Fire with Fire, Second Edition

by Charles E Gannon

  Richard shook his head. “That’s not entirely accurate either, Elena. Your father’s become quite a provocative figure in the last three months, particularly in certain nations of the Undeveloped World. From both the standpoint of his memory, and security for his family, an immediate post-mortem ceremony on Earth would not have been prudent.”

  Trevor frowned. “But you didn’t deny that his memorial is, at least in part, a cover for something else.”

  In the uncomfortable two seconds of silence that followed, Trevor felt as though the Uncle Richard he had always known was undergoing some swift and horrible transmogrification into an unknown entity, a creature which, if stuck with a pin, would bleed shadows and mist. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

  Downing looked at his hands. “I couldn’t. Things have been changing dramatically since Parthenon. And they’re about to change even more dramatically.”

  Elena’s eyes had never left Richard’s face. “You’re bringing us inside, aren’t you?”

  Inside: the word that Trevor and Elena had adopted as the shorthand label for whatever it was that Dad and Uncle Richard did together—and could never talk about. Inside was the forbidden place—so forbidden that they intrinsically knew to keep Dad from learning that they even had a special word for it.

  Richard had been nodding. “Yes, you’re being brought inside. At the request of others.”

  “Others? What others?”

  “That’s part of what we’ll be talking about after the memorial.”

  Elena looked up as the car began slowing. “This is where I get off.”

  “Not anymore.” Downing’s tone was sad, not imperious.

  Elena stopped, half-risen, to look at him. “What do you mean?”

  Trevor nodded, understanding. “He means you can’t stay on your own. You were kidnapped, and we can’t even be sure of the reasons yet. Right now, we’ve got to arrange security for you, keep you close.”

  “For how long?”

  The car had started again; Downing looked out the narrow slit window into the rushing darkness. “I wish I could say.”

  ODYSSEUS

  The attacks seemed to come from every direction. First a low kick, which Caine reflexively downblocked, but before he could launch into a counterpunch, he was battered back by a flurry of strikes: a downblow (fended off with a rising block), then a front snap kick that he narrowly backstepped and a quick right-left sequence of punches (inside block, outside block) followed by a roundhouse kick—

  —which did not come. But having anticipated it, Caine had started to turn inside the expected arc of the kick, intending to interrupt the attack before it could come around.

  But suddenly, there was no attacker there—not standing, anyway. Caine felt the sole of a small, hard foot slam into the back of his knee. He had just enough time to realize—she dropped low and then kicked straight—before he went down.

  He broke his fall—and was then knocked flat as she landed on his back. The air went out of him with a sound that was part groan and part hoot—a noise so comical that instead of feeling disappointment at being dropped again, he started laughing into the floor mat. A moment later, he heard—and felt in her body—that she had joined in.

  He rolled over—and found Opal’s face very close—unnecessarily close—to his. He smiled. “You win.”

  “I ought to. But you’re getting better. Pretty good, actually.”

  “Well, I have a great teacher.” He decided not to move.

  She apparently made a similar decision to continue their conversation nose-to-nose. “And I’ll keep teaching you—as long as you keep it our secret.”

  “That’s a deal. Time for another fall?”

  “Yeah, I guess I’ve got enough time to kick your butt again.” Her eyes widened. “Shit! The time! I’m late!” Her weight was suddenly off of him, departing with a farewell waft of her shampoo.

  “Late? Late for what?”

  “For a meeting with our favorite spy guy, Downing. He paged me just before we started. Shall I send him your regards?”

  Caine just looked at her. “Have a nice time.”

  “Yeah. Sure. It’ll be a party. I’ll be dancing on his desk.”

  “That I would like to see. But maybe you’ll consent to tell me about all the fun later. Over dinner?”

  He held his breath a little: It’s a small step, but all our prior meals together have been happenstance or convenience. This time, there’s no real reason for us to eat together—which means it can almost be interpreted as a “first date.”

  His anxiety over her response was short-lived: her smile was quick and very wide. “Great! That’s—great! I’ll call you as soon as Scarecrow lets me loose.”

  “Deal.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  MENTOR

  For the first time since making planetfall, Downing entered the suite’s living room and relaxed. Reclining in the one of the adjustable console chairs, he glanced at his secure palmtop: the “message waiting” light was flashing. Oh, bloody hell.

  He listened carefully to the other sounds in the suite. Further down the hall, Trevor was audibly unpacking; further still, he could hear Elena filling the tub in the master bath. So he had a few moments of privacy, at least. He opened the communication.

  It was not voice, but coded text. The encryption program worked briefly and then revealed the message.

  It was Opal’s response to his pre-landing page. It began without preamble.

  Downing, you have one hell of a nerve arriving on Mars and immediately repeating your instructions that I must make my relationship with Caine “more intimate.”

  Right now, everything I have done with Caine is a lie—and will continue to be a lie, until I can tell him that I’m your hired eyes, ears, and guard dog.

  When I can tell Caine the truth, I will—very gladly—take the next step in my relationship with him. Until then, I won’t. If that makes me a failure, then fire me.

  Downing sighed, wrote back:

  And what if he initiates intimacy with you?

  Downing considered expanding upon that response, realized Opal was never going to answer such a poignant challenge anyway, and so simply sent that one line, which—he was fairly sure—would help erode her resolve when and if Caine pushed past his gentlemanly reserve.

  Disgusted at himself, Downing tossed the palmtop down on the table. He had thought, twenty-two years ago, that the worst part of this job would be setting aside one’s own scruples. While that had been miserable enough, the worst part of it was actually coercing and compelling people who still had scruples to set theirs aside, also.

  “Wow,” said Trevor, entering the room with an appraising glance at the walls. “Got enough space here, Uncle Richard?”

  Downing schooled his expression into one of casual congeniality. “I hope so—because this is going to be home for all of us, now.”

  “And who is ‘all of us’?”

  “You, me, Elena, two security I brought from Earth, your three friends from the SEAL detachment—”

  “What?”

  “They’ve just become our—or more properly, your—assets. We need the very best security, and more of it.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, I would think that after your sister was kidnapped, you’d hardly need to ask. But there is another reason: Caine Riordan.”

  Trevor nodded. “The guy we were babysitting on the sub—and who was with Dad, when—” His voice lowered, became unsteady. He looked away.

  Downing watched Trevor’s jaw steady into a rigid line: Poor Trev. He had loved his father—maybe too much—but they had never worked out a medium through which to exchange and share their emotions. Perhaps that was because Trevor had been the son that IRIS had orphaned. He had only been six months old when Nolan’s life became hostage to the tasks which ultimately consumed all his time and energy. The more school plays and baseball games that Nolan missed, the harder Trevor tried—as if his father’s absence signif
ied indifference to his achievements. Would Trevor have gone to the Academy, and then into the Teams, if it had been otherwise? Downing paused: How would it be if I reached out—right now? This very second?

  But the moment had passed: Trevor had turned back to face him, eyes so grave and controlled that they looked more like rectangles than ovals. “Okay, so I’m in: what’s my job?”

  Downing adopted a similarly businesslike tone. “You will coordinate special security, for now. Later on, you might oversee strike operations.”

  “Okay, but you still haven’t told me who, or what, I’m working for.”

  “It’s called IRIS: the Institute for Reconnaissance, Intelligence, and Security.”

  “Wait, I know that name. That’s your little think tank in Newport.”

  “It’s a lot more than a think tank. And it’s not so little.”

  “So it’s a US intel agency? What umbrella is it under? Navy?”

  “Well—no. It’s not under any umbrella.”

  Trevor’s eyes widened a bit. “It reports directly to the Executive Branch?”

  “For the most part.”

  Eyes wider, his eyebrows moved upward. “What the hell does that mean?”

  “Trev, I can’t give you a detailed explanation right now. But I can reassure you that joining it is not a contravention of your Constitutional loyalty oath.”

  Trevor’s eyes—and eyebrows—returned to a more quiescent state. “Okay, we’ll sweat the details later. What needs doing right now?”

  Pure Trevor: always ready to act. “First, we ensure the safety of our group.”

  ODYSSEUS

  Halfway through Caine’s post-sparring shower, his apartment’s fire alarm started shrilling.

  He stumbled on the wet tiles as he tried to make it out the bathroom door in a single long stride. He caught himself on the countertop, the fingers of one hand hooking down securely into the basin. But for some reason, he wasn’t steadying as quickly as he expected; staring into the sink, the drain swam lazily at the approximate center of his blurring vision. What the—

  O2 leak? CO2 concentration too high? But no—there was also a new smell, slightly medicinal. Like—gas! Christ—assassins. Again.

  Grabbing a towel and sticking it under the shower’s spray, he dropped to the floor . . .

  MENTOR

  Downing handed the rest of the group’s dossiers to Trevor. He glanced at them, then asked, “So, am I Riordan’s only security?”

  “No. Primary overwatch is assigned to another former sleeper—Opal Patrone. Captain, US Army.”

  “What’s her story?”

  “On the surface, she’s simply a security asset that we can be sure is not a double agent.”

  “And beneath the surface?”

  “She’s close security for Riordan. He doesn’t know. And neither do you.”

  “Understood.” Trevor looked sideways at Downing. “‘Close security,’ huh? Just how close is she?”

  “Yes, you have the idea. But there’s no intimacy—yet.”

  Trevor shifted in his seat. “Christ, Uncle Richard, what do you use to check up on them? Hidden cameras?”

  “No, her reports. Yes, I know: it’s a beastly thing to monitor, but it’s imperative, in this case. If she doesn’t become intimate with Riordan, then she has no plausibly deniable reason to remain with him almost constantly. Which is the kind of overwatch that we need to maintain on him.”

  “Why?”

  “Because, before Parthenon, there were at least three attempts on his life.” Trevor sat up straighter. “That’s why your father had you babysit him a mile under the Atlantic.”

  “Christ, Dad never told me that. Neither did Riordan—although we had orders not to talk to him, anyway. Something about minimizing potential intel leaks?”

  “Yes—which reminds me: we have to give you a code name. Homeric. Your father’s idea, I’m afraid.”

  “Okay.”

  “Your code name is ‘Telemachus.’”

  “Okay, so I’m Telemachus. What’s Riordan’s code name?”

  “Odysseus.”

  “Wait: if I remember my Odyssey, that makes me his son.”

  “What is it with you Corcorans and these code names? They’re just labels. Telemachus was a loyal and helpful family member: good enough?”

  “Sure. I guess. So, what’s the larger mission?”

  Downing feigned puzzlement. “What do you mean?”

  “Uncle Richard, please. Elena’s right: the memorial is a cover, and bringing all these people out to Mars means you’re assembling a team of some sort. And a team means a mission.”

  Downing relented. “We’ll talk about that tomorrow. With everyone present. Be advised, though, that once we depart from Mars, your security personnel will return Earthside, where they will await further instructions.”

  The door chimes—a muted three-tone hum—sounded the same moment that Richard’s collarcom beeped. He tapped it, listened to his earbud. “Yes? Very well; send her straight back.”

  “We have a visitor?”

  Richard replaced the handset. “Yes.” He rose. “She’s expected. Actually, she’s late.”

  ODYSSEUS

  The door leading from the foyer into the living room was already opening, and whoever it was, they moved pretty quickly. From his prone position, half in the hallway closet—wet towel over his nose and mouth—Caine could see that the intruder was in a light-duty hard suit, the helmet’s black visor sweeping from side to side.

  But where’s the gun? Caine disciplined his curiosity: you don’t have time to look, and there’s at least one more moving in behind him. He tightened his grip on the plastic comb he had snagged while crawling out of the bathroom and pushed.

  The comb shoved the hastily grabbed butcher’s knife into the access panel he had just pried open at the bottom of the closet wall. Caine turned his face away as the steel blade made contact with both of the two splicing screws that connected the apartment’s wiring to the community power mains.

  There was an angry squeal, a sharp blue-white flash—and then all the lights went out. From the entryway, a sputter of curses rose in response.

  Before the first monosyllabic profanity was complete, Caine had the knife in hand and was taking long leaping strides to close the distance.

  Before the emergency lights snapped on, he saw the first intruder’s bioreadout panel glowing. On a hardsuit, that marked the location of the left clavicle. But my target is fifteen centimeters lower.

  Caine leaped, knife point first.

  The emergency lights flickered as the knife point hit, and bucked against, the body armor. But, glancing downward, it found and slid through the articulation point that separated the breast plates from the belly panels. The intruder—visor now up, and struggling with a pair of night-vision goggles—grunted and went down backward.

  Caine, landing on top of him and already trying to locate the other assassin, realized that his knife hand was now coated in hot, rushing wetness. He pulled himself up, hoping he could get to the other attacker before—

  But he never made it to his feet. The world—sounds and images both—seemed to be rushing away from him, pulled further and further down a darkening tunnel. The gas. I’ve got to . . .

  He was sucked into the tunnel, felt it close around and behind him.

  TELEMACHUS

  Trevor noticed that the small hand shaking his was both very shapely and very strong. Uncle Richard was talking—as usual—but the words were a lot less interesting than the eyes staring up into his. Richard was saying something that sounded like: “Opal Patrone, I’d like you to meet Trevor Corcoran.”

  “Pleased,” she said. “Wait—Corcoran? I’m sorry; are you the admiral’s son? I mean, the late—” She blushed: it looked good on her, he thought. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—I didn’t know—”

  “No, that’s fine,” he reassured her. “That’s okay.”

  “Well, I just—I just want to say that I
’m very sorry about your father. I only met him once, right before—” Her blush intensified.

  Trevor sent some reassuring pressure through their handshake. “I appreciate your sympathy. Really.”

  She smiled, nodded gratefully, glanced over at Downing—and when she did so, her expression became a whole lot less friendly. “Sorry I didn’t get here on time. I got busy. With work.”

  “I see.” Downing stared at her gi. “Well, I won’t keep you long. I just wanted to get our security precautions put right, which means that you two had to meet. Opal is the only security asset who is not in your table of organization, Trevor.”

  “Since you bring it up, Uncle Richard, who else is in my tee-oh-oh?”

  “Just your three friends from the Teams and the two associates of mine that I mentioned earlier.”

  “Yeah, ‘mentioned.’ Details, please?”

  “One is on detached duty from the Special Forces. He’s an expert at working with indigenous groups. He had five combat commands leading two-stick A-teams on extended insurgency ops.”

  “The other?”

  “Secret Service. On leave. President Liu will express official regret over his resignation a month from now. Of course, she’s already approved it.”

  “I see. IRIS seems poised to become the beneficiary of several ‘fortuitous retirements.’”

  “So it would seem. Get them working together ASAP, Trevor: they’re all going to be needed at tomorrow’s memorial service—particularly given the incident with your sister.”