by T. C. Edge
“Mikel,” it said. “You…got what you wanted?”
Ragan composed himself, and did the best impression of Mikel he could manage. He turned his voice to a whisper, and let the words creep up his throat in a tight, crispy hiss.
“Yes,” he whispered. “I have…fed.”
There was a short delay, then the voice spoke once more.
“All of them?”
“All of them,” whispered Ragan.
The modulated voice took a moment before speaking again.
“You got what you wanted,” it said. “Now tell me what I want to know.”
Ragan’s heart was thundering now, lips curling.
“I will tell you soon,” he said with a grimace.
The line bristled from the other end.
“We had a deal, Mikel. You cannot keep changing the goalposts. I delivered you Ragan and Chloe. Now tell me where the data disc is!”
He could hear the desperation in the strange, distorted voice. He tried to listen for the rhythm of the words, tried to note anything familiar. He needed more.
“I will tell you soon,” he repeated, his voice clotted and raspy. Repeating his previous reply would hopefully yield a response.
He was right.
“You will tell me now!” came the voice, growing louder and more strained. “I’ve handed you everything on a silver platter, Mikel. I have made everything so easy for you, and you continue with these demands. I won’t stand for it. My partners won’t stand for it. Now observe what honour you have left, and tell me what I want to hear!”
Ragan listened, and he knew.
His heart turned to a dull throb. His breath was caught in his lungs. He turned with sunken eyes and looked across the woods at Chloe, visible through the trees. She was still watching him from afar, Remus fluttering about her head, not knowing what was going on.
But now, Ragan did. He’d heard what he needed to know.
“Mikel, answer me!” the voice rang out.
Ragan was silent, and staring. He finally took a breath, and then said a single word.
“Martha,” he whispered, shaking his head to himself.
I know it’s you…
And the line went dead.
46
Martha Mitchell sat upright in bed in her opulent chambers, stunned into silence. Through the window, the faint light of dawn was approaching like a slow tsunami of pinkish-purple light. She stood on weak legs and wandered to the glass, casting her eyes out over the vast woods and tall peaks, dotting the grand landscape beyond the base.
She reached to her throat, clasping the voice-modulation strip that she’d hastily applied only moments ago, and peeled it off. She tossed it onto her bed. It landed beside a comms unit, already withdraw from her ear and discarded in a panic.
What had just happened?
She felt weary, drawn from her sleep by the call she’d been hoping to receive a hell of a lot earlier. It had, in fact, kept her up through much of the night, information from the central command centre in short supply. The mission undertaken by Ragan and his strike team was being closely monitored by Colonel Slattery and his sycophantic group of loyal intelligence officers. Given its nature as a military matter, Martha was being mostly kept in the dark, though she felt certain that it was more a case of Slattery gaining revenge for her recent indiscretions.
He clearly didn’t trust her, and she didn’t like him, though hate would be a more appropriate description. No, that wasn’t enough either. She despised the man with a searing passion that, even with her well practiced good humour and affability, was hard to disguise.
She let out a breath, confused, and began to pace. Much as she’d tried to stay up through the night as she awaited news, her age had taken charge. She may only have looked in her late 30s or early 40s, but Martha Mitchell was actually a couple of decades older. Anti-ageing procedures, it appeared, worked primarily on aesthetics. She looked young, but she felt her true age, especially at times of stress.
And this was a time of stress.
“How could I have been so foolish,” she muttered to herself, still walking, ceaselessly, from side to side in her chambers.
She’d known all along that hiring Mikel had been a risk. He had a reputation as being a formidable tracker and mercenary when put to the right task, but such skill came with its fair share of drawbacks. Nano-vamps were notoriously difficult to control, particularly when their hunger grew unbearable. Martha had imagined that the men of the Panther Force Mikel had feasted on at the CID days before would have quenched that particular need, for the time being at least.
She was wrong, oh so wrong. It seemed his desire for both Chloe and Ragan had become something more than a mere desire to feed on their top of the range nanites. It was personal too.
And when he demanded they be added to the bargain, she knew she was on the back foot.
Still, she’d arranged the trap quite speedily, and without detection, working through her connections to make sure that the image of Mikel was quickly discovered by one of Slattery’s intel agents. No doubt her actions would be brought to light soon enough, but perhaps it wouldn’t matter by then. Martha was, after all, just a single link in the chain. Her intention had been to snatch the data, and be gone before anyone knew it. Mikel going rogue wasn’t part of the plan.
And now…now there was something else. Something didn’t feel right.
She stalked the room, thinking. Worrying. She’d spoken briskly on the call, drawn so suddenly as she was from her sleep. She’d begun to lose her temper, speak out of turn. Her usual placidity in dealing with Mikel had abandoned her.
Mikel…
How did he find out my name?
She considered it, trying to regather her wits. The residue of sleep lingered, muddying her thoughts a little. There had been something odd about the call. Something more odd. Mikel was an unusual man, and she’d become used to his strange manner. But this, this was different. He hadn’t spoken quite right. He hadn’t sounded quite right.
How did he know my name?
She continued to move, her limbs awaking. The motion helped, blood working up through her body, flooding her head. Her thoughts grew in clarity, the conversation replaying in her mind. She felt uneasy. Something was making her feel uneasy.
That voice. It was off, too croaky, too raspy. And his words were…
She stood still, her arms hanging suddenly loose to her sides. Her spine straightened, and she stared straight forwards, not at anything in particular. Just the wall, the dull brick wall. Not the paintings or silken drapes she’d used to give some life and colour to her room. Not the nice tables, or the four poster bed, or the comfortable armchair she liked to sit in in the corner.
No, she just stared at the brick wall, as the realisation dawned.
“It wasn’t his voice,” she whispered to herself.
Her eyes widened, a lump rising up her neck.
How did he know my name? She wondered a final time.
Because it wasn’t Mikel on the line…
It was Ragan.
Colonel Jeremiah Slattery had been up all night. Again.
He’d been used to operating with little sleep as a younger soldier in the WSA army, and even as his rank increased, and his age went with it, important operations often demanded that he forego rest in favour of his work. He’d always been happy enough to do so. Life in the military was, well, his life. He’d committed himself to it from an early age, and had never looked back.
As a veteran of the Second American Civil War, he’d been well decorated back home. Until, of course, he suffered the accident that changed his life. It was a standard military injury, really, that led to the loss of a large portion of his left arm; a gunshot wound from a rogue sniper. Since then, life had changed.
But his determination to serve was one thing that hadn’t.
Now, that was with Project Dawn and the Crimson Corps, with whom his rank and importance had only increased. Though he continued to label
himself Colonel, he was the senior military figure within the organisation, and thus wielded far more power and influence than he’d ever done in the WSA military.
That, if nothing else, gave him pleasure. He’d battled through the horror of his mutilation, and the ensuing depression, and came out the other side stronger and more determined than ever. Colonel Slattery wasn’t a man to be trodden into the mud by circumstance. He’d taken the bull by the horns, and forced it to comply.
But, he was old, and he did need to sleep. Unfortunately, the last couple of days had been so fraught with tension that he’d been unable to find the time. Overnight, he’d mostly refused to stop moving for fear of being unable to get up should he take a seat. He’d trotted endlessly around the command centre and briefing room, seeking updates from Ragan’s team.
And so far, he’d heard absolutely nothing.
All he knew was that the jet had landed outside the designated town of Devil’s Pike, where it stayed for a short time, before going dark. That meant two options - either the jet had been destroyed, and thus the mission likely failed, or the transponder had been turned off.
It could be either, and both left a sour taste.
Now, morning was blooming, and still no word had come. Tired though he was, he was also rather angry, his frustration sufficient to fuel his tanks for now. The only concession he’d made to his ailing frame was to retreat to his personal office in order to rest his legs and aching back. His large, comfortable desk chair was sufficient for the job.
He was sat there now, trying not to slump. His military poise didn’t allow for such lapses of posture, even when he was alone. Despite the early hour - though, really, late could be just as apt a description - he had a half-drunk whisky glass on his desk, and a fresh cigar to join it, temporarily set down in an ashtray. He found the combination useful in keeping his wits about him, though only in small measures.
Outside, beyond the glass walls to his office, the command centre remained active. The focus now was on finding out what had happened, searching for anything that might light their way. That involved scanning for chatter from the gangs in the area, and trying to hack into national security databases to find out if any drones had caught some footage.
Unfortunately, it was often a game of luck, and they hadn’t yet caught a break. As Slattery drew his cigar for another long swill, however, he heard the door to his office knock.
He raised his eyes, and found a young officer, Jason, standing patiently outside.
He lifted his hand and waved him in.
“Yes, Jason,” he said wearily.
Jason stepped into the office, letting the door shut behind him. He was of average height and built, black hair and keen hazel eyes. He spoke with a measured composure, and deference in the face of his superiors. Just the sort of recruit Slattery liked.
“Sir, we’ve intercepted some communications from Devil’s Pike…”
Slattery sat up.
“Yes?”
“It’s the Marauders, sir. From what we can gather, there was a firefight in the town last night. The leader of the Marauders, and the men he took to the meeting, were killed.”
“All of them?”
“Yes, sir.”
“It must have been Ragan’s team,” murmured Slattery, thinking to himself. “What about Mikel? And the data?”
“No sign or word of Mikel’s presence there, sir. By what we can ascertain, he wasn’t a part of the deal, as we thought he was. And we can’t be certain, but we don’t think it was Agent Hunt’s team that did the killing.”
“How so?”
“It appears that the meeting was an arms deal, Colonel, and one that went badly wrong,” said Jason. “Another gang was found dead in town. The remaining Marauders arrived once the firefight had occurred, and found everyone dead. There’s no word at all of Mikel, or our soldiers, sir. It doesn’t seem like they even knew they were there.”
Slattery sat back, fingers to chin, stroking. His mind was having some trouble processing things, a result of his lack of rest. He thought for a moment, trying to figure out what the hell was going on. As he did so, Jason spoke again.
“Sir, there’s something more,” he said, a note of nerves joining his regular, straight tone. Slattery looked up, waiting. “This arms deal was apparently a significant one. High end weapons. Tens of millions of dollars in currency from all four nations.” He took a breath before speaking again. “Both the money, and the weapons, are gone, sir.”
Slattery’s eye’s narrowed.
“Gone?” he growled.
“Yes, sir. Gone.”
Slattery stood from his chair, grabbing his whisky glass and sinking the contents. The sudden motion of the grizzled old vet took Jason by surprise. He stepped back half a pace.
“So, let me get this straight,” said Slattery, collecting his thoughts, hands now firmly planted to his desk. “Ragan and his team have made no contact all night. The falcon is missing from the scene. High end weapons and millions of dollars have disappeared. And we don’t have a clue what part Mikel played in all this, or where the data disc is located? Am I right so far, son?”
“Correct, sir,” said Jason.
Slattery gathered his composure, and nodded calmly to the much younger man.
“OK, soldier. Continue the search.” His words were flat, almost robotic in their delivery.
Jason retreated tentatively, shutting the door quickly.
And alone, Slattery’s face curled up in anger. And his voice let forth a muted roar.
Martha stepped out into the pale morning light, a small bag of personal items packed in a case and tucked under her arm. Outside of the councillors’ residential chambers - a once simple building on the base now retrofitted to be more appropriate for Project Dawn’s wealthy and influential members - two men waited.
They weren’t wearing the garb of the Crimson Corps, but dark suits instead. They were Martha’s personal bodyguards, accompanying her wherever she went. She trusted them with her life, and paid a pretty price for the privilege.
The two men nodded to her as she appeared, hastily summoned only moments ago and quickly ready to depart. She looked up at one, chin heavy with a thick black beard and eyes of similar colour.
“Is my hover-plane ready, Kurt?” she asked.
The man named Kurt nodded in abbreviated fashion, looking down from a towering height.
“Yes, ma’am,” his voice boomed. “We’ve ordered it to be prepared outside of the main hanger.”
“Perfect,” smiled Martha nervously. “Let’s not delay then.”
As her bodyguards led her across the courtyard, she found her eyes glancing around in surreptitious fashion. She didn’t tend to act impulsively, but this particular situation called for a snap decision.
Ragan - if that really was Ragan on the line - was onto her. He knew of her duplicity, no doubt figuring it out for himself. He was always a smart one, she thought. Too damn smart on this occasion.
She couldn’t wait to find out what might happen next. If Ragan called in to Colonel Slattery, he’d be sending soldiers right now to take her into custody. Thus her eyes were busy, turning down lanes between the slate grey buildings, searching in particular for the sight of bodies coming from the main command centre at the heart of the base.
“Ma’am, are you feeling OK?” asked Kurt, noting her unease.
She drew a smile. She was so used to doing that - smiling, without really meaning it. For so long she’d been forced to act the part here, play the nice gal. It was all a means of getting people onside, harvesting their support for when the time came.
She was so close, so damn close.
Her smile drifted away as she thought of Mikel.
That goddamned freak failed me, she thought. And now…
She turned her mind elsewhere. She couldn’t bare to think of it. Her retrieval of the data had consumed her, as it had so many others over the years. Now, her failure would mean death.
But no
t for her.
“I’m…fine,” she managed to say, escaping the darkness of her thoughts. Her voice started brittle, and then firmed up. “I just feel like getting off this ghastly base.” She brought the smile back, bigger than before. “I long for my own bed, and an extended time away from Colonel Slattery,” she joked.
Her bodyguards smiled. They were fully aware of their boss’s dislike for the Colonel.
Continuing on across the courtyard, they rounded a couple of old buildings and took in the sight of the aircraft hanger ahead. It’s large bay doors were open, a hover-plane being wheeled out onto the tarmac. It was a sight for sore and weary eyes, shining silver under the first light of the day. Martha’s smile grew real with anticipation as she sped her step towards it.
“Ah, Councillor Mitchell, good morning to you,” called out the aircraft technician overseeing the plane’s preparation. “You heading off again?”
Martha hid her cringe at his loud, boisterous voice. It spread right across the stretch of earth between them, and all over the base by the sounds of it. It was a sometimes unfortunate side-effect of being so popular and committing to such a friendly demeanour. Every man and his dog wanted to talk to her. And Martha didn’t like dogs.
“Morning, Brian,” Martha spoke back, though with far more control over the volume of her voice. “I’m just popping off home for a little while. There are a few things I need to see to.”
It was a non-committal reply, but a lowly man like Brian, the aircraft technician, didn’t require anything more. In fact, no one really did. All the councillors had free reign to return to their homes when they saw fit, and no one was required to stay on base if they didn’t wish it.
“Ah, well it’ll be a shame to see you go, Councillor. Your smile brightens things up around here. Never the same without you.”
Martha lifted her signature smile in response, and bowed her head in thanks, hurrying on over. She was keen to cover the ground quick enough to shut Brian the hell up.
She arrived a moment later, the aircraft now just about in position. It didn’t require a runway or stretch of land to take off. Most modern airborne transports had the capability of lifting vertically, though some of the larger troop carriers still needed to adopt older methods of beating gravity.