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

by Andy Peloquin

  “Any time now, Taia!” He’d been on the wrong side of the M751 SAW too many times in his life—he needed to find a way to take out the gun before it took him out.

  “Got them!” Taia popped an image up on Nolan’s HUD. Cameras from the nearby factory might not have been able to pick up the figures in the IAF-grade armor with camouflage cells activated, but there was no mistaking the fire spitting from the M751 SAW’s barrel and the blaster bolts hissing from the goons’ assault rifles.

  Nolan raced around the stacked steel girders, sprinting toward the end nearest the spot where his three enemies stood firing at him. The minute he sprang into view, he kicked on his boot thrusters, and the ion engines sent him hurtling at the three invisible figures so fast the White Sharks had no time to adjust their aim. Bullets and blaster bolts cut through the air far behind him as he zoomed right toward the three trails of fire.

  He ripped his pistol from its holster and loosed a barrage of fire at the armored figures. It would have little effect, he knew. No way something as compact as his blaster could punch through IAF-grade armor.

  But that wasn’t its purpose. The bolts hissing toward the White Sharks sent them ducking for cover, cutting off their fire.

  A distraction, a misdirection to cover Nolan’s true purpose.

  He had no rifle, and his pistol was next to useless. But that wasn’t the only tool at his disposal. Tearing the grenades from his belt, he whipped them toward the armored figures taking cover. One of them saw the explosives in time to leap away, but the other two never recognized the danger until the frag grenades blew up almost directly beneath them. Bits of shredded armor, flesh, and shattered bone exploded upward.

  That left just one. He couldn’t exactly see his target, not with the armor’s camouflage activated, but he could see the M751 SAW machine gun bouncing along as if floating in midair. Wolfe was running, and it seemed either he’d forgotten, or didn’t know how, to activate the gun’s built-in camouflage cells.

  A triumphant snarl tugged at Nolan’s lips as he closed the distance to the fleeing Wolfe. His armor showed just fifteen percent power, but he’d have enough to catch up to the White Sharks lieutenant and take him down. The fuel cells from Wolfe’s armor would more than suffice to power his suit long enough to make a getaway.

  Growling low in his throat, he reached for his Echosteel blade. Suck on this, you bas—

  The M751 SAW suddenly ground to a halt and whirled around. Pointed directly at him. He was moving so fast, so intent on his target, that he had no time to react before the first of the machine gun blaster bolts ripped through his armor.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Agony rippled in Nolan’s chest, shoulder, arm, and gut as the machine gun bullets slammed into his upper body. It felt as if an invisible hand with the force of a crash-landing battleship had punched him in the solar plexus while a hundred tiny red-hot knives carved into his flesh.

  Momentum carried him forward, past the machine gun, out of the line of fire, but the bullets that slammed into his armor sent him careening wildly out of control. Nolan was too racked by pain to manage any semblance of control; he flew through the air and collided with a stack of enormous metal culverts stacked twice his height. The impact knocked the air from his lungs and he fell hard. A fresh wave of torment rippled through his body as he hit the permacrete.

  “Warning, suit integrity critically compromised!” The words echoed in his helmet’s speakers, barely audible over the ringing in his ears. Bright images flashed on his HUD—the schematics of his combat suit, with angry red lights blinking on his chestplate, pauldrons, helmet, and leg armor, though he didn’t feel the injuries below his waist. The only part not showing near-total damage was his backplate.

  Pain racked Nolan’s body. Some of the bullets had been deflected or diverted by the carbon nanofiber filaments Taia had injected into the chestplate, but enough had torn through the compromised armor to do serious damage to the flesh and bone beneath. His left arm refused to heed his commands, and even drawing breath proved difficult. There was a wet, rasping gurgle every time he sucked in air—something had punctured his lung—and he could feel hot, warm blood trailing down his side.

  Panic dug sharp claws into his mind. He had to get up, had to disappear before Wolfe unleashed another bullet storm from that damned machine gun and tore him to pieces. Yet as he tried to lever himself upright on his only functioning arm, he found even the slightest movements sent waves of agony coursing through him. It took every shred of willpower to grab the smoke grenades from his belt, pull the pins, and drop them at his side.

  Just in time. Bullets screamed toward him, chewing up the permacrete and sending steel and concrete shrapnel hissing all around him.

  “Nolan!” Worry echoed in Taia’s voice.

  Have…to move! Instinct screamed in his mind, for a moment pushing back the pain just enough to galvanize his actions. Wolfe was firing blind, but it wouldn’t take much for a lucky shot to finish him off. He scrabbled away from where he’d fallen, his right arm working with his AI-controlled legs to drag his agony-riddled body into the shelter of the metal culverts.

  More bullets sprayed the ground where he’d been lying, pinging off the culverts or punching through the metal. The hail of steel continued unabated until the machine gun clicked on an empty magazine. A growl of frustration echoed from where Nolan estimated Wolfe to be, then a loud clatter as Wolfe hurled the gun away.

  “It’s you, isn’t it?” Wolfe’s voice carried through Foundry District, reverberating off the metal culverts beneath which Nolan hunkered. “You’re the one they call Cerberus, right?”

  Icy feet danced down Nolan’s spine. How could he possibly know that?

  “Don’t bother denying or confirming it,” Wolfe called out, his voice accompanied by the sound of a cocking assault rifle. “All that matters now is what happens next.”

  “Get…me eyes.” Nolan struggled to form the words through the mind-numbing agony.

  Through the CCTV footage Taia displayed on Nolan’s HUD, he saw the White Sharks goon in heavy armor and a helmet striding toward the cloud of smoke. In his hand, he gripped a Machnikov AR-X, doubtless scavenged from the corpses of his comrades.

  Wolfe brought the rifle up, gripping it like an experienced soldier, and walked calmly toward the smoke. “I saw your combat suit, and I know exactly what kind of damage it’s capable of withstanding. The M751 SAW tore through it like soggy paper, and you took that barrage right to the torso. I’m guessing about now you’re too busy bleeding out or drowning in your own blood to put up any real fight. Smoke grenades was a smart choice, but it won’t save you.”

  Nolan grimaced. Wolfe had his gun trained on the thick cloud of smoke, his stance alert and ready for anything. He wasn’t far wrong about Nolan’s condition, either. Breathing grew increasingly difficult, and he found himself woozy from blood loss. He had to do something to stop himself from bleeding out.

  “Help…me out…Taia!” he gasped. “Something…to stanch…the bleeding.”

  “The QuikClot injectors in your chestplate are all shot to hell,” the AI told him. “As are the stim and painkiller injectors. I’ve got a solution, but it’s going to hurt like—“

  “Do it!”

  Nolan bit back a cry of pain as something stabbed into the shredded flesh of his chest and torso. Looking down, he found Taia’s smart filaments worming their way through his skin and muscle. It was all he could do to grit his teeth and not scream as the threads of steel pulled the bullets from his body. More than once, the world darkened around him and he nearly lost consciousness. Only the knowledge that Wolfe was standing outside his cloud of smoke, rifle in hand and waiting for him, kept him from passing out.

  “The real question is,” Wolfe continued, “will you bleed out first, or will the wind kick up enough to clear the smoke?” His voice had a casually mocking edge and he gave a chilling laugh. “My bet’s on the bleeding.”

  “Not if I can help it!” As
Taia pulled the last of the bullets free of his body, she sent a current of electricity through the smart filaments, heating them to cauterize his wounds. Nolan’s scream reverberated through his helmet as the searing agony coursed through his chest and arms.

  Yet, when the AI pulled the red-hot steel away, the bleeding had stopped. He would survive…for now. Until Wolfe found him and finished what he’d begun. In his condition, weakened by pain and blood loss, he could barely remain conscious, much less stand and fight now. He had to bide his time.

  “Got anything to get me back on my feet?” he asked Taia in his mind.

  “A couple of aspirin in your pack.”

  Nolan grunted a laugh, which turned into a half-wet cough. “Thanks!” He forced himself to lie still, to cling to the shadows between the metal culverts, and let his body repair itself. It was his only hope of getting back up in time to take Wolfe down. Even so, it was sheer anguish, and he felt every labored beat of his heart as it struggled to keep working with so much blood missing.

  “No, you know what? I take that back.” Wolfe’s tone remained casual, composed, his stance still wary. “I’m changing my question. What I want to know is why the Protection Bureau wanted my kid brother dead. Agent Styver promised that he wouldn’t get taken out in the coup.”

  Those words froze Nolan in place. What…the hell? His mind raced, sorting through everything he knew about the White Sharks—specifically their lieutenant and why he seemed to matter to the Protection Bureau enough to merit Cerberus’ aid in staging a hostile and bloody takeover.

  “Agent Styver didn’t think I’d keep my end of the bargain, is that it?” Wolfe asked, never lowering the rifle or stopping his ceaseless scanning of the smoke—which, Nolan saw with alarm, had already begun to thin, carried away on the gentle breeze. “Suspicious bastard. Then again, I guess that’s kind of the job description when you work for the Bureau.”

  Nolan’s brow furrowed. Talking would draw Wolfe’s attention, give away his position. His shredded chestplate couldn’t withstand a light wind, much less fully automatic assault rifle fire. Yet the few words the bastard had spoken opened a barrel of questions that needed answering.

  “Next time I see Agent Styver, me and him are going to have a little chat about his trust issues,” Wolfe continued, as if content to speak to himself. “Almost a shame you won’t be there. When I saw you fighting back in the warehouse, I thought to myself, now that’s the sort of man I’d respect. Not a pencil-pushing desk-jockey like Agent Styver, but a real fighter. A soldier like me. A man capable of kicking serious ass even while bound to a wheelchair.”

  Nolan gritted his teeth. The bastard knew who he was. Not just that it was Cerberus in armor facing him, but the identity of the man beneath the armor.

  It took every shred of strength, but he pushed himself up on his right arm. Just enough to climb to one knee, biting back a cry of pain from his mangled torso as he steadied himself. He had to get up. Had to fight. If he didn’t, his life—Nolan Garrett’s as much as Cerberus’—would be over.

  “And not just a soldier, but a thinker, too.” Wolfe, pictured on Nolan’s HUD display, stepped forward and disappeared into the smoke. The man’s voice drew closer to where Nolan knelt, ringing with a confidence that sharply contrasted the panic gripping Nolan’s heart. “Way you fucked with us, making us think it was Los Espadones and the Five Hand Syndicate all hitting us one after the other, that was a nice piece of work. Artist’s work. A one-man army making it look like our rivals were muscling in on us. That’s the sort of thing they don’t teach us regular grunts. That’s spec ops shit, like that hussy I last saw half-dead. On your doorstep, by the way. Which makes me think you’re the reason I can’t find her.”

  Nolan’s heart skipped a beat. Wolfe had put the pieces together, which meant Bex and everyone in the Spacer’s Paradise was in danger.

  “I had big plans for her,” Wolfe growled. “We were making good money, she and I, with lots more ahead. You took that away when you disappeared her. For that, I owe you a lot more bullets to the chest.”

  Nolan could remain silent no longer. The bleeding had stopped but he was weak—too weak to take Wolfe on empty-handed. He had to outsmart the bastard rather than fight. “Then quit talking and get it over with!”

  Wolfe spun toward the sound of his voice and his assault rifle barked, loosing a volley of blaster bolts that punched into concrete and shredded metal.

  But his target wasn’t there. At Nolan’s mental command, Taia had projected his voice somewhere off to Wolfe’s right, drawing the goon’s attention away from where Nolan lay on his left. The moment the rifle started firing, Nolan stumbled to his feet and lurched forward into the thinning cloud of smoke. His Echosteel blade slipped from its sheath with a whisper of steel. Wolfe’s figure loomed large and dark in the smoke ahead. The instant before he hit the man, Nolan struck the tip of the knife on his armor, setting it vibrating.

  Wolfe’s helmet sensor must have picked up the sound, for he whipped around back toward Nolan, gun still firing.

  Too slow. Nolan threw himself onto the gangbanger and drove his knife into the man’s gut. Echosteel sliced through the heavy combat armor with terrible ease and buried in the flesh beneath. With a snarl, Nolan gave a vicious twist of the blade, tore it to the right, then ripped it free.

  A howling shriek echoed from Wolfe’s helmet speakers. The gun fell from the man’s hands, and he collapsed to the street a moment later. Nolan kicked the assault rifle away and stepped back, letting Wolfe fall hard onto his face. Blood gushed from the tear in Wolfe’s suit, spreading in a dark puddle beneath him.

  Nolan sagged atop the fallen gangbanger’s back—half from exhaustion, half to hold the man pinned to the ground. Wolfe struggled beneath him, but his movements grew weak as crimson pumped from the gaping wound in his gut. Nolan’s blade had ripped through his liver; he’d bleed out in a matter of seconds.

  But not before Nolan had his answers. He tore off Wolfe’s helmet and leaned over the dying man. “Where did you get the guns and armor from?” he demanded. “There’s no way the White Sharks get this kind of ordinance on their own. So who was it that sold them to you?”

  Wolfe coughed, bringing up a mouthful of blood. “Fuck…you!”

  Nolan gritted his teeth—both in frustration and against the fresh wave of pain coursing through his cauterized wounds. What could he say or do to threaten a dead man?

  He had just one card to play.

  “Tell me,” Nolan said, “and I’ll see to it that Agent Styver delivers Ledren’s body to your family for burial.”

  Wolfe gave a sudden sharp intake of breath, and Nolan knew he’d found the man’s weakness. After all, Wolfe had gone on his rampage in vengeance for Ledren’s death. It didn’t matter that Ledren was a junkie—Wolfe was enough of an older brother to want to make sure he got a proper burial.

  “I’ll…tell you.” Wolfe’s breathing grew labored, shallow, and he struggled for every word. “Guns…came…” His voice dropped to a whisper, so low Nolan’s helmet sensors struggled to pick up the words. “…from Agent Styver.”

  For a moment, Nolan remained unmoving, paralyzed by surprise. It seemed impossible—had he really heard what he thought he did?

  “You’re sure?” He seized the collar of Wolfe’s armor and shook the man roughly. “You’re sure it was Agent Styver who sold you the IAF armaments?”

  But he was too late. Wolfe would answer no more questions—he had bled out, a pool of crimson spreading out beneath him, his face pale and eyes unseeing.

  Bloody hell! A chill ran down Nolan’s spine as he released the dead man’s collar. He slumped down, armored back clanging against the metal culverts. Long seconds passed as he sat, too exhausted and agonized to move.

  Yet despite the pain in his body, his mind was clear. Clear, and more than a little afraid of what he’d just learned.

  “Play his last words again, Taia.”

  Wolfe’s faint voice played over his helmet
’s speakers. “Guns…came…from Agent Styver.”

  There it was. He hadn’t imagined it.

  And that confirmation was utterly terrifying.

  “You think he was telling the truth?” Taia asked.

  Nolan wanted to argue—he hated the idea that the Protection Bureau, the clandestine organization that gave him the missions they needed Cerberus to handle, was capable of such a thing. IAF-grade weapons could do serious damage if they got into the wrong hands. The White Sharks and German French’s Rücksichtslos definitely were wrong.

  But he couldn’t deny the evidence in front of him. Wolfe and the White Sharks had just nearly killed him with IAF weapons, and all four of the gangbangers wore military-grade armor. That couldn’t be a coincidence, especially after he’d seen what German French’s goons had been packing as they pursued him after the first hit.

  “I don’t know,” he finally said. “But what I do know is that I’m damned well going to find out why the Protection Bureau’s spreading weapons like that around New Avalon.”

  “I’m not certain Agent Styver will just come out and tell you his reasoning,” Taia said. “The Protection Bureau isn’t prone to volunteering information like that. And all my attempts to hack into their servers have been unsuccessful thus far.”

  “I’m not expecting him to come out and say it.” With a supreme effort of will, Nolan pushed himself upright and struggled to stand. “But there’s no way I won’t dig into this until I find answers that satisfy me. If there isn’t a damned good reason for it—like the Protection Bureau is preparing for some full-scale invasion or end-of-the-world scenario where our only hope of survival is drugged-out gangbangers wielding assault rifles—I’m going to make sure he faces the consequences for it.”