Bidding War
Michael Z. Williamson
Jeremy Bravo sat in his office, sipping cocoa, wondering how to get money. His office was in a fenced compound north of Jefferson, not far from what had been Freehold Forces Heilbrun Base. It was readily reachable by transport, but remote enough to avoid random gawkers and idiots wanting a “tour” of Ripple Creek Security Operations. It housed their offices, standard training facilities, lodging for times of duress, such as now—their families were recently moved into the adequate housing, which could double as additional training facilities if necessary, equipment and maintenance, and their armory, still intact as an authorized UN contractor, at present.
It was understandable that retailers, factories and even banks had trouble during an occupation, especially with UN bureaucrats trying to create government regulations where few had existed. For a military contractor to struggle during a war, though, was . . . frustrating.
Ripple Creek should have their choice of contracts, and if the war was anywhere else, they would. Even here, they should be able to pick up all kinds of protection gigs.
While there was a goldmine of executive protection to be done, the contracts were not viable.
He absolutely would not accept UN contract work in this system. This was Ripple Creek’s base of operations, and goodwill with the locals was essential. Besides, quite a few of their employees were Freeholders, too. Getting between warring factions of your primary employer and your neighbors was not a wise option.
He had plenty of notes out for outsystem security. As far as that went, the company worked for a number of multinats, bureaus and private individuals. Those contracts were in effect and supporting themselves. That didn’t cover the margin for the rest sitting idle, though.
The UN’s primary concern was here. Every bureaucrat in the system was terrified of being captured and/or killed in brutally bizarre and creative ways. The Assassins Guild—technically the Professional Duelists’ Association but call a spade a spade—were taking a slow, methodical toll on a number of BuState, BuMil, and others, even BuEdu and BuTreas managers. Every insurgent group had tags for the lower administrators and would happily take the bigger ones if they found them. So, most of the high-value targets were hiding here in Jefferson, in their offices, terrified to set foot in the street, but required to do so periodically.
If they sent flunkies, the flunkies died, too. So the flunkies pleaded ignorance of the finer points of the mission until the ranking admin wankers had to respond.
Every one of them wanted a personal security detail. The UN wasn’t willing to pay top rates for those high-level but noncritical personnel. He didn’t want to be in the middle of that goatfuck. Nor should he accept the second-string rates being offered for first-line PSD work. He also didn’t want to get on the UN’s bad side by refusing. He was running out of excuses, and the last two feelers had wound up at MilBu intelligence, forwarded to theater leadership, gleefully insisting they could absolutely employ his personal security details if they were available. At about fifteen percent of their usual rates.
Choices were disappearing fast. Things were getting critical.
Then there was the new power bill from the UN Interim Civil Electrical Cooperative, which was about twice the usual bill from the former Capital Power Systems. The UN added all kinds of environmental, service, monitoring and other fees that didn’t do a damned thing for him, just drove the cost up. He also had communications about wanting licenses and certs on the company weapons, their professional standards—of which they had plenty, but not under the UN bureaucracy except when contracted to them, etc.
Lasman Khaima came through the open door for a morning conference. He was bigger, broader and darker than Bravo, and looked more like what people expected of a hired goon.
“What do you think, boss?” he asked as he dropped into a deeply arched chair that whuffed as it compressed.
Grimacing, Jeremy replied, “I think everyone needs to polish up a résumé for store security or a nonfield job. We’re running out of options.”
Khaima replied, “The problem is if we keep sitting on a fence, we’re going to get a stick up our ass.” He flicked out a pocketknife and started cleaning his nails.
Jeremy took a sip of his drink and nodded. “Absolutely. But there’s no good outcome if we get between the hostiles trying to stop bullets. We’d lose people for too little money.”
Khaima said, “Did you see the local reward for Scott Loughery went up again?”
Jeremy hadn’t. “To what now?”
“One fifty K, preferably alive.”
He exhaled, almost a whistle. “Damn. That’s a good fee.” Loughery was Chief, Grainne Interim Governmental Infrastructure Development Function. Joseph Mattias, billionaire and braggart, had openly put prices on the heads of several bureaucrats he felt were interfering with his prosperity and glamorous lifestyle. The Duelists’ Assn. had gotten three so far. A private sharpshooter got one. Two others had encountered significant IEDs. In response, Mattias had a price on his head, but enough money and contacts to evade, avoid, and pay off any attempt on him so far.
Khaima nodded and said, “Yeah. How would you feel about protecting him?”
“If they’d pay that per week, I’ll actually consider it.” That would be twice base rate for someone in that status.
“Can we haggle? What are they offering?”
“Fifteen K.”
Khaima spluttered. “Per week? I knew they were offering crap, but that won’t even get you a good entry control team from Fortis.”
Jeremy nodded. “Right. And we’d still be defending a scumbag from our neighbors who have reasons to want him dead. Bad juju.” On the other hand . . .
“Nothing outsystem?”
“Travel costs are killing every deal. We have to get out of here via UN-controlled routes, which are slow and expensive. You add a half mil in travel expenses and we stop being competitive. Everyone calling needs either sooner or can find good enough for cheaper. All the action is right here.”
“Which we can’t take.”
Jeremy scowled and chugged the rest of his chocolate. “Right again. We have the permanent contract with Prescot, the standing consult with the Caledonian royals. The ten or so others you know about. Every new offer is right here, not enough, and especially given the PR nightmare.”
“The only thing I’d jokingly suggest is we take out Loughery discreetly. That money will feed us for the month at least.”
“That’s where we’re going.”
Khaima was wide-eyed. “Boss, I was joking.”
“I’m not. A buck’s a buck and if our primary employer isn’t paying, they stop being an employer. They might hinder contracts or file criminal charges. If we take their coin our friends have to try to kill us, and damn, will they be personally pissed. We’re boned either way, so we may as well make sure we have a safe place to live for now. If we don’t have principals to protect, we have to create some. There’s also the possibility that if we’re discreet enough, they start hiring us to protect them from what we’ll do if they don’t hire us.”
That got a grin from Khaima. “Protection money. We really don’t have a choice. We need money, the Unos aren’t paying. So who do we send to do this?”
“We do it personally. You, me, Truitt, Grey, Tombala, Mahmoud. Find out where this value-added screen monkey is, and we’ll go get him.”
* * *
Finding Loughery was easy. He was conveniently in Jefferson, along with most of the bureaurats trying to create a new nation, just like all the other nations.
Getting him wouldn’t be easy. He had a security detail of mixed bureau security and MPs. They were not as effective as Ripple Creek, but they were good enough to stop bullets. That meant murder charges from the UN, because there was no feasible way to separate him from them. Then, RC would have to unass the area with him, and even if he was compliant that would be a noticeable act.
Jeremy personally did the first recon. It was convenient that Mattias owned a building in the area. On the other hand, he owned a lot of buildings. Atop one of the railed rooflines, Jeremy carried a box of tools and monitors, and pretended to slowly and methodically monitor and adjust climate-conditioning equipment. It was even the right time of year to tweak it, after it came online, before it hit full capacity. While doing so, he placed microcameras. Those fed into delicate, spider-silk thin transmission lines, reinforced with monofilament, that dropped down a ventilation shaft where a company tech would wire it into a shielded line they could check with the right code.
Mattias also had his HUMINT element, which was a combination of every private comm camera he could get access to via several dark network hackers. That was made easier by the number of people voluntarily taking as many images and video as they could to help keep a live update on UN operations.
Loughery had a regular schedule from his apartment inside the Gray Zone to his office at the edge, where he was forced to deal with mere humans, and worse, humans not subserviently minded to him.
Once before, though, he took an armored limo and security team to a coffee shop rather far out of downtown, almost in the Delta district on the river.
And apparently again this week.
They went over the findings back in their compound, in a room with no windows and with everything swept and scrambled. It wasn’t as secure as some military sites, but no one should be suspect and nearby, and the perimeter was kept secure.
The meeting was composed of Bravo, Khaima, explosive technician Oren Truitt, intel specialist Derek Tombala, pilot/driver/operator Sarina Mahmoud, and Jack Grey, the senior shooter and protection expert on hand.
Jeremy confirmed. “So he goes there every Berday?”
Tombala said, “Twice at least. He’s meeting an intel source.” He had a file open with notes.
Grey asked before Bravo could, “Do we know whose intel source?”
“Mattias says it’s someone the Freehold insurgency trusts to furnish intelligence useful to us.”
Khaima noted, “But not whether they’re an honest double or just being fed?”
Tombala shook his head. “No. That doesn’t really matter to us though, does it? Apparently, it’s military intelligence, so not even Loughery’s job. He’s trying to horn in on their operation for the glory.”
“So pretty much no one is going to miss this asshole. Right. So make sure the source isn’t hit in the crossfire. But also make sure he doesn’t identify us. Slug him? Her?”
“Him. Pudgy little nerd. Easy enough to gap Loughery while that kid’s whimpering on the floor.”
“It would be, but Mattias is paying for him alive.”
Tombala got very serious. “Boss . . . I mean, there’s a difference between security and abduction, but they’re sort of two sides of the same chip. Murder’s a much bigger difference, but it’s easy. Anyone who’s got a kill on file should be able to put a round through his brain without much hesitation. Then we just disperse. Dragging him with us . . . ”
Bravo explained, “Yes, it’s going to be exciting, and we hate excitement. But, we love money, we need money, and that’s what we’re being paid for.”
Shrugging, Khaima said, “Okay, then, let’s work on E and E.”
“First, obviously, no discussion with anyone, even family. We don’t have a contract so there’s no reason for anyone to even think anything is going on. That’s what we want.”
Grey commented, “We better plan an exercise, though, if we and others are moving around.”
“Right. So, the rough plan is ingress the location, eliminate the security detail, egress with the target. Second egress is outside of what will be an increasingly broad but more dispersed perimeter. Then we have to arrange a delivery point.”
* * *
Three days later they were on location at the coffee shop frequented by Loughery and his source. Bravo was in line for a cocoa, dressed like any other businessperson hoping to get by, though his clothing fabric was a bit tougher than those around him and had a certain amount of padding built in. He and Sarina Mahmoud were carrying doccases, standing just behind Loughery and his goons.
In his earbud he heard, “Visual front confirmed.”
He let his peripheral vision take in the scene. Grey was at the rear, with a clear field of fire at the goons. Tombala had the two at the front through the door, and there were few bystanders. Truitt was ready to shoot or obscure as needed, or take out the wall for a Plan C.
He smiled at Sarina, as if they were involved. He even ran a hand up her shoulder. Loughery suspected nothing, and his goons limited their action to returning cold stares against the glares aimed their way.
It was as perfectly set as it could be. Showtime.
There was the waitress. Now, then.
He glanced at the wall, then said, “Damn, I’m going to be late.”
Everything exploded in noise, flash and smoke.
* * *
One second Scott Loughery was watching his coffee arrive. Business was about to start, and it was going to work in everyone’s favor—the locals’, the UN’s, his. This source had been reliable twice. If this data was good, Loughery’s office would set him up with just enough funds to keep him hungry and digging. Loughery would look good and BuMil would owe him a favor, such as more security.
The air cracked. There was a flurry of chattering BANGs and explosions whuffing pressure and dust and he startled and flailed. His entire security contingent was on the floor, all bleeding, most dead, some twitching as nerves accepted the inevitable. He’d seen it in combat video. He never expected to see it live. He heard screams and shouts and watched the locals all dive to the floor.
They all just died. What the fu—
A big man punched Leon Amit, his source, hard. Amit squealed, mumbled and collapsed. The man turned and grabbed Loughery’s bag and comm.
A robbery? In daylight? But why hit my—
Rough hands seized him and something dark poked him under the right nostril.
A disturbingly cheerful voice asked, “Does this gun smell like ball sweat to you?”
Adrenaline rippled through him. It was a pistol. The muzzle did smell faintly of sweat.
I could die at any moment, he thought. Cold chills and nausea coursed through him.
“What do you want from me?” he asked, trying to hold exceedingly still and sound completely submissive, because he was.
“Let’s go for a ride.”
His abductor turned, and Loughery turned with him completely compliantly, hoping the backup force wasn’t far away. Of course, they had dozens of personnel to support, but maybe they were near.
There was the door. It would be perfect if they arrived right now. He could dive out the door and hit the ground. It opened and a rush of hot, dry air blasted in.
A hand slapped him in the balls. Not hard, just enough to sting and make him gasp. As he did, a puff of vapor engulfed his face. He could smell it, rubbery and musty, and feel it burning. He felt a sneeze coming, and saw his car pull up, the trunk opening. The sneeze and his eyes both shut down in a swirl of color and twanging waveforms.
* * *
Bravo and Khaima lifted Loughery and dropped his head into the trunk, then rolled the rest of him in on a preplaced sheet. Grey bent over with a pair of sharp forceps and extracted the tracking chip from Loughery’s right hand. He flicked it into the gutter. Eyes ahead, they walked briskly around the car and Khaima let his boss into the back then took passenger front. Grey and Truitt, slightly older and dapper, got in passenger middle and rear carrying classy luggage, and Sarina Mahmoud strode around the front and into the driver’s seat. In moments, everyone had rifles laid out, and Truitt had a rocket projector.
The limo didn’t look out of place here, the number of people was roughly correct, and they’d done their best to not act suspiciously. It was probable that no one had seen anything untoward, and unlikely that any locals would tell the UN if they did. Even acknowledging trouble could lead to being flagged and interrogated. The usual local reticence was reinforced by the intruding Earth culture.
Sarina rolled off.
“I had to adjust the seat,” she commented. “Driver was the tall one.”
“Noted.”
Getting into the Gray Zone could be difficult. It required ID, a documented tasking, searches, and protocols of equipment. Getting out, though, was far less complicated most of the time.
That was about to change, since the moment Loughery was noticed missing, things would lock down. However, that would happen in stages, starting with a search for this limo.
From the back, Bravo ordered, “Drive it like we stole it, which we did.”
Sarina replied, “Understood. Within all legal limits so as not to attract attention.”
“Exactly.”
Driving like a criminal was easy and obvious. Refraining from doing so even under duress took courage and training. That was their stock in trade. If nothing else, this was a nice exercise to keep their edge honed, and they would get paid.
At any time, a number of UN officials were in armored limos, others in staff cars, and a handful in air-capable vehicles. No one had twigged yet, but as soon as someone did, they’d try to disable or override the vehicle, or barricade with whatever force they had. The faster RC relocated and changed vehicles, the better.
Sarina took a right at the corner, past a small shop that was closed and gone, an economic victim of the invasion. She took a left, two rights, another left and had relocated them from the art district to a business zone. Very quickly, she pulled into a parking block, then punched the motor and skidded all the way to the third level. Above that level the block used motorized sorting. Here and down were parking for odd-sized vehicles.
On the third floor, a company-hired driver backed out of a space and gave Mahmoud room to park. At once, the doors popped open, the team climbed out into hot, dank air, popped the trunk, rolled Loughery into the sheet, loaded the wrapped bundle into the hatch of an adjoining Bufori sedan, got in, and backed down to the landing. There Sarina spun a turn, and they departed the block.
At the perimeter of the Gray Zone, traffic was slowed, but moving steadily. The Freehold had no provision for government override of vehicle controls, and this was one more thing that vexed the UN greatly.
Mahmoud reported, “Crap, they’re starting to check vehicles.”
From the back, now changed into a different suit, Bravo asked, “What are they using for barrier?”
“Two armed goons.”
“Do you think you can ram if necessary?”
She replied at once, “Yes, how hardened is this thing?”
“Small arms shouldn’t hurt it.”
She nodded. “Okay. Do we have a backup outside?”
He thought through the list. “I can have Rosten do it. He’s already out of the zone.” Rosten also had no idea what was going on. He’d been told to go to a location, wait for instructions. This happened all the time, exercise and real world. The man had no reason to expect real world, as there was no contract. He and the other staged personnel were useful backup who couldn’t betray anything.
Sarina said, “Okay, here we go.”
One of the UN perimeter patrol waved them closer, looking slightly intimidated by the expensive, chauffeur-driven vehicle. Mahmoud dropped her window. City dust and heat flowed in.
The guard was Eastern European, but his English was respectable if accented. Through the window he said, “Good afternoon, respected people. I am sorry to delay you. We have a security issue and need to check the vehicle.”
From the passenger seat, Khaima raised his eyebrows and sounded incredulous as he asked, “You do realize who this is, right?”
The guard replied, “Sir, I do not.”
Khaima pointed into the back with his thumb. “This is Rajer Pierson-Alton.”
“Sir . . . I apologize, but I don’t recognize that name.”
The big man carried on through. “CFO and Vice-President of Lola Aerospace? The company that builds half of your landing craft and handled the upgrade contract on the Guardians?”
Bravo took the cue and called from the back, “What do they want, Sherise?”
Sarina replied, “Sir, they want to inspect the vehicle for something.”
“Do they have a valid warrant?”
Khaima said loudly, “Not that I can tell.”
The young guard stammered, obviously overawed by the claimed status, and leery of creating a scene. Traffic was piling up behind.
Jeremy could almost see the wheels turning in the boy’s head. His senior sergeant came over. The MP gestured and talked while the supervisor wrinkled his brow and looked at the car.
There were frowns and hesitations, and Jeremy was trying to decide if he should signal Mahmoud to floor it, when the soldier turned and said, “Sorry to have delayed you, sir. Please relay our apologies and have a good day.”
He pointed and the two gunners raised muzzles and half-saluted.
Khaima nodded and replied, “Thanks for keeping us safe, soldier.”
Mahmoud eased forward and through the checkpoint.
As soon as the window was up, Tombala pulled a scanner.
“They didn’t drop any bugs that I can tell.”
Grey was looking behind as he added, “But they did figure out their error. There’s screaming on the net about stopping us.”
Bravo said, “Then let’s make that next vehicle swap.”
Sarina nodded. “Yeah, where are we going?”
“Remember the shop/warehouse we rented about a decade ago, for cash, to run a scenario?”
“Yes. On it.” She changed lanes, got onto the freeway, and yes, this section did not have the destroyed bridge. She exited at the next loop, then resumed multiple turns, heading generally in the direction of the site.
Tombala announced, “There’s a vertol overhead with parasite UAVs, trying to find us.”
Bravo and Mahmoud both said, “Understood” simultaneously, and she took another turn, slowed as if looking for parking, then eased back into traffic.
Tombala updated with, “The drones are dropping lower. Also, our own net sent me a snapshot of vehicle pursuit. One Eel, two armored DT5s, and an AMG truck that is probably UN.”
While turning yet again, she asked, “Who are we meeting?”
“I’ve directed Rosten to be ready. Once there, we have three ways out.”
Mahmoud nodded. “Right. I’ll program this to continue. We’ll need to bail fast.”
Khaima said, “Don’t forget our payroll.”
“I won’t.”
Accelerating now, Mahmoud said, “Here we go.” She turned into the industrial park, and there was the garage.
Tombo asked, “Can you do anything about that drone astern?”
Oren Truitt said, “Yes, but I want to wait until we’re close.”
Bravo said, “We’re close now.”
“As you say, boss.”
Oren leaned his grey head out the window, pointed his launcher, and it thumped.
A moment later there was a sharp BANG. Sarina took a sharp yank of the wheel, off the road, and the car rolled into the open bay doors.
Truitt confirmed the drone dead. “It’s down.”
Bravo shouted, “And stop. All out!”
The Bohemian Fire Drill took six seconds. Doors flew open, operators leapt out, the deck lid was still rising as Khaima grabbed Loughery’s body like a sack of meat, thumped it into the cargo compartment of a five-year-old TesGen crew truck that rolled up alongside, and they all piled in as Sarina slammed the driver’s door and the Bufori rolled off on auto. She hopped into the crew truck driver seat.
A few seconds later, Rosten punched the button on a kitted-out Dinocorp Lightning, sending it back into the city. He closed bay doors and grabbed a cycle, exiting through a personnel door.
It wasn’t going badly so far, but Jeremy had hoped to be here before the first swap was identified. If they had a drone gap of even a few moments, the chase should be focused on the Bufori, and possibly the Lightning. The longer that pursuit chased those, the better the odds in the current transport, worn enough to be unremarkable.
“Okay, get us into commercial traffic. Do we need a fake?”
Tombo said, “We seem to be good for the present.” A moment later he added, “No, here come drones.”
Jeremy had eyes on a feed, Tombala watched two others and listened.
“They got the Bufori,” Tombala announced. “It did take them awhile. They had to make sure it was empty and not boobytrapped.”
“Good. What are they doing now?”
“They’re reviewing, and I think they’re going to pick up the Lightning. Yes, that’s what they’re tracking. And now us.”
“Continue to drive normally. As soon as you think we’re clear, Oren, blow the Lightning.”
Tombala said, “Roger. They’re piling on it now. We seem to be tertiary.”
“Perfect.”
Truitt asked, “Blow it now?”
“Yes.”
The man grinned and keyed a code.
The car didn’t just blow. It discharged several fragmentation warheads that shredded two of the drones and caused pursuit to slam to a halt. Then it incinerated hot. That was going to require an emergency response. The UN had learned not to trust local responders, so it was going to take time.
Bravo shrugged. “Of course, they now know we’re the probable.”
Oren said, “Meantime they have a fireball to deal with.”
“Yeah, splitting resources is good, they’re limited, but they’re also determined. Ready with countermeasures?”
From the middle, Tombala replied, “Ready.” Truitt was the supporting fire, Tombo was the spotter. They were in good practice and showed it now.
Almost at once, the tech noted, “I’m tracking a drone. As soon as you can deploy a net, do so.”
“Firing.”
CHUNK.
Tombo nodded. “Got one, there’s another steering around.”
Bravo said, “Fire at will.”
A louder bang came from an AA launcher, then twice more.
Truitt sounded satisfied. “Got it.”
Tombo had more news. “There’s a cop following, and two armored patrol cars. The bastards are using our vehicles, of course.”
This was not going well, and Bravo exclaimed, “Oh, fuck it. How many missiles do we have?”
Oren held up two fingers. “Two. Our only two at present.”
“How did they track us so fast?”
Tombo said, “I assume he’s got a secondary transponder.”
“Well, we need to fix that.”
“Do you think he’ll talk?”
“Without hesitation.”
“Get us into some steel. The plaza under the Freibank building?”
Sarina said, “That could work. There’s a parking stack.”
“Keep us on ground level,” he nearly shouted in warning.
“Of course.”
“Okay, move, move!”
They bailed out again and popped the hatch on the cargo box.
Loughery was awake. He was obviously terrified. He panted and gasped and was flushed.
“Are you going to kill me?” he asked, sounding panicky.
“Nah, we were just paid to deliver you. Or will be. It works on the honors system. You probably don’t know what that is.”
Carefully, the man replied, “Sir, I am a very senior official. I am very valuable as a hostage.”
Bravo grinned. “Oh, we know who you are. It took us most of a day to unass the area and remain unseen. We’ll meet our client soon.”
Khaima was the biggest. He leaned over and brusquely asked, “Loughery, where’s your second transponder?”
“Eh? I only have one.” He rubbed his hand where the wound was. “You removed it.”
Tombo shrugged. “Well, if you don’t know, the easiest thing is just to amputate both hands. You won’t need them where we’re going.”
Loughery started blubbering. “I really don’t know!”
Bravo muttered. “I believe him. Well, shit. We just need to find the code to burp it. Can we get that?”
Tombo fumbled with a transpinger. “I suspect we can. I don’t know how fast.”
Bravo was getting antsy. “Make it fast or take the hands to make sure.” They weren’t going to lop off his hands but keeping up the fear factor couldn’t hurt.
The man blubbered and twitched.
“Okay, I think I have a pingback. And it’s in his ass, of course.”
“Cheek, or actually in his ass?”
“Cheek. Left.”
“Oh, good.”
Bravo took delight in grimacing at Loughery. “Bend over. This is gonna hurt you a lot more than it hurts me.”
“Wha, uah . . . ”
He wrestled the man over his knee, presented the left ass cheek, and Grey sliced the pants open with a scalpel. He probed for a spot, nodded, and jammed the blade in. He was only a battlefield medic, so it wasn’t a very neat job.
“OWWWwwww!”
“Shut up, pussy,” Grey ordered, as he reached in with forceps and pulled.
Khaima struggled to hold the man still as he whined and cried and squealed.
Grey squirted clotter into the small wound, and said, “Done.”
“Okay, get back in the box, Payroll.”
The man, if he could be called that, whimpered and cried. Mahmoud nailed it and they departed the underground, back into traffic.
Tombo said, “We have to assume they’ll orbit search to find us.”
Bravo acknowledged, “Yeah. Also, if we do this again, we toss them into a Faraday bag first.”
“With DNA diffuser.”
Shortly the man added, “There’s pursuit all over the area.”
Jeremy had an idea. “Can you get that transponder into a stream from here?”
“Maybe.”
“Wrap it in this.” He handed over a glove to add some mass.
Sarina said, “We’re about to cross the Industrial Stream. It flows past the air and spaceport from here.”
“Perfect.”
Window down, Tombo heaved, and the package sailed over the bridge and dropped out of sight.
A few moments later he added, “Drones are following that.”
Grey commented, “Good. They might find us afterward.”
Bravo said, “Yeah, we’re not going back to the office.”
“Was this worth the money?”
He reconsidered, but yes. “Money for now, proves which side we’re on, sows chaos amongst our new enemy, and proves our capabilities. Long term, it was our best bet.”
The young man shrugged. “Reasonable. Well, not, but neither are the circumstances.”
“Right.”
Sarina asked, “Do we steal another car?”
“No, we’re swapping again. All these are borrowed, by the way. For the cause.”
Truitt asked, “Will people still be willing when their cars get seized?”
“I’m told the nerds scrambled the records, and we’re borrowing a lot that are contracted to the UN anyway.”
“Borrowing?”
“They can have them back when we’re done. Like this one.”
Tombo noted, “They’ve backed off. Interesting.”
“Yes, they don’t know what happened yet. They’ll need a human in the loop for that decision. Get ready to drag his ass.”
“Roger.”
An utterly nondescript cargo van waited under the sunshade in front of another empty warehouse. Too many of those since the UN came along. Bravo felt anger over that.
The change was anticlimactic. Their hire, who knew only that he was driving a vehicle for cash, climbed into the contact truck cab and took off. The team stuffed Loughery into a metal tool chest in the van’s cargo bay, climbed into the van with only Bravo and Mahmoud up front, and cruised away.
It was half a div driving slowly and normally before they reached the edge of the agricultural flats. There were numerous gravel and dirt drives and access roads to houses, shops, and fields. Eventually, Bravo saw a ping and said, “Turn there.”
Sarina took them down the gravel. It was well-graded and relatively recent and crunched under the wheels.
“That’s our meeting.” He pointed to two men sitting under a sunshade sipping cocktails. On the far side of the clearing were a work truck, air-capable, and an upscale but not opulent Skoda sedan with stretch seating.
She said, “So that’s Joseph Mattias.”
Bravo remembered she’d never been on one of Mattias’s details.
“Yup. We’ve contracted to him before, but always on the other side—protection.”
They slowed, stopped, and climbed out into the faint haze and bright Iolight. Khaima and Grey dragged the toolbox.
Without preamble, Jeremy asked, “Got the cash?”
Mattias handed over a small case. He said, “I do. And given your reputation, you can even count it with hands on.”
Jeremy took it and glanced inside. There were bundles of UN Marks and several prepaid cash cards.
Mixed funds. Excellent. He replied, “That’s not necessary, sir. Your reputation is sound.”
Mattias barely smiled and gave a fractional nod. “Thank you.”
“Which doesn’t mean this is a date.”
Mattias laughed cheerfully, turned to the other party present and asked, “Mr. Bandara, are you ready?”
“I am.” The scarred man looked over at Jeremy. “He’s in the crate?”
“Yes. You wanted him alive.”
Sarina tapped a key on the lock, which popped open, then grabbed the corner of the side and flicked it. It fell open to reveal Loughery, squinting at the Iolight and whimpering. The whimpers got more urgent.
Bandara smiled very thinly. “Very good. You gonna stay for the show?”
Mattias replied, “You know how much I love watching you work, but I’ve got events to plan, people to have killed, and the UN to blame for it. I’m swamped.”
The lanky, scarred man nodded. “Make sure you get some rest in there.”
“I will. You’ll deliver him back to the UN?”
The duelist—well, assassin—replied, “Eventually.”
“Excellent. Have a good day.”
Mattias turned to the Ripple Creek element.
He said, “I have a bottle of imported Caledonian whisky in the car. Will you join me?”
Bravo replied, “We accept, thank you, sir.”
Mattias walked with them. Apparently, he wasn’t sociopathic enough to enjoy watching even that kind of asshole die. He was willing to pay for it, however.
Behind them, Loughery’s voice turned panicky and incoherent. When Bandara asked, “Which knife do you want?” Loughery began an inarticulate, blubbering scream.
It became staccato with shouts, then gurgled to nothing.
No one looked back.
Into the awkward silence, Jeremy turned to Mattias and asked, “We’ll need something else for next month, and we do have more personnel available. Do you have a list?”
Mattias replied, “I do. None of them will be missed.”