A state of affairs that—if she was right—would work to Lea’s advantage. If not, it stood a pretty good chance of getting her killed.
The cab slowed outside the Hotel Altocastello, a sliver of a building at the heart of Santiago’s commerce district. Time had been kinder to the old structure than most, though it hadn’t been spared the ravages of retrofitting. Glaring neon stretched from cornerstone to penthouse, wrapping itself around each floor and dumping light into a garish sign above the main entrance. Lea had seen the spires all the way from the airport, and should have known. The Expatriates weren’t known for keeping a low profile. The terror they inspired did most of the talking for them.
The driver stopped, jerking a thumb at the hotel. His expression in the rearview mirror told Lea he wasn’t about to wait for her.
“Nice talking to you,” she said, and got out.
The cab took off, leaving Lea behind in a cloud of exhaust fumes. As the smoke cleared, she studied the tide of people moving in and out of the Altocastello—refugees from a third-world party that never stopped, dressed like characters out of some old movie. The drunken laughter didn’t faze the armed muscle that patrolled the doorway, machine pistols strapped to their shoulders. They seemed almost oblivious to the flamboyant gamblers and their flashy girlfriends, though Lea did not underestimate them one bit. She knew a professional when she saw one, and these men were as cool and deadly as any Yakuza assassins, with the combat tattoos to prove it.
But even the guards were only the first line of defense. With a discerning eye, she found at least a dozen particle turrets positioned at various tactical locations, bottling the entire street into one long kill zone. She had no way to tell, but Lea also imagined that the entire building was cloaked under an ice field, blocking sensor energy from moving in and out of the place. It was the same setup she’d used on the power station where she and Funky had set up operations, back when she was still part of the revolution. The Expatriates, it seemed, had learned from her example.
You guys are so predictable.
Stepping into the middle of the street, she held her hands out to the air in the shape of a cross—the better to attract the guards’ attention, not to mention the automated sentries. She then crossed the rest of the way, cutting in front of the line outside the casino. As expected, one of the trick boys stuck a gun in her ribs, staring her down from behind a pair of reflective lenses. His face never moved.
“Word of advice,” Lea told him. “Lose the shades.”
He reached up and took the glasses off. His right eye was missing, a deep scar carving its way into an empty socket.
“My mistake,” she said.
“Charla o dado,” he droned. Talk or die.
“You don’t want to get blood all over your customers, do you?”
A second guard flanked her before Lea even knew he was there. Each chambered a round in his pistol, answering her question.
“Let’s try that again,” Lea said. “Tell your boss an old friend is here to see him.”
The trick boy wasn’t impressed.
“El jefe no tiene ningún amigos,” he growled. The boss has no friends.
Lea sighed knowingly.
“He hasn’t changed much, has he?” she muttered. “Tell him it’s Heretic. He knows who I am.”
The two gunmen exchanged a glance. One of them tapped a minicom in his ear, requesting instructions. Lea made it easy on him, making sure her face was visible from the security camera above their heads. After a moment, the boys lowered their weapons and moved aside. The one who accosted her then opened the door into a bomb blast of music and smoke.
“Esta manera, senorita.”
Lea acknowledged the courtesy with a nod and followed him in.
Both of the guards went with her, keeping a respectful distance but always close. Lea’s old handle might have bought her some cred in this corner of the underworld, but that didn’t mean they trusted her. A single word from el jefe could still get her throat slit, which made her go easy on the tough routine. The last thing she wanted was to come off as a threat in an Expatriate establishment, especially to their business interests. Lea only hoped that going in as a hammerjack would give her enough cover to close the deal.
Her escorts led her across the casino floor through a maze of tables that offered every high-stakes game imaginable. A steady electronic beat underscored the gales of laughter and palpable excitement, driving all the players to bet more even as they got cleaned out. Money and champagne flowed with equal verve, making Lea wonder if it was the booze or some communal frenzy—or perhaps a subliminal influence at work, piped in via ultrasonic carrier. Whatever the cause, these people didn’t seem to grasp the concept of risk.
The guard ahead of her stopped at a staircase that led up to the VIP lounge. He motioned for Lea to continue, then shadowed her closely as she went upstairs. His breathy presence made her nervous, but she managed to stay cool all the way up to the top. A private party was in progress there—remarkably civilized, compared to the activity down in the gaming pit, but still teeming with a certain nervous energy. Lea counted no more than a dozen guests, with at least as many trick boys keeping watch over things. The boss, by all appearances, was a paranoid man—that, or he enjoyed putting on a show of force.
“Ella está aquí, jefe,” her escort said.
Lea searched the crowd for el jefe, expecting him to come forward—but he remained out of sight, shielded by his guests, until a raspy voice rose up in back to crush all the chatter.
“Todos hacia fuera.”
The guests dispersed without question. As they parted, Lea finally caught glimpses of the man himself—tall and slender, with an olive complexion, dressed in a resplendent white suit. He ignored Lea completely until everyone was gone, splaying himself across a leather sofa with his arms stretched out, a casual pose meant to intimidate. When he finally directed his attention toward her, he did it only in sideways glances—a little at a time, feigning disinterest.
“Lea Prism,” he said, beneath a heavy accent. “I should have known.”
She took a seat across from him, trick boys on either side. She swallowed hard, knowing the only way she would get through this was to play the part—a difficult proposition, given her history with this man.
“You were expecting someone else?”
He studied her more closely, deciding how to play this game.
“I expected a man.”
“They always do.” Lea forced her hands to stop shaking, then plucked a cigar from the box on the table between them. “You mind?”
The boss considered her insolence but seemed amused enough to keep it going. He nodded at one of his men, who torched the cigar for her. Lea took several puffs, though the smoke didn’t do much to calm her nerves. She began to wonder if she had made a mistake in coming here.
“The renowned Heretic,” the boss observed, “right here in my own casino. Is that why you’ve resurfaced after all this time—to try your luck?”
“All life is a gamble, jefe.”
“Then it is your life with which you gamble,” he reminded her. “After the Nomuri job, I would have thought that much would be clear.”
“I didn’t poach that contract. You lost the client because you couldn’t deliver.”
“You sandbagged me after I did all the work.”
“I did you a favor,” Lea scoffed. “If I hadn’t cleaned up the mess you made, CSS would have been all over your ass. You’re lucky you didn’t end up in the gulag.”
The boys stiffened, hands caressing their weapons.
“Same old Heretic,” the boss said. “Always shooting off your mouth. Perhaps it is time that somebody taught you the proper respect.”
“That sounds like a threat, jefe.”
“I don’t make threats.”
“So I’ve heard,” Lea intoned. “Any chance we can settle this mano a mano?”
“What did you have in mind?”
Lea settled back and
smiled, hoping like hell she hadn’t misread him.
“Tequila shooters,” she said. “Straight up.”
The boss held an icy expression as long as he could, then broke out in a toothy grin of his own. Both of them burst out in laughter, much to the confusion of el jefe’s little army. He clapped his hands together gregariously, then wagged a finger at Lea. “You live up to your name, Heretic,” he said happily, snapping at the bartender. “Carlos—mezcal! Bring us the bottle! Tonight we celebrate!”
The guards left them, while the bartender came over and lined the table with shot glasses. After he poured the first round, the boss raised a toast to Lea. “Viejos amigos,” he said, “even ones who have never before met.”
“To old friends,” Lea repeated, and drained hers in one swallow. She turned the glass over, smacking it back down on the table. “So what’s with the Scarface routine, Max? You go native after you moved down here from Jersey?”
“Comes with the territory,” he said, switching on a dime to his native accent. “Figured the image was better for business. Besides, I got tired of all these jerkoffs taking a shot at me just because I was a wiseguy.” He tampered with a device on his belt, which made his facial features dissolve into static. The image faded in and out like a changing channel, until el jefe was gone and a gaunt, balding man appeared in his place. He swiped a hand across his sweaty head, shaking off the artificial projection like a cheap suit, then flashed Lea a weary smile. “I swear, the things you gotta do in this life.”
“You don’t know the half of it,” Lea assured him. Max was one of the old-school hammerjacks—the kind of guy who invented the technology latecomers like Lea used to crack the Axis wide open. He had spent most of his career as a made man for Cosa Nostra, the last of the independent gangs to take a stand against the Yakuza. Once that syndicate got wiped out, Max found himself out of a job and with an even bigger price on his head—big enough for his former bosses to sell him out. “Things ain’t what they used to be, Max. It’s getting hard to tell the good guys from the bad guys.”
“Not that we ever gave a damn.” Max chuckled, taking another drink.
“Maybe that’s what got us into trouble.”
“You win, you lose.” He shrugged. “All part of the game, Prism.”
“You oughta know.” She cast an admiring glance around the place. “Looks like you got the whole retirement angle down cold. I gotta admit, though—the whole Expatriate thing just doesn’t seem like your style.”
“Down here, you learn to go with the flow,” the old hammerjack explained. “You wouldn’t know it to look at these guys, but they’re loyal. Can’t ask for more than that, especially in our business.”
“Former business.”
Max sank back into the sofa, not believing a word of it.
“If that was true, you wouldn’t be here,” he said amicably. “I know the drill, Prism. You can take Heretic out of the Axis, but you sure as hell can’t take the Axis out of Heretic.” His eyes narrowed at her. “You still dreaming wires?”
Lea played with another shot glass.
“All the time,” she confessed.
Max clapped his hands together happily.
“I knew it! Just like me!” He shook his head, remembering fondly. “I tell ya, sometimes it’s all I can do to stay off the grid. There ain’t no juice to make you feel like that—not on this side of the interface.”
“Ever take a dip in the pool these days?”
“Just a peek here and there. You?”
“Just enough to remind me why I left.”
Max raised an eyebrow. “Got that all figured out, huh?”
“That’s what I keep telling myself.”
“Uh-huh,” he said dubiously. Max sipped on his tequila this time instead of tossing it back. “So what’s the deal here, Heretic? You gonna let me in on the secret, or do I have to get you blotto before you spit it out?”
Drunk sounded pretty good right now, but Lea resisted the temptation.
“I need some help, Max,” she said.
He opened his hands in a welcoming gesture. “Whatever you want,” he replied, with a wicked twinkle. “Of course, it ain’t gonna be free. The man still has to make a living, you know.”
Lea grinned, and pulled a debit chip from her jacket. She slid it across the table.
“Wouldn’t dream of it, Max.”
He studied the chip for a moment, then reached over to pick it up. Waving the bartender back over, Max had him run it through a portable reader. The information glowed at him from the small screen, the shadows on his face emphasizing his surprise.
“You sure about this?”
“Every penny,” Lea said.
“That’s a load of jack,” Max warned her. “Do I wanna know where it came from?”
“It’s Yakuza. I didn’t think you’d mind.”
He smiled broadly, waving a finger at her again.
“You really know how to get a guy to dance,” Max said, then sent his bartender away with the cash. “So what do you need? Specialists? Weapons? I got a line on some neutron bombs—vintage stuff, but very functional.”
“I just need transportation.”
Max scoffed. “Nobody pays money like that for a ride, Prism.”
“That all depends on where you’re going.”
“And where might that be?”
Lea released a pensive breath. “Rapa Nui,” she said. “Tonight.”
Max thought about it. “Then you’re gonna need something stealth.”
“You got anything available?”
“Yeah,” he said, nodding slowly. “I’ve been working on the hardware—but it’s experimental. I haven’t even tested it out yet.”
Lea tossed back one last shot for the road.
“Good a time as any,” she said.
Dawn broke across the horizon, an aperture of cold light carving a crescent into a sky of midnight blue. At an altitude of thirty thousand meters, Lea could see the curvature of the Earth beginning to define itself against the oncoming day, an endless stretch of Pacific Ocean materializing out of the void beneath her. Lea took a moment to absorb the sight, her hands gripping the control yoke, her eyes peering through the lightly frosted cockpit glass—all alone in the stratosphere, briefly disconnected from the reality that awaited below. It was the first time she could recall feeling at peace in a lifetime, a fantasy cut short by the burst comm that crackled in her ear.
“You still reading me?” Max asked.
“Five by five,” Lea replied, checking her position. “Approaching the IP now. Estimate two minutes to insertion. How’s my aspect?”
“Like a hole in the sky. My bird flying okay?”
“Like a dream.” Lea wasn’t an experienced pilot, but Max had packed his aircraft with enough avionics so that the thing practically flew itself. Alloy-composite skin and a long, flat profile also rendered the fuselage transparent to sensors, while pulse-ramjet engines pushed it across the sky at hypersonic speeds. “I’ve got the target on my scope right now. Engaging recon sensors.”
An outline of Rapa Nui formed on one of the inflight monitors, a composite topography taken from a previous satellite pass. Lea filtered the thermal spectrum for residual heat signatures, but saw nothing among the blooms of natural activity that dotted the island. Switching over to the EM, she then searched for radio signals, power sources—any signs indicating a human presence on that barren rock at the edge of nowhere.
And there, on the prison grounds, she found it.
“Contact,” Lea said.
A single red dot flashed in the middle of her screen—a muted signal, probably underground and masked by tons of concrete and steel. Lea traced it to the largest building in the complex, the inmate dormitory itself. She studied its characteristics, comparing the waveform to the energy patterns at Chernobyl. Though weaker, this one definitely shared the same range of frequencies—and its behavior was too close to be coincidence.
They’re here.
> The navigation alarm beeped at her. Lea throttled back, extending the flaps to compensate for reduced speed. According to the monitor, she had arrived at the interception point—nearly 150 kilometers dead west of the island, far enough away to approach without being seen.
Max sounded like he was sitting right next to her.
“Is it a go?” he asked.
“Yeah, Max. I owe you one.”
“Just bring my bird back in one piece, okay?”
“Roger that.”
“And Lea—”
He lapsed into static for a few seconds.
“It was good to meet you.”
Max signed off before she could send a response. Lea glanced over the side, into an abyss that would soon be ablaze in the light of day. She pushed the yoke forward, giving enough rudder to put the ship into a steep spiral, negative g forces making her body float against her harness. Far below, streaks of gold glinted off the top of the waves, fireflies on the surface of the water.
“Okay, Max,” Lea said, “let’s see what this thing can do.”
The aircraft dropped out of the sky like a giant raptor, down on the deck at fifty meters before flattening out its angle of attack—close enough to kick up a plume of vaporized seawater when ventral jets fired to slow its rate of descent. Lea didn’t level off until she hit a scant ten meters, well below the line of sight on the vast horizon, then kicked in forward thrust at full power. A briny mist exploded behind her, leaving a long trail in her wake as she poured on even more speed, invisible in the retreating dark—at least for now.
The controls put up some resistance, even in fly-by-wire, wing surfaces taking greedy hold of the thick atmosphere at sea level. Lea used the onboard computer to maintain altitude, not wanting to pitch the ship down into the drink, and switched on the heads-up display. An infrared image projected itself on the window in front of her, showing an augmented view directly ahead. Lea clicked the magnification a few times until she saw a black monolith rise out of the ocean, framed in the corona of an advancing sunrise.
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