by Tim Waggoner
LONDON
Xander stood on a roof in the center of the city. The night air was a bit chilly, and there was a breeze, but he was more than warm enough in his trademark fur coat. It felt good to be wearing it again, almost like coming home.
Don’t start getting sentimental, he told himself. It’s just a coat. But then again, he did look damn good in it.
A pair of stunningly beautiful women armed with assault rifles and wearing black bikinis stood at the edge of a heated pool built into the roof. They looked like something out of an NRA member’s wet dream, but if either of them felt the cold, they didn’t show it. They appeared completely comfortable and relaxed, but Xander knew they were keeping a close eye on him, and if he did anything they didn’t liked, they’d shoot his dick off before he could blink. He wasn’t worried, though. He’d only come here to speak with an old friend—and ask for her help.
He smiled at the women. “I’m reminded of freediving the lakes off Prague.”
Neither of them responded, and their expressions didn’t change. For all the response they’d shown, they might not have heard him. Can’t blame a guy for trying, he thought.
The friend he’d come to visit was beneath the water, swimming through the blue with silent ease, as if she’d been born to it. After a couple moments, she broke the surface and climbed the steps out of the pool. She wore a black two-piece swimsuit that showed off her lithe body—along with the ankle monitor attached to one leg. Although she was no longer in the water, she still moved with the same elegant grace as she had in the pool. One of the armed women was waiting for her, and she held out a white cashmere robe.
Before the woman could take the robe, Xander said, “Allow me.”
The guard gave her employer a questioning look, and after a moment’s thought, she nodded, and the guard passed the robe to Xander. He stepped forward, slipped it on the woman, and walked around to embrace her. She hugged him back, but she pulled away from him after only a couple seconds.
“Hello, Ainsley,” he said. Her long blond hair was wet and hugged the contours of her shoulders and back. She had full lips that, as far as Xander knew, were naturally tinted red, and she possessed elegant, almost regal features. Her eyes were a dark cool blue—Atlantic Ocean blue, Xander thought—and they hinted at unknown depths within. A classical old-world beauty, she looked like she’d descended from a long line of noble blood, and who knows? Perhaps she had.
“X.” Her tone was cool and reserved, but Xander detected the undertone of affection in it.
He turned and looked out over the city. “I forgot how good the view is up here.”
“This kind of real estate is out of your price range, believe me. I see you’ve found your coat.”
“You said you’d take good care of it.”
“I did.”
Ainsley started toward a poolside cabana where two other women—also beautiful and also in bikinis—sat on a chaise lounge working behind glowing laptops. Xander followed. He removed an iPad from his coat and passed it to one of the women, who took it without looking at him and placed it on the seat beside her. On the screen were images from the New York break-in.
“I’m looking for someone,” he said.
“Since when have we ever had a business relationship?” Ainsley asked, sounding a bit irritated. “I get caught even touching a computer, my ass goes away for twenty.”
Ainsley King was one of the best hackers the world had ever seen, a virtuoso on a keyboard, a genius who understood software as if she had been born with a high-speed computer in place of a brain. Xander wouldn’t have been surprised if she had fiber-optic cable running through her body in place of a circulatory system. She used her skills in the employ of governments, corporations, and obscenely wealthy individuals. Her rates were sky-high, but she was worth it, and because of this she had become obscenely wealthy herself. Unfortunately, she fell into a trap set by Interpol. To avoid a lengthy prison stay, she accepted house arrest and twenty-four-hour monitoring, and agreed to provide data on some of her more… questionable clients to Interpol. As far as Xander knew, she hadn’t gone near a computer since, but she was the only one who could help him track down the thieves who’d stolen Pandora’s Box, and he needed her help. He quickly gave her a rundown of what had happened in New York.
When he was finished, he said, “Come on. Name your price. You know I’m good for it.”
“Oh, X, that’s adorable. Information like this doesn’t have a price.”
If money wasn’t going to motivate her, Xander thought, maybe appealing to her professional pride would. “If you don’t think you can find them—if you’ve lost your edge—just tell me. I’ll understand.”
She scowled at that, and Xander knew his jab had hit home.
“You want to know what it really is, Cage? I used to think you were The Man, but now maybe I’m worried that you’re just working for him.”
Ainsley’s counterpunch landed a solid hit. Xander wasn’t comfortable working with Marke, and he sure as hell didn’t trust the woman, not like he’d trusted Gibbons. He decided to play it off as a joke though. “Ouch. Now that’s hitting below the belt. Come on, no one knows I’m here, and you know how excellent I am at keeping a secret.”
He stepped a little closer to her and was gratified when she didn’t back away.
“So you say. But Interpol’s got these new listening bugs. Practically invisible, real MI5 kinda shit. Disappear under your skin, under your arms, tied around your balls like a Christmas bow.”
Xander grinned wide and took another step closer. Now there was less than an inch of space separating them. “So unwrap me then.”
Ainsley looked into his eyes, her expression unreadable. “Do you know that studies have proven sexual consummation irrevocably ruins nine out of ten relationships?”
“Lucky for me you love to gamble.”
“Of course…”
She leaned in to him, so close that her lips almost brushed his, but at the last instant she pulled back.
“…not,” she finished. “My friends, on the other hand, adore stiff odds.”
“Stiff odds? What does that—”
The two women in the cabana closed their laptops and slid them underneath the chaise. As they came toward Xander the two guards—their weapons stowed somewhere—entered the cabana. Without another word Ainsley picked up the tablet Xander had brought, pushed past him, and headed back for the pool while her four assistants began to “strip search” him. Xander smiled.
“Christmas comes earlier every year.”
* * *
The next morning Xander was putting on a black muscle shirt when one of his four companions stirred. Since the women—all naked—slept close together on the chaise, the movement of one disturbed the others. Xander thought they might wake, but they settled back down, and soon the quartet was sleeping deeply once more. Considering the workout they’d all had last night, he wouldn’t mind getting some more Z’s, but he wanted to see what Ainsley had turned up while her staff had kept him entertained—and vice versa. He finished dressing, gave the women a last look, and smiled.
“The things I do for my country—but I ain’t complaining. Take the rest of the day off, ladies.”
He left the cabana and went in search of Ainsley.
* * *
Ainsley had left a message for Xander to meet her at a coffee shop down the street called Balzac’s. Evidently her “house arrest” extended a bit further than most people’s. Either that was part of her deal with Interpol, or she’d tinkered with the monitoring device to increase its range.
Xander entered the shop and saw Ainsley sitting at a table near a window. He nodded to her then went to the counter to order.
“Excuse me,” he said, putting on a British accent, “can I have a cup of coffee? Black.”
“Sure,” the barista said. The woman poured his coffee and handed it to him.
“What do I owe you for that? Five quid?” Xander handed her the money.
“Keep the change.” He then joined Ainsley at the table, took off his coat, draped it over a chair, and sat down.
She shook her head. “Are you still taking the piss out of me with that accent? All these years, and you’re all over the place. Manchester meets Liverpool meets Newcastle meets who the hell knows where? Essex?”
Ainsley wore a sleeveless white top and black running pants with white stripes. Xander preferred the way she looked in a bikini, but he knew better than to mention it.
“As long as I don’t sound like I’m from Jersey,” he said.
“Oh, okay.” Ainsley said in a dead-on Jersey accent. “Yep.”
She took a sip of her tea and pushed a napkin across the table toward him. He saw there was an envelope hidden underneath.
“Like finding needles in a stack of needles,” she said. Her eyes were slightly red, and Xander knew she’d been up most of the night working on getting him the information he needed. She might be tired, but the pride she took in her success was clear in her voice.
“Even if you are shackled by the Queen, you’re the best in the world.” He reached for the napkin, but Ainsley pulled it back before he could take it.
“You know why no one else could find them?” she asked.
“Why?”
“They don’t exist—and they want to keep it that way. Do yourself a favor: take the envelope and burn it. The whispers I hear… These ghosts of yours are the real kind of trouble. They have training, funding, and absolutely no problem running over anyone who gets in their way.”
He smiled. “You worried about me getting hurt?”
“I’m worried about you getting dead,” she said bluntly.
“I’m really touched that you could picture the world without me in it, Ainsley.”
She shrugged. “It would be a little less fun is all I’m saying.”
“Thank you.” He reached over and took the napkin with the envelope it covered.
Ainsley took another sip of her tea. “At least we’ll finally answer the age-old question.”
“Which is what?”
“Who wins in a fight: immovable object or unstoppable force?”
Xander grinned. “Sister, if you don’t already know the answer, then you haven’t been paying attention.”
* * *
It had started raining while Xander was in the coffee shop with Ainsley, and now he walked down the sidewalk through pouring rain. A couple blocks from Balzac’s, an SUV pulled over the curb next to him. He climbed in the back seat where Marke was waiting for him and closed the door. The driver immediately pulled back into traffic and moved off. Xander handed her the piece of paper Ainsley had given him, and her eyes widened as she read it.
“Your ghosts are hanging in the Philippines,” he said. “Figures they’d go to the South Pacific, have a little jungle rave off the grid.”
Marke looked up from the paper and frowned at him. “How the hell did you find them so quickly?”
Xander smiled. “Undercover work.”
THE PHILIPPINES
Serena walked across an unnamed beach on an unnamed island. She wore a black sundress and sandals. The sky was the bluest of any she’d ever seen, and the clouds were so white they almost seemed to shine with their own internal light source. The water was a vivid blue-green, and the sand looked like powdered sugar. The temperature was in the mid-eighties, but with the breeze coming off the sea, it felt ten degrees cooler. It would’ve been the most beautiful place she had ever been, she thought, if it hadn’t been for the people. The beach was filled with gun runners and drug smugglers, all looking to enjoy themselves while laying low and hiding from whoever might be searching for them. Bricks of pot stoked campfires while island girls ran drinks down from a dilapidated temple up on a nearby hillside. The air was filled with shouting, cursing, laughing, and singing, but Serena ignored the chaos as she walked toward the pier. She wasn’t in any mood to be around a bunch of drunk and stoned assholes right now. She was royally pissed, and she wanted answers—now.
Xiang, wearing a white T-shirt and jeans, stood at the end of the pier, smoking a cigarette and looking out toward the horizon in quiet contemplation, as was his custom. Serena charged down the pier toward him, and while she was certain he heard her, he didn’t turn around as she approached. On the pier near his feet sat several coconuts, plastic straws sticking out of holes that had been chopped into their tops with machetes. People loved to open a fresh coconut and pour in rum to mix with the milk inside. It made for a tasty drink.
“Where is it?” she demanded.
Xiang didn’t bother asking what it was or pretending he didn’t know what she was talking about. “In a safe place.”
Serena’s hands balled into fists, and it took every bit of control she had not to take a swing at Xiang. “That wasn’t part of the plan.”
“After all these years together, you’re still shocked when I improvise?”
“No, but the mission was to destroy it.”
Now Xiang turned to face her. He paused to take a drag on his cigarette and answered as he exhaled smoke. “Turns out there’s a new mission.”
“Really? The whole world is looking for us, Xiang.”
“Let them come. The greatest warrior the world has ever known was killed with a pebble. Imagine what we can do with a rock. You’re worried about the pawn sacrifice, but I got my eye on the King.”
He turned back toward the ocean, as if he considered the matter settled. Serena was far from finished, though. Pandora’s Box wasn’t merely a piece of super-sophisticated tech. It was evil, and no good could ever come of it, regardless of who used it or their motivation for doing so. She’d worked with Xiang for a long time now, and she not only trusted him, she respected him. But he could get tunnel vision when he was focused on a goal—especially if it was a cause he believed in. That focus made him one of the best at what he did, but it sometimes blinded him to the potential consequences of his choices. And once he had his mind set on a course of action, it was almost impossible to convince him to alter his plan.
She looked at Xiang’s back, and with only an instant’s hesitation, she drew her Glock.
“That’s the problem—you forgot about the Queen.”
She fired three rounds in rapid succession. But instead of putting bullets into Xiang, she blasted the discarded coconuts near his feet. They exploded into pieces, some of which landed on the pier, some of which flew into the water, and some of which struck Xiang’s legs. He hadn’t flinched as she fired, and now he took another drag on his cigarette, seemingly unconcerned.
Having made her point, Serena holstered her Glock, turned, and walked away.
This isn’t over, she thought. Not by a long shot.
RAF WELFORD, BERKSHIRE
Marke led Xander through a crowded terminal where NSA agents worked double-time to pack gear and equipment. Royal Air Force Welford was located approximately fifty miles west-southwest of London. During World War II, both the Royal Air Force and the United States Army Air Forces used the base primarily as a transport airfield. It was closed in 1946 and reopened during the Cold War by the US, who used it as a munitions depot. Presently, it served the United States as one of the largest heavy munitions sites in Western Europe. At least, that was the official story. From what Xander had seen since they’d arrived, it looked like Welford also served as a staging area for US intelligence operations in Europe.
Marke kept up a steady stream of words as they walked.
“Following your success taking down Anarchy 99, Gibbons leveraged the Triple-X program into a black-books, Congress-adjacent operation. Triple-X disrupted the status quo, saved millions of lives, and eventually got to the point where Gibbons earned a blank check. Which is a long way of saying, he got you a new ride.”
Marke led Xander outside, the sun blinding him for a second. He shielded his eyes, and his vision adjusted to reveal a Boeing C-17 Globemaster III sitting on the runway.
“I liked my old ride better, my GTO
,” Xander said.
Marke gave him a wry smile and the two of them headed toward the large military transport craft. Despite what he’d said, Xander was impressed. The C-17 was used for transporting troops and cargo around the world, as well as performing tactical and strategic airlift missions. Gibbons must’ve really impressed the hell out of the bigwigs in Washington in the years since Xander had been gone if they let him have the kind of money a plane like this cost.
Marke resumed her monologue as they walked up a ramp and entered the cargo bay.
“The world got an upgrade since you died, Cage. This bird has on-board drones, anti-air counter-measures, and fuel tanks big enough to circumnavigate the globe three times without ever landing.”
Marke paused to remove her coat and handed it to a nearby soldier. Today, she wore a stark black suit instead of the white he’d seen her in earlier. Xander wondered what the woman had against colors. Maybe he’d have to pick up a few tie-dyed T-shirts for her. Marke started toward the stairwell that led to the C-17’s upper level, but she stopped and turned back to look at Xander.
“You can check your beloved coat. I promise no one will dare steal it. Of course, I can’t guarantee it won’t get up and walk away on its own.” She raised her voice to call out orders to the crew. “Wheels up in ten, boys, which means you’re already seven minutes behind.”
Marke mounted the stairs and started up them as everyone scurried to get back to work and make sure the C-17 was ready to take off when she wanted and not a second later. Xander caught the eye of the nearest crewmember.
“She always this fun or only on special occasions?”
* * *
Xander followed Marke up into the C-17’s Command Center. The interior of the craft was jam-packed with the latest NSA tech, all the toys Xander might’ve wished for when he was fourteen years old. Hell, he’d like to play with some of this shit now. Everywhere he looked, he saw screens streaming data and more controls than a thousand game consoles put together. Techs sat at workstations, fingers flying across consoles with the speed and dexterity of master musicians pushing their instruments to the limit and beyond.
