Thirty-five: Samarkand

Hansen wasn’t high up in the Chamber, but he was high enough to know what had happened in Kathmandu. He had heard about the success of Blackout, then the removal of all parties by Tangible Stream. He had been part of the recovery team, and now he was part of the section created to learn the truth.

And in Samarkand he was going to find it. Or at least some small part of it.

A source had come to light, an element of the Tangible Stream group from Kathmandu. He had a storied history. A gift so perfect made the Chamber nervous, but what he had shared so far had been corroborated as best it could. He appeared to be a legitimate source.

But there was no way Hansen—or any operative of the Shadow Chamber—was going to walk into a meeting like that blind. Not a chance. Hansen had four heavy lifters in the crowd at the Registan, the conveniently public place where the meet was to take place. Four thugs to watch his back made him feel comfortable. The sniper watching the main square made him feel invincible.

Hansen, this is Comm. The voice spoke in his head. The entire operation was connected though a parapsychic network. Monitor is on line and feeding data to your team.

Understood. Though he only had to think it, Hansen tended to sub-vocalize. Alert me when the target arrives.

It wouldn’t be long. The Burmese had said the source was punctual. They had said Rudi the Russian kept his appointments. They also said that they wanted Rudi dead.

Once he had provided them every scrape of information they could squeeze out of his brain, the Chamber would happily do their friends in Myanmar that favour.

His thoughts on the meet and its consequences for Rudi the Russian, Hansen didn’t have eyes for the three structures around him, the intricate carvings, the tile and colours. He was oblivious to the beauty that brought so many to this place. He had no idea of their significance, of their history. To him, it was background. It was nothing.

He hadn’t been bothering to watch the crowd—no point with Monitor scanning—so when he saw the target, he couldn’t help but straighten. Rudi looked fitter than in the picture the Burmese had provided. Still beefy, he looked solid. The breeze roused and tousled his blone hair, as thin as in the photos but no longer military short. Those intent gray eyes searched the sparse crowd.

Another man walked with Rudi, this one with dark hair and a swimmer’s build. He had an easy smile and walked with a bit of a swagger. He didn’t watch the crowd, didn’t seem aware of his surroundings at all. Not a bodyguard, for certain, so what was he?

Monitor, I have eyes on target. Can you confirm?

I have nothing, Hansen. Are you certain it’s the Russian?

It looks just like him. Hansen began to search for exits. The two were walking straight to him.

There’s a dead zone that seems to moving toward–. Monitor said no more.

Comm, this is Hansen, I’ve lost Monitor. Comm? Comm? Anyone?

“No one will be answering you, Mr. Hansen.” Rudi the Russian’s English had only the hint of an accent. “My associate, Mr. Sinclair, is my own little cone of silence.”

“A Get Smart reference?” The man Rudi had called Sinclair chuckled. “I like working with you.”

Hansen felt some relief when he noted his four minders moving through the crowd. They had their hands under their jackets, on their weapons.

“Call off the dogs.” Rudi tapped Hansen’s chest. “You’ve been marked.”

Hansen looked down and saw the red dot of a laser on his chest. “I can’t call them off. You took me off the network.”

“Don’t you have like a hand signal or something?” Sinclair asked. “Like steal third or something?”

Rudi put his hand under his jacket, and Hansen saw the Yarygin Grach pistol there. Hansen gestured to the minders, and they got the message. They didn’t peel off, but they stopped advancing.

“Very good, Mr. Hansen,” Rudi said. “If you continue to cooperate, you will likely make it through the day alive.”

“Who are you people?” A stupid question, and Hansen knew it, but it had slipped out.

“Tangible Stream, of course.” Rudi patted Hansen’s shoulder. “But you already knew that.”

Sinclair put on a pair of sunglasses. “By the way, your sniper team? You can cross them off your Christmas card list. They’ve met a couple of friends of mine named Becca and Boyle. If your minders try to stop us from walking out of here, they won’t be joining you at the company bowling tourney on Tuesdays.”

“Bowling?” Hansen cleared his throat. He recognized that he had no control over this situation.

“Mr. Sinclair’s humour is opaque at best,” Rudi said. “But we will be leaving, and you will be joining us.”

“Yes, I insist,” said a woman’s voice behind him.

Hansen turned. The speaker had fine, fair hair pulled back in a bun. She had an athletic build and an attractive face. Hansen recognized the device in her left ear—one of the Blackout devices. She must have noticed where his eyes had gone and she tapped it.

“Our own brand, with some special modifications,” she said. “Now, Mr. Hansen, we are going to walk out of here and into a waiting vehicle. A friend of ours named the Bedouin would like to talk to you about the Shadow Chamber. We hear you know all sorts of interesting things, and you’re going to be very happy to tell us everything.”

Hansen knew he should be saying no to that, yet he couldn’t help but say yes. He really wanted to help these people, and they deserved to know everything he did about the Shadow Chamber.

After only a few footsteps he heard shouting behind him, then shooting. The shooting ended quickly. Craning his neck to get a look, he saw his four minders, two lying on the ground, two falling—all had guns in their hands, their blood staining the ground.

It didn’t bother him. Not one bit. He was looking forward to meeting the Bedouin.

-The End?-

Thirty-four: the Testimony of Madison Sinclair

Boyle, Rudi, Cody and Kane were all there, looking like they were ready to go hard, but they weren’t moving at all. The Bedouin, he turned to me—and I have to say he looked pretty freaked out—and he said: “We have a problem, Mr. Sinclair.”

And it was the guy who was standing there who was the problem. I would have known that no matter what the Bedouin said. This guy, he was in a short-sleeve hospital gown, bed sheets wrapped around his waist like a bare ass embarrassed him or something. He had no hair—no hair that I could see—and the IV tubes were still taped to his arms, but they’re hanging down and dragging along the ground. It’s weird, you know, that he pulled them loose from their bags or bottles or whatever, but not from his arms. That must have been some fucking good tape.

The Lady stands up from her place by the door and walks over to the Dude. These two aren’t from my team, they aren’t from the Vault. These two are CIA or NSA or some other bullshit US spook show. She whispers something into his ear. He’s looking down at his hands on the desk as she whispers, nodding.

He looks up at me, pushes his glasses up to rest at the bridge of his nose. “Can we keep the language at a professional level, Mr. Sinclair?”

I tell him I can. It’s no problem. I don’t say I want this done and I want to get the fuck out of here, but that’s the truth of it.

So, there’s the guy, and there’s the team, and there’s me and the Bedouin and we seem to be the only ones who can move or do much. It’s not that time stopped for everyone else or anything like that. I could still see the blood dripping from the cuts on the other guys. I think Cody got tagged in the shoulder, just a graze but it was bleeding like a mother– . . . it was bleeding a lot.

“Where were you, Mr. Sinclair? You were inside the base? Inside the . . .” He flips through some pages on the file in front of him. “Inside the station?”

I affirm that. I was inside the station.

He taps the page with his index finger. Nervous, yes, but also searching. He’d done that whenever he tried to formulate some question he thought would mess me up, catch me in a lie. Real paranoid cat. “Could you describe it please?”

I ask if that’s important.

Another smile, an indulgent smile. “Describe it, please, Mr. Sinclair.”

I stood inside a large building, some kind of warehouse. It didn’t have any windows, but lots of hanging lights, fluorescent ones. Crates, boxes and counters filled the space. The equipment that I could see, the equipment that was unpacked, looked like hospital equipment. I saw drug bottles, IV drip bags, monitors, cushions, and restraints. Plastic hangings, like curtains, cut off certain areas, so I couldn’t see the entire interior, but there were no walls, nothing permanent. It was as open as an aircraft hanger, and looked about as large.

And there were bodies. The ones I could see, the ones close by, they hadn’t been shot. It didn’t look like they had been beaten or physically assaulted in any way. Maybe this guy had just shut them down. It worried me that he may have done so permanently.

I remember thinking: can this guy kill me with his mind?

The guy looked at me, then he looks at the Bedouin, then he looked back at me. He smiled, and he was missing a few teeth. The others looked pretty yellowy. Someone wasn’t much into oral hygiene or whatever.

The Bedouin talked to him real calm, very slow and precise, like talking down a jumper. “Mr. Lerner, we’re here to help you.”

The Bedouin seemed to know a lot of information that he never shared, like this guy’s name.

Mr. Lerner frowned. He flexed one fist, clenching it then releasing it. “You turned off the machines? You stopped the drips?”

I would have lied. I would have said: yes we did, Lerner. We totally saved your ass.

I clear my throat. She doesn’t chastise me or rise to say something. I figure it’s cool.

The Bedouin didn’t roll like that. “No, Mr. Lerner, though I suspect our ambush of Bracebridge may have contributed to your freedom in some manner. It seems the snatch and grab instilled some panic. Someone got sloppy, perhaps.”

Lerner looked down at his arms and yanked out one of the IV tubes. He held it, looking at it, then turned to the Bedouin. “Someone did. Someone got real sloppy. You don’t know who you’re dealing with, do you.”

“We know it’s a rogue faction of the CIA.” The Bedouin spoke with what I’d call calm assurance. His voice remained level, casual.

I, on the other hand, was starting to lose it. I still had the AKM in my hand, and I was very close to trying a quickdraw on this guy. I figured I would put a bullet somewhere, anywhere, on him, and his concentration would break. Boyle and the team would break free of the control and end this piece of . . . garbage.

But the Bedouin turned and looked me straight in the eye, like he knew exactly what was going through my head. “No closer, please, Mr. Sinclair. Mr. Lerner is aware of your particular talent, and I worry what his reaction might be should you get too close.”

“You’re Madison then?” Lerner pulled out another IV tube as he considered me. He could have been sizing me up for his butterfly collection. “Yeah, you’re not coming any closer or Heather and Willow are both going to die from aneurysms. You got that?”

I put the AKM on the ground and held up my hands. “I’ve absolutely got that. With outstanding clarity.”

His eyes narrowed for a moment then. They got kind of unfocused. “She thinks you’ve got a thing for her. She thinks you’re smart and good-looking, but you’re like a little brother. No joy there, pal. The British shooter, though. She’ll do you. Buy her a few drinks—”

The Bedouin interjected, sounding exasperated, like an adult dealing with two kids. “Is this really the time or place for that?”

Lerner ripped off the tape securing the last of the IV tubes. “Like I said, you don’t know who you’re dealing with. And I don’t mean the Shadow Chamber. That’s what they call themselves, you know. The Shadow Chamber. Not just CIA, but that doesn’t really matter, does it? What matters here is me.”

That made the Bedouin shrug, like he wasn’t buying it. “You? You’re David Lerner. You were born in—”

Lerner laughed. “Not David Lerner. Not born in New York. Not any of it. Not any more than you’re Ahmed Zeghida. And no, I haven’t read the file, so you’re little trick’s not going to work.”

I think Lerner was trying to faze the Bedouin, to get him jittery, panicky. Dude didn’t know the guy. I mean, I didn’t really know the guy either, but I knew enough. So the Bedouin asks the most pedestrian question I could imagine, but also the most important. “If you’re not Lerner, than who are you?”

The smile that came to the guy’s lips made me think of a serial killer or that Nazi from the Spielberg movie. “I’m Blackout.”

With a kind of paternal smile I remember seeing on teachers back in school, the Bedouin shook his head slowly. “Blackout is the name of the project. That’s not your name. That’s not who you are.”

“But it is who I am. It’s what I’ve become. I’m happy being Blackout. Blackout is a god.”

That kind of got me worried. “So you’re a god?”

Lerner waved off the comment as though unimportant, but he did answer. “Compared to most people? Sure I am. Compared to you two? Maybe not exactly a god, but who has the upper hand here?”

The Bedouin opened his arms wide, welcoming, expansively. “And what will you do now? Now that you are, for all intents and purposes, a god?”

The smile left Lerner’s face. He got real cold, real focused. “I’m going to get revenge.”

Made sense to me. I assume it made sense to the Bedouin. “Against the CIA?”

“Against the Shadow Chamber, yes.”

That’s when the Bedouin took a step forward, holding out his hand. “Then join us. Come with us. You don’t need to do all this. We can help you. We can avoid collateral damage. No innocents need to be hurt, we’ll just gut this Shadow Chamber. You seem to know a lot about me. At least enough about me. So you should know I can be ruthless when necessary. I am ready to be ruthless.”

The cold didn’t leave Lerner. The whole speech didn’t seem to hit him at all. “I don’t think I’ll be joining you. Revenge is step one. That’s just so I feel better. I’m not out to destroy Shadow Chamber. What would be the use in that? Why destroy it when I can run it. And Tangible Stream as well.” He stopped then, looked down at himself and started to smile again. “I need a suit, you know? Or at least some pants.”

The Bedouin’s hand had dropped down to his side, no longer beckoning. “You won’t be running the Stream.”

Lerner’s eyes moved around the interior, maybe looking for something. Maybe looking for pants. “Because you two are here? Because you’re going to stop me?” He was looking at the Bedouin again. “I can get your buddies here to shoot you. I can kill your buddies if you don’t shoot yourself. I have a lot of options, so let’s not forget who’s running the show.”

The Bedouin rubbed his face, pinched the bridge of his nose, like he was getting tired of all this. “Samson thought the same way you did. He didn’t want to play ball.”

That got Lerner’s attention. He frowned, his nostrils flaring. “Are you saying he’s dead?”

The Bedouin said, “I’m not saying he is dead, but he has been removed from the picture.”

“Are you threatening me? Do you think you are going to pull your Glocks and go to town? That’s not going to happen, Mr. Big Bad Bedouin. Your hands go anywhere near your guns, and Cascade is the first one to blow a blood vessel in the brain. Boyle is next.”

Presenting his hands, the Bedouin said, “I’m not going for my Glocks. My hands are right here. But I didn’t need my Glocks with Samson, either. He got tripped up with the semantic cue. That’s not going to happen with you, I know. You didn’t read the file. The thing is, how do you suppose the semantic cue works. Do you think that’s parapsych? Is that something you could do?”

Lerner just stared at the Bedouin. His mouth hung slightly open, his eyes kind of unfocused. I didn’t want to move, didn’t want to draw attention to myself, but I wanted to get my hand on my SIG.

And the Bedouin just kept talking, his voice as smooth as butter, smooth as ice cream, like yoghurt smooth. “It’s not parapsych. It’s magic. Like hypnotism, but a lot more complex. Hypnotism is quite easy in comparison. Quite easy indeed.”

And at the same time, I heard the Bedouin’s voice in the ear piece, not so smooth. “Take the shot.”

I’m happy to say that I didn’t hesitate. I drew my SIG. Just as I had him lined up, it was like Lerner figured out what was going on. The slackness left his face. He looked . . . looked aware again.

Then I put a couple of bullets in his head, then two in his chest, then another in his head. I got him in the shoulder as he was dropping, a couple more went through his arm and into his chest because the body was falling and I kept shooting. I emptied the magazine into him, ejected it then got another one in. By the time I had chambered a round, everyone was moving again.

The guys just kind of looked around, maybe looking for a target, maybe trying to orient themselves. The Bedouin ignored Lerner’s body. He came over to me, gave me a smile, then patted my arm. I had my SIG in hand, arms extended, ready to shoot. In my defence, I was observing excellent trigger discipline.

The Bedouin said something like “It’s done, Mr. Sinclair.” But I have a hard time remembering exactly what he said.

The Dude nods, looks real grave, real serious. “But the interference, the Kathmandu Silence as you call it, continued?”

I tell him we tried unhacked cells, and nothing. Radios, nothing. Blackout was supposed to be the cause, but things didn’t clear up. I tell him we were getting fed a lot of information in the field from a lot of sources, sources we hadn’t and couldn’t vet at the time. I tell him we’re continuing to work on it, the Vault’s working on it, that there are other theories, other studies. I tell him it’s above my pay-grade, outside my expertise, in the hands of better men than I.

He’s totally unimpressed. He looks to the Lady. She’s staring at me, staring hard. I ignore her. He turns back to me. “One last question, Mr. Sinclair. After your evac from Kathmandu, have you had contact with the Bedouin or any of the other operatives of Tangible Stream?”

I tell him no.

I lie.

Concluded in Thirty-five: Samarkand

Thirty-three: Station

Mads holstered his SIG. He couldn’t believe the action had ended. Everything had passed in a blur, like fast-forwarding through a DVD. Heather leaned against the SUV blocker she had driven, breathing hard, C8 carbine held loose. Mads slid over the hood of the wrecked sedan, mimicking Boyle’s slick move a moment earlier.

Then the Bedouin’s voice came over the comm. “Incoming trouble. Contact imminent.”

“Bundle up the package.” Boyle handed Mads a pair of flex-cuffs. “It seems this is all far from over.”

Doing as he was told, Mads watched Scott reload the RPG-7. That would be one of two shots left. Mads’ heart started to race. Heather reloaded her C8, and Rudi did the same with his Vintorez silenced sniper rifle—the VSS, the ‘Thread-cutter.’ Foxtrot—the guy the Bedouin had called Bracebridge—secured, Mads had his SIG out. They all stood in comparative safety behind a wall of three, wrecked vehicles.

The three SUVs came screaming up the road, lights off. It didn’t matter. The streetlights provided illumination. Scott took quick aim with the RPG. He launched, and that was enough to make two of the drivers panic. The third went for the nice controlled stop. He had training. The two panicky SUVs started to skid, one rotating, the other careening off the road.

The RPG round slammed into the rotating vehicle just above the rear wheel housing, halting the rotation, blowing open the rear door and shattering the rear windows.

The vehicles didn’t have armour. Good to know.

A fourth, then a fifth vehicle appeared. Scott launched his last RPG. It impacted on one of the recent arrivals, blowing out the windscreen, sending it swerving off the road and into a building.

Mads scooped an AKM up off the ground. He went through the dead minder’s body—ignoring the blood, ignoring the gore—grabbing magazines. The bullets started flying, and in extensive quantity. He heard them striking all around him—against the ruined van, against the wall, against the street.

“Somebody’s emptied the Treasury to totally fuck us up.” He punctuated this by putting rounds relatively close to a gunman who foolishly exited the smashed up SUV on the wrong side.

Mads had minimal training with an AKM, so he wasn’t terribly effective. Scott took care of the target for him with two tightly spaced rounds from his G36C carbine.

“This is a fucking mess.” Scott pivoted his aim and put down a second gunman who had braced his weapon on the SUV front hood.

“We’ve got, what, fifteen badguys?” Heather watched the approach from the rear, ready to tag off when Scott needed to reload. “We stay here, we are getting chewed up.”

“We need to secure the package.” Cody—Mads had a trick for telling the two of them apart—delivered a stream of suppressive fire and Kane—the one without sideburns!—slammed home a fresh magazine.

“No shit.” Scott actually laughed as he spoke, seeking a new target. “But we’re pretty much cut off from the only serviceable vehicle, and your boss doesn’t want to withdraw.”

The Bedouin proved much more effective with a recovered AKM than Mads. “I am telling you, they are preparing to burn the op. Everything is getting torched, including Blackout.”

“Even with this man, Blackout, dead, there will be records.” Rudi lay flat, firing under the van, careful not to present an outline.

“Loading.” Scott fell back as Heather moved to replace him. The empty mag dropped from his weapon and he slid in a new one. “We are not going to get to their location and we are not going to survive here much longer.”

“Their manpower is limited.” Cascade stood over Bracebridge, her Beretta in hand. “Listen, I caught the thought, saw it pretty plain. If we don’t get in there now, there’ll be nothing to get.”

Boyle moved to replace Heather as she reloaded. “And all this will be for nothing.”

“Newsflash, we don’t have the ammunition for an assault.” Heather had slid home a mag, and only had three more on her vest.

Cascade tapped the last of the recovered AKMs with her foot. “We find more.”

“We’re on the clock, people,” Scott said. “Police should be here shortly, and after that, we’ll have the security forces on our ass.”

“Then we must move quickly.” Rudi got to one knee, sighting through the ruined sedan. “I volunteer for the assault. Boyle, you and your people will go, yes? Then we leave Foxtrot with the Canadians and we make the assault.”

“Fuck that, Rudi.” Scott put his hand on Rudi’s shoulder. “You looking to get killed?”

“Unless you believe that Cascade is lying, there is ample justification for attempting an assault.” Rudi patted Scott’s hand. “Don’t worry, I fully believe in my own immortality.”

Mads kind of assumed that no matter how stupid it might sound, they were storming the main base. “If we’re all in, what about Foxtrot?”

Boyle lifted the bound prisoner to his feet, using the flex-cuffs. The body hung limp. “He’s out for a good hour. We finish this, we come back for him later. We don’t? Well, he dodges that bullet.”

“So we’re doing this?” Heather’s question might have been rhetorical. It might have been something she asked herself.

Scott, though, answered it. “Looks like it.”

“Do we have a plan, at least?” Mads asked.

“Move fast, shoot straight, pray to God, and cover me.” Boyle got up and charged forward.

Everyone with a weapon put down fire, suppressing the opposition. Reaching the next point of minimal cover—a building doorway—Boyle ducked in, then laid down some fire of his own. Scott went next, actually leap-frogging past Boyle to the alley mouth that had sheltered alpha team during the snatch and grab.

Mads looked over at Heather, beside him, proving much more effective with her weapon. “What am I doing here?”

She smiled back. “I don’t know, taking fire? Offering a tempting target?”

“Tempting target? Screw that. I’m gone.” And Mads started his run.

He heard the bullets. He felt the chips of cement, the chunks of brick, torn loose by impacts. It was like running through a rainstorm of shattered glass. He could feel it cutting, cutting his face, his arms, dust streaking his face.

Crashing into the wall of the doorway blew the air out of Mads’ lungs. Without comment, without even a glance, Boyle took off. Mads got to one knee, braced the AKM at his shoulder, and fired on any target he saw. He didn’t go cyclical, because he couldn’t control the weapon on automatic. Instead, he squeezed off round after round, his magazine dry by the time Heather reached him.

She tried to provide some support for Boyle and Scott as Mads slapped in a new magazine. They had almost reached the line of vehicles the badguys used for cover. Cody and Kane passed the doorway, weapons at their shoulders as they ran, putting down rounds wherever needed.

“Those two are machines.” Mads had reloaded.

“Like a pair of pink rabbits.” With a wink, Heather followed the machines.

The Bedouin arrived at the doorway, but before exchanging pleasantries, Mads ran. Heather had bypassed the safety of the alley mouth—maybe because the machines had claimed the space, and had almost reached Scott and Boyle.

She took a hit that threw her off balance. She careened into the wall. She dropped. Mads shouted. Bullets started hitting close to her. She tried to rise. Scott almost reached her at the same time as Kane. Cody shielded her with his crouched body. He emptied his M4 carbine. It dropped on its harness and his Glock pistol seemed to magically appear in his hand, steadily firing. Mads slid to a stop, got under the arm that Kane presented, and started hauling toward Boyle, standing inside an alley.

He heard her breathing, heard her gasps and groans.

“Son of a bitch, you scared the shit out of me.” Mads almost laughed.

If Heather tried to answer, Mads didn’t hear it. He got her to Boyle. He couldn’t really stop, inertia carrying him. They collapsed into the alley, Mads turning to let Heather land on him. Scott, Kane and Cody all piled in, everyone reaching for fresh magazines.

“Last one.” Scott said.

Cody turned to detach Heather’s C8 from its harness. He took that and her remaining magazine, and put them beside Scott’s knee. He got back to shooting.

“How’s Heather?” The Bedouin asked over the comm.

Kane finished a preliminary examination. “Kevlar stopped it. Must have been a ricochet.”

“Felt fuckin’ full-on.” Heather gasped the words out between tortured breaths. “Think I busted a rib or two.”

Mads began to rise. Kane grabbed his arm and impelled him down. “Stay with her.”

“Nobody’s stayin’” Heather dragged herself up, using the wall. She struggled with the words, but seemed to be getting her breath back. “We don’t have the people.”

“We can hear the police on their way.” That was Willow on the comm. “But the opposition’s getting light. Zulu advancing.”

“Give them cover,” the Bedouin said in Mads’ earpiece. “We need to break this and move on the station.”

Cody and Kane went prone, putting plenty of rounds into the SUV and anyone stupid enough to try to take a shot at them.

“We’re strung out like Christmas lights,” Scott said. “This is brutal.”

Boyle gestured further down the street with his HK53 short assault rifle. “We only have two more blocks to the target.”

“Only?” Scott knelt by Kane and delivreed three controlled shots.

“They’ve got a—” Willow’s comment cut out.

“Willow’s down.” That was Rudi. “It’s in the neck. Bleeding bad.”

“I’m on the way.” Kane got up and started back up the street.

“Ah shit.” Boyle dropped to the place Kane had vacated.

“We’ve got the police to the rear.” Kane’s words came though hard breathing over the comm. “I can see the lights. A few uniforms. They’re staying back. I’m at Willow.”

The Bedouin and Cascade reached the alley. The Bedouin reached under his jacket and produced two fragmentation grenades. “Who’s got a good arm?”

Cody grabbed one and Scott grabbed the other.

“Over under,” said Cody.

“Rudi, Kane, stand by to support a rush,” the Bedouin said.

Cody threw his grenade overhand, tossing it high. Scott threw his underhand, like bowling, the grenade banging and rolling under the vehicle cover. The grenades detonated all but simultaneously. Cody, Boyle, and Scott rushed the vehicles.

The Bedouin tapped Mads’ shoulder. “We’re the second wave.”

Mads opened his mouth to speak, but saw Scott’s head snap back, saw the blood, watched the body crumple to the ground. Cody and Boyle didn’t slow. Mads froze. This wasn’t Heather, down but trying to get back up. This wasn’t Willow, shot in the neck but alive. Mads saw the wound, saw a good quarter of Scott’s head removed, saw the blood and brains on the street.

The Bedouin charged toward the vehicles, weapon raised. Mads didn’t. He couldn’t. He stared at Scott, at the corpse that had been Scott, laying there in a dirty street in Kathmandu.

The fighting apparently over, Boyle, Cody and the Bedouin returned to Scott’s body. They had some discussion. It only lasted a few heartbeats, then Cody and Boyle were moving, the Bedouin returning to the alley.

Rudi and Kane arrived, supporting Willow. She had a large bandage on her neck, but she looked dazed. She had her weapon hanging from her shoulder. She detached herself from her bearers, standing straight.

The Bedouin examined Willow’s bandage, and then looked her in the eye. “Sort this out. We’ve got work.”

She nodded. Rudi, Kane and the Bedouin left, running toward the target location. Mads watched them. Then his eyes returned to Scott. Cascade put her hand on his upper arm. “Help Heather and Willow.”

Mads turned to her. “And you?”

With a sad little smile, she nodded down the street, toward the base. “Off to the station.”

With a glance to Heather, who had started to walk out to Scott’s body with Willow, Mads sighed. He had to do this. “I’m with you.”

He and Cascade set off at a jog. The Bedouin and company had a block on them. It looked like Boyle and Cody had reached the target. A truck parked out front took some fire, then the two ducked into the building. Another block and the Bedouin’s team followed them in.

The streets were empty. The buildings around them showed no lights. It was like Kathmandu closed its eyes to keep out the visions of the little war within it.

Three bodies lay just outside the open garage door, illuminated by the light streaming out of it. The truck’s windscreen had shattered, the driver—an Uzi sub-machine gun still held in his hand—slumped over the wheel.

Cascade turned to Mads, face pale, eyes wide. “Oh no.”

And she froze.

Mads felt it, felt the pushing on the air around him, the world compressing around him, tightening against his skin.

Parapsych.

He went to the open garage door. Rudi, Cody, Boyle and Kane all stood slightly crouched, weapons aimed at the man standing before them. The man wore a hospital gown, a sheet wrapped around his waist, and IV tubes hanging from his arms. As he looked at Mads, he raised an eyebrow.

The Bedouin turned and met Mads’ eyes. “We have a problem, Mr. Sinclair.”

Continued in Thirty-four: the Testimony of Madison Sinclair

Thirty-two: En Route

Heather gripped the wheel of the SUV. Hastily acquired by Gurung and his network of contacts, it had only minimal upgrading and no armour. She felt vulnerable.

With the engine off, she waited on a small side-street. The target, so far, had revealed relatively good security instincts. He varied his schedules, he varied his routes, and he maintained bodyguards—unobtrusively. He did all the right things. It wouldn’t help him. They knew where he spent much of his day.

And that evening, they would get their target.

This was the night the team would get answers. At least, that’s what Heather hoped. It came down to this one guy, this one person. He had the answers.

Or so the Bedouin thought.

She wasn’t certain about that one. Sure, he came from the Stream, and Heather had to admit that she had grown to trust Boyle, Willow, and—almost by default—Cascade, even if they didn’t share their real names. Still, the Bedouin was different. He had a reputation, a mythology really, and the one thing the last few days had taught her was to take nothing at face value.

Looking at the photos the previous night, when he had arrived, the Bedouin’s finger had stabbed down to impale one figure. “That’s Bracebridge. I’m sure of it.”

No one else knew the name.

The Bedouin had passed the photo on to the two shooters he had brought with him: Cody and Kane, two nice, military-grade packages who stuck tight to their boss. “He was a CIA black ops handler. Not an agent or a contractor, mind you, but a handler. He did the planning and ran the operations, but he didn’t get his hands dirty. He ran a lot of ops in Pakistan and India, sometimes in South-East Asia. He disappeared in the summer of 2003. He just moved off the board. I hadn’t seen any reporting on him again, until now.”

Heather’s earpiece crackled to static-y life, speaking with Boyle’s voice. “Stand-by. Target exiting location.”

In India, she and Madison had passed on the information obtained so far about the silence-piercing devices, including the parapsych apparatus. Within 24 hours, they had a full suite of equipment, from tactical radios to sat-phones. She hadn’t asked about the contact. She assumed it was all part of the Stream.

“Target is in vehicle.” Boyle’s words came even, devoid of passion or interest. “Driver and two minders. Vehicle in motion.”

“We should take him now, today if possible.” The Bedouin had spoken directly to Heather, as though she led the team. Boyle had stood there, observing. “There are signs that they are preparing to leave, right?”

Heather had shrugged. “That’s what it looks like. Boxes and equipment are leaving, not being delivered. Our guess is that Foxtrot, the guy you call Bracebridge, is overseeing the shutdown of a station.”

“That would make sense,” the Bedouin had said. “Samson’s removal was bound to have repercussions.”

“This guy, he’s part of the rogue CIA?” Mads had taken one of the photos out of Kane’s—or was it Cody’s?—hands. “Jeez, between him and Hitch, they need to work on their recruitment.”

The subject the team had labelled Foxtrot—the man the Bedouin identified as Bracebridge—looked like a middle manager. He had relatively nice clothes. He looked soft.

But then what was that about a book and a cover?

“Do you have a plan?” Rudi had asked.

Heather had immediately noted a level of reticence about Rudi after the Bedouin had arrived. The two had spoken privately, but that had changed nothing.

The Bedouin had pursed his lips as he took a slow breath. He had then shook his head. “No, not exactly, though were this my operation, I would take him en route from the target location.”

He had said it like the operation had not become his the moment he had arrived. Boyle, to whom everyone had deferred, deferred to the Bedouin.

Taking a target in motion was tricky. Of course, the first step was to stop that motion. She started the SUV, letting it idle.

“Target acquired.” Willow’s voice came from the earpiece. Heather couldn’t hear the report of Willow’s SR-25 sniper’s rifle. “Two rounds delivered. Negative results.”

Boyle didn’t miss a beat. His voice came on immediately. “Alternate plan in action. Blockers on deck.”

Rudi gave the sedan’s location and direction over their communication link. The target seemed to follow what the team had tagged ‘route 4.’ The assault teams, Alpha and Zulu, had to get into place for this to work. The Bedouin and his Beta team—Cascade and Willow—should have swung in behind Rudi as soon as they had failed to stop the vehicle. They had less than a minute to intercept the target.

Heather threw the SUV into gear. The side street connected with most of the mapped routes, which is why she had waited there. In about 20 seconds, she pulled onto the route 4 and could see the vehicle moving toward her—a dark, European, full-sized sedan. Its speed told her that someone inside it had noted Willow’s attempted engine perforation. The target had tradecraft, and would know what that meant.

Past the sedan’s lights, she could see those of the van Rudi drove not far behind. Surely the minders inside that vehicle knew the van meant them ill-will. Did they recognize the threat of the SUV? And would Heather’s hastily improvised safety rig protect her from the worst of the impact?

She didn’t have any further time to muse. Just before the target’s vehicle passed her, she yanked hard on the wheel, punching into the front-end of the sedan, crunching through the wheel housing. Her restraints held. The reinforced SUV didn’t accordion, though everything ahead of the grill had shattered. The van ploughed into the rear of the car, lifting it off the pavement.

The three vehicles, enmeshed now, smoked and whined less than a metre from the side of a building. Both the van and the SUV had their tails hanging out onto the road. Looking to her left, Heather could see an alley. Would the target make a break for it, if he was still mobile? Another alley just past the van might look like another possible escape.

Dazed, a little nauseous, Heather struggled to get out of her restraints. She could see the rear wheels of the sedan, elevated off the ground by the van, spinning in vain.

“Beta team on site,” said the Bedouin.

About ten metres down the street, a car parked up on the sidewalk. Willow came out of the rear passenger door, her SR-25 sniper rifle in hand.

A rear window shattered. Someone from inside started shooting. The bullets impacted the SUV’s engine. In her restraint, Heather couldn’t get down, couldn’t seek cover. She wrestled with the release, her hands a bit numb.

“Cascade reports nil response.” The Bedouin’s smooth voice told Heather that Cascade couldn’t crack anyone in the vehicle, couldn’t take over someone or shut them down.

A bulky form emerged from the front passenger window. The Driver had a bloodied face and dishevelled clothing, but didn’t seem worse for the wear of a high-speed collision. He dragged an AKM out of the vehicle.

“Alpha team in place, north of the target.” That was Cody, or maybe Kane—the Bedouin Commandos.

“Fuck.” Heather hadn’t meant to say that. It slipped out. As restrained and protected as she had been, she couldn’t shake off the collision as well as that guy. “Driver’s out. He’s got an AK. Looks tip top.”

“Got it.” Willow and her very professional tone made Heather believe the driver’s lifespan was about to get drastically shortened.

“Zulu on site and ready to engage,” said Boyle over the comm..

Heather saw an impact centre-mass. The driver staggered back a step or two, but then brought the AKM up and let loose with volleys on full auto in the direction of Willow and Beta team.

“Incoming fireworks.” Heather recognized Scott. Her words overlapped with his. “They’ve got body armour or something worse.”

She didn’t say it, but she figured the bodyguards were enhanced. No one took a bullet like that, not even in armour.

Finally untangling herself, she got her hands on her C8A3 carbine. She shouldered open the door, which made the Driver turn.

Someone shouted. “RPG!”

It hit before the Driver could frame Heather. The explosion shook the SUV and Heather stumbled, falling to the ground. The shock threw the Driver back against the wall of the building. More fire from the rear of the vehicle, this time up the street past the SUV. Zulu?

The Driver rose. Behind him, Rudi exited the van. He looked rough, pale. He had a scrape on the side of his face. Raising his VSS sniper rifle, he fired twice. It looked like those shots impacted on target, but other than making the Driver shudder and stumble, they did little.

“Aim for the head.” She saw Rudi’s lips move and heard his voice through the earpiece.

The rear passenger door opened and one of the minders came out, AKM coming with him. Rudi ducked back, getting behind the van as Minder 1 fired off rounds in his direction. Driver turned back to Heather, but she had steadied herself on one knee. Carbine against her shoulder, she put two rounds into the Driver’s face.

That put him down.

Minder 1, head down, wary of the threat from Willow, turned to Heather. He went cyclical, spraying lead, forcing Heather to find cover. The SUV door was not an option—the 7.62 rounds would pass right through it. She had to get behind the vehicle.

Over the sound of rounds impacting the SUV, Heather heard the Bedouin in her ear. “Target’s in the open. Go Alpha. Go Zulu.”

She risked a peek around the edge of the vehicle, leading with her carbine. Minder 1 had advanced. He would spray in her direction, then pivot and spray in Rudi’s direction. Behind him came Foxtrot/Bracebridge at a running crouch, going for the alley nearest Heather. Minder 2 came out of the vehicle, face a bloody mess, nose looking like it had been pulped.

Without time to aim, and worried about hitting Foxtrot, Heather put a couple of rounds into Minder 1 centre-mass. She knew it wouldn’t put him down—Driver 1 had taken a bigger punch from a harder-hitting weapon and didn’t blink—but it might inconvenience him, slow him down, something.

That and she felt useless hiding behind cover in the middle of a firefight.

Kane—or was it Cody?—glanced around the side of the far alley, drawing fire, unable to advance. Rudi did the same, crouched low, trying to bring his rifle to bear, forced back by the volume of fire.

She got low, got prone. Minder 1 had to reload. She could see on his face that he knew the shit was only seconds from the fan. Someone—Willow?—tagged him right in the forehead. His body fell, hitting the wall, ragdoll loose. Minder 2 turned and sent some rounds in Willow’s general direction. Cody—or was it Kane—popped out from behind cover. He hit with each of his three shots. None got the head, but one ripped out a fair chunk of throat.

Minder 2 turned to Cody and kept shooting.

Foxtrot had reached the alley. He had a CZ-85 autoloader pistol in hand and fired wildly. Boyle, leading Zulu, slid over the hood of the trapped sedan, apparently unfazed at being directly in the line of fire. The wall beside Foxtrot, at the entrance to the alley, erupted. Scott stood at the front of the sedan, his G36C carbine putting rounds into the wall, making Foxtrot flinch, shielding his head.

Boyle got his feet solid on the ground. Minder 2 turned to him, AKM at his shoulder, dripping in blood from his neck. Rudi came out from behind cover. Minder 2 took one in the back of the skull, ripping out his face on exiting. His body fell forward, landing on his weapon.

Heather didn’t hear the two reports from the airgun Boyle held. He put two tranquilizer darts into Foxtrot’s upraised arm. All the shooting stopped. Everyone came out from behind cover as Foxtrot looked at the darts in his arm. He frowned, his eyelids drooping.

“You can’t . . .” Foxtrot drawled out a syllable of what might have been his next word, but it never fully formed. He started to raise his pistol to his head.

In two strides, Boyle was on him, knocking the gun away. Foxtrot collapsed to the ground.

“Take you alive?” Boyle finished for him. “Yes. Yes we can.”

“Incoming trouble,” the Bedouin said in Heather’s earpiece. “Contact imminent.”

“Bundle up the package.” Boyle handed Mads—who arrived over the hood of the sedan as Boyle had. “It seems this is all far from over.”

—

Continued in Thirty-three: Station

Don’t forget, Mundus Novit: the Changed World is now available at RPG Now and Drive-Thru RPG.

Thirty-one: Cascade Effect

“Stop coddling me.” Cascade’s eyes narrowed to a sharp point, her anger and her frustration all there for those that could read it.

Scott could. That’s what he did. And he could understand both emotions.

“We’re not even sure what they were pumping into you or if you’ve been altered in any way.” Boyle leaned against the wall opposite to Cascade’s bed, beside the door. He had on his mask. No one would read anything through that, probably not even Cascade.

“And we’re not going to know until I get my hands on the prisoner.” Cascade sat in her bed, legs over the side, still hooked up to all the monitoring equipment Gurung had scammed from every source he knew.

That guy, as much as he came off as cold and efficient, had a heart. He worried about Cascade. Scott had read that in his face. The guy was a pro, but he wasn’t that kind of pro.

“You are not going to interrogate the doctor.” Boyle used his firm tone, his sergeant major’s voice. “You are not going to get close to him.”

“I’m the only one that can get the truth out of him.” Cascade leaned on one arm, the one with the IV drip in it. Scott had no idea what that drip delivered, but Gurung’s secret squirrel doctor had set her up. He didn’t get a chance to examine her fully. Boyle wouldn’t let him.

Scott sat in a folding chair against the wall across from the bed, Boyle and the door along the wall to his right. “I’m getting information out of him. The one thing I can tell you is that he’ll clam up if you are brought into the room. He’s deathly afraid of you.”

Her feet almost touched the ground as Cascade bent forward. “Because of what I’ll find if I question him.”

“Perhaps.” Scott reclined in the chair, lifting the front two legs off the floor. “He claims he has a fail-safe in case of psychic interrogation. He says it’ll kill him.”

Cascade scoffed and shook her head. “He’s lying.”

“I don’t think so,” Scott said. “And you better believe I know when someone is lying to me.”

Cascade paused and her eyes moved to him. The fire in them cooled, if only a modicum. A slight smile touched her lips. “I’m sorry, Mr. Scott, I didn’t mean to diminish your efforts.” She looked away then, didn’t let him see her face straight on. “I’m getting a little frustrated here.”

“I’m not going to say I understand, because there’s no way I could,” Scott said. “I am telling you that we’re breaking this guy. He’s not in the biz. He’s weak sauce, and he’s dripping all over the carpet. We’re going up the ladder, never worry.”

“Who’s with him now?” Cascade asked.

“Willow has her eye on him,” Scott said. “We’re letting him stew.”

The door opened. Rudi stepped in. He nodded to each occupant in turn, and then walked over to look out the window. “It is a beautiful morning.” He glanced at Cascade. “How are you feeling?”

She gave him a coy smile—did Scott see something there? “I’m good. I’m feeling good.”

“I am happy to hear that.” Rudi half-sat on the bed-side table, facing Boyle. “I’ve heard from Mr. Sinclair on the scrambled land line. He is in India. Lt. Park and Lt. Walker have been delivered to the American doctors. They are en route to Rammstein and from there to Landstuhl Medical Center.”

“They’re condition?” Scott asked.

Rudi turned to him, keeping emotion out of his face, though hinted at in his mouth and nostrils. “Neither is particularly good, but they will have excellent care.”

“And what of Mr. Sinclair and Ms. Jeffries?” Boyle asked.

“They have made contact, as ordered, and Mr. Sinclair reported that he expects to have the equipment modified as desired within a day, though he did offer a maximum of two days.”

Boyle rubbed his eyes and forehead. “Two days and we’ve got, what, six people? With Gurung wounded?” Boyle removed his hand and his eyes met Scott’s. “What have you learned? What does the doctor know?”

“He has some names and some areas, but no real addresses” Scott shrugged. “I passed it on to Gurung and he’s made his usual calls. He thinks we can get something solid.”

“If we have something solid, do we move forward?” Rudi crossed his arms. “Do we have the needed manpower for an assault team?”

Running his hand through his hair, Boyle sighed. “We maybe have enough, but given our last mission, I don’t want to chance anything. We surveil the place, we verify what information we can. We wait for Sinclair and Jeffries to get back here. If we have a target, we will hit it, but not while we are undermanned.”

Rudi held up both his hands. “No offence meant to Mr. Sinclair in his absence, but I do not believe he has the proper training to be involved in further assaults.”

“You’re right, but I expect that Sinclair and Jeffries won’t be returning alone,” Boyle said. “I have some hope that we may get some level of support.”

That made Scott wonder. “I thought you said you couldn’t get support, that the Stream worked independent.”

Boyle grimaced. “While true, it is not absolute. In this case, the information that we have uncovered set off the hornet’s nest at a higher level. I have nothing solid, but I know we can expect at least one operator, hopefully more. The Stream could be sending in another full team.”

“To replace us?” Cascade asked.

“Absolutely not.” Boyle’s voice left no doubt as to his sincerity. “I have the team I trust here. We’re going to finish this. All of us. But if we need to get into the line of fire again, I want more shooters on our side.”

“And you expect another assault is in our future?” Scott asked.

Boyle now smirked. “Do you doubt it?”

“I do not.” Rudi sighed through his nose. “But I must tell you, I do not relish the thought of doing it again. We lost two good people last time. This has been a very dangerous excursion.”

“You’re not contracted for this, you aren’t part of it,” Boyle said. “If you need to go, you know you can.”

“And you know I am like the cat.” Rudi chuckled. “And like the cat, my curiosity may get the better of me. I would like to see this through to the end.”

“And I have to admit, I’m glad to have you on board,” Boyle said. “I don’t know what to expect from the Stream, but in my last contact through the scrambled line, there was an indication that one of our top operators is en route. I expect he’ll get here either before or at about the same time as Sinclair and Jeffries.”

“One operator?” Scott scowled. “He better be good.”

“Oh, I think he is,” Boyle said. “You’ve probably heard of him. He’s known as the Bedouin.”

—

Continued in Thirty-two: En Route

Don’t forget, Mundus Novit: the Changed World is now available at RPG Now and Drive-Thru RPG.

Thirty: No Delilah

The wall surrounding the estate did not matter. The many electronic baffles set to inhibit eavesdropping did not matter. The psychic shield so strong it gave pedestrians that passed the structure slight headaches or nausea—not even that mattered. Inside the white delivery van, two men watched and heard everything that happened in the house and on the grounds. Inside the van that looked like a hundred, maybe even a thousand other white delivery vans in Cairo, men had watched the happenings in that place and recorded it.

Nothing moved in the building or on the grounds.

They waited for Samson. They waited for him to act. They watched, they listened, but they had learned nothing. They needed more and Samson provided nothing.

Tonight, though, was special. Inside the van, alongside the tactical commander, sat the Bedouin. He had financed all this. He had used his considerable skills, contacts and compiled information to track an intelligence asset once used by Narcissus—the CIA’s parapsychic operations unit—to Cairo, to this place. The Bedouin believed he had found Samson’s safehouse, if not his base.

Unfortunately, though, the last 48 hours had revealed nothing of note, neither contacts nor communications. Was the Bedouin wrong about Samson? That would not be unique, simply rare.

“Do we have our teams in place?” the Bedouin asked the other man.

This other man wore the dark coveralls, body armour, tactical harness, and gear of an assaulter. He might pass for the scene commander on a SWAT team. He might pass for an elite counter-terrorist commando. He could do those jobs. Right now, he ran the operation for the Bedouin. He had command. “Both cells in place.”

The Bedouin tapped a screen showing the front door of the house. “Something is going on in there.”

Cody took a sip of his coffee, still steaming. The van also had a very expensive coffee maker. “If so, he hasn’t acted in the 48 hours we’ve had eyes on.”

Sitting back in the small chair, the Bedouin put his hands on his knees. “We may not be able to tap into his preferred method of contact.”

“Parapsych.” Cody’s brow furrowed, his eyes narrowed.

“Certainly,” the Bedouin said. “I am going in there to talk to him.”

“Talk?” Cody raised an eyebrow.

“Jus talk, for now.” The Bedouin rose from the chair, but the van ceiling forced him to crouch. “He has information we need. Let’s see if I can get it the easy way.”

“And if the easy way doesn’t work?” asked Cody. “Things could get messy.”

Pulling back his jacket, the Bedouin revealed his two Glock 18s in their shoulder rigs. “I’ve dealt with messy before.”

The Bedouin left the van and sauntered up to the gate. He considered the electronic lock, and then the physical lock. Taking a chance, he tried the gate. Open. He smiled.

While he had seen no evidence of it on the recordings he had received, the Bedouin had expected some level of security. It bothered him that he caught nothing. Either Samson had no security—which pointed to arrogance bordering on hubris or talents bordering on impossible—or he had secreted his security so well that the Bedouin could not identify it. Neither option was palatable.

The suitably ostentatious double doors like the gate were unlocked. The Bedouin pushed one open and stepped inside. While the interior proved as classically inspired and luxuriously grandiose as the grounds promised, it had only the most basic of furnishings. The house did not appear “lived in,” rather it appeared like a setting, something used to project an image without being used for its purpose.

Yet Samson was here.

Two staircases circled up on opposite walls to meet at a balcony on the second floor. Three other doors led out of the antechamber, but the Bedouin did not spend any time searching through the home for Samson.

“I am surprised how quickly you found me.”

The voice, confident and unconcerned, surprised the Bedouin. Years of practice ensured the surprise never made it to the physical surface, but surely something seeped onto his mental surface. Could Samson read that through the Bedouin’s training and will?

The Bedouin looked up. Samson leaned on the railing of the balcony, overlooking the entry.

“When one finds enough threads, the web invariably leads one to the spider,” the Bedouin said. “And I have gathered a surprising number of threads. With your background, I had expected more care.”

“Perhaps you expect too much.” Samson leaned on the rail, making no move to join the Bedouin nor inviting him up.

“Or perhaps you work with what you are given.” The Bedouin glanced around, but did not see any chairs. “The interesting thing is that I’ve got threads of your web leading to Kathmandu. I know you are involved there. None of the threads lead to the CIA, though. Certainly none lead to the shadow faction operating in Nepal.”

Samson smiled. “So, you know about that, do you? They believe they are quite impenetrable.”

“It’s odd how often I have noted recently that we all have our foibles.” The Bedouin propped his shoulder against the wall, crossing his arms at his chest.

“Foibles, or failings?”

“I’d need a dictionary definition of each to really be sure.” The Bedouin pointedly examined his surroundings. “Did the failings of Narcissus motivate you to leave?”

Samson’s eyes narrowed. “Narcissus? No. Narcissus is irrelevant. It still plays white hat versus black hat, blue against red. Narcissus doesn’t have the slightest idea what is going on around it.”

The Bedouin waited, but Samson said nothing more. “And by ‘going on around it,’ can I assume you mean this shadow faction within the CIA?”

“You can assume that, yes.”

“And what of them?”

Samson’s grip on the banister tightened. “They are making weapons.”

“I’m going to further assume that these are no normal weapons.” The Bedouin decided to fish. “You discovered Blackout.”

“Yes, Blackout.” Samson chewed on those words before spitting them out. “Blackout. They were turning people into weapons. Real weapons. They weren’t weaponizing people, they weren’t just genetically re-writing or altering. That wasn’t enough for them. They turned people into guns. They removed autonomy, they removed independence, they took living people and made living weapons.”

“Blackout.” The word escaped the Bedouin as a whisper. Very little in the world shocked the Bedouin. He had seen too much. He had done too much. But this, this chilled him. “Did they . . . ? Did you . . . ?”

Bitterness and anger both laced the laugh that came from Samson. “No. I escaped them. I got away. There were those from Narcissus who did not.”

“You need to come with me.” The Bedouin held out his hand. “You need to come with me to a safe location, some place not even the shadow faction will find you. I need to have my people debrief you. We need to shut down Blackout.”

“Do you honestly believe that will matter?” Samson released a long breath. As though it cleansed him, his body visibly relaxed as the air left him. “What you need to understand is that it’s not just the CIA. The Chinese do it. The Russians do it. The North Koreans and the Burmese do it. Everyone does it. Everyone wants to build the human weapon. It doesn’t matter if they are successful or not. People suffer and people die.”

“And so you have your agents in Kathmandu.”

“Kathmandu?” Samson paused. Such a small and insignificant might go unnoticed. The Bedouin noted it. “Yes, Kathmandu.”

“Not your agents then.”

Samson frowned. “You are better than advertised. And you do it without getting inside.”

That made the Bedouin smile. “Oh, I am inside all right. I just don’t need to pry into your brain. I do it different.”

“Who are you?” Samson rested his hands on the railing. “I mean really. Who are you?”

“Tell me about Kathmandu, and I’ll tell you about me.”

“Kathmandu?” Samson shrugged. “Kathmandu is a battleground. We caught the CIA there. We caught them and we used them. We’re going to start a war between them and the Chinese. The whole intelligence community will get sucked into it. When no one is looking, we’ll behead all the Blackouts, all those projects.”

“A diversion?” The Bedouin couldn’t believe it.

“Who could look away?”

The Bedouin waved that off. “It will not work. Both sides have already seen through it. There are protocols in place, ways to contact, deny and verify. This is common to all intelligence organs. It must be. The Cold War stayed cold because of it. It took no more than ten minutes for the CIA and State Security to disavow participation.”

Samson stepped back. He frowned. “It’s working right now. Kathmandu is a mess.”

“You’re right, but it’s not the Chinese,” the Bedouin said. “Who did this? Who’s running you?”

“You think I’m a pawn?”

“I think you’re a knight, possibly a bishop—you might even be the king—but you are not the player. Who’s running you?”

“You found me,” Samson said. “Find him.”

“You need to come with me, you need to work with me.” The Bedouin left his arms loose at his side. He had his jacket open just enough that he could get to the Glocks. The pot was ready to boil. “I can shut down Blackout with your help. I can shut them all down.”

“You?” Samson took a step to his right, toward an open door. “And who do you think you are? Who are you to shut down Blackout? You are nobody. I have a surprise for you. One you might not like. I actually know who you are. I’ve seen your file.”

“The Zeghida file?” The Bedouin didn’t like how famous that file had become. It was to be an option of last resort, not a best-seller. “Do you know who else saw that file? Evgeny. He told me that in Vladivostock.”

“Did he?” Samson’s voice carried little conviction and a lot of uncertainty.

Samson didn’t know Evgeny. That put Evgeny with the CIA shadow faction. Another piece of the puzzle in place.

“I have much of what I need from you.” The Bedouin stood straight, readying himself. “I only want a name. I want the next link in the chain. I don’t want to harm or hinder you. I understand why you are doing what you are doing. I want your boss. I need to talk to him.”

“You’re going to get nothing.” Samson pointed at the Bedouin. “I’ve been patient. That’s done. You are no one. You’re a cog in the machine. I’m breaking that machine. I’m tearing it down. You want to get torn down too? I won’t break a sweat. Then the rest of your team, so certain that they could come into my house and threaten me? They’ll be little more than gibbering wrecks when the Egyptian authorities get them. But you’re going to be a prize. You’re going to dance.”

“I’ve never been good at dancing,” the Bedouin said. “If you’ve read the file, you should know that. Ah, yes, the Algerian bit. I take it you’ve read the Ahmed Zeghida file? The one important thing that the file does not tell you is that Ahmed Zeghida died before his first birthday. I am not Algerian.”

The Bedouin saw it in Samson’s eyes. The semantic trigger had worked. Samson lurched forward, mouth open to speak. He caught hold of the railing, then went rigid.

“You didn’t catch the trick?” The Bedouin started climbing the stairs. “Even Evgeny caught it. Then again, one works with what one has, yes? I have questions, and you have answers. I know you had time to trigger your alarm and that you have people coming to rescue you. They won’t arrive in time.” The Bedouin reached Samson, whose eyes followed him. “You will answer my questions.”

—

Continued in Thirty-one: Cascade Effect

Don’t forget, Mundus Novit: the Changed World is now available at RPG Now and Drive-Thru RPG.

Twenty-nine: House Call

Willow watched the front of the building over the telescopic sight on her Knight’s Armaments SR-25 sniper rifle. She crouched in an alleyway while Rudi stood behind her. Rudi’s VSS—a Vintorez special sniper rifle—hung at his chest on his tactical rig. A suppressed sniper weapon using heavy, sub-sonic ammunition, the VSS had an automatic fire mode. If he needed to enter the clinic and engage in close quarters battle, he felt confident with the VSS. He had used one in a tight situation previous.

A single-story structure, the target location had double glass doors and two, large windows at the front. Heavy shades covered them. Dark and silent, the building offered Rudi no clues as to its purpose. He knew it held occupants. He had seen five men, dropped off by a non-descript van—not unlike the ones Gurung had acquired—enter the building. How many would they face when the assault came, as it must?

Scott stood just behind Rudi, back against the opposite wall, watching the alley approach. He had suggested the three-man sniper team. It provided added security, something Boyle had obsessed over since the opposition had grabbed Cascade. Rudi couldn’t blame him.

Gurung had provided a couple of Heckler & Koch G36 Commando short assault rifles among his gifts. Lt. Park had taken one, Scott the other, complete with reflex sight, suppressor, and tactical light.

Hearing vehicles approaching, Rudi touched Willow’s shoulder lightly. She lowered her weapon and rose without a sound. Two vehicles, neither using headlights, came to a stop along the curb behind their sedan. Rudi went first, peeking out of the alley.

Heather, Madison Jeffries and Lt. Walker came out of a worn looking SUV, while Boyle and Lt. Park exited a van. All of them had body armour, longarms, and assault kit. Rudi, Willow and Scott approached them. The group huddled together, just inside the alley, crouched.

“Should I assume we will make the assault now?” Rudi asked.

“You should.” Boyle’s eyes were on the clinic. “Any action?”

Willow pointed to the building. “A van arrived and bundled out five guys.”

“I did a quick recce after their arrival.” Scott had his back to the huddled assembly, his eyes moving around the area, watching the approaches. “Turns out there’s an entrance around back. It’s got a dumpster covering it which is why we didn’t note it on initial recon. The dumpster moves easy, though. I’m betting this is the primary access. The alleys cross all this area, so there would no problem getting in or out of the clinic unseen.”

“So we have no idea how many are in there, or what kind of traffic this place has been seeing.” Boyle massaged the bridge of his nose. “This keeps getting better and better.”

On one knee, just beyond the mouth of the alley, Walker scanned the streets through the Elcan sight on his C8 carbine. “Changes the layout a bit, but not the plan. I say we go through the back.”

“Agreed.” Boyle frowned. His suppressed Heckler & Koch HK53 short assault rifle, hung at his chest on its tactical harness. “We make our entry through the back. Listen, we’re going to need overwatch at both entries, front and back. I’d like to have a shooter and a spotter, just for security, but we don’t have the manpower for that.”

“Not a problem, boss,” Willow said. “I work better alone. You know that.”

Before he spoke, Boyle grit his teeth. “In general, I agree, but I don’t like it right now.”

“You said it yourself, we don’t have the manpower.” Scott put his hand on Boyle’s shoulder. “There’s a lot of shit that can go wrong on this one, inside and out. Doesn’t matter. We work with what we’ve got. Willow covers the front and I’ll cover the back. You know I’ve got danger radar that no one is going to slip past.”

“I’m concerned about an ESPer assault,” Boyle said.

Jeffries shook his head. “I don’t think that’s going to happen. We’ve degraded their parapsych inventory substantially. I mean, not even Narcissus has an unending cadre of cannon-fodder ESPers. No, just like any weapon that is powerful but few in numbers, they’ll play their ESPers only when necessary. The necessary part is going to be in there.

“From what I understand, Scott and Willow will be able to pass a passive scan, so even if they’ve got ESPers coming in to support against the assault, they aren’t likely to mark either initially. If they come in really, really careful and slow, it might be a problem.”

Scott waved that off. “They won’t mark me. Not a chance. I’ve operated against ESPers before. I know the drill.”

“The same,” Willow said. “The concern is noted and appreciated, but unwarranted.”

“Good enough.” Boyle tapped Willow then Scott. “Willow, you’re covering the front. Scott, you’re covering the back. Rudi, join in the assault team. Walker takes the lead, then myself, followed by Becca, then Sinclair, then Jeffries and finally you, Rudi.”

Boyle needed to say nothing more. They had discussed the assault earlier, had decided the rules of engagement, had decided how to move and identified the objective. Willow took up her SR-25 and went to find a perch. Scott moved across the street at a crouch to find a position of his own. No one spoke for the few minutes they allowed for Scott to get into place.

Boyle pointed to the alley, and Walker moved forward. They followed in line. Jeffries did not move as smoothly or with the assurance of the others. He looked pale and clammy. Rudi reminded himself that Jeffries was not an operator. An intelligence operative, yes, but he did not have the training and the experience of the others. He had likely never participated in a building assault.

Rudi had sympathy.

They reached the door without incident. Other than the two at the front, the clinic seemed devoid of windows. Rudi had seen no other security apparatus. There were neither cameras nor sensors. Either the residents did not feel added security was necessary or they had hid it very well.

The latter possibility made Rudi exceptionally nervous.

Moving the dumpster aside proved as easy as Scott had said. Rudi cast a quick glance around the alley behind the clinic, but did not see Scott. That was good.

Walker carefully tried the door. He backed away. “It’s locked.”

Rudi let his rifle hang on its tactical harness as he took out his lock picks. “Give me a moment.”

And that was all it took. The ease with which he disengaged the lock increased Rudi’s apprehension. He stepped back, replacing the lock picks. “It was too easy. The door may be trapped.”

Boyle went to the door and began to physically search the frame. It didn’t take him long. While he did so, Rudi readied his VSS. He switched it to semi-automatic but maintained trigger discipline. He noted everyone searched the darkness around them, but none had activated their tactical lights.

Why would one alert anyone prematurely? Even if the one alerted had no connection to the target location, a call to the police would cause problems.

Boyle moved away from the door. “It’s clean. If it’s not, well, then things get more interesting.”

Walker took his place in lead, opening the door a crack, and then swinging it open. He went in as the door swung, tactical light on, weapon at the ready. Everyone followed in order, sweeping their designated sector of the room, unsure what they would find.

It looked like a storage room. A single light, hanging from the ceiling and with a hood like the brim of a metal sombrero, illuminated the area. Metal shelving holding a few cardboard boxes lined the walls. A single hallway led out of the room. Rudi heard the hum of climate controlled ventilation.

Rudi patted Jeffries’ shoulder, signalling clear. Jeffries did the same to Heather and on up the line. Walker moved forward.

Noting that Jeffries stayed a little too close to Heather. Rudi tapped him on the shoulder. “Not so close.”

Jeffries nodded his pale face. The blood seemed to have moved to his red-rimmed eyes, abandoning the rest of his complexion. Even his lips seemed bloodless.

Two doors presented themselves along the hallway, which ended about 10 metres on in an open area. Neither door was locked. When the team entered to clear each in turn, Jeffries and Rudi waited in the hall. The rooms didn’t have the space to accommodate them. Neither room held anything of interest, except for the kind of equipment one would find in a general practioners’ exam room.

The murmur of voices drifted through the hall. Rudi crouched, VSS at his shoulder. He noted Jeffries also raised his suppressed MP5. Worrying that Walker might exit the room and interfere with his coverage, Rudi took a step to the side, placing him against the left wall. Jeffries followed suit.

Two men stepped around the corner at the end of the hall. Neither noted the other occupants before Rudi put two rounds centre mass into each. Jeffries fired six times as well, only one round missing entirely. The two bodies fell to the floor. Walker exited the room, C8 at the ready. Rudi gestured for him to advance.

A claxon alarm rang through the building. The lights all died. From ahead, in the open area at the end of the hall, people shouted back and forth. Rudi could only discern the noise, not the words actually spoken. Tactical lights lit the hall as the team advanced. Jeffries let the MP5 hang from its tactical harness as he drew his SIG Sauer pistol.

Upon reaching the end of the hall, Walker and Boyle did a count before swinging into the room, angling along the corner. The suppressors did not silence all noise as their weapons fired. Park followed, sweeping the room. And the team moved forward.

The open area had a countertop-desk behind which stairs led down. Couches and chairs lined the other walls, with two small tables. A waiting room? Light leaked up from the stairwell. Two bodies sprawled at the bottom, AKMs nearby.

Boyle had a flash-bang stun grenade in hand, and tossed it down the stairs. The excessive brilliance and the deafening detonation reached out from the basement, but didn’t affect the team as it would those below.

Walker almost jumped down the stairs, and started shooting. Boyle took the stairs, firing all the way. Park moved to follow. Rudi saw her deliver but also take fire. An impact, blood staining the wall behind her, and Park fell. Heather straddled her, sweeping the room. She didn’t fire. Jeffries was there, kneeling beside her. Heather moved off the stairs, and Rudi hopped over Park and Jeffries. He turned to help Jeffries carry Park down.

“Put her down,” Boyle said. “Get ready to move.”

They stood in a room about the same size as the waiting room above. A total of six bodies lay in ever expanding polls of blood, limbs askew, weapons no longer threatening.

The room had shelving, but the shelves only held a few small cardboard boxes. An AKM lay on a bottom shelf beside a box of ammunition. The walls were cinderblocks and the floor was concrete. Rudi and Jeffries took Park to the corner of the far wall, away from the stairs.

The colour had come back to Jeffries’ face, but the red hadn’t left his eyes. “It looks bad. She looks bad.”

“You’ve got to go.” Park’s voice came weak, not much more than a whisper. She started to shiver.

Rudi checked at her throat. “Pulse is very weak. She’s losing a lot of blood. I think she’s going into shock.”

“Sinclair, do what you can for Becca.” Boyle had his hand on a panel beside the single door, on the same wall against which Park rested. “We’ve got an electronic lock here.”

“Got it.” Walker pried off the cover with his multitool and then pulled out a handheld device. He fastened wires to terminals and played on the device.

Heather had Park’s first aid kit in hand and worked on staunching the bleeding. Park gave her directions, but began to have problems finishing her sentences. The sound of the door unlocking echoed through the room.

“Stack up.” Boyle had another flash-bang in hand.

Rudi had to pull Jeffries away from Park.

She smiled up at him. “See you in a bit.”

Walker opened the door slightly. Automatic fire erupted from within. Boyle counted off then tossed in the grenade. Walker closed the door. The din of the grenade reached into the room. The team moved. Walker got hit before he got out of the room, and fell. Boyle continued forward. Rudi yanked Jeffries, pulling past him and cornering through the door.

Four bodies already lay on the ground. Boyle dropped a fifth as Rudi entered. The bodies stretched among scattered medical equipment—tables, monitors, a cabinet now perforated.

An AKM poked through the door against the far wall. A head began to follow it. Rudi took the top off that head and the AKM dropped to the ground. Rudi moved forward, putting rounds through the opening, daring anyone to try to pull that AKM in and close the door. Boyle got the message. He cooked off another flash-bang and slipped it through the opening.

Rudi crouched behind the metal-reinforced door while Boyle hugged the wall. The flash-bang went off, shaking the door. Boyle went in. Rudi followed. Jeffries behind him, SIG raised and ready. Boyle swept right so Rudi swept left. He heard Boyle fire. Rudi’s first target held an AKM, crouched down, as though vomiting. Rudi put three rounds into him, two directly through the top of his head. Jeffries fired the SIG. The second target raised a pistol—Beretta 92FS?—and so Rudi dropped him with three rounds, going for the Mozambique drill of two centre mass and one in the head.

The room was quiet. Five bodies lay on the ground. One man still stood. The room had medical equipment like the last. There was an examination table. Cascade lay on it. She was hooked up to monitors. They had been shot out. She had two IV drips hanging from poles beside her. She didn’t move. The Caucasian male wore a white coat and held a pistol—definitely a Beretta 92FS 9mm autoloader—to Cascade’s head.

“You have a chance to walk out of here.” Boyle didn’t lower his HK53.

Without speaking, Jeffries left the room. Rudi assumed he went to attend Walker.

“There’s no way you can protect me.” The Caucasian male spoke with an East Coast American accent. “I walk out of here, I’m dead.”

“We can work something out.” Now Boyle lowered his weapon. He still held it, but he no longer had it pointed at the Caucasian. “You give us the hostage, we’ll leave you here. You can make up whatever story you like.”

“What kind of story is going to explain me being alive? The Caucasian seemed to lose focus. The pistol dropped a modicum. Rudi readied the shot.

“We can think something up.” Boyle had released his weapon, holding his empty hands forward. “We don’t want you, just the hostage. We can help you.”

The barrel of the pistol dropped below the table. Boyle wanted prisoners. Rudi place the two shots into the Caucasian’s shoulder, then drove forward, tackling him. The Caucasian didn’t get off a shot. He screamed when Rudi’s hurtling body impacted his two gunshot wounds.

The Caucasian down and controlled, Rudi glanced over to Boyle. He stood at the table, checking on Cascade.

“Is she alive?” Rudi asked, fearing the answer.

Twenty-eight: Kitting Up

She hadn’t had a cigarette in almost ten years. How come she remembered it so vividly? Heather imagined the feel of it in her mouth, imagined lighting it, inhaling. The calm would spread. It would take her, relax her, get her down.

Heather really wanted a cigarette.

Mads’ chuckle caught her attention. “What the fuck is going through your head?”

She shook it off. “Nothing.”

“No, seriously, you totally spaced there,” Mads said. “Then you had this look on your face like . . . like I don’t know what.”

She leaned toward him. “You wanna know?”

He leaned as well. “I’m intrigued.”

“Doughnuts.”

That made him pause. His smile slowly slid off his face and his eyes lost their focus.

“Oh, fuck, yeah.” The grin that returned to his face had no relation to the one that had left it. “Doughnuts. Yeah. Good call. It’s been like forever.”

It was good to banter with Mads. She had missed it. He had been distant since learning she had kept secrets from him. Had that been forgotten? Forgiven, at least.

“Doughnuts?” Park finished checking on Gurung’s dressing. “You sound like a cop.”

Bandaged and looking pale, Gurung half-sat, half-lay on a reclining chair. Two intravenous drips hung from a rolling metal pole, with lines running to the needles in his arm, covered by medical tape. It could be a scene from a movie. A day and a bit had passed since he had been shot, and there he sat. He still gathered equipment and delivered intelligence, now, though, he used runners. Messages passed through multiple dead drops to his contacts in the city.

He had a lot of friends, and a lot of the city owed him favours. He had added everyone in the room to that ledger. Heather didn’t want to be the one getting the invoice on this operation.

“Do you need doughnuts?” Gurung smiled, showing bright teeth. “You know I can get anything.”

Walker looked up from oiling his brand new C8 Close Quarters Battle carbine. Gurung’s contacts had once again delivered.

“You shouldn’t be here.” Walker put aside his new toy. “You really should be resting, maybe in a hospital.”

“Hospital? With a gunshot wound?” Though he did not laugh, Gurung’s face said he wanted to do so. “That would be a good way to get me arrested, and probably get me killed. I am safe here, and I will recover. This is not the first time I have been shot.”

“Yeah, you said that.” Walker turned back to the C8 CQB. “Sorry, man, but I can’t help being mother hen.”
The C8 had been tricked out to specification, with all the SOF gear a grown kid could want, from the ACOG optical sight, to the suppressor, to the tactical light, to the fore grip. A full modern weapon for the full modern warrior.

“It’s all good for now.” Park took off the thin latex gloves she had worn. “But Walker’s right, you’d be better with professional care. Maybe not a hospital, but you seem to have access to everything. Your very discrete doctor doesn’t have a nice quiet private clinic?”

“Oh, I know a quiet private clinic,” Gurung said. “But I don’t think it will be in business much longer.”

Boyle raised an eyebrow. “Indeed.”

He stood at a table against the interior brick wall of the workroom in the newest unused industrial site which had become their safehouse. Photos of the target location covered much of that table. The information Gurung’s dead contact had provided pointed to a medical clinic on the outskirts of a commercial district. Out of the way, almost isolated, they had eyes on it for the day since the information had arrived. It didn’t see any business. It didn’t seem to have any staff. Yet this was the delivery’s destination.

Bare bulbs hanging on their wires from the rafters provided the light. Another day had died. Shades still covered the windows. Sensors covered the exterior, marking movement, catching sound. A sense of foreboding, of being in the trap filled the room. They had few conveniences—some cots, some folding chairs and tables, a cooler filled with ice and food, and a coffeemaker keeping the caffeine constant.

The focus had shifted from the long game to the sprint. Reconnaissance now existed only on the target location. One piece at a time. They had the target and they had Samson. Boyle had said that they couldn’t move on Samson, they didn’t have the intel for it, but a comment from Rudi earlier in the day remained with Heather.

“Wasn’t that the code for the operative who dropped out of Narcissus last year?” He had said.

Boyle had merely shook his head and continued delivering the game plan. He had focused on the target location, hoping it would provide further clues, hoping it would offer the bread trail.

But Narcissus pointed again to the CIA. Did Boyle know this wasn’t the same Samson? Did he care? Or did he have some other agenda, something that steered him away from Samson?

Heather needed a cigarette.

“We’re hitting the target tonight.” Boyle rested against the table, coffee mug in hand. “We’ve already planned it. You all know your places. Scott and Willow will remain on overwatch. Rudi will join in the assault, as will all of us. We’re moving one hour before their shift ends, that’s 22:00 local.”

“Not much time, then.” Park checked the coffee maker’s carafe. Empty.

“So you still want me as part of the assault? Mads scratched at the whiskers on his jawline. “I mean, I’m not exactly the high-speed type.”

“We need you there in case of parapsychic opposition.” Boyle watched Mads, his face neutral, his eyes sharp. “I know you aren’t trained for this, but I can only assume there’s going to be heavy opposition. We’ll plan for the worst and hope for the best. The worst is a shitload of parapsychs brain blasting the lot of us. With you there, we’re covered.”

“And if it’s barren?” Park asked.

“Then we’ll have a harder time trying to figure out where this all leads, won’t we.” Boyle put down his coffee. “I want to be clear on one thing—we are treating this as a hostage rescue. We’re going to assume that Cascade is in there. It’s a pipe dream, but let’s just work on that assumption. So we’re going in for hostage rescue, and that means we put down everyone that might be a threat. We go in dynamic. We don’t have time to cuff and tag. Clear the room and move, make it fast and make it kinetic.”

“But you don’t have a lot of hope Cascade is there?” Mads had moved to the table, flipping through the photos.

“Not a lot, but some,” Boyle said. “How many locations could they have in the city? How quickly would they pack her up and roll her out? We honestly don’t know, but my gut is telling me they don’t have a huge presence here, and that they’d wait for direction before mailing out a prisoner. They’d want intel, especially if this is our rogue CIA. They likely won’t know where we are, what we’ve got, and what we know. If they take the time to question Cascade, it gives us the time to get her back. She won’t be an easy break.”

“That’s the hope, then, is it?” Heather asked.

Boyle nodded. “That’s the hope. That’s the plan. Given all that, if we can get someone alive, preferably a few, that might help us out with our next step.” He picked up his body armour, which had lay on the floor beside the table, and slipped it on. “We’ll take the last two trucks. That and the sedan the overwatch team have now are the last of our vehicles, unless we steal some. Let’s try not to get these blown up.”

Heather took Boyle’s suiting up as a sign, and she retrieved her own body armour. Everyone had received requested equipment, and she had a C8A3 with all the gear, not as compact as Walker’s CQB, but it was a weapon with which she was comfortable.

She turned to Mads, who had on his armour, and held the suppressed MP5 Rudi had been using. Mads hadn’t asked for any new toys.

“Are you good with that?” She didn’t want to ask it, but Heather felt she should. Also, she really wanted to know.

“I’m rated on it, but it’s all been range time, you know?” Mads considered the weapon in his hands. “Maybe I’ll just stick to my SIG.”

Boyle tapped the barrel of the sub-machine gun. “Your SIG have a suppressor?” Mads shook his head no. Boyle did the same. “We go in as quiet as possible. If we start needing the flashbangs, feel free to switch to the SIG. Besides, I don’t expect you to do much of the shooting.”

“Probably better for everyone involved.” Mads offered a weak smile.

Park came over and patted his shoulder. She had on her armour and tactical harness. She held her tricked out Heckler & Koch G36 Commando short assault rifle loosely in her left hand. “Don’t worry, Mads, I saw you in action the other day. You’ll do fine.”

“If by fine you mean not going into a foetal position, you’re likely right,” Mads said.

With everyone kitted up, they moved to the two remaining vehicles—one van and one small SUV. The battered and bullet-ridden armoured SUV they had taken from Gurung’s contact had been ditched. Gurung had said that it was too prominent, too recognizable and might lead to trouble.

There was no way Gurung could join them, but he had a working landline telephone and indicated that he preferred to wait at the safehouse.

“Until this all blows over, I’m honestly a bit worried to stay at my place,” he had said. “Too many people know it.”

Heather, Mads and Walker took the SUV while Boyle and Park took the van. The van led and the SUV followed, Walker doing the driving through the quiet, dark streets. A block from the target, they turned off their headlights and inched to a place on the road close to their sedan.

As quiet as possible, they bundled out of vehicles and assembled. Rudi and Willow approached them. Scott followed close behind.

“Should I assume we will make the assault now?” Rudi asked.

“You should.” Boyle considered the single-story structure across the road. One set of double doors and a pair of windows facing the street, all covered with shades. No lights. “Any action?”

“A van arrived and bundled out five guys,” Willow said.

“I did a quick recce after their arrival.” Scott pointed to an alley on the left of the target building. “Turns out there’s an entrance around back. It’s got a dumpster covering it which is why we didn’t not it on initial recon. The dumpster moves easy, though. I’m betting primary movement is there. The alleys cross all this area, so there would no problem with moving unseen into and out of the clinic.”

“So we have no idea how many are in there, or what kind of traffic this place has been seeing.” Boyle massaged the bridge of his nose. “This keeps getting better and better.”

Continued in Twenty-nine: House Call

Twenty-seven: Hitting the Fan

Walker watched the exchange through binoculars. He crouched on a rooftop across the street from the alley mouth. He wasn’t happy with the location, but they couldn’t have gotten much closer without alerting the contact.

That contact apparently expected some kind of trouble. That, or he was compensating. Short and squat, with a patchy beard, he spoke with a cigarette held between his teeth like Walker had seen in Hong Kong movies from the 80s. He wore a leather car coat, which spoke to some level of resolve. It had hit 32 degrees, and that didn’t factor in the humidity.

“It looks like they’re friendly,” Becca said from beside him.

She watched the meet through a PSO-1 telescopic sight that appeared factory-fresh. The sight’s mounting on the AKM which Becca held also seemed relatively new. The AKM, though, had seen a few winters.

Both Becca and he had acquired longarms from Gurung’s collection. He had sworn by the AKM with the scope. “Perhaps not an L115 or even an SVD, but it hits hard and it shoots straight.”

Even with Gurung pitching the AKM, Walker had been happy with the M4. While it may have a few years on it, a cleaning had brought out the shine on the weapon. He had test fired a few magazines, and he liked its feel. Top that off with a C79 Elcan optical sight, and it almost felt like he had his trusty old C8 carbine.

The fixer had promised weapons to order would be available the next day, but getting together a nice set on short notice created problems in Nepal. Walker wasn’t about to complain. He had, however, mentioned a penchant for C8 Special Forces Weapon carbines, and a less passionate appreciation for M4A1s. Kitted out nice, of course.

Rudi looked uncomfortable. Everyone’s eyes were on him. While almost nothing reached his face, even the very slight angle of Gurung’s eyebrow’s and the miniscule turn of his mouth made Walker think he must be pissed.

“What was that?” Becca pulled away from the scope. She picked up her binoculars.

“I don’t know.” Walker rubbed the bridge of this nose. “He didn’t say anything. I’m sure of that.”

“Could someone have recognized him?” Becca asked.

“He’s got a heck of a reputation, so maybe.” Walker considered the scene with unaided eyes. Nothing much but multiple shadowy forms through the drizzle. “I don’t know, though. I don’t think he’d be there if he thought anyone could finger him. Gurung didn’t seem to have a problem with it, and I’d expect him to know.”

“Then what happened?”

“Fucked if I know.” Walker went back to the binoculars.

And there was the pass. Gurung got an envelope. Easy-peasy. Then everyone got on Rudi’s case again. Rudi pulled something out of his pocket.

“Ah, shit, the phone.” Walker lowered the binoculars. “Ours is on silent?”

“Ah crap.” Becca put down the binoculars so she could go through her pack. She pulled it out. “We missed two calls.”

“Rudi didn’t turn his off during the meet,” Walker said.

“And we didn’t turn ours on.” Becca worked the phone with quick fingers. “When was the last time I was on an op with a fuckin’ phone? Answer is never.”

“Shit happens,” Walker said. “We were briefed that we’d have no cell coverage, then we get the super phones, and I think everyone kind of forgot about them.”

The phone rang. It seemed loud to Walker, like Gurung’s contact and his boys would hear it. They wouldn’t. Not at that distance and not through the rain.

“It’s Rudi.” Becca took the call. “Rudi? What’s going on? Why did you leave Gurung?” She watched the alley, and Walker did the same through the binocs. “Understood. We’ll cover your escape.”

“Escape?” Walker didn’t take his eyes off the scene. Rudi had trashed his phone and had gone back to Gurung. He heard the crunch. He could well imagine the butt of the AKM smashing the cell.

“We’ve been made,” Becca said. “The phones had some kind of tracking chip. We’re meeting back at the rally point.”

Hi intended reply froze on Walker’s tongue. He saw the fabric fray on the back, and the blood plume on the front of the short, stocky contact. He heard the crack of a rifle.

“What the fuck–?” Becca could not have been watching.

Walker jammed his binocs in his pack. “The contact got shot.” He slipped the pack on. “We’ve got to go.”

Becca had her pack on and AKM in hand as she took the fire-escape down. Walker followed close behind, booted feet smacking metal grill. How much time? How many seconds, how many minutes to get to the floor, to get in the action? Rudi and Gurung didn’t have their longarms. Those were in the car.

They had to get to the car and get out.

His legs jolted. The jarring impact of hitting pavement, of being on the deck, didn’t register. He held his M4 ready. Becca crossed to the alley mouth. The car had died. Rudi had exited the passenger side, had fired bursts in the direction of a rooftop further down the alley.

Sniper. But that one couldn’t have taken out the contact. More than one.

Beautiful.

Rudi dropped two of the contact’s boys that got frisky. He reloaded. He must have heard them approach. He spun. He almost smiled. “The car is dead. We need one of the trucks.”

Walker nodded. “Park, cover us.”

The unique sound of an AKM told Walker that Becca was in the game. Walker led to the SUV, taking a couple of snap shots in the sniper’s direction. Holding the M4 in one hand, he pulled open the driver’s side door. “You good at hotwiring these things?”

Rudi’s body hit the car, shedding momentum. “Stealing a car?” Rudi slung his MP5. “Piece of cake.”

“I damn well hope so.” Someone came around the corner. Walker had no more focus for Rudi. Three rounds centre mass, he had no time for anything too fancy. The target dropped.

This time, it wasn’t one of the contact’s boys. The target had the full SWAT outfit, helmet and ballistic goggles and the whole kit. Could these guys be police? A bunch of guys just doing their job, intervening in a gun battle in the middle of their city?

No. Too quick. The police couldn’t have arrived so fast. Certainly not SWAT. Not unless they were in on it. They had no markings on them, no big letters proclaiming identity.

A profile against the side of the building, trying to fire without presenting a real target. There was head enough. Walker proved the helmet didn’t stop bullets and another body lay on the ground.

Not police or army or anyone official. Just targets.

The truck roared to life. Walker looked. Likely everyone did. The perfect distraction. He heard the cry, and he knew what it meant. He turned his head to check Becca and Gurung. Gurung had dropped, blood on the doorframe he had used for cover.

AKM at her shoulder, firing round after round at the sniper, Becca moved from the passenger side around the back of the sedan. Walker took aim. The sniper kept his head down. That was the point. He squeezed off a few rounds until movement at the building’s corner forced him to change targets. Rudi leaned out of the driver side with the MP5 in one hand. He sprayed at the corner, giving Walker a chance to return to the sniper.

There, on the roof, he saw the shadow, saw the shape. Three quick rounds made that shadow duck. He heard the MP5 burp out another succession of rounds.

“We’re begging to get flanked.” Walker yelled it. Maybe he didn’t have to. The fire was intermittent, not the continuous noise one encountered on a real battlefield.

Becca had Gurung. He had his cutdown FAL firing, resting on his left forearm, blood evident on his upper arm and shoulder. Becca moved fast, getting behind the SUV. Walker rose up, stepped back, firing at the sniper and then traversing his fire to the corner. Keeping everyone down. He didn’t want to let go of the M4 for the time it would take him to open the back driver’s side door.

Rudi ducked back in. Becca’s AKM replaced it. As he heard the door beside him click and creak open, he replaced the M4’s magazine. Rudi’s hand came out with the MP5. He fired in the general direction of the sniper. Walker risked one last sighting. Saw the shadow. Got it to duck again with four rounds, then jumped into the SUV.

“In.” He shouted that as well. He shouted it pretty much into Gurung’s ear, who lay along the seat.

The SUV lurched back. Walker grabbed for Gurung’s jacket. Gurung tried to brace himself with his right hand. He grunted with the effort an mewled with something else.. Becca had the AKM out the passenger window, firing wildly. It was the best she could do. In an alley, hanging out the window would likely plant her in the wall. One didn’t control a big vehicle well going full tilt in reverse.

Something impacted on the body of the SUV. Walker made the assumption those were bullets.

“Don’t worry.” Gurung pushed himself back up into sitting position. “The vehicle is armoured against 7.62.”

Walker tried to help him get on the safety belt. “Who was that guy? Who was your friend?”

The SUV swung around as it reached the road. Squealing. Tires smoking. Bullets hitting. It lurched again, forward, screaming away from the alley.

“If I live through this, maybe I’ll tell you.” Gurung smiled. A lot of blood soaked his clothing. It soaked the chair and the floor.

“We need to get clear, but we need to get Gurung to a doctor,” Walker said.

“Not just yet.” Rudi enunciated each word, like he spat them out.

“I have my kit.” Becca already had her first aid pack out. “Give me ten minutes.”

“Not just yet.” Rudi spoke through his teeth. “We are not clear.”

“I’ve been shot before.” Gurung laughed weakly. “Not the end of the world.”

But it just might be for you.

Walker cursed loudly.

Twenty-six: Overt Sly

The first word that came to Rudi when he met the contact was unimpressive. Short, squat, with a patchy beard and missing teeth, Gurung had told him the contact wanted to be known as ‘Sly.’ Apparently, he idolized Stallone. Rudi decided he had better play the silent partner role, as Gurung had warned him of ‘Sly’s’ fragile ego.

“He’s not much to look at, but he’s connected and he’s done his time in.” Gurung apparently meant time in the Brigade of the Gurkhas. Rudi didn’t question him. Perhaps he could do so later . . . if he cared to.

They met Sly and his entourage of seven heavily armed locals behind a popular nightclub in a less than popular part of Kathmandu. The night had turned wet almost as soon as it had turned dark. The alley behind the club had piles of refuse and smashed crates. Light from the street offered a modicum of illumination. Tall buildings on either side made the alley a canyon. Metal fire escapes led up their roofs.

Gurung and Rudi arrived in a beat-up old Jetta. Sly and his boys arrived in three slick and shiny SUVs. Sly and Gurung embraced, back-patting and speaking quietly to each other. The seven toughs eyed Rudi. Sly’s entourage all carried cut-down AKMs. Rudi gave them a sweet smile.

He could play the hard man when warranted.

Greetings done, Sly guided Gurung over to one of the SUVs, waving for Rudi to follow them. Sly lit a cigarette and glanced around, shoulders hunched.

“I have the information you wanted.” Sly spoke English with only a slight accent. “It wasn’t as hard to find as you expected. It was very much in the open.”

Gurung’s brow furrowed. “That does not make sense.”

Sly held his cigarette with his teeth as he spoke. “Someone wants to hide it from the Americans and from the Chinese, even from the Russians, but they didn’t think about us.”

Us? Would that be smugglers? Hijackers? Government security? Gurung had never said exactly how Sly knew what he knew. Rudi suddenly didn’t like playing the silent partner.

“The delivery is something big,” Sly said. “They needed a truck. I received information second-hand through the dispatcher. It’s not 100 percent solid, but it is 90 percent solid.”

“How big?” Gurung asked. “Do you know?”

“Three containers, all the size of refrigerators.” Sly stretched his arms out, measuring out a relatively modest fridge. “The dispatcher said they were heavy. They had a little tractor to load them.”

Gurung scratched the back of his head. “But not to unload them?”

“The dispatcher didn’t mention anything about it.” Sly pulled his jacket collar higher. “I don’t think it was with the truck. I did not see a tractor when I saw the trucks at their garage.”

“You were seen at the garage?” Gurung’s eyes narrowed.

“I would not be noticed,” Sly said. “I visit there often. I have friends there. I have friends everywhere.”

Gurung crossed his arms and leaned toward Sly. “If you were there and asking questions, it is possible you may have been seen.”

“I think you maybe became paranoid.” Sly offered a smile. “No one notices me. I go everywhere, and nobody notices me.” Sly put his hand on Gurung’s shoulder. “The troubles, the gunfights and killings, this is a part of that?”

Gurung patted Sly’s arm. “Not a part of that, no. The city has been crazy since everything went quiet.”

“Not this crazy.” Sly spoke quietly, his voice not quite a whisper. “The last few days have been much worse.”

The cell phone in Rudi’s pocket began to warble. Sly’s smile faded. Gurung slowly turned to look at him, his eyes accusing. Rudi let the phone ring. Answering it would only make it worse.

Sly leaned closer to Gurung. “Talk truth to me: are you Agency? You are asking these questions, you have a wireless and everyone says the CIA is behind the situation. You are working for the Agency, aren’t you?”

The grin Gurung mustered looked weak, strained. “Of course not.”

“It is my alarm.” Rudi delivered this as straight as he could. He had beat polygraphs and Sodium thiopental, he could beat Sly. “I am late taking my medication, that is all.”

Gurung’s grin strengthened. “It is the only thing our cell phones are good for here.”

“An alarm, of course.” Sly withdrew his hand. “Next time your alarm rings, you can answer it.”

Rudi didn’t allow any reaction to reach his face. He resumed his silence. Sly’s gaze didn’t leave him.

“You have the address for the deliveries?” Gurung asked.

Sly reached under his jacket and took out a long, manila envelope, folded. He handed it to Gurung. “It is all there. Copies of any record I could find, and the destination.”

“That was a risk.” Gurung handed the envelope to Rudi.

“Not for me,” Sly said.

Rudi’s cell phone sounded again. This time, Sly did not seem surprised. Gurung ignored it. Rudi took out the phone. “I will try to turn off the alarm. It is complicated and I am easily confused.”

Moving so the body of the SUV shielded him from Gurung, Sly, and Sly’s friends, Rudi checked the phone. He had missed the call but he knew the number. It was one of the phones that Boyle and his group used. He looked around. No one watched, at least no one he could see. Boyle would not call without a good reason. He well knew Rudi and Gurung were meeting a contact.

Rudi dialled. He recognized Willow’s voice when she answered. “Gurung?”

“No, this is Rudi,” he said.

“Okay, Rudi, listen, Yu’s people can track the cell phones.” Willow spoke quickly. Rudi heard tension in her voice. That surprised him, even given the nature of the information. “You need to dispose of yours and meet us at the rally point.”

“Our business is concluded.” Rudi put confidence into his voice. “We will depart immediately.”

“Right.” And she was gone.

Rudi held the cell phone, staring at it. Yu’s people could be converging even now. He dialled Walker.

It was Lt. Park that answered. “Rudi? What’s going on? Why did you leave Gurung?”

“I received a call from Willow,” Rudi said. “Yu’s people are tracking the cells. We are to dump them and meet back at the rally point.”

“Understood.” Lt. Park spoke in good, crisp, efficient military. “We’ll cover your escape.”

“Be seeing you.” And Rudi hung up.

He didn’t wait any longer, didn’t consider his options. Opening the back, he removed the battery and tossed that deeper into the alley. He ground the rest of the phone underfoot, but expected that would do little. A tracking chip could survive that. He didn’t have the time to do it right. He returned to the meet, Sly’s eyes fixed on him, the suspicion obvious. He had a thick, white envelope in his hand.

“I am very late with my medication,” Rudi said. “We must go immediately.”

“Thanks for your help.” Gurung offered his hand to Sly. “I’ll be in touch.”

Sly didn’t take the hand. “I might not be here to help, not if I do not know who I work for.”

Gurung’s hand dropped to his side. “I’m sorry to hear that but—”

The plume of blood marking the exit wound in Sly’s chest registered with Rudi the moment before the gunshot. A second plume and a second shot followed close on it. Rudi scrambled back behind the SUV, dragging his Yarygin Grach pistol out of its holster at his back.

Boyle had said carry heavy, but it was hard to carry heavier without intimidating the contact.

Gurung joined him. By that time, Sly’s people had figured out someone was shooting, and they decided to shoot back. The SUV took plenty of hits. Risking a glance underneath, it looked to Rudi like most of those hits came from Sly’s people.

“Your friends are shooting at us,” Rudi said.

“Those are not my friends.” Gurung glanced under the vehicle as well. “Some of them are trying to get the shooter.”

Rudi frowned as he considered Gurung. “You mean they are firing blindly into the dark in the other direction, yes?”

“Was the call important?” Gurung had his Browning Hi-Power in hand, but had not used it. He also had not carried heavy.

They had left their artillery in the car.

“Yu’s people are tracking the cell phones,” Rudi said.

Gurung gestured toward the hail of gunfire with his pistol. “Do you think the sniper was with Yu?”

“Or Sly was followed after acquiring all the documentation,” Rudi said. “You were correct when you said he had not been careful.”

“It looks like Sly’s people suspect us,” Gurung said.

As the shooting slowed, Rudi checked the action from under the SUV. Four of Sly’s people advanced slowly, apparently not aware one could both look and shoot under the body of the vehicle. For a moment, Rudi considered shooting out their legs. He and Gurung needed to leave, and Sly’s boys were in the way. He had no animosity, but they didn’t leave him much choice.

About three metres of open ground lay between their SUV cover and the car. Rudi pointed to it. “We need to go. I will cover you.”

Gurung didn’t argue. He tossed his Browning to Rudi, then prepared to sprint. Rudi started shooting. He had some troubles, given that he wasn’t used to shooting under a vehicle, but after five rounds, he had clipped one in the leg and another in the groin. Both dropped. The other two scurried back, firing wildly, looking for cover.

Rudi heard the car. He rose and started shooting, a weapon in each hand. He didn’t bother to aim. He didn’t intend to hit anything. This was suppressive fire. He wanted to get to the car and get out before the opposition felt safe raising their heads.

Gurung had the passenger door open. Rudi didn’t stop firing, even once he was in the seat. Gurung pulled away, the door still hanging open, Rudi firing off the last three rounds before both weapons went dry.

A bullet struck the hood, penetrating the engine. The car went dead. Rudi saw the shooter–up on a roof, further along the alley. From the angle, this was not the shooter who had taken out Sly. And right now, that shooter had a clean line of sight on both Rudi and Gurung.

Tossing the Browning to Gurung, Rudi pulled out the suppressed MP5 he had left in the vehicle. He didn’t have the time to line up the shot, to do anything pretty. He switched it to cyclic and started putting bursts in the general vicinity of the shooter.

More suppressive fire. He needed to make time. He needed to catch a break.

Gurung hauled out his FAL.

Rudi had to change targets as two of Sly’s people got brave. Rudi couldn’t play nice any longer. He couldn’t hold back. He put a burst into one, then the other. Both went down. He didn’t think either had armour.

They shouldn’t have been stupid. He couldn’t waste any more time on them.

The FAL roared as Gurung engaged the shooter. “Move. We need another vehicle.”

Rudi considered the SUVs. One of them hadn’t been touched. He reloaded the MP5, recovered his Yarygin Grach, then stepped out of the car. Movement at the alley mouth made him crouch and spin.

Walker and Park. Walker had an M4. Park had an AKM.

“The car is dead.” Rudi kept his head down. “We need one of the trucks.”

Walker nodded. “Park, cover us.”

Park had already fired three quick rounds at the same shooter Gurung targeted. She moved to kneel behind the passenger door of the car. The door might not stop bullets, but it could foul up a shooter’s aim. It might make the difference between centre mass and a hole in the arm.

“You good at hotwiring these things?” Walker asked Rudi, yanking open the door.

“Stealing a car?” Rudi slung the MP5. “Piece of cake.”

“I damn well hope so.” Walker fired into the alley, tagging armed opposition.

The target went down, but he wasn’t from Sly’s gang. This one wore a full tactical outfit, even a helmet. More of Yu’s people? The assault team supporting the snipers?

Rudi’s day got a whole lot worse.

Continued in Twenty-seven: Hitting the Fan