by Lee Stephen
Tiffany tried to push the throttle, but it was already pressed to the wall. “Okay, look, I—”
“I order you to surrender your aircraft to the nearest EDEN facility.”
A bead of sweat rolled down the blonde’s forehead. Her heart was thumping to the point where it was getting hard to breathe. “I’m sorry, I…I’m not going to do that.” She felt like she was about to pass out.
The faintest of pauses occurred before Mariner replied. “I was hoping you wouldn’t.” A second later, the connection closed. The speed of Mariner’s Superwolf increased from Mach-4 to Mach-5.
There was nothing Tiffany could do to escape him. Even if she dramatically altered her trajectory, Mariner was coming in too fast, at too aggressive an angle, to outrun. In seconds, she would be in missile range. Angling the joystick down hard, she sent the Superwolf on a screaming dive toward the ocean.
She had to get low. It was her only chance. She could outsmart his missiles that way—use evasive maneuvers to send them plowing into the waters below. Eyeing the radar again, she watched as Mariner drew within javelin striking distance. But no javelins were fired.
Leveling off just above the water, Tiffany hit the afterburners. Mariner, directly behind her, did the same. Entering firing range for short-range trident missiles, the elite pilot once again did not fire. He was coming in with his guns.
Climb! With missiles apparently not part of Mariner’s plan, it was the first thing that came to Tiffany’s mind. If she could draw him into a vertical scissor, or a climb that ended with an Immelmann, or a reverse, or something else that she could think of while her mind raced in a panic, then maybe she had a chance to outmaneuver him. Perhaps he’d be overconfident, or underestimate her ability. Perhaps a roach would crawl across his cockpit window. All of it made the chance worth taking. Holding her breath, Tiffany pulled back hard on the stick as her Superwolf curled skyward. “Come on, come on!” she screamed, looking back for Mariner to pursue. But he didn’t. Mariner’s Superwolf just went streaking past her, making no effort whatsoever to go vertical. Shocked at his lack of aggression, Tiffany’s mind blanked as to what she should do next. She had so many options. She had all of her options. Why would he…?
Mariner’s Superwolf rotated sideways, curling into a hard vertical turn, condensation streaking off the fighter’s wingtips. He was coming around to attack. But why now? Why let her achieve enough distance to pick and choose her counter? She could go offensive, defensive, she could try to maintain some sort of stalemate or once again draw him into something. Desperately trying to figure Mariner out, her hand froze on the stick. There were so many options to think about. Against a pilot as elite as Mariner, which one was right?
Right then, as Mariner drew within range and opened fire, the horrible truth revealed itself to Tiffany. Mariner wasn’t being elite with his attack run. He was being incredibly, incredibly simple. As Tiffany desperately tried to turn out of her climb and bullets struck the left wing of her aircraft, she realized the mistake he’d forced her to make. It was the most basic mistake in the book.
Overthinking.
She’d been terrified. Her voice was trembling all during their brief exchange of one-sided confidence. Mariner knew she was afraid of him….so he didn’t even try. He just let her panic and defeat herself. All the while that she’d been thinking, Mariner had been doing.
And now Tiffany was done.
A spray of bullets lit up her fuselage as Mariner streaked past her. Seconds from dying in a fiery explosion, Tiffany took the only option she had left. She hit eject. The canopy popped open, and Tiffany was rocketed into the sky, spinning like a top until her parachute activated, at which point physics took over. Jolted into a natural falling position, Tiffany grabbed the sides of the parachute ropes as they burst open and the glide down began. Looking behind her, she watched as the fiery wreck that had just been her aircraft plummeted toward the ocean surface.
Rearing back her head, the Valley Girl screamed at the top of her lungs. She could have had him. She could have had him! Had she faced him head on, had she not sounded like she was coming apart at the seams, then maybe, just maybe, their fight could have been fair. But there was nothing fair about destroying herself. It felt like being cheated. It felt wrong.
Like a sin.
Tiffany plunged into the water. Wrestling out of her harness, then out of her gear, she grabbed hold of the floaters that were built into the ejection seat. With a free hand, she pulled off her helmet. With ocean waves lapping past her, she watched as the bright spotlight of a Superwolf appeared, illuminating her as she drifted helplessly in the twilight, a fallen feather in the waves. Mariner’s Superwolf just sat there, hovering above the ocean surface like a predator staring down its prey. She wished he’d just shoot her, but knew he wouldn’t. She was too valuable. It would only be a matter of time until an EDEN transport would be there to retrieve her.
As she expected, the wait did not take long. Barely ten minutes after she’d hit the water, a Vulture from Sydney arrived, its rear bay door opening to allow a diver to leap out and secure her. Reeled out of the water like a fish, Tiffany Feathers was taken into custody.
* * *
Atami, Japan
At the same time
ATAMI WAS AGLOW, the pulsing red and blue lights of law enforcement cut through by streaks of orange gunfire from within the city limits. As the drenched and battle-torn outlaws came out of the sloping forest, they found Atami at war with itself, the police who would have otherwise been there to capture them forced to draw their attention somewhere else—to the various cars, vans, and SUVs that had pulled up to skidding halts to open fire on them. These reinforcements were not Nightmen. They were not outlaw sympathizers. They were outlaws, themselves.
Yakuza. The Japanese underworld, rising from the depths of one of their largest founding cities to do what organized crime syndicates did best: subvert the law. As the survivors of the ground ops team scrambled for cover, they found it in a pair of black SUVs that bashed through gates and police barricades to meet them. As the vehicles’ doors opened, the Japanese men within beckoned the escapees inward. No one questioned why the Yakuza were there or how Logan Marshall knew them. They simply piled into the pair of vehicles, the doors slamming shut behind them as the SUVs tore off into the night city.
Back at the Vector drop site, Judge Leonid Torokin listened as the other half of their operation—the one taking place on the other side of the planet—came to its successful conclusion. He listened as thousands of miles away, the order to drop the bombs was issued. With that order, the last bastion of hope for the Nightman sect—their hidden facility at Chernobyl—had been reduced to a pile of smoldering rubble.
The Nightmen had officially been stomped out.
Despite his strong urge to, Torokin never once looked back at Scott in the troop bay of their V2, nor did he spare a glance to Todd Kenner, the uninvited guest of Klaus Faerber who’d somehow managed to be the one to capture the outlaw leader. Whether it’d been Todd or Klaus’s idea to involve the ex-Vector didn’t matter. Todd had just apprehended the most wanted man in the world, and if for no other reason than to be thanked, he’d be taking the flight back to EDEN Command with them. The black sheep had forced his way back in.
But at least the day was won, even if a remnant of the outlaw presence had managed to escape into Atami. The head of the snake had been cut off. All that was left was for the body to die.
Hands clasped behind his back, Torokin waited to hear back from the Vectors on the mission. Lisa, apparently, was still holding her stationary position near the train, though he was sure she’d make her way back to them as things wound down. Turning his gaze southward, Torokin’s eyes widened as he caught sight of the first set of returnees. In the middle of them, helmetless, weary, and mud-covered, was Marty Breaux. The Cajun’s chaos rifle was propped against his shoulder, and his eyes were downcast. He looked anything but like a soldier returning from victory. Had Torokin missed something while list
ening to the bombing of Chernobyl?
And where was his nephew?
Slowly, Marty’s head lifted, his green eyes making contact with Torokin’s at long last. Angling his head curiously, the judge posed the question without saying a word. Why was Sasha not coming behind them?
As Torokin’s question had come silently, so did Marty’s answer. Stopping his approach, the Cajun simply stood beneath the rain, water trailing down his face as he stared at the judge. Like the torn-open soldier didn’t know how to proceed.
But he didn’t need to proceed at all.
The proud look of victory on Torokin’s face faded, until all that remained was but a hollow reflection. His lips parting, the judge felt his heart stop.
All across the Izu Peninsula, the impact of the night was felt. It was felt in Atami, where the men and women of the Atami Police Department were fighting for their lives, blindsided by an underground that—for some reason—chose that night to rise to the surface. It was felt inside two black SUVs, where the numb participants in what was supposed to be a final search for truth were staring dead-eyed and silent as they were driven to a place unknown. It was felt in the forest, where a judge sat with his face in his hands, the hands of his comrades bringing no comfort as they stayed on his shoulders. It was felt by the train, where a strange radio silence had prompted an investigation and the discovery of an abandoned helmet once belonging to a sniper from Essex. It was felt in far to the south, at Sydney, where a young pilot was being thrust into a holding cell, a victim of her own failing. But more than anywhere else, it was felt in the rear troop bay of a V2, where the most wanted man in the world sat despondent, his wrist handcuffed to a metal bar as he listened to the world unravel around him, powerless to stop it.
To the rest of the world, the night of Tuesday, March 27th, in Izu, Japan, was one of glorious victory. It was a night in which the vilest traitors on Earth were thwarted by those tasked with humanity’s protection. But to those who lost something—who lost everything—it was a night that felt anything but victorious. It felt like parts of their souls died. As if life had fallen apart. All that remained was but to pick up the pieces.
But alas, even for those with cause to celebrate—even for those of ill-intent—the tide of victory was about to recede. For in the midst of their vainglory, a dark force was working—a force of the night that was anything but vanquished.
A force that had been there all along.
36
Tuesday, March 27th, 0012 NE
2050 hours
EDEN Command
THE FORCE WITH which Scott was shoved forward was indicative of the level of contempt his captors had for him. Stumbling forward and falling, his hands were barely able to prevent his already-swollen face from smashing into the hangar’s concrete floor. Gingerly pushing himself up, he pivoted his head to take in his surroundings.
To take in EDEN Command.
Though he knew this was his destination during the flight, nothing could quite prepare him for actually being there. It felt like being thrust into a den of evil. The flight had been fast, scarcely leaving Scott with the time to rationalize the reality he was now in. He was a prisoner of war. A captured terrorist. Unless something miraculous happened—and miracles had been running short as of late—he would likely not leave EDEN Command alive.
It may have been for the best. Though Scott had listened in as best he could to the radio and soldier chatter around him, he had only been able to determine that there’d indeed been deaths among the ground ops team. Their identities, unfortunately, remained a mystery. Were the deaths among the six slayers on-lend from Valentin, and them alone? Were they his closest comrades? Becan? Jayden? Esther? The Falcons? Natalie?
Mark?
The lack of an answer was worse than any answer he could have received, for it teased him with hope he knew was false. There would be no sigh of relief upon learning of the deceased—if he even learned at all. Now that he was here, EDEN had no reason to tell him anything.
Straining in his soreness and fatigue, Scott began to push himself up. Then he heard the footsteps. Lifting his head, he saw them approach.
Though there was a small group marching his way, the two at the forefront were the only two that mattered. Scott recognized them immediately. One was pristine, composed and untouched by the harshness of warfare, with amber eyes and champagne hair that looked regal in its meticulousness. The other was just the opposite—a man hardened by war, of grim countenance and vehement rage. A walking tank, with Scott in his sights. Any gumption Scott had in him to rise to a stand died the moment they appeared. He knew that what was about to happen would hurt.
His pace picking up, Klaus reached down and grabbed Scott by his collar. Through hate-spewing teeth, he reared back with his fist and slammed it into Scott’s face. Scott’s head was rocked sideways as his world spun upside-down. Another hit came. Then another, then another. As Scott’s face took the beating, Benjamin Archer winced semi-disgustedly, his teeth exposed as he observed.
Scott felt blood fly from his lips, then his forehead. He felt his cheekbone crack—his teeth rattled loose. He felt his mind start to fade.
“Captain,” said Archer quickly, nervously touching Klaus’s shoulder. The German paused in mid-pullback. “We do need him to be able to speak.”
Looking back down, Klaus followed through with one final strike, smashing into the left side of his head right by his eye socket. There was no strength left in the captured fulcrum. Scott’s head hung as if he was dead.
Clearing his throat, Archer nodded to the guards around him. “Please bring him to Confinement. High-end cell.” Acknowledging, the guards grabbed Scott beneath his armpits. They dragged him away like a corpse. Archer turned to address Klaus. “Thank you for lending your Vectors, captain. I am certain that, without their assistance, this operation would have failed.” As he spoke, his eyes drifted to the transport Scott had arrived on, where other members of the team, including Todd Kenner, were unloading their gear. Quietly, Archer sighed. “As for your decision to involve your friend, Kenner, in what was supposed to be a covert affair…I’m sure we’ll discuss that in due time.”
“When you finish with Remington,” Klaus said coldly, ignoring the British judge’s words, “I want to kill him.” Raising an eyebrow, Archer looked at his massive counterpart. Without another word, the Vector captain walked away.
Lowering his chin and looking forward again, Archer said under his breath, “Charming.” His attention shifted as an EDEN officer approached him from the direction of the transport. Plastering on a cordial smile, Archer waited to be addressed.
“Moderate casualties, Judge Archer,” said the deep-voiced British officer. “We have one Vector lost and one missing, though we’re trying to ascertain her whereabouts.”
“Well, that’s strange,” Archer said, clasping his hands behind his back as he strolled back through the hall.
The officer followed in tow. “As I’m sure you’ve been made aware, Hector Mendoza has been killed.”
Blinking, Archer said, “I wasn’t made aware.” He bit his lower lip and paused. “That is a pity.”
“Some of the outlaws escaped into Atami, apparently aided by the Japanese Yakuza. We’re trying some leads now.”
“They’ll be found.” Archer’s tone was unconcerned. “Did anyone find what the outlaws were looking for? That…device, of sorts?”
Frowning, the officer answered, “No, sir. No trace of anything.”
“How terribly, terribly odd.” Genuine confusion came over Archer. He angled his head deep in thought.
“We did take another prisoner.”
At that, the judge nodded. “Yes, the pilot. I know. I’ve requested she be kept at Sydney until we can arrange for a transfer here—soon, I hope.”
“No, sir,” answered the officer, clearing his throat politely, “I mean from the ground site. At the place in the forest where Marshall turned and we lost a Vector.”
Eyes narrowin
g curiously, Archer stopped and looked back at him.
“One of the outlaws we found there was still alive. He’s riddled with bullets, but he’ll live. He’s been transferred to a hospital in Tokyo—”
“No,” said Archer, cutting him off quickly. “I want him transferred here, at once. I’ll not risk losing another captured outlaw to shoddy hospital security.”
The officer dipped his head. “As you wish, judge.”
“The more outlaw prisoners, the better,” Archer said, a faint, yet charming smile diffusing his prior sternness. Turning and with his hands behind his back, he said to the officer as he left him behind, “Never hurts to have another card in the hand!”
* * *
The floor of the cell hit Scott hard as he was unceremoniously dropped onto it, wincing even as the unbeaten side of his face impacted it. He felt disoriented. Dead. With every ounce of strength he had left, he reached out with shaking hands to sit himself up. As the glass door sealed behind him, Scott looked back, making brief eye contact with the pair of guards standing outside of it before they turned their backs to him.
Crawling to the side of the cell, the fulcrum propped himself up sideways against the wall, his face hidden from view as it faced the other way. With his busted lip quivering, Scott’s battered face twisted as emotion came tumbling out. Losing to saline what little sight he had left around his swollen eyes, Scott lowered his head and surrendered to suffocating tears.
The War Room
“MISTER PRESIDENT!”
The urgent shout came from across the War Room. Malcolm Blake turned his head, then excused himself from the small gathering of judges and officers around him. Making his way past the rotating, holographic globe, he placed his hand against the back of the chair belonging to the communications operator who’d called for him. “What is it?”