Shadow Ops 3: Breach Zone

by Myke Cole

  ‘Leave it, Jan,’ Crucible said, as the doors chimed, and they stepped out into the wide chamber outside the building’s top floor, where Grace kept her office.

  ‘But, sir. Latent contractors?’

  Crucible spun on him while Rampart raised his submachine gun and sighted down the barrel. ‘Jan, I have already told you that there are aspects to how the SOC does business that you are not yet privy to. I promise you that after this is all over, I will have you read on to those programs where you have a specific need to know. Until then, I need you to do your job.’ He unsnapped his drop holster, pulled out the pistol, and pressed it into Harlequin’s hands. ‘Now, get in the stack.’

  Like every other room in the Channel building, there was a minimum amount of furniture. The walls were covered in brass-rimmed panels of golden-colored expensive wood, the light sconces recessed and understated. The entire room spoke of impeccable taste, a deliberate attempt to underplay the height of opulence.

  A desk stood outside the huge double doors that led into Grace’s office. A man in an immaculate suit stood behind it, big as a linebacker. He was coming out from around his desk, one hand outstretched, the other reaching into the small of his back. ‘Gentlemen, you can’t just . . .’

  ‘Gun,’ Rampart said before his wrist cleared his jacket. His submachine gun barked, and the guard staggered backward. The body armor beneath his suit had stopped the first two rounds. The third punched a tiny hole in his throat. He went to his knees, clawing at his neck. A dull clatter on the floor told Harlequin that Rampart was right. He did indeed have a gun.

  Harlequin went to the man’s side as he collapsed, the gasping snaking out into a death rattle just as Rampart kicked open the doors and Crucible led the way in, shouting. ‘Get down! Get down right now!’

  Harlequin leapt to his feet and followed behind in time to see three other people dropping to their knees, hands raised. Grace must have called some kind of meeting once he’d left.

  Grace, on the other hand, stood defiant behind her desk. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

  ‘I need you to show me your hands,’ Crucible said. ‘Rampart, get her Suppressed.’

  Rampart lowered his weapon and reached a hand out, his brow furrowing in concentration. ‘There’s no current, sir.’

  ‘There’s a current,’ Hicks answered. ‘You just can’t feel it. We need to keep her under guard and wait until the dose wears off.’

  Her face went dark at the sight of Hicks. She pointed a shaking finger. ‘What is that doing in my building?’

  ‘He’s with us, Grace,’ Crucible said. ‘Now, let me see your hands.’

  She held them up, two middle fingers. ‘What crime have I committed that has you firing guns in my own fucking building? Is Larry hurt?’ She leaned around the door, trying to see the guard. Harlequin stepped between her and the slowly spreading stain darkening the floor.

  At last she noticed Harlequin. I’m sorry, he wanted to say. This caught me by surprise. He could see Hicks watching him from the corner of his eye. He couldn’t even risk a hand gesture. Instead, he tried to pour those words into his eyes, hoping against hope the message would reach her.

  If it did, he couldn’t tell. The same feral anger she’d shown Hicks was still there, it dominated her face, never reaching above the bridge of her nose. Her eyes were narrowed, calculating.

  ‘Sir?’ Rampart said again. ‘There’s no current.’

  ‘You heard your own Suppressor,’ Grace said. ‘Now, if you’d be so kind as to put your weapons down, I’ve committed no crime, and there is no evidence of magic here.’

  ‘What’s that?’ Hicks asked, pointing at the crumpled, red-spotted tissue on her desk.

  ‘I have a nosebleed,’ Grace said. ‘Allergies.’

  ‘Sir,’ Hicks said to Crucible, ‘I promise you that if we just keep her under guard for a few hours, your man will be able to feel a current.’

  Harlequin felt a thin trickle of hope. He raised his pistol, tried to look stern. ‘I’ll stay with her.’ And then what the hell will you do?

  ‘We’ll all stay with her,’ Crucible said, motioning to the three people at the back of the room. ‘You three, go.’

  They went, erupting into screams as they moved past the guard’s still body.

  ‘You killed him,’ Grace hissed.

  ‘He pulled a gun on us,’ Crucible said. ‘Doesn’t allow for a lot of room to maneuver. Now, if you’ll just take a se . . .’

  Harlequin knew she’d decided to chance it before she even moved.

  Time slowed down. He lunged toward her, trying to tell her not to do it, that she had no chance against the four of them, that they’d find another way, but he already felt her current rise, saw Crucible’s eyes widen as he felt it, too, a powerful eddy of magic materializing from out of nowhere.

  She could have killed Crucible, could have left a thick, rotten smear where his body used to be. Instead, she went for his gun. It came apart in his hands, the receiver shriveling and dripping down his knuckles, the magazine falling out of the well, the follower spring jangling a crazy dance across the floor.

  She kicked the desk hard, sending it spinning on its wheels across the floor, the corner connecting sharply with Rampart’s crotch. The Suppressor grunted, sucked in his breath, doubled over.

  Crucible hesitated, staring in shock at the stinking fragments that used to be his gun, settling in his hands. He knows she’s a Probe now. All bets are off.

  Hicks drew his pistol and aimed it at her. Harlequin shouted and sprang at him, catching him with his shoulder and carrying him to the ground as he fired, his shot going wild.

  Grace’s eyes darted like a frightened animal’s. Her enemies blocked the only exit to the room.

  So she spun to make a new one.

  Harlequin felt her magic focus, and the room’s back wall began to bubble. Rampart dropped to his knees, and Crucible finally shook his hands and gathered his own current as the expensive fabric wallpaper turned to slime, running down the crumbling wall. The massive iron girders behind it turned to dust, revealing the hallway beyond.

  Grace was a talented Sorcerer, but she was no architect. Harlequin could see the wall was load-bearing even before the ceiling collapsed.

  It bowed inward, screams sounding from above them, then Grace was staggering back, cinder blocks shivering with pops as loud as gunshots, showering them with masonry turned powder, not by magic now, but by the massive force of the building above them, suddenly without crucial support.

  A chunk of something hard grazed Harlequin’s head. He raced toward her, felt Crucible’s hand grab his collar, yank him backward. The room shook. There was a sudden shattering of glass, and Harlequin caught something giant bounce off the building’s exterior and plummet earthward. He shook off Crucible’s grip, started toward Grace again, but suddenly the room had gone dark, his eyes stinging and his nose and mouth clogged with dust so thick he could hardly draw breath. He coughed violently, and at last Crucible threw himself over him as the rest of the ceiling came down, burying them all.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Old Friends

  Laws, both civil and religious, are a veneer. They exist to impose a position on that majority of a population who has no hand in making them. Magic is haram in the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia. And yet a strange storm disperses a major protest no less than five times in a period of three months. Let’s apply Occam’s razor here. Is almighty God intervening on behalf of the king? Or is there an Aeromancer tucked away in the Mabahith building, telling himself he bears a heavy burden to keep his country safe? What do leaders do when their own laws bar them from greater heights of power? They break them.

  —Walid al Ghamdi (alias)

  Arab Youth Blog

  Harlequin flew north again, this time up Hudson Street on the ci
ty’s west side. The ruin below him was oddly quiet, but Harlequin knew that the majority of the enemy was drawn off and pressing the barricade hard to the north, confident that the Whispering had done its work.

  Cormack’s voice came across the commlink. ‘Sir, you left without an escort again. That didn’t work out so well last time.’

  ‘You got a bird to spare?’

  Cormack’s silence was answer enough.

  ‘We’re getting calls from Barricade One. They’re getting hit hard, sir.’

  ‘Downer will have to hold it for now. One more Aeromancer isn’t going to make a difference.’

  ‘Are you headed back to the Limpiado enclave, sir? They’re not going to . . .’

  ‘The other clear zone. Hoping they might be more amenable.’

  ‘Sir, they’re not likely to be members of your fan club.’

  ‘I’m not seeing a lot of other options right now. If I’m not back in an hour . . . well . . . tell Gatanas and work with General Bookbinder. Win this thing.’

  A pause, then, ‘Good luck, sir. Godspeed.’

  ‘Thanks, Harlequin out.’

  Harlequin felt the currents long before the cleared zone came into view. There were goblin corpses littered about the Terramantic barricades, the result of some failed push since the last time he’d been there. Otherwise, the streets looked the same – clean, peaceful, and empty.

  Harlequin flew directly over the first barricade, then sped down as fast as he could. If they were going to Suppress him, let them do it on the ground. He hit the pavement and jogged a few steps, cupping his hands to his mouth. ‘Come out! Come out, damn it! I need your help!’

  Silence. Wind blew garbage across the scarred leather of his boots. A door slammed somewhere.

  ‘Come out!’ he shouted. ‘It’s just me! What can I do?’

  The question hit home. ‘What can I do?’ he asked again, softly.

  He could feel the eyes on him, at least half a dozen magical currents reaching out, touching his own, pulling back. They knew he was here.

  ‘Come out,’ he whispered.

  Whispering in the shadows, some hushed argument, then a voice said, ‘Well, well. Looks like Christmas came early.’

  Harlequin recognized the voice.

  A man stepped into the street. He was tall, thin. Ropy muscle bunched beneath a black leather vest. His mop of black hair had been long since shaved, but Harlequin recognized the scarred mess of a tattoo on his chest. It had once shown a swallow in flight.

  Swift.

  The Aeromancer looked exhausted. Swift had been a pot of simmering rage, leading a band of committed anti-SOC recalcitrants, refusing all attempts to retrain them. They’d called themselves the No-No Crew after their firm answer to the two pledges of allegiance the SOC required all SASS inmates to make before being released. Now his eyes were heavy with grief, his shoulders slumped. He leaned against the brick façade of a building and folded his arms across his chest. Harlequin’s heart sank. There might be a Selfer in this world less likely to help him, but he couldn’t think of one.

  ‘Figured you’d show up sooner or later,’ Swift said.

  ‘You did?’ He shouldn’t have been surprised to find him here. The Houston Street Gang had been splintered, but they hadn’t caught every single one.

  ‘Who else would they put in charge of this shit show?’

  ‘I thought you were still in the Source with Oscar Britton.’

  ‘What’s for me there? Scratching a living out of the earth with the goblins? No thanks. This is my home. This plane.’ His eyes flashed.

  ‘Scylla feels the same way.’

  ‘She’s not wrong. This was always your basic problem, Harlequin, you never understood that you’re not the only person willing to die for something. We’re not going to let the SOC run our lives.’

  ‘So you’ll let Scylla do it?’

  ‘You’re the company man. You always saw the world that way. Good guys or bad guys. With us or against us. Doesn’t work that way. We’re not for Scylla, and we’re not for the SOC.’

  ‘What are you for, then?’

  ‘What you claim to be for: freedom. Real liberty. Not the bullshit you talk about in campaign speeches. Self-determination. Never understood why that was so complicated for you.’

  Harlequin felt the magical currents around him growing closer. Faces began to appear in the alleyways and windows. He recognized more than a few. Flicker, his head shaved as bald as Britton’s, stylized red-and-orange flames sweeping across the surface. Spur, so tall that Harlequin had to tilt his head to see the former basketball player’s face. Guinevere, still in her smart business suit, though it was covered in dust and smeared with blood.

  He recognized each face from a targeting dossier, Selfers he’d spent his career hunting. He could feel the intensity of their currents, boosted by the anger kindled at the sight of their old enemy.

  ‘You gotta be out of your mind coming here,’ Flicker said. ‘You got a death wish?’

  Swift waved a hand, looking more tired than ever. ‘I had my chance to kill him. It won’t bring Shai and Kadija back.’

  Harlequin could still remember lying on his back, Swift’s twitching face behind the gun, ready to pull the trigger. I am going to kill you, Swift had repeated over and over again. I am going to kill you. That man, that fury, was long gone. ‘I didn’t kill your girlfriend, Swift, I . . .’

  ‘You were just doing your job.’ Swift sighed. ‘Collateral damage. It’s always collateral damage, isn’t it? Nobody is ever responsible.’ He waved in the direction of the ruins of the Trump Tower, spire smoking in the street, God knew how many corpses buried beneath.

  Those eight Marines were just doing their job, too. Getting in the way of something important. Now they’re dead just like Swift’s girlfriend and baby. And you’re alive. Funny how it always works out that way.

  Harlequin’s throat swelled. His shoulders slumped to match Swift’s. It’s on you even when you’re doing it for the greater good. You make the call, you own the consequences. Harlequin tried to fight against the realization, to repeat his mantra: Eight lives against thirty thousand. But those numbers didn’t add up to every Selfer he’d brought down, every innocent caught in the blast. He’d taken those lives. No one else.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Harlequin’s voice was thick.

  ‘That doesn’t bring them back either,’ Swift said. ‘What do you want, Harlequin?’

  Harlequin knew he should turn on his TV personality. Now was the time to deliver an oratory that would convince Swift of his need, of the need of everyone who would suffer if Scylla won the day. But he looked into Swift’s eyes, saw deep grief instead of the fury that had once burned there. He’d hated the old Swift, but this new man was his making. Just like those Marines. Just like Scylla herself. His throat closed, his mind seized.

  ‘What do you want?’ Swift repeated.

  ‘Don’t you know?’

  ‘We’re not helping you.’

  ‘Damn right we’re not,’ Flicker said.

  ‘Shut up,’ Swift said to him, some of the old fire returning. Flicker tensed, but held his peace.

  ‘You run the show now,’ Harlequin said. ‘Since Big Bear . . .’ Another murder. The former leader of the Houston Street Gang had been captured, interrogated, and replaced with a Physiomancer talented enough to impersonate him.

  ‘Don’t try to flatter me,’ Swift said. ‘I’m not going to kill you, Harlequin, but I’ll be damned if I’ll save your bacon.’

  ‘It’s Scylla out there, Swift. You know her. You know her game. What are you going to do if we lose? You want to live in a city ruled by Gahe and goblins? That’s so much better than the way things are now?’

  ‘Can’t be worse.’

  ‘Yes, Swift. It can. Much wo
rse.’

  ‘We’re not the SOC; we can work out a deal with her.’

  ‘No, you can’t.’

  ‘You don’t know her.’

  Grace, curled beneath his arm, gently kissing his chest. ‘I know her better than you think.’

  ‘She used to talk about you. Back at Channel,’ Guinevere said. She’d worked with Grace, back before Scylla. A different time. A different life.

  Harlequin shook his head. ‘Grace is dead. This is someone else.’

  Guinevere sighed. ‘Whatever gets you through the day. Is there no way to talk to her?’

  ‘What can be said now? The death toll’s even higher than it was when she ran. Half the city is laid waste. She owes for that.’

  ‘You owe for that,’ Swift said.

  ‘I know,’ Harlequin said. ‘You think I don’t know? Why do you think I’m trying to save this fucking city? For the landmarks?

  ‘I tried with Grace . . . I . . . didn’t know. I didn’t know what she was.’

  ‘What is she?’ Swift asked. ‘Is it really so crazy for her to try to overthrow the regime that’s locked us down? The woman has a point, Harlequin. I’m not saying I like her style, but her message rings true.’

  ‘Whatever I’ve done,’ Harlequin said, ‘there are eight million people in this city. Help us. I’ll work for a pardon. Downer’s already helping. If you meet us halfway . . .’

  ‘Sarah Downer’s helping? You put a bomb in her chest, too?’

  ‘She’s helping because she wants a shot at amnesty.’

  ‘She honestly believes she’ll get it?’

  ‘She honestly will.’ You can’t promise that. You don’t know what the president will say. But he could feel the weight of Scylla’s army at his back. If there was anything he could say to convince Swift to help him, he would say it. It was truth enough.

  Swift turned, bent his head to Guinevere’s, whispering.

  He turned to face Harlequin. ‘Send her here. Let her tell me herself.’

  ‘She’s pinned down in the fighting. We need her where she is.’

  Swift shook his head sadly. ‘I’m sure. Well, good luck with everything.’