Herokiller

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Herokiller Page 5

by Paul Tassi


  He finished the four-year degree in three years, he was so eager to start and put his old life behind him. Almost immediately they shipped him out to Japan for training, and he discovered quickly that there were no sexy women to be rescued from maniacal villains. No nuclear bombs to defuse in mid-air as they hurtled toward a major city.

  There was only China.

  The media dubbed it “Cold War II” and it stuck, a familiar identifier everyone hoped wouldn’t morph into “World War III” instead someday. China’s population had reached a tipping point. Increased pollution had turned cities from toxic to downright uninhabitable, and respiratory problems and birth defects were sweeping through the country like wildfire.

  The US took it upon itself to poke and prod. The CIA would spark riots and whip up the fervor of the public to hopefully topple the communist regime. China responded with some not-so-veiled threats about ending the “tyrannical” global reign of the US for good, and both countries threw up nuke-zapping satellites into the sky that would hopefully prevent the end of the world. But no one knew if any of the tech would work. As such, the war was fought on the ground, in the shadows. Whatever shots were fired were heard and seen by no one. Almost no one.

  Mark was recruited at the height of it all, and he learned quickly his ancestry was just as much a reason as his test scores and obstacle course times. He’d grown up speaking Chinese thanks to his father, who had left the country decades earlier, running away with an American tourist he met. He thought he knew everything about the culture there was to know, but the CIA crammed even more in his head in preparation for the part he was to play.

  “They’ll hate you, you know,” Gideon told him. “Everyone in the Academy, all your friends, will think you turned. The government will disavow you completely. That’s how dark this is going to get. But we’ll bring you home in the end.”

  Mark’s mission was more complex than simple spying. He’d defect to China and “accidentally” get caught after a few months undercover. He’d cut a deal to avoid immediate execution by Chinese death squad, and turn double agent, spying for them instead. But in the end, he’d still feed the US the truly deep, dark shit they wanted to know, and wait for final orders and eventual extraction. If he lived that long. They screened hundreds of candidates for Operation Spearfish, and Mark was only one of a few left standing as they hacked through the list. They told him Spearfish was the key to winning the entire war. Perhaps he was naïve to believe them, but it turned out they were actually right.

  It was 2026. He was twenty-seven. He got married the day before he left.

  A week later, the government sent him a video file. A beaming, crying Riko told him she was pregnant. She wanted to name their daughter Asami, after her grandmother.

  Sixty-three days. That’s all the time he had to be a flesh-and-blood husband and father once he came home and found a bright-eyed toddler with her mother’s smile and his left dimple. Sixty-three days, and then it all shattered.

  He was finally just too damn tired of doing nothing but sweeping the pieces around.

  Hours after Brooke had left, Mark went and knocked on her door.

  6

  AFTER HE AGREED TO the mission, Brooke gave him everything they had on Crayton. The billionaire’s public profile was well known. The man gave interviews out to news outlets like candy, and everything about the man was fully documented online, from which tiny town in Norway his grandfather was born in to his favorite A-list pornstar (Shyla Banxxx, it turned out). Gossip sites had details on his diet, the locations of his half-dozen homes around the world, the make and model of twenty different cars he’d been spotted in during the last year alone.

  And yet, when he looked at the NSA, FBI, and CIA files Brooke had on Crayton, it was something else entirely. Everything that actually mattered, his true family history, his childhood education, all of it was smoke. Before he started showing up and bankrolling start-ups with money pulled out of thin air, it was like the man didn’t exist. Even working intelligence for as long as Mark had, you rarely saw anyone with a null file to this extent. It was common to see a few years blank here and there when you pierced the cover stories of assets and agents, but an entire lifetime?

  But why? The question gnawed at Mark. Crayton was clearly two shades away from insane, and his time with Prison Wars had certainly accelerated the decline of American society to some small degree, but a ghosted media magnate? It was bizarre. It had taken the agencies five years of work to unravel all the threads, but Mark couldn’t find what had tipped them off to investigate him in the first place. Gideon had mentioned the Chinese, but that didn’t make sense either. That war is over, he thought. They lost.

  After Cold War II, when Spearfish came to a head during a schism the media would dub “The Red Death,” China broke into five separate states, only one of them keeping the country’s original name. They were all still feuding with each other to this day, and Mark couldn’t imagine what on earth they’d be doing turning their attention back toward the US. None of them had the capacity to go toe to toe with America anymore, and no more than two of the five were ever allied with each other at one time given the volatile political landscape in the wake of the country’s collapse. The Red Death hadn’t killed them, but it had certainly rendered them impotent as a superpower.

  But if this is MSS—if they have something to do with Crayton and all this madness …

  The thought was unsettling. Mark owed the Ministry of State Security, the Chinese version of the CIA, a debt, and he had no doubt elements of the intelligence service were still operational, even if the war was over and China was more or less on fire.

  He’s still alive, said a dark voice in Mark’s mind. The one that usually called him to drink. You know he is.

  He shook the thought out of his head. If he was alive, he would have come for you by now. They killed him. They showed you his corpse.

  A corpse, anyway.

  Mark shoved the thought from his head. He’d jumped from the CIA to Crayton to China to the MSS to a man that still haunted his dreams. That was a quite a leap, even for him. And he was one paranoid motherfucker.

  Zhou was dead. That was all there was to it. If this was actually a Chinese problem, it was a new one.

  It won’t bring back what you’ve lost, the voice said.

  But now at least, he truly had nothing left to lose. And shit, that was what they were counting on.

  BROOKE POKED A DUMPLING with chopsticks, distrusting the caliber of the take-out place they’d ordered from. They were in her apartment now, a sun-drenched loft with a lot of dying plants, and something that kept skittering around the wood floors. Mark only caught a glimpse of it every so often, and had yet to determine of it was a cat, dog, or some sort of domesticated rodent.

  “So what do you think?” Brooke asked, finally deciding to pop the dumpling into her mouth. “Think you’ll be able to embrace the new you?”

  Mark stared at the flexscreen intently.

  They took his car. They drained his accounts. They turned his cash-purchased penthouse into an underwater mortgage. Essentially all they left him with was his name.

  Mark Wei was an alias he’d assumed a long time ago, and they let him keep it for this mission. But the parameters of the cover had changed dramatically. As Brooke explained, masking a smile the entire time, Mark was now an ex-Navy SEAL turned Glasshammer merc turned hopeless gambling addict. He’d made good money for a long while as a unit commander in the private military corporation game, but he’d lost millions over the past few years playing ultra high-stakes blackjack and no-limit poker at virtual and real-life casinos. Mark thumbed through a rundown of his fictional debt, and questioned how anyone on earth could seriously be eight million in the hole and still find places that would let them gamble. Brooke assured him it happened more than he thought. Even though it was a cover story, looking at the angry, glowing red numbers on the page made him wince a little bit. He felt downright bad for this desperate, fictiona
l version of himself.

  “He’s also an alcoholic,” Brooke said, “so that won’t be too much of a stretch for you.”

  Mark ignored the dig, and kept sifting through the profile. No wife, no kids, minimal family. All true, and other than the gambling, Mark had to admit it was a little uncomfortable how much new the new life resembled his old one.

  “I’m trying to wrap my head around this profile, but some of it seems really strange.”

  Brooke drowned the rest of her food with another packet of soy sauce. A ball of red-brown fur raced behind Mark so quickly he only saw the tip of its tail.

  “Right now there are a lot of different types of loonies all trying to enter the Crucible,” Brooke said. “You’re going to see a ton who are just local meatheads trying to prove to the boys they’re tough shit. Maybe they used to play football in college or were in an amateur boxing circuit. Maybe they won a few bar fights and think they can throw a proper punch. They’ll enter, knock a few heads, but ultimately get their asses kicked by the real players, and go home with bruises and a tall tale.”

  “Who are the real players, then?” Mark asked.

  “The ones who are signing up hoping they reach the stage where they can actually die. The insane, or the truly desperate. Those with a do-or-die reason to need the millions, or to prove themselves on a national stage. You’ll get all types there as well, but most will have specific reasons for entering. The only ones that will make the cut will have to have some serious bite to go with their bark. Expect a lot of ex-military. Guys like you, and a few girls even if they’re good enough. The Serious Shit Brigade.”

  “Saw a guy on the news,” Mark said, remembering one of the interviews he’d seen the other day as hundreds waited on the street to sign up for the Crucible. “Some ex-cop who got fired after a shooting. Now he’s broke and trying to pay his kid’s medical bills, even if it kills him. Had death in his eyes.”

  “Exactly,” Brooke said. “Guy like him will have the drive, but the skill? He better be a hell of a cop.”

  “So this is where the profile comes in,” Mark said, understanding.

  “You start going in there and dismantling folks in the ring, and no one’s gonna believe you’re a local stockbroker.”

  “Alright, I get the SEAL thing and the gambling debt now, but you had to marry me to Glasshammer?” Mark said.

  “SEALs are not terribly well-paid, “Brooke said. “The big bucks come from the PMCs, as I’m sure you know. Plus it’s easier to make their records cloudy if people go prodding. Almost everything they do is off-book, and we’ve got enough dirt on their entire board to make them do anything we want. Collaborating on cover stories is kids’ stuff.”

  “Just so long as I don’t have to go near them,” Mark said.

  Brooke shrugged.

  “If anyone pokes around, you’ll have two dozen guys you never met talk about how much of a badass you were during some op in the desert, though they’ll hint you were the type of loose cannon that might blow a fat salary in Vegas if given the opportunity. Standard stuff.”

  “China anywhere in there?”

  “Nothing in the story even remotely about China. Hell, they even thought about making you half-Japanese, but they didn’t want to redo the surname. Your current ID has enough stuck to it to be useful in some aspects.”

  Half-Japanese. That stung a bit as Mark thought of Riko.

  “You’re already registered online, now you just have to show up to the actual ‘audition,’ as they’re calling it, in a few days.”

  “Any idea what that entails?” Mark asked.

  “Fighting, obviously, but details are murky past that. But you have to win.”

  Mark cocked his head.

  “I have to take the entire region?”

  “Crayton probably won’t even look at you unless you’re a city finalist. It’s the only way you’ll get access to him.”

  “Even for me, that’s a tall order, considering the thousands I’ve seen lining up around the city. And lord knows how many signed up online.”

  “Mark, come on. I’ve memorized your file, remember? Your training is unparalleled. Your missions. The Hóngsè Fēng … ”

  Mark held up his hand.

  “Alright, alright,” he said. “I’ll do what I can, but I’m not promising anything. They better have a back-up plan.”

  “They always do,” Brooke said. “But, there’s another problem.”

  “What now?” Mark asked. Brooke brought up a recorded news stream on her television.

  “It seems like Crayton is bringing in ringers.”

  The first video was a report on how notorious serial killer Matthew Michael Easton had just been released from death row. Despite the fact that he’d killed twenty-three women with a hunting knife and being arrested in a fur coat made out of their scalps, the pair of detectives who had brought him in had been indicted on corruption charges, after it had been brought to light that they’d invented probable cause and planted evidence, including the coat, on Easton when they arrested him. The running theory was that the pair of them had actually killed the women, and their plan was to use the reclusive Easton as a scapegoat.

  The elaborate liberation of Easton wasn’t the only such story. Other news clips showed that a metro Detroit gang enforcer was set free after key evidence turned up missing. A white supremacist leader was exonerated after his judge was arrested for taking payoffs. And a Russian mobster was set free after two separate witnesses recanted their statements emphatically.

  “They’re all from Prison Wars,” Mark said, finding the obvious thread. He was looking at Drago Rusakov, or Drago the Undying, as the show had anointed him. A fortress of a man shown beating a fellow prisoner to death in footage from the short-lived Crucible precursor.

  “Yup,” Brooke said. “Crayton’s camp even had to issue a statement about it because it was so transparent.”

  She brought up a paragraph of text on her flexscreen.

  “One of our many rewards to Prison Wars contestants was the use of legal aid to re-examine their arrests, trials, and sentences,” the statement said. “Our lawyers have been shocked to discover what appears to be rampant corruption and incompetence in a few of the cases of our most well-known competitors. We have worked tirelessly to see that justice is served, and we are elated that these innocent men are going free as a result of our team’s dedication.”

  “They are masters of bullshit, I’ll give them that,” Brooke said.

  Mark could only shake his head. He turned back to his rice, but it was cold and hard on his plate.

  “This all still seems like a joke. I’ve been out of the field for half a decade, and this is your first assignment as a handler. We’re hardly cream of the crop.”

  Brooke nodded.

  “Yeah, I get that, but you can be damn sure I’m not going to screw it up, if I ever want to have an actual career and work with actual operatives. No offense.”

  “None taken.”

  “Why’d you change your mind?” Brooke asked.

  “Your pep talk.”

  “Really?”

  “No. And don’t ask again.”

  THE FIRST DAY OF auditions was weirdly mysterious. After receiving a message that was he was an “approved combatant,” Mark scanned through the instructions to find only that they said to wear athletic apparel and report to a specific address. The building he was assigned to was a skyscraper downtown that turned out to be owned by a CMI subcorp, but other than the date, time, and vague dress code recommendations the invite said nothing else. Mark was sent hacked messages from other combatants by Brooke, but none said anything different. The only change was the address, and there were four or five buildings where auditions were being held. As it turned out, when Carlo got his message, he was assigned to the same one as Mark.

  “I can’t believe you signed up for this!” Carlo said as he glanced a punch off Mark’s arm. They were walking to the entrance of 455 North Wells where the concrete t
ower loomed above them. “You were always talkin’ so much shit about it, telling me not to do it.”

  He stopped.

  “Wait, were you trying to get me out so you’d have an easier time cruising to the finals?”

  Mark hadn’t really considered that he could eventually fight Carlo. Given the odds, it seemed unlikely, but if they were paired up, Mark had been training with him long enough to destroy him. Well, destroy him gently. He’d feel bad if he embarrassed the kid.

  “Nah, man. Just … I’ve got a few more money problems than I’ve let on.”

  “Money problems?” Carlo said, surprised. “But that car!”

  “Bank took it,” Mark said, the cover story starting to take over. Fortunately Carlo knew next to nothing about his personal life, despite their time sparring together. “They’re about to take my place too.”

  Carlo held his hands up.

  “Sorry, your business is your business. Just glad to have some company, even if I do have to kick your ass later!”

  Mark grinned.

  Inside the building, large, stainless steel letters were bolted into the wall over the reception area which read CHICAGO QUALIFIERS AREA C. Whatever company’s masthead had normally been there was just a scuff on the wood. Mark squinted and saw that it used to say INFOTECH or INFRATECH or something like that. The name was different than whatever the Crayton subcorp on the lease was called.

  A long desk had five receptionists sitting behind it, each a twenty-something girl with a plastered-on smile. Filing into lines were hordes of burly-looking men, some laughing and joking with each other, obviously groups of friends who’d signed up together for laughs, like Brooke said. Others were alone and silent, and seemed like the ones to watch out for. Out of the two hundred or so crammed into foyer, Mark could count the number of women on two hands. He was surprised there were even that many, despite Crayton’s open invitation.

 

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