A silent communication passed between the two Interpol operatives, and at length the woman stepped back, folding her arms across her chest. She continued to watch Jensen like a hawk.
“You said you were trying to stop the aug deal,” continued the man. “So are we. You tell us what you know, that may still happen.”
Jensen frowned. “And what happens to the hardware?”
“It’ll be destroyed,” said the woman. “The kind of tech your boss Sarif was tinkering with is too dangerous to leave lying around. Too many mercs, terrorists and criminals in the world want to get their hands on gear like that.”
The momentary silence that fell in the wake of her words stretched into seconds as Jensen weighed his options. Whatever happened, he was going to have to take a risk if he wanted to get out of this makeshift prison cell. One way or another, he would find out what this Task Force 29’s true motives were once they had what they wanted from him.
He nodded toward the hatch, in the direction of the activity he’d seen beyond it. “I’ll tell you this. Time’s running out to stop these people.” Jensen thought back to what Wilder had said in the apartment. This time tomorrow, the hardware is going to be somewhere over the Atlantic. “Those augs are being flown out of Detroit, and it’s going to happen in the next ten or twelve hours. If you really want to stop them from getting into the wild, then you need to be doing something about it right now.”
A low, humorless smile crossed the other man’s face. “Let me guess. You got an idea about how we can do that, right?”
Jensen nodded again. “I know who’s involved. I know their faces. You don’t. So why don’t we cut all the bullshit and start acting like professionals?”
A chuckle escaped the big man, and he glanced at the woman. “I think I like this guy.”
YUKON HOTEL – DETROIT – UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
Wilder ignored the acid looks he got from the natch residents of the Yukon as he strode across the expensively minimalist lobby toward the elevator bank. Decorated largely in crushed black velvet and gray brushed steel, the structure of the original building showed through in artfully random patches of raw brick, but for the most part the interior was achingly post-modern. Security was cleverly worked into the ornamental panels and sculptures dotted around the space, from the thick bullet-proof glass doors to the low kennels hiding dormant patrol bots. The Yukon had always been a place for rich snobs with a high degree of paranoia, and ever since the Aug Incident it had come into its own. Many of those people with money – but not quite enough to quit the protected inner enclaves of Detroit – called it home.
A large man in a black suit with the craggy, broken nose of a career boxer stepped up to discreetly block Wilder’s path before he could reach for the elevator’s call button. The guard had barely raised his hand when he halted, blankly cocking his head in that way that those with active infolinks always did. Their eyes met, and the other man stepped aside. “Go on up, sir,” he added. “You’re expected.”
Wilder sneered and entered the elevator. There were no buttons or floor indicators on the inside. Once the door shut, he was whisked up the side of the Yukon and delivered to where he was expected to be.
She had a modest suite on the twenty-second floor that shared the same abstract geometric décor as the lobby. All the windows were fully polarized to obsidian black, and in the central room of the suite the only items that appeared to belong to her were an armored briefcase containing a portable computer, what Wilder guessed was an encrypted communications rig and a commercial-grade portable hard drive, the kind from an ordinary office desktop. Those, and a black-anodized Mustang Arms pistol sporting a targeting laser and integral silencer.
Wilder’s own weapon, a thick-framed revolver resting in a paddle holster in the small of his back, seemed like an anchor, causing drag with every step he took. On the way over, he’d taken a cocktail of zee and nu-poz, hoping that the drug combination would keep his edge sharp; but he found it hard to stop himself continually making and relaxing a fist with his cyberarm.
She had her rust-colored hair up in a precise cluster, and if anything it made her look even paler than she had when Wilder had first met her. Back then, he’d made a lame joke about her having a misspent youth as a goth chick, and the withering glance the comment had got him stopped Wilder from even thinking about speaking out of turn in her presence ever again.
She was busy making herself a cup of herbal tea. “Why are you here?” she asked, in the way a teacher would disparage a particularly dim pupil. “We established a protocol, and you were told to stick to it.”
“Yeah, well,” he began, holding his nerve. “Things change. I’m gonna have to cut short our association here and now. We’re done.”
“Are we?” She carefully poured boiling water on to a teabag and the aroma of strawberries filled the room.
Wilder nodded, looking around again. Jensen’s surprise appearance in Detroit had been the one complication that he hadn’t planned for, but now with him left out for police custody and Kellman dealt with, Wilder had no more reason to remain in the city. There had always been a risk that one of those MCB punks might have been able to put the spotlight on him, but that wasn’t anything he couldn’t handle… However, Adam Jensen was another story. Wilder’s former boss had the potential to cause some serious blowback, and the baffling order to let him live complicated matters immeasurably.
He laid that all out for her while she made her tea, all the while acting like she wasn’t listening to a word of it. “I mean, I don’t get it. Why the hell didn’t you just let me ice the son-of-a-bitch?”
She favored him with a brief look for the first time since he had entered the suite. “I have instructions. If Jensen has to be killed, it won’t be down to you to pull the trigger.” The way she said it showed she wasn’t happy about the order either.
He snorted and glanced away. His optics caught sight of a series of nested video displays on the screen of the portable computer. They looked like security camera feeds, and he saw shots of large warehouses with broad frontage, wide open expanses of tarmac and big shadows moving behind bright spotlights.
“Okay, fine. Whatever you say.” Wilder shook his head. “I don’t give a fuck. But as of now, I am out. Pay me and color me gone.”
“All right.” She put down the cup. “A finish to our cooperation, then. I’ll be honest with you, in terms of usefulness, you’ve been mediocre at best.”
“What?” Wilder bristled at her tone. “To hell with you,” he retorted.
She went on as if he hadn’t spoken. “You complicated matters needlessly by interfering with the gang members and their tasks, not to mention the murder of Kellman. Why not just pay him and be done with it?” Wilder didn’t get time to reply. “You’ve made a number of mistakes, and served largely to remind me why it is I don’t often use local talent. Understand this: if you hadn’t granted access to what my employer required to facilitate this transfer, you never would have been part of the operation.”
His cheeks darkened as his anger rose. “Y-you don’t get to talk to me like that! I made this happen! Now give me my damn money!” Wilder’s hand slipped toward the paddle holster and the butt of the revolver.
But then she moved so fast that even with his new, high-acuity optic implants, the woman was a blur of black material, pale skin and red hair – and she suddenly had that silenced pistol in her hand pointed right at him.
“Hey, wait…” His tone became one of pleading. “Fine, forget the cash. You keep it, Thorne.”
She shook her head slightly. “Don’t say my name.” The pistol jerked in her grip, discharging a single caseless bullet with a chug of noise.
* * *
The round hit Wilder in the chest, just below his heart. It penetrated his lungs and broke apart into thousands of frangible needles, kinetic energy immediately translating into a murderous shock effect. The bullet was designed never to exit the body, removing the untidy issue of ragged
exit wounds, blood spatter and all the other mess that shooting someone at close range usually left behind.
Wilder staggered back and collapsed to the floor, dying with a gasp as he lay slumped against the edge of an ornate couch. Pink foam collected around his mouth and nostrils.
Jenna Thorne put down the gun and tapped a string of numbers into the encrypted comm unit. A moment later she heard the line open and the gruff voice of the gang leader, Magnet.
“Yeah?” In the background, the whine of jet engines faded into the distance.
“This is a warning. Wilder may have compromised the operation. You need to be aware.”
She heard Magnet spit. “That asshole. Gotta be messing with everything… Don’t worry. MCBs got this. Anyone comes around… they get smoked.”
“See to it. The pick-up is on its way.” She cut the line before Magnet could reply, then entered another code. Thorne’s gaze fell to study Wilder’s slack face and sightless eyes as she waited for a link. She would need to deal with his remains before leaving the hotel.
The second call connected, whispering through a myriad of digital masking subroutines, blind servers and redirects. “Thorne,” she said aloud, knowing that the word would be deconstructed by smart scanner programs clever enough to parse her voice as clearly as if it were a fingerprint.
Circumstances have changed, she went on, mouthing the words without sound, knowing that her masters were listening to her silent, subvocalized speech. I advise we move the secondary contingency plan to active status and prepare to execute.
WEST SIDE – DETROIT – UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
An hour later, the hatch clanked open again and the blonde woman stood in the doorway, beckoning Jensen with one hand. “Come on,” she told him.
He got up and followed her out into the compartment beyond. He’d pieced together that they were on some kind of boat, and when he looked up and saw the distant arches of the bridge through a rent in the tarp roof, he knew where they were. “Smart place for an FOB,” he offered. “No-one comes down to the docks these days.” When the woman didn’t acknowledge his words, Jensen tried a different tack. “You don’t think much of me, do you?”
“Vande don’t think much of anybody,” said an olive-skinned man as he walked past them. “It’s not personal.”
“Shut up, Chen,” she told him.
Jensen watched the guy cross the room to where the rest of the Task Force team were assembling. It was a familiar setup. A few techies were working keyboards, prepping comm channels and scanning through the city data grid, and by their sides, a small squad of hard-faced men and women made ready their weapons and told bad jokes, burning off any pre-mission adrenaline.
The blonde – Vande – brought him to her commander as he climbed out of a folding chair, pushing aside a clamshell VR helmet rig on an extending arm. They exchanged weighty looks again, and Jensen understood that these two had the kind of highly synchronized behavior patterns that could only be earned through shared combat experience.
“So if we’re introducing ourselves,” he began, “the name’s Jarreau. I’m what passes for in charge of this band of reprobates. Vande here, she’s my red right hand.”
“I thought Interpol were all admin and investigation,” said Jensen. “Since when have they had covert mobile strike teams?”
“The Aug Incident changed a lot of things,” said Vande, by way of explanation.
“We track, locate and neutralize criminals and terrorist groups,” added Jarreau. “It’s that simple.”
“I doubt it,” Jensen replied. “So what happens now?” He nodded toward the team, unconsciously reaching for the inhibitor bracelet around his forearm.
“You’ll be pleased to know that the folks who write my paychecks agreed with the intel you gave us. Turns out, there happens to be a certain cargo lifter coming into Wayne County Airport from across the Canadian border tonight, and its flight plan is what you might call sketchy.” He glanced at Vande. “It’s a good probable for Sheppard and his crew.”
“That’d be the connection picking up the stolen augs?” said Jensen.
“Affirmative.” Jarreau nodded. “So, you’re gonna liaise with Chen over there, keep an eye on the screens and sing out the moment you spot a face you recognize, got it? We tie this all up with a neat little bow tonight, and then everyone goes their separate ways.”
Jensen shook his head. “That won’t work. I can’t do this by remote, I need to be on site.”
“Not going to happen,” Vande said immediately.
“No?” Jensen fixed her with a steady gaze. “You’re not new to this and by the looks of your people over there, no-one on this tub is a day-player. So you tell me: in a high-tempo operation, every moment is vital, right? Do you really want to chance me missing something important because I’m getting it secondhand through someone else’s optics?”
Vande glared back at him. “You seem to think we’re operating as equals here, Jensen. But you’re in our custody. You’re not part of our team.”
“And how well has your team been doing so far?”
The woman opened her mouth to retort, but Jarreau interceded. “Okay, enough. Jensen makes a good point. Make a space for him on the bird, he’s coming with us.”
Vande shot an are you kidding me look at her commander, but he gave nothing back. “Your call, boss,” she said, after a moment.
“All right.” Jarreau pointed toward the tech Jensen saw earlier. “I assume you’ll want your tac kit back? Chen will fix you up.”
“Do I get a weapon?” Jensen held up the arm with the inhibitor bracelet. “And what about this?”
Jarreau smiled. “I’m not stupid, Jensen. Consider yourself an observer, not a participant.” He walked off toward the gathered team.
The steel index finger of Vande’s right hand prodded Jensen squarely in the chest and she lowered her voice so only he could hear her. “He’s taken a shine to you. That’s a rare failing on his part, one that I don’t share.”
“And yet you seem so warm and friendly.” Jensen’s deadpan reply didn’t land.
“You get in the way out there, do something I don’t like, look at me funny… I’ll make you regret it. All I care about is getting that tech off the grid. You don’t matter to me, clear?” Vande stalked away before he could offer a reply.
WAYNE COUNTY AIRPORT – DETROIT – UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
Magnet’s gold eye shields glittered in the dimness of the vast hangar, and he ran his flesh-and-blood hand over his shorn scalp, sweating a little despite the cool of the night. He stalked past the rest of his boys, all of them alert, a lot of them chemically so, every man with a shottie or an assault rifle. This was the last step of the job he’d got the Motor City Bangers involved in, and the gang’s top dog wasn’t about to let it come apart at the end. This had become a personal thing, and his boys needed to see him bring it home.
They’d already lost good soldiers to this shit, some dead and some in jail. Cali’s arrest was the one that cut him the most; his little cousin, the one he’d looked out for all this time, the bastard had rolled the moment five-oh threw him in a cell. Magnet was all kinds of angry with him, with goddamn Wilder and that other asshole who’d been messing with the plan. It was getting in the way of what he wanted, which was the cold hard cash that red-headed witch was promising.
The past year had been a bonanza for the MCBs, starting with the end of their arch rivals in Derelict Row and growing by the month as they took control of more and more of the unpatrolled precincts of the city. But Magnet was smart enough to know that they were in danger of getting spread too thin. He needed money to solidify his hold on the outer wards of Detroit, money for guns and new recruits… and this deal would provide it, as long as all those motherfuckers kept their distance.
“Yo, Mag.” Mano, a lanky Hispanic banger from Mexicantown, came toward him, cradling a vintage AK-74. “It’s time, boss. I think I seen ’em coming.”
“Oh yeah?” Ma
gnet followed him back to the hangar’s massive doors, which sat open just wide enough for a man to fit through.
He paused on the threshold, glancing back into the dim interior. In the middle of the open space, an irregularly shaped cargo container sat on an electric jack, waiting to be picked up. Inside, the unit was packed with almost the entire haul of gear the MCBs had stolen from the Sarif Industries sites around the city – minus a few choice pieces taken by Wilder and a couple of Magnet’s lieutenants. The gang leader just saw it as dollar signs. The sooner he was shot of the hot augs, the better.
Stepping out into the night air, his nose wrinkled at the ever-present stink of jet fuel, and Magnet followed Mano’s raised arm to where the other man was pointing. There, out over the top of the distant North Terminal complex, was a cluster of indicator lights dropping toward the far runway. A black shape like a manta ray moved against the low cloud. He sneered at it.
“That them?” asked Mano.
Magnet didn’t answer, turning back into the hangar. “Eyes up,” he shouted. “Get these doors open. We be done with this shit soon, boys.”
* * *
The Task Force VTOL landed firmly on the helipad across from the de-icing pans where the big airliners were sprayed down in the winter months. The hatches on the side dropped open and Jensen was the last out, letting Jarreau’s people deploy in quick, careful order.
He glanced around, taking in the territory. It was a smart move on the part of the smugglers, making the trade in the middle of an active civilian airport. They were bound to be watching the terminal buildings by remote for any sign of an increased police presence, and the fact that there were four active runways operating out of the area meant that aerial drones and flyers like the VTOL couldn’t loiter without being spotted.
Deus Ex: Black Light Page 19
