by Tim Waggoner
His jacket lay on the table in front of him, and as Xiang landed from the kick, he slid toward it, slipped his left arm into the sleeve, turned onto his back, and fired his gun as he continued sliding down the table. A bodyguard armed with an automatic weapon was hit by one of Xiang’s bullets, and as he spun around from the impact, his weapon strafed the big-screen TV, causing it to come crashing down as he slumped to the ground, dead. Xiang reached the end of the table, somersaulted backwards—shooting another bodyguard in the process. As he landed, he tossed his gun into the air, finished slipping his jacket all the way on, then caught the gun as it fell.
A bodyguard ran toward him from the other side of the room, but now that Xiang had a few extra seconds to aim, he shot the man in the kneecap instead of going for a killing shot. After all, the man was just doing his job. No need to kill him unless it was necessary. The man howled in pain and dropped his weapon but managed to remain standing. Xiang was impressed. Tough guy.
A glance showed Xiang the CIA director hadn’t made it out of the room yet, and now a metal security partition was sliding over the entrance to seal in the attacker—namely Xiang.
Sorry, Tough Guy, Xiang thought. But you’re standing between me and freedom.
He stepped onto the man’s good leg, up onto his shoulder, and used the man to launch himself toward the room’s entrance. The man howled in pain as the force of Xiang’s jump put pressure on his injured knee, and this time he fell to the floor, clapping his hands over the wound to staunch the blood loss.
Xiang made it out of the room with only inches to spare. The metal door slammed shut behind him with a loud thunk! and a series of locks tripped. The conference room would be on lockdown for at least several minutes, more than long enough for Xiang to escape with his prize. Xiang had landed in a crouching position, and he rose and started walking casually down the hall as if he were out for a leisurely stroll.
* * *
Xiang removed Pandora’s Box from his jacket pocket and tossed it into the air as he walked. Such a small thing, really, but then small things could sometimes prove to be the most destructive. Look what had happened when humans learned to split the atom.
As Xiang neared the elevator, he saw the American agent—Borne—waiting for him.
“My friends and I heard the shots coming from the conference room. Red Erik thought the bodyguards could handle you, but Pond and I thought they’d fuck it up. Looks like we were right.”
Borne’s hands curled into fists and he took a step toward Xiang. But Xiang held up a finger, as if to say, One moment, please. Borne hesitated, frowning. Xiang checked his watch. A few more seconds, he thought.
The elevator door slid open and Hawk came charging out. He slammed into Borne, taking the agent completely by surprise, and the two men crashed through a door on the other side of the hall and into an office. Xiang continued down the hallway, leaving Hawk to go about his work.
* * *
Hawk had heard about Borne. Supposedly he was one of the best agents on the planet, a master at hand-to-hand combat and—when necessary—a deadly killer. So Hawk was prepared to bring his A-game.
As they crashed through the office door, the two men fell onto the floor in a tangle of arms and legs. Borne wriggled away from Hawk, fast and slick as an eel, and got to his feet. He tried to stomp on Hawk’s neck, going for a killing strike, but Hawk rolled out of the way and jumped to his feet. Both men were armed, but as if in unspoken agreement, neither drew his weapon. After all, what would be the fun in that?
The office wasn’t a large one, and it contained a desk, chair, filing cabinet, and bookshelves. The desk had the usual office equipment sitting on its surface: computer, monitor, office phone, stapler, tape dispenser, a pen and pencil holder—which also contained a metal letter opener—stacks of printouts, scattered paperclips and a couple rubber bands. There was also a coffee mug—half full—on the side of which were the words SPIES DO IT UNDERCOVER.
Hawk took in all these details at a glance, as did Borne, and then they chose their weapons and began combat. Both men went for the letter opener first, naturally, and Borne—who stood marginally closer to the desk than Hawk—grabbed hold of it first. With a grin, he stepped forward and jabbed the letter opener toward Hawk’s throat. Hawk turned to the side to avoid the strike, took hold of the pencil holder, and smashed it against the back of Borne’s head. The man doubled over as writing utensils flew through the air and clattered to the floor, along with the holder. Hawk had put all the force behind his strike that he could, but it seemed that Borne’s skull was even thicker than he’d thought, for the man recovered quickly and slashed outward with the letter opener. Hawk had to jump back to avoid getting his stomach sliced open, but in doing so, he bumped up against the desk. Borne, seeing Hawk had nowhere to go, moved in for a killing attack, but Hawk grabbed the computer monitor and swung it into Borne’s head. The monitor made an extremely satisfying crunk! as it connected, and the impact caused the agent to lose his grip on the letter opener. It sailed through the air and became embedded in the wall. Hawk pressed his advantage. He brought the monitor around, intending to strike Borne in the face with it this time, but the agent raised his forearm and blocked the blow. He then yanked the monitor from Hawk’s hand and hurled it at him like an awkwardly shaped shuriken. But while the monitor grazed Hawk’s right shoulder, it did no real damage. The monitor crashed into the filing cabinet and made a good-sized dent in the metal before bouncing off.
After that, the office became a blur of activity as the two men grabbed whatever they could reach to use against each other, throwing or hitting. At one point Borne even used a hastily straightened paperclip to try to puncture Hawk’s carotid artery.
Now you’re just showing off, Hawk thought.
Hawk forced Borne back toward the bookcase. Neither man was seriously injured yet, but Hawk had landed more blows than Borne, and it was clear from the concerned look in the agent’s eyes that he wasn’t used to anyone being able to put up a real fight against him. He was slowing down and starting to look more than a little desperate. He glanced behind him at the bookshelf and pulled off the thickest hardback he could find.
Before Borne could attack again, Hawk snatched the book from his hands.
“You fight me with a book?” Moving faster than Borne could react, Hawk smacked the large book against his face repeatedly. Thwack-thwack-thwack-thwack-thwack! “Here you go, brother. Page one, chapter one.”
Borne staggered, eyes unfocused. Hawk followed the series of strikes with a final devastating blow to the side of Borne’s head. The man’s eyes rolled white and he collapsed to the floor, unconscious.
Hawk tossed the book down on Borne’s chest.
“Shit happens.”
Hawk walked out of the office and hurried to catch up to Xiang.
* * *
Xiang and Hawk raced down the stairs three at a time. Pandora’s Box was once more safely tucked away in Xiang’s jacket pocket, and he gave a grim smile. So far, everything is going—
The two men stopped as they saw the exit was blocked by a steel security door that had no doubt dropped into place the second alarms started blaring. Neither Xiang nor Hawk seemed especially concerned about finding their only escape route blocked. Xiang stepped up to the door and rapped a knuckle against the surface, tapping out the old “Shave and a Haircut” rhythm. A moment later, sparks flew from the door as someone began cutting through the metal with an acetylene torch.
—according to plan, Xiang thought.
* * *
Serena cut the last lock on the security door, and she turned off the torch as Xiang and Hawk shoved the door open and joined her on the other side. She smiled a greeting, but then she frowned as she thought she detected a soft scuffling sound coming from around the corner. It sounded like a shoe sliding across the floor—done deliberately to lure an opponent? Maybe, Serena thought. She smiled. And if that was the case, she’d hate to disappoint the scuffer. She motioned for Xiang
and Hawk to remain where they were, then she lay the torch down next to the acetylene tank. She then walked down the hall and turned the corner to see what surprise might await her.
Mr. Pond stood leaning against the wall, arms crossed casually over his chest.
“Sorry, darling,” he said in his oh-so-proper British accent. “Private party.”
He uncrossed his arms, reached for his watch, and touched a control on the side. Zztt sounds emerged from the device, along with a pair of tiny projectiles. Pond gave a half-smile as the micro-darts—which Serena assumed were coated with one deadly poison or another—streaked toward her. She stood there, unconcerned, and just as the darts were about to strike, her hands blurred and she plucked them out of the air as easily as pulling petals off a flower.
Pond gaped at her, stunned, and as she tossed the darts aside and started walking calmly toward Pond, the British agent yanked off his bowtie and hurled it at her. The cloth was lined with razor wire and was weighted at both ends, making it a combination of a bolo and a garrote. Serena dodged this new device easily, and the wire whiffed past her without doing any harm.
Pond looked more than a little worried now. He reached into his inner jacket pocket, pulled out a fountain pen, and pointed it at Serena. He depressed a button and it disgorged a cloud of noxious-smelling green gas. Serena simply held her breath and walked through the cloud, unaffected.
When she reached Pond, she grabbed his balls in an iron grip and slammed him back against the wall.
“Invitation must’ve got lost in the mail,” she said, and then added, “Darling.”
She leaned her face toward his and licked her lips before parting them slightly. Pond’s eyes widened in surprise at first, but then renewed confidence came over him. Now he was back on familiar ground.
But instead of kissing the man, Serena headbutted him. The agent’s eyes rolled up in his head, and he slid to the floor, out cold.
A moment later, Xiang and Hawk joined her, and without more than a disdainful glance at the British agent, the three of them continued down the hallway.
* * *
They made it to ground level without encountering any other obstacles, and a moment later they were out on the street. An Asian man with platinum-blond dyed hair wearing a long-sleeved black pullover came running up to them, breathing hard and trying to catch his breath.
“You’re late,” Xiang said, not bothering to consult his watch. He wasn’t surprised, though. Talon was almost always late, and that meant Xiang was almost always irritated with him.
Before Talon could reply, a loud engine vroomed, and they all turned to see Red Erik waiting for them on top of a Ducati SuperSport motorcycle. The Russian was parked across the street, facing them.
“Naw, I’m just in time, boss.”
Red Erik revved the engine again, the deep thrum echoing up and down the street.
“Nobody gets past me.”
Red Erik peeled out and came racing toward them. Talon started running toward the bike in what looked like the most one-sided game of chicken the world would ever see. Erik popped a wheelie, but Talon didn’t hesitate. He kept on running. Erik drew a pistol and started firing. But Talon performed a series of rapid handsprings, flipping end over end, too fast for the bullets to find him. When he was close to Erik, he launched himself into the air, landing a mighty kick to Erik’s neck and knocking the man off his bike. Erik lay on the asphalt, unconscious, as Talon hopped onto the bike’s seat and took control, popping a front wheelie of his own before stopping in front of Xiang, Serena, and Hawk.
Xiang knelt next to the semi-conscious superspy and gazed down at the man.
“We ain’t nobody,” he said.
* * *
Inside the conference room, the Director and MI6 Control watched as the dead were zipped into body bags and hauled away. Both men had been at this game so long they’d thought nothing could surprise them anymore. Tonight, they’d found out differently.
Marke—who like the two men had managed to survive the attack unscathed—walked over to join them.
“And though the gods begged Pandora to never open the box, she was vain and naïve, and she loosed upon the world every evil to which humanity is heir,” Marke said.
“So how do we get it back?” the British spymaster asked.
“These assholes just took out the best of the best like it was Sunday brunch. We need someone who can move like them, fight like them. We need someone who can walk into a tornado and come out the other side like it was a damn gentle breeze.”
“And you know someone like that?” the Director asked.
“No,” Marke said. “But Gibbons did.”
2
THE DOMINICAN REPUBLIC
Xander Cage clung to a massive antennae array. He was free-climbing—no rope, no net, no second chances. Just the way he liked it. He wore a gray sleeveless shirt, white pants, brown boots, along with a backpack and black gloves with metal covering the fingertips and knuckles. He paused to look behind him and gazed upon a verdant valley below, no sign of civilization as far as the eye could see. Right then, he felt like the king of the fucking world. He could hang here all day, admiring the view and breathing the fresh air, but he had work to do, and he’d best get to it.
He resumed climbing and when he reached the top, he pulled out his phone to check the clock. He’d set the timer to run a countdown before starting his climb, and the display told him he had exactly ten minutes left. Better hurry. He drew a knife from a sheath on his belt and quickly cut through a tangle of wires. He then pulled an object free and stuffed it in his backpack.
“You there! Stop!”
Xander looked down to see several uniformed and very angry-looking security guards standing at the base of the array. He wasn’t going to be able to leave that way, but it was no big deal. He’d planned on a much more fun descent. He sheathed his knife and then reached into his backpack, removed a pair of half-skis, and quickly attached them to his boots while the security guards continued to yell up at him. Then, without so much as a split-second of hesitation, Xander leaped off the array, soaring over the security guards as he fell.
He crashed into the canopy and plummeted between a pair of trees, using his metal-gloved hands to slow his fall. He hit the sloping ground and began dry-surfing through the foliage, in and out, over and under, a quick-draw slalom through gates only he could see, going for the gold. Carving dirt, jumping rocks, grinding fallen trees, leaves and branches slapping him as he raced past, birds and small animals getting the hell out of his way as fast as they could. At one point there was a gap in the green, and when he glanced to the side, he saw a large flock of bats keeping pace with him. He came to a patch of ground that had a small ridge to it, and he used it to launch himself into the air, eyes closed. Everything around him was still, wind in his face, sun on his back. For an instant, he felt as if time had been suspended, and he could remain like this forever, feel like this forever. It was the closest to religion that he ever came, this sensation of being connected to something far larger than himself—wild, strong, primal. He was more fully himself in micro-moments like these—more complete—than at any other time.
Xander shot off an overhang, dropped through the air a dozen feet and landed on the roof of an old shack, sending up a cloud of dust. He kicked off his half-skis, slid over the edge of the roof, and dropped to the ground. A gang of local kids were waiting for him there, and one boy came forward. He held a homemade longboard with xXx painted on it, and he handed it to Xander with a grin. Xander grinned back, put the board on the ground, stepped on, and began skating down a narrow mountain road, accompanied by the sound of the kids cheering him on. As he raced down the long, twisting road, he checked the time on his phone once more. This was going to be close…
Xander didn’t need a speedometer to know how fast he was going. He knew speed the same way other people knew their own reflection.
45 mph.
55 mph.
65 mph.
Faster, faster, faster.
He took turns without slowing down, crouching low, leaning through the hairpins, hands working as rudders, his metal gloves sending up sparks from the pavement.
He came to an area with several small shops, and the locals chased after him yelling and cheering.
“Ex, Ex, Ex!”
The road leveled off here, and he began to slow down. He latched into the driver’s side door of a passing car. The window was down, and the driver—an old man—looked at him, startled.
“Mi Pana, dame un chance.”
The man broke out in a broad grin and gave Xander a high five, then he whipped his car around a corner, pulling Xander with him.
The instant they rounded the corner, Xander saw the road sloped downhill once more, and the car picked up speed, Xander along with it. Xander was about to thank his benefactor, release his grip on the car, and continue on down alone, when he saw a massive dump truck chugging up the hill toward them, the vehicle so large it took up the entire road, which hadn’t been all that wide to begin with. Xander didn’t panic, though. Instead, a deep calm settled on him, a zen-like meditative state. He hadn’t felt this relaxed, this centered, in months.
I gotta record this, he thought.
The driver of the car pressed down on his brake, giving Xander an apologetic look. Xander told him it was no problem, thanked him for the assist, and pushed away from the vehicle. He rolled downhill toward the dump truck, picking up speed quickly. The driver of the truck laid on his horn as a warning—as if Xander could possibly have missed seeing the huge fucking thing. He crouched down on his board, reached into his backpack, pulled out his GoPro and hit RECORD. He held the device selfie-style as he rocketed toward the truck.
Just as he was about to hit the vehicle head-on, Xander swerved and—after catching a glimpse of the driver’s terrified face—he zipped around the passenger side of the truck, the wheels of his board less than a half-inch from the road’s edge, his body even closer to the vehicle. Then he was past and racing downhill unimpeded once more.
