by O. J. Lowe
The Great Game Trilogy Boxset.
Contains:
Wild Card.
Outlaw Complex
Revolution’s Fire.
OJ Lowe.
Text copyright © 2018 OJ Lowe
All Rights Reserved
The events and characters depicted within this book are all works of fiction. Any similarity between any person living or dead is coincidental.
First Published in 2017 as The Great Game. Individually published in 2018 as Wild Card, Outlaw Complex and Revolution’s Fire.
Contents.
Wild Card.
Chapter One. Unidentified.
Chapter Two. Out of Paradise.
Chapter Three. Troubled Luxury.
Chapter Four. Light in the Trees
Chapter Five. The Great Statue.
Chapter Six. Fuller and Rocastle.
Chapter Seven. Unisco.
Chapter Eight. Boats and Bouts.
Chapter Nine. Opportunist.
Chapter Ten. Sharon Arventino.
Chapter Eleven. Partners.
Chapter Twelve. Locked Up.
Chapter Thirteen. The Opening Ceremony.
Chapter Fourteen. First Fights.
Chapter Fifteen. Love and Other Mysteries.
Chapter Sixteen. Close Calls.
Chapter Seventeen. Stormrunners.
Chapter Eighteen. Those of Us About to Die.
Chapter Nineteen. Recovery.
Chapter Twenty. The Best Laid Plans.
Chapter Twenty-One. Things Not Said.
Chapter Twenty-Two. Brother and Sister.
Chapter Twenty-Three. Fallout.
Chapter Twenty-Four. Those Who Want More.
Chapter Twenty-Five. Don’t Make It the Last One.
Chapter Twenty-Six. The World Keeps on Turning.
Chapter Twenty-Six. Sins and Other Distractions.
Outlaw Complex.
Chapter One. Second Round Fixtures.
Chapter Two. The Vos Lak.
Chapter Three. What Price Paradise?
Chapter Four. Proposal and Fire.
Chapter Six. The Bowels of Her Castle.
Chapter Seven. Seeing It Coming.
Chapter Eight. Secrets.
Chapter Nine. Cause and Effect.
Chapter Ten. Into the Mountain.
Chapter Eleven. This Flesh Is Fragile.
Chapter Twelve. Nothing Good.
Chapter Thirteen. Threats Abound.
Chapter Fourteen. Blind Voices.
Chapter Fifteen. Siege.
Chapter Sixteen. Timebound.
Chapter Seventeen. This Dream We Have.
Chapter Eighteen. No Time for Regrets.
Chapter Nineteen. Caged Rage.
Chapter Twenty. Oh Ghost, My Ghost.
Chapter Twenty-One. Date Night.
Chapter Twenty-Two. Press Release.
Revolution’s Fire.
Chapter One. New Orders.
Chapter Two. Friends and Foes.
Chapter Three. Bad Feelings.
Chapter Four. The Day I Die.
Chapter Five. Spiralling.
Chapter Six. Cubla Cezri.
Chapter Seven. The Sliding Scales.
Chapter Eight. Face of the Enemy.
Chapter Nine. Putting the Pieces Together.
Chapter Ten. The Semi Finals.
Chapter Eleven. The Burden of Parenthood.
Chapter Twelve. That Which Can and Can’t Be Faked.
Chapter Thirteen. This Is How It Starts.
Chapter Fourteen. The Silence Before the Fireworks.
Chapter Fifteen. Freedom isn’t Free.
Chapter Sixteen. Battle Heat.
Chapter Seventeen. Turning Tides of Battle.
Chapter Eighteen. The Unialiv.
Chapter Nineteen. Embers.
Chapter Twenty. From Here.
Chapter Twenty-One. Ruud Baxter.
Chapter Twenty-Two. And Here We Are…
Chapter Twenty-Three. Final Battles.
Chapter Twenty-Four. Interrupted.
Chapter Twenty-Five. The Killing Fields.
Chapter Twenty-Six. The Prospects for Blood.
Wild Card.
Chapter One. Unidentified.
“The five kingdoms. Formed fifty-two years ago after the Unifications War, former enemies now become staunch allies to be stand alongside through the good times and bad. Burykia, Canterage, Premesoir, Serran and Vazara. Friends and neighbours. A covenant that has worked for years now, infinitely better than the strife and discord that came before.”
Professor David Fleck on the prospects of future and the past.
The twenty-ninth day of Springslip.
Duty doesn’t call. Duty demands. When least expected, the challenge is given and always it must be answered.
He felt the vibration drum against his leg, heard the shrill cry of the summoner in his gym bag, the sounds echoing around him leaving the trill dulled. Dulled but noticeable. No chance he could accidentally miss it, no matter how he might want to deep down. He could do without this.
Even the viewing screen in the background didn’t drown it out, the screen showing him what those in the stadium saw. Currently, a giant serpent fashioned entirely out of what looked to be beautiful blue sand wrestled with a great bear, its fur shimmering like sunlight, golden pure in an eerily beautiful kind of way. The serpent had the bear in its coils, the bear was snarling away with powerful jaws, doing its level best to rip bloody chunks out of the constrictor’s skin.
Spirit calling. The number one past time in all the five kingdoms and here he was about to compete in front of millions to be crowned the victor of the Thomas Kettle Invitational. He’d face off against the winner of the clash on screen in front of him. And the summoner had to ring, threatening to disrupt his excitement.
Wilsin, a wiry man in his early thirties, ran a hand through his dark hair, couldn’t hide the sigh as he clenched his fists and held off for a second, thinking as he scratched his thin beard. He fumbled it out, hit the accept button and held it close to his ear.
He didn’t want anyone overhearing this call. Only THEY would call him this close to his most important bout of the year. Everything came down to this and here they were. No social graces and some hells of a sense of timing. That was them every step of the way. For a moment, he had debated not answering it. Maybe if he didn’t, it would go silent and…
Already he hated himself for thinking that. Who thought like that? Not him. That wasn’t who he was. Whatever you wanted to say about David P. Wilsin, it wasn’t that he was selfish. If they called him, they needed him. Maybe it was something that could wait. Maybe they needed him tomorrow. In which case, things might be different. Besides, the thing would just keep ringing and ringing until there was an answer. Someone would notice eventually. And it might well drive him mad before then.
The fate of the noble few… We who are about to enter the breach be saluted by those safely out of harm’s way. May the hammer never fall upon you.
“This is Wilsin,” he said, privately impressed he’d kept the sigh out of his voice. Hard to get himself up for this when his mind was on other things. “Ready and reporting for duty.”
“I hear you,” the voice on the other end of the line said, tired and wearisome. He’d heard it before although never this bad. Usually there was some degree of cheer in there. Now Okocha’s voice was devoid of it completely. The Operation Support Director. The man with probably the best job title in the Unisco organisation, in Wilsin’s humble opinion. “Nice to see you answering.”
“Yeah, I considered not,” he said lightly. “I’m here. What’s the situation?”
“Okay, so I was scanning the feeds on your location�
�”
“Illegal viewing, huh?”
“That’s the ticket. Can’t expect me to pay mainstream on my salary.” Okocha’s voice deadpan as he swallowed a yawn. “Nah, there’s a reason for it. The Brother Protocol has come into play.”
Wilsin stiffened at that. Oh dear. Already he had an idea where this was going, suspected it wouldn’t be pleasant. The Brother Protocol had been set up years back, slightly before his time as an active agent with the organisation. Still, he knew the details. There’d been a criminal group, called themselves Cyria, almost a cult in truth. They’d had a charismatic leader make himself out to be a great man, a spiritualist and a lover of life of the highest order. No philanthropy was too minor, no cause too lost.
Then charges had finally been laid at his door, the evidence insurmountable against him. The only life he’d loved was his own, he’d climbed over a pile of corpses to become the biggest criminal mastermind in Premesoir. All his various donations and charitable causes had turned out to be smoke and mirrors, means of moving his credits beyond the eyes of the kingdoms. One of his captured operatives had relented after days of interrogation and described him as a man for whom no crime was too great, from laundering to trafficking to murder and extortion and fraud. In the aftermath, they’d secretly introduced tags to some of his operatives to monitor them. It had felt prudent at the time. Thus, the protocol had been born. Slowly over the years, they’d found it a useful tool.
“Really?” His own turn to sound deadpan didn’t quite work. Too much adrenaline, not enough sleep. Nobody pulled it off quite like Okocha. Typical Vazaran, whatever else you might want to say about them. “The Brother Protocol?”
“Yup. The ‘we’re always watching’ policy. Commit the crime and we’ll watch you in the shower.”
“You ever caught someone in the shower?”
“Nah, but I make it a special mission to investigate it personally whenever I see any of the women we tagged near a beach, pool or tanning salon.”
“Nice, Will, does your wife know you do that?”
“Still alive, aren’t I? You ever met my wife? She’d kill me if she knew. I’ve encountered pissed off bears more forgiving than her.”
“Good thing you work for a semi-secret organisation then. Gives you plenty of practice to hide your delinquencies. What you call me up for? Because as much as I appreciate pre-match banter…”
“We caught one of them in the same building as you.”
“So, it’s a big world. Everyone has to be somewhere.” He didn’t believe it even as he said it. “Probably nothing, right?”
“I know that. Could be coincidence. Sometimes that happens. Wouldn’t even have noticed it if you weren’t in the area. So, I check it out, hack into the recorders. Just to check he isn’t out to kill you.”
“And you don’t know how much I appreciate that. Is he?” His hand tensed up, ready to go for the weapon in his bag.
“Doesn’t look like it. Doesn’t appear to have any sort of weapon. But he is acting suspiciously. And right now, he’s meeting someone who isn’t showing up on the system just yet.”
“So?”
“You realise how often that happens? Practically never. Everyone has their own presence digitally these days, credit accounts, licences, records, you can build up a story of someone’s life in no time at all. Nobody is clean. Except this guy is. We’re running his face, we got nothing. Like he’s been living in a cave for his entire life. They’re meeting upstairs right now in one of the private boxes. Any chance you can look in on them, see if you can get a shimmy on the situation.”
Wilsin nodded. “Sure. I guess I can do that.”
Inside, he wasn’t happy. Outside, he managed a weak smile to go with the begrudging nod. He owed Unisco, owed them big. Everywhere he’d gotten in life was down to them. He was theirs. He couldn’t just kick off now because it was inconvenient. He knew that. Didn’t mean he didn’t resent it. Just a little. That was to be human, right. “I’ll head up there, see what I can overhear. Want me to bring them in for questioning?”
“No. Leave them be. That’s an order. We got nothing on them other than suspicion. Observe, not interact. You got your earpiece?”
“Always.” Wilsin yanked open his bag with a practiced slide of the hand. “That’d just be unprofessional. Here’s hoping it’s not a long conversation.” It had slipped out, part of him didn’t care.
“Never know. Might not be. Best hurry.” Okocha at least sounded like he understood. He knew it wasn’t the best time for him. They just couldn’t afford to care when the mission was at stake.
If it turned out to be nothing, he was going to be truly pissed off.
As the line went dead, he pocketed the summoner, reached inside his bag. In went the earpiece, out came his badge that signalled him to be an agent of the United International Spiritual Control Organisation, the silver shield with the unicorn design upon the front and finally his blaster. Sleek, potent, twelve potentially fatal shots with each battery load. Each made of non-perishable metal to avoid rust, a stiff rubber grip resistant entirely to sweatslip, all while quite concealable. The X7. Unisco standard issue weaponry for their agents in the field.
He even brought out his personal shield, clipped it to his belt with a snap. Just in case someone took a shot at him. His fingers brushed against the muffler device all agents wore all the time. Theirs was a secret organisation. The muffler kept them secret in the line of duty, made their facial features forgettable, fritzed up any security feeds around them, disguised voices and distorted fingerprints. Even clothing and surrounding spirits weren’t immune to it. Under the influence of it, slight suggestion had been known to be planted in the heads of witnesses, make them unsure of what they had seen. It generally made their lives slightly easier outside of the job. Unisco took the security of their employees very seriously, something that they were all grateful for.
Nobody wanted retaliations against them and their family. There were some famous faces in the organisation, and the implications were all too easy to imagine if someone was accidentally compromised. There’d been a few notable incidences of retribution in the past, nobody desired to see a repeat of it. As far as Wilsin was concerned, they went out and put their lives on the line for Unisco. They could at least do their best to ensure their families didn’t get murdered as a consequence
The holstered X7 went to the back of his trousers, locked into place where he regularly kept it while on the job. Hidden, secure, easily accessible with his good hand. He adjusted it into place, pulled his jacket to conceal it.
“You ready?” Okocha asked through the earpiece. “Haven’t got all night.”
“I know. I’m ready. Just running through my equipment check. You hear me okay?”
“Loud and clear.”
“You see me on the changing room feed?”
“Not in the slightest.” He sounded like he was grinning as he said it. Wilsin didn’t believe him.
He’d found it a sad fact of life that no matter how many credits they might throw at building a stadium, however impressive the design might be, the parts the public never saw were just as unimpressive in their execution. As a veteran of many tournaments, he could testify to that.
This one in Kettle City, a moderately sized settlement towards the back end of Canterage, wasn’t much different. Grey, sterile, walls which gave the impression they crawled forever into the bowels of the city. Coming out was like seeing the morning sun for the first time that day. Wilsin took the stairs up two at a time, trying to take his mind off the weapon hanging at the waistband of his trousers. His Unisco badge hung around his neck, bouncing against his shirt with every step. Every sound of anticipation from the crowd threatened to shake the building around him, the anticipation building up to a crescendo of noise.
If he listened, he could hear the commentator’s voice booming out over the roar, struggling for supremacy. He wasn’t too bothered about missing it. He would have had it on in the changing room;
wouldn’t have been paying too much attention though. David Wilsin respected no opponent, certainly not enough to draw him out of his own preparations. Chance said he wouldn’t have to compete against either of them now. Sure, research never hurt. He couldn’t think about it, needed to focus on his mission. Split focus inevitably led to disaster.
Still he wondered if this was the day he’d once more use his weapon in self-defence. One hundred and twenty-nine since he’d last fired it in anger. The line of duty had been kind to him since. He didn’t go out into a situation with the intention to use it. Never had. Very few Unisco agents did. They were trained to use deadly force only as a last resort, when all else failed. Of course, you couldn’t plan for everything. It was a hopeless task.
“Suspects name is Eli McKenna,” Okocha said. “Was a low life in Cyria. Suspect has a sheet long as your arm for various offences. Assault, possession of deadly weapon, trafficking, conspiracy, it’s all there. An unpleasant man.”
“And you let him back out onto the streets?”
“Only when he finished his sentence. Felt like a dead cert he’d try something again with someone else. It paid off, didn’t it?”
“I guess.”
“Hey, it was Arnholt and the Senate’s idea to use this system. Not mine. They thought it was necessary. Nothing to do with me. I only made the arrangements to have the trackers developed. Think Noorland’s team outdid themselves with it.”
“I just can’t believe nobody found them yet,” Wilsin muttered.
“Nigh on undetectable. Basically, the size of pinheads and attached to a four-millimetre section of the nervous system in the neck, tracking them wherever they will go.”
“Yeah? Don’t bore me with the specifics.” He really meant it.
“There’s talk we’re going to implant our agents with the same stuff soon,” Okocha said. “Just in case you get taken alive.”
“Nice. You know which box they’re in?” Another cheer rose to a crescendo, screams and roars rising from the battlefield. It couldn’t have much longer to go, surely. Mind on the mission, Wilsin, he chided himself.