A shiver ran down her spine at its silent howl – this was no yama-inu, the wolf-spirit that haunted the mountains of ancient Japan, but more something out of Transylvania. Pragmatics slammed down over her nerves, the cold iron cage of duty and a job that needed doing. She pulled the trigger and spat ceramic death at its center of mass.
It took the hits without dodging and stumbled back, eyes wide in surprise. She fired again and it disappeared behind the desk. As she came over the top, it lunged.
She jammed her palm under its chin, knocking its jaw closed before it reached her neck. The impact knocked her over the counter, and claws raked down her right arm, tearing the rifle from her grasp. She landed on her feet while drawing her sidearm and put three bullets in its shoulder before it could take cover. The .357's stopping power barely made the thing lurch, but she wanted to hurt it, not kill it.
It bolted down the hall, limping heavily, streams of hot black nothing dribbling from its fur to evaporate on contact with the floor. She followed, firing a double-tap over its head as it hit the stairwell, then scooped up her rifle on the way by.
"Matt, coming your way," Janet said in the COM.
Blood leaked from Sakura's arm, the wound throbbing in time with her heartbeat. Kneeling next to an overturned cart, she grabbed a roll of elastic bandage and wrapped it from wrist to elbow and back. "We may have a problem."
"Go ahead," Matt said, his voice clipped.
Weapon up, she kicked open the stairwell door and walked inside, clearing each landing at a sprint. "It clawed my arm. Regenerates are slow, if working."
"That's fun," Janet said. "Try not to die."
In the corner of her HUD, Matt's screen showed a creature fragment into wisps of nothing from a volley of fragmentation rounds. "Two down," he said. "Let the others run."
She broke out onto the street and circled the building. Three shadows bolted toward the highway, almost white in the infrared. The strobe didn't penetrate the darkness nearly that far, so she lowered the rifle and stopped. Her arm burned, and ached, but didn't itch.
"Where are they going?"
"Northwest," Janet said. "Downtown, if that's what they call it. Where all the tall buildings are."
"You sure about this, Matt? If Flynn still has Augs, he sees what we see. He'll know we can track them."
"There's no way that asshole won't set off a bomb if he went through the trouble to get it. He likes killing far too much."
She paused. "Yeah. I'll meet you running."
* * *
Between the Dragonflies and a CIA satellite tasked to finding the broken arrow Matt had no problem following the wolves, blazing white in the infrared. Sakura joined him halfway to downtown, a regular grid of skyscrapers. No cars patrolled the streets, with almost every business closed due to the power outage.
"If we die, I'm haunting you."
He chuckled. "How's your arm?"
"Bleeding has slowed."
"Should be healed by now."
"I know."
On the HUD, the remaining wolves entered a rectangular building with reflective windows, thirteen stories tall. He stopped Sakura with a hand on her shoulder.
"Jones said an air burst would be worse than a ground burst. Have you ever known Flynn to do anything halfway?"
"No." She looked up at the Transamerica building, and he shook his head. She turned, taking in the view. "I see it."
Half the city away, mostly obscured by trees, stood a giant cross on top of a hill.
"There's no way he's going to waste that kind of symbolism. He's going to make sure we're in the building with the goons, then he's going to detonate the bomb."
"I told you it was a trap."
"Yeah. Let's go break it."
* * *
Matt counted four hostiles and three civilians, the latter hung by steel cables from the hundred-foot cross. They approached upwind, and none of the three wolves stirred from the base of the cross. Conor Flynn stood naked next to the nuke, a conical dunce cap on top of the cross. He held a circuit board that connected to the nuke via several long wires.
Operating on the assumption that Flynn lived had not prepared him for the sight. Flynn had died two years earlier when Matt separated his skull with a butcher's knife and pulped his brain with his own hands. Matt had attended the autopsy and the cremation.
"What's that thing made of?" he muttered.
"Concrete," Janet replied. "Nothing you're going to knock down."
"How does the Navy feel about cruise missiles?"
"Against a landmark cross in a populous city? Give me a couple weeks, I might be able to convince them not to arrest you for suggesting it."
"Sakura, how's your aim?"
"He moves too much, but I can hit where the wires connect to the device. If Jones is right, should shut it down."
"On my mark." He raised his right hand to the side of his head, ready to trigger the strobe, and pulled a grenade from his bandoleer with his left, hooking the pin with his thumb. "Three… two… one… mark."
The report battered his helmet, but he waited for the spark off the nuke to bolt forward. The grenade flew, spoon spiraling to the ground ten feet in front of him, and the strobe lit up the lounging wolves. The frag landed and one dove on top of it, shattering into a million wisps. Matt pulled the AA-12 but they charged too fast.
Claws raked across his chestplate. He brought the shotgun up, cracking a jaw with the metal stock. The brutes grappled his arms, wrenching them to each side with inhuman strength. He strained, and they shifted their feet, dug in, opened their mouths to expose enormous, serrated teeth.
Shots rang out, two bursts in rapid succession. His left arm slipped free.
He spun while Sakura advanced on the other wolf, still firing.
The wolf-thing ducked his awkward haymaker and bit his thigh.
Fingers tangled in its scalp, he pulled, screaming through gritted teeth as meat tore with a wet rip. Reaching across his body he yanked free his WildStang, put the .50 caliber pistol against the thing's head. Muscle separated from bone, sending shockwaves through his body. He pulled the trigger. The pistol bucked.
Gunpowder mingled with singed fur as the creature collapsed. A naked young man fell to the ground, head a pulped mess. He couldn't have been more than twenty. The wound in his leg burned, a searing contrast to the familiar itch of regenerates doing their work.
The whispers cackled. Matt turned, but couldn't put weight on his leg. He fell, and rolled. The warhead smashed into the ground with a wet thud where his body had been.
Flynn stomped where his head had been, then again and again. Matt stopped and caught his foot one-handed, twisted, extended his left arm and pulled the trigger.
Flynn's knee caught the pistol, knocking it to the side as he spun away. He spread his arms, oblivious to or ignoring the gunshot wound that obliterated his cock and balls, already stitching closed. "C'mon, Matt. You kill me, you break my toys, now you take my tallywhacker? Rude."
"Incoming," Sakura said in his ear. A dozen white-hot shadows loped through the trees. "I'm on them. Janet, air support."
Groaning, Matt forced himself to his feet. His leg throbbed, and blood soaked his pants and sloshed in his boot. Flynn had always healed faster, and he needed to buy time. He dropped the dented pistol and pulled a knife, cracking his neck for effect. "What's the end-game here, Flynn?"
Flynn shrugged. "I just got back, haven't given it much thought, past killing you, of course."
"Back from where?"
His eyes glazed, and every emotion drained from his face. "It's not like you think. You think it's a place you can badass yourself to the top. But there is no top, and these things know suffering like you can't even imagine."
A cautious step sent a jolt up Matt's spine. He hopped back toward the AA-12, and the world spun, lightheaded
from blood loss for the first time in a decade.
Flynn blinked, his eyes focused. "You want that gun, yeah? Think it can kill me thrill me?"
Another hop, and he swooned. He stopped, breathing hard. "I think I can give it the old college try. Will you stay dead this time?"
"Not planning on it."
A helicopter thudded in the distance. Matt dove.
Flynn hit him as he landed, knee crushing his fingers against the gun. His head rang as a fist impacted his helmet.
He drove a knife-hand into Flynn's gut, and his fingers bounced off of taut muscle.
Flynn punched again. A crack split his helmet.
He dug his fingers into Flynn's knee, jamming his thumb behind the cap, and tore.
His helmet came off as Flynn fell back. With broken fingers he turned the AA-12 and fired. Flynn ducked the round and dove. His forearm exploded as Matt pulled the trigger again. Bone, blood and shrapnel peppered Matt's face, and blood leaked into his eyes.
Flynn tore the gun from his hand and spun. Stars exploded as the stock took him in side of the face. He fell to his hands and knees, the agony in his thigh muted by the concussion. The gun came down again and Matt slumped to the ground, the world swimming. Light flashed in front of his eyes, sparkling off of his combat knife.
Flynn flipped it to an overhand grip, held it over Matt's head. "My turn, you burn. Eat shit, Rowley."
His head evaporated a moment before the report hit, a continuous roar from the helicopter's GAU-17A minigun. Matt watched, unable to move, as fifty rounds a second converted Flynn's torso to a red, pulpy mass indistinguishable from the mud on which it lay.
The stream of fire banked away, and he heard Sakura in his ear, her voice authoritative but unintelligible. A minute later he struggled to a sitting position, blood flow finally slowing from the wound in his thigh.
Sakura sauntered up, helmetless, REC7 over her shoulder, her suit a mess of tattered, bloody rags and exposed impact-gel plates. "Two got away. Chopper's hunting. I gave them my helmet for strobing."
She nudged Conor's disembodied leg. "Even came back with the tattoos. What do you think it means?"
"I don't know. I just hope we don't have to kill the fucker again."
"Okay, kids," Janet broke in. "Air Force is coming in to secure that bomb, and SWAT's en route to cut down the mayor and his family, so try to look non-threatening. They're bringing some FADE techs for Flynn's body, or what's left of it."
"We should burn it." Sakura looked from Matt to the body and back. "Those tattoos have some kind of power, or he wouldn't reproduce them."
"No," Janet said. "We're bringing it in for analysis."
"I'll get gasoline." As Sakura turned, Matt grabbed her wrist.
"No. Burning didn't stop him last time. Maybe we can learn something."
She turned her body, invaded his personal space, to hide her hands from Dragonflies. 'I don't trust her. I don't trust FADE.'
The rapid-fire sign language would have been hard for a camera to process even if they'd caught it.
'We have to trust someone.'
Her eyes flared in anger. 'Your mistake, not mine.'
'I'll own it.' He dropped his hands and spoke aloud. "Roger that, Janet. Just get us a ride out of here, will you?"
"You got it, bud."
* * *
They landed at Joint Base Anacostia-Bolling nine hours later, as the sun rose over Washington, DC. Still filthy but fully healed, they disembarked carrying their broken weapons and equipment, and a FADE forensics team carried Flynn's remains in an airtight body bag. Matt's thigh had taken three times longer than usual, and had hurt more than anything since augmentation, like a bad infection gone red with inflammation. Even now a dull ache remained.
A convoy of three black SUV's met them on the tarmac each with a driver, the foremost with General Freudenberg riding shotgun. Matt got in the back of that one, and Sakura joined him.
"'Sup, Freud?" Matt patted the general on the shoulder.
The driver's eyes widened, but he said nothing.
Freudenberg flushed, but moderated his expression well. "In private you're welcome to call me Andrew, but in front of others I'd appreciate it if you use my title."
"Cool, Andrew. What are we doing with this body?"
He answered as the car pulled away. "We're going to study it, see what we can learn, and then cremate it."
"To what end?" Sakura asked.
"This man came back from the dead. If we can figure out how he did that, maybe we can keep it from happening again. Meantime we can monitor the body for signs of regeneration, or whatever process brought it back."
Matt shook his head. "No, Flynn had been cremated. I watched. I carried eleven pounds of remains – bone fragments – out of the morgue and buried them myself. That grave hasn't been disturbed."
"So we don't understand what happened here. All the more reason to study it. Miss Stein will be heading the team."
"Begging your pardon, General," Janet broke in on the car's speakerphone, which Matt hadn't realized was active. "I'd like the lead on this one. He was our man. His wife was my friend."
Sakura kicked Matt's boot, signed, 'No.' Matt replied with a tiny shrug.
"Marcia?" Freudenberg asked. "You okay with that?"
"Fine by me. I'll expect reports, same as anyone."
"Settled, then."
They headed into downtown DC and turned into a parking garage, where a false wall receded to allow them into the FADE complex. Sakura rolled her eyes, and Matt had to grin as he read her mind. Americans were parodies of themselves, and American spies the worst of the bunch.
The driver dropped them in another parking garage, who knows how far underground, and after they got out Freudenberg led them to an elevator with a security camera but no buttons. It opened for them, and as they entered Matt grinned harder, because there were no buttons on the inside either.
It lurched, going up, and opened a minute later into FADE HQ, a warren of activity with men and women of all ages clicking away at computers, monitoring screens, and rushing back and forth between stations. All the secrecy seemed pretty stupid to Matt – any organization with this many people had to have humint leaks, which made the rest of the precautions about their location mostly if not entirely moot.
A twentysomething man in an impeccable olive suit hurried by them, eyes widening at their torn-up, bloody appearance. He almost got his hand up enough to salute the general, but didn't stop to pay him the proper respect.
"Seems busy," Matt said.
"Well," Freudenberg said, "three minutes ago an eight-point-nine hit right under Mount Davidson, and we're trying to figure out if it's a coincidence."
Sakura muttered something in Japanese.
"Pardon me, sir!" A graying woman with a Texas twang drew their attention. "The Miwok just reiterated their demands with a letter to CNN. It's postmarked yesterday."
"Thank you." He gave her a curt nod, then turned to walk into his office. "You two shower, then we're going to see the President."
* * *
President Williams ran his hands through his hair, elbows planted on the Oval Office desk. "Somebody want to tell me what the fuck is going on here?"
Matt stood behind Freudenberg, who in turn stood behind the Joint Chiefs, who actually got to sit on the leather loveseats set out in a ring around an unreasonably large coffee table. Sakura had declined to participate in the meeting to sit outside and read, and nobody wore ear buds. Only important people got to sit: the Joint Chiefs, the Director of Homeland Security Suzanne Fraser, dour and businesslike despite her wild mane of silver-gray hair, and Secretary of State John Marks, a fat, red-faced man who looked primed for a heart attack at any moment. In the legion of suits and uniforms behind them, Matt recognized only Freudenberg and Colonel Eugene McGrath, the Deputy Undersec
retary of Defense conspicuous in his wheelchair, his face a knotted mass of scar tissue along the left side.
Fraser spoke without consulting the iPad she held in her lap. "The Confederated Umatilla Tribes declared solidarity with the Mewoks and claimed the Columbian Plateau for their own, plus both sides of the Umatilla River and the city of Pendleton. They burned the court house to the ground, and the governor sent in the National Guard. Things… went south, setting off a chain reaction through Oregon, Washington, and into Utah – Native Americans are slaughtering anyone they find on 'their land', which seems to be, by their definition, the continent."
"Ridiculous," McGrath said, his gruff, grizzled voice even more pronounced in person. "They can't hope to win. In just those three states we have more cops than they have people."
She continued over the top of his final words. "At least four hundred are dead in Baton Rouge, in what looks like coordinated violence from the followers of Black Hawk, a Sauk chieftain from Illinois who died in 1838. They wear gris-gris, amulets that appear to render them all but immune to, among other things, tear gas and bullets, both rubber and lead."
Marks chuffed. "What does a dead Illinois Indian have to do with Baton Rouge?"
"Certain voodoo spiritualists consider him their intercessor with the divine. May I continue?"
She detailed six more declarations of secession and sovereignty: native tribes in Oklahoma and New Mexico, a New Hampshire militia that appeared to have at least one tank, and megachurches in Alabama, Georgia, and Texas who declared 'Dominion over the New Promised Land over the Forces of Babylon' in their press release, which also proclaimed solidarity with the 'Church of the Current Divine' in White Spruce, Tennessee. "Which I believe," she finished, "is right across the street from your house, Mr Rowley."
Everyone turned to look at him.
"Yeah. They think my son's an angel and my wife a saint."
The president waved his hand, almost dismissive. "This is about that incident on the Mall, right?"
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