Machine State

by Brad C Scott

  “Connor gave him something. Maybe the datastick from that detective.”

  Leeds strides away from the tables and toward the back entrance as Montoya leads his entourage toward the front.

  Patton, do you copy? I send via thoughtspeak. Our targets are on the move. Christopher Leeds is moving for the back, Connor Montoya and three associates toward the front.

  No response through the link. I can only hope some of that got through.

  Leeds passes out of sight into the kitchen area.

  “Come on,” I say, shoving a last bite into my mouth.

  Throwing some money on the table, we get up and head toward the back entrance. Leaving the columned dining area behind, we enter the kitchen and service areas. Some of the staff give us quizzical looks, but we’ll be gone before they can report us. Leeds exits the room’s far side, blonde head bobbing out of sight. I lead us through past white-aproned chefs busy at their counters, clouds of smoke wafting around us.

  A tuxedoed bouncer steps into our path. “Sir, you’re not allowed back here.”

  “It’s OK,” I say, hands raised, squeezing by him before he can fully interpose himself. “We want to see the rest of the tunnels.”

  “Sir, you’ll need to head back to the restaurant.”

  “I’m sorry, but I thought this area was open to the public?”

  “As I said, sir, head back. Now.” He reaches one hand into his jacket.

  I’m about to lay him out when he stumbles back, a pale arm snaking around his neck. Grimacing over his shoulder, Sam sets the stranglehold as the bouncer flails ineffectively. After a few seconds, his eyes roll up and he stops moving. Sam pushes him aside.

  “Come on, we’re losing him,” she says, getting her feet under her and moving past me.

  We continue down the stone corridor, the sounds of conversation and violin strains fading behind us. Leeds is some distance ahead, barely discernible in the inconstant lighting of white and blue bulbs hanging every ten meters or so. The clicking of Sam’s heels becomes a muddle of clacking and low feminine cursing as she stumbles a few times over the rough-hewn floor. Pausing, she pulls off her shoes, determined to go barefoot over the cold stone.

  “Keep going,” she hisses.

  We travel on in silence and reach a stone crossroads where four tunnels meet. Pausing, we hear footsteps receding down a passage that wasn’t on our schematics – he’s going for an exit we didn’t know about. Pulling my stub pistol, I motion Sam to stay behind me as we enter the tunnel and pick up the pace. Leeds appears ahead of us, moving fast. He knows we’re on his tail.

  Patton, I thoughtspeak, we’re pursuing Leeds north down a tunnel we didn’t know about.

  Under… standing by… quire, comes the response. His signal’s clearing up, but not enough – we’re still on our own with no way of knowing whether Sam’s team will acquire Leeds. They’re posted outside the rear entrance we knew about, so maybe not.

  Leeds disappears around a corner about twenty meters ahead. Hustling up, we enter a rough-hewn chamber with a pool of black water to one side. No sight of Leeds, only the sound of ascending steps on metal rungs issuing from an opening ahead.

  “Don’t move, hands in the air,” comes a voice from the shadows.

  I freeze in place, stub pistol pointed at the deck while glancing around. Stepping forth from deep shadows on one side of the chamber are two men dressed in head-to-toe black combat armor. Both hold ATAC rifles, one pointed at me, the other at Sam.

  “That’s right,” says one. “No sudden moves. Drop the piece.”

  By the way they got the drop on us and how they move, they’re pros. They’ve left us no good options. Sighing, I drop the pistol and raise my hands. How the hell could I be so stupid?

  “What do you want?” I ask.

  “For you to be patient,” says the merc.

  A few moments later, the sound of steps ascending on metal is followed by the creak of a grate being opened. Then closed.

  “Head back the way you came,” he says.

  “Who are you? Who do you work for?”

  “You have a choice: you can leave the way you came and live, or I can answer your questions and you can die. Which is it?”

  “Come on,” I say, stepping backward and grabbing Sam’s hand to draw her with me.

  “Don’t think about coming back,” says the merc. “The woman will suffer if you do.”

  We edge away. When we get around a bend, I push Sam ahead of me, urging her to hurry as I bring up the rear. We get some distance between them and us.

  “Those men belonged to Leeds,” she says.

  “And they were ready for us, had us dead to rights. So why didn’t they?”

  “We’ll figure it out later,” she says, voice throaty with anger. “We need to hurry.”

  I stop and take her wrist, turn her to face me. “Are you OK?”

  A fierce light burns in her eyes, but not a shred of fear. “Fine. We need to get out of here and pick up his trail. He’s not escaping me again.”

  CHAPTER 24

  “He’s in there?” I ask the DOD operator perched in the driver’s seat beside me. He nods and hands me a pair of night vision binoculars.

  I raise them to my eyes and sight in through the van’s windshield at the darkened structure up the road. In there is a broken-down church from a bygone era, a redbrick relic whose steep, cross-gabled roof seems a hair’s breadth from collapse into its lightless interior. Chiseled gaps riddle the walls of what must be the nave, while a section of the transept big enough for four men abreast provides its own rubble-strewn entrance. Holes pock the shingled canopy, and jagged shards of stained glass defy the otherwise perfect emptiness of the windows. Only the two towers flanking the front entrance retain any shred of dignity.

  “You’re kidding.” Unbelievable. The murderous assholes using an abandoned church as their FOB. A graveyard slumps beyond it, tombstones pale in the mist-muted moonlight. I lower the binoculars. Maybe that graveyard can see some use, too.

  “Not on the job,” says the operator. “Leeds entered six minutes ago with two men, professionals. Unless he’s got an underground exit, he’s in there.”

  Thirty minutes after Leeds gave us the slip in the tunnels of Gatekeeper, here we are, target reacquired. At our call, the two operators posted near the rear entrance redeployed in time to catch sight of the van he used to make his getaway. With Gypsy’s eyes in the sky, they tailed him as he led them on a circuitous route intended to identify pursuit. Beneath an overpass, Leeds and two of his men ditched and jumped into another car while the driver kept the van going, a move to throw off watching satellites and drones. Sam’s people kept on them, though. They say that Leeds didn’t make them. My gut says otherwise.

  “What about stealth tech?” asks Evans from a seat in back.

  “It’s possible,” admits the operator, “but he’d still have to be good to get by us.”

  “Really good,” mutters Sam from the back, “Gypsy’s got overwatch.”

  Problem is, Leeds is better than good. If he knew we were following him – and I’d lay good money he does – then he wouldn’t have come here without an escape plan. But why did he come here? To regroup and catch some sack time? Or to hand off the datastick he obtained from Connor and the corrupt detective? But with what data, and who would he be handing it off to?

  Patton, I send via thoughtspeak, also on overwatch high overhead, status?

  The two men who accompanied Leeds are within the target structure at ground level, positioned with sightlines on the exterior approaches. Both appear vigilant. My scans cannot penetrate to the undercroft, accessible via an interior stairwell near the main entrance.

  Any drone support or explosives? I ask.

  Negative within my scanning range. Given the nature of our foes, I estimate a high probability that security countermeasures are in place in the undercroft.

  I twist in the passenger seat to face Sam. “How’s it coming?”

&nb
sp; “Almost there,” she says, face lit by the amber glow of the control pad in her lap, hands manipulating its surface to guide our spy drone inside. “Descending the stairwell now.”

  Evans, hard suited up and cradling her rifle, meets my eyes and raises a questioning eyebrow. I give her a subtle nod and shrug my shoulders. Our luck’s been good so far, but it might be asking too much for it to hold.

  “How soon until the rest of your team arrives?” I ask.

  “ETA in five,” says the operator.

  That should beat us, then – our rapid response team is a good ten minutes out. Hawk and Daniels await their arrival at a staging area staked out a few blocks north. We’ll have a tac team ready for insertion if Leeds led us to Krayge or another high-value target. If not, we’ll hang back in hopes that continuing to tail Leeds will pay dividends.

  “There, see?” says Sam to Evans, seated beside her as both peer at the drone control pad.

  Clambering aft, I take the jump seat on Sam’s other side.

  The control pad’s screen displays a night-vision-green corridor of water-stained walls and peeling paint. Light streams from an open doorway near the hall’s end. Sam touches the screen and it switches to a thermographic read, the bright lines of electric eye beams shown crossing the corridor at various heights. A small window displays the facility’s schematics, created by the drone in real-time as it progresses. Along the bottom, small icons with updating numbers flash.

  “Does that mean he’s got drones?” I ask, pointing at one.

  “Yes,” says Sam. “Analysis of EM signal patterns and strength isn’t precise, but it gives us an idea. He’s got a couple of sentries down there.”

  “Will they detect the spy?”

  “If I’m not careful.”

  The feed shows the drone hovering forward while ascending and descending to avoid the eye beams. Even with active camouflage, it can set them off. Motion detectors, too, if it makes any sudden moves. All at once, the light from the doorway ahead diminishes.

  “Someone’s coming,” I say.

  Sam maneuvers the drone into an open doorway, quickly scanning the room – an old classroom judging by the desks scattered about – before setting it down on the brick-dust-covered floor facing the corridor. Moments later, a man strides by, heading for the exits.

  “Can you back that up?” I ask.

  “Already on it.” Sam manipulates the controls, backtracking the feed and freezing to show a side view of a familiar face. “Leeds is heading out.”

  “Damn. Alright, keep going, we need to see inside the room he came from.”

  The drone rises and hovers back into the corridor, continuing its slow progression. Arriving at the lit doorway, Sam deactivates night vision and has it peek in.

  The shadows of four men vie with the native darkness of the cellar to obscure the box-laden shelves against the walls. Three hunch together over a holomap console in the room’s center, the amber glow from its 3D rendering of downtown St. Louis the primary source of light. The one in the middle has his back to us, the two to either side sharing looks that expose their side profiles. Swarthy skin, hooked noses, dark beards and hair: jihadists. The fourth man – white, male, mid-30s – leans over a laptop on a table to one side, fingers flying over the keys. An electric lantern hanging from a coat hook reveals a weapons rack bolted to one wall with a selection of small arms. Weapons enough for ten men, maybe more.

  “Can you bring it in closer?” I say.

  “How will it go unnoticed?” comes the voice of one of the jihadists over the audio feed.

  “The scanners, they will pick it up,” says the other.

  The drone moves in behind the man standing apart, allowing us to glimpse what he’s working on. The laptop’s screen displays architectural schematics, a pre-war building by the look of it, but which? Before I can ask Sam to zoom in, one of the control pad’s icons starts flashing as the audio feed registers the faint pinging of an audible alarm.

  “We’ve been made,” says Sam, circling a finger over the control pad to rotate the drone toward the holomap console and the trio grouped around it.

  The figure in the middle turns and looks over, dead black eyes coming to rest on the spy drone. Krayge. “So they will,” he says with a cold smile. He lifts a hand and the drone feed terminates, the screens on the control pad going dark.

  “They zapped it,” says Sam, tossing the pad aside.

  First Redeemer, thoughtspeaks Patton, Leeds has exited the undercroft onto the ground floor of the church. What are your orders?

  Stand by. From the look on Sam’s face, Gypsy’s just relayed the same to her.

  “Ma’am,” says the operator in the driver’s seat, “Bravo two is requesting permission to engage.” That would be the other operator, perched in a building near the church with eyes on.

  Sam cuts eyes at me and nods. Evans stares, eyes eager.

  “We’re taking them now,” I say. “Weapons free, but we need Leeds alive, apprehend only. Sam, your team is on Leeds, mine will take the undercroft.”

  Sam turns and speaks to the operator as I roll the side door open and step out, Evans jumping out and closing the door behind us. “Evans, let Hawk know we’re moving in and to stand by – he’ll be coordinating backup once rapid response arrives.”

  “On it,” she says as I pull my SWAT pistol and hustle toward the church.

  Patton, I thoughtspeak, we’re moving on the target. Sam’s team will handle Leeds, we’ll breach after. Krayge’s inside with three men and unknown drone support. I’ll need you to move in and clear the road for us, but I want Krayge alive.

  Understood.

  Pistol in a two-handed draw, I jog down the two-lane road while keeping close to the derelict cars lining one side. Starlight and a half moon provide the only illumination, the streets in this neglected suburb unlit, the houses dark and likely deserted. A dog barks in the distance, the chirp of crickets rises and fades. Almost there now, the vague outline of the church towers looming larger as my breath quickens with my pulse, the misty air cool on my cheeks. They’ll have a hard time spotting our approach, even with night vision. But it won’t stay dark for long.

  Floodlights blink on, bathing the entrance and front steps of the church to expose two men in black combat armor: the two that held up Sam and me. One goes to a knee, scanning the street with his ATAC rifle, while the other puts his shoulder against a column and sights up at Gypsy, descending from on high, thruster flaring and whining as she arrests her fall.

  “Put your weapons down and surrender!” she blares, amplified voice mechanized with menace. “Comply, or you will be met with lethal force!”

  The stutter and flash of automatic fire is the only response as the merc braced against the column empties his mag into her, a foolish move unless he takes out her sensors. Rounds spark and ping off her golden fuselage, dealing minimal damage but managing to nail one of her floodlights and halve her illumination. The crack of a rifle ends his salvo – hit in the chest, he jerks back and slumps over, out of the fight. The other merc twists and directs suppressing fire in the direction the shot came from while side-stepping toward the vehicle at the curb.

  A third figure comes hurtling out of the darkness toward the parked sedan – Leeds, who must have exited out the side. Evans could take him down, but we want him alive. Stopping fifty meters out, I switch to stunshock and sight in as Leeds gets around to the driver’s side. My shot misses as Leeds ducks down, aware of us. I shoot again, but Leeds yanks the door open and jumps in before I can nail him, electroshock energy dissipating over the car’s exterior.

  The merc ceases fire as he reaches the passenger side, pivoting and yanking open the door. Another crack and he’s hit in the torso, body lurching against the door, but the tough bastard manages to hold onto his weapon and tumbles into the side seat.

  “Come on!” I shout.

  Evans and I sprint forward as Leeds pulls the sedan away, tires screeching. Gypsy stays on him as he drives
away, floodlight trained on the car. Good, Sam’s team can handle him from here. As we make the curb fronting the church, her van careens past in pursuit.

  Patton descends in front of us, floodlights activating to bathe the front steps and church entryway in argent illumination. A quick check of the merc downed by the operator reveals he’s still alive but unconscious.

  “Lead us in!” I shout. “Epsilon protocol!” Meaning: fast and dirty.

  Wings retracting and thruster whining, Patton surges through the main entrance. Evans and I hustle in his wake, weapon lights activated, as he sweeps his floodlight and sensors around the interior of the nave – leaning pews and twisted ceiling fragments extend their shadows into the dark void of the chancel – before hovering to the stairwell and descending. The stairs creak under our weight, the walls and ceiling a yellow and beige ruin of stained plaster and peeling paint. Reaching the undercroft, he hovers up and around a corner, weapons racks activating to thunder rail rounds down the corridor we saw on the spy drone’s feed. A single burst of return fire ablates off his skin. Fire ceasing, he moves on.

  “Two sentry drones neutralized,” he says. “No other drones detected.”

  Following him into the corridor, we pass by the sparking remnants of the two drones, both holed by precision rail fire. Sentry drones are good for anti-personnel, not anti-material. The lack of tacticals is surprising – Krayge must not have been expecting our kind of company.

  Patton squeezes into the room where we saw our targets gathered. Following, we find it empty. No, not empty. Moving up past him, I go to a knee and check the two bodies on the floor: both of the jihadists, dead, blood and cranial fluid leaking from the holes in their heads. But no sign of their killers.

  “Krayge was here with one other man,” I say.

  “Scanning,” says Patton, rotating in place as Evans watches back down the corridor. “No life signs within range, First Redeemer.”

  What the hell? How could we miss him? “He’s got an escape route. Check the other rooms.” As Evans exits, I move about, running my weapon light over the walls, floor, ceiling, everywhere. Sparking from the laptop catches my eye, the one with the architectural schematics – they fried it, so we probably won’t get anything off it. When I fiddle with the switches on the deactivated holomap console, nothing happens – they must have fried it, too. Think, Malcolm: Krayge must have a secret entrance. My darting eyes stop on the gun rack mounted on the wall – it covers about a three by five section. Going over, I run my fingers around the edges and, there, what feels like a recessed handle. Pulling, the gun rack pivots out to expose a rough-hewn opening about two feet wide. A dark, earthen tunnel extends beyond.