Into Twilight

by P. R. Adams

  Into Twilight

  P R Adams

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or otherwise, without written permission from the author.

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  INTO TWILIGHT

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  Copyright © 2017 P R Adams

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  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.

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  Cover by Justin Adams

  www.variastudios.com

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Also by P R Adams

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by P R Adams

  For updates on new releases and news on other series, visit my website and sign up for my mailing list at:

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  http://www.p-r-adams.com

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  Books in the On The Brink Universe

  The Stefan Mendoza Trilogy

  Into Twilight

  Gone Dark (2018)

  End State (2018)

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  The Rimes Trilogy

  Momentary Stasis

  Transition of Order

  Awakening to Judgment

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  The ERF Series

  Turning Point

  Valley of Death

  Jungle Dark (2017)

  The Burning Sands Trilogy

  Beneath Burning Sands

  Across Burning Sands

  Beyond Burning Sands (2017)

  The Chain

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  The Chain: Shattered

  The Journey Home

  Rock of Salvation

  From the Depths

  Ever Shining

  For Michael. Enjoy your second infinity.

  Chapter 1

  The shakes had me bad. They always did when shit was about to get real. I got up from the bed, felt the warmth of the silk-smooth hotel bedspread transition to coolness. The air conditioner droned, struggling against my anxious heat. My clothes—brown button-down shirt, gray slacks, grayer wool socks—clung to my skin. The Koreans handled the humidity so much better. As if I didn’t already feel like a foreigner: my maternal grandfather’s six-foot-tall, thick-chested frame; my father’s black hair, pale brown eyes, and faintly copper-brown skin; my maternal grandmother’s pronounced nose, broken during Krav Maga sparring gone a little too far.

  Foreigner, definitely.

  I parted the curtains. The street below coiled between the business park’s diamond-bright towers. The sky was gunmetal gray, burned through to the west by an acetylene torch sun. To the north, ash-white smoke blew out to sea, the ghost of old Seoul. Towering robot vehicles carried radioactive debris scraped from the heart of the ruins to the harbor in Incheon, passing them on to robot ships, which smothered the remnants of the once-grand city in concrete before depositing everything in the depths of the Philippine Sea.

  How many millions had died in the desperate nuclear blast the North Koreans had finally delivered in a futile attempt to avert defeat? No more than were vaporized in Pyongyang and Hamhung in the retaliatory strike, certainly. And how many had died in the subsequent depression? Too many.

  My data device vibrated at the same moment I heard a chime from the speakers grafted to the bone behind my ears, then a voice. It was distant chatter until I tapped the fine mesh that was a second skin running across my right palm to crank up the volume.

  Even before I heard the voice or saw the identity on the inside of my shades, I knew it was Stovall. Brady Stovall, Agency operator, mission head, and man of his own dreams.

  I tapped again, keying the mic built into my shades. “What?”

  Stovall’s face filled the lenses. Handsome, with curly brown hair, a cleft chin, and washed-out blue eyes, he’d had a rough life and it showed. “Stefan, we need to talk.” It came out all earnest and smarmy. Typical Stovall.

  “So talk.” I hated dealing with him, the entitled little prince. He hated dealing with me, the know-it-all hick from Idaho.

  “If something happens, I want you to have Jacinto ride on Danny’s connection.”

  “What, run the drones?” I chuckled in disbelief.

  Jacinto de Guzman was my Gridhound, what some liked to call a hacker. Second-generation Filipino American. He was a shady little fuck who was becoming shadier and less reliable by the day—too many drugs and who knew what else. And I was running out of patience with his dismissiveness when stress hit. He had a big head and skinny body, greasy black hair, dark gold skin with tattoos and piercings, and he liked to dress in a black leather jacket and pants, even when it drew unwanted attention.

  Danny. That was Danny Chowla, my sniper. Former Marine, ace sniper, expert drone operator, and about as laid back as a human could be. Until it was go time. Then he became the one person you wanted watching you from the sky. To those who didn’t know him, he was a lean guy with a big nose and twitchy brown eyes, someone who could be Arab or Indian or maybe even Hispanic like me. But get on the wrong side of him, and he could drop you with a right hook you never saw coming. Or take your head off with a sniper round. I kept him separated from Jacinto normally. It was the only way to keep the little shit alive.

  “Danny won’t buy it,” I said.

  “He will if you pitch it to him. Sell it as a good training exercise for Jacinto.”

  “Is it? He can barely keep up with everything going on in the Grid anymore.”

  Stovall sighed—imperious, condescending. “He’s still the best you’re going to find.”

  “I’m thinking I’ll start exploring my options when we get back to the States.”

  “Always so sure you’ll come out alive. You know the odds of anyone reaching fifty doing what you do are less than ten percent. Every mission, your odds go down. That’s got to worry you.”

  I wanted to track Stovall’s location in the hotel, kick in his door, and punch his teeth in. One day. “I don’t need to reach fifty, Stovall.”

  “Oh, right, right. I forgot. Saving up for retirement. How’d you do after the market crash?” He snorted. “You’re just another unmarked grave outside a prison compound. That’s all people like you are any good for.”

  “That and pulling the trigger to keep precious little princes like you from dirtying your chickenshit hands meddling in foreign affairs. One day, this is all going to come back around and bite us in the—”

  The chime again. Jacinto this time. I added him to the call.

  “Movement in the Grid.” Jacinto sounded dulled by something very illegal.

  The disagreement with Stovall would have to wait. “What do you see?”

  “Rhee. Moving toward the elevato
r.” Jacinto’s breath caught. “Bodyguards. Full entourage. This is it. Vehicles moving into position outside the lobby.”

  “Feed the channel.” I stroked my palm with the pattern to mute and open a text to Stovall, then dictated: We’ll finish this later.

  He texted back: Deploy, but maintain a safe distance. Remember to have Jacinto run the drone.

  I disconnected Stovall and came off mute. “Looks like the team’s getting the feed now.” I pulled a display sliver from my pants pocket: clear plastic, palm-sized, flimsy. The circuit fabric came to life, turned rigid, and slowly built out a merged image culled from security video feeds, commercial Grid traffic, and our own drone data. A simulacrum of Rhee stepped into the elevator on the thirtieth floor, joined by seven other people, six of them dangerous-looking. Black suits and ties, black sunglasses, shoulder holsters, barely perceptible scars on hands and jaws where cyber-implants had been inserted.

  PSS. Presidential Secret Service. Another team would be in the lobby, a third waiting with the vehicles.

  “Any sign of Yuh’s team, Jacinto?”

  Yuh Hyun-kyung. Chinese-trained North Korean assassin. Terrorist. Person of interest. I flipped the display sliver over and scanned through the bots Jacinto had hunting down Yuh. All green.

  Jacinto got out a half syllable, but my attention was on the feed, where a signal had crept toward amber. I tapped it, and the data stream turned into a summary. A van and two cars—boxy Kias, rentals—were heading south on the Dongbu Expressway.

  “We have a potential.” I drilled down into a detailed view. “Dongbu Expressway. Rentals flagged as questionable. Possible Yuh connections. Headed south. Nine minutes and closing.”

  The display sliver powered down and went back into my pants pocket as I peeled my raincoat from the desk chair and hurried to the elevator, re-keying to speak to the team. “We’re live. Jacinto, Clemens needs—”

  “On his way to the garage. Danny, too.”

  “Good. Steal whatever bandwidth you need. I want constant updates.”

  Jacinto snorted. “Riding government priority channels. Feeds will be live.”

  “You have your door secure?” For someone so aware of computers and signals precautions, he was notoriously weak on physical security.

  “Yeah.”

  “Braced with a chair?”

  “I’m good.” A growl, like he thought it was intimidating.

  I narrated a text to Danny as I hurried into the elevator lobby: Special request today. Play nice with Jacinto. Let him tool around in your drone. Just have a kill switch ready for his connection.

  Danny replied as only he could: Sure. Kill switch.

  I connected to the whole team. “I want two vehicles. Clemens, get the gear ready.”

  “On my way, yeah? Danny, he will get his gear and head to the perch at the Samsung Tower construction site.” The big Swede huffed as he spoke over the echoes of hurried, booming steps; he was in a stairwell. Danny would be in the lead, long legs and arms pumping.

  Norimitsu held the elevator door for me. Skintight black pullover shirt, slightly looser black pants, mirror sunglasses—he was compact, and the clothing made him seem even smaller. It was all misleading. He was quick and wiry strong. Bright elevator lights drained color and vigor from his golden skin, thinned slicked-back black hair, and creased his squarish face with wrinkles. Sweat sheened his forehead.

  “Trouble?”

  “Ichi.” He set a forest green gym bag on the elevator floor and tugged black grip gloves on as the doors closed.

  I bowed my head. “Fighting with Tae-hee again?”

  Norimitsu lifted the gym bag; it was perfectly centered. “The child knows no discipline and does not respect her mother.”

  “Sixteen. Tough age.”

  The slight tilt of Norimitsu’s head said I was taking the wrong tack.

  “You said she was doing well with her training.”

  “The problem is with her academic studies. It will be resolved when I return to Miyoshi.” He sucked in a breath, then said, “Sharks eat their young.”

  I smiled. Children were a distraction, but he was in the moment now. They left me perplexed and always wondering how the human race survived. Ichi was a good kid, but she was old enough now to think she knew it all. And then there was the unspoken stigma of having a Korean mother.

  Tae-hee. The only person who could have ever threatened my friendship with Norimitsu.

  Norimitsu turned toward me slightly. “Traffic will be light.”

  “If Rhee’s convoy heads south, negotiations are done for the day. He’ll be heading for the Blue House.” If he headed north.

  The door opened, and I stepped back, allowing two runners in, each shouldering the other as they jockeyed for position. Roberto and Morena Porto, my drivers. Our Brazilian twins, decked out in charcoal gray pants and royal blue windbreakers. They sported the same hairdo: shoulder-length, styled to soften their square jaws. Mirror shades rested on wide, bronze noses beneath thick, black eyebrows.

  I needed the more disciplined of the two. “Morena, you take lead with me.”

  Her thick lips curled down in disappointment. “You say he heads south?”

  “If he heads south.”

  We got off at the second floor and hurried toward the parking garage connection. The outside air was like running into a barrier. Three sports vehicles were parked just beyond the entrance, the body of each washed in waves of color—metallic green, sea green, brilliant orange blossom. Animated designs shifted: a dragon, a jet, a cheetah. Hidden behind concrete support beams deeper in, our rides didn’t stand out as much. Silver Mitsubishi Sparrow cars with smooth curves and dangerous slopes that were remarkable only in the manufacturer. They hummed to life as we approached, now in pairs. The space just beyond the vehicles had earlier held a Kawasaki Super-Ninja, a black-and-chrome indulgence that did not match our inconspicuous specs.

  It was typical Danny and worth it.

  Clemens crawled out of the back seat of the closer Sparrow, a black rectangular box in each hand. His wide face was dull, pasty, piled over by thick blond hair. His blue eyes were vacant, revealing nothing, like crystal. He tossed a box to me, the other to Norimitsu. The Swede jerked his head toward the cars as he looked the twins over. “Under the driver seats for yours,” he said.

  The twins didn’t break stride.

  I tapped a finger sensor, and the box unfurled into a shoulder holster with a Remington R60 automatic pistol. Pure ceramic composite construction, and un-chipped, they could pass through many detection systems, were immune to hacking, and couldn’t be traced to anyone. And they left control to the shooter. I slipped the holster on and let the strap’s smart material adjust until snug against my shirt, then pulled my coat on over.

  As I sank into the passenger seat next to Morena, I said, “Jacinto, status please.”

  “Convoy’s moving toward Dongbu.”

  Clemens grumbled as he slid in behind me. The Sparrow was advertised for four but meant for two. At nearly six-foot-four and 250, he was bigger than me and hating life.

  Something started to gnaw at the back of my mind. It’d been there but just a whisper until now. “Any imagery on those vehicles?”

  “Still searching the security cameras.” Jacinto was testy.

  Morena accelerated as we descended to the street below. Concrete and LED lights flashed past in a blur. I trusted her driving, but I had to close my eyes while we shot through the parking garage.

  “What about video from Dongbu?” I didn’t like pressing Jacinto, but the whisper was shifting to a scream.

  “Smoked windows.” The testiness was more obvious. “Backtracking. A minute.”

  Our Sparrow flitted through traffic, and I spotted the last of the convoy—big and black and immune to the smog and dust. “They’re heading south on Dongbu. Danny, you copy?”

  The Ninja’s roar was a muffled purr through Danny’s microphone. “Yeah, I’m pulling into the construction site. I’l
l keep an eye south. I’m moving the drones now.”

  Seconds sped by. We shifted lanes and shot up the on ramp as the light shifted to red. In the rearview, Roberto ran the red and struggled to avoid a banged-up SUV. Morena smirked. Sibling rivalry.

  I pulled the display sliver out again and set it against the palm of my left hand. The three rentals were two minutes out and closing fast.

  “Check Feed Four,” Jacinto said.

  I swiped and tapped and Feed Four came up. Not simulacra but actual video. Choppy but good resolution. Six people exited an apartment building. Scrawny, sickly. NoKos—North Koreans. Four men, two women. Dressed simply. Sunglasses. Three men hurried into the bowels beneath the apartment building, and the Kia van and cars appeared a few moments later.

  “Two people for a van that size?” I watched the video until the vehicles disappeared. My pulse ticked up. Something was definitely wrong. “What are the odds they could get their hands on explosives or materials to brew their own?”

  “Nope. All six on the watch list. Simple jobs—construction, delivery, robotics repair. They come near anything dangerous, they’re arrested.”

  “What about ramming? Could that van be heavy enough to knock these SUVs around?”