World Divided: Book Two of the Secret World Chronicle

by Mercedes Lackey; Cody Martin; Dennis Lee; Veronica Giguere

  Of course, Dominic Verdigris had helped things along there, just a little. It wasn’t all that hard to dump a few slow-release biotoxins in a water supply amid all the chaos. And there was nothing quite like having such an enormous population start dropping like flies to put the pressure on.

  Such a nice, well-rounded plan. Further degrade the water. Sell treatment plants via a shell corporation—treatment plants that would, of course, entirely fail to take out the biotoxins. Wait for the ensuing outrage. Dissolve the shell, nuke the fragments, plant the blame on certain government officials, then come in with one of his overt corporations and sell them the same plants with the appropriate add-on at “compassionate” prices and suddenly not only do you make a double profit, you have the entire population of one of the world’s most populous cities fawning at your feet. When he was done here, he would have a secure base of operations and a loyal workforce willing to do just about anything for him.

  Provided, of course, Khanjar could deal with that little problem that had come up.

  What was he thinking? Of course she could.

  Verdigris’ gaze drifted from the jet’s window, sweeping over his bodyguard’s delectable physique. Khanjar—her real name was probably lost to her, he mused—was perfect for what Dominic paid her to do. A metahuman assassin who could turn her skin as hard as diamonds, she was supremely skilled in several different forms of unarmed and armed combat, ranging from blades to firearms to heavy weapons, not to mention whatever goodies that he had managed to invent that week. He had first found Khanjar early in his rise to power; she was an independent contractor who had become popular with several international drug cartels. She was extremely mercenary, always going to the highest bidder, but professional, never leaving a job uncompleted. Given who Dominic Verdigris was, he never had to worry about anyone paying her more than he could. After a trial period where she proved her worth in some rather interesting ways, he hired Khanjar permanently as his bodyguard and chief of security.

  Their “romance” started very soon after she was hired full time, and Verdigris was fully aware that it was a tactical move on her part. She was moving in closer to him in order to fulfill her own needs, and that suited him perfectly fine. Since those early days, they’d come to reach a mutual respect beyond the monetary one, especially when Dom relied on her exclusively for many matters. It also tickled him to test and see how far his assistant viewed the power dynamic between them as being in her favor. No matter how clever she thought she was, he could always outthink her, and be at least three steps ahead.

  “If you stare any harder, and if I were any other sort of woman, you might make me blush. Almost.”

  “Sorry, m’dear. The view out the window was boring me. Still reviewing the security briefing?” He nodded slightly at the stack of folders and clipboards on the table by her seat.

  “Yes. Rather routine. The main convoy will go with you; we’ve got one of our local teams acting as your personal security while I take care of the errand that you assigned me. Once I’m done, you should already be back at the airport and we can go home.” As soon as Dominic had made it known to her that they would be traveling to Bombay, Khanjar had started the process of making sure that all of the necessary precautions had been taken for his visit. Security details on the ground, reviewing route plans, potential ambush sites, escape plans, surveillance and countersurveillance, local demographics—the list went on and on for all of the factors in successfully keeping someone as important as Dominic Verdigris protected. She liked to imagine that even the President didn’t have nearly as good a security detail as her employer, not even counting Dom’s personal inventions that he kept on himself at all times. Then again, the President didn’t have a personal assassin. At least, not that she knew of.

  He grinned but otherwise kept his body language enigmatic and controlled. “Excellent, as always. Care for a drink? If my internal clock is right, we’ll be landing shortly. I need something of the whiskey persuasion if I’m going to be dealing with politicians and the teeming masses.”

  She shook her head. He should know better. “None for me. Rain check for the end of the day, however.”

  He smiled, standing to pour himself a drink from the cabin’s stocked bar.

  Hopefully not too long of a day, she thought. She hated India.

  * * *

  There were a few paparazzi when the jet touched down on the tarmac, all being kept a reasonable distance away by the already-in-place security detail that Khanjar had set up in advance. Stepping out of the plane ahead of Dominic, she scanned the area quickly, taking in everything, then gave the go-ahead subvocally through her implanted microphone.

  Verdigris stepped out of the exit hatch, giving his best movie-star smile. There would have been a larger reception, except that Khanjar had deliberately filed not one, but seventeen flight plans, all showing the arrival at different times. Only their host knew the real arrival time, and only after Khajar had phoned him in the air.

  Their host was waiting by a running limousine, his arms spread in welcome. “Mr. Verdigris! It’s an honor and a pleasure to have you here in our city. I only wish it were under better circumstances.” Raghav Singh was thoroughly contemptible, and seemed to represent everything wrong with developing nations’ politicians. India, for all of its poverty, was a powerhouse in the making on the world stage. And it was in the hands of men such as Mr. Singh, which was probably why next to none of its citizens would ever prosper beyond where they already were in life.

  “Pleasure is all mine, Singh. Shall we?” Verdigris motioned for the limo, not waiting for a response before sitting in it with Khanjar trailing immediately behind him. Once Verdigris and Singh were seated inside and secured, she spoke into her radio to signal for the convoy to move out. Police cars and unmarked SUVs stayed ahead and to the rear of the limousine, rolling towards the slums of Mumbai; the poorest, as in most disasters and wars, had been hit hardest by the loss of the water processing plant.

  Khanjar waited a few beats, listening to the radio chatter as she watched the convoy speed away. Satisfied, she made a circle in the air with her finger. Three more SUVs pulled up in front of her, each filled with hand-picked security operatives. She quickly strode forward, entering the passenger side of the middle SUV. “Let’s go. I want to be back at the airport for a final inspection of the ground before Dominic is back from his speech. Step on it.”

  * * *

  “Gods, this man is stupid,” Khanjar fumed. Verdigris had given very specific instructions to their host, Mr. Singh, that the patsy was to be kept in a secure location that couldn’t be tied to anyone involved. Apparently, Singh had interpreted that to mean his personal mansion. I’ll need to remember to question Mr. Singh on that particular point. Forcefully, if Dom will allow me. Khanjar had an uneasy churning sensation developing in her stomach about this task, but forced the feeling from her thoughts. No plan ever goes according to plan; you need to adapt to the conditions that develop, and quickly, or you die. That simplified things for her.

  Khanjar was unsurprised to see them approaching a ten-foot-tall wall, which probably had some form of interdicting materials at the top, invisible from down below; likely some shrouded razor wire, maybe even electrified fencing. At length, an equally solid gate appeared in the wall, which swung open at their approach. Stupid, stupid, stupid. What if someone else had carjacked these vehicles? This was becoming entirely too sloppy; she would never allow anything she did as part of her job to be this half-assed. It was all “for show” security; it looked scary, but wasn’t very threatening for a determined aggressor.

  The guards that waved the vehicles in were all dressed in smart khaki uniforms, and armed with submachine guns. The inner courtyard was paved, dotted with impressive planters full of exotic flora, with two rows of banana trees lining the driveway.

  The building itself was a modern interpretation of a Victorian-era provincial state house, the sort that the British overlords had built to rule the Raj fr
om. Typical. He probably doesn’t even know what he’s copying. Four stories tall with a colonnaded portico, it was a security nightmare. All those huge cement pots would make perfect cover, at least for a little while.

  The McMansion itself might just as well have been made of straw, or swiss cheese. Big windows—and she would bet that not one was bullet-resistant. The sides of the house had lovely gardens; the place was too new for big trees, so the landscaper had made up for that with tall hedges. More concealment.

  She already knew what the back would look like. Two open marble terraces, going down to a sloping lawn, with a nice big artificial pond or lake at the bottom and more landscaped gardens around. Possibly a swimming pool and some guesthouses tucked out of sight. Again, built on the British Stately Home model. But the Victorian Kings of the World hadn’t needed to worry about squads of kidnappers or assassins armed to the teeth with twenty-first century weapons. More places for attackers to hide, and potential hostages. Brilliant. Just brilliant.

  It was probably too much to hope for that the package was being held in one of the guest cottages, or better still, a windowless cement workshop or storage area. At least a small building would be defensible by her team.

  The majordomo for the household greeted them as they exited their vehicles, arms spread wide and a magnanimous smile creasing his face. “Welcome, welcome. Mr. Singh told us to be expecting you, friends.” He spoke with a slight accent, but in otherwise perfect English.

  “Dismiss your help to their quarters, and have done with the pleasantries. When you’ve finished with that, please take me to the ‘guest.’ We are here to do a job, efficiently; we are not guests to be entertained. Understood?” Her stern glare must have impressed him. The man bowed, turning quickly, and then jogged over to talk with the servants. Khanjar turned to the security team. “I want team one to patrol the grounds in a roving sentry; keep in touch on the standard frequency. Team two, by the gate and the back entrance if this place has one. Team three, with me. Two of you on the main door, and one posted outside of the ‘guest.’ Go to it.” The men and women nodded and went off to perform their assigned duties. The majordomo had returned, sweeping his hand towards the entrance. Khanjar followed him, three security operatives trailing her.

  The interior was elegant, in a sort of obnoxious way. After traveling the world, dealing with the rich and powerful on a daily basis, and having Dominic Verdigris as her employer, Khanjar had developed an eye for tasteful decoration. This looked as if the decorator had been told “make it look like I am a billionaire” and had then been overridden to add more gold and mirrors wherever possible. Actually . . . it looked rather like a movie set out of the 1930s. Impossible ostentation. Narrow arched windows dotted the receiving room, with several hallways branching off to the rest of the house. She filed the details away as they descended a staircase to the cellar. Dry goods and high-end sports cars filled an underground garage, which they bypassed. Their destination was apparently the home’s wine vault; the door looked impressive, but like everything else in this house, it was an expensive facade. Khanjar could already see at least three ways to breach the door without damaging the contents and with only minimal damage to the surrounding structure. “Madam, the one you wish to see is in that room.”

  “Take the guards upstairs, and have them join the rest in patrolling the perimeter. My team will take it from here.”

  “Madam, Mr. Singh was explicit in his instructions that—”

  “Don’t argue; just do it. The people involved in this can buy and sell your cheap life a thousand times over. Don’t be a problem; just be a part of the solution.”

  “Y-yes, madam.” The majordomo bowed deeply, retreating from the room without delay for politeness.

  The two remaining security operatives with Khanjar flanked the door, with the one closest to the hinge opening it for her. Without pause, she walked inside.

  The patsy was there, with his wrists and ankles tied to a rolling chair. The door hissed shut behind Khanjar, making the bound hostage visibly jump in his seat. “Do you know why you’re here?” She spoke softly but firmly, keeping her expression completely neutral.

  “You won’t get away with this!” the man replied, with shaky bravado. “Singh won’t keep me quiet by having a lot of goons work me over! You would be wise to let me go.”

  “You’re here,” she continued, ignoring him, “because you’ve become a problem for Mr. Singh that my employer doesn’t trust can be handled by his own talents. You’re a whistleblower who was intending to expose Mr. Singh’s dealings concerning the faulty water treatment units that have claimed scores of your fellow countrymen. Normally, this wouldn’t concern us at all; all the better that corrupt and evil men like Mr. Singh be made examples of. But, since Mr. Singh is working for my employer, it has become our concern.” Khanjar grabbed a wine cask and effortlessly placed it in front of the man. “First, are you injured?”

  “Only my faith in my fellow man,” the man replied, taking her words as a sign that he was probably going to get off easily, perhaps with some sort of dire warning. Which he would ignore, of course; his kind always did.

  “You appear to be honest and intelligent. I will be honest with you. I am here to silence you permanently.”

  He stared at her as if he could not understand what she was saying. Then something about her expression convinced him that she was quite serious. Before he could say anything else, she continued.

  “Now, we wish to make this as tidy as possible. You can die alone, apparently by your own hand, confessing a trifling peccadillo that my employer has arranged for you. Or you can resist, you will still die alone, apparently by your own hand, and your wife, wild with grief, will smother your son and kill herself.” She put pen and paper on the wine cask in front of him. “We would like your suicide note in your own hand. We have one prepared by a computer, and it is a good match for your handwriting, but my employer prefers reality when at all possible. I will dictate to you.”

  The man looked on the verge of tears. “And my—my family? They will be spared if I comply? They won’t come to any harm?” Khanjar could tell that he was broken at that point, and she nodded.

  She cut the man’s hands free. He looked at the pen and paper, and gingerly picked up the pen as if it was dangerous. He looked up to her, resignation on his face—but then his eyes went wide. Khanjar snapped her head to the right, looking over her shoulder just in time for the world to explode into a hail of stars. She went flying, crashing into the wall and sending several bottles smashing to the floor.

  Khanjar’s thoughts slowly started to become less muddied. She’d been kicked, and hard; it was a good hit, and if she had been a normal person, she might have been sent into unconsciousness with a concussion. As her vision cleared, she could make out a figure clad in black kneeling next to the hostage; the intruder was covered in tactical gear and had his face obscured by a balaclava. “Sir, I’m here to get you out of here. But we need to move quickly. When I disappear, I need you to scream. Okay?” The hostage nodded shakily, still in shock from the sudden turn of events. Giving a thumbs-up, the intruder stepped back through a shadow and completely disappeared. Khanjar had to shake her head once, but she knew what she had seen. A metahuman!

  The hostage then screamed as loudly as he could, crying for help. This went on for a few seconds before the door opened. Both of the security operatives stepped inside with their PDWs drawn, pointing at the hostage. “Where did she go?” one of them barked.

  A disembodied foot lashed from a shadowed corner, right where the ceiling met the wall. The heel connected with the temple of the guard who had been talking, sending him sideways into the other man. As the second guard stumbled to regain his balance, the intruder’s upper torso snaked out of a shadow to his left, grabbing the guard’s jacket; his head was violently jerked into the wall with a wet crack. With both of Khanjar’s people down, the intruder materialized out of a shadow near the door. “It’s time to go. We’re behi
nd schedule, sir, so we need to move in a hurry. I can’t travel with you, so we need to go on foot.”

  The man said nothing. He simply ran out into the corridor. The meta followed, grabbing his arm and hustling him along.

  Khanjar tried again to clear her head, this time with a little more success. Without a second thought, she drew and readied her pistol. In the dim light, her skin also took on a glinting sheen. I need to stop the package, at any cost. She had never failed Verdigris before, and she didn’t intend to make this the first time. She broke into a run, activating her radio with her left hand as she did so. “Package has been taken, making for the first floor. Repeat, package has escaped. One intruder, probably more, stop them—” As she reached the exit for the cellar, she heard the gunfire. Checking her corners, she slowly exited the stairs; doorways were a natural choke point in a building, making them easy ambush spots. The guards inside as well as the operative she had left at the front door were all gone.

  “Someone, report!” Nothing but static. Someone was probably jamming her team’s comms. If that was the case, then Dominic didn’t know what was happening, and could be in danger. A renewed sense of urgency added to Khanjar’s actions. Crouching, she moved towards the door, cracking it open. Immediately, it was cut into splinters by gunfire. She peeked around the corner for a fraction of a second, taking in the scene. All of the resident guards were dead, scattered around the driveway and inner courtyard. She could see two of her own people down, and cursed silently. The rest of her security team were pinned down in two positions—at the gate, and behind a low wall at the end of the driveway. Their attackers were dressed exactly the same as the intruder who had disabled her: black uniforms and tactical gear. They worked well together, and were going to soon outflank her men. There was a slight pause in the gunfire as the attackers had some of their people reloading; Khanjar shot three of the closest ones, and then sprinted to her men on the driveway.