Relentless

by Jonathan Maberry

  “He took a boat,” he said. “Don’t know how long ago. Pretty sure he took the cigarette boat we saw in the satellite photos. And you’re telling me you can’t find a fifty-nine-foot racing boat on a sea as small as the Adriatic? It’s what? Only five hundred miles long and one-twenty wide? How’s that even possible?”

  “Satellites aren’t in geostationary orbit, Pappy,” said Scott Wilson, speaking from the TOC five hundred miles away. “We retasked a CIA eye in the sky to sync up with your infiltration, but it’s necessarily moved on.”

  “All due respect, Grendel,” said Top, using Wilson’s call sign, “but you can shove that answer where the sun don’t shine. Outlaw’s on a boat in the Adriatic. You telling me we have no assets that can find him? I don’t want to hear that bullshit.”

  “Calm down,” began Wilson, but Top cut him off.

  “Don’t you fucking tell me to calm down,” snarled Top. “Tell me you can find him. The man has an RFID chip, for god’s sake. So does his dog.”

  “Those chips went inactive thirty-seven minutes after Havoc Team entered the mansion,” said Scott, his tone patient but not contrite. “Unknown yet whether he removed the chips or is using a Faraday wrap on them.”

  Faraday wraps—like Faraday cages and bags—were sophisticated tech that nullified all electronic signals. Each member of the team carried them to secure devices taken from targets. The wraps were used to blank out RFID chips implanted in hostiles they apprehended. RTI policy forbade any team member from using them to shield their own telemetry. Those chips sent a continuous signal even if the host died.

  “Or,” continued Wilson, his tone as dour as an undertaker’s, “Bug thinks there’s even a chance Ledger may have used a Lightning Bug. Some of the island’s perimeter security and electronics went out shortly after Ledger left the building. And I’m not talking about the stuff Andrea took out during the mission. Ledger may have deliberately killed his own RFID. I’ve told the cleanup team to look for evidence.”

  Top looked up at the sky for a long moment, then rubbed his eyes. “Then how do we find him?” he asked wearily.

  Instead of a direct answer from Wilson, a new voice came on the line.

  “Pappy,” said Mr. Church, “we’re on a confidential line, just the two of us.”

  “Sir,” said Top.

  “Tell me exactly what happened. Be as detailed and precise as you can.”

  Top took a breath and then gave his report. He left nothing out and included his conjectures about Joe Ledger’s crumbling mental state. He mentioned that Ledger had reported seeing someone in the woods, and then mentioned “Dad” later on. Church listened without interruption.

  “We thought it was Rage,” said Top. “With Outlaw, I mean. He didn’t go after us, though. But … even so, maybe I should have hit him with Sandman just to be safe. This is on me.”

  “You can secure that line of thinking right now, Pappy,” said Church sternly. “This is not on you. On any of you. End of discussion. Now … did Outlaw say anything before he left?”

  “No, sir. I told him to go outside and get some air, and he did.”

  “And you think he went straight to the pier and took a boat?”

  “Yes, sir. Followed his footprints here. His and Ghost’s. I’ll retrace those steps to see if there’s a spent Dragonfly. Either way, he’s gone. My guess is he used the sound of the choppers to cover the boat’s engine noise.”

  Church was silent for a long time, but Top knew him well enough to understand that the big man was thinking things through. So he waited as the sun clawed its way over the horizon and turned the black waters to a sea of blood.

  “Pappy,” said Church, “I need you to listen very closely to what I have to say. You may not like it and doubtless won’t agree that this is the right play, but it’s what I feel is best.”

  “Already don’t like the sound of it,” Top admitted glumly.

  “Let him go,” said Church.

  “Say again?”

  “You heard me. You and the rest of Havoc finish processing the island and then turn all materials over to the crew now on the ground. Come back here and write your after-action reports. I do not want you or any member of your team to go looking for Outlaw. I don’t want to make it an order, however. I am asking for you to trust my judgment.”

  “That’s a big ask.”

  “I know it is.”

  Top closed his eyes and contemplated putting his fist through the first really solid wall he could find.

  “Outlaw is way the hell out on the edge,” he said. “You didn’t see what he did in there. Those people on the medical staff were monsters, no doubt, but they were unarmed. He chopped them into dogmeat and pissed on their corpses. That’s not the Outlaw we both know. He’s crossed a line, and I don’t know if leaving him alone out there is in his best interests. Have you run this past the docs?”

  By that, he meant Dr. Rudy Sanchez, Joe Ledger’s best friend and psychiatrist; and Dr. Jane Holliday, the head of the RTI integrated sciences division. Both of them had argued against Ledger being cleared for this mission. The arguments had gotten heated, but Church won because Church tended to win. And now this.

  “This is my call,” said Church. “Mine alone.”

  Top sighed and sat down on a piling. “You’re a religious man, aren’t you?”

  Church paused again. “In my own way.”

  “So am I, though it’s getting harder and harder to hold on to that.”

  “What’s your point, Pappy?”

  “My point is that we’re maybe compounding a sin,” said Top. “Maybe committing another sin by doing nothing to help Outlaw.”

  “I believe this is the best way to help him.”

  “Then if he continues to go down this road, may God have mercy on our souls, because any drop of innocent blood he spills is on us.”

  He waited for Church to answer, but when he tapped the coms, it was clear the line had gone dead.

  INTERLUDE 6

  SALES PRESENTATION VIA SHOWROOM

  FIVE MONTHS AGO

  “One of the optional extras in this package is what we like to call a self-cleaning oven,” said Mr. Sunday, beaming a great smile. “Exfiltration after a highly dangerous operation is always the challenge, isn’t it? If the assets are captured, then there is a risk of them becoming chatty during enhanced interrogation. That leads to way too many complications, not the least of which is creating a cause for your enemies to rally around and to garner international support. And, frankly, who needs that? It’s expensive, embarrassing, and unnecessary.”

  He took a small computer chip from an inner pocket and placed it on a wooden stool, then walked over and stood behind a sheet of three-inch-thick lead hung by chains from the ceiling. The audience could see him and the chair on split screen. Mr. Sunday removed his cell phone.

  “We call it 3B, which is short for a nickname given to it by a pop culture–obsessed senior tech on our team. It stands for Burn, baby, burn.” He paused and grinned. “We should probably give that particular tech a vacation somewhere with nice, quiet scenery.”

  Mr. Sunday chuckled at his own joke and made sure the laugh was only three short beats. Fun, but not silly. Jovial, without losing the edge.

  “The chemical compound in that chip is proprietary,” he said, “and is not for sale at any price. And I highly recommend you not trying to remove one of these chips from any PMC you lease or purchase from us. Resist all temptation to analyze the compound. Each chip is synced to the heartbeat of the operative, and if that pulse rate goes below twenty beats per minute, the chip detonates. Allow me to demonstrate.”

  He pressed a button on his phone, and the chip exploded.

  The blast was immediate and massive, far beyond what any of the audience could possibly have expected. It obliterated the wooden stool and a good portion of the floor and left smoking pits all across the surface of the lead shield.

  “Burn, baby, burn,” said Mr. Sunday, waving smoke away
.

  A very pretty young woman dressed in a short skirt and an extremely low-cut top stretched across improbably large and firm breasts came mincing out from backstage with a bright yellow fire extinguisher. She flashed a lot of white teeth at the people on the screens, then doused the fire, gave the hole in the floor a final playful blast, gave the audience a saucy little curtsy, and pranced off.

  Mr. Sunday came out from behind the lead barrier and blew a kiss at her retreating back. The woman turned, pretended to catch the kiss, and placed it daintily on her left cheek.

  “The chemical compound is, as you can see, quite a corker,” said Mr. Sunday. “It is designed to burn at such a high temperature and at such an accelerated rate of speed that it leaves no traces of itself and very few of whatever is in its blast radius. The weapons, uniform, and equipment used by the PMCs are likewise prepped with chips keyed to that specific operative. That means any forensic analysis will have a hard darn time making sense of anything. And, let’s not forget, even if they are somehow able to salvage pieces of the device, nothing is traceable. The weapons, equipment, and even the clothes are all manufactured by us under controlled situations. There is no trail to follow.”

  He used his clicker to bring images onto his screen and those of the people watching from their private spaces around the globe. A graphic of data streams appeared, showing heart rate, blood pressure, respiration, and other details.

  “The telemetry sent by the chip is constantly monitored—and you would have access to the data feeds. You would have access to the detonation code, and the purchase price gives you the option of using that code whenever you want. Or … not. Just remember, though, it is much more cost effective to purchase a few new PMCs for new missions than to repurpose the old ones. No muss, no fuss. Like, say, walking into the middle of a crowd of political dissidents or protesters with the wrong slogans on their signs. Oh, heck, folks, you could have a couple of these lads take a tour of a statehouse or presidential palace and—poof! Suddenly, there is no opposition leader, and no one to be arrested, interrogated, or tried. Now how’s that for making a political statement? Oh, hell yes.”

  His eyes swirled with color as he stepped forward, passing through a downspill of green light. For a moment, even the whites of his eyes vanished as sickly greens and toxic yellow browns eddied. Then he took another half step forward, and his eyes were normal. His smile was broad and affable. A kindly, slightly corny old uncle, or a clichéd storekeeper from some old episode of Gunsmoke or Leave It to Beaver.

  “Now,” he said, “let’s see if we can get us a yummy little bidding war going on here.”

  PART 2

  DAYS OF DARKNESS

  Revenge is a confession of pain.

  —LATIN PROVERB

  But if there is any further injury,

  then you shall appoint as a penalty life for life,

  eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand,

  foot for foot, burn for burn,

  wound for wound, bruise for bruise.

  —EXODUS 21:23—25

  CHAPTER 15

  PHOENIX HOUSE

  OMFORI ISLAND, GREECE

  Scott Wilson stood under a canopy outside the security office, watching the big helicopter land. It was a huge Boeing Ch-47 Chinook; nearly a hundred feet long, with twin propellers spun by a pair of powerful Lycoming turboshaft engines. It had come out of the dawn like some mythic beast but landed as softly as a butterfly on the tarmac behind Phoenix House.

  The noise diminished, and the massive blades began to slow. The rear hatch eased down with a soft hydraulic whine, revealing a knot of shadowed figures within. Wilson walked out to meet Havoc Team as they descended from the bird. They all wore black trousers and tank tops. No other gear or weapons, except for Belle, who had a rifle case slung across her back. No one ever handled her guns but her.

  Bunny, Andrea, and Belle walked past Wilson with barely a nod. Only Top paused to talk with the chief of operations. The soldier looked older by ten years than he had when he’d set out with Havoc Team for the mission. Top’s face was more deeply lined, his eyes red-rimmed, and his posture stooped with a weariness that ran miles deeper than mere physical exhaustion.

  Wilson offered his hand, and Top looked at it for a moment before taking it.

  “The medical teams are still triaging the prisoners you liberated,” Wilson said. “The Chinook is going to refuel and head back as soon as they’re ready for transport. Our doctor on the ground there says that all but one of them is likely to recover. Sad that we’ll lose any of them, but…”

  Top took a toothpick from his pocket and put it between his teeth. He chewed on the pointy end for a few silent seconds, working it from one corner of his mouth to the other. His dark eyes were completely unreadable.

  “You did good work tonight,” said Wilson.

  Top shook his head. “Did we? Well, sorry, boss, but I’m not putting this one in the win column. No damned way.”

  He started to walk away, but Wilson hurried to catch up.

  “We will find Colonel Ledger.”

  Top snorted. “You’ll find him exactly when and where he wants to be found.”

  “We have considerable resources, or have you forgotten?”

  Top stopped and turned to him. “How do I put this? Scott, if Joe wants to be found, you’ll find him. If he doesn’t, then you probably won’t. But if he doesn’t want to be found and you do ping him, you’d better make sure you only send operators you don’t care about, because they may not come back in one piece.”

  “I—” began Wilson, but Top cut him off.

  “I have to write my after-action report, get fed, get some rack time, and then Farm Boy and I are out of here in the morning. I’d rather cancel this other thing, the gig in the States, because I’d rather be here. But, like I said … hunting Colonel Ledger isn’t going to move the needle on what we’re trying to do. Appreciate you trying to be cheerleader for the team, Scott, but stop trying it on me.”

  He walked away.

  Wilson stood on the tarmac for quite a while, staring at the door Top Sims had closed behind him when he’d entered the building.

  INTERLUDE 7

  THE PAVILION

  BLUE DIAMOND ELITE TRAINING CENTER

  STEVENS COUNTY, WASHINGTON

  FIVE MONTHS AGO

  Rafael Santoro, Kuga, and Eve stood in a little cluster with HK as the trainees filed out. Two of them required stretchers; six others had to be helped by their comrades. Everyone who’d participated in the drill was marked in one way or another.

  “That was a good session,” said Kuga. “Those sons of bitches can fight.”

  “You should know,” said HK.

  “Flatterer,” laughed Kuga, and he gave her a pat on the back.

  “Telling the truth. These men and women have studied videos of you, too. And Rafael, of course.” She glanced at Eve. “I don’t suppose there are any of you…?”

  Eve said nothing, and HK shrugged.

  “We are fortunate to have collected so many. The tapes from Oslo, of course, but also some hacked from the servers from the DMS raid on the Dragon Factory and elsewhere.”

  “The Dragon what?” asked Eve.

  “It was a genetics development facility on Dogfish Cay in the Bahamas. The Jakoby twins ran it.”

  “Oh,” Eve said slowly, “yeah. I read about them in one of the files. Freaky albinos, right? Brother and sister who fucked each other? Wasn’t their father some kind of Nazi?”

  “How well you summarize it,” said Santoro.

  “She’s not wrong, though,” said Kuga. “Paris and Hecate were freaks, no matter from which angle you looked at them. Brilliant, but weird on a level that even gives me the wiggins.”

  Eve echoed the word wiggins, enjoying it.

  “Point is,” said HK, “we have enough good real combat footage of Joe Ledger to make sure our training supervisors can use them effectively. There are some truly outstanding fighters in our team, a
nd that’s before the enhancements. Later this afternoon, we’ll have a chance to see what our next-generation Fixers can do.”

  “Next generation?” echoed Eve, posing it as a question. “Are you talking that exoskeleton stuff?”

  HK shared a brief secret smile with Kuga and Santoro. “Exo-suits, to be sure,” she said, “but we have some other surprises that I can truly guarantee will raise a smile on all your faces. I think it’s fair to say that the American Operation is going to be quite the event.”

  “Now that,” said Kuga, “is what I like to hear.”

  “Yeah,” said Eve, more to herself than anyone, “me, too.”

  CHAPTER 16

  IL POMODORO BEACH

  LUNGOMARE MARINA ITALIANA

  GIOVINAZZO, PUGLIA, ITALY

  The two young men came out of the restaurant, exiting through a staff door, which they closed and locked. The place was closed for the night, and they were exhausted from hours of cleaning, restocking, and prework for the next day. Enea was the short, fat one, a deputy chef and shift manager; Federico—known to all his friends as Spike because he looked vaguely like the character from the old American TV show Buffy the Vampire Slayer—was the tall, skinny one. Spike had started bleaching his hair white and spiking it after having met the actor who played Spike at the big comic convention in Lucca. It didn’t matter that the waitstaff, all of whom were at least a decade younger, had no idea who Buffy or Spike were. They liked the nickname, though. Most women he met thought it was a euphemism for how well he was hung.

  They were best friends and had worked at this restaurant, and two previous ones, since high school. Whenever possible, they worked the same shifts—Enea running the kitchen on the evening shifts whenever the head chef was on days; and Spike doing prep work and cleanup after the last customer was gone. They cranked up the sound system and blasted old Italian punk, with a heavy bias toward Derozer and Punkreas. The screaming vocals rattled the glassware and made the whole cleanup process fun and fast.