Op File Revenge (Call Sign Warlock Book 1)

by J. Clifton Slater

  “Tonight, is the last shipment,” a man replied. “Once we unload them we’ll be free.”

  “Free until the next time they need something,” warned the woman. “Until they wave another wad of Pesetas at you.”

  “This place is almost paid off. So is your house and mine,” the man insisted. “So, what if a bunch of old men want to play army? It pays well.”

  “Just be careful,” the woman suggested.

  A couple laughing just outside the hallway alerted Warlock. She walked forward and passed them as they entered the hall.

  “Chad. My check please,” Diosa called to the now busy bartender. “And thank you for the company.”

  “My pleasure, Ms. Tuulia,” Chad replied after glancing at the name on the paid bill.

  ***

  Warlock passed the valet and walked up the street. Slipping through the gate of the parking lot, she noticed two men lurking a couple of rows over. They were none of her business until they moved along the row keeping pace with her. Now they were making her part of their business.

  She eased three fingers into the slit in one of the leather pleats. A snap to free the holder strap and unseen by the men, the folded baton pulled free of the material and came to rest against her left thigh.

  “We are sorry to bother you,” one of the muggers apologized as he came quickly around the hood of a car.

  The other thug slipped around the back and came up on Warlock’s six.

  “What can I do for you?” inquired Master Sergeant Alberich.

  “You have something we need,” sneered the man.

  “Oh, that’s the worst pickup line I’ve ever heard,” gushed Diosa. “You know there are better ways to impress a girl.”

  “What? No, I meant your Pesetas,” he corrected her misunderstanding. “Give us your cash. And we’ll take the PID. And the keys to your car.”

  “Ah, you are cute,” commented Diosa. “And here I thought this was a date.”

  “Not a date lady,” the one to her rear threatened. “Give them up before someone gets hurt.”

  “Did you hear that?” asked Diosa. The expanding spring unfolded the baton and clicked loudly as it locked the rods in place. “Oops, too late.”

  The pair had done this crime a hundred times. Intimidate, grab the goods, jump in the car and flee. Usually by now, the lone victim would be trembling, begging and practically throwing the Pesetas and keys at them. This one seemed to need a lesson in how to be mugged.

  “Too late for what?” the one behind her demanded.

  “That no one would get hurt,” Warlock said as she stepped forward and off to the side.

  The thug assumed she was trying to escape and he tossed out his arm to block her way. While Warlock’s first step was away, the next carried her inside the outstretched arm. Her right fist came up, driving the mugger’s arm above shoulder level. With his ribs exposed, he had no defense from a hard crack by the baton. Pain exploded in the side of his ribcage.

  With the edge of her hand on the back of his arms, Warlock turned the mugger while stepping behind him. The baton whipped in an arc and hammered him in the back of his head. Dazed, the thief staggered. But a firm grip on the back of his shirt held him upright.

  The second robber surged forward. With his head lowered, he meant to tackle the woman and take her off her feet. One second her back was to him and he charged. As expected, he wrapped his arms around a body and drove it to the ground. The body hit hard, the head cracked against the asphalt, and the body went limp. Then the mugger’s neck arched and pain radiated down his spine and through his shoulders.

  A hand on his shoulder jerked him onto his back.

  “Now I have an issue,” the woman stated as the black baton bounced on the bridge of his nose. With each tap, he could feel the cartilage vibrate deep into his sinus cavity. “I’m not done in this neighborhood and you two lovers are in my way.”

  “We can leave,” offered the man.

  “You could but come on, you are thieves. How do I know you won’t come back at me?” questioned the woman. Her baton still tapping as if keeping time with his heartbeat. “There is one way.”

  “What? We’ll do it,” pleaded the man.

  “Go to the hospital,” offered Warlock as she raised the baton and cracked it against the bridge of the man’s nose.

  Pain radiated across both cheeks as his eyes teared and his nostrils filled with blood. His cries of shock and fear were merely murmurs unable to escape the hand over his mouth.

  “You’ll heal, but your friend requires more attention,” suggested the Striker. “He’s having difficulty breathing.”

  The man was pulled to his feet and although bent over cupping his running nose, he watched as the woman easily pulled his partner off the ground.

  “See right there,” the woman directed as she used the baton to raise the thug’s head. “It’s something to do with his throat. Better hurry along and find a doctor.”

  With that, she jabbed the end of the baton into the mugger’s throat. He gagged and wrapped the fingers of both hands around his neck.

  Pushing the bleeding and the choking muggers towards the back gate of the parking lot, she urged, “A collapsed trachea, is a serious breathing obstruction. But the prognosis is good as long as he receives emergency care.”

  As the robbers staggered out of the parking lot, Warlock glanced around to be sure she was alone and unobserved. After collapsing the baton, she holstered it, and walked to her car.

  ***

  Arnar Sigrún sauntered out of the Blues Man’s Hideout and pointed a finger at the valet. As if a starter gun had gone off, the valet raced away to get the owner’s car. Diosa watched the exchange in her rear-view mirror from the next block. When the sedan arrived, Arnar climbed in and drove off.

  Diosa dropped her transmission in gear and eased in between a couple of cars behind the sedan. The section of town with the supper club was trendy and encroaching on a less desirable neighborhood. Apparently, that’s where Warlock’s friends had crossed over from while attempting to ply their trade.

  The roads emptied and she had to ease back. If Arnar remained on this section of deserted road, she’d need to fall back and risk losing him. Just before it became necessary, Arnar took a ramp to a raised section of roadway. Applying power, Warlock’s vehicle hit the ramp, raised up and slammed down at the top of the ramp. The sedan jumped lanes and shot forward. But Warlock’s maneuver gave her momentum and she easily followed.

  A sign announcing exits for the planet Dos Spaceport flashed by and she drifted between lanes in order to keep Arnar Sigrún in sight. When, the sedan swerved and dropped down another ramp, Warlock tapped the brakes to slow down on the side of the highway. Then, she jerked the wheel, aiming for the ramp and applied power. She could have navigated the ramp directly but she wanted Arnar to see an empty ramp behind him. By the time she started over the hump and down the ramp, the sedan’s taillights vanished to the left.

  One side of the road held massive warehouses with cranes and staging areas for offloading. On the far side of a fence rested shuttles, space tugs, an assortment of spaceship parts and cargo holders. Unlike the shiny terminal and public spaces, the working fringe of the spaceport resembled a junkyard of old parts. Two flashes of light, far out on the takeoff and recovery runways, marked the departure of a pair of ground to orbit shuttles. If they had been surface-haulers or military ships, the illumination and duration would have been more pronounced.

  Arnar’s sedan slowed and turned into a drive for a line of older warehouses. Rather than cranes to lift the containers from the trucks, here trucks drove up ramps and entered the storage facility. Pulling to the side of the road, Warlock killed her headlights, flung the door open and kicked it closed as she ran forward.

  The sedan pulled through a double gate and motored to a parking lot. Before Arnar shut down his engine, Warlock reached the gate, jumped through and jogged off behind a couple of containers. As Arnar walked to the gate con
trols, a pair of indecisive eyes watched him.

  She was torn whether to take him now and question him. Or, wait to see what was being delivered. After wrestling with the ideas, Warlock decided to wait and see what was in the delivery. She could always catch up with Arnar Sigrún later.

  ***

  Three trucks with sealed trailers came from the direction of the spaceport and slowed to make the turn. Following behind, a small van also turned into the lot. While the trucks drove to a ramp, the van stopped in the parking lot. Arnar jogged to the rolling door, entered a keycode and, as the doors lifted, he motioned the trucks forward. From the headlights, Warlock could see the trucks simply drove in, turned around and parked facing the doorway.

  The warehouse must be empty for them to have the freedom of turning around, thought Warlock. To her advantage, it meant she wouldn’t have to go searching for the trucks, when and if she made it inside the warehouse.

  Three men came down the ramp and jumped into the van. Then, it circled the parking lot and exited heading back towards the spaceport.

  Arnar drove through the gate and climbed out. He hit the controls and the double gate closed. After he drove off, Warlock slipped from behind the containers and jogged to the side of the warehouse.

  Long sheets of notched and grooved concrete made up the exterior material. For most people, it was a formidable barrier. But for a Striker, who prided themselves on climbing anything, the grooves were ladder rungs and hand holds, and the notches, places to rest during the climb. For a Striker in peak condition maybe, but for a Striker just out of rehabilitation, it was a little more difficult.

  The first three steps on the grooves felt natural. Then her grip slipped and one foot kicked out and dangled in the air. Warlock shoved a tight fist in a notch and expanded her fingers creating an anchor. Once stable, her foot found a purchase and she paused.

  ‘Is there another way in?’ she pondered. Reaching up with the other hand, she inserted a fist at forehead height. With the new anchor, she dug in the side of her foot and raised up. Slowly, alternating feet and fists, she scaled the outside of the warehouse.

  Her fingers wrapped over the roof edge and she pulled up. Exhausted she sprawled on the roof and gazed at the stars overhead and the scrapes on her hands.

  ‘Going in from here. No choice. I wouldn’t want to climb down,’ she thought as she felts each hand inspecting the damage.

  ***

  The vent cap on the roof came loose after a few nudges with the heel of her hand. Once under the ceiling, Warlock located utility conduits and shimmied down to the dark warehouse floor. By feel, Warlock located the rolling doorway and the cab of the first truck.

  At the second truck, she pulled on the headlight control and the darkness was shoved back illuminating the rear of the first truck.

  Inside the cargo space, she faced a wall of crates. Strapped down and stacked, the boxes started about a meter from the cargo doors. Using the empty truck bed, Warlock wrestled the center boxes off the pile and placed them against the sides. When a space opened allowing light to flood deeper into the truck, she climbed up and crawled forward.

  Two crates in, the floor to ceiling boxes ended. Behind them, the space opened and long flat boxes lay along the sides of the truck. Warlock selected one and shoved it back through the opening and into the headlight beams.

  She snapped open the crate and lifted the lid. Neat rows of military forty-five over and under rifles lay in factory packaging. The kinetic rounds were good for space fighting as the rounds wouldn’t penetrate the skin of a space ship. Yet, the powerful projectiles were effective against individuals both armored and unarmored. The same held true for the sonic grenade launcher mounted with the rifle barrel.

  Warlock didn’t bother checking the other trucks. She typed a message and the location on her PID.

  Military contraband. Three trucks. Need reinforcements to take possession.

  Moments later a reply came back.

  Warlock. Teams are on the way. Are you in contact? Lieke Steyn.

  A knowing smiled creased Master Sergeant Diosa Alberich’s face. Lieke Steyn had been a member of her team, call sign Stone Angel. While smart and talented, she didn’t know he was more than an extraordinary Striker. After the mission where she was injured, Agent Steyn revealed himself and assumed his true identity.

  No contact. But this is a transfer point. Situation could change rapidly.

  A second later, Lieke responded.

  Make yourself invisible. Planning a stealth entry. We’ll mark the trucks and follow them.

  With nothing to do until the agents arrived, Warlock climbed down from the truck bed. In the cab of the second truck, she tapped the controls and the headlights went out casting the warehouse back into pitch blackness. The seat felt comfortable so she leaned back and went to sleep.

  ***

  The rolling door jerked and rose a meter. Eight shapes ducked under the edge and as the door lowered, eight flashlight beams cast tunnels of light around the warehouse.

  “Master Sergeant Alberich,” Lieke Steyn called out. “Do you require medical assistance?”

  When the rolling door began opening, Warlock jumped from the cab of the truck and moved to a location beside the door. If the lights came on, she was prepared to duck out of the warehouse and escape.

  “Stone Angel. Glad you could make it to the party,” Diosa replied from just behind the agent.

  Most people would have flinched at the surprise closeness of the voice. Agent Steyn didn’t flinch although his knees flexed and one of his arms tightened in preparation for a defensive move.

  “I assume, based on the one I inspected, that all three trucks have military gear,” Warlock explained.

  “I need an inventory and a tracking device on each crate,” Lieke instructed his team. Then to Diosa stated, “Nice find. We’ll follow the trucks to their destination. Hopefully, they’ll lead us to a cell of Empress sympathizers.”

  “And to whoever hired the assassin,” suggested Warlock.

  “I wasn’t sure when Admiral Tuulia informed me she tasked you with the case,” confessed Lieke. “But you’ve done an excellent job.”

  “I haven’t done much,” Warlock replied.

  “These weapons will be traced back to the manufacturers, and forward to the end users,” Lieke explained. “By the time we finish, you’ll have done plenty.”

  “It’s not as satisfying as shooting bad guys and blowing things up,” reflected Warlock.

  “I understand but it is important work,” Lieke Steyn assured her.

  The rears of the trucks were closed and the seven agents gathered at the rolling door. Steyn typed on his PID and as the rolling door began to lift, he called out, “Kill your lights.”

  Chapter – 6 Mission Unaccomplished

  “We swept up the watchers,” General Tuulia explained. “As you guessed, they didn’t know anything. Just hired to report on vehicles coming and going from the compound.”

  “It’s standard practice to use locals for noncritical observation posts,” related the Master Sergeant. “It keeps your team from being discovered by accident. I understand Lieke Steyn’s agents are picking up Arnar Sigrún after they raid the training camp.”

  “By tomorrow morning, Agent Steyn will have a host of people to interrogate,” Tuulia said. “Hopefully, someone will know about the woman who assaulted my compound.”

  Warlock stood from the sofa and crossed to the hotel room bar.

  “Drink, ma’am,” she asked as she poured a glass of white wine.

  “No Master Sergeant,” Tuulia replied as she stood. “I’ve got to get back to the Troops. Thank you for looking into the murders.”

  “I only wish I could have presented you with a body, General,” commented Diosa as she took a sip.

  “I’ll take a broken Empress militia against a single assassin any day,” Tuulia admitted. “The room is paid up for the rest of the week if you want to stay.”

  “It’s tem
pting but there is an open slot for Striker training,” Diosa explained. “I’m on a shuttle out in the morning.”

  “Safe travels, Warlock,” General Tuulia said as she moved to the door.

  “Alert,” Warlock replied.

  ***

  The spaceport terminal glowed in the morning sunlight. Every surface reflected the golden rays bringing a sense of wonder as the beams played off the metal and glass materials. For many, it was their last view of natural light for months and even years. Once aboard a shuttle, and later in a spaceship, artificial light cascading down on ash white surfaces would be the extent of their color palette.

  Also missing on space voyages were fresh foods. Warlock selected an orange and a peach to go along with her ham and eggs. Taking the tray, she slipped between tables until she reached a section free of diners in the back of the cafeteria.

  Beyond the dining area, the spaceport terminal rose to great heights creating an echo as departing and arriving flights were announced. Echoes were another victim of space travel. Along with broad open areas and the ability to trust the gravity of the surface under your feet.

  Breaking the orange, Diosa watched as spirts of juice and pulp exploded. With a soft laugh, she peeled the fruit from the rind and popped it into her mouth.

  “Tables people, one person to secure a table,” a voice commanded. “Get your rations, sit at the table and relieve the guard.”

  Diosa glanced up to see a Staff Sergeant of Marines baring down on her table.

  “Master Sergeant Alberich,” he said as he approached the table. “What is a Striker team leader doing landside?”

  “Staff Sergeant Enrica. What is the Marine Corps finest airlock technician doing near dirt?”

  “Taking a class of recent graduates from ground infantry to explore the wonders of space,” Enrica replied while jerking a thumb over his shoulder at the Marines sitting at several tables.

  “Oh, the joys of shifting and converging gravity fields,” teased Warlock. “Any of them Striker material?”

  “One but you’ll not get her,” Enrica explained. “Expert marksman and she excelled at escape, evasion and infiltration.”