“I’ve got to hope so,” she says and hangs up just as the building judders, booming to an impact against the roll-up steel shutter door. Metal struts welded across its back pop off to clang and bounce across the concrete floor of the loading bay. Kirsty screams as the door opens with a crash but it’s only Cusack.
“You okay?” he shouts, throwing open stamped metal cases and rummaging around. “Did the Fedlab get back to you?”
“Yeah,” she says. “What was that?”
“A utivan rammed the door,” he says, finding an ammunition crate and quickly stuffing mags into body armor chest pouches. “It’s backing up for another go right now. So do the Fedlab results give you enough to make a case? Can you get the authorities involved now?”
“I... I think maybe...”
“Then call them,” he says, checking the mag load on his assault rifle before slamming the magazine back in place. “Call them and tell them your situation and get the FBI to come get you in the next ten minutes.”
“Ten...? Why?”
He turns to face her and there’s fear in his eyes. “Because half of my crew haven’t arrived, Miss Powell. And because the forecourt out there is filling up with bad guys waiting for the utivan to bust the door in. And since Carmine’s still off the air, ten minutes is all the time I think I can buy you...”
Friday 14 March
11:40 am
HEMBLEN ONLY NEEDED one night in his damp apartment to realize he couldn’t live life as just another citizen grounded in the Hub. He got up at dawn to clean the muddy, sweat-stained woodland clothing and armor he’d dumped on his floor months ago. He moved his bed, unlocked the gun locker underneath and took out only the weapons he’d need out in the wild – a revolver, a folding stock shotgun, a scoped rifle. He packed camping gear – waterproof bivi bag, sleeping bag, solid fuel stove, closed-cell foam mat. He was stuffing medical supplies into a rucksack side pocket when the call came, the ring tone loud enough to make him jump and grab for his holstered pistol.
He tapped the screen to answer, expecting a Union rep to formally revoke his license. Instead, he saw Maz O’Toole, acting all pumped up and wild-eyed. Hemblen felt his pulse quicken when he saw that Maz was wearing his mercwar armor.
“Did they call yet?” he asked.
“Did who call?”
“The Union… Are you suspended?” Hemblen shook his head and O’Toole clapped gloved hands together and laughed. “Fuckin-ay man. So you need to be in on this because we’re rolling in sixty seconds and if you miss out, you’ll regret it the rest of your life.”
“Didn’t you hear? I messed up Meat4’s guys. I’m off the roster, Maz.”
“Oh this job isn’t for M4, dude,” grinned Maz. “We’re truly dumped from that contract thanks to you. Turns out someone else needs us right away to back up some Fedtech. This chick’s got so out of her depth that M4 are trying to ice her. And get this, only yesterday, she was moments away from getting dropped by a sniper…”
“Oh, you’re shitting me…”
O’Toole beamed. “Yeah! You saved her, dog. M4P’s rivals are so keen to find out what she’s found out that they’ve assigned an Urban Pacification Force to protect her. But since they too are currently taking a grade-A ass-kicking, it’s up to us to save the day.”
“Crash The Pad’s working for Bostov now?”
Maz nodded vigorously. “As of five minutes ago… ain’t that a hoot?”
“Is it?” Hemblen tried hard to ignore his building excitement. “You don’t think this is some kind of setup? You know, seeing as we took down their Denver operation and all.”
“They know that and they don’t care. Nothing personal, right? Besides, they need the nearest outfit and that’s us. Awww, come on, Hem. The next call could be the Union tearing up your license. Think of this as your rapidly closing window of opportunity.”
“Well hey,” shrugged Hemblen, “if you’ve got time to pack my armor…”
“Loaded in the APC already,” said Maz. “You gotta love being a mercenary sometime, yeah?” He saluted badly, then hung up.
Friday 14 March
09:43 am
MARTHA DIDN’T HAVE to say anything as she hovered nervously at his door. Bishop couldn’t see any of her previous poise and confidence. She looked off to one side. She fiddled with the spectacles hanging round her neck. It hadn’t gone to plan.
“How bad?” he asked.
“Very,” she said, lurching into his office and standing there, swaying.
“How many casualties?” he asked.
“Everyone,” she gulped.
“Everyone?” said Bishop. “She took out the hit squad?”
“And the clean team too,” said Martha. “All of them.”
He didn’t expect that. “And the Fed? The girl?”
“She’s still out there. She’s still on the move.”
Bishop stared at his desk and fumed silently. All that deadroom time spent planning ahead and he’d ignored this. While he’d been planning operations in distant Hubs, Bostov had got someone to within striking distance of Reboot right here in Toronto. Not only that but it had taken Martha – an admin for crying out loud – to spot her.
“So what I’ve got to wonder, Martha, is how this woman took down two strike teams. What is she, some kind of ninja?”
Martha shook her head. “She had layers of defense, sir. We knew about the gang so we neutralized them. But after we lost contact with the clean team, District 45 PD took a call from an Urban Pacification Force who called in a thwarted home invasion at her address.”
“She’s got UPF cover too?”
“That’s my assumption,” nodded Martha.
“So tell me, how does a woman on a government pay scale afford a UPF day rate?”
“You already know what I think,” said Martha. “She’s been Bostov since day one.”
“And I’m starting to think I should have listened to you sooner.” He drummed his fingers on the desk and ran through his limited options. “This needs to end today,” he said, his mind made up. “I’m going out.”
“Sir?”
“You heard me. If the girl announces Reboot before the official launch, the Board are going to have me shot on the lawn. Compared to that, I’ll take my chances with Bostov. So are you ready to take notes?”
Martha uncrossed her arms so Bishop could see she’d been holding her pad and pencil all the time.
“Okay, forget about being covert. Send an airship over her last known position. I want images, real time. If anyone sees her, they take their best shot. If we’re not that lucky, we need men on the ground so pull everyone off facility security in that District and move all available RESC there now. Hell, call up Bioweapons Division. Tell them if they want to field trial their system, they should start moving into position now. Are you getting all of this?”
Martha tapped each point with her pencil as she read them back. “Surveil and engage from airship if possible, move armed units to District 45, bioweapons cleared for action.” She wiped her eyes now she was back in action. “Anything else?”
“Plenty, Martha. Sort me out an airship. And mobilize that mercwar outfit too. They’re back from Denver aren’t they?”
Martha hesitated. “There’s an issue with Crash The Pad that I need to talk to you about. We’re currently in dispute over…”
“Tell me about that later,” said Bishop, reaching for his jacket. “If Crash The Pad can field some firepower, contract them to do so. If they can’t, get on FedNet and raise a crew who can. And suspend the District 45 area manager.”
“You mean Danford?”
“That’s the bastard,” said Bishop. “He’s the one who fucked this up from the start, right? So ship him somewhere to rot. And the UPF who called in the clean team deaths. What did you say they were called?”
“I didn’t,” she said. “But they’re called Carmine Cares.”
“Okay, track down their owner and patch him through to me.”
“Did I stutter?”
“You said you were never to be recorded or...”
“Clock’s ticking, Martha,” he said, pulling a holstered pistol from a drawer and clipping it to his belt. “The only way to get this done right is if I do it myself. So where’s my damn airship?”
Friday 14 March
12:23 am
THE POWER FAILS as the utivan slams the steel shutter and punches through this time, years of dust shaking off the storage unit’s ceiling beams to fall like fog. Kirsty sits cross-legged on the table in the glow of Slate’s screen. She stares at the only door out of there and wonders how many people are outside for even Cusack to look cornered and scared. She looks to Slate for survival, her one open channel out of the final refuge. She fumbles in her jacket for Steele and Priest’s clear perspex card and gives silent prayers as she punches the number in…
Cusack slides down the corrugated sheeting overlaying the stairs, the scuffgel panels of his leg armor rasping on the rusted metal. McQuarrie’s kneeling at the bottom, a finger pressed to his earpiece. “Counting me and you, skip, there’s seven of us inside plus the client up in the final refuge. Kramme and Darla are taking up position on a roof about two hundred meters away. They say PD have cordoned off the block but they’ll start harassing fire on our command.”
Cusack hands McQuarrie a stack of extra magazines. “What do you think Carmine’s doing to extract us?”
“Don’t know,” says McQuarrie. “CarmineNet works but base isn’t responding. It’s like he’s just not picking up.”
“Knowing Carmine, he’ll be working something out right now,” nods Cusack as the first burst of incoming fire ricochets wildly round the unit. He opens comms.
“Listen up... remember to fire and maneuver. Kramme, Darla, do whatever damage you can. Everyone else, pull back towards the final refuge on bounding overwatch. We’ve got to buy time until Carmine can get reinforcements here so keep up that base of fire. It’s our only chance.”
The incoming intensifies, bursts cracking loudly into the utivan wedged in the shattered shuttered door so it moans and leaks foodfuel and livedrive fluids. “You really think we can stop them?” says McQuarrie.
“Stop them? Probably not,” says Cusack. “Hold them off long enough for Carmine to get here? Sure, why not? They’ve got to come get us and we’ve got all the cover. Besides, Carmine told me face to face that Bostov were willing to pay anything to protect this girl. Whatever it takes.”
McQuarrie stands and grins. “Bill it and they will come?” he says.
“Sorry...?”
“It’s a line from Field Of Dreams,” says McQuarrie. “A classic movie about blind faith, skip. Just your thing. Once we’re clear of this shit, come round and we’ll watch it at my place.” He punches Cusack’s shoulder then runs into the open end of a shipping container just as the incoming fire picks up to a whirlwind that tears up and through and past the utivan embedded in the front door. The air fills with howling ricochets, safety glass and fragments of lightweight body panels. They’re coming in...
Priest appears on screen, the real Priest this time, not his answer message. He’s eating corn chips. “Officer Powell,” he says. “Been waiting for your callback.”
“Priest, I am so far in the shit,” she says.
“Relax girl,” he says, “I’ve been on it since your first call. I’ve hired a whole bunch of tooled-up knuckleheads prepped and waiting for an address.”
She tells him where she is and reads off Slate’s global positioning too. “So they’re coming to save me?” she asks.
Priest smirks and pops another corn chip into his mouth. “That kind of depends on what you’ve got for me.”
“You’re a bastard.”
“Never said I was anything else.”
“Okay, so I’ve got tissue samples and names of the deceased. That’s enough to smear Meat4 Power in the media. But I’m cut off and under fire and if you want it, come and get it. If you want to fight M4P then fine, ’cos they’re here too.”
“Fair enough,” he says. “I’m going to send you a dozen…”
She’s already heard enough so she hangs up and starts redialing.
Cusack picks his ground and runs into a shipping container that’s dark and cobwebby and rusty damp. He clenches his teeth so hard, his jaw aches. He battles his flight reflex by jiggling his assault rifle nervously.
It’s dark and every bullet strike bangs like a gong. He stares at three unshielded lightbulbs glue-gunned to the container walls, left, right and center. Each one’s wired to a motion-sensing mine on the outside, same as on every container in the maze. Anyone trying to negotiate the gloomy maze created by the containers will trigger... and there one goes.
His earplugs spare him the concussive force as a mine simultaneously blasts a cone of steel cubes and lights up the bulb to his right. He pulls back a crude shutter and sticks the barrel out of a gun slit cut into the container’s side, emptying a chattering clip of tungsten-cored rounds at two survivors staggering around in the vivid wet mess of their shattered comrades. They’re backlit against daylight, two dark silhouettes in bright clouds of swirling white smoke. He has no excuse to miss and he doesn’t.
His rifle empty, Cusack slams the shutter back and reloads on the run, securing the container door shut behind him. Fire and maneuver – that’s Carmine Cares’ only chance, that’s their force multiplier. If he can pull the same trick from two other containers and take out half a dozen every time, that’s eighteen for zero to him. If he can stall them long enough, if he can make them think that getting the girl isn’t worth the bodycount, Carmine will do everything in his power to extract them. He knows his boss. He’s sure he’ll pull through.
Kirsty twitches as tumbling rounds bounce and crack against her refuge. She wills Slate to connect the next call until the Bureau’s logo appears with a ’Please Wait’ message. Kirsty feels her heart thump five times before the smiling operator’s there. She’s mid-thirties, smiling through chubby cheeks and too much lipgloss and sharing a private moment with the operator to her left. She laughs before turning to Kirsty. “Good afternoon, the Federal Bureau of Investigation,” she says, chirpily. “How may we help you?”
Ben Boegel has picked a prime spot between two containers – the wall in front of him is quarter-inch steel plate spot-welded to the back of corrugated plating. He sees this mass of steel jump as a mine blows and feels the explosion’s deep pressure through his ribcage. He slides back the shutter over the fire port just in time to see Cusack hose down the survivors. They drop like pounds of meat so Ben keeps the element of surprise and holds fire.
Two more figures run in from outside, ducking under the bullet-shredded shutter and loosing off shots from stubby riot guns skywards even as Ben drops them with carefully aimed single shots. Their canister shots explode on the roof with gentle pops. Ben barely notices the wet spray that patters down but sure as hell notices the insects dropping thick and heavy.
Ben shouldn’t be freaked by a bug bomb. They’re off-the-shelf bioweaponry, just a couple pounds of cryostored South American roaches reactivated angrily by pheromone gel. But one of them drops straight down his neck and scurries about furiously. He’s reaching over his head and trying to sweep it away from his skin when a barrel pokes through his fireport. He’s cursing the bug as a raking burst drops him for good.
“Kirsty Powell, Federal Environmental, Toronto Hub District 45. Request immediate armed backup.”
Kirsty struggles to keep it cool since she knows the FBI prefer everything to be nice and icy. She prays that this shiny, plump woman’s got a button on her console marked ’Death From Above.’ Kirsty doesn’t have to look outside to know that only storm troopers in helicopters will save her now.
“First things first,” the plump operator says calmly. “So officer, your full name and ID number please...”
Harmony Carlucci
lies on the sandbagged top of the final refuge and looks down on the maze through the gathering smoky gloom. She’s got her rifle next to her and a fire-control box in her hand, one button for each of the eight charges set at key intersections and huddle points. Each charge is about five times more powerful than the anti-personnel mines that are already popping off. Each one’s simple but effective – two pounds of C4 rolled in bolts and nails then squashed into plastic sandwich boxes.
A squad bustle in, crabbing along behind a wall they’ve made from their overlapping ballistic shields. Seconds behind them, another squad, another wall of armor. Harmony waits, knowing one of the motion-sensing mines is bound to trip. Sure enough, one fires with a crack, delaminating the shields and sending the first line sprawling. She waits until the second squad bunches up and starts to trip over them then Harmony thumbs a button.
Even she’s caught out by the blast that roars through the confined space, blows skylight panels out the roof and blanks out the maze under a rolling cloud of smoke and dust. This high up, even Harmony catches debris in the face – warm and wet and sticky. A matt black helmet full of hair and tissue bounces off a wall and comes to rest near her. For a moment she’s stunned, scared she’s just wasted the rest of Carmine Cares down on ground level. Then she squints through stinging, chemical-reeking smoke and her stomach jolts as something tears down a hanging strip of the steel shutter door to gain access.
It’s just a black shape against the sunlight but there’s something familiar about its rolling, heavy-shouldered gait as it lumbers inwards on all fours. Then it stands on its hind legs to shake and push down a wall of corrugated sheeting and barbed wire and even though its head is covered by a helmet and its body is covered by angular black slabs of composite armor, she can tell what it is. She’s seen them on the Nature Channel all the time.
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