Jackson listened as the gang fighting grew worse. All of the gangs seemed to believe that the others had set out to exterminate them, forcing each gang to launch desperate attacks against its closest enemy targets. Crack houses and brothels were attacked and burned, homes of known gang members were raided and great hordes of teenage kids hurled themselves into battle with a fanatical determination that shocked Jackson to the core. Knowing that it was their fault, at least partly, didn't help. The NYPD would have a great many angry things to say to Team Omega once the fighting died down.
“Look on the bright side,” Ron offered, as Chris finished filling them in with what he’d seen from the rooftops. “The gangs will weaken themselves so badly that the NYPD can move in and take the rest off the streets.”
“If there’s anything left of Hell’s Kitchen by the time they’re finished,” Chris countered. “The bastards seem to have pulled in plenty of illegal weapons; I saw one of them carrying an RPG from somewhere, and a shitload of grenades.”
“Probably from Mexico,” Ron said. “Who else would be interested in supplying Los Gringos with guns?”
Jackson couldn't disagree. After the Slaughter Incident, Latin America’s hatred of the United States had reached new heights. It was the only thing binding a team of superhumans and a series of increasingly unpleasant governments together; he couldn't see any reason why the Mexicans wouldn't want to cultivate Hispanic gangs in the United States. If it did come down to war, the United States would be hampered by insurgencies in its cities.
“We’ll take our prisoners to the nearest strongpoint and secure them there, and then catch a flight back to base,” the Sergeant said. “The NYPD won’t want us around any longer.”
“Ungrateful bastards,” Ron complained. “We did what they didn't have the nerve to do for themselves.”
“And we’ve triggered a major gang war,” Lane said. “They have good reason not to be happy. Far too many innocents will die in the crossfire.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
“All right,” Hope said, quietly. “What the fuck happened here?”
He stared at a jeep that had been shipped over from an American NGO through one of Gateway’s portals and put to work supporting the growing number of foreign aid workers in the Congo. There were three bodies in the vehicle, all with their heads smashed open and their bodies badly damaged from when the jeep had crashed off the road and into a ditch. Apart from the hovering birds high overhead, the bodies appeared to have been untouched.
“They were assassinated,” Mimic said. He'd been a Navy SEAL before his powers manifested and, after a brief period when the CIA had tried to use him as a secret agent, had joined the Saviours. “Someone wanted to make damn sure they were dead.”
He nodded towards the headless corpses. “It isn't that easy to take a person’s head off with a single shot,” he said. “Outside of the movies, it almost never happens. Whoever did this wanted to make damn sure that the targets didn't survive, particularly her.”
Hope followed his logic. Two of the passengers had been NGO agents checking out what the Congo needed from the international aid community, but the third had been a Level 2 superhuman charged with protecting them from bandits. She had had the power to shoot fireballs everywhere with stunning speed and accuracy; the person who had killed her had managed to do it before she’d even known that she was under attack. Maybe there had been three shooters. All three of them had been killed before the vehicle crashed into a ditch.
“Could be,” Mimic said. He looked into the distance. “Plenty of places for a sniper to hide; give him the right equipment and he wouldn't be noticed for weeks, at least until a suitable target came along. This is going to make it harder to get recruits from overseas.”
Hope gritted his teeth, but he couldn't disagree. It was bad enough that various countries had loudly protested his decision to kill a murderous family—and on live TV, no less—but losing a pair of aid workers would make it harder to convince others to help. At the very least, they would have to use more superhumans to provide protection, which would take them away from other duties.
“Tell you something,” Mimic added. “Whoever did this was a professional.”
He looked up at Hope as he jumped away from the car and back onto the dirt track that passed for a road. “Most of the bandits are men who managed to escape when we crushed the warlords,” he said. “They don’t have anything left to them but fighting; they certainly don’t want to actually work for a living. Some of them know nothing else. But they were never professional, even professional killers. Part of the reason the wars here went on so long is that none of the sides had the ability to push the others hard enough to actually beat them.”
“And the outside nations kept pouring fuel on the fire,” Hope said, crossly. “What are you suggesting?”
“This wasn't a random hit,” Mimic said. “Whoever did this was armed to take out a Level 2 superhuman, using explosive bullets to make sure that she died the moment she was hit. And they had the patience to wait until the right target showed itself and then took out all three of the people in the jeep, one after the other. And I bet you dinner in New York’s finest all-you-can-stuff-your-face-with buffet that we won’t find anything that will lead us back to the assassin.”
“No bet,” Hope said. Mimic was an expert—and besides, what he was saying made sense. “So if this guy was a professional, who sent him here?”
“Could be anyone you’ve hacked off by overthrowing the warlords and declaring an end to the civil war,” Mimic said. “Let's see...just about every world government doesn't want that precedent to stand, or to spread. Most of them have assassins on the payroll. I’d probably put Libya or Iran or China—and perhaps North Korea—on the top of the list, but don’t count out America, Europe or Russia. And then there’s the international aid community. You’ve upset a great many apple carts by actually holding them to account for failing to do anything about the Congo, or actually supporting the warlords at the expense of their victims...”
Hope blinked in surprise. “They wouldn't hire assassins to come after me...”
“I wouldn't bet against it,” Mimic countered. “Don’t think about the ones who have actually come here to help, think about their bosses, the ones who make themselves rich while doing very little to actually help the poor. Pretty much all of the large international aid charities are effectively businesses, squeezing out as much money as they can from the First World and making sure that their senior executives get large salaries. They spend so much on promotion and so little on actually helping...
“And then there’s the societies that think that honour killing is perfectly acceptable and hate you for suggesting otherwise,” he continued. “And don’t forget the religious and racial links across borders in Africa. They all have a damn good reason for wanting to...convince you to fuck off back home and abandon your idealistic stunt here. If they can't fight you personally, they’ll go after your supporting staff.”
“I will not give up,” Hope said, angrily. “Why...why are people so stupid?”
“It’s the oldest story of all,” Mimic said. “Follow the money. Here you are, offering genuine change, genuine improvement...of course they’re going to knock you down. My...what would happen if you actually turned the Congo into a working democracy? It would spread with astonishing speed right across Africa. The entire world will be turned on its head.”
“Hope!”
Hope looked around as Hypersonic fell out of the air and landed beside him. “I just swept the area,” she said. “I found no trace of our mystery sniper.”
“You should have taken the bet,” Mimic observed. “We’ll need a doctor to be sure, but by my guess these people were dead for at least five hours before we realised that they were missing and started to search for them. Five hours...he could be halfway to Japan or America by now.”
“Assuming he got a flight out,” Hope said. “We could check all of the airports.”
/> “There isn't anyone checking passengers over here,” Mimic reminded him. “Hell, he jumps on a flight to Pretoria or Nigeria, gets off there and onto an international jet...he could be anywhere by now. I’ll check the area, just to be sure, but I wouldn’t hold out any hope. Ten gets you twenty that the bastard is long gone by now.”
“A professional assassin,” Hope mused. “Who would send him after us?”
“I heard rumours,” Hypersonic said. She was Russian, a deserter from Department 14, the Russian counterpart to the SDI. Hope had been told that she’d left after the Soviet Union fell apart and she’d seen the ugly underside of post-Soviet Russia, but he had no idea what she’d been doing for the ten years before she’d joined the Saviours. “I spoke to Vas two days ago. You remember Vas?”
Hope chuckled, remembering his first encounter between the Russian superhuman and himself, years ago. Vas was a big beefy man, a former career soldier in the Red Army who had become a superhuman and joined the Red Banners, the first Russian super team. Unlike Hypersonic, once the Soviet Union had come to an end he’d stayed in Moscow, tending a bar and producing undrinkable vodka that he insisted cured everything from poison to AIDS. Hope had been told that it was actually made from brake fluid and he believed it. The stuff would put hairs on a dead man’s chest.
“He still keeps his ear to the ground, so he hears rumours,” Hypersonic continued, as they walked away from the wrecked vehicle. “You know how the community loves to chatter about what they’re doing. Vas said that there were rumours that many of the bigger nations were putting together an operation against us—against you, specifically. There was even a rumour that the United States had agreed to forgive a chunk of Russia’s debts in exchange for Russian cooperation.”
“That’s insane,” Hope said. “They’d never...”
He looked back at the wrecked jeep and wondered. Russia—the Soviet Union, technically—had ordered a nuclear device deployed against an unnamed Polish superhuman. In response, most of the world had cut all trade ties with Russia, collapsing the Russian economy at the worst possible moment. Food riots had torn through nearly every Russian city after shipments of grain from the United States were suspended, threatening to tear Russia apart. A series of army and nationalist coups hadn't made the situation any better; eventually, the Soviet Union had fragmented into chaos. Even now, Russia was still recovering—a pariah among nations. No one would forgive them for killing so many innocents and destroying a historic city just to get rid of a single man.
“Principles be damned,” Hypersonic said. “The Russian Government would do anything to get those trade sanctions off their backs; hell, they can't pay for everything just by selling guns to keep wars going. Iran and North Korea can't put in enough money to keep the country going and Iraq’s buying American and European these days. And they were probably involved in selling guns to the warlords here too. They’ll want revenge for that, if nothing else.”
Hope considered it, slowly. The SDI had had dreams of serving their country; they’d all been patriots, even the creepy bastards in the covert operations team. But he’d known that they’d been used as part of American foreign policy, a foreign policy that seemed to change daily and drift dangerously across the world. He’d left, at least in part, because he could no longer stomach the hypocrisy that pervaded the SDI. They had done nothing for the world—and very little even for America.
“I shall hope you’re wrong,” he said, finally. If the American Government, or even part of the American intelligence community had been involved in the assassination, he didn't know what he would do about it. “What are we going to do with the bodies?”
“Take them back to Kinshasa, see what Jackie wanted done with her body in the event of death while operating with us,” Mimic said. “We’ll have to deliver the other bodies back to their families, even though it will upset people. We can't hide the bodies and pretend that they were never found.”
“Why not?” Hypersonic asked. “Their superiors are quite happy to lie to the people they push to donate money...”
“Because we promised ourselves, and the world, that we would be beacons of light in a world of corruption, national interests and economic shambles,” Hope said, sharply. “We will not lie to the world merely because it is convenient. That’s the first step towards corruption and the eventual collapse of our program. We must be honest even when it is painful.”
He looked over at Mimic. “Call Gateway; ask her to open up a portal here,” he ordered. “Once the portal is open, take the vehicle and the bodies through to the hospital; the doctors can have a look at them before we release them back to the next-of-kin.” He hesitated. “Did Jackie actually have any next-of-kin?”
“She was married to another superhero, the Dancing Bug,” Mimic supplied. “She didn't see the value in our project and remained in California while her wife came to join us. We can call her directly and ask her if she wants to pick up the body.”
Hope nodded, slowly. “Good,” he said. He knew he should deal with it personally, but instead there was something else he needed to do. “I’m going to check the area.”
He launched himself into the air and looked down at the scene from high overhead, carefully tracing the exact spot where the driver had been shot and lost control of the car. It was difficult to be sure, but he was fairly sure that he’d been right. He knew enough about military-grade sniper rifles, even ones that had been adapted to take down targets with inhuman powers of resistance, to know that the sniper could have been hiding anywhere up to three kilometres from the target, although unless there had been significant improvements in sniper technology it was likely that the sniper had been a great deal closer. The damage inflicted on the target’s head made it impossible to guess at the direction the shot had come from, although he had his theories. There was more cover behind them than in front of them.
Carefully, he opened up his senses, looking and listening for anything out of the ordinary. Noise assailed him at once, everything from the heartbeats of Mimic and Hypersonic to the sounds of animals moving through the undergrowth. He was privately surprised that there were any animals at all, with so many people hungry, but the local wildlife was good at hiding. And some of it was outright poisonous. One of the more sadistic warlords had kept a prison where spider venom was used to paralyse prisoners, preventing them from walking out of the open door. Pushing the thought aside, Hope studied the scene, looking for...something that would lead him to his target.
But there was nothing. His senses, among the sharpest in the world, could find nothing. No one, apart from a highly-trained professional, could hide so well. Hope knew of superhumans who had tracked down criminals through listening for a specific heartbeat, but he’d never mastered the skill himself. As an SDI operative he had had other priorities and as the leader of the Saviours he’d had bigger fish to fry. Five hours...Mimic was right. Five hours, and the assassin could be halfway around the world. Unless...
The Saviours were hardly the only superhuman team in the world. Some of them worked directly for governments; the SDI, Department 14, MI-13, the Tricolours...there was no reason why one of those groups couldn't have slipped one of their own superhumans into the Congo, with orders to disrupt Hope’s efforts at rebuilding the country into a decent place to live. It made no sense to him, but he’d long since abandoned any faith he had in government leaders being good people. They were cynical bureaucrats whose first reaction to anything new was to attempt to squash it, followed rapidly by attempting to co-opt it into the system. It was how they’d reacted to superhumans, after all. The greatest force for change ever produced and they wanted to drag it down to the level of bad celebrities and covert operations. How long would it be until they increased the pressure on the Congo?
A voice popped into his mind before he could search any further. Hope, the Redeemer thought at him, there’s something here that you need to see.
Shaping his thoughts back at her was difficult, but he’d mast
ered it years ago. I’ve had enough surprises, he thought. How important is this one?
Very important, she said. Come back here now.
Hope took one last look at the countryside and then pushed himself towards Kinshasa. The city smelled better these days, if only because the former soldiers had been forced to help clear up the city by dragging the wastes outside and dumping them into a device Mainframe had put together out of spare parts. Everything that could be used for the good of the population was recycled, while the remainder was buried in one of the massive pits the labourers had dug. Half of them had been worried that they were digging their own graves, but they had no reason to worry. Hope and his team intended to make them work for their freedom rather than simply killing them outright. Any who had been guilty of really serious crimes had already been removed and eliminated.
Killed, he reminded himself, as he dropped towards the mansion. You ordered them killed, remember?
The Redeemer was sitting on the edge of the roof, looking down at the city below. It was on the tip of Hope’s tongue to remind her about snipers, before he dismissed the thought. The Redeemer was so talented that she could pick up a hostile thought from anyone who was taking aim at her. Besides, they didn't want to suggest to anyone that they were afraid.
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