Codename: Winterborn (The Last Survivors Book 1)

by Allan Yoskowitz

  And through it all, he felt nothing.

  *

  January 22nd, 2093

  Henry Daley growled deep in his throat as he looked over the report. An entire team wiped out before a mission could even be partially begun. It was a disgrace. That Anderson could have been discovered was hard to believe, but that he would have allowed himself or any of his team to be caught before the recon phase had even begun was impossible.

  However, something odd appeared in the same newspaper—the Eiffel Tower had collapsed “under unsteady ground,” dropping straight down into the earth. That story was rather stupid, even for the French to have made up.

  But if Anderson and his team were dead, what else would explain it?

  Henry sighed and leaned back in his desk chair. He closed his eyes a moment and put on the privacy warning for the door, making sure the windows tinted so that no one could see that he was taking a nap. He only opened his eyes when something nudged him firmly in the temple. He grumbled, and then looked to the left, down the barrel of a pistol.

  “Hi, boss,” Kevin Anderson said, stepping back so that Henry wouldn’t get any ideas about grabbing the gun.

  Henry blinked. The spy stood there in an all-black suit of Dragon Skin body armor—it was a low-tech set of Kevlar leaf-mail, cheap as military surplus, and something no scanner would be set to pick up. It also looked like a simple black turtleneck and pants.

  The spymaster’s eyes flickered to the overhead panel that had come loose when Anderson slipped through the ventilation system. “You’re alive.”

  Anderson nodded. “Despite how hard so many people have tried to make me otherwise.” He stepped back and sat down into one of the chairs.

  Henry's eyes flicked to the line on his face. It had been badly sown back together, at least by today's standards. It looked like a good job, if it were the late 20th century, but it had left a visible scar. Maybe a razor slash. “What happened?”

  “I cut myself shaving.” He readjusted his grip on the gun. “Now we’re going to have a quick, yet informative conversation about what you’ve been doing lately. In particular, we’re going to look at what you’ve given to the Senate Intelligence Committee about the mission.”

  Henry slowly nodded, his eyes focusing now on Anderson's pistol; it was the sound suppressor at the end that worried him the most. The ex-SEAL could blow his hands off at that range with his peripheral vision. “What do you want to know?”

  “What did you give them about the mission?”

  “Everything I had, shortly after the details were finalized,” his CO answered. “Why?”

  The operative smiled without mirth. “You can’t figure it out?”

  The older man inclined his head. “You must be joking, Kevin. Do you really think the Senate Inelligence Committee would have screwed you over? Senator Curtin asked for the information. I can only assume that the files would be shared with the others.”

  Anderson leaned forward with the gun. “You could say that, Henry. My only question is simple: did you sell us out, too? Did you knowingly send us to our deaths?”

  Henry blinked. The only thing he could conclude was that Kevin was totally and completely insane with paranoia. “Kevin, if you really think the committee was in on it, how about we take what evidence you have to the press, and from there we can—”

  Anderson produced an audio recorder, one that all spies were given upon assignment. It recorded all of the data heard over the course of a mission. He played back the soldier he interrogated on the street in Paris. “I won’t even go into the Merc who tried to slab me afterwards. She was even kind of cute.” He leaned forward, muzzle first. “Now, listen to me very carefully, Henry, because this is your last chance to get out alive. I am tired and cranky. My wife and my best friends have been butchered like cattle, and the only thing stopping me from redecorating your room in gray matter is the possibility you’re not involved. Convince me.”

  Henry smiled. “Kevin, you know me well enough to know two things: one, if I were going to blow the mission, I would’ve sent someone else; and two, if I were going to kill your team, first I'd cut off your head, drive a stake through your heart, then set the remains on fire.”

  Anderson blinked, and slowly lowered the gun. He sighed deeply. “Sorry, boss, I’m a little high strung.”

  Henry Daley relaxed. “I can see that. Now, back up: your wife? You married Moira? I didn’t know you two had gone quite that far. You must have been busier than I thought.”

  Anderson didn’t even blink. “How long did you know?”

  Henry almost grinned. He had what could be a called a twinkle in his eye. “Come now, son, I’m married, too. Been there, done that, have the ring. As far as this goes, well…listen, Kevin, you have to get out of the country. I’ll take at least one copy of your recording, and I’ll go to the Joint Chiefs and the Attorney General, I’ll—”

  “No, Henry, not today,” Anderson corrected him calmly. “They’re high level politicians; the worse that ever happens is that they lose their senate seat—unless of course they commit murder personally. Tell me they can’t just suicide a deputy clerk and claim it was all his fault. Tell me that members of this administration, who have done so much to cut our budget and fire us, will back us all the way against a panel composed of nine guys who work for the party in the White House. If you can tell me that with a straight face, then I want you to retire, because you’ve obviously gone senile.”

  “So what exactly do you want to do? Kill each and every one of some the most heavily guarded pricks on the planet? Sure, Kev, you’re good, but you’re not—”

  Anderson shot forward suddenly, his gun again level with Daley’s head. His eyes narrowed, and his voice didn’t even go above a whisper. “I just managed to get into one of the most secure buildings in the world, and got to one of the most important people in Intelligence. I could have killed you a dozen times before you even realized I was here. Don’t think I’m not motivated enough to kill fourteen people. I have a long list of personal kills, most of whom were people dumb enough to get in my way.”

  Henry winced, half-afraid that Kevin would shoot him by accident. He slowly put up his hands to wave him down. “Okay, I hear you loud and clear. Try not to shoot me … So, Kevin, what do you want from me?”

  “I want intelligence on the gang of fourteen within a week,” Kevin told him without hesitation. “The usual gang of idiots must have patterns, habits, things we would know about and keep track of for future reference—and don’t tell me we don’t. Our analysts vet foreign countries on days they’re bored; you can’t tell me we don’t have files on our own Senators.”

  Henry nodded slowly. “I’m sure I can find a few files.”

  Anderson stood. “Good. Use the primary dead drop in Union Station. Moscow rules.” He smiled. “One week, Henry. Then I move on them. But if they leave together, out of the country, out of DC, if they even have a mysterious, off-the-books lunch that looks suspicious, you’ll see me again, Henry…well, you may hear me for a second.”

  Henry sighed. “Kevin, do you really think vengeance is going to help?”

  The spy blinked. “Is that what you think this is about, Henry? Revenge?” Kevin Anderson shook his head. “Have you ever asked what my politics are, Henry?”

  The head of intelligence shook his head. “Didn't know you had any.”

  “Everyone has some

  politics. Mine are simple: live your life, stay out of mine, and we'll all be fine. The government's job is to protect the people who live in the country, and that's it. Should someone try to harm the country, or any citizen who lives there, that person should be punished according to the damage incurred, or attempted. These dirt bag senators have betrayed their oath of office. Under simple eye-for-any-eye, tooth-for-a-tooth equations, they should be blind, toothless, and crippled. This is called treason. And, like those senators, I have taken an oath to defend this country from enemies both foreign and domestic. Unlike them, I have eve
ry intention of fulfilling my oath.”

  Chapter 4: Term Limits

  January 30th, 2093

  Major Antonio Rohaz leaned forward across his desk, his solid jade-green eyes sharp and piercing. He was as tall as Anderson, but thinner and wiry. He was over fifty, but well put-together. He had a dancer’s posture, straight and elegant, even though the suit and tie didn’t match his bearing. His eyes were separated by an equally sharp, hawkish nose, and his hair was lightly salt and pepper gray. His high, pinched cheekbones gave his face a look sterner than his office. His lean and sinewy body made him look like a Chimera about to pounce.

  “You...did...what?” he barked.

  “I let him get away,” Mandy answered calmly.

  Rohaz couldn't take his eyes off of his best operative. Mandy had been the most stable, reliable, and hardest working of all his Mercenaries. There had been times he had been tempted to send her to the Assassin’s Guild, before it had been destroyed—but her problems with authority would have had them ready to commit mass suicide within a week.

  Antonio Rohaz's pale skin threatened to turn virtually luminescent with rage. “Do you wish to tell me why?”

  Mandy hesitated a moment, and let her gaze wonder around the room. The office hadn't changed a bit, and both the DC and San Francisco offices looked exactly the same—military uniformity didn't change just because Antonio Rohaz had left the military. There was a sparse carpet on this floor, with only two simple chairs in front of the desk. The desk was made of plain metal. The walls held several awards and medals and plaques, but they were all professional. Two tall bookcases by the door were nailed into the floor, the wall, and the ceiling, and behind the desk there were another two, only not nailed down at all. Any attacker couldn’t pull down a bookcase for cover, but the man who owned the office could.

  “Because … Major,” she said, barely remembering to call him by rank, “…you weren't there. You didn't see him. To begin with, he looked like he wanted to crawl into a hole and die, and then…he stopped himself from killing me. He could have broken my neck like a twig, but he kept a potential enemy alive just so he could see his wife buried. You tell me anyone else who would have done something like that.”

  Rohaz slowly made himself sit back in his chair, then light a cigar. After three puffs, he said, “I know a few people like that. I even employ some. What are you saying, you don't want the contract?”

  Mandy shook her head, and her inky black hair moved in gentle waves along with the motion. “I took it. I'll follow through. But, Major, they didn't hire me to kill Anderson—technically speaking!” she interjected before he could protest. “They wanted cleanup. I got Moira...” She blinked, and then said, “I got Agent Dalton's body out of there. If they wanted an Assassin, they should have been more specific. And since I was hired to perform a Paris job, then they have to pay us—and me—extra for Anderson.”

  Rohaz raised a brow. “Really? Do you think he'll cause us that much of a problem?”

  “Us? Yes. Me … maybe. I've seen some of his file. I've seen him. I don't think I want to be on his bad side right now. You send armadas after him, he'll disappear, or force us to destroy a lot of real estate trying to get him.”

  Antonio Rohaz nodded slowly, and the smoke temporarily concealed his face. “Mandy... Amanda…what is it about this man?”

  She sat back, and said nothing a moment, her arms folded over her black body armor. “He's really good, sir. And if I don't do it, then they'll hire our guys individually, without going through the Guild, and the types of Mercs who'd take this on would be butchers. If they managed to get him, they'd leave him mangled and bleeding in the back end of nowhere. At least with me, he'll go down clean.”

  “And what of any requests the Senate Intelligence Committee may have for more security?”

  Mandy smiled. “Send people you don't like. I have the feeling they won't make it. Now, if you'll excuse me, sir, I think I know where to intercept Anderson.”

  *

  Kevin Anderson waited on the escalator as it slowly descended into Union Station like it was a pathway through the various circles of Hell. Appropriate, given the circumstances. I just hope it’s not predictive. The metaphor can be stretched only so far.

  After a while, he reached the bottom. He always liked the station for the simple reason that whoever would be following him had to be stuck on the single-file escalator with him, and it was hard to avoid being noticed in a situation like that. Anderson stepped next to the escalator, and waited for everyone behind him to step off, and waited until they had all dispersed. He then waited ten more minutes to make certain that nothing else came up, and he moved around the escalator, grabbing one of the discarded coffee cups on the platform. It was a plastic Starbucks cup—which was for him. After the small nuclear war had taken out Seattle, and the entire West coast, Starbucks' surviving branches had been reorganized into Ahab’s.

  Kevin grabbed it, and there, black against the green, was a microdot. Henry had come through for him. That microdot should have everything on the Senators Kevin would go after. Now it would get interesting.

  He felt a sudden pressure push against the small of his back. “Would you like to move along, Mr. Anderson?”

  Blink. He had half-expected government troops, spies by the legion, but … “Mandy?”

  “Yes, Kevin,” she whispered behind him. The Mercenary’s sound-suppressed weapon was firmly pressed into his back, and he wasn’t really certain that he expected Mandy to fall prey to any of his usual counters. “Would you like to keep moving? I think people would start to talk if I stand against your back any longer. They might think I was soliciting your services.”

  “You couldn’t afford me,” Kevin replied.

  Mandy laughed. “You’d be surprised.”

  “How did you know I would be here?” he asked as he moved along the platform.

  “I’d like to say I’ve some deep cover mole, but it’s simple—this fits your style. If anyone were going to give you information, it’d be here. I had all the street cameras searching for your face. I was alerted when you got within spitting distance of the Station.”

  Kevin slowly started to raise his hands, and she poked him again. “Cut that out. What do you think, we’re in a movie?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “Where exactly do you expect to shoot me, then?”

  “Who said anything about shooting you?”

  He arched a brow, considering the options. There weren't all that many. “Oh? What did you have in mind? Train accident?”

  He spared Mandy a glance. The Mercenary had covered herself in a raincoat that flowed over her body. She could have carried a machine gun under it and no one would have been able to tell. “Not a bad idea,” he complimented her. “Could even work.”

  She nodded. “Thank you. Shall we?”

  Kevin smirked. “Sure.”

  The two of them moved for the nearest train track, and Kevin kept his head the entire way—assuming that anything about him lately could be considered calm. He moved to the edge of the platform, and simply waited.

  “I'm surprised you're not trying anything,” Mandy told him.

  Kevin said nothing for a moment. He was suddenly starting to realize just how tiny she was. Startling in appearance, sure, but she was never going to make it to a runway—too short, and too many curves. “Who says I'm not resisting right now?”

  “You're cute,” she said sardonically.

  “Just wait until you get to know me.”

  Mandy hummed a short laugh. “We don’t have the time. You've got another minute before you're road kill on the third rail.”

  He nodded. “If that's true, then I should take the opportunity to mention that I do like your style. Daring, resourceful, confident. What made you join the Mercenaries instead of government work?”

  Mandy laughed loud, and girlishly, for public appearances. “Aside from better pay? Or that I could end up like you?”

  Kevin Anderson barked
a laugh so loud that the entire train station couldn't but help to hear him, even over the sound of the oncoming train. “This is true.” Kevin fell silent a moment, listening as the train came in. “You know, I always figured they would get the most out of us before burning individuals, not wasting entire teams…” He looked down the tunnel. The oncoming train lights illuminated the walls. “I suppose when they figure out who I am, they'll ask if I jumped or if I were pushed … let's not leave them ambiguity.”

  Before Mandy could even consider his words, Kevin Anderson jumped from the train track onto the third rail … and he stood there, perfectly unharmed.

  Mandy blinked. She couldn't shoot him—people had already seen him and flocked to the edge of the platform to see Anderson cooked. It took her a moment to realize that he had landed with both feet on the third rail; he wasn't grounded. He could remain perfectly unharmed as long as he wasn't touching ground and third rail at the same time...or until the train ran him over.

  Kevin grinned at the mercenary and gave a little wave as the train bore down on him, noticing him too late to stop.

  Kevin Anderson looked straight at the train, and waited. Mandy didn't blink as her mouth hung open. She didn't blink as the train pushed past, the rush of wind tossing dust in her eyes.

  Had Anderson just committed suicide...?

  Mandy looked up at the ceiling, and easily spotted the cameras around the station. At least three were in perfect position to spot his little trick.

  She slid her gun away and pushed through the crowd, ignoring protests as she did. There were crowds endlessly gathering, some of them ready to get onto the train, even though the engine wasn't going to go anywhere after seemingly running over a potential passenger.

  The announcement came over the public address system by the time she had gotten to the security office, and Mandy could hear someone mutter, “Why should my train be stopped because someone killed himself? I didn't know him.”