Counterstrike: The Separatist Wars Book 2

by Thomas Webb

  Hale gave a slight shake of his head. “Lima’s contacts say otherwise. From what he’s shared with us, the bombing attempt actually had the complete opposite effect from what Ramsey’s people and United Les Space intended. News of what really happened at the Grand Nebula is slowly making its way through the intelligence community.” He shrugged. “Maybe the Kingdom hasn’t caught wind of it yet? But word on the street is that the Separatist factions who were at that meet have redoubled their efforts to come to an agreement with the UN. And several more factions have since come onboard.”

  It was strange to be sharing such high-level intel with someone outside his chain of command. He’d always considered himself, for the most part, as just a grunt. Intel like this was for generals and politicians. It was for decision makers—not shooters like him.

  Her eyes widened. “So there may be a genuine chance for peace, then?”

  “I hope so.”

  He’d heard the intel only yesterday, but Anesu was right. Now, for the first time since the Separatist Wars kicked off almost two decades ago, there was a chance for real peace. For the first time in a long time, there was a ray of hope.

  “Perhaps the Outer Colonies have finally grown tired of so many years of war?” she said.

  Hale could only hope. “God knows we all have.”

  “Perhaps your new UN Secretary General is ready to accept some sort of compromise?”

  “Yeah. Maybe.” Hale leaned back in his seat and studied his hands. His face darkened. He didn’t have a great deal of faith in the Secretary General. She’d certainly talked a big game at first. But like most people knew, talk wasn’t the same thing as action. In addition to that, United Les Space would fight tooth and nail to make sure that the lucrative wars continued. They’d never allow anything as trivial as peace to threaten their quarterly profits.

  “Trace,” Anesu said.

  He’d been lost in his own head, but something about the tone of her voice made Hale look up. She was staring down at the table, not wanting to meet his eyes. A hollow feeling formed in the pit of his gut, like he was about to walk into an ambush.

  “What is it?” he asked, unsure of whether he really wanted to know or not.

  “I realize this may not be the best time, but I asked you here to the Kingdom because I wanted to speak to you in person. I have some news. I would have preferred to wait until later, but with Zombie recovering, this may be the best opportunity. And I . . . I did not want to lose my nerve.”

  Hale’s guard went up. “What is it?”

  “I . . . have been given an assignment. It requires that I will be traveling. For a while.”

  Hale’s stomach dropped. “Oh,” he said.

  “I realize this is quite sudden, and I am sorry. It was all so—“

  “It’s ok,” Hale interrupted. “I get it.” He swallowed hard and managed a weak smile. Hale knew better than to ask if it was the news agency or the Kingdom’s intelligence apparatus she was working for. Yet he asked anyway. “Is this for your work as a journalist? Or as an agent of the Kingdom?” It was the only thing he could think of to say.

  “A little of both,” she answered.

  “When do you have to leave?”

  “I am to leave tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  It came out sounding like more of an accusation than he’d have preferred.

  “I am sorry this must be so sudden.”

  This was a new sensation. Hale had enjoyed few lasting relationships in the past. Most of the ones he did have were measured not in years, but weeks or months. Sometimes hours. A stable relationship wasn’t conducive to the life he’d chosen. Not with near-constant deployment, and training operations taking up the precious little time he was home. Whatever “home” meant. The MARSOC divorce rate was stratosphere-high, except for the poly families. Easier to be away from home when there were two or three other spouses to take up the slack, Hale guessed. Anesu was the first time he’d allowed himself to really picture being with someone for longer than the duration of his shore leave.

  “Trace,” Anesu began. “These last few months have . . . this thing between us, it has been—“

  “You know what?” he said, interrupting her again. This time he hoped he was saving them both some pain. He put on his most rakish grin. “Why don’t we get out of here?”

  She smiled. A flash of pain dulled her bright eyes. It was there and gone in an instant. Hale pushed his own hurt down deep. The last thing he needed now was to feel sorry for himself.

  “I believe I understand,” she said. Anesu put her cloth napkin down and called for the check. Their server, an older gentleman, dark skin with deep wrinkles and hair long gone to grey, appeared right away. He was dressed impeccably in a vest and tie, and held a cloth folded over one arm like a character from the cinema feeds. When Anesu handed her comm device over for payment, the old man shook his head and laughed.

  “Your credits are no good here, Ms. Chewasa. I have been instructed that your meal tonight was courtesy of the Kingdom.”

  “Asante elder,” Anesu said, giving a slight bow of her head.

  The old man smiled. “You are quite welcome, Ms. Chewasa.”

  With their bill paid, the server thanked them both again before disappearing. Hale got to his feet and helped Anesu with her chair. She stood facing away from him, the yellow backless dress flowing along her contours like water. She turned her head and leaned up. “I have only hours until I leave,” she whispered. “What do you say we go someplace and make the most of them?”

  Hale liked the sound of that. She took his hand and led him through the tables toward the exit. On the way out, Hale couldn’t help but look around the restaurant. This was the type of place he’d never have thought he would visit in a million light years. Wealthy residents of the Kingdom and foreign and interplanetary business people filled the tables, enjoying the panoramic view of the capital city at night. Despite the relative security, Hale found himself scanning the crowd for possible threats. Lima’s people had cost ULS a lot of credits. In his eyes, that gave the corporation more than enough justification to come gunning for them. Did they have someone here, amongst the wealthy crowd, right now? He also couldn’t think of a good reason that Ramsey and some of the Separatist factions wouldn’t be on the hunt for them, too.

  So many enemies. The same ones he’d been fighting these last few months. As it turned out, they were the same ones he’d fought back on Delios. The same ones he’d been fighting for nearly the last decade of his life.

  He’d see the end of this. He swore it to himself. He looked at the woman walking in front of him. For now, he would concentrate on tonight. He’d try to be present for whatever time they had left together. And as for the rest?

  Their enemies, and the wars they brought with them, would still be there tomorrow.

  -28-

  Ramsey looked over his shoulder as he made his way into the private club. The black-market doctor had done a decent job of his facial reconstruction surgery, but it hurt like hell. Still, he’d forgone the pain stims for this one. He needed to be sharp.

  His new face—his old face? His new old face? Whatever face he was now wearing, it hurt. And it itched something fierce. The mission on Cetov 9 had been a bust, with the only silver lining being he could get rid of the false face and have his original one, the one he was born with, back. Another five-hour surgery was small price to pay to reclaim one’s identity. Especially since that second face was now splashed across wanted holos and vid feeds throughout UN-controlled space.

  After the mission went to shit, he and his remaining people had met at the designated rendezvous point. Thanks to the United Nations penchant for trying to keep things quiet—both the peace talks, and the fact that those same talks had been infiltrated and their lead members almost assassinated—there was no massive planetary lockdown. Ramsey’s people laid low and let things die down. A few days later, they hopped separate, pre-booked cargo shuttles and got the hell
off-planet. It would have been an audacious statement, had it succeeded. They’d almost pulled it off.

  Almost.

  The botched mission gnawed at Ramsey. He hated losing. It was part of the ethos of the military unit he had once officially been a part of. The best of the best. Losing was the only unforgivable sin for OC Special Forces. But losing twice to the same set of enemies? That was unconscionable.

  Before, his vendetta against Hale and his team was merely personal. Now vengeance against Lima, Hale, Mallory, the UN, and their compatriots was something that existed on a much deeper level. Now drawing their blood may as well have been a sworn oath.

  Thinking of the failed mission reminded him of his uncertainty around how today’s meeting was going to go. Steen and ULS didn’t take too kindly to failure. Despite having severely wounded the ex-Green Beret Gina Romero, he had little to show for his work.

  The entrance to the prestigious Atwood Club was just what Ramsey thought it would be. Dark paneled wood. A short corridor guarded by two thick-necked goons, one human and one Shemari. They gave him a cursory scan, waving him with hand-held detectors and a good, old-fashioned pat down. Security here did a decent job, but they missed the newly-designed alloy pulse pistol hidden in his SOB, or Small of Back, holster.

  “Go ahead,” the Shemari growled.

  “Thanks,” Ramsey said, pushing through the heavy wood door. The entry opened into a bar. The same dark wood as the foyer comprised the walls of the of the place. Low lights cast the space in perpetual shadow. Glasses of all shapes and sizes hung from the low ceiling above the countertop. The bartender, a young Velusian woman, kept her eyes down and focused on her comm device. In the corner, a Salusian in a dark business suit shared a drink with a professionally-dressed human woman. They watched Ramsey as he walked through. He felt their eyes follow him as he made his way past.

  He’d never been here, but he’d been instructed on which way to go. A hallway on the other side of the bar led him to a larger sitting room. He spared little more than a glance at the overstuffed chairs and the heads of beasts from multiple worlds mounted on the walls. This place stank of old, intergalactic money. It reeked of excess power and unscrupulous wealth. Of people who’d never missed a meal, who’d never seen someone they loved die because there wasn’t enough to eat, or a warm place to sleep. Who’d never succumbed to something simply because there weren’t enough credits to pay for the things required to live. In other words, the Atwood Club was just Steen’s style.

  The ULS Vice President enjoyed having others meet him in places that displayed his power. Or more accurately, displayed his perception of power. Ramsey chuckled to himself. The pudgy exec had no idea what real power was. Ramsey had killed—both for the Outer Colonies and for the Separatist cause. He’d seen people die, and he’d taken life. That was real power.

  Ramsey walked by several closed rooms before he arrived at one with a chalkboard outside the door. Names and times were scribbled on the slate. Ten O’clock to twelve o’clock was marked Marty Steen. The brass placard above the door read “Billiards Lounge.” Ramsey opened the door.

  There was a single pool table in the corner. Heavy oak, green velvet, the feet carved to resemble the paws of Earth lions. Several exits led off the main room. Ramsey’s sources told him this wasn’t so much a place where members played pool, but rather where they brought in sex workers for paying patrons. Preferably sex workers who were young and trafficked from off-world, if his intel could be trusted. His lip curled in disgust. Galactic sex-trafficking—yet another reason he was forced to hold his nose when working with his United Les Space ‘partners.’

  Ramsey kept his revulsion in check, just as he kept his eyes open. The corporation the Separatists called their partner just may have asked him here today to try and kill him.

  Steen was waiting for him inside, seated on a leather sofa next to a fireplace and a set of heavily curtained windows. Two suits were standing next to Steen—a stout human woman and a big Andarian. United Les Space favored Earth/off-world combo teams for their security, it seemed. Bright red ULS pins adorned both the hired guns’ lapels. Slim modular body armor underneath suit jackets added to their bulk.

  Would they be trouble? Ramsey sized them up. He didn’t think so. He could probably take them if he needed to, but armed only with a compact pulse pistol and his wits? Smart credits said that was a fight that could easily go either way.

  Steen sat with his back to the door. He shifted his paunch on the leather sofa, twisting far enough around to gesture at Ramsey over his shoulder. “I don’t give a shit what they say the raw materials will cost,” he said into his comm devoice. “We need it next week. No later.” A glass of something sat on an end table at Steen’s right hand. He was staring at a holo screen on his lap as he prattled into his comm device. What looked like profit reports hovered in front of his eyes. The line was moving high and to the right.

  Ramsey studied the graph. I’ll bet the board of directors likes that, he thought.

  Steen twisted further around, raising an eyebrow at Ramsey. This was it. Were the suits here to take him down? If there was to be a fight, it would happen now.

  Steen disconnected his wave, then turned back to his security detail. “Why don’t you guys knock off for a few? Head down to the kitchen and grab yourselves a snack or something. This gentleman and I have some business to discuss.”

  The two suits looked at one another, hesitated a second, then left. Ramsey stood still, loose but ready, as they walked by. He didn’t relax completely until they’d gone, shutting the heavy door behind themselves.

  Steen shut down his holscreen with a wave of his hand. “Things could have gone better on Cetov 9,” he began.

  He let it hang there, like a weight between them. Just regular corporate negotiating tactics bullshit. He’d put Ramsey’s failure out there as a show of power, just to see what Ramsey would say.

  “They could have gone better,” Ramsey conceded. “But it wasn’t a complete waste.”

  “Oh?” Steen laughed. “And what exactly would you say was good about it?”

  Ramsey had anticipated the question. “We learned where our weak points are. And we now know the capabilities of our enemy.”

  “Huh,” Steen grunted. He took a drink of his liquor—cognac, if Ramsey had to venture a guess. “That’s some grade-A military bullshitting, Ramsey. And I think you know it.”

  The hint of snarl touched Ramsey’s lip.

  “Relax,” Steen said. “I didn’t ask you here to kill you or anything.” He fixed Ramsey with what he must have thought was a pointed stare. “If we wanted you dead, you would be.”

  Ramsey laughed. “You’re welcome to try, chubs.”

  Steen grinned, as if his previous statement had been nothing more than a joke. “It’s cool, Ramsey. The way the board sees it? None of this is your fault.”

  That caught Ramsey off guard. “Come again?”

  “You want me to repeat myself, is that it? Ok. No problem. It’s not your fault.” Steen said it slowly, sounding out each word. “I don’t often say this, but I was wrong.”

  This was odd. Steen saying he was wrong? It was nothing like the asshole Ramsey had come to know and despise. “What the hell are you getting at, Marty?”

  Steen studied the liquid in his glass. “It seems the board of directors agrees with you. At least on a few things.”

  Ramsey bared his teeth. He’d had enough games. “If you don’t cut to the chase real soon. . . “

  Steen swirled the amber liquid in his glass. “You were right about the contractors.”

  Ramsey paused. “The United Nations contractors you mean?”

  Steen nodded. “Our people conducted some research. . . did some digging through an independent firm. Lots of great data in there. Almost all of it confirms what your gut already told us. The outcome of the project in Shangjai made it very clear. Lima and his people are bad news.”

  “Nothing I haven’t been saying all along.”
Lima, Hale, the Air & Space Command pilot and their crew had captured him, tortured him, and blocked his play at every turn. Yet it wasn’t until they’d screwed up ULS’s plans that the corporate a-holes in charge decided to take notice.

  Steen took a swallow of his drink. “The board of directors has come to a decision. These contractors have caused the company far too many problems. The risk/reward metrics of removing them have changed.”

  Ramsey folded his arms across his chest. “Continue,” he said.

  “As of right now, you have a new assignment. A new sole purpose in life, if you will. You, my friend, are going to take out Silvio Lima and his organization. And you’re going to do it with the full resources and backing of United Les Space.”

  Ramsey hadn’t had the best run of luck lately. As surprising as it was, this meeting with Steen had brought a genuine smile to his original face. The smile felt good, despite the pain in his still-healing facial muscles. “I like the sound of that,” he said. As outlandish as it seemed, he and Steen were on the exact same page. “So how am I supposed to do it? We don’t even know where they are.”

  Steen giggled. “Remember that data I mentioned? Well, it seems that the old Brazilian guy owns the company that employs those contractors you’ve been tangling with. And that company is privately listed. We almost missed it, because it’s under a fake name.”

  “Makes sense,” Ramsey said, massaging his jaw. The black-market doc said it would help with the healing process. “Especially given Lima’s background.”

  “Yeah,” Steen agreed. “As it happens, Mr. Silvio Lima is the registered owner of an LLC you may have heard of. A little outfit called Soluções Avançadas Incorporadas. ASI for short. It’s a company based out of Brazil.”

  “Never heard of it,” Ramsey said. But he had now.

  “He went to great lengths to make sure you didn’t hear about it,” Steen said. “But not great enough. Even better, we’ve located their base of operations. It’s on Earth. In an abandoned air & space field just outside Sao Paulo.”