by Michael Todd
“Did anyone notice how he didn’t answer the question there?” Sam asked and raised an eyebrow at the others.
“No. No, he did,” Savage said with a grin. “He simply wants us to infer what he meant by it. I’ll go with grumpy about having to do a school run when you don’t have any kids. Oh! I think he wants to drive Ivy and Damon to school instead of following them.”
Mixon scowled as Davis laughed. Anderson shook his head with a chuckle.
“I don’t think Ivy would like having a driver like we’re suddenly rich people who can’t stand to do any physical labor on our own,” the ex-colonel commented wryly.
“Wait, who’s Ivy?” Davis asked.
“My wife.” Anderson raised his hand. “And Damon’s my son.”
“Oh, nice.” The woman immediately lost interest in the topic of conversation and focused on the doughnut in her hand
“Anyway,” their boss said and brought their attention back to him. “I was sent some equipment I think will give you an edge on the people you’ve gone up against.”
“All three of us?” Savage straightened. “Was there any action around here? Monroe didn’t fill me in. Neither did Anja, for that matter?”
“Who’s Anja?” Mixon asked.
“That’s…complicated.” He wondered how he would explain a Russian woman feeding him all the vital intel for his missions. “What happened while I was gone?”
“Oh, five guys tried to jump Anderson and his family while they were out to dinner,” the sniper said. “I handled them.”
“Right, good work.” Savage nodded, his expression a little smug like he’d been proved right and liked it. “Anderson, carry on.”
“Thank you. Anyway, Pegasus has run considerable weapons and armor testing for the open market in the Zoo, and while their methods were brutal, we can’t argue with the results. I’ve brought some of those for you to try.”
He hauled one of the bags onto the table, unzipped it, and removed a few weapons, which the team studied with real interest. They seemed roughly based on existing weapons, but also…not. Savage focused on a pistol that lay on the table and opened the case it was stored in. It looked like a revolver but with a long, heavy barrel.
“That prototype was developed in that North Carolina testing site, actually,” Anderson said as the operative examined one of the magazines, rounded and shaped like a cylinder but with no place for the new rounds.
“They called it the beast in the files I saw,” their superior went on to explain. “The rounds are very thin, magnetically-charged nickel alloy needles. The long barrel is made from a magnetic charging station that activates when you pull the trigger. It’s virtually silent when fired because of the suppression built into the long barrel that mutes the usual crack when the needles break the sound barrier. And these little strips here”—he displayed a long strip of tiny little needles all strung together—“have about a hundred rounds in them before you need to reload. That simply requires fitting another strip of these inside. We only have five reloads made thus far, but I assume none of you will need to fire a gun five hundred times?”
Savage picked the weapon up, loaded, and flicked the safety off before he fired it down the range. True to form, the rounds rocketed ahead with little more than a whoosh and punched hard into the chest of the dummy. On impact, they left holes in the Nirvana shirt Savage had put on the mannequin but didn’t seem to faze the plastic minion.
“It doesn’t look like it has much stopping power,” Savage noted with an expression of disappointment.
“Oh…right, there was something about that,” Anderson said. He dug in the bag to retrieve what looked suspiciously like a manual. “Here it is. The brittle texture of the round will drive it through armor and clothes—and even walls—better than armor-piercing rounds, but when it encounters soft materials like human flesh, there is a power…uh, absorption. It says here the needle splinters and transfers all the power into the body.”
“And turns Gussie’s insides into Swiss cheese,” Jeremiah said and studied the weapon with renewed approbation. “Or would if he had any insides. Anyways, dibs.”
“Why do you get dibs?” Davis protested.
“I called dibs, that’s why.” He grinned, replaced the weapon in the case, closed it, and drew it closer. “What else do you have, Anderson?”
A few long hours of show and tell came and went during which they tested a variety of weapons and pieces of armor. Nirvana Gussie was put through his paces and eventually had to be replaced by his friend Nessie when he was too damaged for continued use.
Each of the three operatives selected the weapons they preferred and fitted themselves with the new body armor Pegasus had developed. Although lighter and more agile, the display on Gussie and Nessie proved capable of keeping damage from most of the weapons to a minimum. Of course, the sniper rifles the two newer team members wielded proved to be more than a match.
In the end, Mixon had to leave to pick Damon and Ivy up and bring them to the warehouse as it was time for her shooting lesson.
The new weapons and armor were packed away quickly, and Savage was there to help her take her pistol apart.
“Let me help you with that, ma’am,” the sniper said and stepped in from behind to take the weapon from Savage’s hands to make his own inspection. “Consider it part of your package deal—to teach you how to defend yourself. As you know, I’ve been tasked with keeping you, your husband, and your kid safe from harm for the duration of this… Well, for the duration.”
“Right,” Ivy said and narrowed her eyes at him. “What do you think?”
“Well, you might want to improve your time.” Terry smiled to take the sting out of the words and handed the pistol to her. “But the form is impeccable. Practice to improve your time should do the trick.”
“Yeah, you’re teaching how you lot have been taught to fire,” Davis said with a chuckle and strolled toward the group. “Which isn’t too bad, but as a girl, you need someone closer to your particular measurements to give you finer tuning. Come on, lads, git. We need girl time here.”
Savage looked at the two men and two women around him and shrugged. He wasn’t paid enough to have to deal with this many people all at the same time. Sometimes, it was best to simply leave others to get on with it. He walked away from the range and to his so-called office where he poured himself another cup of coffee.
The other two men conceded defeat and left the women to get acquainted. They joined Savage at the desk.
“Davis is telling her how the isosceles isn’t a good stance for a woman who lacks upper body strength to absorb the kick of the pistol,” the ex-colonel said and frowned as he watched the two women working.
“She has a point,” Mixon ventured as he poured himself a cup of the coffee. “Weaver helps you keep your balance better, and if you fit her with the new armor you have over there, you won’t need to worry about leaving your side open to gunfire.”
“I never liked Weaver, myself,” Savage grumbled.
“You look like one of those guys who’s CAR or bust, eh?” The sniper laughed.
“When it comes to my style of shooting, balance and precision aren’t really something to worry about.” His grin said it all. “It’s about how many bullets you can get into the air as quickly as possible. Hell yeah, CAR or bust.”
Anderson chuckled softly and winced as the firing started on the range. “I think I’ll head home now. I have nothing to do at work and nothing to do here.”
“Just a heads up, but I think I’ll let Davis give your wife shooting lessons from now on.” Jeremiah pushed out of his seat and stretched.
“They do seem to be getting along like the proverbial house on fire. I’ll call you tomorrow. Courtney said she’ll have work for us by then.”
“Looking forward to it, Colonel.”
Anderson shook his head and walked away. There wasn’t any point in correcting them. And, if the truth be told, he rather liked the title—or the genuine
respect that it embodied amongst those who really didn’t have to use it. He’d tried to convince himself that he was someone else now that the military was behind him, but…well, once a Marine, always a Marine. No matter where he was, he’d been shaped to command, no matter what they called him, and damned if that wasn’t exactly what he’d do.
Once he worked out what the fuck everyone was keeping from him.
Chapter Eleven
He would never understand how people chose to do this—or claimed to enjoy it—but would certainly never admit it.
On one hand, to walk around and get a little sunshine on a bright day was always pleasant, but he could do that without having to trek all through creation with bugs taking a slice of him every step of the way. Worse, he had to try to whack a tiny white ball across the grass, only to walk or drive another fair distance to whack it again. And, horror of horrors, he had to wear his delighted executive smile and pretend to love every minute of it.
People called this a sport, but he never really understood why. The real game was the play that took place behind its civilized veneer. Like everything else, Charles had learned it from his father. He’d also learned the far more gratifying power it unleashed for those who were willing to pay the price. While he often cursed the nagging injuries that manifested with greater discomfort and regularity, he had to admit that it had, when played by his rules, brought many more benefits than irritations.
Of course, he had always been of the opinion that the game-related conversation was always better achieved over brandy and cigars and that exercise and sunshine could be acquired in other ways. He liked swimming, for one thing. It remained a sore point that he’d always been strong at that and even reached varsity on his school’s team until his father pulled him out to start his career in business. He’d never forgiven the old man for that, but the old bastard was dead, and Charles had forced his three siblings out of the will in retribution for their lack of sacrifice. He’d learned that from his father, too.
Forgiveness was overrated, anyway, and thoughts of his revenge helped to make what was still an onerous pretense a little more bearable. It reminded him how much he had in the game, as it were.
“Everett,” he said with a smile as today’s golfing buddy walked over to him. His caddie jogged to keep up with the man and Charles suppressed a surge of annoyance. Despite being a full ten years older than he was, Everett Pedersen had managed to stay in shape. It wasn’t unthinkable that men twenty years his younger might even be jealous.
A game with Maven was still tucked in the wings, scheduled for a later date that week, and he was pleased that he’d arranged this particular outing first. Despite the age disparity between the two of them, he liked the man, and the feeling had always been mutual. They shared representation on various foundations and charities and were well aware of each other’s accomplishments. A sense of mutual respect had always existed between them, enough that Charles usually suppressed his dislike for the game to join him for a few hours out in the Florida sun to whack at a little white ball with clubs and a ridiculous smile on his face.
“Charles, my friend,” Everett said with a chuckle as the two men hugged for a second.
“You look like a fifty-dollar bill,” he said briskly.
“And you look like a hundred, old sport.” It was an old joke between the two since it had been established early on that with his thick, bushy beard and scowling features, Everett was the very image of Ulysses S. Grant. Charles, with his balding head and calmer appearance, looked a lot like Benjamin Franklin.
The game began without prelude and Everett took an early lead. Charles’ dislike didn’t mean that he wasn’t skilled—he had played since he was sixteen—but against someone who genuinely enjoyed it, he didn’t offer much of a challenge. That said, he didn’t much mind if the right person won. His satisfaction came from elsewhere, after all.
“So,” he said once they were far away enough from the club that they could speak privately without any concern that they would be overheard, “did you have time to look over my proposal?”
The other man looked up from the little white ball on which he’d focused with a small smile on his face. “I did. It was thorough and made for some very interesting reading.”
“Does that interest in the reading translate into any other kind of interest?” he probed.
“Absolutely,” Everett replied with a chuckle. “For one thing, Carlson and I had a number of conversations, and I actually helped direct a fair number of military contracts his way. Having a majority stake in a company whose shares are rocket-high and climbing is always interesting. Of course, that is assuming your confidence that you can turn the current abysmal state of the company around.”
Charles had hoped he wouldn’t bring that particular thorny caveat up. Of all the potential candidates to take over the company, Everett remained his first choice—the one who would sweep Pegasus into the kind of future Anderson and Monroe simply would never grasp. As such, he needed to tread carefully. While he couldn’t avoid the blatant truth, he also didn’t want to make any admissions that might scare the man away.
“There is something I wanted to bring up with you, about that,” Everett continued and refocused on his ball on the fairway before he took a heavy swing at it. He smiled and shielded his eyes against the glare to watch as the white spot rocketed against the blue sky. When it dropped on the smoothly clipped grass on the other side of a pond, he turned his attention back to his companion.
“And what might that be?” Charles fell in beside him as they strolled over to the golf carts where their caddies waited.
“Well, first and foremost, the fact that you’ve offered me something that isn’t even yours,” Everett said bluntly. He slid his club in his golf bag and turned to face him.
“Well, yes, we do have a current CEO, but that will change—” He began what had been rehearsed many times with many other acquaintances he’d contacted.
“Will it, though?” Everett interrupted. “No offense, old friend, but your attempts thus far haven’t gone quite as well as promised. Don’t give me that face,” he snapped as Charles suddenly looked annoyed. “Yes, I’ve kept tabs on this ever since you sent the paperwork to me. Too many power changes in a company are bound to make stock prices plummet, and I’ve already prepared myself to take a lion’s share of the stocks put on the market in a couple of weeks. If you can’t get your affairs in order before then, I won’t need you to put me in a position of power in Pegasus. I’ll do it myself.”
He fought to keep the angry red from suffusing his face. In front of the caddies, he’d been spoken to like he was a child. Everett didn’t bother to wait for him either and simply drove off to the other side of the pond. Charles remained where he was and heaved in a couple of deep breaths to calm himself before he yanked his phone from his pocket and tossed his club at his caddie. The young man ducked to allow the steel rod to careen over his head before he raced to retrieve it.
Part of him wished he’d had better aim. The kid didn’t deserve it, but he might have felt better with a little violence under his belt. He dialed quickly and connected to the secure line in his office before he dialed again.
“Good morning, sir,” came the chocolatey voice on the other side.
“Shut up,” he snapped. “I need our current contract to be finished and I need it done now.”
“I’m afraid that with your limit on spending, our interested parties are still disappointingly few and of…lesser quality.”
“Then up the price.” He glowered at his golfing partner in the distance, who calmly studied his ball with no indication that he was even slightly ruffled by their confrontation. “This contract needs to be done before next week.”
“What kind of limit are we prepared to reach, sir?” the contact asked.
“Push it to half a million for now, excluding the applicable local fees.” His private expenses could bear that easily. They could absorb far more, but he wanted to give himself
room to increase should the resources obtained by his addition of funds prove ineffective.
“I’ll update the contract sir,” the mellow voice said. “Have a nice d—”
Charles cut the connection quickly and shoved his phone back into his pocket. He scowled at the caddie, who looked like he might be tempted to run away rather than have things thrown at him. He shook his head, took his seat in the cart, and motioned for the lad to drive after Everett.
Damn it, he would probably have to arrange for the club to give the kid a raise after this.
There was too much light.
Taking a nap proved to be impossible under these conditions. Amanda worked outside and kept the door open, and he could hear her arguing with Connie over the AI’s lack of manners. Connie had probably joked about how she hated to see her go and loved to watch her leave or something like that. It seemed the electronic irritation was going through a phase.
Did AIs go through phases?
The question was something that would keep him up all afternoon. Sal opened his eyes regretfully and pushed off the couch in the living area. He wasn’t sure why he didn’t simply go to bed given how exhausted he felt, but he didn’t want to go to his room. Despite everything, he didn’t really mind being around to hear the hubbub of his little base. Being around the people he’d grown to care about was comforting, oddly enough.
He breathed deeply and stretched. Maybe all he needed was coffee. That would do better than a nap these days.
Ever hopeful, he wandered into the kitchen to see if there was anything left in Amanda’s pot. He would ask Madigan the niggling question once she returned. She might not know much about AIs and their emotional phases, but she would definitely have a few choice opinions on the subject that would be entertaining.
“Salinger Jacobs.” A voice spoke from behind him and he turned quickly. Courtney stepped down from the stairs. She’d obviously just woken up and wore one of his shirts. Jet lag was killing her as it always did, and it would take a day or so for her to bounce back from her latest return from the States. She liked jumping back and forth between her responsibilities in Philadelphia and those in the Zoo, but the price was the fact that her body could never fully settle into a solid sleep schedule.