Prisoner secure, Blond Hair replied. Minor injuries; no likelihood of escape. Personal woundssignificant, butrecovering; likewise those of J-003. A second or two, then a last line: M-002confirmed KIA.
Hargrove gritted his teeth. He knew that, of course. Prep for departure, estimate ten minutes, he pulsed back. His jaw worked back and forth. On top of the decrease in manpower, every second here was another that could be spent tracking the craft – a hard enough job already, with the stealth plating noted by the Rangers during take-off. All otherassets—
Trotting footsteps from behind cut him short. He swivelled, and saw Patrick approaching. The officer’s field uniform was smeared with smoke and grease. ‘My men are all in place around the compound,’ he said brusquely. ‘Agent Costa’s already provided the explanation, if needed. Far as anybody’s concerned, this was a foiled attempt by a local militia group to steal Red Cross supplies earmarked for the Dakotas. We were able to drive off the thieves, but they succeeded in torching one or two of the aircraft before escaping in their own ride.’
‘Good story,’ Hargrove said, not smiling. ‘Just the right amount of success to keep people happy – and enough failure to keep them edgy. An old trick, but I’m sure the Agency’s never cared for public opinion.’
‘Yeah, well, there’s plenty to be edgy about now.’ Patrick glanced at the office door. ‘Anything from him yet?’
‘No. Not expecting anything, either – not soon, that is. Even without his ties to the Project, he’s old-school. Probably went through the wringer on an hourly basis all through the Turmoil, and came out with barely a shaving cut. Based on that, any methods the Agency has up its sleeve would take too long, or not work at all. So it may be better if the questioning were left to me, and my associates.’
Eyeing him warily, Patrick nodded. Hargrove motioned with two fingers. The two guards moved away to either side, staying in easy voice range. Without looking Patrick’s way again, he flung the door open, and marched inside.
The prisoner was seated in the office’s main chair, erect and proud. His thighs and lower legs were swathed in reddened gauze. More was wrapped around his left shoulder and upper arm. His arms were wound behind the chair, tied at the wrists with grey plasticuffs which ran to similar bonds around his ankles. When he lifted his head at the door’s opening, Hargrove saw only dull, burning defiance.
He began pacing a slow circle around the bound man. ‘I’ll come straight to the point, Mr Caswell,’ he said, formally. ‘You helped two – excuse me, three – targets of a national manhunt flee this location. That alone earns you a lifetime pass to Leavenworth, nowadays. On top of that, you’ve aided in the transport of extremely valuable stolen property – and we’re not talking about the cross-border jaunts done at your cousin’s behest – along with directly participating in an attack on federal personnel.’
Caswell didn’t speak, only continued to watch him. Hargrove went on, ‘All this, of course, doesn’t even consider your previous association with the targets, and your involvement in their organisation. Even without it, I’m well within my rights to arrange a solitary cell for you, for the next two centuries… and that’s the kindest option.’
He halted. ‘But the nice thing about my line of work? There’s always plenty of room under the rug.’ He leaned closer, though still out of arm’s reach. ‘Even with your prior connections, I doubt the targets divulged anything about their eventual destination. Probably they wanted to keep their dear old comrade and teacher out of trouble. Or maybe it was just out of habit. Still, I’m sure they passed along some hint about their eventual plans, and how they came to add a third member to their trip.’ He looked at his watch with exaggerated patience. ‘Share that with us, and we won’t need to break out the body- or mind-altering methods. They’re counterproductive, anyway, in my view.’
The old man turned his head away, in clear contempt. With one foot, Hargrove hooked Caswell by his left leg, spinning him so they were face-to-face. The prisoner winced, but remained silent. Hargrove finished, ‘One little bit of info about either of those, and you can start real retirement. No guarantees on Florida, but you’ll at least be watched over and cared for, like anybody else in their golden years.’
Caswell didn’t answer at first. He looked from the guards to Hargrove, and back again. Without a change in expression or any other hint of warning, his left knee shot up, aiming for Hargrove’s crotch. Given the prisoner’s strength and speed, it was easily strong enough to rupture something, or break some crucial bone. In nearly the same moment, his good arm yanked free of the cuffs, snatching for the other man’s throat.
Hargrove was quicker, though. A neat sidestep, and he was standing beside Caswell again, one hand clamped around the prisoner’s free wrist and twisting it back behind his head. His smile became cold. ‘Very good, Staff Sergeant. I can see the Pentagon’s money was well spent.’
He yanked down, hard. There was a loud pop as Caswell’s shoulder dislocated, and the grotesque sound of tearing muscle. The older man let out a sharp bark of pain, before clamping his jaw shut, hard, short breaths hissing between his teeth. Hargrove released his grip, and stepped in front of the prisoner. His other hand shot out, clamping over the sodden bandage on Caswell’s left leg. The prisoner groaned, and tried to shift away, but Hargrove held him in place. Blood seeped through his fingers. He leaned in again, voice soft as a lover’s. ‘Tell me what you know, and this’ll end well for everybody.’
Caswell’s glare was scorching. ‘They’ll be over the mountains by dinnertime,’ he growled. ‘Whatever you wanted from those three, it’s long gone.’ His teeth flashed in a death’s-head grin. ‘Do what you want with me. You would’ve last time, so let’s not waste any more breath.’
Hargrove squeezed the wound, eliciting another gasp. He studied the bound man, with a calm, almost affable air. Then he let go and stood up. ‘Thank you, Mr Caswell.’ In a flash, he stepped behind the chair. ‘You’ve been most helpful.’
Before Caswell could react, he grasped the man’s head in both hands. His wrists flexed, like screwing open a pickle jar. There was a sickening crunch. The older man’s feet drummed on the floor, then went still. Tenderly, he released his grip, letting Caswell’s head droop against his chest – with blank eyes staring up at the ceiling.
Hargrove took a packet of cleanser wipes from his jacket, wiped his hands clean, and tossed the reddened wad in a nearby trash can. He didn’t smile, but eagerness sparked in his eyes. Stillbehind in the race– but now Iknow exactly where the finish line lies.
Without another glance at the body, he walked out. Passing between the two guards, he pulsed Prepthe body for transport, and stand by for departure. The two men stepped into the office, one reaching beneath his jacket and bringing out a folded length of black plastic-like material. He took a deep breath, and stared down at the ground, sorting his thoughts. The canister was still out of reach. And there was a new player in the game – unknown, and with Golem abilities. His men had given plenty of details about the man, but nothing had come up in the files he’d gathered on the Project. Nor could he ask Costa, not without running into more questions or Agency stonewalling.
The thieves were desperate; their coming here made that plain. Ordinarily, that meant they would make more mistakes, enough to hang them before long. But Golems worked best under the gun; it was what they were made for. It would be easier to track them now that they were airborne, even with stealth in play, but there were still few guarantees of forcing them down without destroying the canister. It was fairly clear where they were headed – but that made things worse, not better. More questions loomed, from Costa or Langley, the further west they went, and more unknowns. Either or a combo of these would scuttle everything before he was in a position to set it all in stone. He lifted his head, chin set in firm lines. He had to keep up the chase, and find the damn canister. There was no other option.
‘Mr Hargrove?’ He turned to see Colonel Patrick standing nearby, XM10 in both hands
now. ‘We’ve secured the whole airfield, and quenched the worst fires. You get anything from—’ The Ranger colonel cut off, looking over Hargrove’s shoulder. Both brown-coated men had emerged from the office, carrying a black body bag between them. Patrick’s lips thinned in suppressed anger. ‘What happened in there?’ he grated.
‘What was necessary,’ Hargrove replied. He smoothed the front of his jacket. ‘I’ll need you and a team of his top people to join us for our next flight. Fairchild Air Force Base, TOD twenty minutes.’
Patrick’s glare was scorching. Ignoring it, Hargrove walked toward the far end of the main runway, where the Osprey that had brought his team waited. The main issue – where to go next – was resolved, or on the way to it. Now it was time to investigate the latest one – potentially the most troubling of all.
The craft stood alone on the tarmac, separate from the others that had landed Patrick and his Rangers. All four brown-coated guards stood by the entry ramp. Keep watch. They moved a short distance away, eyes moving ceaselessly. He stepped up into the rear bay of the craft. Two man-shaped forms lay on the floor, wrapped in body bags.
Kneeling by the closest one, Hargrove pulled the zipper halfway down. The empty, lifeless eyes of the brown-haired guard stared up at him. He grimaced as he took in the damage. The wounds didn’t shock him – he’d seen just as bad, if not worse. The cuts on the guard’s face yawned wide, two or three inches deep and still glistening red. The wound on the left side of the dead man’s head was a gory crater of blood, bone and brain matter. When he pulled the zipper down further, he saw the three entry gunshot wounds, and the four exits. Hollow points, without question – and from pistols, not rifles or SMGs. Not powerful enough to stop the guard on their own, but no laughing matter. Same with the appalling facial cuts.
The headshot, on the other hand… He reached up, turning the body’s head for a closer look. Spotting a first-aid kit nearby on the wall of the craft, he pulled it down, extracting and donning a pair of latex gloves. Thus garbed, he probed at the entry and exit wounds to both temples, peering carefully into the gruesome mess. He grunted. The round had torn clear through the cerebral cortex and shredded a good deal of other grey matter. With such an injury, the guard wouldn’t have recovered.
Hargrove straightened, stripping off the gloves. All this only confirmed what the other guards had already told him. Golems could die from headshots, as could any human; all the records said so. But his men were different, in more ways than the obvious. Therefore, it had been logical to believe they couldn’t be brought down the same way. The corpse in front of him said that had been an error on his part. Such a mistake, however, could be corrected – and he would damn well make sure it was, the next time around.
The same was less true of the other, unsettling wounds he had seen earlier, on his other associates. He touched a finger to the frames of his glasses. A tiny video image appeared on the right lens. The footage showed his view of the airfield, looking out one of the Osprey’s viewports as he had made his approach. His lips shaped a phrase: Fast-track. The image blurred, speeding through the landing, the first sweeps of the burning structures. Stop. It froze, displaying his first look at the three-man strike team. The black-haired leader was standing near the middle of the shot, hunched over, both hands covering the dripping wounds to his face and throat.
Resume, One-Quarter Speed. The footage began to play, much slower. Hargrove squinted, focusing on the wounds. Even allowing for the slowed playback, they seemed to be closing less quickly than should be normal – a lot less. But that was impossible for these men, as he well knew. That left only one option. And if it were true…
Allies approaching appeared on the left lens. Casually, he set the gloves by the body bag, and mouthed Close. The video vanished at once. He stepped down the ramp, in time to see Colonel Patrick walking towards the Osprey, his stride brimming with purpose. ‘I’ve informed Mr Costa of our next destination,’ the colonel said stiffly. ‘All that’s needed is a last sweep for any remaining evidence, then we leave an Army cordon in place and take off. I’ve already selected a squad of my best, and prepped the transport for departure in ten minutes. Naturally, they’re concerned about approaching the Seattle CZ, but we’ll have MOPP gear. Anything else that’s needed, they’ll pick up at Fairchild.’
Tension seeped into his tone. ‘Since we don’t have time for the paperwork, I’m holding off passing on the details of our time here to Langley. Once we’ve finished the job, though, you can damn well believe they’ll get chapter and verse – and have a very strong need to sit down and chat with you.’
‘Can’t wait,’ Hargrove replied evenly. ‘Been too long since I heard from my friends back East, anyway. I was starting to think they were ignoring me.’
‘Can’t imagine why.’ Patrick’s face was like stone. ‘From that little show back there, though, I imagine there’s a reason.’
Hargrove’s face went rigid. Nevertheless, he kept his voice calm. ‘Whatever impressions you might have, Colonel, I take no pleasure in my action. Given our time constraints, we had no other options. Mr Caswell might have yielded information, true – but we had no guarantees of its validity, or how soon it would have helped. It would’ve taken longer to get the true intelligence – much too long. We’ve been behind the targets at every turn in this chase, waiting for them to pop up, or arriving minutes, hours too late. Caswell wasn’t going to tell us anything, certainly not fast enough to improve our chances. So I acted to elicit a sliver of information, before his worth to us as a source expired.’
‘What information?’ Patrick demanded. ‘If we’re headed to anywhere within 500 miles of the Seattle Zone, I think I should know that much.’ The sarcasm came off him in waves.
‘He pointed us west,’ Hargrove answered. ‘“Over the mountains”: the Rockies, maybe as far as the West Coast. It’s enough for us to go on, and suitably vague to let him reveal something so that we would ease off – I’ve seen the trick before. Now we can focus our efforts—’
‘Where, exactly?’ Patrick interrupted, letting more of his anger show. ‘Heading to the Coast barely shrinks our pursuit area. Hell, it just gets bigger. They could still be planning to duck over the border, north or south, or get out onto the ocean.’
‘True,’ Hargrove allowed. ‘But they can’t make it across the border by air. Every radar station between Alberta and the Rio Grande will be watching for the slightest blip, even without bulletins from us. Plus, our military presence is much bigger in the West Coast than anywhere else; they’ll be watching the skies just as closely. Sooner rather than later, they’ll pop up on somebody’s screen.’
Patrick’s face was the picture of doubt. ‘Perhaps. But there’s one question I’m still waiting on.’ The colonel moved a step closer. ‘You might have leeway when it comes to certain parts of this assignment, but I’m Langley’s military point man for this, per Costa’s instructions. That means all decisions – over leads, tactics, or prisoners – ultimately go through me. So when exactly did you get carte blanche to run this operation like some damn pet project?’
Hargrove sighed. Inside, he was seething. He’d hoped to avoid this moment; if he played the card meant for it, the situation would only get more dangerous. Still, if it would shut the bastard up, and maybe give him time to stay out in front – He smiled, bitingly polite, and reached inside his jacket. ‘Since you asked so nicely…’
He withdrew his hand, holding a slip of paper, and held it out to Patrick. The colonel unfolded it, still suspicious. His eyes went huge at the header symbol: an eagle clutching an olive branch and cluster of arrows. He rapidly scanned the rest of the document. When he was finished, he looked to Hargrove again. The surprise was gone, replaced by wariness. ‘This is a—’
Hargrove’s nod was slow and careful. ‘You asked about carte blanche?’ If he felt like grinning, nothing in his face showed it. He pointed to the document. ‘I’d say a presidential pardon is about as blanche as one can get. I’d hoped to a
void using it, save in special circumstances. Clearly, the lack of understanding between us falls under that category.’
Patrick darted his eyes back to the page. He skimmed further down, gaze alternately narrowing and widening at what he read. Hargrove kept his smile hidden; the list was extensive. Coming to the bottom once more, Patrick stiffened. ‘This has Snyder’s signature – from the start of his first term.’ He stared at Hargrove, bafflement mixing with suspicion. ‘How in Christ did you get this?’
‘How doesn’t matter,’ Hargrove said. He plucked the paper from the agent’s hand and returned it to its pocket. ‘All that does matter is, now you know exactly which people I ultimately report to – and what leeway they’ve given me, as opposed to the Agency.’ When Patrick’s expression darkened, he added, ‘That doesn’t mean, however, that I’m doing any of this half-cocked. So I suggest we get back on track, and continue with the hunt as we’ve been doing.’
Patrick studied him, jaw muscles working. Hargrove could guess what he was thinking, near enough. The colonel might not be up to speed on how much power really lay behind the kind of permission slip Hargrove had – especially coming from the Snyder days. But he would know that the current government was edgy about leaving those quasi-legal permissions in place, ‘reconciliation’ or not. One phone call, and Hargrove could be in a black site inside of an hour. At the same time, that kind of call wouldn’t help the current case, and might in fact worsen it, by tying up the one resource – Hargrove, and his team – that stood a chance against the kind of targets the Agency was dealing with.
At last, the other man bit off, ‘Fine.’ He tugged at the collar of his uniform. ‘I’ll check that my men are ready for departure. Once this is settled – we can discuss all other matters.’
Hargrove smiled. ‘Looking forward to it.’ He motioned to the bodies in the Osprey’s rear bay. ‘I’ll see to the bodies, make sure they’re airlifted out to D.C. at our next stop. In the meantime—’
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