Assassination Protocol: An Intergalactic Space Opera Adventure (Cerberus Book 1)

by Andy Peloquin

  “Easy, easy.” Nolan kept well away from the woman, his empty hands visible. “I’m—“

  “Get away from me!” the woman cried. Her arms gave out and she collapsed to the couch once more, but that didn’t stop her struggling. She clawed at the couch in a desperate attempt to put her back against something solid, to brace herself for a counterattack if Nolan came at her. “Touch me, you bastard, and I’ll gut you!”

  “Look!” Nolan pulled his sleeve up to his elbow and raised his forearm. “I’m not with Wolfe or his goons. You’re safe here.”

  “Fifty seconds, Nolan,” Taia chirped in his ear.

  The woman’s darting eyes flashed between Nolan’s face, his hands, and then to the tattoo on his forearm. Instantly, her hand went to her own arm and the silver dagger inked there.

  “My name is Nolan. You’re in my house.”

  Instead of calming her, the words seemed to only incite her panic and anger. “What the shit am I doing here? What have you done to me, you sicko?”

  “Nothing!” Nolan held up his hands. “I’m trying to help you.”

  “By dragging me into your place and doing…whatever this is?” She tore at the IV in her arm and her eyes flashed around, as if expecting some threat to materialize. “Let me go and I’ll forget all about—“

  She cut off mid-sentence, slumping back to the couch.

  “Your time just halved, Nolan!” Taia shouted in his ear. “Her heart’s struggling and her brain’s suffering because of it.”

  The woman’s eyes fluttered open a second later, and fear still shone there.

  “Listen to me!” Nolan insisted. “I found you on the stairs, and I got you away from Wolfe and his goons.” The words poured from his mouth in a rush—he was running out of time. “I know exactly what you’re feeling right now. Blitz nearly killed me, too, but I managed to get clean. That’s what I’m trying to do here. To help you get the Blitz out of your system without dying.”

  The woman’s eyes narrowed.

  “Twenty seconds!”

  “If you tell me to leave you alone, I will, but you know the Silverguard motto. No one left behind.”

  The woman’s gaze shifted to his upraised forearm, to the tattoo that marked him as a special operative like her.

  “But if you’re serious about getting clean, you have to know there’s a risk.” Nolan drove on at full speed. “Your heart was damaged by the Blitz, and there’s a chance that it will give out when we put you through the full detox protocol.”

  At those words, the woman’s expression hardened. “My heart?”

  “Cardiac hypertrophy,” Nolan said, repeating the words Taia had used to describe the damage. “And the detox protocol’s brutal. Worse than the roughest week of Silverguard training. Your heart could give out—“

  “Do it.” The woman’s voice rang with surprising strength despite her weakened condition. “Damned thing hasn’t killed me yet.”

  The words caught Nolan off-guard, but before he could give it thought, Taia chirped in his ear. “Ten seconds.”

  “You understand the risks?” he asked.

  “Always have,” the woman growled, though her words had begun to slur. Taia must have started giving her the Blitz already. “Nothing…a Silverguard…can’t handle.”

  Relief flooded Nolan. “Understood, soldier.” He moved closer, and this time she didn’t shy away when he reached out to help lower her to the sofa. “Nullus Hostis Invictus.”

  The motto of the Silverguard actually brought a smile to her face. “Damned right!” Her eyelids fluttered, her muscles weakened, and she slumped in Nolan’s arms. “Thank you…Nolan,” she managed.

  “Rest,” Nolan said in a gentle, soothing tone. “You’ve a long fight ahead, soldier.”

  “I’m…strong,” the woman murmured. “But not…soldier…anymore.” Her voice grew weak as the Blitz flooded her system. “Just…Bex…” The last word came out in a sigh as she lay back, the drug once again taking control of her mind and body.

  Bex. Nolan released her, but didn’t move away. He touched two fingers to her neck—her pulse had grown stronger, which meant the fluids, nutrients, and meds were working.

  Satisfied, Nolan wheeled his chair away from the couch and headed toward the workshop. Taia slid the door open as he approached and shut it behind him after he entered. Only once he was certain the door was firmly sealed and the soundproofing engaged did he speak.

  “Tell me, Taia, did your search uncover anything on her?”

  “Nothing yet,” Taia replied. “My hacking algorithms can’t get through the firewalls sealing off the Silverguard database, but there’s no record of her in either the IAF or IDF databases. The addition of her name—Bex, likely a nickname—might help me find something in those Imperial records I’m able to access. Birth and citizenship records, perhaps, but it’ll take me time to search them all.”

  “Keep looking,” Nolan said, “but don’t use unnecessary computing power on it. Our priority now is keeping Bex alive and completing Agent Styver’s next contract.”

  “Speaking of which.” A slot in the table popped open, revealing an array of ports—including one antiquated port for the flash drive. “Put that in me and let’s see what you’ve got.”

  Nolan chuckled as he inserted the drive from the dead drop. Taia still had a lot to learn about phrasing and innuendoes.

  The workshop’s wall screen flickered to life and a series of images popped up.

  “It appears Agent Styver wants you to take out Gustav Nylund,” Taia said as she scrolled the data across the display.

  Nolan stared at the face that had appeared on the screen. The crude photograph showed a man in his 40s, pudgy in the face and midsection, but with the cold eyes of a predator. His hair was slicked back with precision and a heavy layer of wax, his thick beard neatly trimmed. He wore a tailored four-piece suit and jacket cut in the latest fashion, complete with the requisite bulge under his armpit that marked the outline of a concealed blaster.

  But it was one of the tattoos covering the man’s round face and drooping neck that caught Nolan’s attention. A shark, massive jaws gaping, white body somehow seeming to ripple with the powerful muscles that had made it a feared predator on Terra. He’d seen one like that before.

  “Gustav Wylun, age forty-seven, originally from New Ekland on the far side of Exodus VI,” Taia said aloud. “Took over the White Sharks ten years ago after a war with the rival Five Hand Syndicate killed his father and brother. For the last five years, he’s been slowly claiming territory in New Avalon, resulting in the White Sharks becoming the second most powerful cartel in the city.”

  “Second?” Nolan cocked an eyebrow. “And who’s in first?”

  “Until last night, German French.” Taia flashed through the documents in the dossier so quickly Nolan barely had time to see them. “French’s Rücksichtslos controls most of the contraband going through the Upper Heights and Silver Towers, with contacts in the Shipyards to keep the supply flowing. With German French eliminated, however, the White Sharks have a chance to seize control of Rücksichtslos territory.”

  “Leading to an all-out gang war.” Nolan’s lip curled upward. “A fact that Agent Styver probably predicted.” After all, the Protection Bureau were the ones that had wanted German French eliminated. “Let me guess, by taking out Gustav, we’ll destabilize the White Sharks enough that they won’t be able to go after Rücksichtslos territory anytime soon.”

  ”That does seem to be Agent Styver’s train of thought,” Taia replied.

  Nolan had to give the Protection Bureau credit—they’d proven to be equal-opportunity killers.

  “He’s got a surprisingly complete dossier on the White Sharks’ organization.” Taia called the images from the dossier up onto the screen. “Including one face we’d both rather forget.”

  Nolan bolted upright as Taia zoomed into one image in particular. He’d recognize the manicured moustache and eyebrows, twin gold earrings, and leering grin
anywhere. Those familiar features and the huge shark with gaping jaws tattooed onto the side of his neck.

  “Bloody hell! You’re telling me that prick Wolfe is one of Gustav’s seconds-in-command?”

  “Yes.” Even Taia sounded displeased; her usually calm voice had a note of irritation. “And it gets worse.”

  “Can it get worse?”

  “Agent Styver’s instructions are to eliminate Gustav Wylun and Declan Tian.” Another face flashed up on the screen: a hulking brute of a man, his head shaven clean to the scalp, exposing a veritable maze of black tattoos that swirled around his blocky forehead, square jaw, and thick, crooked nose.

  Nolan’s brow furrowed. “The other White Sharks lieutenant? You’re sure about that?”

  “Yes,” Taia replied. “The dossier is very specific about eliminating both men. Why do you ask?”

  Nolan grunted in disgust. “Because if Agent Styver wants me to take out both the head Shark and one of his two seconds-in-command, it means he’s planning on setting Wolfe up as the new leader of the White Sharks.”

  Chapter Eleven

  An hour spent poring over Agent Styver’s dossier hadn’t lifted Nolan’s mood. If anything, it had only soured. The idea of that prick Wolfe being one of the most powerful men in New Avalon left a bitter taste in his mouth.

  Nolan tried to push the thought aside, to focus on the information in the dossier, but finally he’d had enough. After nearly a full day confined to the wheelchair, he needed to get up and out.

  “How’s work on my old combat suit coming, Taia?”

  “It’s been ready for half an hour,” she replied.

  A hidden compartment in the wall slid open and lights within blinked on, revealing a combat suit hanging on a stand. Nolan wheeled his chair toward the suit and ran his fingers along the flexible metal cells. It had been a long time since he’d last worn this armor.

  Not long enough for me. His eyes went to the chestplate. A detonating plasma grenade had torn off the front of the suit—nearly taking his arm with it—but Taia’s repairs made it look as good as new. She’d even smoothed out the dings and dents, giving it a fresh coat of metallic camouflage paint.

  “Ready to take it for a test run?”

  Desire to get out of the wheelchair warred with his hesitance to be in that old armor. He’d grown used to the upgrades in his latest-model combat suit, and stepping into his previous model felt like donning an old set of skin he’d tried to shed long ago. And besides, it carried memories. He’d been wearing it the day an overdose nearly killed him. The same day Tanis died, fighting the assassin sent to keep him from spilling secrets he hadn’t known. He couldn’t shake the memories that came with the old armor, nor the feeling of dread that came from stepping back into who he’d been when he wore it.

  But Agent Styver’s job couldn’t wait two weeks for him to get the replacement parts for his new suit. He had no choice but to wear the old one.

  “Let’s do this,” he told Taia.

  “Do you want me to take a look at your shoulder first?” Concern echoed in Taia’s voice. “That blaster bolt might have done some serious damage.”

  “It’ll be fine.” Nolan rotated his left arm.

  “Even you aren’t invincible, Nolan,” Taia chided. “You can take a lot of damage, but that doesn’t mean you can’t be killed. Or injured.”

  Don’t remind me. A grim mood settled over Nolan as his hand crept toward his lower back. That piece of shrapnel still embedded in his spine was all the reminder of his own mortality he needed.

  “I still think you should let me examine it,” Taia insisted.

  Nolan grunted in frustration. “If I say yes, will you let up?”

  For an answer, Taia extended one of her cameras from the ceiling, along with a pair of the mechanical hands she used for maintenance of his armor and weapons. Nolan bit back a growl of irritation as the AI-controlled hands removed his shirt and the camera’s eyeball zoomed in on the hole in his shoulder.

  A hole far smaller than it had been fifteen minutes ago.

  The camera gave a little humming sound, like a nurse fretting over her patient. “Hold still,” Taia said. “I’m just going to clean it, make sure there’s no infection.” One of the mechanical hands moved toward a cabinet set against the wall of the workshop, opened it, and drew out a spray bottle Nolan recognized as antiseptic solution.

  “Taia, you know we don’t have to worry about that,” he tried. “I haven’t been sick for years. Hell, I haven’t gotten so much as a hangnail.”

  “That doesn’t mean I won’t do my job anyway.” The AI used her robotic hands to spray the antiseptic on Nolan’s wound. A little spike of pain raced through the injury, like the sting of those damned fire scorpions that had pestered him all the years he spent stationed on Terra Omega.

  “Has your research into my…condition yielded anything promising?” Nolan knew the question was foolish; Taia would have told him if she’d uncovered something important.

  “Not yet, but some experiments are still ongoing.” A stinging jolt of electricity shot through Nolan’s brain.

  “Ow!” Nolan clapped a hand to his temple, but the headache subsided as quickly as it had come. “What the hell was that for?”

  “Just the latest test to see if your brain responds to stimuli,” Taia said. “Neural damage might explain why an otherwise intelligent man would refuse medical treatment for a potentially serious injury.”

  Nolan scowled. “You know as well as I that a little blaster wound isn’t going to do anything more than slow me down.” Not like the piece of shrapnel in his spine.

  Nolan had gone to countless IAF doctors—and more than a few private ones, too—but all the most skilled military nanosurgeons he’d visited had advised against removing the shrapnel. The risk of permanent damage was too high, they’d told him. One little mistake, even a nanometer off, and it could leave him totally paralyzed. Modern regenerative treatments hadn’t done anything.

  Not for his spine, at least. The rest of him healed just fine—more than fine, in fact. He could take a wound like the one he’d just endured and recover from it in the span of a few hours when it should have taken days. Taia had calculated his accelerated healing at something like sixty-five percent higher than the average human. He had no explanation as to why or even when it’d changed. All he knew was that at some point in the last seven years, before he was medded out of the Silverguard, something had happened to him.

  A military test, perhaps? Silverguards were always given experimental treatments and cutting-edge enhancements, both mechanical and pharmaceutical. He’d had no luck tracking down whatever experiments had been run on him during his last year in the Silverguard—the IAF kept their research carefully secured, and the black bag clandestine services even more so.

  He’d stopped asking why a year ago, though he kept Taia’s search algorithms running in the background, searching for anything that could explain what had happened to him. A year ago, she’d started running tests—all inconclusive thus far—that left him with less and less hope of finding an answer.

  But, at least this mysterious ability of his meant he had one less thing to worry about. He prodded the blaster wound with a finger. The skin was already closing around the injury, and it would be fully healed by morning. Not bad for something I can’t bloody explain.

  “So what’s the verdict, doc?” Nolan asked. “All clear and ready to suit up?”

  In response, Taia’s mechanical hands moved toward the combat suit and lifted it from its stand. Two more arms emerged from the wall, and Nolan leaned forward in his chair to let them wrap the combat suit belt around his waist. He grunted as the arms hoisted him up out of the chair, his legs dangling like twin noodles.

  Then, piece by piece, Taia helped him don his armor. The legs and boots first, as always. The moment the thigh armor clicked into place on his belt, a surge of power hummed through the legs and they engaged, holding him upright as Taia strapped the chestplat
e, backplate, pauldrons, and greaves into place. Last came the helmet, a sleek, shiny thing coated with a gunmetal black finish that shimmered as the camouflage cells built into its surface came alive.

  The helmet HUD winked on and the usual greeting flickered across the screen.

  “With the Balefire out of commission,” Taia spoke through his helmet’s comms, “it looks like you’ll be needing a weapon.”

  The empty combat suit stand slowly slid back into place and the wall panel sealed, then the entire wall seemed to rotate. Cool blue lights sprang to life, revealing racks of firearms. Sniper and DMR rifles, shotguns, automatic weapons, small arms, even a pair of IAF-issue REMPs and RPPGs. Knives, swords, grenades, mines, and a plethora of other weaponry sat in neat rows or hung on brackets. Enough for a small army of killers-for-hire. The IDF would lock him up if they knew he had even a fraction of these weapons. Most of them were illegal on the street—hell, they were illegal anywhere on New Avalon, even in the Barren Zone.

  But for Nolan Garrett, the Protection Bureau’s killer-for-hire, they were simply tools of his trade.

  Nolan stepped forward—or at least his brain tried to, which Taia interpreted and relayed to the suit’s legs—and strode toward the racks of weapons.

  He ran a hand across the guns. Memories clung thick to every one of them. Some had gotten him through his days as an IAF grunt, while others had kept him alive during his years in the Silverguard. He knew every inch of each one of them—he insisted on doing his own maintenance, even though he was certain Taia kept them in pristine shape—and treated them with the respect any craftsman showed his tools.

  He settled on the MK75, a lightweight yet powerful modular sniper rifle that had served him well during his Silverguard years. The rifle had been modeled after the Old Terran bolt-action design, offering him control over the round cycling, reduced motion loss, and prevented premature ejection. It also used cartridge ammunition so readily available around Exodus VI and the Nyzarian Empire that tracing it back to him would be near-impossible. His workshop had an AI-controlled reloading press that Taia used to standardize the mass-produced bullets. For the rare occasions when she couldn’t collect his spent shell casings—using a magnetized smart filament to “catch” them as they ejected from the gun—he had little fear they could be traced back to him.