“Want me to erase his tablet’s memory? Pretty sure he’s been taking pictures of you guys. If he’s hooked into the café’s system, it won’t take me very long.”
“You do that and he’ll know there’s a story to follow with me.”
“If you’re sure. I’ll see what I can pull up on my end about him and get back to you.”
She ended the connection and Jamie looked up from slathering jam on his croissant to meet Kyle’s shuttered gaze. “Let’s finish up here and head out.”
Kyle nodded easily enough, even if Jamie could read the anger in the tightness of his jaw. “What if he follows us?”
“I’ll handle it.”
He was the only who could, after all. Jamie’s family wasn’t anyone else’s problem except his own.
They finished breakfast quickly after that and Jamie paid for their food using the RealIdent chip buried in the bioware embedded in his left hand and wrist. His account was debited and they left the café without a backward glance. They weren’t even halfway down the block on their way home when someone called out his name.
“Jamie! Jamie Callahan, right?”
Jamie didn’t stop. Beside him, Kyle slipped his hand beneath his hoodie in possible preparation for needing to draw his gun. Jamie shook his head minutely at Kyle and got an eyeroll in return. Kyle dropped his hand back down to his side, so Jamie considered it a win.
The reporter caught up to them, slim tablet in hand, its voice recorder app running on the screen. He kept it angled in Jamie’s direction. “Got a minute to talk about your father’s decision to run for the presidency?”
“No comment,” Jamie replied blandly, looking straight ahead as he quickened his stride.
“You know, you’re a hard man to track down. Your father’s been telling the media you’re deployed, yet here you are.”
Jamie didn’t say anything, and thankfully, Kyle followed his lead, though the scowl on the sniper’s face was a sure sign Kyle was thinking unpleasant thoughts about the reporter. Jamie felt the same way, even if he didn’t show it. Jamie knew how this game was played, had known how to play it since his parents first paraded him before the cameras as a very young child.
You did not engage the press unless it was on your own terms.
Getting sandbagged in the street wasn’t on Jamie’s terms, so Adam Dixon wasn’t getting jack shit from him.
Adam kept up with them all the way back to their residential skyscraper, trying to get Jamie to talk, but he’d said the only thing he was going to say outside the restaurant. Nothing more would be forthcoming. Adam could try to goad a quote out of Jamie all he liked; he wasn’t getting anything but silence.
They were meters away from the entrance to the building when Kyle broke away to access the biolock and get them inside. Jamie half-hoped the reporter would try to follow them into the building—Jamie would be within his rights to throw the guy out on his ass if he did—but apparently Adam understood the law when it came to trespassing.
“Fantastic conversation,” Adam said with an oily smile. He rapidly took a couple of photos of them as the clear plas-glass doors closed nearly on his toes. “We’ll have to do it again someday.”
“Can I shoot him?” Kyle asked as he waved off the security guard manning the front desk in the lobby.
“No,” Jamie retorted as they headed for their floor’s private, dedicated elevator and stepped inside. “Do you know how much paperwork that would entail, not to mention the headache it would give me? We have two more days of libo left and I have no plans to be doing paperwork.”
“I hope those plans involve doing me.”
“They won’t if you shoot the reporter.”
“I was joking.” Jamie gave him a long, long look as the elevator ascended at a fast rate. Kyle rolled his eyes. “Okay. I was mostly joking.”
“Sure you were.”
“If it’s a choice between testing out my new sniper rifle and getting fucked by you, we both know what I’m going to choose.”
Jamie arched an eyebrow. “Your rifle?”
“How is it you became a captain with such shitty decision-making skills?”
“Excellent NCOs.”
Kyle burst out laughing as the elevator slowed to a halt and opened up onto the penthouse level. He grabbed Jamie by the hand and hauled him out of the elevator, a wicked smile on his face. “Good answer.”
4
Only Easy Day Was Yesterday
Midweek found Alpha Team preparing for an early morning briefing. Word of a new mission had come down Tuesday night, interrupting their regulatory three days off between missions. The change in orders meant the entire team was already sitting around the conference table when Nazari arrived at 0700 sharp on Wednesday. Joining him was the MDF Deputy Director Ranisha Stirling and a third man Kyle didn’t recognize as everyone stood up to salute.
“At ease,” Nazari said to the room at large.
“Sir,” the group chorused in greeting. “Ma’am.”
“Take a seat. We have a long morning ahead of us,” Stirling replied.
Former US Rear Admiral Lower Half Ranisha Stirling was a no-nonsense African-American woman who ran as tight a ship as Nazari when it came to helping lead the sprawling, interwoven divisions that made up the MDF. As far as the chain of command went, the two were mostly on the same page and worked to help the MDF run as smoothly as possible as opposed to trying to cut each other off at the metaphorical knees. Kyle had seen more than his fair share of infighting between superior officers when he and Alexei were with Strike Force and seconded to other agencies. Nazari and Stirling’s working relationship was as far from fractious as it could be, and that sort of stability trickled down through all the ranks.
Kyle’s attention settled on the man he didn’t know. Considering how many active agents, field teams, and support staff the MDF had on its payroll, it wasn’t a surprise he couldn’t immediately place the newcomer. The man was about his height, with messy brown hair and brown eyes, and a clean-shaven face. Unlike the members of Alpha Team, who were in service uniforms, the newcomer wore an off-the-rack suit and a handgun on his hip, judging by how the suit jacket fell. He didn’t carry himself like he was military, which wouldn’t be surprising. Not everyone working for the MDF transferred in from the armed forces.
The man nodded a silent hello to the room at large before taking an empty seat. Kyle watched curiously as he accessed a command window and started typing out orders that sent data windows opening up in front of everyone’s terminals. Kyle ran his finger over the first one that popped up in his view, coming up with a profile dossier laid out in a format favored by the CIA. Considering his past history with that agency—not all of it good—Kyle tensed a little in his seat.
Nazari took his usual spot at the head of the conference table, clutching a can of Zing! energy drink. Everyone else had already ransacked the synthcaf, and Kyle snuck a sip of his drink before Nazari started talking.
“Alpha Team, this is Agent Sean Delaney. He’s a metahuman who works out of our intelligence division. He’s being assigned to you for this mission only since what we’re asking you to do is his area of expertise and you’ll need guidance,” Nazari said.
“What exactly do we need guidance for, sir?” Jamie asked, beating Katie to the question.
Nazari and Stirling shared a look that Kyle didn’t like, and if he didn’t like it, it was a sure bet the rest of the team wouldn’t be happy with what was coming their way.
Wonder if this is how the team felt when Alexei and I were brought in, he thought.
“We would’ve assigned this solely to our intelligence division if you didn’t have the personal background we needed,” Stirling finally said. “Rather than create new identities out of whole cloth, we believe going forward with several legitimate identities might get us further into the group of people we’re hoping to take down.”
Field teams and the missions they handled all had to be greenlit by Nazari. What Stirling broug
ht to the table was a concise reporting of the details each mission was built upon before authorizing it to land on Nazari’s desk. She took great pride in the MDF’s mission success rate and finding the right team or agent for the job. Alpha Team was the MDF’s top field team in terms of sheer brutal power that could overwhelm the enemy.
Alpha Team was not, as a whole, the MDF’s first choice for undercover operations.
Kyle looked up from the information laid out in front of him. That statement had all sorts of alarm bells going off in his head. “Sir? Legitimate identities?”
Nazari ignored Kyle in favor of pointing at Sean. “You’re up, Delaney.”
“Yes, sir,” Sean said in a clear, calm voice. “Analysts have confirmed that several suspects from Sunday’s mission are part of the Presnenskaya Bratva, the most powerful crime syndicate within the Russian mafia. Most of the men in the photos Staff Sergeant Brannigan managed to upload were most likely escorting someone higher up in their organization for the buy. Unfortunately, there were no clear shots of the entire group, so some identities were missed. However, this man is a person of interest, and who they likely used to set up the buy.”
A holopic, not one taken during the mission on Sunday, popped up in front of everyone’s terminal and in the center of the table. The man in question looked to be in his late twenties, maybe early thirties, with a face that had an almost too-perfect symmetry to it, which only came from use of enhancements.
Sean leaned forward a little, keeping his eyes on the holoscreens and the data in the center of the table. “Meet Nikolaas Jansen, a Dutchman better known as Niko to his associates in the underworld. Born in the Netherlands to parents who eventually divorced when he was five, his father retained full custody because of his wealth. Lars Jansen made his money as a hedge fund owner. Jansen’s mother never fought for custody even when his father shipped him off to boarding school in London when he was eight.”
The holopics changed, showing a range of Jansen from young boy to college-aged man who liked to party judging by the expensive cars, gorgeous women, and handsome men showcased in those particular holopics. Kyle swiped through some of them, looking at the same scene in different locations. Jansen appeared in nightclubs and bars, on yachts and private jets, alcohol and drugs in plain view in most of them, and always with a group of rich partiers surrounding him.
“Jansen is a textbook narcissist and likes being the center of attention. He prefers the spotlight, but if there’s someone with a bigger reputation in the nightclubs and private parties he goes to, he’s known to ingratiate himself into their social circle until he’s indispensable to them. That used to mean supplying people with drugs through whatever seller offered the latest designer high at the best price. Five years ago, he upgraded to weapons. Three years ago, he upgraded to blackmail.”
The holopics in view minimized and a new set took their place, pictures of meets taken from a distance, grainy in some instances, as if they were taken from CCTV cameras. Others were taken from odd interior angles in grand hotel rooms, curtains drawn over plas-glass windows to block the view.
“Jansen is what we call a facilitator. He facilitates relationships between buyers and sellers for a price. If you can pay, he will get you what you want, and he is very, very good at it, especially since he’s become linked with the Presnenskaya Bratva.”
The holopics showing Jansen were replaced with different ones situated in a complicated-looking flowchart. Several up at the top were highlighted in a red border. Kyle dragged those closer in his terminal. He widened the viewing area to magnify the holopics and access the embedded reports at the bottom.
“Yakov Pavluhkin, the titular head of the Presnenskaya Bratva,” Sean said as the top holopic in the pyramid flashed briefly. “A fifth-generation oligarch, his family owns what’s left of the Russian oil companies, but the family’s real money comes from their state-backed space mining contracts. They own Solntse Dobyvayushchaya Kompiniya in full and the company outbid all others vying for those contracts outside one or two adversaries Yakov eliminated through murder. Can’t be proven, of course, but everyone in Moscow knows those rumors, and the smart people know those rumors are true. Pavluhkin’s connections to the Kremlin are rock solid, and the business dealings tying him to the Presnenskaya Bratva run through so many shell companies through two dozen countries it’s nearly impossible to trace.”
“Nearly,” Katie echoed. “Even if we had proof Pavluhkin owned the Presnenskaya Bratva, the Russian government wouldn’t do a damned thing.”
“Bratvas government-backed,” Alexei agreed. “Different Kremlin sign off many years ago.”
Sean nodded. “Last summer your team brought back information about criminal organizations forming an alliance in order to create their own metahumans. Unfortunately, we don’t know their success rate. Implementing a plan to reach that goal means they sometimes need to double down on preemptive strikes that might not necessarily work out. The attack on the CDC and the attempted infiltration here last year is proof enough of that. The Libération Nationale Française terrorist group was lead on those attempts. According to chatter over the last few months, they lost whatever leverage they had with the other groups in the alliance due to that failure. Now the Presnenskaya Bratva is back in the driver’s seat, so to speak.
“Problem is, if you’re going to be performing what amounts to torture on your fellow humans, you don’t really want your name or your money linked to a project like that in any way. The International Criminal Court might not have as much power as it used to before the restructuring of the European Union into the European Alliance, but it still holds the rights to try people for crimes against humanity. Getting a guilty verdict on something like that is bad for business. So what do you do? You could build up a few more shell companies for money-laundering purposes, but you still run the risk of the crime getting linked back to you. Or you do what the Presnenskaya Bratva has practically turned into an art form—you lure in the rich and blackmail them to get your way. That’s where Jansen comes in.”
Sean enlarged a third holopic, throwing it up beside Yakov Pavluhkin’s in the center of the table. The family resemblance was impossible to miss.
“This is Stanislav Pavluhkin, Yakov’s oldest son and most likely successor. Thirty-five years old, unmarried, but he never wants for company. Vice-president of SDK and his father’s undisputed right hand within the Presnenskaya Bratva. Stanislav deals in kompromat concerning the rich and Jansen helps him get those secrets. Jansen brings in the targets through his facilitation efforts and Stanislav does the rest. The blackmail material Stanislav must have on an untold number of the rich and famous is, I would guess, a horrifying amount. It has to be if you can force people—real, legitimate people—to sign for control of fake companies that basically fund terrorist organizations, leaving them to take the fall when discovered while the Pavluhkins and the Presnenskaya Bratva are in the clear.”
By the end of Sean’s explanation, Kyle found he wasn’t the only one in the room looking at where Jamie sat farther up the table next to Stirling. Jamie’s expression was shuttered, gaze revealing nothing as he studied the information in front of him.
“This is background,” Jamie finally said, turning his head to look at Nazari. “What’s the mission, sir?”
Nazari leaned back in his chair, staring at the slew of information sitting on the table representing months of hard work, deep digging, and possibly a few lost lives with a grim look on his face.
“The United States government, along with the governments of several allies, believes the Kremlin, working through the Presnenskaya Bratva, is using these other terrorist groups as a cover. Their goal, achieved through human experiments using the Splice chemical, is to figure out a testing process to separate those who can become a metahuman from those who cannot. In short, we believe they are running a genetic arms race we can’t afford to lose. The Russians don’t want a cure. They don’t want a vaccine. They want metahumans to deploy as wea
pons. Young, strong men and women who aren’t arbitrary survivors of Splice bomb attacks. An eighty-eight-year-old grandmother or a two-year-old aren’t fighters. But people in their prime? Armed with enhanced powers? In numbers we can’t equal? That’s a threat we can’t ignore,” Nazari said, his voice flat and emotionless as he laid out the facts.
“We need information on where their labs are located, the data on the experiments they’re doing, anything and everything that shows the Russian government is perpetuating what amounts to war crimes against not only their own people, but people taken from other countries as well. We need evidence. In order to get it, we need to get close and get our hands dirty,” Stirling said.
Jamie held Nazari’s gaze and didn’t look away. “You picked us for a reason.”
“Because money talks,” Sean said with an apologetic grimace. “And the only person who has finances that outclass the Pavluhkin family’s riches, and who the United States government has complete faith in, who we know won’t be swayed into becoming a double agent, is you.”
Kyle closed his eyes for a second or two, the taste of synthcaf on his tongue going rancid. On paper, it made sense. Holy hell, did it make sense. But this was a clusterfuck of epic proportions just waiting to blow up in their faces.
Katie cleared her throat a little as she leaned forward to stare down the table at where Nazari sat. “Jamie’s father is campaigning for the Republican nomination in the presidential election. Considering Jamie had a New York Times investigative reporter following him around just two days ago when he was on liberty, the press isn’t going to go away. If Jamie is seen with criminals of this magnitude, that’s going to reflect—I’d use the word ‘badly,’ but that doesn’t even begin to convey the sheer shit-show his father will be thrown into if that happens. Traitor is going to be the nicest thing the media calls Richard Callahan, sir.”
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