killings, and she had played the part for them perfectly. Anna reeled with the sense of it; no one would believe her claims of conspiracy now. To
the rest of the world, she would be seen as a violent criminal. A murderer and a traitor.
The screen showed the file photo of her face once more, this time captioned with the words Anna Kelso—Wanted Fugitive.
Panic boiled at the edge of her thoughts as she snatched up the daypack, the ticket, and the passport. She grabbed the EMP grenade and thrust
it into the bag. Anna took two steps toward the front door and froze. A sense, an impression that years of training and expertise had instilled in
her, pushed through the web of fear clouding her thoughts. A cool breath of air brushed her bare neck, and she turned slowly to look through
into the dimly lit bathroom. Reflected in the mirror, she saw that the frosted window in there was open. It was closed, she told herself, trying
to be sure of her own thoughts. I know it. I'm sure of it. When I came in here, it was closed—
Static prickled the hairs on her arms and Anna had the sudden, immediate knowledge that she was no longer alone. She spun, pulling the bag off
her shoulder to swing it like a weapon, in time to see a lithe figure emerge from thin air, sketched in by ripples of silvery light, like oil on water.
A woman, made of glass, becoming real.
Anna saw her face, the dark doll's eyes and the predator's smile on her lips; then she was coming at her, a wicked blade flashing though the air.
Romeo Airport—Michigan—United States of America
Saxon crossed underneath the fuselage of the jet, looking back and forth across the open space of the hangar. He should have known that
Hardesty wouldn't let the incident at the house pass without trying to turn it to his advantage; if the sniper had decided to use Saxon's apparent
insolence against him, there was no knowing how Namir might react to the situation.
As he reached the pools of shadow at the far edge of the hangar, he heard someone say his name, very clearly; the voice was unmistakably
Hardesty's. A moment later, Namir's low tones reached him; the two men were outside on the apron. Saxon caught the familiar scent of
Hardesty's acrid cigarettes.
By reflex, Saxon shrank into the gloom, placing himself behind the bulk of a low-slung aircraft tractor—the dense construction of the service
vehicle would hide his heat signature if either of the men chose to sweep the area with his optics. Dropping into a crouch, Saxon forced himself
to slow his breathing and become as silent as possible. After a moment, their voices came to him on the faint breeze. He strained to hear what
was being said.
Hardesty was speaking again. "I'm not trying to second-guess you, Namir. I know you got your reasons." He turned away to exhale and Saxon
lost the next few words. "... Don't trust the limey, period. He's a liability."
"So you keep saying," Namir replied, his voice level. "But your personal aversion is not my concern."
"This isn't personal!" Hardesty insisted hotly. There was a moment's pause. "Okay, screw it. Yeah, it is personal. The son-of-a-bitch walks
around like his shit don't stink, with all that noble-soldier, honor-of-the-regiment crap. I've seen his kind before. I don't like Saxon because he
thinks he's better than the rest of us."
"He's good at what he does. More than a match for you."
Hardesty was silent for long seconds, and Saxon wondered if he had been spotted; but then the American went on. "That's not the problem. It's
not that he's a threat. He's weak inside. I know what happened in the fight room. When push comes to shove, he's going to fold. Believe me."
Saxon's lips thinned, but he kept his silence.
"We'll see," offered Namir.
But the next words Hardesty uttered froze Saxon's blood in his veins. "You should have let me deal with him after Rainbird." Just hearing him
say the name of the grisly failure made Saxon's gut twist with anger and sick dread. Namir's reply was lost as the wind dropped for a moment,
but Hardesty's answer was clear. "We don't need them both. Gunther's the better choice. I say we put Saxon down. He's never gonna be a cold
eyed stone killer. He just doesn't have it in him."
When Namir replied, Saxon heard the steel in his tone. "As I said, that choice has never been yours to make. I recruit operatives with potential,
men and women whom I consider worthwhile. If the group is endangered, then the decision will be made. No one is bulletproof, Scott. Not Ben,
not you, not even me. Never forget that." Footsteps scraped on the asphalt; they were coming back.
Saxon glanced around; if he left his place of concealment, there was no way he could make it to other cover before Namir and Hardesty entered
the hangar. He had no choice but to stay where he was and remain silent. He had little doubt now that if they found him, Hardesty would make
him answer for it with a bullet. His mind still racing, Saxon went as low as he could, pressing into the wheel well of the tractor vehicle.
"You're certain that Temple was killed?" asked Namir as he passed.
"Burned to a crisp," Hardesty replied. "Incendiary grenade will do that for you. The cops will be sifting through the ashes of that place for
weeks."
"The more important question remains to be answered, however." Namir reached the access ramp at the rear of the jet. "Was the Killing Floor
compromised?"
"I don't think so-"
"But you don't know," Namir cut him off. He paused, then shook his head. "We can't let that possibility deflect us. Put these concerns to one
side, let me deal with the fallout. In the meantime, concentrate on the preparations for the next operation. On that, we can have no margin for
error. Clear?"
"Clear." Hardesty stood unmoving, his gaze turned inward as Namir boarded the aircraft.
From his hiding place, Saxon glared at the other man. More than anything at this moment, he wanted to know what Hardesty knew about
Operation Rainbird. He wanted to beat it out of him—the old, familiar anger ran through him, setting his teeth on edge. And that phrase, this
Killing Floor ... When he had confronted Kontarsky in Moscow, the hacker Janus had mentioned the same thing...
Finally, Hardesty turned and walked away across the hangar. Saxon watched him go, suddenly unsure of his next move. The chill fear that had
been lingering at the base of his thoughts for so long was now in sharp, icy focus. He felt the same sensation at the pit of his gut as he had the
night Strike Six had set off across the Grey Range.
He was in enemy territory.
In a secure room aboard the jet, Namir shrugged off his combat jacket and settled into a chair. The console in front of him unfolded into panes of
holographic imagery, a global map displaying lines of communication spiderwebbing the world. Bright nodes of light sparkled into life in place
over cities spanning a dozen nations; the group was giving him a moment of their precious time, and he was contrite. He understood how
important they were; to even consider directly interfacing with the Tyrants ... that was something that happened only in the most pressing of
circumstances.
"Let's cut to the meat of this" said the voice from New York. "What effect will there be with the loss of the Temple asset?"
"None, sir," Namir said immediately. "We have what we needed from him. We've had a contingency for his removal in place since day one. This
only brought that forward."
"That was held off because there was a chance the asset might have had more value down the line." The woman in Hengsha made the point.
"We couldn't have foreseen this development with the Kelso woman."
; "Random factors are always the most troublesome," offered another voice, this one transmitting from Singapore.
Namir glanced at a tertiary screen. As he watched, he realized it was footage from a security camera equipped with low-light capability. He saw
a woman entering a wide hallway, approaching a man sprawled at the base of a staircase. She touched his neck, and then moved on.
"This was obtained by our associate in Montreal, from the estate's security server," said the man in New York. "The footage has already
been repurposed for our needs."
Namir cleared his throat. "I have an operative tasked for deployment in the Washington, D.C., area in connection with the primary mission. I
took the liberty of activating her early. She may be able to isolate the Kelso woman, if she did indeed escape the Temple hit..."
"Keep us informed, Namir," said the woman. "Whatever happens, Anna Kelso has gone from being a minor irritant to a potential threat. If
she raises her head again, she'll be dealt with. But it is imperative you understand she is only of secondary importance. Stay on-mission."
Then as quickly as they had come to him, the ghostly avatars of the group vanished and Namir was plunged back into gloom, his masters gone
like gods passing beyond the affairs of mortals.
Silver Springs—Maryland—United States of America
Kelso hauled the daypack around on its strap and put all the force she could into swinging it at her assailant. Part of her mind was reeling at
what she saw; Anna knew that advanced augmentations like optical camouflage existed, but she had never dreamed she'd see it this close, on
someone intent on killing her. The name flashed through her thoughts; the Tyrants. They had set her up, and now they would destroy her.
The fractal-edged combat blade whispered through the air and slashed through the material of bag without stopping, opening it along the whole
length. The contents spilled out and scattered over the floor. Anna tried to fall back beyond the reach of the dark-skinned woman, but instead
she put herself in the open. The woman pivoted on her long, machined legs of carbon steel and plastic, swinging one up to strike Anna across the
side of the ribs. The blow connected with a solid smack of metal on flesh and Kelso choked out a lungful of air; the impact vibrated through her
bones with such force that it threw her down, and she had to swallow the urge to vomit. Pain lit fires all down her side as she collided with a low
stool and crashed to the living-room floor.
She was barely able to blink before she saw the blade coming down again, the shining point aimed at her throat. Anna's off hand shot out to
deflect the weapon and she grabbed the assassin's wrist, struggling against her. The woman made a negative noise at the back of her throat and
followed through, putting her weight into it. Anna winced as new pain blossomed; her attacker put a steel-capped knee into her stomach and
pressed hard.
Anna coughed, tasting blood. She couldn't take her eyes off the tip of the blade as it came inexorably downward toward the bare skin of her
neck. The woman had gravity and training on her side; it would only be a matter of moments before Anna could no longer resist, and then she
would cut her throat. Her other hand flailed at the air, scraping across the rug, and her fingers brushed something smooth. Reflexively, she grabbed the object—a
heavy coffee mug stenciled with an image of the Lincoln Memorial—and swung it with all the power she could muster. The ceramic broke as she
clubbed the assassin with it, smashing it across her cheekbone. The woman gave an angry snarl and reeled backward. Anna kicked and rolled,
getting out from under her attacker before the killer could react. She dragged herself away, almost on all fours, toward the scattered contents of
the daypack, clutching at the torn clothes, searching.
She heard the woman coming back at her just as she found what she was looking for. Anna tore the activator tagstrip from the top of the EMP
grenade and spun, hurling it blindly in the direction of the Tyrant assassin. She scrambled toward the door and made it to the middle of the
room before the device went off.
With a low, humming snarl, the electromagnetic pulse lit the apartment with actinic blue lightning. Immediately, the lamps fizzed and went
dark, the television screen dying with them. Anna glanced over her shoulder as the woman howled and stumbled, crashing to the wooden floor
as her perfectly sculpted cybernetic legs became inert and unresponsive; and in the same moment Anna felt a spike of migrainelike pain lance
through her head as the pulse struck the delicate electronics in her optical augmentations. Her vision lost all coherence, dissolving into a wall of
featureless gray static.
The literal blind panic she had felt awakening in the hospital six months ago returned with punishing force, and Kelso staggered, her hands
sweeping through the air; but then she walled off the pain and the fear, just like they had taught her in training. The effect of the localized EMP
would last for sixty seconds, perhaps less—she had that long a head start to escape before the killer came after her. Anna was blind ... but she
had lived in this building long enough to know her way around it with her eyes shut.
Staying low, moving as swiftly as she dared, she found the door and shouldered it open, feeling along the walls toward the stairwell. As she got
outside, feeling faint traces of rain on her skin, her optics began to stutter through the restart cycle, her vision returning by agonizingly slow
degrees. She broke into a loping run, and behind her she heard the strident whoop of a siren as the dormant police drone caught her silhouette.
She ignored it, picking up speed, and by the time she reached the street, she could see again.
Romeo Airport—Michigan—United States of America
The sun was coming up, the line of orange light at the horizon growing brighter with every passing minute. Saxon walked the edge of the
runway, threading the points between the shallow domes of the embedded lights that flanked the long expanse of cracked asphalt.
His hands were buried in the pockets of his tactical over-jacket, his head hunched forward. Saxon tried to lose himself in the simple motion of
step after step, but it didn't work. The questions and the conflicts churning around inside him refused to be silenced. He had the very real sense
that he was standing on the edge of an abyss, at a point of no return. Looking up, Saxon saw the distant chain-link fence. If he broke into a
sprint, he could be there in less than a minute. He could be over it and down to the highway in another five. If luck was on his side, Saxon would
be miles from the airstrip before any of the Tyrants knew he had absconded.
He could turn his back on them and go. Leave all the questions and distrust behind, ditch this identity and start anew. He could do it; he still
had contacts from the old days, people who might help him disappear.
But what would that get him? A lifetime of doubts and looking over his shoulder? Namir had never said the words, but Saxon knew that the
Tyrants and their masters in "the group" were not the kind of people you could just walk away from. The federal agent, Temple, had been a
minor player for them and he had been wiped out just on the suspicion of being a problem. The Tyrants would not turn their backs and allow
one of their number to walk away; Namir would see him killed first. Hardesty would do it and enjoy it.
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