He was silent for a moment. "What I know is that you're a terrorist sympathizer, Anna. You've been classified an enemy combatant."
"Bullshit!" she snapped. "You know me! You know what I was doing was not about terrorism! It's about Matt Ryan-"
"Maybe so," he retorted, speaking over her. "Maybe, yeah, that is what you think you're doing, breaking the chain of command and conducting
illegal operations without sanction ... But you're in bed with international criminals! You're working with Juggernaut! They're wanted by
Interpol, the NSA, FBI-"
"I..." She tried to find the right words. "It's not what you think!"
Tyler reached into a pocket and pulled out a data slate. "D-Bar. You know who he is, right? Your hacker buddy?"
The name brought Anna up short. How does the agency know about D-Bar? She'd kept that information to herself. They had to have been
listening in on her calls. More than likely, her apartment was wired as well.
Tyler ignored her, reading from the slate. "Patrick Couture, also known as P-C, also known as D-Bar, from the French word meaning 'to unlock'
..." He frowned. "Escaped capture by RCMP forces in Quebec, currently wanted in connection with numerous data-crimes on three continents,
known to be an active member of the Juggernaut Collective. Designated priority target." Tyler waved the slate at her. "This isn't some kid
pirating software or deep-sixing parking tickets. He's part of an international criminal conspiracy! And now so are you."
For a moment, she couldn't find anything to counter his accusations, and Anna began to wonder if she had been played all along. What if
Juggernaut had been tracking her, watching while she conducted her covert investigation? What if they had used her, twisted her to their own
ends? She bit down on her lip, feeling sick inside. Another lie on top of all the others? "No," she managed, shaking her head. "It's Temple. He's
the traitor! He's been using his access to the DOJ network to pass classified data!"
"To who?" Tyler demanded.
"I... I don't know!" she said angrily. "All I know is that he's responsible for the deaths of a half-dozen Secret Service agents, men you and I
worked with!"
Tyler sat back, his expression souring. "I'll tell you where you are going, Kelso. You're being transferred to a secure psychiatric unit out of state.
Maybe there you can get some help. If Juggernaut were just using you—"
"Don't talk to me like I'm delusional!" Anna snapped, pulling against her restraints. "I know what I saw!"
Tyler's hand slipped to the stun gun on his belt. "Sit back," he ordered. "Don't make me knock you out."
She sagged and fell against the metal bench as another truck hummed past, the light cast from the screen-panels along its flanks moving slowly
along the inside of the van. Something made her look up, and for a moment Anna thought that the stims, the stress, and the lack of proper sleep
had all conspired to make her hallucinate.
Visible through the slit-windows, she saw a line of text marching along the side of the driverless truck as it paralleled the van. Brace Yourself
Kelso, it read, This Is Going to Hurt.
Her jaw dropped just as Tyler caught on, and the agent turned to look out the windows, catching sight of what she had seen. He tapped his
mastoid. "Drake, do you see—?"
Before he could complete the thought, the wheels of the computer-controlled hauler gave a savage screech and the glowing screen-panels
loomed through the windows. The robot truck broadsided the van and the vehicle resonated with the force of the impact. Tyler was knocked
aside, but Anna was ready, riding out the collision. Through the security panel in front of her, she heard Drake swearing as he tried to stop the van from spinning into a wild skid. Then the truck veered across the lanes a second time and Drake lost control as they collided. The vehicle
fishtailed across the freeway and momentum turned it sideways. There was a moment of stomach-churning vertigo as the van flipped over and
crashed onto its side. A horrible grinding shriek sounded out as the prisoner transport scraped to a halt along the asphalt.
Anna recovered quickly, ignoring a cut over her right eye. Tyler was lying on his side, his breathing shallow but ready. She pulled as far as the
restraints would let her and grabbed at him, dragging him closer. Her hands snagged the magnetic key rod on his belt and she tapped it on the
cuffs; they fell away and she immediately felt a prickling sensation as proper blood flow returned to her extremities.
Someone banged twice on the rear doors. A hissing, fizzing glow appeared where the lock was mounted and she turned away. Metal parted with
a heavy cracking sound and the doors fell open.
The bright beam of a torch engulfed her and Kelso held up a hand to shield her eyes. "You gonna sit there and stare, or are you gonna get the
hell out?" said a voice.
Anna lurched onto the highway, panting, and found D-Bar standing there, a manic grin on his face. The unmanned truck was idling nearby,
blocking the view of the wrecked van from passing traffic. The hacker jerked his thumb at a sporty Redline roadster parked nearby on the hard
shoulder. "C'mon, your ride's here."
"You did that?" She blinked. "Tyler ... Drake ... You could have killed them!"
D-Bar gaped. "Excuse me, but weren't they taking you off to some deep dark hole, never to return? And you re welcome, by the way!" Anna
took two steps toward the front of the van, but D-Bar grabbed her arm and pulled her back. "The driver is okay, I checked. Don't worry, I don't
want a murder rap any more than you do."
Limping, she followed him to the sports car; it was a Falcon GTG, worth maybe ten times the sticker price of Kelso's commonplace sedan.
"I hadda dump your wheels," he said, before she could ask. "Which I managed to do, despite the whole handcuffing thing..." He drifted off, and
paused. For the first time, Anna noticed he was wearing an earphone. "Yeah, okay," he said, speaking to the air. "Just monitor the traffic
cameras at the exits. If anything looks jagged, let me know."
"Who are you talking to?" she demanded.
"Some people. Springing you, getting a new ride, all on short notice, that had to be a team effort, y'know? And I'm still waiting for some
gratitude." He pointed. "There's some clothes in the back, nothing fancy though. Better ditch the romper suit soon-as, yeah?"
She reached the car and sagged against the hood. "Temple. It's Ron Temple, he's the leak. The son-of-a-bitch was giving the Tyrants all they
needed."
D-Bar nodded gravely. "Okay. Well, look, don't sweat it. We know it's him now, so there are other approaches we can make. And with your help
—"
Anna shook her head. "I'm not in this to help you, I'm doing this for me. For Matt." She tore off the prison garb and threw it into the bushes,
ignoring D-Bar as he gawked at her. From the backseat she recovered a track suit and sweatshirt. "He has a contact, he must have. I'm going to
make him give it to me." She climbed into the car and started the engine.
Abruptly, D-Bar realized that she wasn't going to take him with her. "What about me? You're just gonna leave me out here on the highway?"
"I don't trust you!" she snapped, stamping on the accelerator. The Falcon peeled out into the main lane with a snarl of engine noise that
smothered the hacker's string of curses. She aimed for the next exit, already plotting the route in her head that would take her back toward the
D.C. suburbs.
Romeo Airport—Michigan—United States of America
The helo extended its rotor-rings and turned them this way and that, running through the last of the preflight checks. Saxon watched, his fist
tapping absently against his thigh. It seemed like they had been here for hours, primed and ready to go, watching the clock. Waiting for the
word from the forward waypoint. Once or twice he had seen Hardesty and Barrett in quiet conversation, talking animatedly in low tones that
didn't carry. Saxon found himself wishing he had an aural booster implant, or maybe one of those lip-reader software upgrades for his optics.
He looked away, unable to ease the tension knotting in his chest. After the fight room, after that night in London, he'd expected this feeling to
drop away—but it was still there. Saxon could not shake it, no matter how hard he tried. He still felt like an outsider—what he had thought were
the first inklings of comradeship were ghosts, illusions. The reality was that the bond of brotherhood, of shared purpose he'd felt in the service
and then again with Strike Six, was absent here. He wondered if he was fooling himself, holding on to some mawkish ideal of esprit de corps.
Perhaps there was no place for something like that in the Tyrants.
His train of thought stalled as Namir emerged from the hatch of the transport plane, stepping quickly down the ramp. The other man had been
called back aboard by the pilot; Saxon had caught the tail end of the conversation, something about an urgent signal from "the group." Now the
commander's face was furrowed with irritation; whatever he had been told, Namir wasn't happy about it.
"We're going?" Hermann asked, gathering up his rifle. He couldn't keep the eagerness from his voice.
Namir ignored him and beckoned Federova closer as he approached Barrett and Hardesty. "There's been a change of plan," he said, his tone
terse. He glanced at the big American. "Lawrence, it seems you'll have the chance to put your boasts to the test. We're proceeding with the Sarif
exfiltration at reduced capacity. I expect you to compensate, yes?"
Barrett gave a nod. "Not a problem."
Namir nodded to Federova. "Yelena, you and I will accompany him."
"You're benching us?" said Hardesty. "What the hell for?"
"Close your mouth and listen, Scott." Namir's reply was sharp. "There's been a development. Apparently, one of our North American assets has
been compromised and there's a very real danger of some serious blowback. The situation needs to be dealt with immediately." His gaze bored into the other man. "A scorched-earth protocol is now in effect. You will lead a team to expedite immediately." He nodded toward Saxon and
the German.
Hardesty's expression changed. If anything, he seemed reassured. "Well. That's different."
"Sir," insisted Hermann, "we have an objective here, in Detroit. We've planned and prepared for it."
"And now you have a new one. Adaptability is something I require from all my operatives, Gunther. Circumstances on the ground are always
fluid. We meet the mission needs as they occur." Namir's tone made it clear he would brook no questioning of these orders. He offered Hardesty
a data slate. "This isn't something we can trust to hired hands. Details are here. Transport has already been dispatched for the rest of us. The
helo is at your disposal."
Hardesty nodded, scanning the data. "It'll be tight. We'll have to do this quick and dirty."
"I made that clear to the group," Namir replied. "It's not an issue."
"Fine." Hardesty passed the slate to Hermann and walked away to brief the pilot of the flyer.
Saxon broke his silence. "This ... asset. You want a straight recovery?"
Namir shook his head. "No. Locate, terminate, and sanitize the area."
Terminate and sanitize. He had just handed them an assassination mission. Hermann passed Saxon the slate and asked another question.
"There's little suggestion of what kind of resistance we can expect."
"Minor" Namir replied. "Nonlethal embedded security. Perhaps one or two threat vectors, including the target himself. The primary concern is
that the asset does not escape and no materials are left behind in any recoverable state."
Saxon read, and he kept his expression neutral. The location was an expensive gated community, part of a suburb of Washington, D.C., called
Great Falls. In the helo, flying full tilt, he estimated they could reach it in less than ninety minutes. The target's residence was a large home set
in grounds and woodland; he ran his finger over the surface of the slate to reveal the next page, and found the face of the person Namir wanted
them to kill looking back at him. He read on, and his eyes narrowed. "This man is a federal agent."
Namir came closer. He nodded, making no attempt to show any disquiet over Saxon's concern. "Correct. As such, he may be armed. He's
certain to be on alert, given the situation."
"Which is what?" Saxon insisted. "I'd like to know what requires the murder of a ranking officer of the United States Secret Service."
"Ben," said Namir, his human and synthetic eyes measuring him carefully. "You need to believe me when I tell you that this is necessary. You
have to trust me. The Tyrants have a mission, and sometimes that mission requires that we make choices that are difficult, ugly... bloody. But I
know you understand that."
"Why does this man need to die?" He didn't flinch from Namir's gaze. "What's the reason behind all this, Jaron? I've followed your orders ... the
group's orders without question now for months. But blind faith in your CO only goes so far."
Namir nodded. "I respect your honesty. It's part of the reason I recruited you. So I'll give an answer, but it will be the last time, know that.
Because I cannot afford to have men under my command who continually question me at every turn."
The ghost of a threat hung in the air between them, the Israeli face-to-face with him. Saxon tensed, feeling the edges of ready menace coming
off the other man; once again he found himself wondering who would prevail if they went against each other. He didn't like the odds.
"The group has been observing a ... situation. This man has been classified as a liability," Namir went on. "He can expose us to our enemies.
What he knows could severely impede our objectives if it were to be revealed to the wrong people. Ronald Temple is a serious threat to
stability."
"And we can't have that," said Saxon, without weight.
Namir gave the slightest of smiles. "I knew you'd understand."
Great Falls—Virginia—United States of America
Configured for stealth and speed, the helo flashed over the countryside at treetop level, ducted blades chopping the air in a low, droning thrum.
The pilot kept them off the line of any major population centers or highways, following power lines or river courses as they raced eastward. The
radar-transparent polymers and sleek, blended lines of the hull gave the craft the detection footprint of a bumblebee, and in tandem with
infrared and ultraviolet baffles cloaking the engines, the flyer was virtually invisible.
"Two minutes " said the pilot, the words resonating through Saxon's head over the mastoid comm. He began his final premission ritual, losing
himself in the simple, robotic motions, trying not to think about the job he had been sent to do.
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