PROLOGUE
Dinner Date
Mercedes Lackey and Cody Martin
The Invasion provided an unparalleled opportunity for anyone who wanted wealth or power to grab both. There were plenty who did. Politicians began to rise or fall based on their “solutions” or lack of them to the “Nazi Menace,” or (more often than not) who or what they chose to point fingers at, agitate about, or scapegoat. It was a free ride for the criminal element. Even—well, especially—the media used the initial Invasion and the subsequent attacks we began to call “pop-ups” as fodder for their nightly barrage of fear-inducing infotainment. Shortsighted? Oh hell yes. But it brought in money, and the world over, “follow the money” will never steer you wrong when you are looking for human motive. It’s human nature to figure that nothing bad will ever happen to you, because you, of course, are so much smarter, faster, better armed than the poor rubes in the Nightly News bodybags.
But probably the singlemost self-centered opportunist on the planet was about to take the gloves off and enter the arena. And what was the most dangerous about Dominic Verdigris III was this:
He actually had the brains to pull off just about anything he wanted to. He just had to be motivated enough.
When it all came down to it, Dominic Verdigris III, multibillionaire, supergenius and all that and a bag of chips, was a man who liked to enjoy the simpler things in life.
“I think the shark tank came out beautifully. And ahead of schedule, too!” He folded his arms across his chest, a self-satisfied grin creasing his lips as he glanced at his companion. “Don’t you think, Khanjar?”
The stunningly beautiful Eurasian woman in the white silk jumpsuit could have been in just about any profession that required amazing good looks. World-class supermodel good looks, almost; save for her being slightly too-well muscled. In fact, she was Verdigris’ personal bodyguard, preferred assassin and lover.
“Why a shark tank, Dom?” she asked, her cool tone betraying no emotion whatsoever. “Isn’t that a little…over the top? Next thing, you’ll want a white angora cat.”
“Order one, have it shipped to my New York penthouse.” He grinned, the sort of grin that meant he got the joke and didn’t want the cat. “But, my dear, being over the top is the point. People, regular people, like to have everything laid out for them in easy to understand bite-sized chunks. They don’t like to be ordered or forced to believe something is so, but they like to be led to that belief and have it reinforced according to the way they think the world should be. This all plays into the belief that I’m nothing more than a rich, lovable and eccentric scamp. I intend to keep it that way; everything is so much simpler.” He looked back to the shark tank, watching the sleek predators gliding through the water for a moment before turning and walking towards his desk. It was the sort of desk featured in high-end architecture magazines, a long sweep of black plexiglass without even a speck of dust on it, facing the window and the “endless pool” outside. “This lovely villa, for example. I usually prefer something a little simpler, but such extravagant luxury fulfills its purpose. Eccentric billionaire equals brainless twit. But such a nice man.”
Khanjar followed him, and took a seat on a butterscotch leather chaise lounge. “Speaking of ‘nice man,’ you wanted me to remind you about Save the Seals.”
He waved his hand. “Oh, of course. Pick a nice round number, six digits, and donate it to them. And at least three other charities or funds that are obscure enough to not be passe, but still do well in opinion polls. I’ve got the schedule set for when each should be done, so that the PR from one cascades nicely into the next.”
“Not Weasel Welfare, then?” Khanjar deadpanned.
“Wouldn’t want any of my competitors to get a dime, so no.” He laughed at his own joke. “Anything else that needs attending to?”
“There’s the meeting and attendant press conference that you’re doing with the families of some of your employees who were killed during the Invasion attacks. Scheduled next week, Friday, in California. Everything is already booked.”
“Ah, right. I’ll put in the paperwork to start a trust for that one office supervisor who died saving some people, include it in the ceremony.” He frowned. “Why, whenever things go seriously tits-up, are there always Nazis involved?”
“Speaking of Nazis, what do you want me to do with that Blacksnake assassin we caught in the garden?”
“Him?” The villa’s automatic traps had gotten the merc before he’d penetrated too far. “Scrub him of identity, kill him, and dump him once you find out where he came from. Don’t bore me with the details unless it’s interesting, and try not to have too much fun. If anyone is going to wear you out, it’s going to be me.”
Khanjar gave him a little bow, and left the room. Verdigris sighed happily; having someone he could be comfortable with and depend on to make sure things happened his way truly made everything easier and more enjoyable. Still, it was time to work. He settled down at his laptop, calling up several different encrypted emails and communication programs. This was all trivial stuff, no need to wake the desk up for it. Just a few finishing touches were needed for some issues; final orders and payoffs to ensure that a military junta that he was backing would succeed in toppling their country’s corrupt government, more bribes to a slew of officials to ensure that the right people would look away when large shipments of drugs were crossing their routes, and that a reporter who had been causing problems for one of his shell companies would meet an unfortunate end. Typing rapid-fire, he was able to finish everything over the course of five minutes. Some of these plots were the result of careful years of planning and dealing, others mere footnotes for other larger schemes. It’s all in the details.
A thought occurred to him as he finished. Tapping the touch-surface that activated his voice-recorded notes, he said, “Follow-up; need to order more research concerning potential and heretofore unknown OpFive metahuman or metahumans first encountered during the Invasion. Colloquially called ‘angels’ by mainstream media sources. End note.”
The desk alerted him to the fact that it had more camera feeds on the “Mountain Incident,” and he spared a moment to watch them. Tesla had bungled that one badly, and he found himself shaking his head over it once again. If there was one thing that Dom knew how to micromanage, it was the perception of his employees. He would never, ever, in a million years, have allowed some petty bureaucrats with an itching outbreak of Not In My Backyard dictate what he did or did not do with any of his employees, even one as problematic as the Mountain.
Hell, given the Mountain’s case of profound depression, the disaster that had unfolded when the governor of Georgia essentially ordered him deported was something even a moron could have predicted. They were all just lucky it hadn’t been worse, that the Mountain had killed so few and wrecked so little on his final rampage into the sea. He watched all the camera feeds of the behemoth’s walk out into the ocean, correlating them with coordinates and ocean currents from NOAA buoys, adding it all to the mix. Everyone assumed the Mountain was dead—drowned, crushed by the depths—
Not bloody likely. So far as Dom had been able to judge, the Mountain didn’t breathe and only used air to speak. And he was solid rock; how would the pressure at the bottom of the Marianas Trench bother him? Most likely, he was in a depressive coma down there, like some Japanese movie monster.
Dom aimed to retrieve him. Leaving him down there was a waste of an incredible resource, and given his treatment at the hands of Echo and the US government, it should be no problem whatsoever to recruit him once he was reawakened. Dom already had a staff of six shrinks standing by to turn him into Dom’s most loyal employee ever—barring maybe Khanjar.
Khanjar strode back into the room just then, stopping in front of his desk.
“Perfect timing, my dear!”
“Dinner will be ready in half an hour,” she announced. “Chef Ausanat also asked me to remind you to stop stealing in there to snatch food and ruin your appetite.” Dominic held up his hands in mock innocence. “If you’re finished, then the matter in the upper observation room is ready for you to attend to it. Before it starts bleeding on the carpet.”
“Right. Let’s not delay then, shall we? The carpet up there is worth more than he is.” Standing up, Khanjar led him up a flight of metal stairs blended into the wall of the room. The glass door opened soundlessly as they approached, closing behind them. The observation room gave a commanding view of the bay below; from this vantage point, Verdigris could see his own personal yacht at port, as well as his sport fishing boat bobbing among the waves. He had loaned it to some of his lower-tier security operatives and engineers for the weekend; they deserved the break. With Verdigris, results counted, and he always made sure to reward those of his people who produced results. Several of the companies he owned openly appeared every year on those “best companies to work for” lists. He rewarded his shadow staff even more generously. The best way to ensure loyalty was to buy it and reward it. If you worked for Dominic Verdigris, and someone tried to bribe you, your best course of action was to report it. You would be rewarded by a bonus of at least twice the size of the bribe, and sometimes a promotion.
This was how Karamjit Bhandari had come to be in Verdigris’ observation room. He had been a little too interested in Freshette Filters, LLC, after it had gotten the contract to supply Bombay with a series of new pure water treatment plants when their water infrastructure was destroyed in the Invasion.
Karamjit had never been very imposing before Verdigris’ people had gotten hold of him. A typical Bombay specimen of the prosperous sort, he was a little soft around the middle, and just starting to lose his hair. His suit had been very expensive, and nicely tailored to hide that beginning spare tire. Just another CEO in the never-ending flood of same that poured out of business schools every year. He would have looked at home at any boardroom table across the globe.
But he was not at a boardroom table. He was handcuffed to a steel chair that was itself a work of art—and as a consequence, not very comfortable to sit on. He’d clearly been handled roughly in transport. That lovely suit was abraded and torn, as was his shirt, and his face was bruised and battered.
“Glad to see you made it, Mr. Bhandari. We don’t really need to go into how you got here, or what brought you here. You know it, I know it, so on and so forth. It’s a really old story; you got greedy. So, I’ll cut to the chase.” Verdigris held up a small PDA. “This controls several charges that have been placed in your home. Your family is currently asleep, as of about thirty seconds ago. It’s a lovely gas, my own invention, so there will be no traces that police forensics will find. It’ll be enough to keep them asleep until I want, and paralyzed while still experiencing everything when they do wake up.” He pursed his lips. “It’s not ideal yet, the paralysis is permanent, but I’ll work that out later. I’d like you to direct your attention to this screen.” He pointed at an LCD monitor positioned on a table in front of Karamjit. Pressing the touch screen, the LCD flared to life, showing a live image of a rather impressive three-story home. Activating a function on the PDA caused the house to burst into flame, with gouts of fire spewing out of almost every window. Karamjit started trying to shout and cry through his gag, bucking in his chair against the restraints. “That takes care of the Bhandari clan. You’ll be fingered as the one responsible for the arson; a cleverly constructed trail of evidence that hints at your coming psychotic breakdown will make sure of that. It’ll also show that you fled the country after raiding your bank accounts, heading for parts unknown and never to be heard from again.” Dominic pocketed the PDA after switching off the LCD monitor, and began to pace in front of Karamjit.
“This could have been avoided quite easily, you know, but don’t worry, your death is rather convenient for me. You are actually doing me a bit of a service, here. Criminals of all stripes have a habit of forgetting loyalties and debts fairly quickly.” He paused in front of his victim, who was now sobbing uncontrollably through his gag. “This will be a reminder, not just for your associates, but for everyone: don’t fuck with Dominic Verdigris.” Khanjar stepped behind Karamjit, and in one smooth motion brought a small kuboton down on the back of his neck with a sickening pop. Karamjit, now limp, went into shock almost immediately, though he retained consciousness.
“You’re paralyzed now. I think this concludes our business, Mr. Bhandari.”
Khanjar released the helpless man from his bonds, and shoved him out of the chair. He rolled to the very edge of the observation platform, which did not boast anything like a railing. Verdigris did not care for “nanny architecture.” If you were too stupid or helpless to avoid falling…too bad, welcome to Darwin’s Waiting Room.
Dominic and Khanjar both walked towards the helpless man. The shark tank was directly below. Verdigris smiled; a model of efficiency as ever, Khanjar had applied just the right amount of force to Karamjit when she ejected him from the chair. He dug a toe—elegantly clad in a gorgeous Italian shoe—just under Karamjit’s pudgy waist, and shoved. Sometimes it really mattered to add a personal touch when making business decisions.
The former CEO of a company that was shortly going to be as dead as his family plummeted into the shark tank. The sharks had been primed by a high-tech version of “chumming” that left the water crystal clear. Also Verdigris’ invention. On the way to it, he’d come up with a brand new BBQ sauce flavor as well. The sharks reacted to the sudden intrusion with a ravenous feeding frenzy.
Verdigris observed for a few long moments before turning to his confidant and companion. “I’m starting to get hungry. Want to shower, and then we’ll work up an appetite together?”