience with assassinations was more on the side of prevention than conducting them. As an Intelligence operative, his job was to expose conspiracies and corruption within the Union and the military and see that the perpetrators were brought to justice. It wasn’t his role to dish out the punishments, that was the job of the Union courts. He brought his biggest targets down with evidence, not bullets.
That’s not to say Burner’s hands didn’t have blood on them. Some people become very violent when they learn their secrets are going to be exposed, and Burner had a duty to protect his own life and the lives of others, even if that meant using deadly force. But that was self-defense, not a planned assassination.
There was one exception: when Burner had been forced to hunt one of his own.
An Intelligence operative named James Gunderon had gone rogue, selling state secrets to the highest bidder. His experience let him expertly cover his tracks, and when Burner had finally caught the scent of who was responsible for leaking such sensitive information, Gunderon’s warning systems let him know it was time to disappear. He fled into the Deadlands with an account full of credits and a head full of secrets.
He was too big of a danger to leave unchecked for too long, but when Intelligence sent an operative to try and get close to him and bring him back, that operative wound up dead. That’s when the kill order came down, the first and last of such orders Burner ever received.
Gunderon was a tough target to get to. He could afford the best protection that the Deadlands could provide. Additionally, the big players had an interest in keeping him around as a giant middle finger to the Union. Burner trailed his movements for weeks, waiting for just one opportunity. Even Gunderon, for all his caution, had to slip up eventually. And he did, peeking his head out of his armored vehicle to speak with a gaggle of young women. Burner felt worse about the blood splatter on the women than he did about ending Gunderon’s life. The traitor didn’t deserve any better.
Still, Burner had never considered himself an assassin. His role had always been primarily investigation.
So how was it he had wound up facing out on the balcony of the Herod Grand, aiming the scope of a sniper rifle at the entrance of a Union military building, waiting for a five-star admiral to come by so he could shoot him?
And the worse part of all of it? His tooth still hurt. His whole jaw, really. Dr. Suffolk might not have been lying about the dangers of that spreading. All this started with a toothache, which Burner still hadn’t been able to deal with.
He fired off a text to Sara.
-Are you sure this is going to work?-
The time on his device told him that he had eight minutes until the target arrived. He started to run through the breathing exercises that were
the start of any sniper’s training.
Sara’s reply popped up on the screen.
-Yes—it has to.-
A few minutes later, he received another alert, this one on the disposable com.
-Your target is Admiral Karl Thiel. You are to shoot him as he gets out of his vehicle in exactly three minutes. Do not let us down.-
The message was accompanied by a picture of the admiral so there could be no mistaking the target.
It was actually pretty clever how they revealed the target to him. It gave him enough time to memorize his target’s face, but not enough time to do any research on him, think about the implications of killing him, or send a warning to his security detail. This part of the plan had clearly been thought through.
With time ticking down, Burner ran through his sniper protocol for the final time. He checked the wind and found it blowing north-northwest at a slightly brisker speed than when he had checked ten minutes ago, so he made the necessary adjustments. His glare check ensured him that the sun would not be a problem at his current angle at the appointed time. All the bracing parts of the rifle’s mounting system were rechecked for stability to ensure minimum recoil. He jostled his own position slightly to make sure he was lying in the sturdiest position. Everything was in order.
Other delegates were already coming and going for the conference, which was already in full swing. That’s the thing about the military, they always get started on time. Through the scope, he made out military uniforms, dress suits, a mix of casual wear on those too old to care to dress up anymore, and the same gray jacket and blue tie that every aide seemed to be wearing. Burner wondered if there was a place that sold those in bulk.
He also noted the increased security presence surrounding all sides of the building and cordoning off that side of the road. There were as many soldiers standing by to protect the conference as there were delegates in attendance. Most stood at what Burner had coined “dumb-attention,” in which their body was straight and their form seemingly alert, but the glassy look in their eyes gave them away as letting their mind drift. It was common among soldiers, particularly young ones who were given a security post in which the odds of actual danger were zero or close to it. No one expected any trouble here, so they let themselves relax. If Burner wanted to, he could sneak up behind each of them and conk them in the back of the head without being noticed.
As the appointed time arrived, a vehicle with black tinted windows drifted into sight. It landed gently in the open space in front of the admin building.
“This is him,” Sara’s voice announced over his comm. She had taken a position from the street below where she could watch from a lower angle.
Burner couldn’t see anything through the blackened windows. “Target not confirmed.”
The door opened and people started filing out. Burner watched through his scope as the procession made its way toward the building. Two aides, each in the signature gray jacket and blue tie, tapped busily on their tablets. A woman with a straight bearing and a simple navy dress followed. An old man with a cane wearing an older version of the Union military uniform also got out of the car.
And then came the target. He saw the distinguishing colors of an admiral’s uniform emerge. He began to line up his shot at where the head would be when the man stood at full height.
“Remember, center mass,” Sara reminded him. She didn’t need to say, That’s the only way this works.
Burner lowered his aim from the head to the chest area. But the admiral had his back to him. He let out a frustrated groan. “I can’t see his face.” To his annoyance, the target began to walk toward the building. “He needs to turn around.” He had to be careful what he said.
Sara sounded uncharacteristically flustered. “I don’t know. I don’t…” There was some garbled noise that Burner could make out as her placing a call to another channel.
He watched as the back of the admiral’s uniform began to ascend the front steps. In just a few seconds he would be inside the admin building and Burner would have missed his shot.
Come on, you old bastard, Burner thought as he concentrated intently on his aim, his trigger finger squeezing ever so slightly. He was holding his breath, both to steady the shot and to keep himself from shouting. Turn around! Come on, please!
No word came back from Sara. Should he take the shot at the guy’s back? When he was serving in the Union, he had the blessing of being given specific orders without much wiggle room. Back then, it was something he hadn’t really liked, as it could really tie his hands when it came to his investigations. Sometimes he needed to make a judgement call but found it ran counter to what his explicit orders stated.
But right now, with a big judgement call to make, he sure would appreciate a bit of guidance.
Another jacketed aide came running up the steps, having been left behind to collect some items from the car. He called out to the admiral, who turned around to face him.
Chest shot! Burner squeezed the trigger.
Red blood splattered out of the man’s chest, coating the poor aide and his formerly gray jacket. The admiral hit the deck. Burner let out the breath he had been holding in and took another to steady himself. The important part was done.
Below, panic ensued all around the fallen admiral. The daydreaming security detail were stunned into action, but they struggled to be heard over the sounds of shouting and screaming. The aide who had been splattered with blood was staggering down the stairs as if drunk or dazed, while others tried to rush to the fallen man’s side. The chaos would buy Burner a little time, but it still wouldn’t be long before someone pieced together where that shot had come from. He needed to be long gone before that happened.
It took Burner less than a minute to fully dismount the sniper rifle, break it down, and pack it into its original bag. Then he was on the move, walking at the brisk pace of a man late for a meeting. He moved fast enough to get out of the area but not fast enough to draw attention. He hurried down a corridor with only a single security camera, which he had disabled last night with the aid of old, reliable chewing gum. Then he took a right and slipped into the hotel’s service area.
He took the service stairs into the hotel’s lowest level, keeping his head down so no one would pay attention to him. He crossed through the laundry room where, according to plan, he discarded the rifle bag in a bin full of dirty towels, then he continued on until he reached a door that led outside.
The service entrance fed out into an alley. One direction led back toward the admin building, so Burner followed the alley the other way. At the end, another employee-only entrance led into a bar. At this hour, only the most determined of drunks were in attendance, one of which was passed out at a booth not too far from where Burner entered. He wore a simple red cap that Burner snatched from his head and placed on his own as he walked past.
Burner took just a moment to turn his jacket inside out before stepping out into the main street and losing himself in the crowd.
14
Herod District, Dobulla UX8, Union Space
Sara was waiting in an alley nearby, her arms crossed and her usual amused expression plastered on her face. “Well, that was quite the performance, I’d say.”
Burner gave a theatrical bow. “I always thought I would have been suited to the theater.”
“Well, it’s not too late for a new career, you know?” She laughed. “Maybe Admiral Thiel will even act as a reference.”
He stroked his chin as if seriously thinking about it. “I don’t know. Shooting a guy in the chest tends to leave a bad first impression.”
“Ah, but it does leave an impression.”
Burner looked thoughtfully back in the direction of the supposed assassination. “It sure does. I don’t think the admiral is going to forget me anytime soon. But, to be fair, he did give me permission to do it.”
UNION SHUTTLE, EN ROUTE TO DOBULLA UX8, UNION SPACE
Admiral Karl Thiel was no stranger to death threats. They c
ame part and parcel with the territory. Literally. He was responsible for protecting a region of space that bordered the lawless Deadlands, which made him the public face of the Union military presence in that territory. Every Ravager, pirate, and renegade in the Deadlands saw him as an enemy, and some liked to voice those feelings in expressive ways.
But he’d hoped getting back into central Union Space, at least for a little while, would give him a break. The call he’d received when he was just moments from landing at Dobulla proved that hope futile.
“Who is it this time?” he asked with a world-weary sigh. “Ravagers aren’t going to go this far in. Renegades? Those dogs will do anything for money, won’t they?”
“We’re not sure yet, sir.” The voice on the other end of the call sounded awfully calm to Thiel, considering his life was in danger. “We know the trigger man is former Intelligence.”
“Intelligence?” He scratched at the back of his head. “What the heck did I ever do to them? Is this about funding?”
“No, sir, it’s…” The caller seemed to have trouble finding the right words to describe it. “The situation is complicated and would be easier to explain in person. I’ll have one of my agents waiting for you at the spaceport.”
Thiel rubbed at the bridge of his nose, already feeling a migraine coming on. “Yeah, alright. But make sure they bring me a sandwich or something. This is going to cost me breakfast.”
A lanky young man dressed in a plaid suit and carrying a take-out bag that smelled of heaven in his left hand greeted him when he landed, holding out his right for a handshake. “Constable Alan Redding. Good to meet you, sir.”
