by David Ryker
There wasn’t a doubt in Ward’s mind that he wasn’t the only one in on this, though. Not by a long shot. There’d be others. Sympathizers, or those just looking to make a quick buck. Whatever the reason, there’d be a lot of them out there, waging their own shadow-war across the OCA, looking to take the whole Axis back to the dark-ages and fracture any tentative sense of peace that might have settled across the colonies.
Ferlish would be the thread to pull on, though. Yet another reason to keep him alive. When he got out, he’d go scurrying. And they could trail him, track him, find his hideouts, chase him until he unraveled the rest of this twisted tapestry for them.
But that was a job for another day. For now, he was out in the desert somewhere, bloodied and pissed off. But that was okay. Moozana could send some guys he trusted to pick him up, maybe. It didn’t really matter. What mattered right now was Chang.
The next twenty-four hours were going to decide the fate of the OCA, and as Ward pushed his chest to the point of collapse, raking in razor breaths of salty air, closing the gap between him and the far bank with every step, threading his way between the scrubbers pulling salt off the ring with trowels, he tried to plan it out. He tried to plan every detail in his head. Every word he’d say. Every move he’d make. But he couldn’t. He had no idea what was about to happen.
All he knew was that he was on his own. If nothing else, he had his head and what was inside it, and he knew that Chang was going to be out there, in the crosshairs. If he could just stop him from getting shot, then it would be something. It would be something. It would make the whole thing worth it, and it would be a step toward preserving the status quo.
He thought of Erica then. Of what she’d given up. Of what she’d have to give up now. What she’d have to endure. Seeing her father torn down and ripped apart by the OCA, branded as a traitor. As a betrayer. As the man who plunged a knife into the back of everything the SB and DC supposedly stood for. He felt for her then, a stabbing pain in his chest among the grating sting already besieging his lungs.
He wanted to reach out, to tell her. But the cruelty of doing so struck him harder than the urge to hand over the truth.
No, she was out of this now. She was compromised, and she couldn’t be included. She was off the game board. A piece removed and out of action. She’d go on living, knowing that Ward was a bastard, and for a little longer, that her father wasn’t. And, if she had to see him in cuffs on television, and find out that way, or have Moozana break it to her… That would be better.
Better than Ward doing it. Than tracking her down and telling her that the man she believed was infallible — her father, her hero, the person she wanted to be — was a piece of dog-shit? No, that wouldn’t fly. She’d never believe him, and he’d just bring her back into this, force her into action. And what she’d do if he did, he couldn’t say. And when there was shit like this at stake, throwing a wildcard into the mix was like playing Russian roulette with six bullets in the revolver. And Ward never liked that game anyway.
He reached the far bank and collapsed forward onto it, his fists sinking in the gravel.
He sucked in a few breaths, spat blood onto the ground, and heaved himself to a stance.
No, this was it. Just him, and his head, and his hands, clenched around the grip of a gun or curled into fists and swinging. Moozana. Cootes. They’d be called. But he wasn’t going in. Wasn’t meeting anyone. Wasn’t going near anyone.
He was moving in the shadows now, skulking in the places where the light didn’t reach. An excommunicated member of the pack. Cast out and hunting alone. A lone wolf, out for flesh, following the scent of prey on the air.
That’s what he was. It’s what he’d always been, pack at his back or not.
It just so happened that now, they’d all fallen away.
The only tracks he left behind were his, and ahead was a long, dark night.
He kept moving as the moon began to rise behind the city, heading deeper into its heart, stalking for game he knew was out there somewhere.
He had the taste of blood in his mouth, and before the sun rose he’d have the trail, the stench of the hunt thick in his nostrils.
Ward tried to focus. Tried to think. But no matter how clinical he forced himself to be, a strange, terrifying smile had lodged itself on his face. And no matter how far he went or how much he hurt, it wasn’t going anywhere.
Not until he was done.
And he wasn’t done yet.
27
“Well, don’t you just look like a kicked sack of dog shit?”
“Good to see you too, Betty,” Ward wheezed, leaning against her doorframe, sweaty and dirty from the walk.
“Get your ass in here before anyone sees you,” she said hurriedly, pulling him into the small apartment. “You didn’t get clocked by any eyes coming over here, did you?”
“I got knocked around,” Ward growled, “not kicked in the head by a horse.”
Betty closed and latched the door, turning and pressing her back to it. “Well, how the hell should I know what sort of mess you’re in? You know coming here is a last resort.”
Ward nodded grimly and slumped down onto her little brown threadbare sofa.
A fan ticked around lazily in the corner and the knitted doily hanging over the back of the couch smelled faintly like cat urine.
A ginger tabby jumped up onto his lap and started to purr, kneading his leg with its claws.
“That’s Otto,” Betty sighed, pointing to the cat, the extra skin under her bicep jiggling as she gestured. “Tea?”
“I’ll take a coffee.” Ward sighed, leaning his head back.
“Tea’s all I got,” she replied, shuffling toward the kitchenette.
“Tea’ll be fine.”
Betty was into her eighties by now, but was doing well and would probably live until she was a hundred and twenty or so. Especially with the free healthcare available in Eudaimonia.
She was a human, short, and a little dumpy, but one of the best people Ward had ever met.
When he’d first come to the AIA, she’d been working as a handler, but not for Ward. Still, he’d seen a lot of her over the years, and was sad to hear that she was leaving the agency. Except she wasn’t, not really. No one ever really left.
She was transferred to Eudaimonia a decade or two back, and saw out her years with the agency in the Municipal Planning office, working as a UMR paper pusher, feeding back information to the AIA about developments in the city. Mundane details. The kind of information that wasn’t useful until it suddenly was.
There were safe houses dotted all over, but Ward knew Betty lived in the city, and that she was as clean as a whistle. Her identity had been totally falsified when she left the agency, long before the Thessaly Treaty was even conceived. So, when all the records were handed over as part of the deal, she wasn’t on any of them. She didn’t work for the AIA, officially, just like Cootes didn’t, so the SB didn’t know anything about her.
As far as the UMR was concerned, Betty was a Martian citizen, and had been for nearly fifteen years. She was retired now, of course, though she still had her allegiances, and was someone Ward knew he could call on if things ever went really sideways, which they seemed to be doing right now.
He had no idea what Erica had said to Moozana or her father — the two safehouses they’d gone to before… He couldn’t risk going to either of them. Hell, he couldn’t risk going to any of the others, either. If they started looking at the two they’d visited, it wouldn’t take long to figure out how they were being obfuscated, and then to start looking for others in the city. They’d get some, probably not all, at least not for a while. But it was still too much of a risk just then. Betty, on the other hand — last resort or not — was squeaky clean.
She approached, outlined in the fading light of day, her thinning gray hair frizzy around her face, her drooping cheeks shaking as she walked, tea in hand, toward him.
He took it from her in one hand, scratching the
cat behind the ears with the other. “Thanks.”
“He’s got eczema.”
“Who has?”
“Otto.”
Ward looked down and the cat stared up, blinking lazily and purring. Ward cracked a smile. “I don’t mind.”
“I mind. You’re getting skin all over the couch,” Betty said, sitting down with a wince.
Ward stopped and sipped the tea. It was loaded up with sugar and milk. He didn’t really drink tea, but he knew better than to be ungrateful to Betty. She was a good woman, but she didn’t take shit from anyone. Especially not from Ward.
“So what are we looking at here?” Betty said, resting her lined hands on her knees, her flowered dress pulling itself up to expose her veined shins. “Quick cut and run?”
Ward shook his head. “Not this time,” he sighed, wishing it was that simple. “You hear about that girl who turned up dead in the capital? Human girl, six days back?”
Betty stuck out her bottom lip and shrugged. “Yeah, sorta. They didn’t release a name though. Would-be assassin for Chang, right?”
“Not quite.” Ward shook his head. “Anna Sadler.”
“Who’s that?”
“AIA agent.”
“Never heard of her.” Betty leaned back, wheezing.
“After your time.”
“Well, there ain’t much that was before.”
Ward chuckled a little. “Long story short, Tremel Chang’s going to catch a bullet tomorrow, unless I can stop him.”
“Don’t suppose you’ve got any backup on this one, do you?”
“Nope.”
“Typical. Well, you can screw off if you think I’m suiting up and heading out there with you.”
“I wasn’t,” Ward laughed.
“Gout,” she said.
“I didn’t ask.”
“In case you got any ideas.”
Ward put the tea down and Otto switched laps, jumping off and up onto Betty’s thighs. He turned onto his back and started batting at her hands as she dangled them over his belly, her fingers like the tentacles of an octopus, gently flailing for him to play with.
“I just need a place to sleep, recharge, get my head straight — figure out my next move. Maybe reach out to Cootes if you still know how?”
“We don’t keep in contact, but I know a dead drop that might still get picked up.”
“That’ll work.”
“Anything else you need?”
“A working computer, an encrypted communicator, and a comfy bed for the night.”
She laughed. It sounded wet in her chest. Ward tried to keep his smile as she flicked her hand toward him. “You can have the couch. And as for the rest…” She tried to pull herself up, but the effort was too much and the cat wasn’t intent on moving. She sat back and sighed, pointing to the bedroom through a doorway on Ward’s right. “Back of the closet. Six, four, seven, nine, two, two.”
Ward got up and walked slowly over, his body shouting at him as he did. The numbers from Sadler flashed in his mind as he walked. One, seven, eight, three, one, two, one, eight. He still had no idea what the hell they were for.
He grunted, getting down onto a knee, cradling his ribs as he did, and opened the closet, pulling out some shoeboxes and a crate full of photo albums.
Once exposed, he ran his hand along the back panel until he found a little hole in the bottom at the corner that looked like a miscut of the piece of wood to the untrained eye. He hooked his finger in and lifted, sending the panel backward and up on concealed runners.
He pulled out a dusty black crate and hauled it up, carrying it back into the living room. Neither Betty or Otto had moved an inch.
The crate hit the coffee table and made the cup of tea rattle on the top. Ward sat and took a big mouthful, reveling in the sugar boost, and dusted off the locking panel.
He ran his fingers over it and a keypad came to life on the screen. He punched in the code Betty had given him and the latches fell open, but the lid didn’t lift itself like they normally did.
“This been here a while?” Ward asked, looking up as he reached for it.
“Long as I have. Luckily, I never needed it,” Betty replied absently, still playing with Otto. A thin coating of skin flakes had built up on her knees.
Ward pulled it open and watched as the layers separated themselves on hinges. It was as much a go-bag as a tac-kit. Betty’d had it in case the Bureau had ever come knocking. Now, it would finally be put to use.
On the top layer, a lightweight holster was set into impact foam, along with a thigh strap. Below it, set in the material was an all-black SIG Sauer P226 — a favored pistol of the UN Special Forces on Earth — with a suppressor to match. It would do just fine for Ward’s needs.
Under that was a tactical knife, a stocky little fixed-blade with a razor sharp cutting edge and curved handle. It would fit into the back of the holster while the pistol went on the thigh.
There were also three magazines and a box of ammunition nestled in there, too, as well as an AIA encrypted communicator, hacking fob and a spoofer.
“What, no grenades?” Ward laughed.
“I can whip you up some thermite if you find me some rust shavings and aluminum foil,” Betty retorted, scratching Otto’s belly.
On the second shelf down, there was a first aid kit and rations. On the left some wound-sealant, antiviral and anti-bacterial capsules, water purification cylinders, painkillers, and a bunch of other stuff. On the other side were ration packs, a water condensing kit, and a homing beacon.
On the final shelf were clothes. Shirts and jackets, a graphene ballistic vest, a thermal poncho and emergency sleeping back that doubled as a tarp. Everything you’d need to escape into the plains and hide out until the AIA came to pick you up.
All in all, this was a defensive pack, and most of the stuff Ward hoped he wouldn’t need. Still, he wasn’t taking any chances. Some of the clothes wouldn’t fit — they were packed for Betty — still, they probably wouldn’t fit her anymore, either. He could get her to send out for some underwear and a new shirt, anyway, have a drone drop it off. No one would be any the wiser.
“You mind if I take this?” Ward asked, closing the lid and sitting back on the couch.
“Sure. Just don’t tell them where you got it. Don’t think I’ll need it anymore.” She huffed. “If they came for me now, I’d probably just tell them to get it over with, and to look after this little guy when I’m gone.” She grabbed Otto by the stomach and he latched onto her wrist playfully, purring like an antique lawnmower all the while.
Ward let out a long breath and lay sideways on the couch, kicking off his shoes.
“You hungry?”
“I could eat,” Ward said, his eyes already half closed.
“Good, then you can cook.”
“I’m not much of a chef.”
“It’s that or cleaning out Otto’s litter box. Your choice.”
Ward groaned and sat upright. “Spaghetti all right?”
That night, despite them having not been washed, Betty hung a pair of black underpants with white polka dots on them out to dry. There was a line in the alleyway behind her building and a pulley system to get clothes out into the gap.
While she was doing it, Ward slipped out to the location where the dead drop was supposed to be picked up — if anyone was still checking that was — and put a handwritten note through the mail slot of an off-world mailbox. They were mail lockers, so to speak, for people traveling around the system to have their mail forwarded to while they were off the planet. Using them was an old AIA tactic for operatives behind enemy lines. Mailbox-banks like this existed all over the OCA. Hundreds of boxes, thousands sometimes, arranged in a huge wall. Go to the terminal, find an unused box, tap in your account information, and rent it for as long as you needed. And because they were technically owned, getting into them was near impossible without a court order, even for the SB.
Ward traced his way across the boxes until he found t
he column he was looking for and pulled the lever, cycling the lockers down toward him. They chugged along, down on the right until they hit the bottom, shuffled one column to the left and went back up. He kept going until he saw the one he wanted, 4155, and then stopped the conveyor belt. He pushed the letter into the slot, ran the conveyor to make it disappear back up into the eaves of the building, and then left. The note had read:
It’s me. I’m alive, but made. Her father is crooked — behind the shooting. She knows you by name but doesn’t know your identity in the capital. Still, I don’t think anyone’s safe now. Be careful.
I’m going to stop the third shooter. Reach out if you need to. Was too risky to try and set a meet. Communicator code 0ACF99V.
Good luck. And sorry —
The code pertained to the encrypted communicator he’d had from Betty’s, but the code wasn’t the number — Cootes could pull that off the AIA database. Though, Ward didn’t expect to be contacted. He figured Cootes would already be off the planet, along with every other high profile AIA operative. It’s why he hadn’t tried to reach out directly, and why he hadn’t used any names — his own, or Cootes’, or even Erica’s. It’d get back to him and he’d know what it all meant. Or, if it was intercepted, it wouldn’t be as easy as just reading it and knowing who the hell it was talking about.
It wasn’t much of a code to crack, but it was something. At least.
Ward had stared up at the bank of mailboxes for a few seconds before he left, wondering how many of them were used for nefarious activities. How many were dead drops? How many contained drugs, or guns, or other illegal things? How many were genuinely filled with mail, and how many were full and waiting for owners that would never return for one reason or another?
Back out on the streets, sometime before dawn, Ward walked quickly, a knee-length coat covering the pistol strapped to his thigh, the knife and extra magazines running along his lower back, a spoofer under his chin, his ribs strapped up tight, his brain whirring on a cocktail of anti-inflammatory and pain meds, and a don’t-screw-with-me look on his face.