Shadow Ops 3: Breach Zone

by Myke Cole

  Sergeant Ward looked doubtful, but he waved to the NYPD cops crouching behind the cruiser. ‘Stay put!’

  He turned back to Thorsson. The flames had singed Ward’s moustache. The black, crisped hair stank. Thorsson could only imagine how bad it must be for Ward.

  ‘You sure?’ Ward sounded relieved. He didn’t want to go in there, and Thorsson doubted he would do any good even if he did.

  Thorsson nodded. ‘You’ve got the other exit covered?’

  Ward nodded. ‘We see her . . .’

  Thorsson nodded to the building in front of them, constituting the L-shaped corridor that trapped the Selfer inside. ‘You shoot her. She’s either coming out with me, or she’s not coming out.’

  Ward’s expression went pinched. ‘Harlequin, she’s got kids.’

  Ward referred to him by his SOC call sign, yet another layer of distance between non-Latents and the SOC. He’d gotten the call sign during his favorite assignment, training navy pilots to combat Aeromancers. They gave him his call sign when he left, a parting gift and a tongue-in-cheek reference to his ‘clowning’ them in the air.

  Harlequin stabbed an angry finger at the building, drew a line from it down to the row of fire trucks and ambulances pulled up outside. EMTs were still running gurneys out, working on the victims strapped to them as they went. ‘How many kids are in that building?’

  They were always mothers. Or confused. Or kids. Or a pillar of the community. There was always a reason why they ran, why they couldn’t be bothered to do the right thing, turn themselves in and comply with the McGauer-Linden Act. Harlequin knew that this Bronx housing project had been part of Ward’s beat for his entire career. He knew the Selfer, like he knew everyone else on the block. That bone-deep knowledge, that familiarity made Ward a great cop. But it also made him waver.

  Harlequin recalled the words of his Stormcraft instructor at Quantico. We’re sheepdogs, Lieutenant. The problem is, we smell just like the wolves we guard against. The sheep can’t tell the difference.

  He refused to think of people as sheep, but he understood the motivation to frame it in those terms.

  It was much easier to put down a wolf than kill a human being.

  When Harlequin came up Latent, he’d been frightened. He’d seen the path of his old life stop short, known the society that Ward enjoyed, the easy conversation with the man who owned the corner bodega, the Sundays coaching the neighborhood basketball team in the summers, the sense of belonging somewhere, would all be lost to him.

  But he’d swallowed it. Because he had to. Distasteful as it was, his instructor’s metaphor worked here. A Latent person had to decide if they were going to be a sheepdog who protected the flock or a wolf who devoured it. He’d made his choice, and he had no sympathy for those who chose otherwise. Ward, for all his law-enforcement training, couldn’t make the hard call.

  Harlequin made a fist, let the magic curl over it, felt the lightning sizzle between the tensed knuckles.

  Thus always to wolves.

  He stepped around the side of the burning building. A ground-level window burst, hot air buffeting him from inside. He summoned a wind to force it back, his anger growing with each step. Ward said the housing project contained fifteen hundred apartments. It cost the city millions. It was the place desperate people had called home for over fifty years.

  And now it was gone because a scared old lady couldn’t be bothered to make a simple phone call. To ask for help. To follow clear rules.

  Harlequin hoped she resisted. Give me an excuse.

  She crouched by the trash bins, on all fours. Her housedress smoldered, melted to her flabby torso, the pink floral print still visible in patches. Her hair smoked. She shambled on her knuckles, thick thighs quivering. Her eyes glowered, reflecting the firelight as if they glowed from within. She didn’t appear in pain despite the burned dress, which meant she was moderating the temperature around her. She had better control than he’d thought.

  Which made her all the more responsible. Ward said she’d told neighbors months ago that she feared she was possessed by the devil. How long had she known she was Latent? Every hour made the crime worse.

  Ward said he was unsure of her English. Harlequin shouted in what little Spanish he’d picked up since being assigned here. ‘Pare! SOC!’

  She pawed toward him, growling.

  ‘Quieto! No se mueva!’

  She roared and coughed a gout of flame, white hot and billowing, like the breath of a dragon out of myth. Dramatic, undisciplined.

  Harlequin didn’t bother to Suppress her. He conjured a wind that blew the flames back in her face. She squinted, rocking back on her haunches and throwing up her arms at the unexpected reversal, her demon’s roar becoming a cry of surprise.

  ‘That’s enough.’ Harlequin gave up on the Spanish. ‘Quit fucking around. I’m taking you in.’

  That meant a Suppressed convoy to Quantico after the NYPD finished booking her. The richest city in the country had long lobbied for its own Suppression/Detention facility, and Harlequin was pleased the SOC had crushed that particular idea’s head before it could breed. Magic was a federal issue. This might be the Bronx, but Selfers like this risked the safety of the entire nation.

  She recovered enough to stand. A big-framed woman even without the obesity, Harlequin had to admit she looked like a towering demon, huge and flame-wreathed. But he was unimpressed. For all her power, she lacked discipline.

  He reached her in five long strides, blowing off another burst of stylized fire-breathing. It was close enough to singe him this time, his uniform crisping and shrinking as the heat washed over him. He called up his magical current and Bound it across hers.

  The flames winked out as her magic rolled back. She shrieked, covering herself as if he had left her naked. Then she screamed, reaching for him.

  She was old, but she was a big woman, and Harlequin was in no mood. He ducked her clumsy swipe and punched her hard in the gut. He grabbed her wrist as she doubled over, forcing it around and stepping behind her, immobilizing her elbow and torquing the limb down until she cried out.

  ‘Stop resisting me!’ he shouted. ‘We’re going to walk back out to the parking lot, nice and easy. Right foot first. If you continue to resist, I’m just going to yank on this arm, and I swear, it’s going to hurt. If you comply, I’ll bring you back to your buddy Sergeant Ward. Now, let’s move. Do it now!’

  She whimpered but moved as he pressed his forearm into the flab over her shoulder blades. She reeked of brimstone, dried sweat, and unwashed clothing. He felt her current pulsing against his own, seeking to break through. She was strong, he’d give her that, but nowhere near strong enough to throw off Suppression.

  They rounded the corner of the building, Harlequin leaning far to see around the Selfer’s bulk. Ward was stepping slowly around the open door of his cruiser, pistol pointed at the ground. ‘She okay?’ he called.

  I’m fine, thanks for asking, Harlequin thought. ‘She’s fine! She just . . .’

  The big woman twisted hard in his grip, her free arm wrenching so high it must have pulled her muscles. She dug a rusting corkscrew into Harlequin’s chest, dragging it down, ripping through his uniform, tearing a line of agony across his chest.

  He shouted, yanked on her arm, pivoting his body to spin her, put her on the ground. Her huge weight overbalanced and she pitched forward, escaping his grasp, head rebounding off one of the metal posts that held the chains screening the parking lot from the housing-complex grounds. Blood sprayed from her mouth, misting Harlequin’s face. Her eyes rolled up in her head, and he felt her current go slack as she collapsed across his leg, pinning him. He felt her pulse, watched her chest. She’d taken a nasty knock on the head, but she was alive.

  He looked down at his own chest, blood welling up to soak his shirt, mixing with hers. ‘Jesus,’
he said as Ward helped move her off him. He sent lightning crackling across his wound as soon as Ward let him go. It was an old wives’ tale that immediate electrical cauterization of a wound could keep disease out, but Aeromancers all did it anyway.

  He brushed a fragment of the woman’s tooth off his shirt as Ward stared at her. ‘Jesus, Lieutenant. You didn’t have to bash her head like that.’

  ‘I didn’t do it on purpose,’ Harlequin growled. ‘She weighs like three hundred pounds, and she was fucking trying to dig out my heart with a . . .’ He looked around for the corkscrew. It had vanished somewhere in the grass. The dancing shadows of the firelight made it impossible to see anything.

  ‘Well, we got it now,’ Ward said. ‘We’ll book her.’

  ‘I’m coming with you. I need to keep her under Suppression.’ Harlequin bent to help Ward lift the woman.

  ‘She’s out cold, Lieutenant,’ Ward said. ‘Help me get her a few more feet to the ambulance, and I’ll make sure they sedate her so she doesn’t wake up.’

  Harlequin shook his head. ‘If she comes to for any reason, it’s going to be my ass. I’m coming with you.’

  ‘You’ve got a Suppressor at the liaison office. We’ll take her straight there!’ Ward argued.

  NYPD had the command for this op, and Ward radioed in the results as they got her closer to the line of ambulances clustered among the fire trucks in the parking lot, their spinning lights adding to the glow from the police cruisers, making Harlequin squint. The seeds of a ferocious headache began to blossom behind his eyes. His chest burned as the Bound electricity did its slow work, the stink of his own flesh making him angrier.

  The big woman sagged between them, limp hair covering her face, burned dress smoking. Her mouth hung open, blood drooling from one corner. The EMTs were busy, and Ward had to shout to get the attention of two of them. They raced over with a wheeled gurney, then stopped short, eyes fixed on Harlequin. For a moment, he saw himself as they must see him: streaked with grime and gore, his uniform covered in soot and blood. Small runnels of lightning still danced across the cut on his chest, as if they needed a reminder of who he was and what he did.

  They stared, refusing to come forward.

  ‘Come on!’ Ward said, then cursed, dragging the woman closer to them. ‘She needs help.’

  The first of the press were arriving. Harlequin could see them over the EMTs’ shoulders, setting up tripods, turning on lights, readying boom microphones. He knew he looked like a monster. The Selfer didn’t look much better, but he was the one both Latent and conscious enough to be interviewed.

  Harlequin looked at the EMTs, then at the line of firemen who’d stopped their work to stare at him.

  He could feel their fear, their revulsion, as clearly as a magical current.

  Sheep, seeing the sheepdog, but smelling the wolf. The press would be no different.

  Maybe his instructor was right.

  He fought down his anger and turned back to Ward. ‘Sedate her. Get her to the Suppressor stat.’

  Ward looked up at him, surprised, and nodded gratefully.

  He kicked off and flew north. SOC policy was not to engage in overt displays of magic unless absolutely necessary. It frightened people, reminded them that powers beyond their control were present in their midst. But right now, Harlequin didn’t care. He needed to be away from the burning building, from the accusation in the stare of the people struggling to haul order out of that chaos. Maybe a few hours from now, they’d remember that he’d been the man who’d gone around that corner, who’d risked himself to take the Selfer down. Maybe they’d remember and be grateful that there were people like him out there to do it.

  But probably not.

  He let the wind rush over him, chilling his skin and washing the stink of smoke and blood away. He set down in Fort Tryon Park, silent and dark at this late hour. The high ground overlooked the city, giving him the silent remove he needed to master his anger. He’d let Ward take the woman. He’d displayed magic openly. He’d gone airborne without filing a flight plan. He was breaking regs left and right. It’s getting to you, the isolation, the pariah status. Get it together.

  Harlequin pulled out his cell phone. It rang twice before picking up on the other end. ‘SOC. Crucible.’ Crucible was the call sign of Harlequin’s supervisor, Major Rick Allen. The two were old friends and didn’t stand on formality.

  ‘It’s Jan.’

  ‘It’s also late. What’s up?’

  ‘I just got a takedown and had to leave her under sedation with the NYPD. They’re taking her straight to the liaison office, but there’s a . . . gap in coverage. Shouldn’t be a big deal, but I wanted to let you know.’

  ‘You left her with them? Under sedation?’ Crucible sounded awake now.

  ‘Regs allow for it in extreme circumstances.’

  ‘They don’t smile on it, though, Jan. What the hell happened?’

  ‘It was just . . . better without me there. The Selfer was a friend of one of the cops, and she got hurt. The press were about to descend on me. I wasn’t up to talking to them.’

  Silence on the other end, then a slow rumble across the phone’s speaker as Crucible rubbed his eyes. ‘You okay, Jan?’

  ‘I’m fine, sir,’ Harlequin said. His lapse into formality told both of them he was anything but. ‘I think I just frightened them a little . . .’ The sheep, he almost said.

  ‘It’s fine,’ Harlequin continued. ‘It’ll be fine.’

  ‘Stand by,’ Crucible said. There was a click on the phone, and Harlequin held while he answered the other line.

  Crucible clicked back in. ‘That was the liaison officer in Midtown. They’ve got her, it’s fine. They’ll document the gap in coverage, but whatever. I won’t let it impact you.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Harlequin said. ‘Sorry to put you in that position.’

  ‘It’s okay. I’m actually hopping on a plane tonight. You and I are meeting someone tomorrow. Rep from a big pharma company up there. Apparently they’ve got some product in development that they believe can help control the brain’s emotional center, help us channel magic more effectively.’

  ‘Sir?’ Harlequin was a year into his detail supporting the NYPD in their hunt for the rogue magic users known as the Houston Street Selfers. This seemed well outside the scope of those duties.

  ‘Small corps. We don’t have the bodies to spare. It needs to be a SOC rep. You’re lucky it isn’t just you. They want someone field grade on the job, so I’m coming up.’

  ‘It’ll be good to see you.’

  ‘Nice break from the day-to-day. You go from beating up Selfers and hobnobbing with cops to brushing elbows with a corporate muckety-muck. We’re meeting her at a wine bar.’

  ‘I don’t even like wine.’

  He could hear Crucible’s shrug over the phone line. ‘I’m sure they’ll have beer. If they don’t, you’ll figure it out. Just make sure to stick your pinky out while you drink.’

  ‘What are we doing, exactly?’

  ‘We meet her, get the lay of the land, make sure she’s got the facility locked down, and be points of contact if anything goes south.’

  ‘Will anything go south?’

  Crucible laughed. ‘Civilians with more money than sense developing experimental drugs that affect the emotional center of the brain to control magical conduction? Potential to be one of the most lucrative government contracts we’ve seen to date?

  ‘What could possibly go wrong?’

  Chapter Three

  Operational Preparation

  Of The Battlespace

  On two separate occasions, Oscar Britton has shown himself to be the real agent, not just of Latent-Americans, but of the American people writ large. He has exposed the government as the corrupt and double-dealing entity it is and illustrated his o
wn commitment to freedom and equality for all of us. We agree with Walsh’s impeachment. We want a new president. But not Howard Porter.

  – Recorded message distributed on the Internet from the Consortium of Selfer Organizations (CSO)

  Five hours after seeing Scylla’s picture on Crucible’s phone, Lieutenant Colonel Jan Thorsson arced across the sky over Sandy Hook. His flight suit rippled, the visor on his helmet keeping his eyes clear of bugs. A magically heated envelope of air kept him warm in spite of his speed and altitude. That same magic drove him forward at a pace the helicopters to either side of him struggled to match.

  The Hudson River gave out into the Lower Bay beneath him, sparkling in the rising sun. He could see Coast Guard response boats cordoning off the river mouth, herding freighters and yachts alike back out to sea.

  Ahead lay Manhattan, echoing out of his past.

  The Blackhawks on either side held what he was told would be his staff. He’d had no time to select them or even meet them before taking off from Washington. It wouldn’t matter anyway. Even behind the tinted visors on the door gunner’s helmets, he could read the judgment, feel the disapproval coming off them in waves.

  He’d busted Oscar Britton out of prison. And killed eight Marines in the process. The one thing the public didn’t know about was the one thing he truly regretted. For the hundredth time, he replayed the event in his head. Stepping out of the cell, the Marines kneeling, raising their rifles, fingers tensed on the trigger.

  He could have ducked back in the cell . . . and then what? Bolted the door? Waited for them to bring reinforcements? They would have stopped him. Britton would have remained in Quantico’s brig.

  And FOB Frontier would have fallen.

  You traded eight lives for a division. You saved more people than you killed.

  But the queasy feeling in his stomach still wracked him. He could still smell their charred flesh, still hear their screams. Eight men, doing their jobs.

  He radioed his escort and indicated descent, then called the control tower at Fort Hamilton. The controller replied reluctantly, grunting approval. Harlequin sighed and began to circle down toward the baseball diamond that had been cleared as an impromptu airfield. The star-shaped stone walls of the old fort spun beneath him. Harlequin swallowed. The history and tradition of the army he loved was wrought there in stone, a reminder of what he had lost when he defied his president. He’d dreamed of touring this space at leisure someday. Maybe teaching at West Point, less than a hundred miles north of here.