When Diplomacy Fails . . .-eARC

by Michael Z. Williamson

  They were two kilometers down the road when his phone chimed.

  “Musketeer,” he said.

  Alex said, “Are you carrying smelly stuff?”

  “Uh, maybe?” he looked back at Elke, who said, “Fumes are outgassing, yes.”

  Jason cut in on the other end. “Their sniffers have it, reporting a threat, and they’re responding.”

  “Who’s ‘they’?”

  “The official mil types.”

  “Response?”

  “We’re calling Das. We’ll try to clear it. Stand by and out.”

  “Will travel and stand by, out, waiting.” He twitched his eyebrows, felt a flush and said, “That’s not good,” to Elke.

  “They have better sensors than I anticipated. I should have triple wrapped and sealed.”

  “They’d find it sooner or later.”

  “Car coming up fast behind,” she said. He heard her fumble with weapons.

  “Pursuit? Police?” He glanced at the rear screen.

  “Armored sedan, looks semi-official,” she said. “I wonder if they’re plugged into the milnet.”

  “Not good. Evading.” He swung the wheel to send them straight down a side street, thankful there were no zone controls to worry about here.

  However, that sedan braking hard in front of them wasn’t in his plans.

  “Entrapment,” he said, amazed at how cool he sounded. There was an alley on the left just past. He flung the car into a turn, gunned it, fishtailed twice and went down what was apparently a service lane, slaloming through trash and pallets.

  Elke said, “I’m loaded, tell me if you need support.”

  “I expect so, soon. Call for backup.”

  Mild precombat nausea gripped him, and fatigue didn’t help. He was out the alley, back onto a street, but it was crowded and slow.

  Elke said, “Hostiles attempting to herd us. Request backup soonest.”

  “Working. We have your location, keep your line open.”

  “Line open, roger.”

  No good. They were penned in by traffic, and there were men getting out of a car thirty meters back. He wasn’t going to find an opening.

  “Proceed on foot, we need a bughole,” he said.

  Elke was out the door in a second, wearing her backpack and with the box looking a bit lighter. Good woman. A moment later a sharp bang accompanied a brilliant flash and a directional cloud of smoke. She pulled alongside him.

  “Did you secure the car?”

  “I did not boobytrap it but it is locked. The burst was just distraction.”

  “Hostiles?”

  “Delayed, but there are some ahead.”

  “I see them,” he said. “Move into a building.”

  “This one.”

  It was a closed office that hopefully had a rear exit, or a roof, or some way to barricade themselves while backup arrived. Aramis reached the door at a sprint and kicked it. The latches shattered and they were in.

  “That wouldn’t work in a more modern world,” he said, as they dodged between dividing walls.

  “Two distractions behind us, set for vibration.”

  “Not lethal?”

  “Allies may come.”

  “Roger. No upstairs access I can see. Out the back.”

  There was clattering behind them, then a bang, and another.

  Elke stepped aside and let him take the lead. He flipped the latch, kicked the door open and slipped through, raising his pistol.

  His brain exploded inside his skull and he went down.

  Bart drove, though usually he was in a limo, not a Grumbly. The rotary-diesel was turning fast enough to have a smooth hum, not a grumbling lope. They were in a hurry.

  As he understood it, they were also in violation of contract.

  Their mission was Highland’s safety. Cady’s mission was compound security. Recovery of missing personnel was properly the military’s tasking. However, that would take time, and they knew Aramis’s and Elke’s location now.

  Elke’s voice came through the channel. “Musketeer is down, probably captured.”

  Bart felt chills. That was bad. Peripherally, he saw the others swapping glances.

  Alex asked, “Understood. Are you covered?”

  “I have created a safe zone.”

  That sounded bad, too.

  “We’re arriving in six minutes.”

  “I can hold—BANG!” her voice cut off with an explosion, but the signal was still live. “Do hurry, though.”

  Another voice came through, “Alex, this is Das.”

  Alex said, “Alex here, go.”

  “We have an extraction team en route. Fifteen minutes will get them there.”

  “That’s ten minutes behind us.”

  “Understood. I must advise you that you are not on military contract and do not have engagement privileges.”

  “Meaning we will observe as long as feasible, or the lawyers will have lots of work to do.”

  Das sounded tense but sympathetic. “I understand your concern but there will be trouble if you breech status of forces.”

  Bart cursed. Yes, rules existed for a reason, but this was not a military engagement, it was a criminal incident. It was probably even harder to find a political agreement regarding that.

  Before Alex could reply, Elke said, “Hostiles are gone.”

  “Retreated?”

  “Yes. They have Musketeer, as far as I can tell.”

  “Shit.”

  Bart’s chills turned to burns. This was unprecedented.

  “Arriving in two minutes,” he said, as calmly as he could.

  Alex said, “Babs, can you meet at your reported location?”

  “I am two hundred meters from there and prefer to meet at this location. Advise when you need directions.”

  Bart nodded, and said, “Tell me in twenty seconds, which turn to take.”

  Elke coolly guided him in to a stop next to an alley. She darted out with a box and ruck and was aboard at once.

  She heaved for breath and there was a chemical stink of explosive over the perspiration. Her hair was greased with sweat, she was scuffed and dusty, but alive and intact.

  “Reporting,” she said. “We were corralled by four vehicles at the same time you reported notice of us. Either the military has a leak or the hostiles have similar sensors. We entered the building ahead, where the traffic jam and dust is. I left a distraction device outside, two inside. There was no good barricade or roof, and pursuers triggered the devices. We attempted to leave out the back. Aramis was hit with a combination of two heavy stunners and an impact projectile. I shot and hit two hostiles, outcome unknown, then shot and blasted through the wall into the crawl alley to the south. I made a short chimney ascent, entered a first floor window, exited the rear behind the hostiles. I covered in a trash abutment and held them with fire. I made my report, then they departed, presumably with Aramis.”

  That was so precise it was frightening, Bart thought, but not as much as Aramis’s abduction.

  “Can we trace him with that stuff?” Alex asked.

  “He will have residue, yes. His clothes especially will be impregnated.”

  “They’ll probably ditch those if they smell them. Channel, Das, sir, what’s the recovery unit ETA?”

  “Three minutes.”

  “This is our location,” he said, and pinged it through. “We need to search the contact site.”

  “They see you and are arriving.”

  Aramis awoke nauseated, in throbbing pain, stripped to underwear, wrapped in cargo tape restraints at wrist and ankle, sitting on a cold floor. He could vaguely identify others. Two people were in front of him, well-built, probably military. One lurked behind. Two? others were off to the left.

  Ohshitohshitohshit. It kept tumbling through his brain.

  No way out. Not a chance. The restraints wouldn’t yield, and he was quite sure the one at the back would happily shoot anyone he tried to grab as a shield. Assuming he could see anyt
hing. He wasn’t sure how he knew the man behind had a gun, but he knew.

  His wrists ached, his head had that burning pain that felt as if it were bleeding from trauma, but often meant only a concussion.

  A voice from the left said, “He’s awake, get to it.”

  Another voice, in front, said, “I need her movements.”

  He understood that was addressed to him, and replied, “They’re chosen at random, even when there is a schedule, and I am not told until we are en route.”

  A tremendous slap rocked his cheek and jaw, like fiery gravel. He’d been hit with some kind of heavy glove.

  “Ridiculous. You have to know.”

  He sweated and teared up through the bursting pain, which was triggering his pulped skull again. “The Agent in Charge knows, or his deputy. The rest of us do as we’re told.”

  He stood there. He knew what was coming, and it terrified him. Combat was one thing. To be bound helplessly and . . .

  The blow felt as if a car hit him in the cheek. He grunted, convulsed and lay out on the floor, trying to get into a fetal position to protect himself. His ears rang, eyes blurred, he thought his cheek probably broken. The pain was a lance, and then a suffusing pulse of agony, fading slowly to a burning sting.

  Someone hauled him to his feet, and he tried to clench his abs, just in time for a massive punch that paralyzed his diaphragm. He gaped like a fish and did nothing for what felt like hours while boots and sticks thudded and cracked his ear, shoulder, spine, all over. The pain was warm and sharp.

  Then he was hauled to his feet again.

  “What is tomorrow’s schedule?”

  He was angry and hurt. He cried and sobbed. “Dammit, I don’t know. Even if I did, it would have changed by now. This is fucking stupid.”

  The pain, the disorientation, the fear was beyond anything he’d ever felt. Nausea collided with anger, terror, and he hyperventilated. They helped him with that, with plastic over his face until he passed out watching purple blotches as he surged against it in panic. He’d stayed still to conserve oxygen as long as he could, but there were limits, and his left cheek was stabbing agony . . .

  He woke upright, his hands now bound on an overhead rail, helpless to protect his torso from crashing impacts. Blindfold off, he saw a stick line up and was too restrained and hurt to cringe. He watched in slow motion as it arced full force up toward his crotch.

  He didn’t pass out, but he did throw up. A heated rush flooded his brain as his panicking body tried to compensate.

  It was terrifying and surreal, like falling off a cliff.

  It didn’t end with that, and he never got past it all feeling like a dream, an hallucination, an unreality that he couldn’t wake up from and desperately wanted to.

  He took a full look at each of the three attackers. They were local, muscular and southern European in ancestry. That might make them Christian or Muslim, no way to tell. He memorized their faces. Then . . .

  Got to leave, he thought. Not physically. He couldn’t. That sensation, though, that crazy, mind-warping sensation, he’d felt that before and it hadn’t been bad.

  Sticks smashed under his armpits and across his shoulders. He passed out again.

  He woke slightly and heard, “Shit, I think this pervert enjoys it,” accompanied by a thumping blow to his groin. He grunted out breath. Yeah, he actually was erect. Apparently the distraction worked.

  I probably shouldn’t tell Caron about that, he thought.

  He settled for keeping his eyes closed, easy through the bruises, and breathing slowly and steadily, tough to do through his battered nose and painful as the air flowed over his wounded teeth. Apart from that, his whole body was a quivering nerve, aware of every current of air, every gradation of temperature, every bruise, fracture, laceration and contusion. He found he wasn’t worried about getting hit again; that was just part of this reality. He’d ride the wave of pain and appreciate the surreal sensation, and let that take his brain back to Caron and Ayisha, their full, painted lips colliding around him, with each other, tongues swirling . . .

  Yes, someone had hit him, he vaguely realized. He’d blacked out from the pain. Pain, shooting up his spine, just like that sensation when he looked over to see Caron, mouth open and tongue probing, curiously and nervously . . .

  The intense jolt made him scream, the pain was in his hip, his muscles cramping up in gripping waves, tight under his balls, and . . .

  “I swear this sick fucker is getting off on being hit. Either I kill him or we stop.”

  “He’s not really of use. Hit harder.”

  The next blow broke his focus. Ohshitfuckmebitch that hurt. Shooting hand. Writing hand. Hand I used on Caron to . . . to . . .

  A rain of blows with a hammer started at his feet, ankles and shins, working toward his knees. He could feel tears streaming down his face. He wanted release even if it meant death, because he knew he was crippled, probably going to be emasculated, and left in a heap in a gutter, probably set on fire to twitch and scream, and these fuckers called him a pervert. He was going beyond anything he’d ever imagined, and this wasn’t real, except it was, and Caron’s ass was amazingly toned and taut and . . .

  CHAPTER 11

  TWO OTHER GRUMBLIES arrived mounting guns. They were followed momentarily by two armored hex-wheels. Four machine guns, a grenade launcher and a multicannon were not artillery, but were more than enough for this street. The civilians were surprisingly scarce, having cleared the outside entirely, and probably all hunkered down inside.

  An officer swung out easily, in gray splinter camo. That was reassuring. Not only wasn’t it the insane pink, it was private purchase. That meant they weren’t too hung up on Military Instructions, hopefully.

  “You’re Marlow?” He was a captain, lean and fit, seemed competent and that scowl was probably permanent. He was an older careerist, face a bit craggy.

  Alex said, “Yes.”

  “Captain Jay Roye.”

  “Glad to meet you; thanks for being fast.”

  “Yeah, we’ll cover that later. You have one MIA?”

  “Correct. Here’s his info.” He’d have to make sure to recover that later, under BuState privacy laws. For now, he needed to save Aramis.

  “Any leads?”

  “They didn’t tell you? The same explosive trace you followed should continue.”

  “Stand by.” The captain raised a hush hood and spoke to base. They spoke back. He spoke some more.

  Alex clenched his jaw and took slow, measured breaths through the anger thudding through him. There was nothing he could do to speed up the process, and any complaints might hinder things. It was almost a full minute before the captain spoke.

  “It goes north. Intersperse and follow.”

  Bart said, “I will take second position.”

  Roye agreed, “Good, do it.”

  They found a lieutenant suddenly holding the door for Shaman and Elke, and sliding in behind them. Or he tried to. Elke arranged for him to step in as she slid under, taking the door herself.

  “Lieutenant Eranio,” the man said. “I have a briefing summary for you.”

  “Go ahead, sir,” Alex said, hoping he sounded polite and interested. Eranio came across as prior enlisted. He wore big glasses and had that scraggle that suggested he’d always be in need of a shave.

  Eranio said, “For joint operations in the AO with contract personnel, Military Instructions are in force, and the on-scene military commander will determine operations within standard guidelines. All Law of Armed Conflict and Conventions Pursuant to Hostile Engagements are to be observed. Contractor personnel will limit their activities to observation and reporting, or noncombat support activities as described in MI Two-Five Dash Seven One Nine Bravo. End quote. The captain will not allow you to proceed without acknowledging this.”

  “Not only do I acknowledge it, I leave the engagement to you,” he said. Would they take the bait?

  “Oh? Why’s that?”

 
; “Our specialty is getting people into cover, and as you’ve said, there are Instructions that must be followed. There are undoubtedly multiple hostiles waiting.”

  Eranio said, “I understand what you mean.” In moments, he had a hush hood up, and was talking to the captain. Alex was sure of that, because the model was cut rate and didn’t have a shimmer screen. Alex could read lips. They thought it was a shameless attempt to pass casualties and possible blame onto the military.

  The lieutenant dropped the hood and said, “Given the nature of the incident, and that it’s your agent who’s the captive, we’ve been instructed from higher up to have you conduct the raid.”

  Thank you, Captain Das.

  Straight-faced, he said, “If you believe that’s best.”

  “No, I’d rather we did it, but I have instructions. You will conduct the entry, we will support and observe, and document.”

  There were too many snide comments Alex wanted to make, so instead, he nodded and turned.

  “Bart, you’ll punch. Elke, can you make a hole?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Jason takes gun position. Shaman and I follow.”

  Elke turned to face the lieutenant. “I need real explosives. Now,” she said.

  “That is beyond my authority to grant.” He turned to his phone, but hesitated when the driver slowed.

  Jason said, “This is as far as we could trace. We have to dismount and sniff now.”

  “You have a sniffer?”

  Jason said, “One, yes.”

  Eranio twisted his mouth for a moment and said, “We’ll use ours.”

  Elke opened the door and slid out, Eranio followed. His troops pulled up right behind and hopped out in a reasonably professional fashion. He immediately gave orders.

  “I want one troop with each contractor. Moheng, with this guy, Franklin with the big German, Trinidad with the female, Barnes with the doctor. I’ll stay with Marlow.”

  Alex nodded and bounced out the door. They could talk as they moved. “Do you have troops who can follow in our vehicle in case we need a quick departure?

  Eranio nodded, pointed at one troop and the Grumbly, and indicated the other driver was to remain aboard his vehicle.