Connor Rix Chronicles 1: Rules of Force

by Steve Statham

  And realizing that, he understood he was, indeed, alive. And that there was a fire very, very close.

  He pushed himself to his feet and stumbled away from the flames. He staggered down the hill that led to the northwest corner of the property. Mr. Blue stopped running as it occurred to him that he may be running to his death, trapped behind Cunha's stone walls. But he spotted two areas where the fence had crumbled from the blast, and he scrambled over the broken rubble to the freedom beyond. He ran another hundred yards then stopped to catch his breath.

  He leaned against a tree and watched what had been Vinicius Cunha's palatial compound burn. He tried to piece together what had just happened but could not be sure. Rocket attack? An air strike? Who would do such a thing? Who could do such a thing?

  His attention drifted back to the readout running across his vision from his optical implants, brief sentences requesting the commands for a reboot. He had trouble commanding his eyes to the proper focus to activate the sequence, and his blinking felt clumsy and spastic.

  And then he remembered the auto-record cache, a subroutine within his optical implant that continuously stored the last thirty seconds of whatever he happened to be seeing, a constant loop of briefly saved and discarded information. The feature was designed for exactly this situation, a surprise encounter that might need to be studied after-the-fact.

  He forced his eyes to make the necessary commands to restart his optics. The familiar readouts returned to the corners of his vision. He was both relieved and scared to find that the auto-record cache had indeed functioned and the information from the last thirty seconds before the blast had knocked the unit offline had survived. He froze the auto-record feature and saved the cached file to a separate tier.

  Then, with a fresh sheen of sweat on his forehead, he called up the images and watched the brief half-minute of confusion.

  He saw the gently lit path in front of him again, as it had been. The satchel he had been carrying swung into and out of his field of vision as his arms moved in tandem with his stride. His gaze moved upward toward the house…

  An intensely bright light struck the house, so shocking it made him take a step back even in replay mode. It was like a bolt of lightning, but not jagged and wild like a natural phenomenon. The beam was straight and precise and the color of it was unlike any lightning that had ever traveled between earth and sky.

  It was clearly a man-made beam of energy.

  Mr. Blue replayed the recording two more times at a slower speed and then stood thinking for several minutes.

  Oh, Vinicius. You've made some powerful enemies. More powerful than I would have suspected, but I shouldn't be surprised. You have become far too reckless, my friend. I think it's time we parted ways.

  He took a deep breath, decision made. Only one last thing to do. Mr. Blue owed him that much, anyway. But he also owed it to the other men.

  He commanded his optics to relay the video directly to the organization's common information link, with a highest priority tag. It would show instantly in every optical implant, every pair of enhanced goggles, every E-Thing, throughout Cunha's organization.

  Then he turned into the night and, legs still shaking, walked alone toward the city.

  19

  Vinicius was growing irritable. He had briefly cheered up after setting the fire, an unmistakable message to his enemies that he had arrived, but they still had uncovered nothing about this Travis Burnet. They had been driving around New San Antonio in their rental cars chasing leads that proved useless. And he was feeling cramped inside this car. Between the flight from South America and all the driving in Texas, he had not had time this past 24 hours for his usual workout, the vital exercise that kept him focused.

  He was daydreaming about how much genuine exercise he could extract out of killing his enemy when an emergency message flashed across his optics.

  A second later, the E-Things his men carried lit up and chimed simultaneously.

  Vinicius blinked to accept the message, coded from Mr. Blue, and was astonished to find it showing a video of his house, timed and dated from less than an hour ago. It was a view from near the stable as a man, presumably Mr. Blue, walked along the winding path to the main house.

  And then a horrifying flash of light, a beam from the sky that hit directly in the center of his home. The house erupted in flame.

  Vinicius' head jerked back, as if he were right there at the scene. His right foot pushed into the floorboard. He gripped the seatback in front of him with both hands, and squeezed until the plastic trim shattered and the seat cushion tore away. The driver swerved to the side of the road and looked over his shoulder at Vinicius, a shocked look on his face.

  Next came the sound of breath being quickly sucked in as the rest of the men viewed the video on their E-Things.

  Chaos broke loose in the car, shouts and curses, until Vinicius yelled for quiet. He watched the video over, and then again, still not believing what he was seeing. A cold chill ran down his spine.

  He instructed his driver to find a quiet, dark place to park, and ordered the other cars to follow. He needed a few minutes to think this through. Larissa and the children should not have been at the house tonight, but he had not heard from them. There were suddenly so many potential bad outcomes that he had trouble prioritizing his next moves.

  He tried to call Mr. Blue, but there was no answer.

  He was jarred from his contemplations by a second signal that cut through directly to his optics, with an identification code he did not recognize. Normally he would have never risked accepting such a communication, given the real danger of a hostile packet corrupting his optics, but tonight was anything but normal. Impatiently, his eyes flicked through the sequence to establish the link.

  The face of Travis Burnet morphed into shape in front of him. Vinicius was momentarily speechless.

  "I can't hardly believe this," said the image of his foe, an apparent two feet in front of him. "It really is you. I could have sworn I told you to stay the hell out of Texas. Are you constructed entirely of stupid, or are there extenuating circumstances I should know about?"

  Vinicius was clenching his jaw so hard it was beginning to hurt.

  "You know, for an international crime boss, it sure is easy to crack your communications network," the mocking voice continued. "I think I could pretty much have had my dog do it. Maybe I will next time."

  This was decidedly not true, Vinicius knew. No one had ever hacked into his com net — until now. On the same night that his house had been destroyed. As that reality settled in, the writhing discomfort in his stomach reached a new pitch.

  "Anyway, according to all this sloppy com traffic, it looks like you had a little accident at your house. I guess you left one of your scented candles burning. Or maybe your septic system blew up. Or hell, maybe I did it. I've got so many operations going I can't hardly keep them straight."

  Vinicius tried to keep his voice level. "When I find you…"

  Travis Burnet interrupted him. "When you find me? Hell, son, I'm looking for you. But instead of me driving all over town trying to find your lost ass, why don't you just come to my hangout. I keep an office at the old Six Shooter Brewery building. Even a dumbass like you should know where that is."

  The face dissolved before him, and Vinicius' composure dissolved into rage.

  ****

  Rix laughed as he cut the link, probably the last laugh he would get this night, given the difficult work to come. But taunting someone who was accustomed to never being taunted just felt too damn good. Especially this murderous someone.

  Rix had been able to isolate the location of Vinicius' car thanks to the membrane tracker Marie had attached to it. They were not too far; they would get here quickly, unless Cunha surprised him with a show of restraint.

  But Rix had no doubt the man would find the place. Even Brazilians knew about the Six Shooter Brewery.

  The Six Shooter was a local landmark, a brewery that had been in cont
inuous operation for a century before a long, sad decline. There were still dozens of ghost advertisements around town, faded letters on old brick buildings that shouted the company's slogan: Gimme a Six!

  The brewery had gone out of business and sat chained and deserted for nearly a decade before it had been redeveloped into a campus with condominiums, shops and entertainment facilities, although the old brewhouse still stood as it had for 100 years, a time capsule of 20th Century industrial engineering.

  But none of that was why it was known throughout the world.

  During the Breakup War the fighting had been particularly fierce in San Antonio. The Independence government had set up there after the anti-secessionists had briefly taken control of the state government in Austin.

  The ASA forces, still calling themselves the U.S. military even though there was no longer a cohesive nation, had pushed deep into Texas. They targeted state landmarks, artifacts of Texan pride, in an effort to crush morale. But they made a fatal miscalculation.

  They destroyed the Alamo.

  After a night raid that had tried — and failed — to eliminate leaders of the independence movement, the attack helicopters had turned their missiles on the Alamo. The aged walls of the Texas shrine splintered and collapsed into a cloud of dust. It was an act of pure spite, and was taken as such by the locals. Many of those whose loyalty still wavered between the old country and the new nation committed fully to the Texan side.

  The embattled independence forces saw an influx of volunteers as well as cooperation and encouragement from the populace at large. Small platoons of U.S. troops that had previously moved through the city without hindrance from civilians were now fired upon by bands of citizens whenever they moved in the open. "Remember the Alamo!" took on new meaning.

  It was at the Six Shooter Brewery that the battle for San Antonio was decided. The leadership of the independence forces had set up operations in the old brewhouse. The facility was situated at the northeastern edge of downtown, and the top floors of the building offered commanding views of the city and a nearby interchange of freeways. The San Antonio River ran behind the western edge of the property, allowing silent movement of men and materiel.

  The independence leadership directed its forces from there, but was eventually discovered. The U.S. troops moved on the facility, and the Texan forces made their last stand at the San Antonio landmark. The fiercest fighting had ended right at the gates of the brewery, with the invading troops in full retreat, their attack helicopters and tanks burning on the ground.

  Twenty-four hours later the Independence forces in east Texas routed the U.S troops at the battle for the Strategic Petroleum Reserve in Freeport. That same day key commanders of the U.S. Navy's Fourth Fleet sailed their ships into Texas waters and declared for the Independence side.

  The president of the United States, dealing with simultaneous independence movements in Texas and on the West Coast, acquiesced after these defeats and recalled U.S. forces back across the Mississippi river. Texas and affiliated states had won their independence.

  As a result, the Six Shooter Brewery became the new symbol of Texan fighting spirit, and the story was quickly disseminated around the world, the heroics growing with each retelling. Plans were immediately drawn up to repair the battle damage and restore the brewery campus, to turn it into a national historic site, the first to be so designated in the new nation. It would probably happen someday, but the fledgling Texas Republic had not yet appropriated money for the project. For a new nation, there were always more pressing needs for limited funds.

  And so it sat fenced off again, years after independence, awaiting a future restoration.

  Rix thought it ideal for his needs. He wanted to confront Cunha and crew in a location that offered some confined spaces, the better to neutralize whatever numerical advantage Cunha might have, not to mention confining the man's use of his massive physical strength. Rix wanted to attempt his capture in an area where bystanders were unlikely to stumble onto the scene and be used as hostages. Plus it was a building he was personally familiar with, having reported in here many times during the war.

  And the symbolism of fighting in the very seat of Texas victory couldn't hurt. Any little thing that might unnerve his opponent helped.

  Of course, when it came to unnerving his foe, he had another card to play. He grabbed the bag that contained Caroline and pushed it to the location inside the brewery he had picked out earlier. He used the manipulating rod to release her. She slithered out and coiled around the base of one the giant pumps that had moved liquids through the building. She made no sound.

  ****

  Vinicius Cunha's car pulled up to the gated entrance of the Six Shooter Brewery.

  It was dark but he could see the haphazard fencing stretching out on either side of him, and on around the perimeter of the campus. There were a variety of buildings scattered around the several acres of land. One of the structures had been bombed into rubble, while another looked relatively untouched. The main building looked worn and battered. It had the words "Brewhouse" in faded letters over the double doors. As he peered at it with his optics he could see the bullet holes in the wall from the famous battle that had been fought here.

  He immediately hated the place.

  "So this is the famous Six Shooter, eh? Looks like a dump. Like everything else in Texas, no?"

  His men smiled nervously. They fidgeted in the cool night air, and then all turned to look as the second vehicle full of Cunha's men pulled up behind his car. The men clambered out of the large SUV and mingled with the first group. They spoke quietly amongst themselves for a few minutes, waiting for the third vehicle to arrive.

  Cunha stood off by himself, brooding. The thought had fleetingly entered his mind that perhaps he should just forget this matter with Travis Burnet for now and return home to Brazil. His family would be frantic, and his local business in chaos. It disturbed him greatly that Mr. Blue did not respond to his calls.

  The most likely scenario was that Open Sky was behind the assault on his home. Who else could have done such a thing? He would have to regroup, and formulate another strategy for dealing with them. He would probably have to kill his way to the top of that corporation to find who was responsible.

  And yet, here in Texas he was already close to Open Sky's headquarters in New Mexico Territory. He could finish this trouble here, quickly, tonight, which would help re-establish his reputation. Then he could be in New Mexico before lunch tomorrow, and work on suppressing that trouble before it went further. They would be surprised to discover that Vinicius had airborne resources of his own.

  Always attack, he told himself. My whole life I have always been on the attack, and it has brought me everything I ever wanted. This is no time to start acting like the small men of this world.

  Something about the way his men were murmuring, the tone, caught his attention. He turned his head toward them. "What is it?" But as soon as he said it, he realized what the problem was. The third car of his men had still not arrived.

  "Boss, we haven't seen the third car and no one responds to our calls. I hate to say this, but they might have run into trouble," Mr. Green said.

  Vinicius called up with his optics the codes for the tracking devices embedded in his men. He initiated the tracking sequence. It showed the five men in different parts of town, scattering rapidly. The trackers would no doubt be removed before he could round up his traitorous lackeys.

  His men had obviously seen the video of his compound being destroyed by the power from above, and now they were abandoning him, slinking off into the night.

  Cowards. I made a mistake. I should have brought Gustavo along. The famous Mr. Blue was always able to keep the men in line.

  "I sent them on a different assignment," Vinicius lied, trying to show confidence. "It doesn't matter. We won't need them."

  He reached out with one arm and grasped a metal fence pole, and twisted it out of the ground as if it were made of cardboard.
He flung it thirty feet across the grounds.

  "Come," he said, ripping aside the fencing, creating a gaping hole for them to pass. "Let us find these people and be done with this." In a rare act of caution, he turned to them before he passed through the opening. "Expect anything," he said.

  As they moved forward he ordered Mr. Green ahead to circle around to the back of the facility by the river. After a couple minutes he signaled half of the remaining men to search the smaller, far buildings. The rest he told to follow him as they fanned out and sprinted around the piles of rubble, trees and still-intact structures toward the main brewhouse building.

  The double doors were slightly open. Vinicius slipped through and slid along the wall to his left. It was dark, of course, but he nearly snorted with contempt.

  Does the man think me a child? Does he really believe that I would not have the best optical implants in the world? Of course I can see in the darkness.

  He adjusted the brightness level until he could see the room as if it were in daylight. The walls were aged brick. Massive columns lined in a row soared between the floor and the ceiling. He could see giant storage tanks lined against the far wall. The room was cluttered with all manner of objects — massive, heavy pumps, dusty brew kettles and other thick iron and steel machinery had been moved to the floor, probably as part of a barricade during the Americans' little civil war, he guessed.

  He navigated his way through the machinery, cautiously at first, then with an easier, casual air. He was becoming firm in his belief that this Travis Burnet character was mostly bluster. Obviously he wanted Vinicius and his men at this location for a reason, but he was beginning to think it was more as a diversion than a trap. Either way, it would all be over soon.