No one says anything, and Masters is grinning like a kid who won first prize.
I turn to Wraith. “You hearing this, Captain Ford?”
He looks up from polishing his blaster, answers, “Sounds plausible,” and goes back to his work.
“No,” Twenties says, shaking his head in big, exaggerated arcs. “No way. Species evolved with humanoid characteristics because those are the characteristics that allow those species to survive in the widest array of environments. And that’s why we see so many today.”
Masters is undeterred. “Then how do you explain how ridiculously hot Sataars are, even if they’re full-breeds? Their planet sucks. No self-respecting species would evolve to be that hot to humans on a lousy planet like that.”
Just before the argument can pick up any more momentum, the door opens and Cap Owens steps through. A holobot follows him, projecting a holographic image of a middle-aged man on the deck in front of us.
“This is your target, leejes.” Owens points to the holofigure. The man is well-dressed, a solid upper-middle class type for Utopion. “Name’s Cantrell Saan. Mr. Saan works for a low-level Senator’s aide. He saw how things worked on Utopion and figured, since no one was paying attention, he’d make some extra money on the side arranging for Republic weapons to be sold where they’d be in highest demand. He may not look like much, but he’s the head of a smugglers’ cell that diverts all sorts of tech out of Legion and Republic armories and into the hands of the enemy. Supply clerks and corrupt quartermasters skim from inventory, Saan tells them where to get the best price, and no one ever knows the difference. Except the Legion. We know.”
The holoprojection shifts to an apartment building. A high-rise that looks like every other high-rise around it. The view zooms in and focuses on the eighth floor from the top.
The image becomes static, and Owens continues. “As you can see, our target is living much closer to the top floor than the bottom. There are questions about whether the roof can handle a shuttle’s weight, so we’ll get on the roof with quick-drop ropes. Secure the roof, move down the stairwell, and storm the target’s apartment. We’ve got a strong feeling that this guy will be a talker, so try not to kill him.”
Twenties raises a hand. “Is there a clear view of the apartment windows from an adjacent building?”
“Yes,” says Owens with a nod. “We’ll stop to drop you on the roof of the building across the street. You’ll have an unobstructed view of the apartment’s window.”
I raise my hand. “We cutting power or is that arranged?”
“It’s arranged.”
“How ’bout security?” Wraith asks.
“Was just about to get to that, yes.” Owens brings up another holo of the target. This time he’s flanked by a pair of ornery-looking humans. “Our observer saw these two men enter the apartment with the target this morning. Neither of them has been seen leaving, so we assume they’re in there. And probably not to play a friendly game of trexxo. Any other questions?”
We shake our heads. It’s fairly standard, stuff we’ve all done out on the edge. Bringing in cell leaders for the joint purpose of taking them out of the fight and getting intel that might keep our guys alive. Only this time, instead of storming a compound on Grevulo, we’re on the Republic’s capital world. But I guess, when I consider what happened to us and the Chiasm, it makes sense for the problem to have started in the core. That’s the only place where trouble this big could begin.
I swear, the Republic is its own worst enemy.
14
We had Kags set up with Twenties on the overwatch roof. This was his first live op in leej armor, and he was desperate to storm the apartment, but Cap made the call.
“This is just as essential to the op. You’ll get plenty of chances to kill bad guys. Don’t worry. Ooah?”
Ooah.
Our shuttle is hovering over the top of the target building. Doors open and quick-drop ropes uncoil to the rooftop like spasmodic serpents. I’m queued up to move first. I hear Wraith, our team leader, give the order to go, and I feel the squeeze from Masters behind me. I jump from the shuttle, slide down thirty feet, and land in a squat position on the roof. We cleared the area visually from the air, and Twenties and Kags are guardians watching over us.
Before Masters has a chance to follow, all the power goes out in a four-block radius. This will keep our targets in the dark, and make us a bit harder to see should someone other than Twenties be watching us from another building. It would have been preferable for the lights to be out before we started dropping, but my focus is on what’s in front of me.
I move at the low ready toward the freestanding box where the service speedlift and stairs have their end. Both the speedlift and the stairway door are locked, but that won’t be a problem. I stack up next to the stairway door. Speedlifts are faster, but if we were to get trapped inside one…
I’m crouched underneath the access pad. Across from me is Masters, covering the door. That way if someone carrying a blaster rifle swings this door open, Masters will have a clear shot through the opening. Makes me feel all safe and warm, seeing him there.
Wraith is stacked behind me, and Owens is behind Masters. Under normal circumstances, Cap would do the planning and then monitor the op. But we’re still short one Exo, and Cap really doesn’t mind getting in the fight.
I feel Wraith squeeze the back of my arm, in between the body armor. That’s my signal to breach.
A door like this could probably be kicked in. It could certainly be blown in. But it’s a good bet that the target doesn’t know we’re here yet, and making a lot of noise might just change that. So I pull out a roll of slice-tape. It’s a programmed micro-carrier with an adhesive. You stick it to a basic lockbox, like an optical scanner, print detector, facial recognition cam, or even a non-military grade pass key console. The strip boots, connects to the host, and works its little restricted-AI brain off until access is granted. It takes all of five seconds for most locks.
This door takes two. I push it open, and instantly a ringing alarm sounds. Masters storms inside. Wraith rushes past me to follow. Then Owens. Then me. The alarm shuts off the moment the door closes behind me. It probably sounded only in the stairwell, so I don’t give it much thought.
Emergency lights are glowing a soft red, and runway lights are built into the stairs, showing arrows for roof in one direction and the floor below in the other direction. We practically fly down the stairs, our weapons at the ready. I’m using an NK-4 for this op, same as Wraith and Masters. It’s basically an N-4 with a slightly shorter barrel. You lose some range, but can get on target a split second faster, which can make the difference between dusting someone or praying that your armor holds. It’s an ideal blaster rifle for close quarters. Owens has a surge shotgun, which is technically more ideal for close quarters combat because you barely have to aim the thing and anything it hits will be very dead.
“Twenties, do you have visual on the target?” Wraith asks over L-comm.
“Negative. I haven’t seen any motion inside the target window.”
“Copy.”
We reach the target’s floor and move hard into the hall, counting off doors as we go. As luck would have it, this guy is at the extreme end of the hall. A neighbor opens his door and comes out to take a peek. As I stop to get him to go back inside, I nearly piss myself. He’s a vuline. Looks like a werewolf. Red eyes, sharp teeth. They’re actually a pretty friendly species, more like dogs than savage wolves—good friends to have—but damn they’re scary when you run into one in the dark. I push the vuline back into his apartment, my gloved palm sinking into the thick fur of his chest. He takes a few steps back, and I hold an index finger up to my bucket, the universal sign for “Shh.”
His red eyes widen as the situation dawns on him. Holy strokes, there’s a kill team of legionnaires in my apartment complex. I’d better get back inside.
He shuts the door and locks it tight. Good boy.
My team is
stacked outside of the target’s door. Waiting for me to show up and decide how to open it. I get in position and decide that more slice-tape should do the trick. Only it doesn’t. We wait something like fifteen seconds, and the access panel hasn’t given a green light. If it hasn’t worked by then, it’s not going to. Our target must have upgraded his door security. Smart move.
By now Wraith has called in to Twenties to say that we’re getting set to breach and clear. Our suits should stand out clearly as friendly targets in his scope, but the information is just another layer of precaution. Stuff gets crazy too fast, he doesn’t know we’re in the room, fires a shot off… it happens. And it’s a leej’s worst nightmare. It takes four seconds to communicate over L-comm. It’s worth the time.
“Slice-tape’s not working,” I say to my team. “Target upgraded his locks.”
“No worries, bro,” Cap Owens says, “take your time and get us in there in the next thirty seconds.”
He’s not kidding, and he’s not wrong. Guys get killed hanging outside a doorway for too long. I have my bucket analyze the lock panel because I don’t see any distinctive branding. My bucket quickly brings up the info.
Manufacturer: Premafortress, Inc.
Model: Protector 89E
Planet of Origin: Ellepses
Registration: Cantrell Saan
MSRP: 549 Republic credits or local equivalent
Display Owner’s Manual? Y/N
The target registered it to his own name. I guess I can rest easy that we’re stacked outside the right door. I decline the option to see the owner’s manual. I know this make and model from the instruction portions of my breacher’s courses. It’s the stuff I read when I’m not training. You know, reading for fun. So this model has better than standard encryption protection, which is why the slice-tape didn’t work, but it’s still a budget model. A true lockdown device would cost about five times what the target paid. This one can be circumvented by cutting off its link to the door’s drive motivators.
“Cap, gimme your shotgun.”
Owens and I switch weapons. I stand up and aim the shotgun directly above the lock device. A surge shotgun at range will leave a dent in the hull of a Republic corvette. It’ll blast right through the impervisteel reinforcing this residential lock.
Boom!
The lock goes dead and the door slides open. They never show you that part in the product demonstration videos.
Masters rolls in an ear-popper…
…
… and nothing happens. Dud.
We hear footsteps inside. “Who’s out there?”
Crap.
“Go!” Owens shouts. This all took seconds.
Masters bolts inside and goes right. I follow with the shotgun and take the left. A human armed with a knockoff N-16 comes charging out of a door just in front of me. It’s not the target, just one of his friends. I squeeze the trigger, and he spins and pirouettes as he crashes to the floor. “Dusted one,” I call into the comm.
Masters’s NK-4 barks. “Dusted the other guy,” he reports.
I’ve moved past the guy I dusted and into a hall that leads to a kitchen. I clear a small bathroom on the way and call it out on the comm.
“Bedroom clear,” reports Masters.
“Second bedroom clear,” calls in Wraith.
Owens is behind me, and we move through a kitchen. It’s empty too. “Kitchen clear,” I call.
All that’s left is a sunken living room. If our target isn’t in there, we’ll go back through, checking for hidey-holes. Owens leads the way, barging into the room like a caged agro-bear just let loose. Keep in mind, this entire process has taken us less than sixty seconds.
We see the target on his knees in the middle of the living room, his hands on his head. “Surprise, kelhorn!” Owens rushes the guy and kicks him square in the chest. “Stay down.”
The man cowers fearfully at Owens’s feet.
Owens holds a hand out to me. “Gimme my shotgun. I didn’t get to dust anybody, and it’s this guy’s turn.”
I hand it over. Cap isn’t actually going to blast the guy, but this is part of how kill teams work. Most people think that if a kill team shows up, that’s it. You’re dead. It’s a common misconception, and given that we’re called kill teams, I get that. But the truth is we capture as often as we kill. Interrogations can often lead to more bad guys getting dusted.
Owens aims the shotgun at the target’s head.
“No! I didn’t know!” the target yells.
“Didn’t know what?” Owens asks.
“I didn’t know that’s what the MAROs would be used for!” Tears are streaming down the dude’s face. That’s how these types are. They become sniveling cowards the moment you take the fight to them. “It was just out there to try and reel in some big buyers.”
“Cap,” I say to Owens, “this guy is a piece of garbage. Dust him.”
“No!” the guy pleads, desperate for a few more minutes of life. Anything. “I… we thought if people knew we could get MAROs, they might sniff around. But then when we told them the price, they’d just settle for the other stuff. Aero-precision missiles and N-18s. But someone had the credits. Look, please don’t kill me. Please.”
Owens lowers his shotgun, and this encourages the target. “I’ll tell you everything. I know the supply clerk who made the sale. Where the deal happened, the amount, everything up to the transaction itself.”
“Chhun,” Owens says, “pick him up and detain him.”
“Oh, thank you,” the target says.
Owens answers with a kick to the face that splits the man’s lip. “You should be dead for what you did. You still might end up that way. Shut up.”
I put ener-chains around the target’s wrists, making them tight and uncomfortable behind his back, then drape an isolation hood over his head. He won’t see or hear anything until we lift it back off. Being cut off from most of your senses for an extended period of time can break a man faster than you’d think, unless he’s been trained to resist it. Most haven’t. A lot of guys start talking the moment we allow them to re-enter the real world.
We turn over the apartment looking for intel. We find a hidden safe, some records, take the guy’s datapad and holodrives. Photos, anything. Each piece is bagged with a unique serial number, and our buckets record 360-degree holo-renders of the room it’s found in. That makes intel processing happen a lot faster. With the goods in hand, we turn the scene over to some basics who were set up in the lobby. They’ll deal with the neighbors until the Utopion police arrive.
We climb back to the roof with our target, hurrying him along. It hasn’t yet been fifteen minutes. The shuttle crew drop hand and footholds down along the quick-ropes. We clamp these tightly to the ropes, hang on, and are pulled up into the shuttle as the ropes are winched in. I’m still babysitting the target, and I’m pretty sure he’s screaming at the sudden sensation of being sucked upward from a windy rooftop. Not that anyone can hear him.
When we reach the shuttle deck, I toss the target down hard onto the middle of it. With everyone on board, we leave to retrieve Kags and Twenties.
I’m feeling good about this op. In debrief tonight we’ll review the whole thing, giving brutally honest but constructive criticism where it’s warranted. I plan on carrying a surge shotgun with me from now on, because if Cap didn’t bring his, that door would have needed det-charges to open. Something we all wanted to avoid in a Utopion apartment building.
But we got the guy. And I’m feeling confident he’ll lead us to whoever gave the MCR those MAROs. And then…
… we’ll make ’em pay.
15
You’re Tom. You’re in paradise.
The big reveal, as X would have called it, finally comes. It comes one lazy golden sunlit afternoon in one of the many lounges high atop the central conning tower of Smuggler’s End.
It’s time for you to find out the details and exit stage left. Once you know everything that needs to be known, you c
an disappear, Hamlet.
Can you?
Can Tom?
Yes, you tell yourself as you lie there in the night, the night before the big reveal, trying not think about her.
Who?
Of course… the one you’re going back to. The mother of your child.
But as the moon crosses the sea beyond your open windows, as Smuggler’s End sails on toward its next destination, it’s Illuria you’re thinking of in the night. Illuria with Scarpia. Illuria alone.
Illuria with you.
You get up and light a cigarette and stand on the balcony high above the main deck. You tell yourself that’s just Tom. Tom’s that kind of guy. The kind of guy who tries for the boss’s wife. Girl. Whatever. Tom’s a taker. And he takes.
And for all intents and purposes … you are Tom. You’ve got to think like Tom. This is just Tom thinking.
You know she’s up there, with Scarpia. Above you on his private floors. So you push those thoughts away.
The big reveal comes the next day.
“So here’s our little game, Tom,” says Scarpia. He’s relaxing with a whiskey, ensconced on a wide couch. Frogg wanders the room, circling and always investigating but really just listening. Of course he has that knife. Lately he’s always got that knife.
The writer who took all those creative writing courses at university before you joined the Repub Navy thinks… The knife has been introduced into the plot. And so it is important.
“We’ve managed to secure a real live Repub corvette we hijacked from the shipyards at Tantaar. She’s a beaut, Tom.”
Kill Team (Galaxy's Edge Book 3) Page 12