《Cerberus Wakes》


 Book 1 - CHAPTER 1

    Do not screw up today, Alex.


    Alex checked her intra-vascular readouts by dialing up the wrist-placard. Synth-hormonal scales all showed elevated readings, but otherwise, her bio-stasis read nominal -- endorphins and dopamine levels rising by five percent but well within acceptable parameters. Cortisol and adrenaline stable too. She remained at ease, in a euphoric high but razor-sharp.


    Cutting low across the jungle canopy of South America, the matte black aircraft with no markings, call-sign Anvil 41, carried her assault team in its drop bay. The transport had originated from the Pacific side of Nueva Colombia, and had gone feet-dry an hour ago. It banked a sharp left at its way-point in the interior and resumed on a new easterly heading. Once it entered Federales Venezuela air space, the escort fighters peeled off and Anvil 41 continued solo.


    Warrant Officer Alexis Marlboro sat in the last seat near the rear ramp. She was a big girl, built solid in a muscular V, and sported a stark blond crew-cut that contrasted against her dark skin. She had boxer''s cheekbones, a wide squat nose, and intense eyes -- seven percent larger than normal, and they shined, the iris entirely swallowed by bright pupils. She didn''t need night-vision gear. In the dark, a membrane modeled after the Tapetum Lucidum of carnivores concentrated ambient light back to the retina. They all had the eerie eyes -- all her boys around her. And beneath their left ears, tattooed ID bar-codes containing blood types, in case nothing else was identifiable.


    Alex could see their pheromones in color, wrapping around each man -- Warchild, Rotter, Papa, T-Bone and fourteen others. They were her pride and pain, her surrogate brothers, all wearing hi-tech lightweight nano-armor. Hunters in repose before battle; they held no extraneous thoughts. Just a year ago, they had been strangers, a mishmash of elite soldiers and high-end operators from different services brought together for one purpose. Time and trials had gelled the unit, and given it a name: Team Cerberus, and she the reins behind the pack. Being chosen as team leader was one of the proudest moments of her life.


    Her right leg trembled in rhythmic beats. She knew what nerves were -- this was hypertonic spasms amping up, a feedback reflex from newly grown muscles. She clamped down on her knee to arrest the rebellion. Not just yet.


    She gauged the condition of her boys. Some stared ahead with expressionless faces or had their eyes closed in meditation. Others were twitching as she was and hiding it. She suspected they''d all received a higher dose than normal. Because playtime''s over, kids. The jacked-in headshrinkers watching the team''s electro-feedback for anomalies had been quiet. No alarm from the monitors implied all systems were Go. Trust your new body, Alex, men in lab coats had drilled into her, it will feel strange at first, but you''ll learn to love it. Shit, that''d been six months ago with the neuro-conditioning, and still, she felt the alien, a beast she''d glimpsed underneath trying to claw its way out.


    Easy, she stroked it mentally, soothing it.


    Alex recalled the words spoken a year ago in a secret island base on the Chesapeake among a troupe of quiet professionals chosen to undergo a radical procedure. Patriotic and confident, each candidate was a warrior, recruited from a variety of spec-ops units. Ranks, service, and specialties had no meaning there. Only the selection process mattered. The brutal six-month tryout sought to weed out the weak links on both physical and mental levels. Alex had barely survived the trials and was about to ring out until she''d found an untapped will to remain standing. Out of a thousand entrants, she was the only woman left . . . In the depths of hurt and insanity, she''d often asked herself why she endured this inhuman hardship. Because the rewards they promised were trans-humanizing.


    "The human beast in all its noble magnificence . . . is a frail disappointment." Director Ian Moreau was a technocrat bigwig for TexPax and was immensely influential. The gravity well around him was unmistakable, drawing everything into him. "A zebra foal on the Serengeti just minutes old has to run, or it is torn to pieces. A human infant can''t walk until two years, much less defend itself in five minutes. Man, himself when compared to the robustness of animals, has so much room to improve."


    "Yeah, starting with his tongue," the young brown girl with a blond flattop had said. Her comment drew boisterous laughter.


    "Settle down," an officer standing by barked at Alex, "You -- keep quiet."


    Moreau gestured it was okay, smirking at her brazenness. He took a liking to her, she could tell. And she him. More so, because he cared. Later, Moreau would ensure the medical staff was always on call. And when rejections emerged, he''d tried his best to halt the damage. Some just couldn''t be helped, and he''d suffered with them.


    "Improved -- how so?" she had asked after the laughter died down, ignoring the officer''s glare.


    "I tell you this -- the Program isn''t some cosmetic whitewash with empty placebo promises," Moreau had said. "We''re talking replicating nanites cultured to your specific DNA profiles that can repair tissue ten times faster than normal. But it''s also a custom suit hard to wear which makes finding the proper host rare and valuable. One in ten thousand might have the genetic makeup and mental endurance to go through these crucibles." Moreau paced during his speech, looking at the floor. "By the time it''s all done, you''ll have synthetic blood coursing through your veins with supersaturated hemoglobin allowing you to run a three-minute mile for fifty miles without wheezing. More oxygen means you can hold your breath underwater for half an hour, even more. You''ll have burst reflexes of felines from shortened musculature and reinforced bones to tolerate these new abilities. You''d endure the highest pain scales and not suffer runaway emotions. And, lastly, an elegant weapon -- in-line blades of liquid metal hardened by voltage . . . But these results won''t be overnight. And it won''t be easy." He paused and looked at the gathering. "Many more won''t make it."


    "Haven''t we made the last cut already?" a man raised his hands.


    "Your name''s Mars, isn''t it?"


    "Warchild." A haughty grin spread across his face.


    "The only cut, Warchild, that matters now won''t be made by committee -- but by your own bodies. To get past the final stage, you''ll experience pain only your mothers knew giving birth. You''ll undergo stern psychological conditioning. But until the mind accepts and tolerates these mental loads," he tapped his temple, "you may go mad. In extreme cases, you could be lobotomized, crippled, or undergo systemic collapse where your bodies devour themselves."


    The men looked at each other. Alex delighted seeing their doubts. Pussies.


    "I won''t bullshit you." Moreau looked at each face with the honesty of a mortician. "We haven''t explored the Program''s threshold through its entirety. I can''t tell you how long you''d live if successful -- hundreds of years. Or die in days after injection, eaten by virulent cancers. If this is more than you bargained for, you can ring out now. There''s no shame in it. Hell, I would."


    Director Moreau waited. No one got up to leave. Many should have, Alex thought in retrospect.


    "What will you give to be unbreakable? Maybe even extend life? Since antiquity, the holy grail has been regeneration. That''s why you''ve all volunteered to face unfathomable pain and death, isn''t that so?"


    The word unbreakable had set off a murmur of excitement.


    A sudden lurch broke her reveries, bringing her back to immediate reality -- and the mission.


    The aircraft banked hard, shaking the interior. The drop bay creaked and moaned with metal stress.


    Alex glanced at her team. It was on. No more training. No more drills. Powerful eyes were watching, and Cerberus had better deliver.


    A burst transmission came through each man''s earpiece: "Cerberus -- weapons-free, repeat, weapons-free. Good hunting."


    "Wilco," Alex replied as team leader. They looked at her and saw her dark grin -- it''s a go, boys. "Alpha check." Expectant nods all around.


    Ocular Heads-Up-Displays and vid-feeds checked. Comms green. They gave thumbs up. No chitchat.


    "C2, this is 41, beginning orbit to target area," the pilot announced on comm.


    Confidence high. Cerberus secured their Kevlar face masks with tactical feeds.


    "Transferring schematics. Target two o''clock," the copilot squawked. "Thirty seconds."


    The time left felt like eons for Alex, each tick bringing the beast closer to being freed. She salivated and swallowed hard.


    "Be advised -- ten seconds to hard drop."Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.


    The bay quaked and banged in the turbulence, shaking the interior.


    "Initiate," the pilot called, dipping the nose of the craft at a slighter than comfortable angle.


    The rapid descent tugged at her stomach. She held her breath and forced air down her diaphragm. The lurch was temporary. They didn''t have far to fall. She waited for the level out and for the ramp to track open.


    "Standby deployment," Anvil 41''s pilot primed . . . then howled through the mic. "Ramp-ramp-ramp!"


    Gears engaged, the aft section of the craft cracked open and midday light flooded in along with a hot swirling wind. The vista exploded in blinding brightness, racing away behind them as their visors compensated for lumen differentials. The lush green landscape of Amazonia had given place to a sea of shanty roofs as Caracas'' vast favelas cut into hillsides as far as the eye could see.


    * * *


    Not far away, a sun-weathered off-road vehicle ran through the narrow avenues of a huge shantytown under canopies of crisscrossing clotheslines and strung lights. The avenues were so narrow at times, the SUV brushed against shacks on either side -- walls so close they alone marked the edges of the road.


    The boxy vehicle held eight, two of whom were riding backward with the hatch open. The cocoa-skinned occupants, native to the region, wore cargo pants and loose tunics or sport-logo t-shirts typical of the local population.


    All except one. Under a light material hooded cloak, translucent pink betrayed her as Caucasian despite dying agents she''d taken to darken her skin. She wore dark contacts to dim her piercing emerald eyes. Porsche was her legend, one of many cryptonyms she assumed. She sat in the second-row between two male escorts. A short-barrel Heckler Koch submachine gun nestled between the folds of her cloak, its muzzle digging into the floor mat for easy access in a cramped space. Next to it rested a bag of tech gear she would need to perform her job.


    Porsche had taped her breasts to flatten them, to reduce her silhouette and the sexuality that may betray her. She now regretted the decision. More layers meant more heat she didn''t need, sapping her energy while her ears rang with a constant twang.


    Think cool -- snow-covered mountains, crisp air. Colorado. Her skin itched beyond measure as she fought to sit still and concentrate, her eyes darting from side to side, remembering the details taught by instructors long ago. Focus midrange, thirty yards at a time, look for eager faces. Never linger. If you sense a deja vu, you most likely picked up a shadow. Then you''re SOL.


    The car crossed an imperceptible line and entered Barrio El 50 district in southwestern Caracas. The slum neighborhoods thereafter seemed the same, but something different discolored both the cement and air -- a specter resembling fear.


    They passed a crane, its hook holding a taut rope from which a denuded male corpse dangled. Although beheading remained the gangs'' preferred method for executing opponents, Mexican Pinatas -- the hanging and beating of a victim -- had risen in popularity as a warning for the authorities.


    "Mano dura," said the man named Carlos, sitting in the front passenger seat. He didn''t give the hanging a second glance. Or hide his distaste for his guest. "That is how we deal with dogs. We don''t need you Yanquis in our country."


    At a glance, Carlos had a long scar over his left nostril, except it was a micro-seam crudely assembled. Carlos had a facial cybernetic implant, most likely an olfactory booster to allow scent tracking.


    Porsche said nothing, playing the subservient female.


    Once they crossed the eastern side of the Francisco Fajardo Highway, every youth visible through the dusty side-windows became a potential shooter. Armed men with multiple red oculars checked out the passengers. She tried to slink further inside her hood.


    The vehicle inched through the overpopulated township, marred by crumbling cement and rusty infrastructures. The Barrio El 50 township also abutted a cemetery convenient for all warring parties. Long ago, the tradition of opening one''s home to a traveler if he''d asked for shelter had been a comforting trait of Caraque?os. That hospitality had long vanished; doors now barred, windows shuttered. The sooty district was a ''no-go'' area not only for tourists but locals. The slums here were a known stronghold for extremist militants and cutthroats, whose hegemonic traditions were in violent collision with class distinctions. The indigenous population was starving, living in squalor before their lavish fief-lords in golden mansions.


    The insurgency''s true aim was never over ideology, though they would have the world believe otherwise. It was pure economics. This was a proxy fight for the Northern Territory between two major corporate fiefdoms, TexPax -- a Big Five North American powerhouse -- the other, a Shanghai-SaoPaulo alliance. Neither entities wanted to be seen using its own security forces but instead exploited local assets -- the numerous combatants of insurgents, privateers, and military. On one side, TexPax propped up the teetering Caracas government while the dominant opponent, Bolivar Liberation Army received arms, tech, and tactical intelligence from their Sino-Amazonian patrons to break the grip of the Yanquis.


    What followed was an age-old imperialistic tug-o-war with one goal in mind -- he who could control the Orinoco Belt, a vast oil reserve, blessing and bane of the Bolivarians, would throw the other from the Northern Territory.


    And manifest destinies often attracted a whole lot of vehemence and firepower.


    "You''re talking to the wrong person," Porsche said, using English. There was no need to hide, she thought. Yet. "I just do my job."


    "Claro, you spy for corporate or government?" Carlos said with curious resentment, an Intelligence Directorate officer himself.


    Porsche replied, tapping her chest. "Soy amiga."


    "What do you do in our country then, friend?" Carlos said, contempt on his face getting edgy.


    "To paint . . . We have permission from your government."


    "Paint?"


    Porsche tapped the bag at her feet.


    The man understood and scoffed. "Then your jackals will come, no?"


    "Not my call, Major." Porsche could sense unfriendly eyes staring at her from behind. And from the sides.


    "I love my country."


    "As you should."


    "You Yanquis here -- not good for us." The Venezuelan shook his head, scowled, and looked away. "The BLA is an internal matter, one we take care of."


    The driver leaned on the horn to get pedestrians to move. The walkers answered with curses and flippant gestures.


    "Cuidado, idiota," Carlos hissed at the driver to be more careful.


    They could have taken any up-armored wheels from the motor pool, with ballistic protection impervious to anything shy of a .50 round, engines blast resistant, tires self-sealing, black rumbling rhinos that screamed ''make way.'' Instead, the job demanded something that should blend in, flayed by sun and grunge, like everything else around here. The thinking had been practical and mission-oriented. In the dense foot traffic part of this dangerous enclave, the car should crawl by looking like any other jalopies.


    The intel had led them into the heart of Barrio El 50, past a four-story brick edifice marked 7711. Telltale signs told them this was the right place. No other buildings in the district had armed sentries manning its doors and gunmen along the roof-line.


    They drove by once to get a sense of security. Guards outside perused everyone who passed, car and pedestrians alike. The heightened alertness alone confirmed something important was due to take place.


    A block away, the vehicle stopped.


    Shades pulled over their eyes, the passengers disembarked and vanished into the alleyways of a noisy marketplace while the driver pulled away.


    Six men and one woman reconvened at a store where rolls of woven carpets lay in racks along the shop entrance. The store occupied a section of an unremarkable two-level building. It had one desirable attribute -- an uninterrupted view of 7711 Avenida 1 seven hundred yards away.


    The owner seemed nervous, looking at passersby as he rushed the visitors inside. He shooed his wife and daughters to the back room and called his son to watch the storefront.


    "I need a line of sight in this direction," Porsche said to Carlos, pointing toward the target building.


    The latter spoke to the owner, who nodded several times that he understood. He gestured for them to move upstairs.


    "This is a secure hide, yes?" Porsche asked Carlos.


    "The owner is loyal, we pay him. He will close his shop."


    "No, keep it open," she said. "We want no attention. And Major, you will take your men and work outer perimeter."


    "Puta Presumita," he hissed. "I know what to do." His men snickering behind his back, Carlos lost face. He barked his orders at them: two will hold the bottom floor. The remaining three will walk the streets, and loiter at street corners, ready to radio in if they spotted trouble.


    "Gracias," Porsche said to the owner and motioned for permission to go upstairs.


    The store owner nodded. Carlos was getting impatient.


    Porsche climbed the narrow wrap-around staircase, lugging her gear-bag. Carlos stewed in silence behind her. They reached the second floor and walked into trapped air. Natives didn''t mind the heat. She did. Profuse sweat is a dead giveaway you were a foreigner in the tropics, another lesson came to her mind.


    "The intel better be good," Carlos warned, sulking.


    "British Petroleum and Vauxhall control the intel. It''s actionable. Did you know BP Security caught Herrera?" she said, unpacking and not saying more.


    She could sense his shock.


    "Herrera is Colonel of National Guard, not . . . cool pigeon," Carlos stammered with misplaced pride.


    "Stool pigeon," she corrected.


    "Un caballero es simplemente un lobo paciente," he muttered under his breath.


    She understood him. "Everyone breaks, even a wolf. Herrera gave us the location."


    "How you know?"


    "It''s buzzing with high cell traffic."


    Carlos said, "If your agency give us the intel, we do better."


    "You have baggage," Porsche said under her breath. "Just last week, two teams went in -- ninety percent casualties, no?"


    "You mean what, eh?" Carlos stiffened to a perceived dig.


    It was known the Venezuelan Army was corrupt, its ranks infiltrated, and its security compromised. There were several incidents involving defectors turning their guns on their unsuspecting comrades.


    "Easy," she said. "I mean nothing by it, Major. Now I gotta disrobe. Please leave."


    Carlos huffed, giving Porsche a dirty look. He backed off, heading downstairs to check on his men.


    Idiot and ego is a dangerous combination.


    She unzipped the hot outer cloak, letting it fall to the dusty floor. She felt immediate relief. Uncovered, the hi-tech fabric under-gear did much to disperse heat and keep her dry. Now she could work in comfort.


    Her mind ran back to her instructions.


    "Try to remember their country''s being torn apart," her handler had told her before the mission. "Empathize."


    "I set them up, somebody else spikes the ball. It''s simple."


    "Nothing''s simple. For one, the BLA isn''t entirely local -- you need to be aware."


    She had responded with the usual smugness, "Yeah-yeah, they''re using mercenaries. So does everyone else, us included."


    "It''s over crude reserves so be -- "


    Porsche shrugged at the unwanted geopolitical lesson. "I don''t care if it''s over Simon Bolivar''s golden turds. I''m in and out."


    "All right then, stick tight to your playbook," her handler had said, exasperated. "Again -- the leadership cell is due to arrive at 1400 hours. Until then, you just make yourself comfortable wherever you are. Be polite and humble. And drink lots of water."


    The sooner we''re done, the faster I''m stateside, she reminded herself and adjusted the soaked wrappings around her chest. She returned to assembling the instruments on the floor.

 Book 1 - Chapter 2

    Eight hundred miles west of Caracas, North American Naval Special Task Unit 34 sailed in the calm waters of the Pacific.  TU-34 ran north in a zigzag pattern, all the while shadowing the Colombian Pacific coast.  Among the flotilla of TU-34 was a Ticonderoga-class guided-missile cruiser, and two destroyers.  Each had specific tasks: the cruiser provided a missile defense umbrella for the group while the destroyers ran outer picket.


    There were reports of Sino stealth jets buzzing over ships before anyone knew they were there.  Global-hawks had tracked their heat trails and origins -- sixth-generation jets out of Ecuador making high Mach sprints to probe the North American Navy, only to egress just as fast.  At the behest of their Asian paramountcy, two Sino air-wings had been relocated outside Quito and were now playing peekaboo-I-see-you.


    The escorts protected the fourth ship in the group, a sleek roll-on/roll-off support vessel -- USS Khe Sanh.  The ideal SpecOps platform, Khe Sanh could launch and retrieve operatives anywhere in the world, or plant itself off the coast of a hot spot and wait.  Today, many eyes were on her.


    Within the dark Operations Room deep inside Khe Sanh, rows of technicians, many heavily stamped with cyberwares, were digitally fused with their cockpits of wrap-around holo screens and projectors.


    A tall thin man in a plain gray-dot uniform stood front and center with his hands clasped behind his back.  He wasn''t military but his clout was so hush-hush it afforded him the same distinction as an admiral by the crew of Khe Sanh.  Ian Moreau carried a pronounced jaw that rippled whenever displeased, and a penetrating scowl that singed the unprepared and uninformed.  These traits reflected a practical personality steeped with blunt honesty, uncared for by friends and bristled by enemies.


    The ship-board main viewer displayed a woman with the fading beauty of a former pageant queen, markedly lacking military demeanor.  Her good looks remained, though warped by years of political friction, the muscle above her eyes frozen by injections, giving her a frigid detachment.  As Defense Undersecretary of the North American Federation, Lisbeth Hunt had earned a reputation as an astute behind-the-scene listener.  Lawyer, and a Fednik careerist, she remained an Unaffiliate when the cabinet was selected after TexPax''s most recent Conclave victory.  That was because appointed positions were held only by senior fief-Affiliates, people who once held top ranks from that paramountcy.  She was an outsider, a commoner, a bitter fact she''d accepted.


    "They''ve been buzzing around us, trying to figure out what we''re doing here," Moreau said, his voice a tad edgy.


    "I''m not surprised.  We''re picking up a lot of breadcrumbs traffic from Beijing''s Third Department," Lisbeth informed, her profile massive from below.  "Intel said 3 PLA has shifted its snooping mission to a proactive strike profile," Lisbeth''s voice tinged through the micro-speakers only he could hear.


    "The longer we''re out here . . ." Moreau said.


    "You''d better be twice as careful then."


    "Believe me, Balkan''s drummed it in our heads the past few days."


    "His hair was on fire," she checked her voice and aped the Secretary: "Caracas cannot appear to lose control or we lose the oil.  The President''s made it clear.  His PIP demands it.  Orinoco must flow our way."


    Her laughter warmed Moreau, in many ways.  "I''m glad I''m just a technocrat.  I don''t worry about body counts -- that''s your job."


    "How macabre."  She feigned to shiver on-screen.  "I do no such thing."


    "Between us."  He paused, returning to seriousness.  " I don''t like the requirements."


    "Cold feet, so soon?"


    "Best case scenario, no one sees us.  But if things go wrong . . ."


    "You''re concerned -- at the 11th hour?"If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.


    "Cause I can''t scratch this itch.  I''d prefer a 500 pounder on the building -- damn cleaner.  With a delay fuse, it could look like a car bomb in the garage.  But no one listens to me."


    "Cause a bomb is too final."


    "But kill teams leave DNA behind.  One drop of saliva or blood, and the cat''s out."


    "Don''t get caught -- isn''t that the only mantra these days?"  Lisbeth smirked.


    "I said before it''s too much risk for a debut program like Carnivora to handle."


    "Why?  Team Cerberus came out on top in every scenario we ran.  I''d say they''re ready . . . Besides, he''s got a hard-on for them."


    "Oh, he''s got a hard-on for just about anybody.  For you too --¡± Too late to hold back the words.  Moreau''s chest tightened with the thought of her under the Secretary, literally.


    "Tread lightly," Lisbeth warned, though not about herself.  "It''s Balkan''s directive, and it''s personal."


    "That''s what worries me."


    "Best keep all our heads down."


    "You too, Undersecretary," Moreau said.  "Anyway, Redoubt expects a linkup at 1330 hours.  Will POTUS sit in?"


    "Balkan will quarterback this play," said Lisbeth.  "New fathers want to show off their babies."


    "I forgot the cigars."


    "Cheer up.  After this run, you can fund the Program for commercial expansion."


    "Only if no one screws up," Moreau said, shaking his head.


    "You handpicked them."


    "Everyone."


    "Then?"


    "I''m confident they will wipe out every living thing in there.  I''m not confident they will come out clean.  No one could with absolute certainty."


    "You want to make a bet?" Lisbeth said and grinned down at Moreau.  "I win, dinner?"


    His heart quickened.  So, he wasn''t wrong about her, she is interested. "It''s a sucker¡¯s bet.  I lose either way."


    ¡°But you might get lucky.¡±


    ¡°Huh?¡±


    Just as he found his tongue, the captain of Khe Sanh got their attention, "Comms are open with Porsche.  She''s in place."


    "Showtime, Captain," Moreau said, then turned his attention to Lisbeth, "All right, pregame just started.  I''ll see you in five on the big screen."


    * * *


    Alone in the airless room, Porsche worked to set up the tripod.  She assembled the stand in two clicks and three screw turns, while sweat streamed down her face in salty rivulets, wetting her lips.  The temperature in this sweat-box extended well over a steamy hundred-five Fahrenheit.


    Moving to the far side of the room, she aimed the scope through the cracked window shutters, just wide enough to have an unobstructed view.  Power on.  It hummed, ready for test fire.  She opened a comm channel to Khe Sanh''s CIC for a sit-rep.


    "C2, Porsche.  Acknowledge?"


    "Go ahead, Porsche," the Khe Sanh comm officer patched in.


    "Porsche in position.  All system nominal."


    "Porsche, C2, be informed -- Skyfish''s picking up unusual low-f transmissions at Tango X-Ray.  Requesting sweep of third floor."  Skyfish was circling Tango X-Ray, the target location -- building 7711 Avenida 1.


    "Copy that, C2.  Standby," Porsche replied.  "Beam on."  She propped herself over a stack of rugs against the far wall and fired the Penetrator.  The gun-like laser camera thrummed with power, opening its apertures toward the building.  The newest generation optical technology was a quantum leap better -- it allowed spy cameras to pick up thermal radiation through solid objects using wider length infrared waves that piggybacked a penetrating X-ray micro-band.


    Her signals flashed-burst, and bounced off a satellite down to Khe Sanh.


    Real-time feedback came through her ear-piece at once from the ship''s Imaging coordinator.  "Five-by-five reception.  Grid interface on-line.  Overlay," a male voice read the telemetries to her.  "Visuals . . . getting scatter.  Go to four."


    Porsche ran through the calibration with the tech.


    "You''re left of center, Porsche.  Pan right, ten degrees."


    "Roger . . ."


    "Elevate five, one hundred feet . . ."


    Porsche adjusted her depth of field.


    "Go to five."


    Aperture narrowed for a tight beam.


    "Seven . . . We have touchdown.  Good resolution," Imaging said.  "Begin analysis."


    As other wavelengths ran through filters, grainy orange blobs appeared.  They looked like ghostly fireflies -- a magnitude dimmer than body heat, and they clustered behind walls.


    "We''re picking up multiple EM sources at the outer edges," the Imaging tech responded.


    Porsche sensed concern at the other end.  Whenever an electrical device carrying a semiconductor element became irradiated, it emitted a ''second harmonic'' frequency as a reflection.  Her beams had swept Building 7711 with charged particles that lit up these low-frequency electromagnetic echoes.  Experts recognized the signatures at once as radio detonators.


    "Be advised, multiple threat profiles at Tango X-Ray believed to be Mk79 wall mines."


    The threat warnings went out wide, clear and ominous.


    "Careful boys, this party''s in your honor," Porsche muttered off-line.


    Footsteps outside the door caught her attention.


    Carlos came in, expectant, giving the skin-tight bodysuit a once over.  "What news?"


    "It''s confirmed.  Tango X-Ray is golden," Porsche said.  She wanted to throw it back in his face: Your man Herrera sang like a drowned canary.


    Carlos beamed.  "Now?"


    "We wait.  Ain''t no party without streamers and poppers."

 Book 1 - Chapter 3

    Secretary Victor Balkan walked fifty yards from his office to the North American Military Command Center, trailed by the ever-present entourage of staff who had top-secret or better clearance.  As he entered the nerve core, Fednik officials and military officers gave him deference out of respect and -- many would admit -- fear.  He wore a digital coupling over the left eyebrow to allow him access to the various Heads-Up-Display he''d need.  For a special showing later.


    The Secretary was not without controversy: he headed the new and powerful Special Security Service, or S-Cube, an independent armed wing of the Executive.  In its dominance of the Oval Office for the last three terms, the ruling Paramountcy-in-Power had made many enemies. The need for an elite force, separated from the military and federal police above reproach, was justified.  Balkan was the all-seeing eye on top of the Intelligence pyramid, the second most powerful Fednik in Washington.


    The War Room was cavernous, two stories tall, and filled with technology.  Tactical screens took up the widest wall, each one depicting specific data sets of the target area.  A single 100-inch screen showed a thermal-barometric map of the northern coast of Amazonia, another the real-time strategic positions of assets in the region; a third -- the position of a drop-ship cutting across the jungle, overlaid with the camera view of Skyfish, a drone circling high above Caracas.


    Balkan took his designated seat, a red high-back chair set apart from those of his minions.


    Seated nearest and on his right was Lisbeth Hunt.


    "Good morning, everyone," Balkan said.


    "Morning, sir," flag officers and civilian officials, on location and on comm screens, replied as one.


    "So, what''s the play?"


    A three-star general a few feet away, reported, "We''re in place, Mr. Secretary, just waiting for the guests of honor to arrive."


    "And what time would that be?"  Balkan asked, his tone almost playful.


    "1400 hours local."


    Balkan glanced at the digital clock set to UTC-4, one hour ahead of DC.  Red numerics emitted 1347 hours, local target time.


    "Well, good luck everyone," Balkan sent his usual benediction, then settled on one screen.  "Morning, Ian, we coming through clear?"  The connection with Khe Sanh was reestablished and piped into Redoubt.


    Moreau replied, "Reading you fine, Redoubt."


    "How is my team doing?"


    "All systems nominal," Moreau replied.  "Confidence is high.  They''re eager to knock this out of the park."


    "All right, bring me up to speed, Mr. Oliver."  Balkan turned to Charles Oliver, the Agency''s Intelligence Director.  They were cronies from TexPax prior to being in government.  Oliver had red hair, a pear-shaped figure, and freckled skin.


    Oliver cleared his throat.  "We have confirmation the Bolivarians insurgency leadership, for the first time, is gathered in one place.  The meet is on, probably to discuss recent losses inflicted by Caracas."


    "With our help," Balkan acknowledged, looking down at his hand terminal.


    "We expect a significant showing -- numbers Three, Four, Six, and Nine on the Global Terrorist Watch," Oliver said.  "These are their profiles."


    The photos and specs of four grim men in black bushy beards appeared on the far-right screen.  They didn''t interest the Secretary.


    Oliver continued, "The meeting will take place among a suburb of Caracas, within rebel-controlled Barrio El 50.  In this building here -- designated Tango X-Ray."


    Skyfish''s aerial view of Caracas centered down to a singular building.  Balkan looked up, half curious, then back down at his terminal.If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    "Information was provided by a Colonel Herrera, compliments from our friends in Vauxhall."


    "That depends what the Brits want in exchange for him." He eyed Oliver.


    "They were forthcoming, Mr. Secretary."


    "Alright, mission parameters?" Balkan returned to tactical matters.


    "This operation is Kill on Sight as agreed."


    "Good, anybody got popcorn?" as expected everyone gave him deferential titter.  Lisbeth leaned over and whispered to him.  He nodded several times and returned to his device, while the debrief continued over last-minute details.


    A high-altitude drone camera displayed on the main viewer showed three vehicles making their way through the crowded market along Avenida 1.  The quarries were on schedule.


    Halfway down the block, the convoy hung a left and disappeared from the screen.  The analyst said they went into underground parking below building 7711.


    "Do we have visuals inside?"  Balkan asked.


    "No, but we can burn through with a painter once they get above ground."


    "Then let''s see it."


    On orders from C2, a painter in-place fired the laser and ran search patterns from floor to floor.


    At first, what the watchers saw were blurry images on their screens.  The pixels soon became sharper as the computer filled in unknown spaces with extrapolated data.  In no time, fuzzy outputs coalesced into bipeds -- armed with the ubiquitous AK-74, second-gen Kalashnikovs, the choice weapon of insurgents the world over.


    The third floor of Building 7711 glowed bright like a cocktail party.


    "Do we know who''s who?" Balkan asked.


    "We have an eighty percent probability which ones are the VIPs," Oliver said.


    "From this soup?"


    "That''s the best resolution we have."


    "Okay.  Where is Cerberus this minute?" Balkan said, straightening up.


    "The team is in route, sir."


    "How far out?"


    "Aircraft ETA under ten minutes," Oliver said.  "We''ve erased all insignias and markings to abide with the proper narration."


    "We were never there," Balkan reiterated.


    "No, Mr. Secretary, never."


    "Well then, let''s not keep folks waiting to die any longer than they have to."


    * * *


    "You''re a Go." Porsche eavesdropped on the play-by-play, as she laid on her belly manning the Penetrator.


    Powerful voices rang out from the ether into her ear, "Take ''em down."


    "Cerberus copy, we are Go.  Inbound in ten mikes, repeat ten mikes."


    Give ''em hell, boys, Porsche muttered to herself, curious to know who Cerberus was.  Could be SEALs out of Panama, or D-Boys from deep inside the Amazon.  No matter, she needed to focus on her real job that had just gotten real.


    Porsche''s primary role beyond reconnoitering for threats was to track the leaders of BLA -- top members on the kill list.  Once identified, she''d paint each high-level target with a unique digital tag comparable to an un-washable dye for her audience: the drones, their users and the kill team.  Unless BLA''s VIPs moved out of the sensory envelope that covered the entire city block, tracking computers had the tags locked.  There was no hiding.


    Porsche spied the targets via her penetrating camera-port.  She watched the targets, designated ''Tangos'', go from being at rest to utter panic as the sound of an incoming jet intensified.  Several gunmen took up positions to defend the third floor while bodyguards rushed the leadership cadre out of the meeting room.


    "C2, Porsche -- be advised, Tango Actuals are Oscar Mike," Porsche reported -- high-value targets are on the move.  "Tangos proceeding down main hall . . . Heading for main elevators."


    Building schematics showed a cluster of three elevator shafts located in the center of each floor, reaching all the way to the garage where their vehicles were.  This was the line in the sand.  If the Tangos made it to the garage, the ops would be aborted.  The take-down positively must not spill out to the streets.


    "Roger that, Porsche," C2 answered.  "Re-task Skyfish to reacquire targets.  Over?"


    Elsewhere, a drone operator confirmed, "Skyfish tracking, standby."


    "Anvil 41, Cerberus -- expedite!" C2 commanded.


    For the next few minutes, events blurred in rapid successions.  Seen from Porsche''s position, a dark massive shape knifed through cloud patches.  Its sudden appearance caught those on the ground by surprise, civilians and villains alike scampering to safety.  The sentries outside Building 7711 scattered like rabbits in the open.  Small arms fire peppered the incoming craft while the shooters snuck inside and barricaded the doorways.  Residents nearby locked doors and windows as the whine of the drop-ship grew into ear-piercing shrieks.


    The tilt-jet aircraft came in fast, flaring along the last few meters.  Vectoring downward thrust, it hovered over the building, its jet-wash blowing off roof-cones and ventilators, rippling the air with scalding exhaust.


    Porsche counted: One-one thousand . . . two-one thousand . . . three . . .


    Nineteen jumpers dropped out of the rear ramp in free-fall, impacted the rooftop and rolled out.  A few seconds later, they broke the locks and entered the staircase.  She envied them in a way.  They will make history today.


    Four-one thousand . . . five-one thousand . . . six-one thousand -- by now, they were deep inside Tango X-Ray, coming onto the fourth floor.


    She noticed how lightning-fast they were, none of the cautious stop-n-go pitter-patter she had seen other teams do during insertion.  This group went straight in unencumbered of fear.


    Move it!


    She kept one eye on the high-value Tangos who were fleeing down the third-floor corridor, reaching the escape elevator.

 Book 1 - Chapter 4

    Team Cerberus rose as one, one hand grabbing the overhead tether as they prepared for the final bucking of the craft.


    As expected, the aircraft flared out, stood on its tail, then leveled off in hover for rapid insertion.  The assault force quick-stepped and leaped out into nothingness, their fall braced by reinforced knees as they rolled out with ease, carrying little gear and weapons.  They rushed to the roof-side access, led by the tactical map in their Head-Up-Displays, and massed in front of the steel door.


    Seconds later, small pops ripped off the locks.


    Cerberus entered the stairwell, the air cloudy from dust particles disturbed by the charges.  With eyes that mimic cats in dim light, they stalked in feline silence, their quick footfalls pattered softly on the metal steps.  Further separating the stacks into hunting pairs, Warchild and Rotter took point and entered a long hallway on the top floor of the building.


    Hand-signals from Warchild grabbed Alex''s attention a few feet behind -- movements.  Multiple Tangos were abandoning their positions for the stairs.  Cerberus had detected the enemy by their scent trails, the odor seen in colors.  With an artificial Jacobson''s organ implanted in their nasal septum, each member could even taste the air.


    Moving farther in, the team soon reached an ominous staircase of forty odd steps where the Tangos had retreated.  It was a ruse to draw them in.  Briefed in real-time, Cerberus knew the stairs were a bear trap.   With a pressure pad built into each tread, explosives were primed to rip apart any fool putting his weight on it.  And electronic countermeasures were useless against kinetic triggers.


    Warchild stopped the column.  He produced two recon orbs the size of boccie balls and tossed them down the stairs.  The self-guided spheres rolled, falling on each step with hollow thuds.  At the bottom landing, they ran cross-search patterns.  LIDAR beams emanating from multiple projectors pierced the gloom to range the forbidding chamber, caressing the corners, fingering the nooks.  The orbs transmitted the threat situation just before being blasted by automatic fire.  Tactical intel was redundant, gathered for the benefit of watchers elsewhere.


    Alex smelled all she needed to know.  There were dozens of distinct odors of sweat and fear, just a floor below.  Fodder for Cerberus.


    She signaled to Warchild and three others -- a curved palm, pointing to the far wall then her fingers dipped.  They nodded their understanding -- Alex had called for a two-prong breach, and the quad, led by Warchild would flank from the other side.  She tapped her ear -- stay on comms.  The flanking team split off toward the far side of the floor with an ALICE fun pack.


    Ten seconds later, her earbud squawked: "In position.  Deploying floor charges."


    She could imagine exactly what they were doing -- laying out what looked like Bratwurst links in a circular pattern -- breaching charges with a phosphate core capable of cutting through steel plating and re-bars.  Set in a circular pattern flat on the floor, the arrangement would ensure a uniform cut with equal pressure.  This way, you''d get a controlled blast and not cave-in the entire floor.


    The arming process took less than five seconds.


    Warchild squawked: "Prep for five."


    Alex turned to the rest of the team and splayed her hand -- five seconds.  She signaled CQB -- close quarter combat.  They nodded, and lined up in jump positions.  Hands at their sides, liquid metal dripped from their fingers which quickly solidified into rigid jagged claws.


    In first position, she took long deep breaths, coiled over the edge of the staircase, her blood racing, heartbeat booming in her head, mouth salivating uncontrollably.  The beast would be fed.


    Alex activated her talons.  The unbearable seconds stretched out.


    Then -- "Fire in the hole!"


    A half-second after, a series of hammer blows shook the far side of the building.  Plaster flakes fell from the ceiling where she was.


    Without hesitation, she launched herself with powerful legs and cleared the forty steps with room to spare.  She hit the floor and forward rolled.  Right behind her were muffles of graceful impacts.  She didn''t need to look back.  Casualties would be high, but Cerberus was built to withstand this sort of damage.


    For the defenders expecting the stairs to explode with deadly shrapnel, it must have been a terrifying shock.  Instead, a neat section of the far ceiling disintegrated behind them, opening into a sinkhole from above.  And as they turned their weapons elsewhere, the main assault jumped over the steps.  And out of the vortex of smoke and dust emerged frightful silhouettes, their fingers extended and curved into claws.


    At once, automatic fires erupted, spraying in all axis like runaway fire-hoses.  Several Cerberus were tagged, but where one staggered and fell, others filled the gap and attacked.


    In less time than imagined, one by one the guns became quiet, their silence punctuated with screams until there were only wet gurgles.  Four Cerberus were severely wounded but were stabilized.  Two more received gunshot wounds to limbs and neck.  The injured rested while the others conducted Sweep & Clear.


    A sudden sit-rep intruded from an unknown source: "Be advised -- Tangos are at elevator.  Expedite!"


    No time to delegate, a bloodied Alex shouted, "You two with me.  Grab the fun bag.  Move!"This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.


    She led the foot pursuit with Rotter and Papa while pulling up building schematics shared in their Heads-Up-Displays.  The layout revealed which wall was unreinforced to run through -- and how far to go before reaching the elevators.


    "Three Otis cars.  The middle one, hurry," the excited voice from the ether directed them.  All the bad eggs were in one basket.


    Alex crashed through drywall headfirst but tripped, rolling head over heel out onto the hallway.  Lifting her head, she barked at Rotter sprinting past her.  "Get it open."


    "On it!"


    Big Papa Smurf bringing up the rear with the ordnance bag, didn''t stop either.  Alex got up and chased after them.


    Before reaching the elevator lobby, Rotter had dissolved his claws to make use of his fingers.  Prying open the polished steel doors with his bare hands, he opened the shaft to light as Alex caught up with the pair.  They could see the electric cable whooshing by as thick as a full-sized anaconda.


    "Tango reaching lobby.  Now or never," the netrunner pressed, the female voice fraught with excitement.


    "Charges," she ordered.  The men nodded.  Papa rummaged through the demo sack and retrieved three C4 butter sticks paired to timed detonators.


    Each person took one and set its timer to five seconds.  Looking down at the well, they tossed the charges into the shaft.  Freefall took three seconds.  Two seconds after -- triple explosions in succession rattled the walls and elevator frames throwing smoke upward.  An agonizing grind of metal somewhere below scratched their ears.


    An overhead panel showed the Otis car had engaged brakes and stopped three floors down.  A bell chimed clearly as the doors slid aside but there was no discernible movement that they could tell from their location above.  The roof of the elevator car had caved in with the first bomb; the second and third charges made sure no one emerged alive.  Still, the dead needed verification.


    "Go, ID all KIAs, especially the High-Value tangos," Alex ordered the pair.  "Intelligence''s gonna want confirmation."


    "Oh, goody," Rotter said.  "It''s puree meat in there, boss.  How the hell --"


    "Dentures," she said.


    "Copy that," Papa said.  "Come on."  The big man grabbed Rotter by the arm, pulling him along into the hole.


    Primary objective achieved.  Her HUD time counter displayed eleven minutes since infil from the roof -- behind schedule.  The next task was cleanup, led by her XO Warchild, who were doing room sweeps of stragglers.


    Sweep & Clear was underway.  Most rooms were empty, but a few still had surprises in them.  One by one, they were sanitized; SC was nearly over.


    Warchild and Joe ''T-Bone'' Corona used captured Tangos'' weapons for the task.  The pair entered the last room on the kill floor, a large kitchen with several stoves and microwaves set into tiled walls.  Plates, cups, and cutlery were arranged in buffet style on counter-tops.  He saw three pots of coffee still percolating.


    Warchild moved carefully toward them, his weapons sweeping every corner.


    Empty.


    Warchild zeroed onto a presence in the room.  Pheromones indicated estrogen -- female.  A rustling noise beneath a table confirmed his nose was spot on.


    He hand-signaled T-Bone, approached and lifted a corner of the tablecloth with the muzzle of the rifle.  Hiding underneath was a trembling young girl, no more than eighteen.


    At the sight of their eerie eyes, she let out shrieks of horror, shrinking away from him.


    "Ven ahora."  Warchild motioned for her to come out.


    Between sobs, she rambled in long chains of Spanish he couldn''t understand.  From her clothes, she seemed to be a domestic, here to serve coffee to important men.


    "Aw, man.  Wrong place, wrong time," T-Bone said, standing a few feet behind covering the rest of the room.  "What''re we gonna do?"


    "Tough break.  Go ahead," Warchild said to his wingman.  "She''s yours."


    Surprisingly, T-Bone hesitated, a constipated grimace on his face.  He stepped back and lowered his weapon.  "I can''t."


    "Pathetic.  Go, I got this," Warchild said, shaking his head.  "Somebody has to."


    The girl squealed in horror and retreated farther under the table as Alex entered the room.


    She clicked her comms offline.  "What''s all this?"


    "One bird left," Warchild said.  "Then we''re good to go."


    Something deep inside Alex welled up, something she hadn''t anticipated.  The face of a little girl no more than nine appeared in her mind, with corned-row hair holding a doll.  She knew that little girl, and the moment before a van drove by and slid its door open, the moment Alex ran and left her friend.  Never seen again.  Fear and guilt had shaped her psyche without her knowing, and had forged her into who she was.  Reminded by the shame of abandoning her friend, Alex had debts still unpaid.


    "Hold up."  Alex placed her hand on his arm.  "She''s no threat, just a dirt girl doing nothing.  Walk away."


    "She''s here, and that makes her a Tango," Warchild said.  "Ops orders are specific."


    "She''s a noncombatant, chief," T-Bone pleaded.  Warchild seemed unmoved.


    "Fuck orders.  It''s my call," Alex growled.  "We walk away."


    "They''ll skin us," Warchild said.  "I ain''t doing time in Leavenworth for you."


    "Come on, chief," T-Bone muttered.


    "She''s got nothing to do with this," Alex said.  "Just unlucky." She shoved Warchild hard toward the door.


    "Stop playing the bleeding-heart bitch, you''ll get us all in deep shit," Warchild snapped.


    "Alpha bitch to you.  Now step off."


    "No survivors." Warchild stepped closer.


    "Tangos are one thing.  I won''t . . . "


    "You won''t?"  Warchild beamed.  "Then I''m taking over the team as of this moment."  He raised his weapon.  Before the girl could scream, a single neat hole burrowed in her forehead as she flopped to the floor, the back of her skull disintegrated.


    "Goddammit, chief!" T-Bone objected, his eyes welling as he looked away.


    Alex struck Warchild with her gloved fist, the blow superficial, but enough to rile him.


    Warchild stepped in and dove his crown at her forehead.  "I''ll make sure you''re washed out when we get back."


    "Try it."  Reeling from the head butt, she shoved him away, then dropped her hands by her side.  Yet the claws remained inert.  If she''d released them, there would be no going back.


    Just then, a message came through for all of them: "Cerberus Actual, C2, Skyfish tracking a large group of unknowns, possible more hostiles outside Tango X-Ray.  You have five minutes for SSE before exfil."


    "Roger that," Alex replied, then hissed at Warchild.  "Get the fuck to the rally point before I kill you."  The bad blood can wait for later.  The trio retreated to meet up with the others.  Alex barked on-line, "Papa -- grab any intel, terminals, and phones.  We have five minutes.  Let''s go.  T-Bone, disable the mines.  We''re gonna need to use the staircase."


    "On it," T-Bone acknowledged and rushed off to snip the wires that linked the wall-mines in daisy clusters.  One clip at the right spot and the deadly chains became inert.


    "Who''s got my KIA denture imprints?"


    "Right here, boss," Rotter answered, coming up from below.  "Scratch 3, 4, 6, 9.  Not easy finding teeth in hamburger meat, you know."


    Alex switched channel.  "Anvil 41, Cerberus Actual, over?"


    "41, go ahead," the pilot responded.


    "Ready for extraction, 41."


    "Copy that, 41 inbound."


    She turned to her men and shouted, "We''re closing up shop, ladies.  Anyone not involved in intel retrieval, get your ass to the roof now!"


    She glanced at Warchild a final time and found him glaring back.

 Book 1 - Chapter 5

    Balkan and his flag officers watched the operation from the viewpoint of those inside Tango X-Ray, each feed extrapolated and assembled by computer into a tactical collage and piped through to the commanders'' oculars.  They followed the action not only through the team''s body-cams but from a look-down 3-D layout where each team member was a red dot moving in a maze of rooms.  The planners, thousands of miles away, walked the kill floor, saw the flashes of gunfire, and heard the screams of the dying, not unlike a VR game.  Within minutes, it was all over.


    Cerberus had cleared the third floor with shocking speed.  A few sporadic bursts continued, but they were less frequent as mop-up began.  The slate wipe was outstandingly efficient and effective when it came to Balkan''s objective -- there would be no witnesses.


    "Top points, gentlemen, you''ve earned your pay for the week," Balkan said getting up.  "The President will be happy to pass on to Dallas-Austin it''s done."


    "Congratulations, Victor, Cerberus has performed to spec," Undersecretary Lisbeth Hunt said, privy to many classified projects.


    "Worth every penny," Balkan said and cocked one eye.  "Should we celebrate tonight?"


    "We''re done with that," she mumbled just loud enough to keep it between them.


    "I had to try," Balkan said, shrugging her from his mind and returned to his minions.  "Gentlemen, I''d suggest you go long in TexPax defense stocks.  I expect a 5000-point market gain in the next few days."


    The room clapped with enthusiasm.


    Pleased with himself, the Secretary turned and made for the exit while lower-tier officials trailed after him.   Lisbeth lingered behind and returned to the central screen still linked to Khe Sanh.


    "You deserve congratulation too, no?" she said, smiling up at Moreau.


    "Premature."


    "You heard him.  We''re gonna cue Carnivora for commercial expansion.  Gonna be plenty to do around here."


    "Dallas-Austin needs to approve the appropriation before that can happen."


    "Minor detail.  Only a matter of time."


    "I''ll let my people know they''ve been approved for sale."


    "This is just the start, darling."  Lisbeth peeked over her shoulders to see if anyone was nearby.  "There are huge commercial potentials . . . The results ran off the charts.  Big Money''s gonna be lining up."  She gave him a succulent gaze.  "I want to celebrate.  When will you touch down tonight?"


    "8:05 into IAD."  He smiled at her and winked, "I got a 25-year-old single malt that needs opening."


    "The scotch can wait.  You owe me dinner, mister.  I recall a bet you lost."


    "I did, didn''t I?"


    Her most suggestive smile said the rest.  "You''re not getting off that easy, cheapskate.   I want breakfast too."


    * * *


    Porsche disassembled the laser camera and packed up.  She threw the cloak back on, hoisted the gear bag over her shoulder, and slung the submachine gun across her chest, making sure it stayed hidden under the outer robes. A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.


    She turned to Carlos who had been watching her.  "It''s been real."


    The dour officer stood there, his face inquisitive.  "So?"


    "Maybe I''ll see you again, in another lifetime," she said. "Or battlefield.  We''re done here.  You can take me back."


    "All dead?"  the major gestured toward Tango X-Ray.


    "Dead as doornails," Porsche nodded.  The Penetrator missed nothing.  She saw the kills clear enough.


    Carlos spoke into his body mic to call the car, as he led the way down the stairs, with Porsche a few yards behind him.


    Reaching the ground floor, she sensed something was amiss at once.  Pieces were out of place.  The shop owner and his family were in one corner, huddled in fear.  And there were two Venezuelans guardsmen sitting with them.


    The others turned their guns on Carlos, shouting in Spanish for him to drop his weapon.  And judging from his dumbfounded face, the major was as surprised as she was.  No question what had happened.  Four of the Venezuelan National Guardsmen who rode in with her were turncoats.


    Porsche raised her hands and sloughed off the Penetrator bag.  The leader approached and grabbed the straps of the equipment duffel.  Another patted her down, a gun pointed at her face.  She stood still as they found and removed the SMG.  The searcher ran his hands under her cloak, trying to strip her further.  She slapped his attempt away.  The man cursed in Spanish and struck her across the face, sending her reeling.  He stooped, grabbed her by the throat and hefted her to her feet.  He then rifled through her clothes, tearing open her under-gear.  His hands felt for her armpits, sides, inner thighs and found no hidden weapons.  But not all things were so obvious to find.


    Carlos snarled at them through a blur of Spanish, "Que verg¨¹enza de todos ustedes!" Shame on you all.


    The leader, one with a radio, turned and shot him.  The family screamed as the officer crumbled against the wall, clutching his chest.


    Porsche remained calm and focused.  Deep down, she knew being killed wouldn''t be her fate.  There were worse possibilities for a woman.  Besides, capturing a Yanquis intelligence officer would be a coup for her captors.  She was undisputed evidence that proved norteamericano hegemony.


    At that moment, a low rumbling like far-off thunder came through the walls.  It soon grew into a shaking roar, cracking the glass panes.  Anvil 41, on its egress, had flown low overhead, its jet-wash battering the shop, knocking picture frames and loose items over.  Startled, the gunmen twisted and turned expecting the quaking walls to cave in.  Their eyes came off Porsche -- for just an instant.


    Something quick and wet flashed in front of the man nearest her.  Then a spray of red.  In a blur of fabric, she''d taken back the HK.  Porsche kicked out the dying man, his throat severed, sending him crashing backward.  A short burp from the machine pistol took out two turncoats nearest her.  The loyal guardsmen sprang into action against the lone gunman, pounding him with their fists and with any blunt objects nearby they could grab while the civilians huddled in the corner shrieked.


    Porsche made a gesture for them to hush up.  Unfamiliar sounds outside grew louder.  Everyone froze and listened -- armed crowds moving toward Tango X-Ray stopped running when they heard the shots coming from the shop.


    At that moment, the car Carlos had called arrived outside, screeching to a stop.  The driver blared the horn.


    Are they that stupid?  Porsche cracked the blinds, peeping out at the streets.


    She saw the car getting mobbed by with an angry crowd who banged on its hood and shook it from all sides, the driver side door in the process of being breached.


    "Vamos!" Porsche barked at the two remaining Venezuelan guardsmen -- "Get out of here, your major is dead.  Save yourselves."


    They understood the urgency and prepared to rush outside.


    "Ready?"


    Porsche counted on three, flung open the shop''s front door and brandished her weapon, firing into the sky.  The crowd backed away.  The guardsmen shooed the rug vendor and his family toward the car.  She let off another burst skyward, covering the crowd.


    She shouted, "Ve ahora! Go now."


    "You come," the merchant pleaded in scant English.  "They everywhere."


    "Get going!"  She shoved him hard into the arms of his son and ducked back inside.


    As the SUV sped away, small arms fire ricocheted off the back and punctured the sides of the car, the rounds bouncing around inside.


    Porsche knew she would be safer than they were.  She preferred it this way, to face fate on her two feet.


    She barricaded the entrance.  The crowd massed outside, beating on the door as she escaped through the back into an alley.  Running and weaving along the narrow pathway, she found the main street filled with a mad roiling crowd, chanting and shooting into the sky.  She covered her face and slipped in among the indigenous as fleeting as an afterthought.

 Book 1 - Chapter 6

    The Annual Big Five Governor Regents'' Winter Summit was the largest gathering of the regent-level leadership of North America. Sixty-two GRs, each one representing a territory within a paramountcy, had gathered in DC. Here, they planned to air and share issues leading to the upcoming Conclave where the Regents will decide which fief will sit in the White House.


    Public detractors claimed these assemblies were a waste of time, because the real decision-making power behind economy and practice, lie with the paramountcy Chairmarks, and they were forever absent.


    In North America alone, five Great Houses, each headed by a Chairmark, held control over five insulated economic blocks. Chairmarks were more akin to Olympus gods than men, fief-lords so lofty and powerful their lives had little semblance to the groveling humanity beneath them. To be human was to be mortal -- even that axiom no longer applied.


    Bitter rumors had circulated that the hyper-rich had achieved longevity for their own and kept it out of the reaches of the global plebeians. And why not? If humanity could extend life in perpetuity, the race would suffer and starve; its excess population would languish sloth-like without purpose, or flip everything upside down in an all-out grab for the few remaining resources. But most of all, the world needs ditch diggers, too, went the reasoning. Therefore, great lifespans should be gifted to the few, those touched by genius and wisdom, the Mozart & Da Vinci, the Einstein and Hawkins, Edison & Tesla, the Jobs and Musk, whose contributions should evolve with the rest of mankind and bring about a more enlightened future. Else how would the pyramids get built?


    At first, extreme life extension advancements in whole-body cloning and cerebral transfers were guarded with jealousy by the world governments. But as the paramountcies gained dominance and authority, the secrets of longevity became theirs. Some research programs were misdirected for years, purposely leading to dead ends, while the successful cases were hushed up and spirited away. But word eventually got out. No surprise, then, that this life-hoarding culture had fomented public resentment so much so that the bi-centenarians themselves shied from public life and faded into the mythical, never to be seen except by those of their inner sanctums.


    Official appearances on behalf of the paramountcies were delegated to their most senior second-tier representatives, Governors Regents, more or less errand boys.


    The agenda of this annual summit hadn''t changed much from the past pre-Conclave meets. It included the prevailing issues of the fifth industrial revolution -- augmented reality, artificial intelligence, cryptocurrency and the most disruptive one: Universal Basic Income -- issues that can''t hope to be solved from a simple meet. By the end of its three-day duration, as expected, the conference had accomplished little but more wrangling.


    Eight circular rows of seats spiraled to a focal point below, amid impeccable acoustics gathered by the bowl-shape chamber. Camera orbs hovered noiselessly to capture every nuance of the Master of Ceremony as he closed.


    "We''ve like to open the last few hours of this Summit to a free forum and invite anyone who''d want to participate."


    A woman rose from her seat with her hand raised and the Summit''s chair acknowledged her.


    "The assembly recognizes Midland Superior''s Governor Regent from Illinois -- Devlin Augustine. Your Excellency, you have the floor . . ."


    All eyes shifted to an elegant lady who had but a single aide behind her. She didn''t need more than one. Augustine exuded a quiet referent power as a senior eco-politico official of Midland Superior, the economic paramountcy that covered territories from Ohio to Idaho and as far south as the Missouri. With its HQ in Chicago, Midland carried a membership roster of 3,500 public companies, 12 Sphere of Influence, and boasted dominance in food production, Biotech, Heavy Industry, and fracking. Since Midland Superior was responsible for the welfare of twelve territories and its people, it had twelve Governor Regents appointed by its Chairmark to attend.


    She sidled across her row and stepped onto a sliding platform that gently carried her to the marble rostrum at the bowl''s core.


    As she took the dais, her fellow Regents from Midland clapped, and depending on their relations with Midland Superior, the GRs of other fiefs varied in their reception of her. The Atlantic Economic League was lukewarm, their ovation ambivalent and sporadic. So were the polite Southern GRs of Gulf-Con. Pacifica was sanguine, their relationship with Midland Superior more fruitful than most. Then there was TexPax -- not one clap came from that stewing block.


    The camera orbs adjusted their axis and followed her, their lens apertures whirring to refocus.


    "Thank you." Augustine cleared her throat, her shoulders squared and strong. "I stand before you as a colleague who carries the same burden of responsibility as you do. I, therefore, want to address an ongoing injustice vital to the welfare of most of us. In the drive to perfect automation, we create debris left behind in the wake of obsolescence -- in the crumbling infrastructure of old factories that once employed thousands of workers, and in a burgeoning mass of unemployed who are surplus labor. While each of us has loyalty foremost to our respective fiefs and stakeholders, it pains me to admit the irony we all faced -- to make an omelet, we must break eggs . . . But beware: Ignore the bottom and the top loses its relevance. Fief loyalty is secondary to the conciliation of its populace." She paused and scanned the room as murmurs stirred. A lot of scowling ugly faces glared back at her. Even from her block.


    "Human civilization has benefited from tech improvements, made available through the great investitures of our respective fiefs. Today, many technologies are blurring the realms of the physical, digital, and biological realities -- nanotech, genomics, cybernetics, cold fusion, quantum computing. These achievements are possible because of the long-standing stability of the North American Big Five, including our affiliates in Canada and Mexico . . . But that reliability is threatened."A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    A low snarling grew around the punch bowl, punctuated by a few boos.


    "Ever since the first paramountcy formed in North America and on other continents, the need to wage national wars had become a thing of the past. Nations, intertwined by fief interests and directives, no longer fight each other. We settle disputes along economic lines, untainted by nationalism. Saved for the occasional rogue states rattling their sabers, foreign threats are few and far between. Yet, there be dragons in the deep.


    "The fear I speak of is chaos from within, friends." She paused. "Just look at the typical Non-Affiliate. Feel for him. Commodity prices have outpaced his earnings. Even if he''s lucky to have an income, he can''t feed himself and his family -- still, we made no plans to ensure a fair distribution from our coffers. Instead, we sat on our hands while people hurt. This is dangerous."


    Someone shouted, "How much are you worth yourself, Governor Regent?"


    "Hypocrite!"


    "I make no apologies," Augustine raised her voice and declared with grit. "I am part of the problem, I admit. But many here do not heed the lessons nature taught us -- when prey animals die, apex predators follow. When people at the bottom starve, those at the top lose their validity. Hunger begets revolt and then sons will feed on fathers. This is the fundamental truth behind human history."


    The chamber noise rose into a ripping cacophony, swamping her voice while the gavel from the Chair banged away.


    A lull allowed her the opportunity to continue.


    "No matter how bountiful and effective our paramountcies are, the current leadership from Dallas-Austin is blind to its predatory nature. The PIP has ushered in a culture of indifference; in extreme cases, they are brutal, feeding on society."


    A few boos rose from the TexPax bloc.


    She pressed, undeterred, "May I remind you that Non-Affiliates outnumber favored members twenty to one. For every man, woman and child blessed to be members of a paramountcy, twenty are out there in the cold, ready to burn us down. But I fear the situation is endemic. And in the meantime, TexPax Affiliates grow fatter than before, complacent and indolent like squatter sloths. Twelve years we have endured this. Now is time for a change."


    Boos became hisses, the most strident coming from the TexPax bloc. The waves of outrage drove against her, trying to throw her off the stony podium.


    "A society ruled by elites cannot endure for long -- one side unproductive and slothful, the other living in servitude. End the divide and we''d see a boost of creativity, entrepreneurship and true merit for all people and members alike. This is what Midland aspires to do. Our record is clear for all to see."


    Her last words were unheard among the shouting.


    She glanced at the Chair. His eyes pleaded for her to step down before complete pandemonium overtook the peace.


    Augustine relinquished the pulpit and returned to her seat among colleagues who gazed at her with disbelief, some shaking their heads in confusion.


    The Chair retook the dais.


    "Moving on -- "


    "Mr. Chairman, I ask a chance to address Madam Regent''s comments," said a porcine figure of a man, late fifties, African American, a round face millions recognized as TexPax¡¯s Governor Regent from Oklahoma, Dominick Lazard. Though he had aided a TexPax victory in the White House during the last Conclave, he preferred to remain the GR of OK. "The Honorable Augustine treats us as if we''re na?ve children listening to a fairy tale before she tucks us into bed. She will tell you the sob story of how her Non-Affiliate poor suffered, and to fear their make-believe ire, that the great system which we rely on needs an overhaul."


    He waited for the snickering to fade before continuing. "What she conveniently left out is that her fief''s legal framework isn''t sound. They''ve lost a few trade suits, so she scares you with stories of the bogeyman, hoping to conceal Midland''s ineptitude. She neglects to tell you that her fief is in financial trouble because of bad management. At this rate, Midland will hemorrhage in no time."


    Someone else from TexPax cried out, "And we will gladly pick up their pieces after Chapter 11."


    Boisterous laughter and foot-stomping rolled across the strata.


    Lazard continued, raising his hand for silence. "To address her concern for the feeble fellow human . . . fifty thousand years ago, if you run faster than the slowest ape, you don''t get eaten. Climb higher than the lowest monkey, you''d survive. The fittest endures -- then and now. Does she mean to ignore evolution and embrace obsolescence? Corporate Darwinism works -- because it eliminates the mediocre and rewards the sure-footed. And for those who''d made his mark, what''s wrong with a little leisure? I object to being called a sloth hugging his tree."


    Lazard shook his fist, jiggling the loose jowls of a large head, as the throbbing noise bolstered him. He sat back down and scoffed her way.


    Augustine sat stone-like, looking ahead and retreating into herself.


    "Did it feel good?"


    "Excuse me?" Augustine said, startled. She hadn''t noticed the person who''d taken the seat next to her. It was the weasel Emile Vargas, Special Counsel to the Chairmark of Midland.


    "I mean, it must have, or else why say it, right?" He spoke away from her, never once making eye contact, clasped hands resting on crossed legs. "Are you helping our bid or sinking it?"


    "I said what needs to be said," she answered, curt and smug.


    "At the risk of making us look foolish and incompetent. Was it worth it?" Vargas said as she leaned away from him, not hiding her aversion of the man. "You want class equality, then resign and you can wallow in the dirt at your heart''s content. No one wants to hear it. We came here to arrive at Conclave and to determine the future of the White House."


    "Know your place. You are speaking to a Governor Regent."


    "Then behave like one. I wager Chairmark Carlyle would agree with me your progressive ideals are distractions, while TexPax encroaches into our spheres of influence. God forbid, they win another four years -- then where would your reforms be?"


    "Distraction?" She bristled, scrunching her nose. "And what have you done with your meddling? At least this way we may grab the popular vote."


    "Popular votes count for little," Vargas leaned over and whispered. "You forget one thing, Excellency, you''re not Midland''s nominee. So let others do their job."


    "And we''ll lose another four years." She grounded her teeth, at last looking him in the eyes.


    "Take care." Special Counsel Vargas gave her a sly smirk and went to a different seat.


    She sat there stewing and feeling like a fool.


    Her moment for self-flogging was short-lived. A presence moved into the vacant place behind Augustine while the Summit''s Chair gave his closing remarks below.


    "Should I say I told you so?"


    "Please, not you too, Harry. I got a bucketful from Vargas."


    "No, Madam Regent, I am your advisor, not your critic," Harry said looking straight ahead, covering his mouth.


    "We should start looking into him."


    "We shouldn''t discuss this here, ma''am. No telling how many micro recorders are floating around picking out speech patterns. And lip readers too."


    "Vargas is after something. I can feel it."


    "You keep out of his sandbox. Leave the rest to me."


    "I never played well with others, even when I was young." She chuckled not from any amusement.


    "You watch your back,¡± Harry said. ¡°Some souls carry the mark of Cain. I should know. I have it. But not to his level of ambition."


    "Birds of a feather?"


    "Don''t all flock together."


    "You''re indispensable to my office, Mr. DeWitt. So, I tolerate your excesses."


    Harry hid his smirk. "And I you, madam."

 Book 1 - Chapter 7

    Sensations assaulted her when the cargo bay yawned opened like a birthing womb, its ramp lowered whining with hydraulic exertion.  She felt like being born:  Ripped screaming from comfort, thrown into blinding light and noise, discombobulated and confused.


    In a fit of panic, Alex jolted forward, gripping the armrests, and eased off when she realized where she was.


    She shook off the cobwebs of a drug-assisted sleep, thankful to wake.


    The haunting images wrestled with her conscience, even during her waking hours.


    The scene had replayed twice already -- she saw herself marching a young girl into a room, gripping her by the nape of the neck, pushing the sobbing girl against the back wall.  The distinct scents of the kitchen lingered in her nostrils ¨C the spoiled food, the sour undertones of hashish, the urine from the girl''s fear.  The others were there too, Warchild, T-Bone, watching her with fangs, shouting for her to do it.  Slash her!  Her fingers began to drip and extend.  Alex couldn''t stop herself.


    Pulling back the girl''s head, the talons tore chunks from her throat.  The arterial spray against the wall painted grotesque Pollock strokes.


    At this moment as before, she would jump awake, sweating, eyes wide open.  The nightmare was some hellish broken record, jolting her like a needle skipping its track only to repeat again the next time she closed her eyes.  But it was the cackling laughter from Warchild, T-Bone and the rest of Cerberus, that shook her to her core.


    She checked the time, pretending nothing had happened.  No one had noticed her jolt.  Three agonizing hours it had lasted, longer than the first time.


    Around her, the team clicked to unlock their seat belts and prepared to disembark, their faces bright and happy.  They were excited to be home.  She was too, but instead of a clean triumphant return, she carried something back with her -- something dark and corrosive, eating at her conscience.


    The men disembarked from the belly of the beast in twos.


    Outside was Joint Base Anaconda, ten-square miles of concrete and fences within the military district east of DC.  Though located inside Atlantic Economic League territory, the airlift hub was exempt from fief jurisdiction.


    Clusters of squat structures sat near the edge of the runways, protected by chain-link fences fifteen-feet high, topped with razor wire.  At the corners were towers armed with non-lethal motion-sensitive sound guns, swiveling on servo mounts.  Unmistakable signs hanging every fifty-yards beyond the perimeters read: ''Federal Property''; ''Danger''; ''Keep Away''; ''Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted''.


    Loading activities swarmed the tarmacs.  Apart from dozens of yellow-painted service vehicles scurrying about, huge military forklifters, larger than buses, roared past, each curling tons of cargo barely missing them.  Beyond the lifters, two gunships whirled into the sky, kicking out dust blasts a hundred meters from their vector rotors.


    The frenzy was as familiar to them as home.


    Eighteen unremarkable men and one woman in dot-matrix fatigues debarked with their ALICE packs and gear slung over their shoulders.


    No brass band greeted them with patriotic music.  No waiting families either.  Instead, an army of lab-coated technicians exiting from black buses met these returning heroes.  No one outside this corner had an inkling who they were or what they had accomplished.


    Alex''s dedicated med-tech sauntered up to her, anxious to find out her stasis while he took notes on a digital pad.  She nodded her answers without looking at him.  When the questions dried up, he gave her a small vial.  In it were two pills.


    "Take these two right now, chief," the tech urged.


    She looked them over.  Big 1200 mg mothers, one black, one red.


    "Remember, the black pill is T-stoff, keeps your impulses in check so you don''t go raging mad.  The red pill is A-stoff -- one a day will keep the cancer ward away."


    She popped both in her mouth and dry-swallowed.  While he talked, she continued her walk in a mental haze.  "You got anything for nightmares?"


    He jotted the comment down and said, "Got just the thing.  You''ll be right as rain.  Now we need to drain the rest of the liquid metal.  We don''t want you accidentally setting it off and clawing out."


    "Reservoir''s empty anyway," she said, flexing her arm.  "It feels light."


    Good news awaited them -- the unit was green-lighted to go to Houston to form the vanguard of TexPax''s offensive force.  Once, nations fought each other in million-man armies.  Set-piece battle orders in time became obsolete.  As super-conglomerates merged and became transcontinental, overseeing the commercial welfare of great regions and its denizens, when its operating budgets dwarfed the GDP of countries, it was no surprise the paramountcies demanded protection of their sovereignty like nations did.  Aggression was the next logical step.


    At first corporate security forces were defensive in nature, to protect land and property and to stop the occasional violent flareup of a disgruntled employee gone postal.


    But that soon changed as corporate conflicts over dwindling resources and sphere protection escalated in frequency.  Small-scale low-intensity engagements became acute, often conducted like drive-byes and hit-n-runs.  After several clashes resulting in significant casualties, some Affiliates saw the need for an organized strike force capable of projecting power.  Staying true to the age-old adage: the best defense is an offense, the paramountcies created security elements with aggressive profiles.  Hence, Project Carnivora and its offspring Cerberus became a reality.


    The past twenty-four hours had quietly demonstrated to interested parties what bio-mechanics could do -- a handful of operatives taking down a stronghold of hundreds and walking out with all hands.  Though there were injuries, serious wounds were already healing fast with full recoveries expected by month''s end.  This was the new paradigm of soldiery with 100% combat survivability, to be adopted as corporate paramilitary.


    Team Cerberus, the first to be operational, didn''t disappoint.  Inducted into a fief meant untold perks -- the finest equipment, the best facilities, title, and top pay, as promised.  They''d gained Affiliate status, well almost.


    The first night home was for winding down and time spent with family.  The next evening was for the boys.  The back room of a sports bar was rented for a private party, and special booze brought in -- highest potency moonshine made to order for a unique biology.


    Cerberus began trickling in.


    "We''re the shit, folks," Rotter cawed with heady euphoria.  "You gotta respect the talent."  He was so excited he shook Papa Smurf, whose real name was Pete Murphy, "You know what this means? Do you guys realize what''s ahead?"


    "Yeah, it''s party time," Papa said with a broad smile standing next to his wife, Bonnie.


    Warchild arrived with his spouse, Lisa.  The bouncer swiped a scanner over his wrist.  Everything lit up a safe green hue -- active military, no outstanding warrant, legal age, and good credit.


    The doorman performed the same scan on Lisa, a skinny slip of a girl with a pretty but tired face.  She wore little makeup, her black hair falling loose to her shoulders.  She seemed reserved, keeping a space between her and her husband.


    "Thanks for coming, it means a lot," he said to her.


    "I''ll see you inside."  She exhaled and headed off to the lavatory without looking back.


    Warchild was wiry with a marathoner''s frame, ideal for the profession.  A Coronado alum, he had jumped at the chance to go through the Program when the word got around it was open for volunteers.  Secrecy meant value, and the more he heard about it, the more he wanted in.  With all the medical marvels out there yet out of reach by most, Ken Mars had volunteered to undergo the risky procedure.


    The interior was lit by hundreds of painfully bright LED screens humming from continual cathode discharges that prickled the skin.  The air hinted of ozone and ammonia.  Holographic sharks circled near the ceiling, sometimes diving to the floor with open jaws, only to pass through solid objects.


    Warchild made his way to the main bar.  Rows of colored bottles decorated a long foggy mirror that took up the entire length of the joint.  Pink holo-hostesses appeared as he neared, asking for drink orders.  Sports of every kind were here.  American football was center-stage, Euro football near the Ladies'' room, basketball next to first shooter VR games and the kitchen.  And the odds-making kiosks were everywhere. This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.


    He spotted his brothers in the back section between the billiard tables and dance floor.  They saw him and waved him over.


    "Yo, over here," cried Rotter, twenty-three, six one, freckled, and likewise lean.


    Warchild came up and shook his hand.  Rotter handed him a glass of clear liquid and winked.


    "Better not be water." Warchild smirked.


    "Firewater, Tonto." Rotter beamed.  "Where''s Lisa?"


    "Bathroom."  Warchild shrugged.


    "Anyone see our fearless leader?"  Tall T-Bone asked. "Is she bringing her friend?"


    Rotter grinned.  "Heard she''s in love, you know . . ."


    T-Bone''s girlfriend mumbled with distaste.


    "Yum, good for her," T-Bone said.  "Yo Papa, over here."


    "Papa, you big galoot," Rotter called over to him.


    ''Papa Smurf'' Murphy steered toward them.  A stocky square-faced New Yorker with a pleasant smile, Papa was a doting father of three toddlers.  Yet, no one could imagine a killer uber-mensch could be so gentle.


    Papa beamed and rubbed his hands together, "Toss me one of those, will ya?  Let''s get this party started.  Whoop!"


    "This stuff is fuckintastic," said Rotter, handing a clear unmarked bottle to Papa.


    "The stars are aligned tonight, brothers.  You might even get lucky, Rotter." Papa winked.


    "I''m on fire, baby."  Rotter hooted.


    "You pissing razor blades again?"


    "On fire!" He sang off-key.  "Give war a chance . . ."


    Rotter danced his way over to Warchild, who was talking with T-Bone and his girlfriend.


    "I hear their signing bonus is as much as a two-years'' salary in the army," T-Bone said to Warchild.  His moniker came from dreaming of steaks during a long-range patrol.  The name stuck.


    "Yeah," Warchild said.  "Plus per diem.  You okay with relo to Texas?  Hot as balls down there."


    "TexPax, Pacifica, Midland, I don''t care who I work for as long as they pay for the talent," Rotter said, gyrating.  "Bigger house, bigger paycheck, bigger guns.  So, when do we pack?"


    "When our marching orders get here," Warchild said.


    "I''m ready now," T-Bone said, putting his arms around his sweetheart.


    "You''re not getting rid of me, bucko," she said and pinched his behind.  He yelped playfully.


    "Yeah, plenty of wetbacks down there so you''ll fit in nice." Rotter winked, suspended in mid-dance moves.


    "Up yours, pendejo." T-Bone gave him the bird.  The four laughed.


    "Hot damn, exciting times ahead."  Rotter resumed dancing and shaking.


    By now regular customers began to arrive.  Rotter spotted a dance partner he fancied and gyrated over toward the hapless girl.


    "Look at him go.  Get ''em Rotter you mangy dog!" Warchild and Papa watched him, shaking their heads in laughter.


    Lisa, Warchild''s wife had returned from the bathroom.  The men hugged her, one at a time with delicate respect.


    "Feeling okay?" Warchild asked her.


    "I''m all right."


    Warchild tried to put his arm around her but she shrugged him off her.  T-Bone and his girl saw the slight but pretended not to notice.


    "There she is," Papa called out interrupting the awkwardness.  "At last."


    "Chief, over here," T-Bone called out.


    "Holy moly, will you look at that," Rotter exclaimed, coming back from the floor without a partner.


    The men stopped and ogled; the women quieted and stepped back.  The girl Alex brought was taller than she was, statuesque and curvaceous, a Latina with long dark hair.  She wore a delicate mid-length cocktail dress, while Alex was in iconic attire -- jeans, boots, suspenders over a white wife-beater, and a black fedora, perfecting her dominant role.


    Rotter elbowed Papa.  "How the hell she swiped that?"


    "Maybe because she got the right plumbing and you don''t?"


    Rotter looked below.  "Ain''t nothing wrong with my spout."


    Alex approached the boys, and introduced the new squeeze, "This is Camila, everyone.  Mi amore, these mongrels, with their tongues out, are my family."  They cooed, trying to embarrass her.  Alex scratched her forehead with an extended middle finger.  "This is Papa Smurf and his wife Bonnie -- they''re busy -- expecting number four."


    Papa nodded and beamed.  Bonnie shook Camila''s hand and frowned at her spouse.


    "And that''s Rotter," Alex continued.  "He''s by himself -- for good reason."  She reached out and clutched his arm.  "Rabies.  Girls know to stay away from him."


    Everyone howled.


    "Hey," Rotter protested.  "Nothin wrong with the Rotter."


    "Course not, he''s our Rot," T-Bone said, rubbing the kid''s head.


    They snickered at the playful digs.


    Rotter muttered, "Rough crowd tonight."


    "We''re just messing around."


    "And this is Ken Mars," Alex said to Camila, her smile fading fast.  Something lingered between them, a reaction like a morning breath that had become noxious making each person turn away.   Once Cerberus was officially private, she vowed to drum him out.  And the best way was Hydra, a second team she heard was forming -- he could be cock of the roost there.  Cerberus was hers, and it ain''t big enough for the two of them, now that the Program was heading for the big time.  But unpleasantness could wait -- you never poop on the cake before it''s cut.  "His wife Lisa, this is Camila."


    "Hello," Warchild''s wife answered, breaking off eye-contact as if she wanted no part of the group, Alex sensed.


    "Shots!  Line ''em up," Papa hollered while Bonnie looked on with mild disapproval.


    "You think that''s wise with the meds?" Bonnie said.


    "I can down it all night, honey."  Papa winked.  "This stuff''s like fruit juice."


    "So you said until it leads to other things, yeah?"  Bonnie said, tapping her swollen belly.


    Warchild said, "Docs said alcohol''s effect is lessened, Bonnie.  We can do a whole bottle of grain alcohol in five minutes -- "


    "We don''t talk about it," Alex snapped, the severity surprising.


    "Talk about what?" Camila asked, now curious.


    "Nothing, love," Alex said, caressing Camila''s hand.


    "What''s the big deal?" Warchild said not thinking.


    "I said zip it."


    "Tell me what?" Camila pleaded.


    "Not here," Alex softened to Camila.


    "I don''t see no issue," Warchild said.


    "What is your problem, Mars?  Is it because I''m a woman?" Alex glared at him.


    "I was kidding around," Warchild said.  "It''s your business what you do."


    "You are my business, mister." Alex snorted, her nostrils flared.  Whatever minor misunderstanding there was between them had solidified into something personal and deep.


    "Honey," Camila breathed, touching her arm. "What''s going on?"


    Alex stepped away, pursing her lips.


    An awkward silence rolled in even with the thumping music and dancers jumping around them.


    "Forget it," Camila said.  "This is your night."


    The music was ratcheting up, going full blast.  People spilled onto the dance floor amid whirling couples, the club at full capacity now.


    "Let the Rotter show you his moves."  Rotter took Camila to the dance floor breaking the tension.


    Alex was glad for a few minutes by herself.  She stood to the side downing the alcohol in tense, rapid-fire gulps.  She passed the empty glass to a hover-server.  The suction locked the glass in place as it drifted off to empty its load at the bar with the aid of human hands.


    T-Bone passed her a second bottle.  As she gulped it down, she noticed a muted news cut-in playing on a nearby TV monitor, ignored by everyone.  An important news flash had interrupted a prerecorded octagon bout between cybenized fighters.


    One by one, people''s internal and external telephones beeped and rattled, social media alarms pinging and buzzing with some viral news burning up the media.  The broadcast on the lone screen soon jumped to a second monitor, then to another.  Now everyone was seeing it.


    "Turn it up," Alex shouted to the bartender.


    The melody stopped as couples walked off the dance floor.


    As the tune died off, they could hear better.  Other stations switched to the same broadcast, their synced volumes echoing throughout the club while colorful sharks swirled overhead unconcerned.


    The announcer paused.  "Hold on a second."  Placing one hand over his eye, he received instructions coming from HUD projections on the back of his retina.  "Ladies and gentlemen, bear with me, this just in -- we have received added news from our affiliates in Global Guardian.  We must warn you the video you''re about to see may be disturbing."


    A combat footage unfolded from the point of view of a shooter in a tactical stack, moving through the hallways and rooms of an unknown building.  The feed from a body camera was in ambient light, and grainy; the view displayed in greenish Night Observation System.  Inter-cut scenes showed a roof breech, a thunderous flash of light, a jump-through landing onto a lower floor.  Then flashes of gunfire lit up from every direction as depicted through the camera''s viewpoint.  Combat actions were erratic, the images shuffling and disjointed.  But the pops of gunfire and screams were present and constant.


    To the men and women of Cerberus, the operation just happened yesterday, the event fresh in their minds.  And personal.


    The feed on the monitors continued playing.  It moved into a kitchen, the breathing of the wearer rising and falling in a steady rhythm.  The frame settled on two gunmen who had arrived beforehand.  And they had found a young girl hiding under a table.


    She screamed in hysteric fits.


    A voice, female belonging to the camera-wearer said, "Leave her.  She''s no threat, just a domestic . . ."


    The scene rolled forth to its graphic conclusion with a single shot.  Gasps of horror rose from several corners in the club.


    "Oh my God, is it you?" Camila asked.  "You were there."


    Alex didn''t answer, turning to pale granite.


    The feed ended.  The stunned reporter offered apologies and heartfelt commentary.


    Around them, many civilians whooped and cheered. Some even clapped.  Alex covered her mouth in shock, unable to speak.  Warchild remained impassive a few feet away.  The cat was out of the bag -- undisputed evidence that the killers were North Americans.  And all bets were off.  Suddenly, the promise of a bright future dimmed.


    Without warning, Lisa directed her venom at her husband, "Is this what you do on your missions, Ken?  Kill young girls?"  The shooter on the video was apparent.


    Warchild pleaded, "Lisa, don''t.  Not here."


    His wife shrugged, then turned away.  "I don''t know you anymore and I''m so sick of secrets.  I''m out of here.  Find your way home."


    Her vehemence threw the men back.  T-Bone drew pictures with his foot.


    "You okay?" Rotter patted Warchild''s shoulder after Lisa walked away.


    "Yeah, I''m cool, but --" Warchild flicked his head to the screens, then at Alex. He didn''t need to say more.


    People around them began to recognize the actors as carping eyes and blaming fingers hemmed in the group.  They soon turned to angry scowls.


    "We''re getting out of here this minute," Bonnie said with alarm, grabbing her husband.


    "Anyone wants to talk about this," Papa said.  "I''ll be at my place."


    Warchild had had enough and blurted out, confronting Alex, "You did this."


    "Back off." Alex shoved him hard.


    Warchild faced her with a cold stare.  "You fucked us.  It was your NOS feed!"


    Papa turned around; he and Rotter stepped in between urging for them to calm.


    "How could you think this?" Alex shouted over them.


    "You tell me you didn''t!" Warchild hissed back.


    "Why would I?"


    "Misplaced morality -- something your type would do."


    "What type is that?"  She eyed him dangerously.  "Just because I didn''t want to murder an innocent girl, unlike you."


    They didn''t realize a circle had formed around the spat -- the whole night club was watching.


    Bonnie shoved her husband and bolted for the exit.


    Alex turned on her heels leading Camila in tow.


    The rest of Cerberus followed suit and dispersed into the night.

 Book 1 - Chapter 8

    Porsche had taken a circuitous route, sometimes doubling back several times before she felt safe to grab a self-driver.  She moved among the side streets with ease in her flowing robe, the Obscura fashion that was ubiquitous across the world.  Watching for every hint of danger, she spotted two figures, possibly three, popping in and out of her periphery, quickening their strides.  She went into a full sprint now, crashing through a crowd of pedestrians to catch a self-driver that had just emptied its passengers.  She ran past them, dove in and slammed the door.  Those waiting for the ride banged on her window.  She gave the AI navigator a false destination.  The self-driver debited the fare to an International Travel ID she carried, one of many legends she used.


    By early evening, she had made it back to safety and passed the security checkpoint of the Embassy annex, an open compound containing several cubic two-story buildings.  She first went to debrief the section head on today''s events.  Two hours later, she returned to her one-bedroom studio, eager to power down, eat what was in the fridge, and sweat in the walk-in sauna-shower.  While a well-deserved sleep was calling her, the internal multi-band comm buzzed.  The low pinging could only be one thing -- an internal line tapping in.


    She cursed at the text message from her boss.


    Couldn''t it wait?  I was just there.


    In a grim mood, she threw on utilities and five minutes later walked into the main embassy offices next door.  She passed the security check the second time this evening and climbed the stairs to her cubicle.


    The workspace sensed her presence and powered on, translucent electronics lighting up the cockpit-like desk.  She had another surprise waiting -- a twirling holo-projection icon from her boss.


    She depressed the com button.  "I''m here, just walked in."


    "Come to my office.  We need to talk."


    "Do I have time for coffee?"


    "No."


    Sonuvabitch, she mumbled and headed for the corner suite down the empty hall.


    Porsche knocked first, then entered a Lite-Brite cave.  Inside, a grizzled foreign service warrior, jaded from dealing with secrets, was a permanent fixture.  Felix Boyle, Caracas Station Supervisor lived here, hardly ever leaving his domain except to bathe downstairs.  He sat behind his desk, manipulating floating vistas, moving documents and files with the swish of fingers like an orchestra conductor.  He swiped them away once Porsche came in.


    "What''s so important it can''t wait til morning?" she grumbled.


    "I got a call an hour ago from Embassy Relations about a fire alarm you started."


    "Me?"


    "There''s a complaint."


    "What complaint?" She bristled.


    "The death of Carlos Morales, their senior intelligence officer, and a few others.  Morales'' people charged that you compromised the operation, and got their men killed."


    "That''s bullshit, and you know it.  You read my debrief.  Their porous security almost got me whacked."


    "Well, they disagree with your account."


    "Because they prefer to cover up their incompetence and blame it on a woman.  Co?o carajo."


    "My hands are tied."


    "There were witnesses, as I stated.  Ask them how it went down -- the shop owner and his family."


    "Not gonna happen," said Boyle. His blank expression meant her eyewitnesses had vanished. "With this current level of sensitivity, Washington wants to contain any potential issue including improprieties that might antagonize Caracas.  You get me?"


    "Improprieties?"  Porsche scoffed.  "Like staying alive?  You''re hanging this on me, is that it?"


    "DC has questions.  They request face time with you."This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    "Fine.  I have an O-eight hundred interview tomorrow.  After, I can pencil ''em in for an HC."


    Boyle shook his head.  "No holo-conferencing.  They want your butt in DC by morning.  Transport leaves in two hours.  Be on it, and this isn''t a suggestion."


    She paused, her eyes narrowed.  "Do I still have a job?"


    "Look, I won''t dance around -- we both know what this is.  It''d be hell easier if you comply . . . with a smile."


    "Bend over and take one for the team, right?" Porsche snapped.


    "The Agency would be grateful."


    "Forget it."


    "You have no choice -- Caracas is off-limits to you now.  You''re persona non grata.  They revoked your status."


    "Did you even fight for me, Felix?"


    "They won''t work with you, Porsche -- they were clear on that point."  He shrugged.  "Sorry, I gotta pull you."


    Porsche clenched her jaw and her fists.


    "Listen, you go home, get your hands slapped, and you get a transfer to the minor bush league for a year.  Make your bones there then resurface.  By then no one will care."


    A troubled look appeared on Porsche''s face.  "What''s going on, Felix?"


    Boyle looked annoyed.  "Just do it."


    "Who''s up my ass?  Come on, give me something, dammit."


    "Porsche, you got one hour to clean out your apartment and get on the plane.  I don''t want to send embassy security to collect you."  His tone left no doubt.  "And for what it''s worth -- you did good.  But sometimes good people catch tough breaks."


    "You''re useless, Felix," Porsche spat and turned for the door.  "And I still won''t sleep with you."


    "That attitude isn''t gonna help you any," Boyle admonished.


    * * *


    The gun blast jolted her upright like she had been shocked by electricity.  She panted, out of breath, her chest heaving, her T-shirt soaked through.  Third time now in so many days.  The pills she got from her assigned med-tech could put her under, but not the faces that bobbled up from below.


    Morning sun rays pierced Alex''s eyelids as if they were crowbars prying into slabs of concrete.  She glanced over at the window shutters -- the blinds were apart at the precise angle allowing sunlight to hit her square in the face.  She mumbled curses at the ceiling.


    Her head was thick with sleep and splitting in two.  The headache intensified -- not from the alcohol.  Three bottles or was it four?   Didn''t matter.  They had no effect on the dreams, and the mocking laughter.


    Camila lay next to her, nude, her copper skin taut and flawless.  Alex remembered leaving the bar with her.  Events from the night before reemerged from the murky depths.


    "Morning."  Camila purred stretching her arms over her head.  She reached over to Alex, her hand dipping between Alex''s legs.  "You''re still moist."


    "Don''t."


    "That''s what you said last night."


    "No, really," said Alex, removing Camila''s hand before things got better.  Now she remembered more -- and they were all bad.  She recalled downing two bottles of 191-proof grain alcohol in long swallows, stuff that burns blue flames.  She had wanted to get drunk, and this was the only way -- a massive inundation to overcome the regulating nanomites in her bloodstream.


    Why was plain enough.  It was her video feed!  Of her, T-Bone and Warchild.  This was no mirage but a live monkey on her back.


    "News on," Alex said.  She dreaded learning the extent of the damage.


    The monitor brightened on command.  From a wall-sized panoramic screen, the day''s headlines belched out, "The time is 6:15, 67 degrees, low humidity, with an overcast sky this morning.  Top of the news -- Press Secretary Yoder has no comment on White House reaction to the Embassy bombing which claimed the lives of eight Americans.  No explanation came forth about the leaked combat videos . . . following the immediate backlash from overseas.  Overnight, there has been widespread mass demonstrations in London, Paris, from Buenos Aires to Sao Paulo demanding that Washington be held accountable for its role in Barrio El 50 . . ."


    Alex covered her face with her hands.  Holy shit.  She needed a few hours to think this through.  And that wasn''t going to happen with Camila here.  Alex rolled over and pulled out a spend card from the drawer she''d transferred funds into.  It was a good thing to have a separate account apart from your Atlas.  Just in case.


    "What''s this?"  Camila asked seeing the card.


    Alex replied.  "Buy something nice for yourself.  There''re a few boutiques a couple of blocks from here."


    "Boutiques, yeah?  You don''t see that every day."


    "Thrift stuff, nothing fancy.  Have fun."


    "You getting rid of me?"  Camila smirked, more curious than anything.


    Alex took a deep breath.  "Not a chance."


    "Fine then, your loss."  She snatched up the plastic, grinning with excitement.


    Just then, a banging on the outer door startled them.  Camila hopped out of bed and grabbed a nearby towel.  She leaned over and gave Alex a deep kiss, then bounced for the bathroom.  "Need a shower."


    "Yeah, you do. Smells like a fish stall in here."


    "Fish this." Camila flipped her the finger while grinning.


    Alex sighed after her.  Love that girl.  Her smile faded as the banging got louder.  "Who the hell could it be at this hour?"


    She threw on a pair of boxers and tank-top and stomped out of the bedroom into the living room.  The pounding on the door continued.


    "Just a goddamn minute."


    She deactivated the locks, grabbed the knob and swung it open, ready to lay it into whoever was doing the banging.


    "You better not be -- " She stopped mid-sentence.


    Two burly men in uniforms were on the steps, their arms bore brassards with two large black letters -- MP.


    Military Police.  A third man waited by the car.


    "Warrant Officer Alexis Marlboro?" the nearest MP said.


    "Yeah, yeah, that''s me."


    "Would you come with us, please?"


    "What''s this all about?"


    "Don''t know, ma''am," he said, gesturing at the official SUV waiting at the curb.


    "Do I have time to get dressed?"  She plucked at her t-shirt.


    "Sure thing.  We''ll wait inside if you don''t mind."


    They followed her inside, one standing in the alcove, the other in the living room.

 Book 1 - Chapter 9

    "Stand at attention when I''m talking," Captain Lang snapped, leaning forward with hands flat on the desk.  Alex straightened up, her red beret tucked under one arm.  "I''ve given you people slack, cause you''re our prize pigs.  Now all hell''s broken loose."


    "Which hell is that, sir?"


    "Don''t test me, Marlboro," Capt. Lang barked.  "I got a call from my boss.  He said people want to talk to you real bad -- about those combat feeds, the ones shot in Caracas.  You''ve seen the video?"


    "Who hasn''t?"  She cocked one eye at her agitated CO.


    "If you got something to do with it, now''s the time to come clean."


    She curled one corner of her mouth.  "I''m many things, Cap''n, but I''m not insane."


    "That''s no saying much, Marlboro."


    "No way in hell, sir!"


    "That''s what I told the Colonel -- Nah, none of my people could have done it," Lang scratched his head leaning back.  "Tell me you didn''t Snowden us?"


    "Got no reason to," Alex said, indignant at the suggestion.


    "Tell me it wasn''t over the girl you tried to save, was it?"  He eyed her with spite.  "You violated your orders.  You screwed up ROE, and turned unit cohesion inside out . . . But one cluster fuck at a time."  He cursed under breath.


    "I didn''t betray nobody."  She stood firm.  "Besides, when did we ever have access to the feeds?  They debriefed and stripped us on board Khe Sanh, then shipped us off stateside in two shakes."  She snapped her fingers.


    "Greed finds a way."


    "Hold it, now you insult me . . . sir."


    He sighed.  "I believe you, Marlboro, but it''s not me you gotta convince . . . They''re waiting outside."


    "Who?"


    "Fedniks wanting to talk.  You first, then Mars and Corona."


    "Warchild?"


    "He''s your Number Two, and you two had drama on the video.  Real cute too.  Just you know, Warchild followed orders."


    "I followed my conscience.  She didn''t have to die.  Just a dirt girl nobody woulda believed anyhow."


    "Look, I sympathize, but you''re team leader and you lost control of the situation, chief.  Oh, and I''m supposed to ask if you want a JAG present."


    "Do I need one?"


    "They could Article 15 your ass right there and hold you in the stockade without charge.  If you''re okay with that --"


    "I got nothing to hide."


    "MPs are outside the door.  They''ll escort you."  The captain dismissed her.  "Cooperate.  Save yourself the trouble."


    "Nothing I''d like more, Cap''n."


    Lang rose from his seat, surprising her.  "I''m sitting in.  As your superior, I can''t let the Fedniks poke and prod my guys without my say-so."


    She secured her beret on her head and opened the door.


    Alex kept her gaze steady ahead, flanked by two MPs comparable to her solid build and height.  Lang brought up the rear.


    The four arrived at a conference room down the hall from Lang''s office and knocked.  Lang and Alex walked in, while the MPs stayed outside.


    A rectangular table dominated the length of the chamber with one wall made of mirrored glass.


    Two suits, one older than the other, they struck her as teacher and student.


    "I''m here as an observer," Lang said, sitting a distance away.  "To make sure we have fair play."


    "I''m Agent Falke, Special Investigator with Justice," the older man addressed Alex.  "My colleague, Special Agent Corning with the Bureau.  Please have a seat."


    Corning just nodded as Alex pulled out the chair facing Falke.  She slumped into the seat with knees open, and arms crossed.  The beret stayed on.


    "Drink?  Coffee?"  Falke asked.


    "Nope, let''s get this done," Alex said.


    "Then why don''t we start."


    Agent Corning produced from his gear bag a saucer-like device.  It had omni-directional apertures around its circumference made up of lenses and sensors.  Corning''s fingers danced on a hand terminal and the machine came alive.  It whirred, floated up to Alex''s eye level, and locked on.


    "Don''t worry, miss," Agent Corning said.  "Supposed to be unobtrusive -- you won''t know it''s even there."


    "Hard to miss it in my face."  Alex jinked her head side to side as the disk followed the jerking movement, always maintaining a four-foot distance.


    "Yeah well, the gadget measures every stress change -- metabolic, cardiac, perspiration, hormonal, eye flutters, capillaries constrictions, even the way you sit.  It knows when you''re lying before you do.  FYI,  it''s infallible, so don''t try to be smarter."A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.


    "She doesn''t have to agree to its presence," Lang said.


    "She could refuse," Falke said.  "But then we''d have to take her into custody.  It''s like that old Breathalyzer test: if you don''t blow, there are consequences."


    "You can''t arrest her," Lang bluffed.  "You have no jurisdiction in military matters.  It''s our courtesy you''re even here."


    "And I appreciate that," he said with smugness then added, "Unless it falls under National Security -- then I can do whatever I like."


    "That''s your catch-all, ain''t it." Lang sneered.  "Shoot a nun and call it national security, so, it''s okay."


    Falke shrugged, returning to Alex.  "So, what''s it gonna be, Marlboro?  You gonna play ball?"


    "Pitch away. You have my permission," she replied with bravado.


    "Good," Falke began by reading from his digital pad.  The floating camera drone zoomed in to record.  "Is your name Alexis Marlboro?"


    "It is."


    "Is Marlboro a loyalty brand surname?  When did you change it?"


    "Before I was born.  Mom said we got paid as a billboard family."


    Falke scribbled something down.  And continued,  "Were you born in Baltimore to Will and Vanessa Marlboro?"


    "Yeah -- sure." Alex glanced at Capt. Lang, giving him the what the hell''s all this?


    "It''s just to set up a baseline," Corning answered, seeing their concerns.


    "Were you part of a street gang, the BGF Rifts?"


    "My juvenile records are sealed."  Alex gave him a hard stare.  "You''re intruding."


    "It''s public information."


    "Then why ask me something you already know?"


    "Did you face disciplinary actions at the Baltimore Juvenile Court where you were given a choice of colors -- orange or green?"


    "Obviously I''m here, ain''t I?" she said glancing at Lang.


    "Just answer the question."


    "Sure, I went army.  So what?"


    "Have you committed a crime for which you haven''t been caught?"


    "No."


    "Do you gamble?"


    "No."


    "Do you have outstanding debts?"


    "No."


    "Have you ever cheated on a test?"


    "These questions are leading," Lang said.


    "Answer the question."


    "Many, dammit," Alex spat her answer.


    Then came a series of fast shotgun questions that required little thought but imbued with emotional traps, designed to unbalance the interviewee:


    "Which fief are you loyal to?"


    "What, I dunno."


    "Do you think the PIP in the White House is overdue for a change?"


    "I''m an Unaffiliated like everyone else.  I''m not political.  But why not?"


    "Your grandfather was a veteran.  Did he influence you to join the army?"


    "Sure, whatever."


    "You went infantry, then airborne, Ranger, anything else we should know?  What was your role in Caracas?"


    "Warrant Officer Marlboro''s last assignment is classified," Lang pointed out.


    "I will rephrase -- why the Special Forces?"


    "If you gonna do something, be the best at it," Alex said without hesitation.  "I want to fight alongside the best."


    "Think this one through -- where is your loyalty, country or paramountcy?"


    "Yeah, sure."  She shrugged.  "Next."


    Falke shook his head.


    "No high school diplomas. But you scored in the top 5 percentile in aptitude and comprehension for the service entrance exam.  You got brains.  Why did you quit school?"


    "Brother died."


    "Go on."


    "Shot.  His passing put me in the spinner."


    "That''s when you became a handful, yes?  No teenage pregnancy or something normal like that.  You ran a gang and conducted turf wars."


    "You''re trying to get a rise out of me?  I was young . . . And stupid."


    "How about now, wish you hadn''t leaked that video?"


    Alex shut up, stunned at the questioning, realizing her answers were coffin nails, each one being used to bury her.  Yet silence made her subversive and conspiratorial.


    "Why do you keep looking at the camera drone?" Falke said, an ugly smirk on his face.


    "Because it''s looking at me."


    "You nervous, Marlboro?"


    "Screw you," Alex snarled.  A plump vein swelled on her neck and forehead.


    "This is way out of line," Capt. Lang protested to Falke.  "My people have rights."


    Falke exhaled.  "We''re doing a canvass of everyone who came in contact with that feed, from top to bottom.  You may not agree with the method, but this investigation is a high priority.  Now let''s try again . . . Did you leak the video?"


    "Hell, no!"


    "How do you feel your own feed caused all this mess?  Regret any?"


    "I didn''t release nothing."


    "But you ignored Rules of Engagement and orders handed down by your superiors.  You must have had second thoughts about our involvement in Caracas."


    "I see where this is going."


    "Is that why you sold us out?"


    "You''re trying to entrap me."


    "I''m trying to find the truth."


    "Truth is what you make it, right?"


    "Did you have something to prove, Marlboro?  Why save some girl you never laid eyes on before?"


    "Right thing to do."


    "Bad memories made you do it?" Falke prodded, even more, a slight smile curled from his mouth.  "Mommy dearest locked you in the closet or something?  Is that it?"


    Alex quieted, her muscles wound tight.  The final comment triggered an explosive reflex.  Alex leaped across the table, grabbed the Bureau investigator by his collar, and shook him like a doll in a mastiff''s jaw.


    The junior Fednik standing against the wall rushed forward but Lang blocked him with one hand.


    "Marlboro, release him now!" Lang shouted.


    Alex shoved Falke away with disgust.


    "We''re done here," Lang said to the Fedniks.  "Next time you people talk to one of mine, JAG will be present."


    "Hey, we''re not through with her," Falke protested, straightening his tie.  "You''re done, Marlboro.  We know it''s you."


    Lang and Alex left the interrogation room.  Outside, he spun on her.  "Are you an idiot, Marlboro? You grabbed Falke?  He''s with Justice.  You don''t touch them crusaders."


    "He''s lucky you pulled me off."


    "That was stupid," Lang chastised her, poking a finger on her chest.  "You know better.  I hope the coming days won''t be too hard for you."


    "Why?"


    "I''d suggest you lawyer up."


    She squinted at him.  "Lawyering up sends the wrong message.  I got nothing to hide."


    "If they turn up the heat, the army would have to step aside.  You''re gonna get hurt."


    "Thanks, Cap''n, I''ll take it under advisement."


    "Now, I gotta go give the same spiel to Mars and Corona.  The three of you are infamous." Lang exhaled.  "A lot of bigwigs will want to know what happened over there.  Since they can''t know -- they will burrow into you, make your life miserable.  You understand?"


    "We did our job.  How about some advocacy from the army, Captain Lang?  We could use the help."


    "I''m trying."


    Alex didn''t leave to go home.  She waited on the hallway bench for Lang to give his preamble to T-Bone in his office.


    Twenty minutes later, when the door opened, she said, "I''ll take him, Cap''n, T-Bone''s my charge."


    "Why are you still here?"


    "I need to coach him on what''s waiting in there."


    "Leave Falke be," Lang warned.


    "I won''t touch the asshole."


    "All right, T-Bone''s yours.  You teach him.  Go on."  The captain waved them along.  Lang may be a prickly hard-ass, but he was fair.  And he was a soldier, a sure quality she could count on.  The Fedniks were harder to finger, owning their allegiances to many patrons.


    She grabbed Corona''s arm and steered him toward the Interview Room fifty yards away.  Plenty of time to squeeze in a few pointers.


    "So, what did you do?" T-Bone asked with a curious smile, walking by her side.


    "I overreacted."


    "You, really?" He glanced back.  The MPs weren''t far behind.  "Who am I meeting with?"


    "All kinds of shit-heads.  So, behave."


    "What''re they like?"


    "They''re gonna try to light a fire under your butt while an Inquisitor drone measures your stress level.  They''re gonna dig deep and get in your personal shit.  You got to ignore them."  She kept her voice above a whisper.  "The more you rattle and jerk, the more they say aha!"


    "What the fuck?"


    "They''re looking to hang us, Tee.  So, stay chill, you hear?  Don''t do what I did.  And don''t you volunteer more than asked.  Understand?"


    "What''d they think we did, sold the video to TMZ?"


    "They''d pin JFK''s death on you if you let them."

 Book 1 - Chapter 10

    There was no hiding for the Secretary from the beams of scrutiny directed his way. The media had encamped in his neighborhood outside his mansion in Potomac, Maryland, lying in wait to glimpse the man of the hour. But they dared not tread on his grass. Even the drones were reprogrammed to keep a distance. Balkan wasn''t one to tolerate trespassers.


    At 0700 hours, a Humbird on autopilot descended onto the landing pad built at the edge of his mowed lawn, blasting out fine cuttings and debris. It alighted but stayed idle as Balkan emerged from his residence, giving the flashing encampments his back. Once the passenger was secured, on-board computers supercharged high-velocity nacelles adding lift as the whines drowned out the frantic shouts and questions.


    It has begun, he told himself. Stick with the facts -- but the facts are damnable. He needed to strategize a response for the oversight committees who would surely rake him over the coals the next few days. For now, POTUS had first dibs.


    The PAV carrying the Secretary hugged the Potomac on its flight-path toward the White House. As it whooshed over the crescent boardwalk of Washington Harbor, the craft popped up, banked left, and spiraled gently onto the rooftop VTOL platform of the Watergate building. His aide Lisbeth was topside waiting to join him in the craft.


    The last hop was quick. Landing on the White House lawn where Marine One often did, Balkan and Lisbeth made their way through a gauntlet of security checks. Tours were banned in the White House, and electronics, including passive intra-corporeal techs and com-arrays. As one entered the inner core, dampening fields scrambled individual RFID signals.


    Special Security stood along every corridor, looking smart and determined. For theatrics. Their left shoulders were adorned with the words ''Honorem, Officium, Dili'' -- Duty, Honor, Vigilance. Black jackets over black trousers had replaced Marine Dress Blues. Detractors had labeled these replacements Black Praetorians loyal only to the PIP in Dallas-Austin.


    The atrium led to a narrow corridor which funneled one visitor at a time, like a cattle walkway to a slaughterhouse. Guests would step into a fishbowl -- a floor-to-ceiling polycarbonate glass enclosure constructed to contain a blast equal to twenty sticks of TNT. While the subject was there, sensors scanned for sub-dermal explosives such as peroxide-cellulose compounds inserted in private places -- a pinch sewn under the love handles, for instance. This wasn''t mere paranoia. Montana Freemen and other anarchists had made several recent attempts on the President''s life, none of which made the news. The Bureau had found a few collaborators, handed them over to the Praetorians for deep scrubs which led to more arrests. Those caught were elsewhere now.


    The fishbowl was ready for them.


    Balkan in his immaculate suit led the way, stepping into the glass enclosure. Millimeter-wave scanners and EM radiation washed over him to seek non-metallic objects and compounds flagged by Homeland.


    "Pursuant to Homeland Security Title Code 8-2-Zero, please assume the posture," a mechanical voice sounded as white lights inside the box intensified and grew hot. The microwave weapon hummed to full power, ready to nuke the bag of meat.


    Balkan raised his arms and faced the scanners as a whine rose from a panel behind him. A beam shot into his retina searching for his unique blood vessel nexus. These elaborate measures were in response to the availability of morphing solutions used by infiltrators to change their facial structures.


    "Biometrics verified. You are cleared for entry, Secretary Balkan."


    Lisbeth followed without incident after he vacated the box.


    The pair continued on toward the West Wing which housed the President''s top personnel, including the Chief of Staff, Press Secretary, the president''s assistants, counsel, and their subordinates. It also enclosed the Oval Office. During FDR''s administration, the Oval Office had moved from the original location to the southeast corner of the block. Engineers added a second story over the Rose Garden. Roosevelt, afflicted with polio, was a private statesman. The redesign allowed him to slip between the main residence and the West Wing without being seen. The current President appreciated this feature more than any leader before him. Recent concerns had to do more with internal security than privacy.


    The White House had gone through further transformations unknown to the public. There were fearful Jack-in-the-Boxes installed -- antipersonnel devices designed to thwart platoon-size infiltrations. The deeper into the mansion, the more concentrated they were. Weaponized lasers, microwave ''cookers'', and floor and wall mines were some of the nasty surprises waiting for any unwanted visitors.


    A red carpet led the two visitors to the desk of the President''s Special Assistant, sitting opposite the Roosevelt Room. A tall gentle lady in her mid-sixties, refined, no one had a clue she was Annie Oakley with the Glock 9 hidden somewhere on her bodice. The lady never missed.


    She bore a tight face, lips pursed into a nervous smile, indicating the President was in a foul mood this morning.


    The Special Assistant rose from her desk, beckoning. "Secretary Balkan, he''s ready for you."


    Lisbeth hung back and found a seat in the hallway. She wasn''t on the entry list.


    The Assistant received her cue from her earpiece. She nodded for him to follow her. She pushed the door open and announced, "Mr. President, the Secretary . . ."


    Intrusive camera drones were forbidden, but the Oval Office was not without monitoring. Naked eyeballs watched everything that transpired within. As he entered, Balkan could see another door shut ahead of him -- his arrival came at the tail end of a meeting with a TexPax delegation. He knew the President''s morning schedule, that the 8 a.m. time slot involved governor regents sent by Chairmark Drexel. How severe the reprimands were, he would find out soon enough. Pain like water usually flowed downhill.


    The door behind him closed without a sound.


    The President gazed through the south-facing bow windows with his hands clasped behind his back. "I hope you had a good night, Victor . . . I didn''t." POTUS turned to face Balkan, glaring at him longer than was comfortable.


    He''s in a rare state, Balkan sensed and steeled himself.


    "We gave you unprecedented power with sweeping mandates over civilian and military alike. No one has more." The Presidential We unsettled him.


    Balkan shifted his weight from one leg to another and cleared his throat. "I serve at your pleasure, Mr. President."


    "You neglect the tick that bites your underside. You know what I''m referring to."


    "No one could expect a leak like this."


    "Well, that''s the problem, isn''t it? You didn''t do your job, which is to anticipate."The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    "We scrutinize data handling inside clean centers, we log every action, all recordings disseminated for analysis," Balkan explained. "Then they''re wiped per protocol."


    "Then you have a serious security issue," the President spoke, his voice flat which made it more ominous. "The breach likely happened within your process."


    POTUS had not invited him to sit. The Secretary faced the oaken desk as if he were a truant before the principal. His gut soured.


    "We''re doing everything we can to find out, Mr. President. But I''m confident the breach couldn''t have happened from our end."


    "Oh? Breaches are made by insiders, from people who had access to sensitive systems. That would be my theory."


    "Yes, sir. I could only guess someone copied the feeds before we downloaded them for analysis." Balkan''s explanation quickened as he rushed to make a point.


    "You mean to say infrastructure integrity is to blame? Is data that vulnerable, I would think not?"


    "No, these feeds are on ultra-secure networks. They can''t be hacked from the outside. I have to think any vulnerability might lie between the hand-offs."


    The Chief shook his head. "Look, Victor, it''s simple -- you either have foreign infiltrators or domestic traitors. Which is it?"


    "We are investigating, Mr. President."


    "I''m not feeling confident, Victor. We have a devastating security breach right under our noses with dire repercussions: a full delegation from Austin was here before you came in -- Drexel demands an intervention. TexPax has trillions invested down there . . . The Caracas government is barely holding on by their fingertips. The whole regime might collapse, they tell me." He paused for breath.


    Balkan was silent, looking at the floor. The Secretary had sat in on daily intelligence briefings and had known the situation far better than his boss. Minute by minute reports had given him a dire assessment long before coming here -- a Bolivarian collapse would sever all fief ties to the Norteamericanos.


    "Secretary Balkan, you assured me there would be no glitch in your operation," the President stammered, becoming irate, "I read reports from State just this morning -- our embassies in five countries are under siege, their compounds pelted with rocks. People are mad as hell. And here too, look outside."


    "I saw coming in," Balkan said meekly.


    POTUS clenched his jaw. "I''m getting demands to apologize by every two-bit prime minister from Greenland to Micronesia. The UN Security Council accuses us of" -- he counted with his fingers -- "a Geneva Treaty violation, unilateral aggression, and lying to our allies. Moscow and Beijing are rolling on the floor." His face reddened. "And did I mention the pressure coming from Dallas-Austin too?" The President stiffened with resentment. "I am the Commander-in-Chief. I don''t answer to them -- not anymore."


    "Yes, sir."


    The Chief exhaled, struggling to calm. "I see only one plan of action now."


    "Sir?"


    "We dig in. We cannot admit involvement, do you understand? To do so, we lose everything."


    "You are clear on this course of action, Mr. President?"


    "You get a hold of the press and you tell them we had nothing to do with it, Victor. Circle the wagons and bring in the women and children. Is that clear?"


    "Yes, sir."


    "Deny -- even to St. Peter''s face, if you must. Lies that persist, in time, become indistinguishable from the truth. It has to stick no matter how shitty it sounds because the alternative is goddamn unacceptable."


    Balkan nodded.


    "The soul of this presidency is at stake."


    A second humble nod from the rebuke.


    "People can doctor anything, especially fake news. You make it happen. You clean up this mess. Because it''s your mess." The Presidential Voice made it clear where the blame fell and whose head was on the block. "You have a press conference scheduled in an hour I believe?"


    "I do, Mr. President."


    "Then Godspeed. Find whoever leaked that video!"


    "I''ll put the torch on everyone with access, rest assured."


    "Christ Almighty!" The President looked away, the relieved cue for Balkan to leave.


    Balkan met up with Lisbeth after leaving the Oval Office.


    She studied his demeanor. Seeing the grim mask on his face, she said, "Let me guess, it''s Caracas-gate he''s interested in."


    "Not only him. The PIP has sent a delegation."


    "Only a matter of time."


    Balkan nodded. "The President has provided some talking points I need to go over with you before meeting the press."


    "I''m all yours," Lisbeth said, stepping into the PAV''s cabin.


    Fifteen minutes later, the autonav computer set the craft down on the Pentagon Heliport. A security detail in gray-dot fatigues gathered to escort the occupants. Pentagon security kept the corridors cleared to the press room. Rows of chairs, each one occupied faced a blue curtained wall. Floodlight arrays ran along the low ceiling, spotlighting the lone podium behind which an oval plaque of the five-sided geometric icon hung.


    It was standing room only.


    At the appointed time, the side door opened. Balkan entered with purpose and took the dais. Lisbeth stood against a wall, holding her hand terminal. Needing to interpret public reactions and disseminate the proper response, her aural devices and Lens were tuned to social media. The drones massed high above the stage, focused down on his face.


    "Good morning," Balkan began. The press corps greeted him with faces eager for answers yet ready to pounce on the man on the hill. "Last night, the world watched a series of tactical videos from the camera views of individual soldiers purported to be North Americans. You heard English being spoken. You have seen people being killed. The deceased were terrorist leaders of a Venezuelan extremist group, the Bolivar Liberation Army. These events happened a week ago."


    The mass of reporters stirred as a few hands stretched for attention.


    "But let me assure the people of one thing -- North Americans did not lead the operation in Caracas . . . Rather, Venezuelan Special Forces who have made enormous sacrifices against militancy and terrorism conducted the raid. The voices you heard speaking English came from embedded observers, who were there to collect intelligence. As to the disturbing scene most have seen, it was a North American observer Alexis Marlboro who tried to save the young female victim while the shooter was Venezuelan . . ." The reporters exploded with questions. Balkan was steadfast. "There are many things we do not know, many we wish we know, but one thing we know for sure -- there are no North American combat troops involved in the operation. Let me repeat -- there are no American troops involved, leading or executing combat operations on Venezuelan soil."


    More voices and hands surged at him, desperate for answers.


    Balkan shook his head at the hounds; he had more to say. "What the world saw was taken out of context. As usual, it was edited in such a manner as to incriminate the administration. The accusations are baseless. I want to reemphasize: our relationship with the Caracas government of President Gonzales will continue as before, with great respect toward its sovereignty. Toward that goal, we commit to the stability of our allies in the region until they stomp out their insurgency.


    "The leaks are doctored evidence, nothing more than edited videos. They will not deter the President''s commitment to the eradication of terrorism, peace with our neighbors, and stability in the world . . ."


    Desperate voices clamored over each other until one beat out the rest: "Secretary, how do you answer charges leveled by Midland RegentAugustine, quote -- ''the video reinforces a longstanding concern about the illegal wars perpetrated by the White House to support corrupt regimes that had ties to PIP interests?'' In fact, many paramountcy leaders believe this -- that you sent North American soldiers into Caracas for this purpose. Are you prepared to answer these charges?"


    "I''m no way surprised by Regent Augustine''s claim. She will use this opportunity to further her fief''s transparent agenda, so I will not deign to discuss his charges. My Deputy Secretary, Mr. Hershey, will answer your questions."


    Balkan shook hands with his replacement and exited fast, trailed by Lisbeth and a male aide. Behind him, pandemonium exploded. Black-uniformed Praetorians formed up in front and to the rear in an escort.


    "So, what do you think?" Balkan directed the question at Lisbeth, keeping his voice low during their walk.


    "Effective. No-nonsense, and you didn''t make a fool out of yourself," she said with brazenness. "I give you a 7.5 for sticking the landing."


    "That''s barely passing."


    "One error," Lisbeth said. "Did you have to bring up Marlboro? This wasn''t one of our items."


    "They''ll find out who she is soon enough, so I wanted to get in front of the curve. We need a hero to deflect the shock."


    "Now they''ve got a face," Lisbeth said, looking at the shiny floor tiles in front of her. "What if she says otherwise?"


    "Let''s wait ''til we''re in the air, okay?"


    The trio arrived at the LZ where a PAV waited. Before getting in, he said to his aide, "When was this craft last swept?"


    "Every night, sir," the young man standing guard replied.


    "I''m angry."


    "I''ll have it done again," the guard stammered.


    "No, not you," Balkan said, shaking his head and turning to Lisbeth. "He forced me to eat a mouthful of hornets today. I''m being hung out to dry."


    "What will you do?"


    "The media hounds are searching for the scent. If they catch just a whiff . . ."


    "They''ll rip you to pieces," she said.

 Book 1 - Chapter 11

    Cruising through low clouds below ten thousand feet, the Humbird aeroflyer followed a return trajectory to Oz-Reston.  From DC, its flight path soared over the mag-lev 495 Beltway.


    Designed for ultra-comfortable short hops and requiring no pilots, the Personal Aerial Vehicle cabin was spacious, over eight feet across and fifteen feet long.  A generous sectional sofa of plush Corinthian leather wrapped around the entire mid-section.


    Balkan settled back in his leather armchair while Puccini''s Tosca played, wrenching at his heart in sublime languor.


    "Victor, you should see this," Lisbeth Hunt said, holding her hand terminal.  She lounged opposite Balkan, their aide in the aft section.  Decked out with the latest intra-comm biowares, the assistant was a walking cell antenna.


    "What is it?"


    She swiped what she was watching over to Balkan.


    A holographic placard expanded and wrapped around his seat, held in suspension from light emitters embedded in the left armrest.


    The classical music faded, replaced by a news program showing scarf-clad youths hurling Molotov cocktails at riot police marching in rigid phalanxes.  Clouds of teargas drifted through city blocks over secondary fires lit from burning automobiles and refuse.  Underneath, captions scrolled by: Caracas in Crisis: Day 5.


    He raised the volume.


    "Civilians have taken to the streets in every major city in Venezuela, threatening to spill into neighboring countries and upsetting fief stability.  Rioters have swarmed over police stations and looted businesses.  The military is cracking down on the chaos.


    "But many officers have abandoned their posts to join the general uprising, demanding the overthrow of the Venezuelan government who had been a serf to the Yanquis fief-masters.  What we''re left with are unanswered questions as factional fighting intensified -- to decide who will control the crown jewel -- the crude reserve.  What form of government will rise from the ashes of this conflagration, no one knows.  One thing is for sure, this is an issue for Bolivarians to resolve, a warning to all nations that the indigenous will not tolerate their intrusion.  These appraisals are directed especially at the PIP of North America."


    "Christ, I don''t need this," he mumbled and muted the program.


    "It''s escalating," Lisbeth said.


    He watched in grim silence, his jaw muscle twitching.


    "We''re all playing musical chairs," she said.  "Make sure you have yours when the music stops."


    "I can see that!"  He railed suddenly, startling her.  Then relented.  "I''m sorry.  Seems the world is after my hide.  Even the President is distancing himself with his narration.  I''m going to be the most hated person in this country."


    "Are we being paranoid?"


    Balkan huffed.  "If TexPax loses the Oval Office because of this, they''ll hang me."


    "You''re being melodramatic, no?" She smirked.


    "Be glad you''re an Unaffiliate, Beth.  You don''t answer to a master."


    "No, I answer to the people as you should when you took office."


    "I''m in no mood for a lecture, please."


    She relented.  "What''s the worst-case scenario?  Say your fief loses the White House but doesn''t vacate?"


    "Every paramountcy will go after us," Balkan said.


    "But who would oust you?  Who could?  You have your Praetorians in place and the military at your fingertips.  He who has the spears . . ."


    "The army shall not be used against its people -- I recall a law -- Posse comitatus?"


    Lisbeth smirked.  "And who would obey a law with such a silly name?"


    They watched the news feed spanning over tin roofs and shanty shacks.  Great swaths of the favela were on fire.  A landscape of hazy smoke blotted out the sun.


    "In the coming days, I imagine crude will be stratospheric," Balkan said.


    "Too late, Brent just crossed three hundred dollars a barrel this morning," she said.


    He switched off the news and turned his face toward the sun-drenched window.  Below, the ocher landscape quickened as the craft began its descent into Oz.


    "What if I come clean?"  He mumbled to himself more than to her, "What if we''ve entered a new paradigm?  A lot of anger out there.  What if --"


    "Sir," an aide sitting in the aft section interrupted his thoughts.  "We''ve just received a Priority One request for linkup."


    "I just met with him this morning," Balkan said, flustered.  "Did something else happen just now?"


    "It''s not the White House," Lisbeth said, her eyebrows arched high.  She''d received the same alert through her aural plug.  "No, it''s your Chairmark -- your lord and master."This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.


    Balkan stiffened.  "And I thought things couldn''t get worse."


    "Remember, he can''t fire you; only the President can."


    "But he can starve me."  Balkan sighed and braced himself.  "Put him through, please."


    "Sir, do you want to confer in stasis, or in the open?" The aide asked.


    "No, send it through right here, through my chair."


    "Right away . . ." The aide said, fingers dancing on holo-keys emitted from his wrist.  "Houston, we''re prepared to receive you.  Go ahead."


    Within seconds, blue photons from holo-emitters in Balkan''s armrests gelled into the outline of a head and shoulder.  It materialized into a fluid surface--facial features and slight movements became animated.  Signals were clear and strong, in real-time with no synchronous delay.


    "Mr. Chairmark, Your Eminence," Balkan addressed the likeness of Leland Drexel.  "How was Tokyo?"


    "Arduous trip, Victor; we''re still feeling the lag."


    "It was successful, I hope?"


    "We met with Prince Kurita, we toured many robotic factories in Yokohama, and saw their new Quantum machines."


    "Oh?"


    "Better than the ones before, better than ours.  Beijing has no equivalent.  There will be fief wars over there, far worse than they are now.  Centuries of enmity between Tokyo and Beijing have turned into a tradition of hatred."


    "Congratulations.  This was your desired outcome.  Let Asia fight amongst itself."


    "We have diversified interests," the blue bust of the TexPax Chairmark said, "But that''s not why we are calling."


    "Yes?"  Here it comes, Balkan braced himself.


    "We have an internal matter to address."


    Balkan was prepared to offer his resignation, when --


    "We are speaking of the President."


    It wasn''t turbulence from the plane but the gravity waves resonating from the words that tripped him.  Unprepared for what was to come, Balkan gestured to Lisbeth to record the conversation.


    "Sir?  I don''t know what you mean," Balkan said, displaying a stoic demeanor.


    "The President is a friend, one of our most able Regents to take the helm of the federal government.  He''s been an outstanding steward, a good man, but he is past his prime."


    "The President hasn''t aged a day in twelve years."


    "A man doesn''t need to age externally to be old."


    The senior Drexel sounded tired, Balkan thought.  The soul wasn''t immortal after all; it can tarnish and fade too.


    "His ideas, his stance have become -- recalcitrant of late.  He is a tired man, his judgment -- erred, putting this administration under unnecessary pressure."


    "Yes, sir," Balkan replied, going along with it.


    "The President''s military assistance to our South American friends failed in one aspect -- it was badly handled.  As a result, the global mercantile guilds which we are members of, have questioned the soundness of our leadership.  They entertain the idea of a new PIP.  This puts us in a difficult position."


    "The President has acted with honorable intentions.  If anyone is to --"


    "Honorable or not, it matters little now," the Chairmark said.  "As it stands, twelve years of executive leadership could end for our House."


    The pause sat on Balkan, suffocating him.  Would Drexel demand he turn against the President?  Arrest him?  He braced himself.


    "You see Victor, power is the greatest drug ever there was.  It reshapes ideals, morality, and expediency.  And it is addictive.  It deludes a man into thinking he could be a god of lasting legacies.  But in that hubris, man forgets he is just an enlightened ape, savage and greedy . . . And replaceable."


    "Yes, sir," Balkan muttered.  What the hell does that mean?


    "To salvage Conclave, we must replace the presidency with a new candidate at this late hour -- that person is you, Mr. Secretary."


    "Excuse me?"  A second punch hammered him.  He gasped, his heart pounding in his chest.


    "The electoral predictive model has determined that you as the candidate have the most optimistic probability for victory."


    "The public would disagree."


    "It matters not what people think; it matters what our regents decide.  Will you represent TexPax in the next Conclave?"


    "I -- I need time to think," Balkan stuttered, beads of sweat appearing on his brow.


    The expression on the Chairmark seemed frozen in place -- it was no delay of the hologram.  Drexel would wait til hell iced over for an answer, a trademark for which he was renowned.  For the recipient, the moment turned sharp and lethal, a gleaming guillotine, its rope ready to snap if the silence would go an instant longer.  Hesitation had terrible consequences.


    "My apologies, sir," Balkan said, choosing wisely.  "I accept the charge."


    "Then serve out your current duties.  In a few days, our office will announce a new candidate for TexPax, at which time you will appear and accept the nomination."


    "And if the President fights my appointment?"


    "Conclave terms are specific and unyielding; the administration will abide by the mandate of the PIP.  Why we got rid of the cumbersome party system long ago.  We, who are responsible for the welfare of the entire continent, decide the candidacy, not the White House," the shimmering bust said firmly.


    "Very well."


    "That leaves one final item, Victor --" The dreaded pause returned.  "Get rid of your skeletons."


    "I don''t understand."


    "You know of what we speak -- it could undermine our efforts, your candidacy and our bid for Conclave.  That cannot be allowed to happen."


    "I don''t know -- "


    "Silent as the grave, Mr. Secretary."


    Cornered, Balkan nodded.


    "And Victor, we never had this conversation."


    "I understand, sir."


    The image of Drexel dissolved into nothingness.  Balkan collapsed into his seat and sighed, a bagful of screeching cats in his head.


    "My God," Lisbeth said, gushing shock.  "You''re the next --"


    "I don''t want it."


    "Then refuse."


    "You don''t refuse Leland Drexel."  Balkan took a deep breath and sunk his head in his hands.


    "Why not?  You''re the Defense Secretary for Christ''s sake."


    "You don''t understand -- I was a TexPax Viceroy before going to Washington, which means something.  My family owes their livelihood, prominence, and loyalty to Drexel and his House.  The President and all his cabinet are no different . . . Refusing is not an option."  He paused to consider.  "And I don''t grasp what he meant by my skeletons."


    "Isn''t it obvious?"


    He sensed she was enjoying his discomfort, "Dammit, I don''t need cryptic messages right now, and not from you, Beth."


    "Stop digging your own grave.  And start digging others.  That''s how I interpret your magnanimous Chairmark."


    "He can''t mean -- "


    "Oh, he certainly did." She exhaled with contempt.  "Such is the price when dealing with the devil."


    "You mean godhood."


    "Devil or a malicious god, is there a difference?"


    Balkan seemed old at this moment, deep folds accordioned on his forehead, his eyes burdened with dark bags.  "I need to see Oliver when we land.  You sit in the meeting too."


    Peering through the cabin porthole, the Secretary gazed out the side of the aerodyne to the speeding ground below.  They were cutting over I-395 where GPS controlled traffic and robo-trucks crisscrossed at breakneck speed on maglev lanes without risk of collision.  The chaos below reminded him of the Gordian knot he was desperate to hack off.  He thought of the past years, the energy, sacrifice, and money that poured into his legacy -- Project Carnivora.


    Get rid of your skeletons.


    Could he?

 Book 1 - Chapter 12

    "International authorities are clamoring to locate the trio," a CNN reporter said on the wide TV mounted high on the wall.  "Two men and one woman, actors in the snuff video.  Amnesty International, the World Criminal Court, along with several European paramountcies have condemned their murderous actions and demand they be produced for questioning.  Other prominent Regents have clamored for criminal prosecution, a request that has fallen on deaf ears . . . These are the service photos of the individuals.  Independent sources have confirmed Alexis Marlboro is a covert military operative employed by the North American Federal Government, her whereabouts unknown.  The two males are Kenneth Mars and Joseph Corona.  Investigators believed they are part of an elite kill squad responsible for the Caracas massacre.


    "The Oval Office has continued to deny any knowledge of these individuals whom Secretary Balkan first revealed.  The PIP and the administration are recalcitrant to cooperate; thus, it is unclear if the trio and their compatriots took orders from Dallas-Austin . . . or the White House.  Even now, officials are silent, no doubt planning a response to this new allegation.  This is Maria Espinoza N¨²?ez Gonzales of CNN-MegOne . . ."


    "There you have it," Balkan mumbled, his headache worsening with a ringing in his ears.


    Oliver shook his head.  "There''ll be a grand jury subpoena, I imagine."


    "Circle the wagons."


    "You don''t plan on coming clean?" Lisbeth asked, lowering her brows.  "You gave them Marlboro already.  Too late to take it back now."


    "I hope you''re kidding," Balkan said, circling his temples with his fingers.  "I told the world with no uncertainty we had nothing to do with it.  We stick with the narrative."


    "Which is?"


    "Marlboro was an embedded adviser.  Nothing more."


    "You can''t suggest keeping up this charade . . . the game''s over, Victor," Oliver said.  "You''ve let the cats out.  That was a big mistake to start."


    "It seemed smart at the time to deflect the heat.  But what''s done is done."


    "Will you resign?  Has the President asked for it?"


    "He won''t."


    "That''s an arrogant presumption."


    "Why would he sack me?  As long as I burn bright under scrutiny, the President stays clean," Balkan said.  "I''m staying in the fight, Charles.  They''d have to pry my dead fingers from this chair."


    "I would cut my loss."


    "The light is at the end of the tunnel."


    "I don''t understand, what light?  It''s over."


    Balkan stopped short of telling Oliver the conversation he''d had with Drexel.  Only Lisbeth was privy, and she looked away, not meeting Oliver''s gaze.


    "What is it you both are not telling me?" Oliver said with wariness. This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.


    "Remember your roots, Charles.  And your loyalty.  Never shit in the sandbox where you play."


    The room got quiet.


    The service photos of Mars, Corona, and Marlboro remained on the monitors while red pulsating captions ran underneath: The Caracas Trio wanted for questioning.


    "Once the wolves get to them," Oliver pressed.  "They can retrace the breadcrumbs right back to us and turn everything inside out."


    "Then don''t let that happen," Balkan said.  His words, heavy with portends, took a moment to digest.


    Oliver gave him an unsavory look.


    The Secretary explained, "The magic trick won''t work if they see the rabbit."


    Lisbeth shook her head with a disagreeable scowl.  "Complete sanitation, is that what you mean, Victor?"


    "Define complete," Oliver said.


    Annoyed at her overstepping her bounds, Balkan said, "You know what I mean."


    Oliver looked stunned, grasping the truth.


    "Now hold on, have you fathomed the loss?"  Oliver said.  "Carnivora 8, and all the beta programs?"


    "They will hurt like hell."


    "More likely your bonfire will set us back years," Oliver said.  "We''re currently beta testing four derivative programs; Phase 2 successes are far better than Cerberus.  If we stop now, we may never get to implementation.  We''d forfeit our lead, and I have on good terms the Chinese are near Phase 4 completion."


    "We mothball the science and the data.  Pick it back up when things quiet down," Balkan said, his jaw set with grim resolve.


    "You forget something?" Lisbeth said as she flicked her head toward the monitor.  "What about the people behind the program?"


    "Technicians, we can reassign elsewhere."  Balkan''s tone was somber as a plague death toll.  "But Cerberus . . . we can''t allow tigers loose in the backyard."


    "Yes, they''re our tigers.  May I remind you we''re under contract to develop these programs," Lisbeth added.  "Cerberus is slotted to go to Houston.  They''re expecting delivery -- "


    "Not anymore."


    "Moreau would have a fit, he''s TexPax''s senior technologist."


    "That prima-donna will do as he''s told."  Balkan snapped.  "Real power doesn''t reside here; even the President knows that.  For the time being, Dallas-Austin is the furnace that drives this country.  DC is just a branch office."  He turned to a doubtful Oliver.  "You, too, Charles.  It''s simple -- ask yourself where your loyalty is?  Then ask -- what would happen if you violate that?"


    "Paramountcy before all else," Oliver answered almost by rote.


    "That''s right, they appointed you and me both, and the President, and the whole goddamn cabinet.  Don''t kid yourself.  They own us." Balkan paused.  "And they were very explicit."


    Oliver said nothing.


    "We all on the same page now?"  Balkan reiterated.


    Oliver acquiesced.  Lisbeth pursed her lips, and gave a slight nod, her cheeks ruddy.


    "Good, because that''s where you come in, Charles.  I need hard-men with no qualms about blue-on-blue.  Preferably outsourced."


    Oliver pondered at length, then said, "I have somebody in mind.  We burned him a few years back.  I can bring him in."


    "Why was he burned?"


    "He had excellent operational records in Kiev.  Then he went a little overboard."


    "Clarify."


    "Our man was overzealous with his methods, caused a few raised eyebrows," Oliver said, not wanting to say more.  "I''ll send you his dossier."


    "I will want to meet him," Balkan said.  "Look him in the eyes."


    "I''ll send the word to retrieve him.  Last I heard, he''s doing shit work for the frogs in Marseilles."


    "All right, get it done but be quiet about this, Charles," Balkan emphasized with glaring eyes.


    "I''ll take care of it," Oliver said.


    "Victor, I get shutting down the Program, but Cerberus? Do you understand their value? And the difficulty in finding the right DNA match?  One out of ten thousand, maybe?"


    "I''m very aware of the loss."


    Lisbeth uttered, "Eighteen men and one woman."


    "I''m also dealing with numbers, and mine are considerably larger."


    "And that doesn''t bother you?"  She turned pale.


    Balkan shook his head and snapped.  "You prefer to be right up there on TV next to them?"  He gestured at the rolling news.  "Is that what you''re saying, Beth?"


    "This is difficult -- and immoral," Lisbeth said, pulling at her ear.


    The Secretary faced her with a ghastly resolve.  "I don''t need your moral consent, but your obedience.  Work with Charles to get this resolved.  At this moment, we have the will to do the hard thing.  In a few days, that may all change."


    Lisbeth caved under Balkan''s dreadful gaze.  He eased off with a deep sigh. "You need to decide who you want to play, soldier or martyr.  Can''t be both."

 Book 1 - Chapter 13

    The sky was deep blue typical of late fall when Ian Moreau showed up alone at a derelict factory. But the long-abandoned assembly space wasn''t empty. Decked out with lights and attendants, the main space had a handful of tables set up with crystal and silver over white linen, arranged in front of a makeshift kitchen. The visiting chef had earned a solid following for his haute cuisine, but because of its temporal existence, here one day, gone the next, the pop-up restaurant was an experience not to be missed.


    The space was intimate, boxed in by mahogany faux walls and surrounded by arrangements of candles. An ambient temperature made just right from an outer circle of heat lamps invited sparrows chirping under the vaulted ceiling. It gave the contrast of the finesse versus the industrial, the new and old, the cherished and the abandoned. There was even a sparkling chandelier hanging from a rusted I-beam overhead. He could sit here for hours among the cavernous emptiness and swept concrete. There was a beckoning peace in this nave of slag and ruins that drew in adventurers. She would enjoy this pop-up surprise he''d heard so much about, he hoped. He''d pulled strings to get a table.


    But Lisbeth''s voice when they spoke sounded strange. She''d cut him off and didn''t want to say more. A distinct urgency was apparent in her tone. Must be a hard day at work. For that, he had her favorite Beaujolais ready, chilled in a marble tub. And the cuisine was something to delight, he''d heard . . . and if things go right, the after-dinner dessert elsewhere.


    Though he wasn''t as prominent as she was, they agreed to be discreet and keep out of public scrutiny. A Fednik bureaucrat and TexPax technocrat in bed were an unwanted combination to many.


    Though his commitment straddled the interests of PIP and government, his loyalty to TexPax was without question. As a technologist foremost, he shouldn''t care about high-stakes power plays. But he wasn''t na?ve -- a healthy dose of politics was necessary to get things done.


    That was before the disturbing rumors he refused to believe, that Carnivora might be scrapped, reasons unspecified.


    They wouldn''t dare mess with my lifework. Lisbeth would know. Yet she''s late.


    He had met her when she and Balkan scheduled a visit to a secluded Chesapeake Island, the hidden lair of Carnivora.


    The National Park Service had labeled Crane Island and its placid beaches a nature reserve isolated from the public. Even then, there had been several incidents made by hapless hikers and kayakers stumbling upon its shores. Park rangers intercepted, fined them, and returned the trespassers to dry land, the hikers never once suspecting the rangers patrolling the grounds were sentries for a black site. Foreign espionage was the least concern -- Carnivora was the first of its kind, and its aims conflicted with many home-grown religious groups. The Program was messing with an ancient taboo that must never be exposed to the public, bringing man closer to the Beast than God.


    "So, this is what we bought?" the powerful Balkan wasn''t impressed the first time he landed on the bird island. Moreau had crossed paths with Balkan before when the latter was an ambitious third-tier Viceroy in TexPax. He didn''t care for him then, much less now.


    "You''re in the rehabilitation ward, Mr. Secretary. As far as anyone in the world knows, this place doesn''t exist." Moreau led the way, showing them around. Lisbeth trailed behind wearing a stunning red suit he couldn''t ignore. It accentuated her femininity in ways he found utterly distracting. "With your support, we can pioneer new ways to achieve the ultimate soldier -- starting from the inside out. We''ve pushed every envelope known to military science. Past use of combat roids and enhancement drugs were failures. Yes, the soldier may function in high-gear for a short stint, but then he burns out, the net results negligible and whatever tactical gains he''d won is given back."


    "Tell me," Lisbeth said. "Why adopt these measures when there are exoskeleton systems and combat-wares grafted to soldiers? They''re proven."


    "Turning man into machines?" Moreau disdained with a chuckle. "Cybernetic systems are crude, lumbering and unreliable. Here, we return to the basics and elegant design -- identify the best traits of nature''s predators and gift them to humans. Pin-drop hearing, cat vision, canine smell, animal speed, and reflex. We boost the oxygen absorption of hemoglobin so a man can hold his breath underwater for over half an hour . . . And the piece de resistance," Moreau paused, his face brightened, "rapid healing."


    The Director had gotten their attention with his boyish exuberance, which she found amusing. And not only her. He had won Balkan over with his passionate spiel.


    Moreau continued, "Imagine what we would gain if we could improve the soldier himself. No more PTSD, no more walking wounded, no more broken families. Wounds heal in a quarter of the time, so a soldier can do his job without fear, a durable force with a singular purpose. Project Carnivora is my hope and dream. Come, let me show you."


    Moreau led them to an enclosed wing. They stood outside a laboratory, peering through thick glass into an all-white cleanroom accessible only through scrubber locks. Zero contaminants. Only certain NASA facilities where a speck of dust may ruin a billion-dollar project or the viral containment levels of the CDC were cleaner.


    Through speakers, they listened to technicians in gowns and masks huddling together under surgical lighting. A body lay on the operating table undergoing a procedure.


    "Prepare incision."


    "Blades optimized, doctor."


    "Engage scanner . . . "


    "What are they doing?" Balkan asked, not seeing beyond the huddle of white coats.


    "Hemo-nanites delivery into the bone marrow -- that''s where white blood cells come from," Moreau explained. "It''s very tricky. We use computer models to track the nanobots zeroing down on the marrow and lymphatic tissues. The difficulties come when the T-cells start attacking our nanites. One in a hundred subjects may survive the leukemias."


    "Jesus, how did people agree to this?" Lisbeth asked, horrified.


    "No, no; we use primates during Phase One, the closest thing to the human makeup. To date, we''ve gone through two hundred chimps to find three hosts that didn''t rupture during incubation or bleed out within hours of injection. What we''ve achieved is a workable baseline for the bots to re-purpose the cells and alter chemistry in response to threats to the body."This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.


    "When will it be ready for human trials?" Balkan asked.


    "We''re six months, perhaps a year away, in my estimation."


    "How do you know it''s safe for people, then?" Lisbeth pressed, unconvinced.


    "When the monkeys stop dying. But more importantly, when they rejuvenate," Moreau clarified. "It''s very promising. We shot all kinds of things at the three survivors, amputated limbs off one, irradiated two, and all three carried on, their wounds healed in half the time. That was two years ago."


    "The limb didn''t grow back, did they?" Balkan said, raising his brows.


    "Of course not. I exaggerate."


    "What''s the expected rejection rate in humans, Mr. Moreau?" Lisbeth asked, containing her chuckle. "You burn through two hundred monkeys to get three live ones, those aren''t good odds."


    "Call me Ian." Moreau smiled disarmingly. "I won''t lie to you, rejection will be high. We will endeavor to avoid human fatalities. We won''t risk that."


    "But there will be side effects? And long-term?"


    "Unknown at this stage," said Moreau.


    "But no one''s gonna bleed out like the monkeys, will they? There''s no guarantee, is there?"


    "We won''t rest until we get the human body to reconstitute to the new adaptation -- once it''s safer to try."


    "And whom will you find willing to do this?" Balkan asked, feigning ignorance.


    "Men and women from the military, Secretary," Moreau said. "We need top-notch volunteers, those in peak mental and physical shape, and ones we can trust."


    "You want me to open my doors, is that it?"


    "Yes. We want the best specimens for the Program," Moreau affirmed. "Young people put their lives at risk for so much less, paying the price for the masses. This time, they get something in return, something miraculous."


    "If they survive," Lisbeth interjected.


    "High risk demands an immense reward, I can''t think of anything more worthwhile."


    "But they don''t know it''s an unproven procedure."


    "I understand your concerns, ma''am," Moreau acknowledged.


    "Beth." She smiled, her doubts still there, he could tell.


    Moreau continued, "Whatever adverse effects there may be, the volunteers will have the best medical treatment available for themselves and their families. The Program takes care of its own. Drexel has given his approval, too."


    "You''re selling the age-old snake oil -- immortality. Who wouldn''t pay for that?" Lisbeth said, studying the technocrat.


    "You''re wrong -- not immortality. Invincibility."


    "Semantics."


    "Not quite. Chop off their heads and the monkeys would die, but punch holes in their bodies and they would go on. And this resilience would breed a fearful confidence, like Achilles in battle."


    "You forget about his heel," Lisbeth said, her frown turning into a smile that tugged on his chest.


    "I''m impressed with the Director," Balkan said. "Aren''t you, Lisbeth?" His words had undertones Moreau picked up -- jealousy?


    The speakers overhead brought them back to the window.


    "Delta Sector -- ten percent successful bonding."


    "Start rehab. Run a system''s check and log her condition."


    "Open file on Subject 2506: First stage nano-grafting successful. Rejection observation to begin from baseline . . . at 1600 hours."


    "That''s the fourth subject to make it. Success numbers are going up." Moreau beamed, looking at the chimpanzee lying on the table.


    "Let''s see if she pulls through," Lisbeth said, unconvinced.


    A clang reverberated and shook Moreau from his memories and he realized he''d been waiting an hour. This isn''t like her.


    A pair of diners in warm attire appeared and sat near him.


    When Lisbeth arrived, at last, she scrutinized the surroundings before moving to his table, hard-soled footfalls echoing louder with each step.


    "Can we move to a quiet corner?" she insisted.


    Their waiter picked up the table and hefted it twenty yards away.


    "I hope you''d like this place," Moreau said, now alone with her.


    She barely acknowledged what he said.


    "We could go elsewhere." He aimed to please. "I know a quiet little tapas place, real cozy. And they got a room in the back." He winked.


    "Best we''re not seen in public together," Lisbeth said with an uncustomary chill that took him by surprise.


    "I know we agreed, but --"


    "Risky these days," she said in a half-whisper, her brows pinched together.


    Moreau sighed. "Okay then, I trust there''s a reason for your bad mood?"


    Lisbeth took a deep breath, looking ahead. "I''ll lay it on the table. Then you decide, darling."


    Her endearment came with a price, he sensed. "Decide what?"


    "They will shut down Carnivora."


    "Impossible -- " His voice edged higher. "Drexel wants it. The Feds want it. Nobody''s gonna stop it."


    "Balkan has ordered termination."


    Moreau offered a hint of a smile that didn''t appear in his eyes. "He can''t just close my program and fire my personnel. There''re significant investments and stakeholders involved."


    "You don''t understand, Ian, not fire. Terminate, as in six-feet under -- he means to bury those people in the video."


    Moreau shook his head, incredulous of the implication. "What? Cerberus? He wouldn''t dare."


    "Balkan could and he would." She looked away not meeting his eyes.


    Moreau slammed a fist on the table, rattling the glasses. "That''s my project! Hell will freeze before I let him kill it." He puffed his chest with desperate bravado. "I''ll call Regent Lazard myself and whip Balkan''s ass in line. See how a former Viceroy would do against a sitting GR. If he thinks he could mess -- "


    "You need to know," Lisbeth eked out her words, her voice cracking, "your TexPax Chairmark himself called Balkan this afternoon . . . Balkan will be nominated as the new POTUS this coming Conclave."


    Moreau fell back with his mouth open. His fingers unconsciously loosened his collar as a tightness gripped his chest, making it hard to breathe.


    "In return, Carnivora must go. Drexel insisted; Balkan is only carrying out his order."


    "Can''t be."


    "I was there. I heard everything." She reached out for his hand. "I''m sorry."


    He pulled back, jaw clenched.


    "What I''m telling you would get me twenty years to life. You should appreciate the risk I''m taking to warn you."


    "I won''t let it happen," he repeated, gritting his teeth, not hearing her. "This is my life''s work. Innocent lives are at stake."


    "Be sensible, please. Walk away. They won''t touch a man of your standing and importance . . . Unless you force them."


    "What, shut me down too?" His neck stretched toward her, veins plump, skin hot, a mad foreplay, just not the way he''d imagined this evening would go.


    "Like that." She snapped her fingers. "Turn you off like a light switch."


    He hurled resentment at her. She was part of this machine that had turned on him.


    She sat back calmly and eyed him -- all traces of warmth had evaporated. "You''re a smart man. So be smart. I came here to warn you. If you play hero, you''re on your own, Ian. I mean it."


    "Then I guess I''ll do it alone."


    "Do what?" she asked with a cold sneer.


    "I''ll take my project elsewhere."


    "Which biotech giant would listen? Avalon Genomics? MicroBioSys? They''re all under the PIP umbrella. They would never talk to you."


    "You''re thinking small." He cut at her. "There are four other fiefs to choose from on this continent, not to mention overseas patrons. I have options."


    "You have nothing." Her face went from apathy to a tight scowl. "You can''t take this route."


    "Why not?"


    "Think." She chuckled with contempt. "Any rival fief would regard you a turncoat or even a spy. Breaking your sworn Affiliate oath to a fief is a social death sentence in itself. TexPax will throw you to the feds who then label you a Disrepute, a pariah. But stealing Carnivora -- that makes you a criminal or even a terrorist. At best they''ll lock you up, Ian . . . Don''t try it."


    Moreau kept a somber attitude. "I take it you won''t help me?"


    "Abet you in intellectual larceny, espionage, and treason? I''m fond of our time together, but orange isn''t my color."


    Moreau shook his head, his mouth upturned. "Then I guess there''s nothing left to say."


    "That''s unfair." She reached out for his hand one last time. "You''re being headstrong and stupid."


    His smirk was awkward as he pulled away. "Maybe I am." The director got up and left the pop-up venture, leaving Lisbeth by herself.


    A minute later, a waitress who had loitered about filling water glasses, removed her apron and followed him out. She had a striking dragon tattoo on her neck.

 Book 1 - Chapter 14

    "Sir, you can''t go in there!" the young man behind the desk cried out as he leaped from his seat. He was a soldier in uniform. But Moreau didn''t care, nor did he stop.


    He flung open the oaken doors to Balkan''s office and barged in. "You''re not so high up that you can keep me out."


    The front desk soldier appeared at the door with armed security and surrounded Moreau.


    Balkan settled calmly into his chair.


    "Mr. Secretary, do you want us to remove him?"


    Moreau glared at Balkan, daring him to give the order to have him removed.


    Instead, Balkan waved his security off. At once, the guards backtracked and closed the door behind them, leaving the two men by themselves.


    "Very well, what can I do for you, Director?" Balkan clasped his hands together.


    "You think I wouldn''t know?" Moreau blurted.


    "Know what?" Balkan exhaled, annoyed.


    "You trying to shut my project down. Let me remind you, your custodial government didn''t fund it. This is proprietary intellectual property belonging to TexPax -- and I have its say."


    "Will you take a seat?" The Secretary offered with a sweep of his hand.


    "I don''t plan to joust with you, Balkan. I''ve filed a complaint with Dallas-Austin. No way you''re going to touch Carnivora. I spent my whole life on it and other people gave their lives for it."


    "I''m sorry, but it''s done."


    "Sorry?" Moreau scoffed. "This is a Tier-1 program we procured, and TexPax has spent billions in development. You don''t get to decide to close the doors, now that it''s operational with verified performance . . . and I don''t care what he told you. Until Drexel himself calls to tell me otherwise, you take your decision and ram it up your culo."


    "So you know my conversation with Drexel?" Balkan smirked. "Let me guess, a little bird told you?"


    Moreau clammed up, realizing he''d over-spoken.


    "Those lips will get her in hot water, I did tell her so." Balkan sighed.


    "Something this dastardly doesn''t stay under wraps for long."


    "No matter; the order stands. Please have all your materials prepared for transfer. We will mothball it for future development. At some later time, you will be allowed to resume the program -- but only if you behave. Now, if you don''t mind, I have a busy schedule." Balkan slid the holo-screen over and continued reading whilst ignoring Moreau.


    "I''m not finished, damn you." Moreau hissed with so much vehemence, the Secretary flinched.


    "You''re still here?"


    "Government does one thing best -- it drags on society." Moreau gnashed his teeth, taking a step forward. "It saps progress and feeds on the people it was supposed to protect. Not anymore. You, sir, and the desk you sit behind are anachronistic relics. We technologists are the fuel that allows humanity to soar and advance its unlimited evolution."The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.


    "Your point is?"


    "A former Viceroy turned second-rate Fednik administrator." Moreau sneered. "You''re marginalized."


    "Is that so?" Balkan chuckled.


    Moreau paused, flustered, and demanded, "Do I amuse you, sir?"


    "Let me tell you, Director Moreau. Big government may be a thing of the past but I still have the power to wage wars. You know how? The guns are with me. What do you have but your peacock bravado strutting around like you''re relevant. You''re a glorified laborer, Moreau, a railroad coolie thinking he''s the conductor. In reality, you''re an ant with delusions of grandeur, and I am the thumb."


    "I am a senior technical director and Affiliate member of TexPax!"


    "And I was a Viceroy." Balkan exhaled, losing patience. "The mandate did not originate from this office, Mr. Moreau. So go gripe elsewhere, if you don''t like what you hear."


    "Believe me, I will. In the meantime, I expect my facilities to remain open and untouched, until I get to the bottom of this."


    "The problem with expectation is that it is often dashed."


    "You haven''t heard the end of it, Balkan."


    "I''m sure I haven''t." The Secretary pulled the holo screen round in front of him again.


    Moreau turned to leave. He tried slamming the doors but the hinges were pneumatic. Irate beyond reason, he rushed past the reception desk red-faced.


    Heading back to Advance Research Laboratory complex in Arlington, all kinds of ideas sifted through Moreau''s mental filter. Regrets and self-accusations hammered him. He''d shown Balkan his hand and had betrayed Lisbeth. He cursed his impulsiveness and stupidity. How could he be so obtuse as to put her in jeopardy? How could he put things right and save his project too?


    Sweat beaded his brow as he concentrated on possible solutions to his quandary, ignoring the blurred urban landscape below.


    Balkan could not have acted by himself -- not without the proper by-your-leave. And the Oval Office had no reason to give one. No, the order to terminate Carnivora came from down south. The immutable fact stood out like a landslide blocking his path -- Dallas was behind the call, an implication he found hard to swallow. Deep down, he knew his efforts to overturn the decision would be futile. Mixed emotions tore at his ego and he found it difficult to breathe. Loosening his collar, Moreau wheezed from the onset of a panic attack, his mouth dry, throat parched. Anger replaced panic. Dallas-Austin, Chairmark Drexel, TexPax, they could all go to hell. They had used him and now brushed him aside. So why should he be different?


    He will deny them their wishes. The Director didn''t get to where he was by inaction. He had always bent the rules and cheated outcomes, re-postulated premises that didn''t fit into his formula. Why shouldn''t that work now?


    Always the gambler, he''d learned many lessons dealing with lady luck. If the cards turned cold, find a different table. The idea made his heart race. It could work, he convinced himself. And it will. He had value-add. His expertise and clout were sought after any House would be proud to include him in their registry. In this he was sure -- they would roll out the red carpet for someone of his stature. Piss on Balkan, Drexel and TexPax. Defection was the answer -- it would give him everything he wanted -- new autonomy, and a new slate. But timing was key -- and the right contact could make or break it.


    There was a man he once met at an Inter-Paramountcy Goodwill dinner and they''d hit it off. This individual was a close adviser to Devlin Augustine, Midland''s firebrand Regent. But how to reach him? You can''t just walk into a random Midland office and ask to see Harry DeWitt. First, no one would know who DeWitt was, and if they did would never take the request seriously; secondly -- if it were to happen, it can''t be anywhere around here. He would have to hop on a flight and get clear of the East Coast. In recent weeks, Moreau could feel eyes and ears trained on his back everywhere he went.


    Carnivora was his, he resolved. He''d built it from the ground up. He had as much ownership right as the check writers did, even more so. It was his legacy. And he would take his child with him and would protect her secrets from their groping hands. Again it came down to timing: how and when. One thing for sure -- the moment he transferred the petabyte of research data into his personal storage, the moment he locked out the system interface, they would be on him. He had a narrow window, so everything must be in place beforehand.


    Moreau''s stomach churned with worry.

 Book 1 - Chapter 15

    Not five days after the inquest, the call to muster went out. Team Cerberus filed into a cavernous hangar. They took up space between two mammoth dropships. Some sat on equipment crates, some on the floor as the team waited for the CO to appear.


    When Lang walked in, they attempted to stand half-heartedly at attention.


    "As you were," Lang said. A liter of the hard stuff dangled from his hand. He slammed the oversize bottle onto the desk.


    "Bad news?" Alex asked seeing the gallon jug.


    Lang nodded, facing the squad. "This unit is to be folded . . . effective immediately."


    A shocked silence settled in, then a series of anxious questions rushed at Lang.


    "Quiet!" Alex barked. "Let him speak."


    "That''s the decision," Lang said. "Cerberus just lost its qualification . . . and is pulled from active duty. I''m sorry."


    The shouting from the floor merged and echoed in the hangar, reaching riotous levels.


    Alex hollered at her men, "Shut up and listen."


    Lang paused until there was complete silence. "We don''t make policy here, gentlemen. We are its instruments. I have nothing else to say. Take time to talk among yourselves." He stepped back with arms crossed and head bowed.


    "Do we have any recourse, sir?" Someone asked.


    "You''ll have the chance to rejoin other units in circulation -- but you''ll be in non-critical functions and under a gag order not to reveal your background."


    A slew of angry reactions flew at him.


    "As rear-echelon pukes, cooks and shit burners?" a man called Grouper protested, his thick mouth jutting out like the fish, bearing teeth.


    "I didn''t go through all that pain to peel potatoes. Shove it up your ass," Sal, a big Italian howled.


    "Who decided this?" Alex demanded of Lang.


    "It came from the top," the besieged Lang replied, his answer empty.


    "Which top?" she said with disdain.


    "Does it matter?" Lang said. "It''s out of my hands."


    "We gonna let this happen?" Cox, another irate man rose from the floor.


    "We have to fight this all the way," Papa joined in.


    "Yeah," a chorus resounded.


    Warchild was reticent, sitting by himself.


    "I''m told you have until tomorrow to fold into other units or resign," Lang said. "Regardless, everyone must pack their things and leave quietly."


    "We want a review," Alex insisted. "Is JAG even aware?"


    "And what do we do then?" Papa said. "We have families, dammit, wife and kids. You can''t cut us loose like this."


    "Papa''s right, how in hell are we supposed to live, eh Cap''n?" Alex asked.


    Lang hung his head low, shame dragged on his posture.


    "Tell us this, Cap''n," Alex said. "Is there anyone who would defend us?"


    "You could try going through the channel to file a complaint. But I doubt the Judge Advocate will review it."


    "Cause we don''t exist, right?" Alex said.


    Lang didn''t need to reply.


    "Easier to get rid of garbage you don''t see." Warchild chuckled, a bitter grimace on his face.


    "Like I said, you could opt into another unit," Lang said.Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.


    "That''s an insult." Alex grabbed Lang''s jug and headed out. "After kicking us in the nuts, Cap''n."


    The men followed her out, one by one, disgust and anger etched on each man''s face.


    Team Cerberus commandeered three tables in the cafeteria. The kitchen was between shifts and empty. Papa went to the back, rummaged noisily and returned with two stacks of glasses.


    Alex poured and filled three rows of glasses.


    "Enjoy every bitter drop, boys," Alex said, starting a toast. "To Team Cerberus, a short stint however sweet."


    "To being shafted," Saul said.


    Each man picked up his glass and raised it.


    Alex offered, "It was an honor serving with you." She emptied the glass in one gulp and poured another.


    "Fucking-A!" Nineteen voices chorused as one, shots downed as one, and slapped down as one.


    Anger boiled seeking someone to burn.


    "Wouldn''t be in this mess if Warchild hadn''t shot that girl." A gripe surfaced among the bitterness being aired.


    "What?" Warchild bristled with affront, spinning to face Cox. "Well, begging your pardon, what was the fuckin order?" His eyes wet with fury. "No one left alive, that''s how I remember it. Cold-blooded killing is our business, asshole. There''s no second-guessing and no place for bleeding hearts. Or find another job." His ire flashed at Alex who was uncommonly quiet, looking away.


    "Take it easy, Warchild," Papa said. "We''re all in this together."


    "Then nobody better be telling me I did something wrong." Warchild snarled at all their faces.


    "The fact is someone leaked the feed, that''s what started all this," Rotter hissed, gulping a glassful of moonshine as if it were fruit juice. "And he should come clean." He hurled his glass against the wall, shattering it into a thousand shards. Several others felt the same way, mumbling threats.


    "You mean -- she." Warchild gave Alex an icy stare.


    "You have something to say to me?" Alex said, at last, squaring her shoulders to him.


    He shrugged, a bitter grimace lingered on his lips.


    Alex said, "You''ve been looking at me funny ever since. I bet you told the feds that, didn''t you?"


    "What feds?" Papa asked. "What are you talking about?"


    "We had visits from Bureau people," T-Bone told them. "Me, Warchild, and Marlboro Red."


    "About what?"


    "Fishing about the leak," Alex said.


    "So, what came out of it?" Saul asked.


    "They found dirt, haven''t they? Else how come they wind us down, right?" Rotter carped.


    "I don''t like your tone, mister," Alex warned.


    "The feds are sure of one thing -- one of us did it." Warchild spat. "Way I see it, three people in that room -- T-Bone had no cause to spill dirt. And sure as hell, it ain''t me. So, who''s left?"


    "Hey, fuck you, Mars," Alex exploded.


    "All I know is I''m out of a job and I got mouths to feed," Papa muttered, more to himself.


    "We got a bigger problem," Alex said. "If they cut us loose, how do we get our monthly serum refills, you think of that?"


    The group went quiet.


    The same thought and anxiety passed over every man''s face. Then the finger-pointing restarted: "Somebody said something they shouldn''t."


    "Yeah."


    Accusing eyes glared at Alex.


    "You morons think I did it. You think I leaked my own feed? Cause I didn''t want to kill a girl, is that it? I''ve broken men''s bones, left the trenches wet with guts and brains. But I''d never hurt little girls."


    "No surprise there," Warchild answered with a cruel chuckle. "Cause you prefer to eat them, right?"


    She didn''t miss a beat. "I heard your wife ain''t happy with your limp dick. She might like a good rug munching for a change."


    "Let''s all calm down," Papa said, stepping in. "We''re all amped up this minute."


    "Now we know why combat shouldn''t be led by estrogen," Warchild continued to push. "Too much sense and sensibilities."


    "You want to take a shot at me, Mars, try it on for size." Alex held her arms wide, beckoning him.


    "Considering insubordination don''t matter no more, I''ll take ya," Warchild said, putting down his glass and licked his lips. They came face to face, noses inches apart. Then she shoved him. He lunged suddenly and grabbed Alex by the collar, twisting her toward the ground.


    She spun and broke free from his grasp.


    The enhanced combat trigger kicked into gear. The others leaped up, pulled the tables apart to give them space. A makeshift ring formed.


    Matching size and strength, the pair circled in a low fighting stance, their mutual enmity long overdue to manifest into a physical resolve.


    She lunged with one arm, going for a leg grab. Warchild swung out with his right elbow, connecting against her temple. The blow staggered her, weakening her knees. He dove in fast and head-butted her on the bridge of her nose.


    Stars exploded in her eyes. She fell back holding her face, blood gushing from her nostrils. Shouts of encouragement for her washed over while others howled for Warchild to finish her.


    Seeing victory, he moved in for the coup de grace.


    At the right moment, Alex dropped to one knee and delivered a crushing blow to his crotch. Warchild fell to the ground clutching his testicles, curled up in a fetal position, coughing in spurts. Luckily, all the liquid metal had been drained from every Cerberus when they returned, or else this fight could have ended in the goriest way. She was sure Warchild would have used it, if his reservoirs were filled. Which meant she would have too.


    Blood and mucus streaming down her chin, Alex stood over the crumpled mass, triumphant. She bent down and lifted his chin, then snorted like a bull, "Estrogen got no use for balls." And slapped his head back down. She stepped over him like unwanted trash and left the gathering.


    "All right, break it up." Big Papa Smurf shouted at the others to disperse. "I said, stand the fuck down everyone!"


    Rotter helped Warchild to his feet, undamaged but for his ego. The latter straightened his clothes, indignity on his face toward the others. "You go ahead and think what you like, I''m through with all this bullshit. I''m out. Y''all can piss off." He shrugged Rotter off and stomped away.


    Team Cerberus splintered and headed off.

 Book 1 - Chapter 16

    "I found it -- Huckleberry Finn, first edition." Harry DeWitt perused the private collection in the study of a Caribou Island estate.  He had heard of its richness, but never had the chance to explore Her Excellency''s library in full, until now.


    Caribou Island lay at the eastern end of Lake Superior, twenty-five miles south of Michipicoten Island, a stone''s throw from the Canadian border.  Overlooking crystal clear waters, a two-story cabin of glass and wood nestled among tall pines on a hundred-acre island property that sloped toward the crystal-clear lapping water.  Past the shoreline, a private dock moored a catamaran yacht and a motored skiff.  A flattened courtyard doubled as a wide heli-platform which could accommodate two heavy helicopters or half a dozen personal aerial vehicles.


    "You can borrow it," said the handsome matron, seated legs crossed in a high-back chair near the fire.  A crystal snifter of dark amber brandy warmed her hands.  The late afternoon sky was sinking into a dark blue band, bringing in a deep chill.  Winter had arrived early.


    A purring fire crackled in the hearth underneath a striking wall arrangement made up of 18th Century flintlocks.  Modeled after European splendor, the study carried among its curious items a set of English and French armor used at the battle of Agincourt, Napoleonic furniture and a Raphael Madonna and Child.  Overhead, a catwalk reached the second level bookcases under a vaulted ceiling of over forty feet in height.


    Three people occupied the mahogany study in this corner of the estate.


    Devlin Augustine sported a recognizable trademark hard to dismiss -- her platinum coif, hence her nickname, both a ridicule and one of respect -- the Snow Owl, a wise and deadly predator.  Her adviser, Harry, was a different creature, lower on the rung, more like a crow finding snails to peck.  Crows were crafty and smart.


    The third man sitting across Augustine was an unknown quantity to her.


    She watched him with care, never taking her eyes off him.


    "Impressive library you have."  The visitor, Ian Moreau, made small talk, waiting for his chaperon to come down and smooth things out.  Harry had brought him here.


    "The collection has been in my family for three generations," Augustine said.


    "Magnificent European decor, your Excellency."  Moreau was effusive, gauging the splendor.  "Some people may have great wealth but no account for culture or taste, slapping gold on everything they see, even toilet seats.  How gauche."


    Augustine strained to smile.


    Moreau waved a hand.  "And the island too, c''est incroyable.  Wise to be in Canada -- less scrutiny."


    "Polite, Ian," Harry said in jest, joining the pair at ground level.  "You are addressing the Honorable Augustine.  Don''t make me look bad bringing a ruffian here."


    He laughed.  Augustine didn''t.  The pleasantries were one-sided.


    "My apologies if I came across as churlish," Moreau said.  "I''m used to certain liberties granted me in TexPax."


    "So, what can I do for you, Mr. Moreau?" Augustine said, getting down to business.  "Harry insisted that I should listen, so I''m curious."


    Moreau opened, "I came here in good faith -- because our agendas are aligned."


    "You presume to share an interest with me?" she said, clasping her hands together and resting them on one knee.  "Do tell."


    "You know my background, Your Honor and the work I do for National Defense."


    "Harry has briefed me," she said without emotion.


    "I''m Technical Director of TexPax-Yokohama''s Biotech Division.  Carnivora 8, our marquee project had been approved for distribution."


    "Had been?"


    He looked pained.  "I''m here to offer it to you."


    "And why would we be interested in something so proprietary, knowing it would worsen an already sticky situation with TexPax?"


    "This is a breakthrough in genomics you cannot afford to ignore."


    "Which you''ll offer to us for a considerable sum, no doubt."


    "That . . . and asylum in Midland with full Affiliate status.  Once I commit to this, I would be persona non grata everywhere else."The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.


    "I''d say that will be the least of your worries, Mr. Moreau.  They would charge you with federal theft for crossing fief lines.  We couldn''t give shelter to a fugitive fleeing from federal prosecution, can we?"


    "You see my dilemma then."


    "I see more than that.  You''ve brought me a poison pill, Harry," Augustine said giving Harry a frown.


    "With my help, Your Honor," Moreau continued undeterred, "you''d leapfrog years ahead over your rivals in myogenesis R&D."


    "And how would your fief feel about that?  You overlook many things, Mr. Moreau -- TexPax is the current PIP.  We don''t need Fednik agents breathing down on us.  Talk to me when they''re out of the Oval Office."


    Moreau settled into his chair and sighed.  "You remind me of a cartoon I once saw, Your Excellency, a knight about to go into battle with a sword while refusing a merchant trying to sell him a machine gun."


    "Are you calling me a cartoon, Mr. Moreau?" Augustine said with one eyebrow raised, her neck discolored to a shade of red.


    "Nothing of the kind, madam."  Moreau backtracked.  "Forgive my choice of words but I''m desperate to present to you a primum vultus -- the first look.  You can''t afford not to."


    "So says the salesman," she scoffed.


    "Your Honor," Harry interceded gently, "an open mind, you promised."


    "Go on."  Augustine exhaled, rolling her eyes at Harry DeWitt for a waste of her evening.  "Tell me why I should care.  From what I hear, it''s another generic gene project with vanilla results -- like your other projects.  The market is awash in bio-replacement parts, synthetic plasma, gene doping, and printed organs.  Your work is superfluous and redundant."


    Moreau''s face flushed but he managed to control his tone.  "Do you know each time a body undergoes replacement, it gets a little weaker.  Something is always off.  Eventually, even the richest of people like yourself, who could afford to replace decrepit organs indefinitely, will succumb to necrosis."


    "The indignity."


    "But true."


    "Scare tactics.  There are Methuselahs over a hundred fifty years old."


    "With an army of medical staff working to prop them up.  I offer you a better way, a cheaper way."


    "Cheaper," Augustine snarled her words.  "Now you think we are misers?"


    "Please," Harry said, coming in between, urging him to finish.  "Go on, Ian."


    "Imagine a car," Moreau continued.  "The more mileage you run, the better it gets and the longer it lasts, we call this process sustained-genesis."


    She set her snifter down.  "Is this what you told the Fedniks when you sold them your snake oil program?"  Moreau''s mouth twisted the more she continued.  "By next week, there''s another program with another fancy name that''s just a derivative of the previous."


    "Most inventions begin from military necessity," Moreau said, fighting to keep his composure.  "In applying myogenetic therapy to enhance soldiers'' musculature, we stumbled upon very rare recombinant nanites whose replicating stability outlast previous models and offer great possibilities."


    "English," Harry said, approaching the hearth to warm his hands.


    "The subjects had no signs of instability or degeneration, provided the patient takes autoimmune suppressant serums."


    "Otherwise?"


    Moreau grinned.  "That''s one drawback.  We can perfect it -- if your fief sponsors my work and offer protection to my project and my staff."


    "Why did they pull your project, Mr. Moreau, if it is so promising?"


    Moreau sighed.  "I offer you this technology on a silver platter -- terabytes of trial data, proforma tests, the baseline package you could replicate and further the study, something you''d never hope to have without me."


    "My question remains," Augustine demanded.  "Why did they shut you down?"


    "Caracas," Moreau uttered with reluctance.  "My guys were the ones there."


    Augustine guffawed, astonished at the absurd truth.  "Then it''s true.  The White House was complicit.  They lied about using observers when in reality, they''re human weapons."  She pondered for a moment.  "Which means your Program has gone beyond mere trials.  It''s fully operational, yes?"


    "My project is to be purged.  This latest generation is the best specimen I''ve come across."


    "Specimen?"  She raised one eyebrow.  "Are you Darwin or Frankenstein?  People are not specimens, Mr. Moreau."


    "Of course not, Your Honor."  He winced at the sting.


    "This is worth examining, ma''am," Harry urged her.


    "And if I decline your offer?"  Augustine said.


    "Then I take my proposal to Pacifica or Gulf-Con or EEL, or any international economic fief.  There are plenty of takers, I''d think.  Even the Chinese would want to hear about Carnivora."


    "Why do we deserve this dubious generosity, I wonder?"


    "Because you have the greatest need.  It''s an easy sell."


    She chortled at his bravado.


    "Let me put it another way -- can you afford not to have the technology once TexPax assumes it and claims it proprietary, Your Excellency?"


    "All right, you''ve piqued my interest, Mr. Moreau," she said at first.  The technocrat delighted with a broad smile.  "But not in this terrible project of yours."


    Moreau blinked rapidly, his posture slumped as if some puppeteer had cut the strings that held him up.  He wasn''t the only one confused.  DeWitt sighed, stymied, not knowing where the Regent was going with this.  Was this a tactical counter or a flat rejection?


    "Left as it is, TexPax will sit in the Executive chair for another four years," she explained.  "I need to upset that prospect anyway I can . . . So, Mr. Moreau, I am very interested in one thing of value tonight -- your knowledge of Caracas.  Testify publicly and you''ll have our protection.  No one could accuse you of being a thief then, or us of harboring one."


    "And in the meantime, you acquire my project without any skin in the game."  He flashed Harry a displeased look.  "You told me she would be sensible."


    She shrugged.  "As you wish."


    "Let''s not be rash," Harry said.  "There is a way we could kill two birds.  Your Honor, may I?"


    Augustine motioned her adviser to approach.  He bent down and whispered into her ear.  She glanced up at him, then nodded.  Harry straightened up.


    "Well, do we have a deal?" Moreau asked, disliking being kept out.


    "This meeting is over," Harry said.  Before Moreau could mouth another word.  "We cannot accept your offer in its current form.  I will fill you in on your return."


    "Good luck to you, Mr. Moreau," Augustine said with a polite smile.  "Hope we see you again."


    Moreau stood up.  He glanced at Harry, expecting some answer but bowed his head and settled with, "Your Excellency."

 Book 1 - Chapter 16

    Harry walked Moreau out to the landing platform overlooking the frigid dark waters.


    "What just happened?" Moreau demanded once they were outside. "The deal''s dead?"


    Harry nodded. "Not dead, but new terms."


    The pair climbed into a PAV and powered up as ground crews pulled away wheel blocks. Flight time to Chicago at the aeroflyer''s cruise speed of 250 mph was one hour twenty.


    The men left flight controls for the Nav-AI. On-board computers-initiated lift-off; radar and LIDAR ranged out, the altimeter and speed counter both showing ascending numbers. Once the craft crossed the US-Canadian border over Lake Superior, the men talked openly.


    "My offer is legitimate and in good faith," Moreau said, agitated. "You assured me she''d be receptive. Instead, I put up with her obtuseness -- and arrogance. I don''t care who she is or how much she''s worth."


    "The lady''s more astute than you think. She saw it for what it is -- fraught with risk. Conclave is at stake, a bad time for pulling any wild moves."


    "So now what? I stuck my neck out coming to you."


    "You stuck your neck out for your own skin and a fortune -- don''t confuse yourself." Harry gave him an icy stare-down. "Look, I''ll make it work but you gotta step up."Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.


    "Maybe I should be talking to someone else up the chain?"


    "I have her ears -- and she has Carlyle''s, Midland''s Chairmark himself," Harry said. "And between them, there are layers of gatekeepers like me without whom you could never hope to approach. So forget about circumventing me. You sounded stupid and small with that bluff."


    Moreau kept quiet.


    "Go public on Caracas."


    Moreau looked with alarm. "You can''t mean it. That''s suicide."


    "You''ll have the protection you asked for, you have my word."


    "I handed you my work, my soul, and you refused." Moreau grimaced. "I''m not confident about the integrity of your word, DeWitt."


    "At this moment, taking Carnivora is like stealing the Mona Lisa. We can''t show it, can''t resell it, and if the word gets out, we''re done."


    "This isn''t theft, I paid for it with sweat and tears."


    "Don''t be na?ve." Harry chuckled slightly, trying not to goad his passenger. "Your bosses had it measured, packaged and ready to ship before you even conceived it. It''s not yours. Never was."


    "Then I have nothing, you''re telling me," Moreau stammered.


    "Yes, you have. You''re in the position to do real good."


    "Or damage. I''m stupid for trusting you."


    "You said you want out with a sweet package. Then go public."


    "Out of the question."


    "Take the final step and cross over. Once under our wings, you could continue your project to your heart''s content. By then we''d have a new PIP, and no one would question how Carnivora surfaced in Midland. Understand? This is the only way."


    "Going public will get me killed," Moreau said.


    "And defecting with a capital project won''t? Oh, grow a spine, Ian. Or go begging elsewhere. Let''s see how far you get before someone jails you for treasonous espionage."

 Book 1 - Chapter 17

    Nearing six in the morning, a gray government helicopter alighted on the South LZ of the North American Military Command Center, aka Pentagon. One man disembarked. The horizon was no longer dark blue, but fast becoming orange as dawn approached, casting a carmine wash on the sand-colored surface of this immense building.


    A woman waited for him in the enclosed reception lounge yards from the platform.


    "Milo Lockheart, I presume?" she greeted him, half-smiling and extending her hand.


    "You are?" The newcomer asked, eyeballing her in a smart red suit.


    "I''m Lisbeth Hunt, Defense Undersecretary. I work with Victor Balkan."


    "An undersecretary here to meet me? I''m flattered." His voice was scratchy and guttural. A faint scar from the left cheek ran across his larynx disappearing under his turtleneck.


    "The Secretary asked me to greet you personally, Mr. Lockheart. Your trip okay?"


    "Coach," he answered with a demanding face. "Would rather have Business Class at the very least."


    Lisbeth managed a labored smile, one he sensed masked her dislike of him. No, it was more than an unpleasantness. She had read his file, obviously. It was fear, he saw, like an ephemeral yellow wisp that seeped from her pores. He knew that emotion only too well from those unfortunate enough to receive his attention.


    "Any idea why I''m here?"


    "Why don''t we save that for the Secretary," Lisbeth said.


    "I prefer to be direct." He stopped and locked eyes with her. "Why am I here?"


    She halted. "You honestly don''t know?"


    "I wouldn''t ask."


    "Your name was on top of a very short list, seen by the right people," Lisbeth said.


    "To do what?"


    "Sanitation." She showed him her back and resumed walking.


    "That a joke? I''m not laughing."


    "Neither am I," she said over her shoulder.


    The pair entered a city-sized corridor that followed one of the Pentagon''s rings. At this hour, the corridors were sparse. By seven-thirty, these hallways would be awash in contractors, technicians, and military personnel, weaving in and out to avoid colliding with incoming bodies and fleets of scooters that zipped around at three miles per hour.


    He trailed her, giving him a chance to peruse her undulating behind. She wore an activity tracker on one wrist. No doubt a runner. She had long tanned legs poking from a tight skirt, bosom not too large on an athletic frame. Her short blond boy cut was smart. He could tell she was curious too, stealing glances at him, though not from any sexual interest, more like keeping an eye on a croc. He was used to people''s revulsion.


    His heart beat faster with every step, unsure of which emotions had gripped him -- only that they were intoxicating. The building buzzed with power. He missed this rush. Time he returned from the wilderness.


    "Someone will come for you when we''re ready," she said, dropped him off like a schoolboy to wait in the antechamber of the Secretary''s office while she entered through the doors.


    After more than an hour staring at the same marbled walls, a uniformed adjutant rose from his desk to retrieve him.


    "If you''re ready, sir, you may enter and see him."


    "Bout time," he mumbled under his breath.


    When he passed the oaken doors, it surprised Lockheart that the Secretary had an attending physician taking care of him. And a third person he''d almost missed, sitting on the far couch, her legs crossed, her skirt hiked up near mid-thigh. Lisbeth Hunt sat in the back, her eyes moving between the entrant and her hand terminal.


    "It''s just going to be a pinch," the doctor forewarned, then plunged the needle into Balkan''s lower biceps.


    "We done after this?" Balkan said after the injection.


    "Your blood pressure''s alarming, sir. You need to reduce or delegate your workload. At this pace --"


    "You may go," Balkan dismissed the white-coated physician with a wave.


    "May I present Milo Lockheart," Lisbeth announced once the doctor had left, but she stayed seated at the far end.


    "You''ve met Undersecretary Hunt," Balkan said to the entrant.


    "I have," Lockheart said, glancing at her over his shoulder.


    Lisbeth acknowledged him with a slight nod but made no move to rise.


    Balkan waved him to the single chair in front of his shiny desk. "Please sit." Lockheart took the hot seat. "Sorry to keep you waiting," the Secretary said, "but to quote Frost, ''The woods are lovely, dark and deep; but I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep.'' How we yearn for the little sleep, eh?"


    "I''m a light sleeper," Lockheart replied with disinterest, aware the man behind the desk was studying him.Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.


    "Someone in your profession would have to be," Balkan replied and motioned to Lisbeth, "Give me a second."


    Lisbeth got up, approached, and placed the clear PAD on the desk. The Secretary ratified a document with a thumbprint signature.


    This pause gave the visitor a chance to take in his surroundings. A bluish neon wash gave the spacious office a chilly composure. Sectional sofas occupied the reception area under the picture of the President in a gilded frame flanked by two equal-height flags -- the Stars & Stripes and the icon banner of TexPax. The two flags said much about Balkan''s power base and his loyalty.


    "Stay on call," Balkan said. "I will need you, Beth."


    "As you wish," she replied, her tone chilly, and exited the room while Balkan''s eyes trailed after her. It was a show of ownership, Lockheart hadn''t missed. As a lion peed to mark his turf, Balkan had done so with just a look. They were probably lovers or had been, Lockheart gathered. The message to mind your position was unmistakable.


    "Do you use these damn eyepieces?" Balkan asked, fingering a Lens he had removed now that they were alone.


    "Everyone uses the Mark 3s. It''s a standard ocular setup."


    "I hate them. Gives me a migraine . . . I prefer hand terminals." He pulled the PAD toward him and perused it for a time. "I see you were drummed out of the Agency."


    "I was."


    "For questionable moral behavior?"


    "A misunderstanding."


    "And subcontracting work isn''t stable?"


    "I make do. Where''re you going with this, sir?" Lockheart said without decorum.


    "Director Oliver chose you for a reason."


    A heavy pause passed between them.


    "And what reason may that be? No one has told me anything."


    "He spoke highly of you, said you''re a rare find. Are you?" Balkan paused.


    "Depends on what needs doing."


    Balkan smirked. "I read your file. I know the man you are." Again, he stared at the wireless tablet. "I have a difficult task in mind. This administration is a ship of fools, and I am its first mate. Rocks to our left, whirlpools to our right." Balkan stared deeply at Lockheart. "But the biggest danger -- is image." Balkan sat back and rested his hands on his knees. "We can''t afford the negative publicity. It threatens to destabilize this administration and its stakeholders. You follow the news?"


    "Sure, which one? Lots of trouble out there."


    "Two men, one woman."


    Lockheart narrowed his eyes. "Caracas rats bothering you, so you called the exterminator?"


    "They''re part of something you don''t need to know," Balkan said.


    "Ah, but this is an internal matter, am I right?" Lockheart sized up the situation in a heartbeat.


    Balkan slid the PAD to him. The latter double-tapped to open the digital folder. Top Secret stencils flashed over the screen, giving him no uncertainty about the depth of secrecy he was getting.


    "I don''t see a need for my being here. Take care of this yourself through legal means. Hell, you can throw them in the deep slam even and no one would know."


    "Not so clean or easy. And while they''re out there, the albatross is tightening around this administration''s neck. It''s better if there''s no trace for anyone to find."


    "Hold it. All nineteen?"


    "Is that a problem?"


    "We''re not talking Bush League here. You''re hunting sable-tooth tigers."


    "That''s right," Balkan said. "Your performance record in Kiev showed me you have a penchant for these things. You helped the Ukrainians purge their Cossack terror gangs, no?"


    Lockheart shrugged, his eyes never leaving the faces of those in the hand terminal. "Those were amateurs amped on bioware shock. These people here are a different breed."


    "Oh, you only know half of it, Lockheart."


    Lockheart made a constipated face. "Meaning?"


    "They''re enhanced, made hard to kill -- that''s all I will say."


    "Then Mr. Secretary, my advice -- cut your losses. Work out a deal with them. Send them to Bora Bora for a year and tell them to lay low."


    "They''re not the only problem and walking away isn''t an option." Balkan cocked his head.


    "What makes you think I can pull this off, ghost nineteen super-soldiers trained in tactical pursuit?"


    "You''ll have access to their specs. You''ll know their strengths and weaknesses and how to take them down. Best of all, you''ll know where they are at all times because you''ll have their RFID locators. Tiger-tiger, burning bright, even they can''t hide from immortal hands and eyes."


    Lockheart shook his head. "I can''t guarantee a clean success, not against this caliber." He shut the file and looked up.


    "You have our Treasury at your beck and call. Ask."


    "Okay, I''d need more than a slap on the back -- ''good job Sonny Jim,''" Lockheart clasped his hands to his chest. "I figure, Mr. Secretary, anyone who takes this job is facing his swan song. If it doesn''t kill me, with this body count, my rep''s toast. So, I want guarantees for my retirement, so to speak."


    "Name it."


    "What does everybody want these days -- easy street. What I mean is membership in a fief. And since yours is TexPax . . . Well, you know what I want. And a generous salary thereafter. Not extravagant, enough to validate my value."


    "Fief admission is done by committee. I don''t control that."


    "But you can put in a good word to your chums who will bend over trying to please you, yes?"


    Balkan gave him a raised eyebrow. "Well, that depends on the results, wouldn''t it?"


    "Kiev speaks to my work." Lockheart curled an eerie grin. "But Kiev was a different arena. I had no interference from the locals."


    "And you''ll have none here too."


    "Total freedom?" Lockheart said and smiled. "Okay, we''re getting warmer."


    "Our troubles go deep; our needs are expedient. That''s why you''re here."


    "I''d want immunity from prosecution. Knowing how fickle powerful people are, one day I''m your favorite pet Rottweiler, the next my guts are hanging out to dry."


    "Anything else?"


    "Third condition -- I use my own people."


    "I created the Special Security Service, as you know. My Praetorians are very capable. You don''t need anyone else."


    "I''m fickle about loyalty," Lockheart said. "This is non-negotiable." He tapped his hand terminal and swiped it over to the Secretary.


    Balkan swiped open the floating file. He read the first name. "Johann Casper, aka Ghost -- Disavowed," he opened the next dossier, "Angela Snyder, aka Harpy -- Disavowed and Wanted for Murder . . . You have a dozen names here on the Black List."


    "I want them reinstated and placed under my care."


    Lockheart held a long and determined stare. Both men knew this was a deal-breaker moment.


    "They''re your responsibility," Balkan caved.


    "Good. Which brings me to the last item -- a blank check. We need cash to go shopping for boys and toys." He winked.


    "We''ve funded a Cayman account for your use." Balkan exhaled. "Fifty million good?"


    "For starters. Since we''re hunting apex feeders, the take-downs have to be simultaneous. If one of them slips through, the whole thing''s over. So I will need great resources at my disposal -- land, sea, and air."


    "You will be given the necessary credentials and authority."


    Lockheart then wagged his index finger at the man behind the desk. "But membership, Mr. Secretary, has its privileges. Don''t forget."


    "Then make your bones, Lockheart. And I''ll do whatever I can. But I want results."


    Lockheart slapped his thighs. "This was fruitful and a pleasure." He rose.


    "Not yet," Balkan said, pushing the terminal back across the desk to Lockheart. "There''s one more name in there. He''s a thief. But be very discreet with him -- we''d prefer it to look like an accident."


    "Easy enough."


    "One more thing," Balkan said, his dark eyes unblinking. "We need you to bring back something of his. A very important item."


    "Whatever you want, consider it done."


    "Take the PAD with you. Destroy it after you''ve studied the profiles."

 Book 1 - Chapter 18

    The Grand Excelsior was well-known for its reputation.  The luxury hotel surpassed its peers in two things: taste and discretion.  For decades, diplomatic elites and top-tier lawmakers would often rendezvous there with their mistresses and their security details in tow.


    And not only did the business of pleasure go on under its auspices with tasteful discretion.  Spying, too.  It wouldn''t be out of place to see a Nehru-wearing Pakistani trade delegate meeting with a Sino cultural attach¨¦ in a quiet corner sipping sparkling Mimosas and chatting about the weather.  The Grand Excelsior was holy ground, all parties understood and abided by its rules.  And the five-star hotel did its part to keep the peace, sweeping their dining halls and rooms of listening devices daily, ensuring that no client had an advantage over the other.  Outside this unusual mediation, the Grand Excelsior boasted an exquisite brunch menu for the discerning and affluent.


    Porsche had come here to meet a discreet gentleman.  For this occasion, she arrived wearing a full-length red Obscura cloak over a black mini sweater dress and knee-high boots.  The sharp outfit blended well among the flock of beautiful gazelles roaming here.  Many observers would mistake her for a high-priced flesh peddler.  And they would be half-right.  She was a pro, not in the oldest profession but just as old.  The cloaked kind.


    Porsche walked past the long elegant lobby to the fine dining restaurant farther back.  She faced the door steward who held a silver plate out to her.


    "Good afternoon," the youth said and looked her up and down.  "Would you deposit all telephones and gadgets here?"


    She did as told, removing her aural bud and hand terminal.


    "May I see inside the cloak?  We have a strict hotel policy -- no recording devices in the main dining hall."


    Though the enclosure was ringed with metal detectors to snoop out hidden com devices or weapons, the young man also scanned for metallurgical pings through his implanted ocular.  An EM dampening field also ensured no signals ever got out from the dining enclave.  Outside this corner, however, communication was unhindered -- the back bar, the grand marbled lobby.  Just not inside the haute cuisine establishment.  Porsche obliged to his demands by removing her hooded coat and pirouetted playfully.


    "Anything more," she toyed with him, smiling, "and I will have to charge you."


    She sensed his probing eyes and blew him a puckered kiss.  The young man found nothing, even missed the weapon she carried, her signature weapon, not without a deliberate search.  You''d lose more than a finger if you''re not careful . . . she exuded a warning.  He would keep a professional distance.


    The young man spoke into the body mike on his lapel.


    A gruff reply came back she couldn''t discern.  He waved her in.


    "Thank you, handsome," she purred as he stepped aside, his eyes trailing her.


    The hotel restaurant had enough space for twenty fine dining tables.  They faced an open kitchen with chefs and staff manning a sizzling fire.   Steam rose from the grills against the back walls--smoked lambs, oyster bisque, and Filet Mignon sauteed over port wine, she could pick out the ingredients from the aroma, her stomach yanking on her.


    She spotted her contact sitting against the wall facing the entrance.


    "Would you mind switching seats?"  Porsche said.


    "Of course."


    "Sorry, it''s an old habit."


    "I understand," Harry said.  "You can''t be too careful these days."


    Harry and she swapped positions, Porsche getting the view she wanted of the front entrance.


    Her old mentor had aged since she last saw him, yet his appearance was still a guess, somewhere between early fifties and mid-sixties, unremarkable except for his aquiline Gallic nose and dark beady eyes.  To her, Harry DeWitt remained an enigma from the day she met him.  He had been an old warrior in the intelligence community with decades of experience spanning from one crisis to another and had been instrumental in solving many impasses unknown to the world.  You''re never more than three feet from a spider, the saying went; DeWitt would pop up when least expected and always well informed with a solution.  One thing hadn''t changed -- Harry DeWitt was omniscient.  He knew she''d returned stateside.  Outside the Agency pukes, no one else did.  The old crow was still in the game, obviously.  Too dumb to retire, yet too wise to think he was still an operator.  But he wanted something.


    "Champagne?" Harry asked.  "For a reunion."


    "Double espresso, please.  Clears the cobwebs."


    Harry made a show of two fingers to the man in the kitchen, and ordered in Italian, "Due doppie."


    A white-jacketed waiter brought forth a tray of two demitasses.  He passed one to Porsche.  Harry stirred in brown coarse sugar.  Porsche left hers alone, still eyeing the room.


    Harry sipped the steamy beverage and closed his eyes.  He spoke after placing his cup on the saucer, "Welcome home, kid."


    "Black sheep aren''t welcomed.  I''m penned into a new corral, a gray four-by-four cubicle pushing buttons."


    "Well then, how can I cheer you up, Napoleon pastry, fruit tart?"


    "I''m no little girl and anger has a way of suppressing appetite," she lied.Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.


    "Don''t be like that.  The best things in life are the simplest, my dear.  Enjoy them, you might be dead tomorrow."


    "Uh-huh."


    "You know what I left behind along with the Agency?  The past.  The future, too.  All doubts, all questions, all beliefs.  It''s so simple, really."  He sighed.  "Once you see the truth -- nothing is holy -- one minute ''thank you for serving'' and the next you get a boot in the ass."


    "You''ve been in the game for too long."  She looked away, her gaze distant.  "You''re jaded . . . So am I."


    "When you get to my age, imagine how you''d be?"


    "Thin, Harry, like strung-out gum.  I don''t remember why I signed up anymore."


    "Happens to the best of us, my dear."  He brought the demitasse to his lips.


    She didn''t answer.


    "You and I have no room for sentimentality.  You need sex, rent it, a friend, pet a dog.  But never buy the cow.  Never fall in love with something or someone."


    "You taught me well," Porsche said.  "Thanks for the bleak existence."


    "It kept you alive, didn''t it?  Because of me, you could weather anything thrown at you.  I''d say you owe me."


    "Frankly, I haven''t thought much of you for some time."


    "Children and their ingratitude."  He didn''t miss a beat.


    DeWitt had recruited her from Eastern Europe at thirteen, too young by most standards.  As a teen, she was accustomed to a life of danger, her childhood a painful secret she held, hidden like an ugly scar she wanted no one to see.  She was hardened and wise beyond her years, how Harry had found her.


    Porsche sipped the hot espresso.  When she looked up, she found him watching her.  Without flinching, she said, "So why are we here?  What do you want, Uncle?" She had always used that name.


    "Bloody mess down there."


    She shrugged.  "Caracas-Gate they''re calling it."


    "They''re burning the poison tree," Harry said.  "A fire such as this will burn everything it touches.  You watch your back."


    "You know something?"  She eyed him, her head cocking to the side.


    He lowered his demitasse.  "I hear things."


    "Or nothing at all."  She blew a puff of air from her lips, now reverted to their natural heart shape since she stopped using epidermal morphing agents to change her appearance.  "Don''t try to scare me into one of your games," she said.


    "You''re persona non-grata in South America, true or not?"


    She didn''t answer.


    "But where the door''s closed, there are windows."


    "That''s what I love about you, Uncle, always the shitty optimist," Porsche smirked with a tinge of disrespect.


    "You''re an excellent mechanic, one of the best.  That hasn''t gone unnoticed, dear girl."


    "Glad somebody appreciates me."


    "But don''t get too comfortable, never in our business."


    This caused Porsche to chuckle.  "That''s why you got out?"


    "Players come and go but the game remains."  He stared at her.


    "My lunch break is almost over."  She stirred her demitasse, making small circles with a raised pinky.


    Uncle Harry smiled.  "You want a job?  Change of scenery?"


    She tilted the cup to her lips and puckered.  "Go on."


    "It''s freelance."


    "Private sector?  Must be a fief.  You in a fief?  I hear that''s a comfortable life."


    "Very."  He smiled at her quickness.  "I have work if you want."


    "Else why would you be here?"  Porsche said, rolling her eyes.  "Show me the strings."


    "No strings, see?" DeWitt showed her his open palms.


    "I''m done playing games," she muttered and sipped the last drop.  She made a motion to leave.  "Thanks for the coffee."


    "No games.  It''s a straight job."


    "You ever straight? I doubt it.  Details, please."


    "Nothing too hard . . ." He chose his words with care.  "I need a white shadow -- and more."


    "Birdwatching?"  She said, leaning back.


    "More like a babysitter."


    "One of yours?"


    "A prominent technocrat, civilian -- we want to convince him to deliver what he promised.  He''s cagey, a case of cold feet.  I want you to be nice, get him to cooperate.  Turn him -- that''s what you do best."


    "So that''s the more," she cooed.  "You want me to spread my honey.  Naughty Uncle."  Raised overseas, sex wasn''t a taboo subject as it was in puritanical America.  She could boil the act of intimacy down to a bodily function no different from breathing or defecating.  And when it came to the art of the honey trap, she excelled at luring moths to her web, male and female.  She was an exquisite long-legged spider, eager to hunt.  "Let''s talk price."


    "The client has deep pockets."


    "Client -- so which fief is paying me?"


    "You don''t need to know yet, only that I''m your paymaster and handler."


    "Just like old times."  She scoffed.


    "The job could be a great stepping stone if you play it right -- a great entry."


    She paused for a few seconds.  "Okay, I''ll bite.  Got nothing else but entering files any monkey could do."


    "Then it''s a yes?"


    "Slow down.  Will I go naked?"  Porsche asked.  "You wouldn''t hire another shadow on me now, would you?"


    "Going solo is your thing, I do recall."


    She studied him, his face giving little information.  "Why does your rabbit need a shadow?  Who''s on offense?"


    "At this stage, maybe no one," Harry said.  "But precaution is warranted."


    "Ambiguous as ever," Porsche huffed.  "Then I want a pot of gold at the end of this rainbow -- seven figures.  I don''t turn tricks for biscuits."


    "That''s too much." Harry countered.  "One hundred."


    "You two-buck Charlie cheapskate.  You suggest I go rogue, but you go blue-plate special on me.  Where''s your fairness, Uncle?"  She toyed with her napkin.  "I''m worth every dollar, and you know it.  Besides, my fee isn''t too extravagant . . . Seven hundred and I guarantee his safety, whoever he is.  That''s a bargain."


    "Two."


    "Make it six."


    "Three."


    "Five."


    "Four."


    "Five," she repeated, not breaking his gaze.


    Harry considered then said, "Done."


    "I want girl''s best friend -- carats, not paper."


    "Material girl as always." Harry gritted his teeth behind a smile.


    "Is there another kind?  Show me a better motivation."


    "World peace?"


    "Ha, you were never idealistic."


    "Values change with age."


    "So does your continence."  She made a cocked pistol with her fingers, then pointed it at him.  "The job best stays exclusive."  Then smiled.


    "Zip-lock lips." Harry ran a finger across his mouth.  "It''s just you and me, kid."


    "And I don''t lift a finger ''til I see the bling," she said cocking one eyebrow.


    "You''ll have a third by tomorrow.  Same drop as before?"


    She sighed, looking around at the other patrons.  "Yup, same location.  Glad you remember."


    "I need you to move fast on this."


    "You know, a little biographical leverage wouldn''t hurt, in fact, blackmail works wonders if you want this done fast."


    "No duress.  He must want to defect."


    "Then I''ll be really sweet."  She cupped her breasts and smiled.  "New assets.  You like?"


    "Save it for the mark," Harry said and slid a thumb-size device across the table.


    "Anyone I know?"


    "Tap it and you''ll see.  His coordinates and RFID frequency, all there." Uncle instructed.  "This drive is armed.  One pass only."


    She nodded.


    Harry glanced at his phone. "It''s past your lunch hour.  Time you get back."


    "And how do I reach you?"


    "I find you," he said.


    "Fine, remember -- no bling, no ping."


    He got up and left by the rear service exit.  The old spy-dog was sensible.  His protege went out the main door, with attitude.


    After stashing the drive Harry had given her, Porsche returned to her cubic jail.  She plunked into her chair, exasperated, looking at the pile of folders she needed to go through, and blew air out her cheeks loudly, not caring if anyone heard her.  Her meeting with her old mentor had left a titillating curiosity, like ants crawling on her skin.


    She shoved the mind-numbing pile away in disgust and looked forward to this side job.  Maybe this will lead to somewhere else, anywhere but here.

 Book 1 - Chapter 19

    Porsche took a table near the pair, sat with her back to them and ordered a house Bordeaux.  Her corner was at an oblique angle, but it had one desirable prop -- a cracked antique smoky mirror that framed the amorous couple in its reflection.


    Porsche could see their choices of meals -- Filet Mignon for him, Duck ¨¤ l''Orange for her.  After a while, the dessert rolled out, flan and espresso.  Porsche spied them laughing, getting more intimate after two bottles of Chateauneuf-du-Pape, the chill between them quickly warming.  She recognized where this will lead.  It''s Friday night.  Sadly, I can''t remember my own last romp.   Hell, at least she''d get to listen to the panting and gasping of others.   Doesn''t matter.  With a fistful of carats in a week, who''s laughing then?


    Finding the rabbit had been child''s play.  In twenty-four hours, Porsche had Moreau''s cell signal decrypted and tracked, the tap was such a cinch that any hacker with a proximity snooper could do it.  Moreau had made several calls, mostly work-related about scientific mumbo jumbo and schedules she couldn''t hope to decipher or wanted to.  She was keen on deviations, perhaps a cryptic call elsewhere, to a rival fief Uncle would pay bucks for.  One call he made intrigued her.  His tone had changed in an instant from confidence imbued with expertise to docility and desperation.  Voice analysis had quickly identified the woman on the other end as Undersecretary Hunt.


    Lisbeth Hunt had been resistant, played hard to get, even with the two dozens of roses delivered to her Watergate apartment.  Moreau begged for a chance to redeem himself.  He said he had a surprise to tell her, a solution to their problem.  She relented and agreed to dinner.  He knew of a cozy cafe where they could talk.  And French cuisine to boot.


    Seeing the couple giving each other knowing smiles, Porsche drained her remaining house wine, wiped her fingerprints from the utensils and glass stem with her napkin, a habit she relied on.


    And when Moreau paid his check, Porsche did likewise with a swipe of the waiter''s debit scanner.  She included a generous tip from an account belonging to one of her many legends.


    She was about to exit the restaurant before the pair when angry words caught her attention.


    Porsche glanced at the mirror.  The mood had changed at that moment.  Something had smothered their amorous flames.


    The woman pulled out her chair, her face in a twisted mix of anger and horror.  Hunt put out her hands, a warning for Moreau to keep a distance, grabbed her belongings and rushed out of the restaurant, leaving the flabbergasted man by himself.  Curious, he didn''t chase after her.


    What could have been so corrosive that it not only killed the mood but drove the woman away with terror?  Hunt bristled like a spooked cat, its fur standing on end, racing out of the alley.  Moreau slumped in his seat, dejected, his face full of regrets.  She was waiting for the perfect opportunity to make her move on Moreau -- when he was most vulnerable.  Tonight seemed to fit the bill just right.


    Porsche decided to wait outside for him.


    Ten minutes thereafter, her mark appeared on the sidewalk.  Now for an innocuous occasion, a chance meeting.


    Antiquated gas lamps lit the cobble streets in Old Town Alexandria.  Modernity remained outside this colonial enclave of brick shops and quaint cafes, ensuring that its charm endured.  A horse-drawn carriage clopped past her.


    Across the street opposite him, she moved among pedestrians, careful not to look over his way.  She walked in spurts until she paced him.Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.


    Standing at the curb, Moreau called an auto-cab.  She saw the moment to make her move.


    Porsche unzipped her sweater down to her cleavage and splayed the neck for ample display.  She approached and stood next to Moreau, pretending to look up the street for her ride.


    "I''ve been waiting for ten minutes," she said.  "Tracker said it''d be here in two."


    "Mine is on its way, one minute out," he said, looking at his hand terminal.  "We could share -- if you like."


    "If it''s not an inconvenience."  She smiled.


    "It''s my pleasure," he stuttered.


    "You''re so sweet."  She touched his arm and stood close to him, their breaths co-mingled in the cold air.


    Porsche read the rabbit.  Not so distraught after all, are you?  Bait nibbled.  This was going to be child''s play.


    The auto-cab arrived during their small talk about nothing.  He opened the door for her and climbed in thereafter.


    She gave the autonav her bogus address.  He remarked it was near his place.  Is that a proposition?  And so soon, she laughed inside.


    "What a coincidence," Porsche breathed and tossed her hair.  She could feel his hopeful excitement.  Men, ruled by the small head most of their lives, were transparent.  And he had forgotten all about Lisbeth Hunt.  Her exit was a windfall, one Porsche was happy to capitalize on.  By tomorrow, Porsche figured, Moreau would be ripe for suggestions.  Then she''ll spread her honey for him, per Uncle''s request.  No, not for Uncle -- but for herself.  But she mustn''t rush it tonight.  Their encounter was supposed to be arranged by providence.


    The auto-cab arrived at her destination first, and as he insisted, her fare was added to his account.  She thanked him for the lift and moved to kiss him on the cheek, a deliberate and slow lip press, letting him smell her scent.  She gave him a suggestive smile and backed out of the cabin, rear first, her bosom enlarging his pupils.


    As expected, he reached after her hand, not letting go, too anxious.  How often did something this enticing fall on his lap?  "Wait," he pleaded.


    She stopped her retreat, a corner of her mouth curled, eyebrows cocked up one side.  Gotcha!


    "I''d like to see you again," he said awkwardly.  "Can I get your digits?"


    "How cliche," she chuckled and mocked him with a resounding, "No."  Moreau''s hope and face deflated, his torso slackened.  Just as he was about to say goodnight, she said, "Give me yours."


    Porsche hopped out with his number entered in her contact list.  She''ll have fun with this fish, at least for a couple of days before releasing him.  She sighed as the auto-cab rolled away.  For now, it was back to grunt work as she zipped up her sweater.


    The day before, she had cased out the location and had found a place suitable for her needs.  It was high enough to have a generous vista of his condo, ideal for the Penetrator which she''d stashed on the roof.  An eight-foot retainer wall that ringed the high-rise posed no trouble for her to scale.  And in the back, she''d discovered a fixed ladder, fastened to the wall leading to the roof.  The ladder had a little corrosion and she''d judged, was strong enough to hold her weight and the equipment.


    One hand on a rung, she pulled herself up and started to climb back to the roof.


    Fourteen stories up, she hopped over a small lip that hemmed in the air conditioning units, exhaust fans, and generators, and headed for the spot she had chosen.  It had the perfect vantage into Moreau''s windows.  From this height, the view took in the forest of apartment towers abutting the north-south maglev Interstate 395 while flashing aerodynes filled the night sky like passing fireflies.


    The Penetrator remained where she''d stashed it.  Porsche unzipped the gear bag, assembled the equipment one part at a time.  She activated the laser and aimed it at Moreau''s darkened apartment.  Audio feedback primed.


    She opened the IR aperture and looked through it.  The optical maser bore a virtual hole through solid walls, giving her an impression of him alone in his living room.  He had a bottle tilted to his mouth.  Aw, the poor fool.  She could see him rummaging through his drawers.  The man was leaving in a hurry.


    Just then, the door to his apartment chimed.


    Moreau stiffened at first, pulled out a gun from a drawer and rushed to the door.  He spied through the peephole.  Using the Penetrator, Porsche could see a large silhouette on the other side of the door.  And it was man-size.  Yet Moreau tucked the pistol behind his back and opened the door anyway.  The knocker was no stranger, she surmised.


    Porsche heard:  "Chief Marlboro.  What are you doing here?"

 Book 1 - Chapter 20

    "I''m sorry, Director Moreau, for coming here so late and unannounced," Alex said from the doorway, dressed in civilian clothes.


    "How did you find me?  This is my private residence and it''s supposed to be unlisted."


    "Emergency contact list for Carnivora; I found your address, sir.  I hope you don''t mind."


    Moreau nodded, seeing the logic while suppressing his annoyance of being disturbed.  "It''s late.  What can I do for you, Chief?"


    "A minute of your time, it''s about Cerberus."


    "Of course," Moreau said, stepping aside to let her in.  Alex removed her knit cap and stepped through, her blond crew cut still an eighth inch from her scalp.  "Care for anything to drink?"


    "No, thank you, sir."


    Moreau motioned her to the living room.  She accepted, taking the long couch, he on the adjacent love seat.


    "I''ll get to the point -- my men and I were let go."


    "So I heard," Moreau said, jumping ahead of her.  "Team Cerberus isn''t alone.  The entire Carnivora Program was shut down too."


    "You''re out of a job like we are?"  She suppressed a chuckle.


    Moreau nodded.  "It is the work I care about."


    "Damn them," Alex blurted.  "The leak made a lot of pricks nervous so they''re covering their butts.  Sorry, I meant jerks."


    "No Chief, pricks is a better choice.  I want you to know I''m trying to do everything I can to change that."


    "I know you''re behind us, sir.  You''ve always been fair and supportive."


    "What will you do now?"


    She paused, seeming to search for words.  "I think many of us could move on okay.  Some might even stay in the service and transfer to other units."


    "That''s like throwing a tiger in with a bunch of house cats."


    Alex managed a weak smile.


    "Set your priorities in order, Chief, and ride this out."


    "I need income before I figure things out."


    "Private security work is a good fit, I imagine."


    "I applied.  But seeing your face everywhere you go isn''t easy."


    "Yes, that would be a problem, I imagine.  You need a job, I can make a few calls.  Nothing much but it will get you by."


    "Thank you, sir, anything would help . . . But that''s not why I''m here."


    "Oh?"  Moreau rested his hands over one knee.


    "When the service released us, there was no mention of renewing the scripts -- the two prescriptions I mean.  It''s been weeks and there''s been no word.  When I reached out to Joint Service Commissary, they said the supply''s been cut from the source.  Nothing they could do.  And the stuff isn''t the normal meds they carry in inventory.  I''m down to my last stash."


    "Even the VA?"  Moreau said, flabbergasted.


    Alex shook her head.  "I have two weeks of T-Stoff left.  And even less for C-Stoff."  She paused.  "I''m worried, not only for me but for the people around me.  You know what happens when we run out of T-Stoff."


    "I will get you the scripts from my personal authority.  I promise you."


    "I imagine the rest of Cerberus isn''t calm about this either."


    "I''m so sorry this happened, but the good news is there''s a reserve stash I know of.  You''ll get yours, Chief.  Trust me."


    "Who is doing this to us?"  She growled suddenly which startled Moreau; he knew what was lurking underneath.


    "Best leave those stones unturned.  Now if you don''t mind, it''s late."


    Alex nodded, prepared to get up and leave.


    "Wait," Moreau said, and hesitated with sympathy, after all, he was responsible for their being.  "I''ll be frank.  What they did to all of us is criminal.  And they won''t get away with it.  Between you and me, I''m putting together plans.  And it might be a good fit for you -- I''m telling you this so you keep your hopes up and your ears open.  It won''t be long."Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.


    "What is this plan?" Alex raised her eyebrows.


    "I can''t go into it, but we''ll have the last laugh on those pricks."


    * * *


    Porsche snapped off a series of thermal pictures of him and the big woman in conversation, her name loud and clear on the audio graph -- Marlboro.  And judging from the burly silhouette that dwarfed Moreau, she was the same woman on the news of late.


    The conversation didn''t take too long, after which Marlboro got up and left his apartment.  It was close to midnight now.


    Porsche yawned and shook off the encroaching fatigue.  Think of the bling, girl.  Tomorrow, she''ll make contact with Moreau -- to help convince him with his defection.  No rough stuff.  Her aim was specific -- touch and go, then she was done.  Whether he agreed to Uncle''s wishes was a different matter outside her obligation.


    Boredom was the worst part now.  Her dry eyes became heavy as a chill wind blew over her.  She wrapped herself tighter in her Obscura cloak which invited the creeping of sleep.  The cold always made her lethargic.  It didn''t help she could hear the modulations of sound coming from the bedroom.  Moreau was snoring.  Shit, she could have kept a better eye on him after screwing his brains out in a warm bed.  But that would have been too fast, too soon.  The hunt rewarded the patient.


    She nodded and drifted off in the sitting position, her cheek mushing against the Penetrator.


    Noise picked up by the laser amplified in her earbud and jolted her awake.  You fell asleep, dumb-shit.  Nothing inside the apartment had changed since she last looked.  Except now, the buzzer chimed, accompanied by hard banging on the door.


    Porsche watched as Moreau rose from his bed, put on his robe and answered the bell.  Could it be Marlboro again?


    Porsche maxed out the intensity of the Penetrator to punch past the last wall, hoping to see what was beyond the door.  The laser protested with a pitched hum, getting hotter.  As the beam bore deeper, the silhouettes she saw were large, Marlboro''s size.  Men -- four of them, hunched like linebackers getting ready to charge in.


    Moreau peeked through the peephole first.


    Porsche could overhear Moreau demanding, "Who the hell''s knocking at this hour?  What do you want?"  She couldn''t make out the muffled reply.  The double click of the lock was like the sound Pandora heard before freeing the furies.  She wanted to scream No, but she was on a roof outside his window a hundred yards away.  What transpired next was beyond her reach.


    The door flew in with tremendous force as four men tackled Moreau to the ground and gagged him with duct tape.


    Three dragged him into the living room while the fourth went to the kitchen.  Moreau was thrashing about, struggling against the intruders.


    She heard the one in the kitchen bark, "Quiet his ass down."


    There was a high voltage buzzing sound as a Taser zapped Moreau.  He thrashed and kicked, the convulsion violent but brief.  Then Moreau lay still on the floor of his apartment.


    Porsche''s mind raced.  House raiders?  Should she call the police?  Would Uncle be angry?  Even if she called the cops, by the time they got to Moreau''s apartment, it would be all over.  You''re paid to watch, so watch.


    She listened as the leader said, "Seal the windows, airtight."


    The sound of metal creaking -- she imagined he''d broken the gas line behind the stove.  They knew the building used natural gas -- because they canvassed the place beforehand.  Just like she had.


    Porsche concentrated on the leader who circled over the unconscious Moreau.  The silhouette squatted and turned Moreau on his stomach, then moved toward his head.  Strange behavior, as if he was figuring out how best to handle the body.  What are you doing?


    Moreau was beginning to wake, mouth slobbering.  The man lifted Moreau''s head by the chin and from his wrist, extracted a laser filament.  In one motion, the glowing line wrapped around his neck and seared into the flesh, cutting through bone.  The head came clean off with no bloodletting; the arteries were instantly cauterized.


    Porsche gasped as she witnessed the killing.  But this was no execution by a kill team.  It was a retrieval -- Moreau''s head.  She spied as they secured the skull in a dry-ice pliable sac.  Why would anyone take . . . then preserve a head?  Think . . . It''s what''s in the head -- a cranial storage chip implanted in the hippocampus.  But what kind of data, she asked with futility.  One man would know -- Uncle -- the bastard was up to his games again.  Did he put together the hit, she wondered?  It wasn''t out of the realm of possibilities.  In fact, it made damn sense.


    Something else bothered her about the headhunter.  His vocal tone was distinct, low and crackling -- and eerily familiar.  "Pack it up. We''re out."


    The voice rang deep in her, producing a menacing wariness.  A chill ran up her spine as if she saw the devil.  She did.  The low guttural voice was buried in her memory, a man she''d known only too well when she was DeWitt''s teenage recruit.  An older student at the Farm then.  Goddamn Lockheart . . . the Sandman.  A killer, famous for his psychotic brutality.  And there he was, centered in her camera ocular.  Too bad it wasn''t a high-powered rifle scope.


    She was too close to the action, playing opposite the Sandman.  Rattled, a part of her wanted to eighty-six this gig, and renege on the contract; another voice compelled her to shadow the hit team who was set to leave.


    She disassembled the gear, packed up the duffel bag and slid down the ladder.  At 0344, she stowed the gear, donned a visored helmet and hopped on her motorcycle toward Moreau''s building.  She parked yards away with care in an unlit trash-filled alley, watching the building''s rear delivery dock.


    Above, a loud boom reverberated cracking many nearby windows as Moreau''s apartment suddenly flash-burned.  An explosion blew out his floor, raining debris onto the streets below.  At this hour, the walkways were empty of pedestrians.


    Right on time, a black SUV rolled out from the rear service area.  Luckily, they hadn''t used an aerodyne vehicle.  She figured they didn''t need the high profile of a flyer.  She allowed them the lead time and hung back.  As the vehicle shrunk to a dot, she gunned her accelerator in pursuit.


    Ten minutes later, an anonymous tip appeared on the switchboard of Metro Police alerting them to a murder in a high-rise.  But it was old news.  The fire department had been dispatched already in response to a raging gas explosion.

 Book 1 - Chapter 21

    "What did you get me into, you deranged old man?"  Porsche said with cold hard eyes glaring through DeWitt''s hand terminal.  "I said no games."


    Harry could see it was bright morning where she was.  He guessed she was inclined over her cafe racer, her face inches over the dash pin-camera.  She had her helmet on, the visor''s opacity lowered enough to show a perplexed Porsche.


    In Chicago, it was still night.  Harry propped up on his pillow, rubbing his eyes.  "What are you talking about?" And yawned.


    "Moreau''s dead.  They took his head."


    "His head?"  The news jolted him like a splash of ice water.


    "Don''t pretend you don''t know.  You''re behind this, aren''t you, Uncle?"


    "What are you talking about?"


    "I''ve been thinking -- why take someone''s head unless it''s valuable.  And what could make a skull worth taking -- if it had been spliced with a cranial storage unit.  How you like my theory?"


    "Slow down."


    "Whatever Moreau''s carrying must be valuable enough to lose your head over.  So what is he carrying, Uncle?"


    Harry didn''t reply right away.


    "I figure you''d play dumb.  Why pay when you could lop off the merchandise, right?  I should know better."


    "Your reasoning is flawed."


    "Rarely.  What about Marlboro, the amazon in the video?"


    "What about her?"


    "She was there too.  She didn''t cut off his head but she''s part of this setup." Porsche paused.  "You''re behind all this."


    "Rubbish.  Why would I waste good money hiring you then?" Harry said.


    "Redundancy?  Backup?  Necrophiliac voyeurism?  Your sick mind can think of ways."


    "Think again, girl.  If I wanted to take his head, why would I need you to steer him into defecting?"


    "Maybe he changed his mind."  Porsche tilted her head to one side, chewing on the logic.


    "You''re way off, and I forgive you," Harry said.


    "Take your forgiveness --"


    Harry cut her off.  "Are you sure about Marlboro being there?"


    "I don''t see facial features.  Just her big-ass silhouette.  And her voice.  She and Moreau had a chit-chat prior."  A passing vagabond got too close to her.  "Back off," she snarled as the drunk mumbled something and stumbled away.  Porsche returned to the screen.  "You got a bigger problem -- I know who took the head."


    "Who?"


    "Our old friend, the Sandman -- his voice, I don''t forget."


    It was Harry''s turn to go cryptic.


    Porsche leaned away and crossed her arms in his terminal screen.  "Someone put him on Moreau''s trail, right on top of mine.  Naturally, I thought it was you.  You did it before."


    "Not this time."  Harry mused for a quick second.  "Last I heard of Lockheart, he was in Kiev on Agency work.  That was five years ago."


    "Now he''s back," Porsche said.  "And too close for my comfort.  This is my cue to exit while I''m in one piece.  I want the rest of what you owe me."


    Harry said, unruffled, "Our contract isn''t over."


    "Hell, yeah.  I didn''t sign up to butt-head with that psycho.  Besides, you''ve been withholding critical information from me."


    "I don''t recall."


    "What''s in Moreau''s head?"  She scoffed on the screen.


    "Okay, I''ll tell you, but not over open comms," Harry said.


    "You''re going to make me wait."


    "Can you track them?"


    "As we speak, for Christ''s sake."


    "I knew you would, my girl.  Where are you?"


    "Baltimore Sector.  The crew drove under some building and they didn''t come out.  I looked up the address -- some bogus registry behind some vanilla front, owned by a no-name conglomerate.  Sound familiar?  Our Sandman got serious backing."This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    "I''ll tell you this -- Moreau was invested in Caracas . . . But then so are you, my girl, isn''t that right?"


    "So?"


    "If I know, then I''d bet others do too.  Caracas-gate isn''t going away anytime soon."


    Her eyes became slits as she gnashed her teeth.  "Are you dangling me out to dry?"


    "I''d never."


    "So says the molester."  She leaned into the screen.


    "I did not!" Harry raised his voice.  "But the pieces of this puzzle fit.  I think we''re beyond coincidence now, don''t you?"


    "Gee, thanks," she said with sourness.  "I''m marked.  The moment I return, I''m fucked."


    "Then don''t.  I can get you set up working for Midland.  Would you like that?"


    "You two-bit street corner pimp.  Just pay me and go away."


    Harry sighed.  "De Beers isn''t a member of our fief, you know.  Give me time."


    "How much time?" she hissed through the screen.


    "A week."


    "You''re stalling," she said. "You have twenty-four hours to get me my stones.  Or I''ll crush yours."


    "Porsche, I''m prepared to renew our contract."


    "Not interested, I told you."


    "Triple your purse."


    "You haven''t paid me for my original fee."


    "Same assignment."


    "Again?" she sighed.  "This is getting old."


    "It''s for me."


    "Huh?"


    "I need a sit-down with Lockheart.  Who better to keep me safe but you?"


    "You''re insane."


    Transmission ended.


    Harry scooted down the bed, stared at the ceiling and sighed.


    The thought troubled him that Lockheart had reappeared, and it seemed with support.  They must want Moreau silenced in a hurry.  He either had been careless . . . Or there was a leak.


    The Sandman brought back memories.  Dark ones from twenty years ago when Harry was a younger man stationed in the western regions of China.  He remembered a night, as clear and cold as a Chicago winter night.


    There had been a crescent moon under a cloudless star-filled expanse.


    The team had hitched a ride aboard a stealth Black Hawk, flying over western China with side doors wide open.  They were returning from a prisoner snatch -- abducting enemy soldiers for interrogation.  These missions were routine, almost nightly in the lawless lands separating China''s western frontier from the Stans.  Like arctic scientists testing the salinity strata of the oceans by sampling deep-sea water, the Agency likewise was testing the regional balance of power using deep incursion snatches.  Though no open war existed, these operations went on for justifiable reasons.  Rumors had been Beijing was ferrying in advisers and arms to the local radicals, as a counterweight to American and Indian dominance in the region.


    Inside the helicopter''s cabin, several men shared the rear canvas bench, their weapons between their legs.  They were covert paramilitary from the Agency''s Special Operations Group.  Among them were Harry DeWitt and Milo Lockheart, the former returning from the cockpit.  Two Sino soldiers, one severely injured, sat on the floor with hands tied behind their backs, shivering in the frigid mountain night.  Lockheart was in the cabin, kneeling over the wounded Chinese prisoners.  The other men thought Lockheart was searching for intel.


    "Third night this week, and all we caught are minnows," Harry complained listening to the flash message given him in the cockpit.  "Hemlock wants officers, not sentries."


    "If Hemlock wants to net big fishes, then he shouldn''t send out four-man snatch teams," Lockheart replied gruffly via comms.  "Fuck you expect?"


    Harry returned to his seat, looking at the captives.  "Look at these two.  We won''t get shit out of them.  And tomorrow, he sends us back in again.  Hemlock''s like a tapeworm -- you keep feeding him, he''ll want more."


    "They''re useless."


    "Who knows," Harry said.  "They might talk."


    "They''re worthless.  You said so yourself," Lockheart said.  "In fact, this one''s got it in the belly.  He''s wasted; DOA by the time we reach Kandahar."  Lockheart examined the prisoner lying on his side, moving his head from side to side and checking his teeth as if he were buying a horse.  "Except for these."


    "What are you doing?"


    "Shame to let it go to waste."


    Something flashed in Lockheart''s hand, glinting like a knife''s edge off moonlight.  A scream muffled by the chops of rotor blades washed away.


    The Sino''s mouth glowed with huge gold-crowned teeth, even in the cold moonlight.


    Lockheart placed the point of his combat dagger on the base of a tooth and hammered the hilt with the palm of his hand.  The Asian, though near death, was in fact very much alive.  He thrashed about kicking his legs and screaming.


    "What the fuck?"  Harry said, revolted.  "He''s not dead!"


    It didn''t matter to Lockheart.


    The knifepoint glanced off the tooth and sunk into the Chinese''s mouth, into tissue and bone.  Lockheart mumbled curses as he began the slicing, opening the man''s cheeks from ear to ear to get better access to the back teeth.  His knee now on the man''s lower jaw, he tried again.  Blood fountained out of the mutilated mouth.  Lockheart groaned trying to extract his treasures.  The other prisoner shrank away in horror.  Under moonlight, blood was as black as ink.


    Lockheart liberated the rear teeth from the jaw.


    "Got you," Lockheart said with a proud grin after the mining.  Four molars with long bloody roots clustered on his gloved palm.  "How many carats is this, I wonder?  Anybody know the spot price for gold?"


    Still, the Chinese soldier wasn''t dead.  He made a gurgling noise and twitched.


    "Holy Christ, put the man out of his misery," Harry protested.


    Lockheart rolled the twitching body out the doorway into the night.  "Good night, sleep tight."  He saw them looking at him, questioning him.  He happily explained, "Hemlock burns their bodies anyway, so I''m keeping these trinkets.  Is there a problem?"


    Hardened operators had seen many things, and the incident carried no bite.


    "What about this one?" A SOG man gestured to the second prisoner who had scooted away in terror.


    "We keep him," Harry said.  "Hemlock''s orders."


    "I bet he''ll sing his heart out now," laughed the fourth operator.


    "He''s got any gold teeth you wonder?" Lockheart said, turning to the last prisoner cowering in the corner.


    The Chinese didn''t need to understand English.  He saw the blade pointed his way, got to his feet, and leaped out of the helicopter, his screams unheard.  A quick death was preferable to having his face cut open and choking on his blood.


    "You''re not right, Milo," Harry said, eyeing him.


    "Shut up," Lockheart snapped back.  "You''re not my sup no more, Uncle.  We got the big buy in Kabul tomorrow.  Twenty-kee''s of black tar, if you haven''t forgotten.  So, you better keep your mouth zip-locked."  He pointed the blade at Harry.


    "Forget about Hemlock?" a SOG man asked.


    "Fuck Hemlock, he can send someone else to do his dirty work," Lockheart said.


    That night, the report said the incursion had failed to secure live prisoners, and the matter was closed.  Hemlock, the station supervisor, was none the wiser.  But following that day, Harry was ordered out of Kandahar, reasons unspecified.


    We''ve walked into a different game, now.  And I need Porsche more than ever.  How to keep her was simple -- what do girls want?  I''ll add a zero to her purse.  Augustine can afford it.


    He rolled out of bed and headed for the shower.  Timing was critical now.

 Book 1 - Chapter 22

    Four hours later, Harry arrived in DC on the corporate PAV flown at its max speed from Chicago. An hour after landing, he returned to the Excelsior. Porsche was there at the same table, waiting for him this time.


    "Where are my stones?"


    He produced and handed her a velvety string-tied purse. "I moved heaven and earth for it," Harry said.


    Porsche judged its weight and shook the pouch, listening to the crinkling of tiny stones. She splayed the neck and beamed.


    "Two hundred twenty-six carats in there," Harry said. "Just under one point six ounces."


    "That''s more than we agreed."


    "Sure is. Three times in fact. They''re uncut."


    "Uncut is not per our agreement," Porsche said, a scowl on her face.


    "These have few visible inclusions, I''m told. This is the fastest way I could get you your purse."


    "You''re playing me again."


    "Am I?"


    "Why so much?" She placed the pouch on the table and removed her hands from it. It crunched softly as it flattened out.


    "New contract."


    "You can''t be serious."


    "When it comes to my life, very."


    She looked at him warily and licked her lips, her eyes returning to the pouch.Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.


    "I need you," Harry said in earnest.


    "You''re making me very unhappy, Uncle, mixing these stones in with my original fee so I can''t walk away. I''m tired of your games."


    "And I thought a million in uncut diamonds would put a smile on your face, no?"


    She shook her head, yet her eyes didn''t wander from the pouch.


    "Could be five times as much by the time they''re cut and polished. This amount could set you up nicely for a long time, something you''ve always wanted, right?"


    "Only if I say yes to this new dog and pony trick."


    "Not a trick."


    "You''re a puppet master from hell." Porsche considered, eyeing him, then the pouch.


    "Easy job, really. You''ll have one chump to look after -- me."


    "You still plan on sitting down with Lockheart?"


    "Hence, the insurance."


    "Insurance doesn''t cover stupidity."


    "There''s more where this came from. Much more." He paused. "Or give it back, if you don''t want it." He reached for the sac when she slapped his hand away. Harry smiled knowingly.


    After a second, she mumbled, "I hate you. Now what?"


    Harry nodded, pleased. "Find Lockheart and fast. I want what''s in Moreau''s head. The longer this goes by, the colder the trail. So time is a factor."


    "Lockheart and his crew never came out of Baltimore Sector. I waited for three hours. They slipped away," Porsche said. "And I don''t know where to reacquire their trail. Sorry, you got a dead end." She pocketed the pouch and made a motion to stand up.


    "You have one huge lead," Harry said. "The Marlboro woman -- she was there just before the hit."


    "The giantess? Bug off."


    "I read the transcript of their conversation. Is it a coincidence she was at Moreau''s place just before the hit? Maybe she''s there to test his loyalty?"


    "You''re saying she''s colluding with Lockheart?"


    "A plausible scenario, no?"


    "No, the tone I heard between them was different -- there was respect in her voice."


    "Let''s find out. Make contact with Marlboro. And from there, we set up the meet with Lockheart. You choose the locale -- someplace public with lots of people, and with clear lines of sight."


    "Leaving it up to me?"


    "You''ll be doing overwatch, so yes. I''ll rely on your marksmanship to keep me safe."


    "I''m a big advocate for body armor."


    "Body armor won''t matter with Lockheart."


    She resumed shaking her head. "And why would the Sandman agree to a t¨ºte-¨¤-t¨ºte?"


    "He won''t say no to me."


    "Sure about that?"


    "Go, we don''t have much time," Harry said.


    "I''ll find the amazon." Porsche considered. "And if she won''t cooperate?"


    "Simple -- carrot or stick."


    "You haven''t seen her. Sticks won''t do shit." Porsche mimed imaginary shoulders with her hands.


    "Well then, your choice is easy."

 Book 1 - Chapter 23

    The first vision every morning of late was that of his wife.  Papa Smurf admired her swollen belly, a pale mound rising above the blanket like that of a white whale breaching the surface.  Thar, she blows.  He whispered and toyed with her, walking his fingers over the hump, feeling the kicking.  She was uncomfortable and hot, he knew; ripe, heavy, and slow.  A few more days before baby Claire came out, their fourth.  All girls -- something Rotter and T-Bone had snickered about and elbowed each other -- it takes a man to produce boys.  Dimwits.  He could care less.  He loved his girls.  Soon he would be locked in a fortress of estrogen and subjected to nail paintings and hair braiding.  He wouldn''t have it any other way.  This was true bliss, the perfect life.


    Usually, three minutes after the alarm, the door to the bedroom would fly open as the older girls, aged six- and four would burst in with high-pitched screams, jumping on the bed.  The two-year-old toddler was still in her crib.  He''d scoop the invaders up before they could ram into their mother and would roll with his girls in fits of kisses and laughter.


    The morning ritual always ended with his wife saying, "You''ll be late, Papa."


    "I know, love.  It''s the best part of my day.  Just another five minutes . . . with these monsters -- Roar."


    She smiled seeing him so happy.


    "Aw, pooh," Papa blew them bubble kisses.  The girls squealed with joy.


    Bonnie struggled to rise, which at once made him stop his horseplay with the kids.


    She put on the robe that barely contained her jutting belly and engorged breasts, and lumbered downstairs.  Papa took a long steam-shower, taking up five minutes and seven quarts.  The DC-Maryland-Virginia conurbation, known as the DMV or Sector 3, was the least dense hub of Megacity East and didn''t lack for potable water.


    A low cloud blanket had covered most of the East Coast for two weeks.  The incessant torrent had mired flood zones and had buried large swaths of Megacity East under mud and muck.  The continuous downpour had complicated transportation and aggravated a rash of malaria.  Elsewhere, the news reported, droughts endured, severe enough to turn arid tracts of the southwest into dust bowls.  In LA-Diego, South California''s equivalent of Megacity East, soaker baths, swimming pools, car washes, lawn watering were prohibited and fined for overuse.  The strict local ordinance required retooled toilets to use suction tanks, needing no water.


    After changing into khakis and a sleeved shirt, Papa came down to the kitchen and headed over to the coffee machine.  Before he could pour some into a mug, the two monsters in pigtails and ribbons clung to his pants wanting to play.  He picked them up and secured them in chairs around the morning table, a bowl of oatmeal sprinkled with colored syrup in front of each.


    "Ugh," the eldest girl grimaced.  "Looks like Katie''s doo-doo."


    "I hate to leave you like this," he said to Bonnie, leaning over to touch her arm.  "Who can you get to help?"Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.


    "Annie said she''d be over this morning," Bonnie said.  "She''ll get the kids to school.  Don''t worry, my water shouldn''t break ''til Thursday at 2 PM¨Cthat''s the time the doctor''s aiming for."


    He exhaled.  "Three days and six hours.  Okay -- no heavy lifting.  You just relax."


    "I''m fine, love."  She kissed him.  "I''m not dilated yet.  Contractions are mild and far apart."


    "When they rush you, you call me?  Promise?"


    "For sure I will.  You''re not leaving me like this, darling."


    The news turned their attention to the TV wall: "Futures from overnight trading in Asia has taken a precipitous fall by 5%, the Hang Seng undergoing a stunning 7% drop as trade worries sour sentiments, promising New York''s open to be abysmal.  Oil has spiked for the fifth day, raising the specter of out-of-control inflation.  The Consumer Price Index isn''t for release until the 15th of this month but analysts have forecasted a jump to 458 -- that''s a three hundred fifty-eight percent increase in inflation since a decade ago.  In other financial news, there has been a spike in physical silver and gold and heavy buying in Gold Futures contracts.  Market analysts believe Typhon Holdings, the investment arm of TexPax Paramountcy is behind this massive bid to accumulate precious metal positions.  The firm is acting on the belief that inflationary pressures would destroy the value of any investments denominated in or tied to paper currency.


    "In federal news, newly appointed Supreme Court judge Mortimer has granted an injunction against Great Pacifica in its bid to acquire 10% of Midland''s sphere of influence in Idaho.  Justice Mortimer has determined these measures would violate the size limit of a paramountcy and that they should cease post haste or face stern federal criticism . . ."


    "Another day in paradise," Papa laughed, glancing from one corner of his eye.


    "Paradise is un-affordable," Bonnie said, her mood deflating.  "My sister tells me prices around where she lives are skyrocketing.  The basic stuff.  Milk, bread.  And fuel.  Even electricity."


    "She''s panicking for no reason," Papa said dismissively, though deep down, he felt they were symptoms of events in which he was partly responsible.  A pang of guilt welled up in his throat.


    "I''m worried . . . About you -- the video, I mean."


    "Hey, you have a bun in the oven, sweetheart.  You need to relax and clear your mind and stop listening to that crap.  I wasn''t in it."


    "How can you say that?" Bonnie raised her voice.  The girls stopped poking their oatmeal and looked at their mother.


    "Everything will be okay."


    "Really?  Where''s the serum they promised?  It''s been two weeks since your last refill.  Your stash runs out in a month."


    "I''m sure more will get here tomorrow, don''t worry."


    "And what about this company that hired you, it''s an orphan," Bonnie objected, rolling her eyes, "with no guarantees.  We''d be on the street if something were to happen."


    "We need the income, Bonn," Papa said.  "See how it goes, okay?  Besides, they don''t know who I am."


    "In other news, the Council of Regents has subpoenaed Secretary Balkan to appear and answer charges of tampering and conspiracy.  Mounting international pressure aimed at Washington to produce the Caracas trio for questioning has largely gone unanswered as the two men and one woman remain at large."


    "You''re right.  Thank God you weren''t on that video," she sighed.


    He wondered how the three were coping: Alex, Warchild and T-Bone.  The team''s sudden break was rash, everyone scattered, denying they ever knew one another.   Himself included.  But he had his family to protect, and children to feed.


    "Well, you''d better hurry.  Don''t want a bad first impression."


    "You trust me?" He touched her shoulder with sincerity.


    "Who else if not you, Papa Smurf you big galoot."


    He hugged her, and patted her belly.  He planted kisses on the six and the four-year-old.


    "What time will you be home?"


    "The usual nine to five, I hope."


    "Don''t you leave me by myself for too long."


    "Never in a million years."


    "Go get ''em, tiger."

 Book 1 - Chapter 24

    Warchild rolled off his couch with a splitting headache.  He fumbled toward the kitchen to pour himself coffee already brewed by the auto-maid.  He had moved to the sofa for one reason -- to give Lisa her space.


    Upstairs, there had been no sound from his wife getting out of bed.  She was usually up by now.


    Instead, the lock clicked back, and the front door hissed open, jolting him.  Footsteps coming from the alcove grew louder until she stood there facing him, arms crossed in a glowering gesture.  She was in her clothes from the previous night.


    "Well, last night was fun," she said.


    "I thought you were asleep upstairs.  Where you been?"


    "I was out," she said with a careless shrug.


    "Until now?  Where did you sleep last night?"


    "You care?" She mocked being startled from his concern.


    "Stop it."


    "I didn''t sleep, that''s all I got to say."  She eyed him, looking for a fight.  He reined in his temper, letting the anger wash over him.


    "Whatever."


    That singed her.  She persisted.  "Don''t you want to know where I was?"


    "With friends.  On second thought, no, I don''t."


    "I like you better when you were away on one of your classified killing tours.  Now you''re here on the couch.  No job, no prospect."


    "I can''t show my face out there.  Not yet."  The TV had cornered him, his face appearing on the screen every fifteen minutes.  His instant celebrity was quicksand, pulling him under.


    "The entire world blames you.  They hate you.  And you wonder why.  You make me sick."


    "That was my job.  You understood."


    "No, I stomached it, because I had to, and it sickened me every damn day."


    "Don''t bust my balls, Lisa."


    "Balls, that''s a laugh."


    "You''re itching for a fight, I see."


    "Better than a rotting silence," Lisa said.  "You''ve worn me down, Ken.  You made me into someone who just don''t care anymore, and I''m no longer your little minute maid."


    "We''ll work through this.  I''ll find a job," he said, lukewarm.


    "No need."  Her face wrinkled in a cruel sneer.


    "Huh?  What''s so funny?"


    "I want a divorce.  This time for real."


    She faced him, bearing no emotion, no love, no hate, just indifference.


    "I''ll change, baby."


    "Don''t call me baby."  Her face twisted in a bitter grimace.


    "Well, I''m not giving you a divorce."  He looked away, shaking his head.  "We''ll see marriage counselors, whatever you want.  But we work it out -- ''til death do us part."


    And his dismissive response served only to infuriate her more.


    "We''ve become strangers, you and me."  She shook her head, and for a split second, he saw regret.


    "That can change," he said.  "You want kids?  We can try again with in vitro."


    She snapped, "No way I''m raising kids with you."


    "What are you saying?


    "You don''t get it, Ken, I''m already gone."  She stood there with hands on her hips, enjoying the moment.  "I met someone else, someone who cares about me."


    There it was -- the gauntlet thrown at his feet.  Don''t pick it up, he heard himself say.


    He bit down, his anger roiling so much he could only manage, "Who?"


    She gave him a punishing scorn. "Yes, Ken, I''ve been having a hot sweaty affair, right under your nose."


    "Who is he?"  His fingers gripped the mug tighter.


    She chuckled.  "I''ll make it easy for you.  Larry fucked me all night.  I enjoyed every second.  I came twice. He''s going someplace, an Affiliate candidate, unlike you on the couch."


    "How long behind my back?" He growled, coming toward her.


    "A year maybe more.  Time flies when you''re having fun." Her vicious sneer beckoned his suffering, his eyes wet with fury.


    But she didn''t relent.  "You''re a pathetic man."  Her eyes narrowed in tune with her cruel laughter.  "He''s twice the man you ever were, Ken.  He''s attentive, caring, and an Affiliate.  You''re none of that.  You''re an empty bed, an absentee husband, a loser."


    "Enough!"  He screamed, doubling over from her cutting words.


    "That''s right, yell."  She pressed the attack.  "Every time you''re gone away on your missions, he''d visit.  We did it upstairs, on the staircase, on this kitchen counter here."  She laughed.The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.


    His head spun from her taunts, finding it hard to breathe.  "Who the hell are you?"  This wasn''t the woman who swore I do at the altar.


    "Funny, I wondered the same about you.  Now we''re even."


    His mind lashed out.  He lunged and grabbed her arm with a free hand.  She jerked back her arm, stepped in and slapped him, the blow turning his head.  In blinding rage, he lifted his hand to strike her.


    "Go ahead, do it."  She grimaced in defiance, steeling herself for the blow.  "It would make things so easy."


    Instead, he flung the coffee mug against the wall, shattering it.  An inky Rorschach stain splashed against the white drywall as dark rivulets dripped to the floor.


    Warchild stormed out, slamming the door behind him.


    * * *


    In the dressing area reserved for Team Cerberus, Alex began to place personal items in a box: awards, memorabilia, an animated photo album of her and the boys in group and individual poses, from their selection into the Program to their graduation.  How proud they all were; she noticed the broad smiles, the tightness of pride, the crisp uniforms.  At that time, she''d thought nothing could ever chip away this iron bond they shared.  Not so.  Iron did rust and under certain pressure was as brittle as blue cheese.


    She pulled out her spare BDUs and folded them.  A second pair of combat boots went into the box too.  Deeper in the locker were the firearms and equipment deemed unsuitable to circulate in public.  She would need to return the assault gear, battery and ammo packs to the gun cage.


    A private appeared and got her attention, "Chief Marlboro, you''re wanted in Captain Lang''s office, ma''am."


    "Let''s go."  She sighed, looking at her box with sadness.  "This crap ain''t going anywhere."


    She went to Lang''s office and knocked.


    "Come," Lang said, putting away his terminal.  "Marlboro."


    "You wanted to see me?"


    "Sit down."


    "I''d rather stand, sir."


    "Suit yourself.  So, you decided out."


    "A lingering death is worse."


    "Most agreed with you, it seems.  Only five took the transfer.  The rest chose to walk.  I don''t blame them."


    "Good for you," Alex said, wanting to move along.


    "I got your discharge papers," Lang said, passing her the hand terminal.  "Needs your thumbprint and it''s official."


    "And our meds?"


    "What of it?"


    "I''m down to one month''s supply.  Does my discharge include refills?"


    "Sure, it does."


    She took the digital pad.


    Lang interrupted her, "Oh, by the way, pay close attention to the nondisclosure paragraph."


    A painful smirk appeared on her face as she perused the legal document.  "On pain of incarceration . . . Why am I not surprised?" She grimaced with disgust, stamped her thumb on the acceptance box, and slid the device to Lang.


    "Tough breaks, Marlboro."


    "Sure, if you say so," she said with freon chill.


    "Don''t think I wanted this, Alex."


    "No?  You put up no defense on our behalf.  We''ve been found guilty in the court of public opinion, and now told to get lost.  As our CO, you left us out to dry -- sir."


    "You think I didn''t step up?  I got slapped down and gagged!"  He hesitated to say more.  "This morning, I received my transfer papers.  Look here -- a posting to Diego Garcia to oversee base security."  He snarled at the order.  "Nothing but hot rocks, jet fumes, and seagulls.  I leave in two weeks."


    She frowned.  "How?"


    "You''re asking the wrong questions, Chief.  This didn''t come but way above the colonel.  I get to keep my rank and pay but the message is clear:  Comply or suffer."


    "You had nothing to do with this."


    "As you said, I''m your CO.  I know too much."


    "They can''t do this."


    "Power can do what it likes and right now, it is staring down at all of us.  Don''t give it a reason to react," Lang said.  "Let it go, Alex.  This is a warning: you go loud, they turn up the heat or worse.  So, keep your head down and disappear.  Look on the bright side, you get to start a new life."


    "If they let me."


    Alex pursed her lips and nodded her disappointment.


    "Another thing," he said offhand.  "The commissary said routing for your final pay period was interrupted -- something wrong with your Atlas."


    "What?"


    "It''s inert.  Payroll can''t pay without a working Atlas.  Better fix it right away if I were you."


    "And how do I do that?"  Alex glanced at her forearm.


    "Go to Homeland, Social Identification Division.  There''s an office downtown.  They issue RFID chips there.  Maybe they can fix yours or give you a replacement.  But do it quick.  That should be your number one priority."  An ominous expression he didn''t intend spooked Alex.  "I hope it''s nothing more than a glitch."


    "What do you mean by that?"


    He shook his head.  "Nothing.  Good luck, Marlboro."


    Alex thanked him, shook his hand and left the office feeling strapped.  Their conversation troubled her as she returned to her locker.


    They slapped him down -- transferred Lang to the Indian Ocean -- and he wasn''t even there.  What would they do to us, the ones pulling the triggers, caught bloody-handed?  A sensation told her something awful was waiting to come their way.  It had begun.


    Atlas chips don''t just go bad, she told herself.  If it''s inert it''s because someone wanted it that way.  Someone turned me off.  If this were true, her problems just compounded.  Lang knew more than he let on.


    The chip governed life.  How she bought food, how she accessed electronics and machinery, basic existence depended on the chip.  Her entire history was stored in its memory, her CV, permits, license, financial data, credit score, purchasing pattern, her consuming preferences, and dislikes.  Once her Atlas went dark, she became a nonentity outside civilization with no hope of surviving another day.  Thank God she had Camila as a fallback.


    She slipped into the locker room to get her boxes.


    The monitor in the assembly area was replaying the pictures of the three individuals involved in the Caracas massacre.


    "Mounting international pressure aimed at White House to produce the Caracas trio for questioning has gone unanswered as the two men and one woman remained at large.  Washington refuses their handover, and by extension deny its involvement in Caracas . . ."


    She looked up and saw her profile.  Sick to her stomach, she put on a cap and pulled it over her eyes.  Just as she was about to leave, the rest of the broadcast followed:


    "On local news -- a three-alarm fire on the Landmark 15 Tower has claimed the life of one Ian Moreau, a prominent technology director with fifteen years with TexPax-Yokohama Biotech Division.  Investigations are being held to determine the cause of the gas explosion thought to have caused the conflagration.  Authorities suspected it may be old corroded pipes leaking gas . . . "


    Alex''s chest tightened and she found it hard to breathe, the hairs on her nape standing up as a sense of dread closed in.


    "This can''t be," she mumbled from shock.  Now, what do I do?


    A banging of a nearby locker door made her jump.


    "Leaving for the day?"  A female soldier she hadn''t seen before said, smiling.  The girl was hot, had a bird tattoo on her neck, and was in the wrong place.  This facility was reserved for Team Cerberus and she wasn''t one.  Hell, Cerberus is dead.


    "Yeah, going home."


    "Things are so precarious these days, one day you''re on top of the world, the next you''re dumpster diving."


    Something in her eyes tripped Alex up.  Something artificial and contrived.  "What?"


    "Oh, nothing -- you know the saying about empty promises -- the check''s in the mail, and I won''t blow in your mouth, hehe."  The girl gave a toothy laugh.  "You take care."


    Everything felt wrong all at once.  Alex''s skin tingled.  A claustrophobic unease crept in.  She had to get out of there fast.


    Outside the facility, she faced her first obstacle -- the technological world won''t recognize her without a working chip.  She couldn''t even hail an auto-cab to go downtown and have the blasted thing fixed.


    She tried calling Camila.


    No chip, no signal either.


    The nearest Metro line was five miles away.


    She left the base and jogged on foot.  The run was good to shed all this dark karma off her.


    A few minutes later, she found the underground entrance and descended into the subway station.  Luckily, the revolving gates were only up to her waist.


    She watched for any Metro cops nearby and waited for people to mass and queue before the barrier.  When it got crowded enough, she ran and hopped over the turnstiles to the commuters'' gasps and shouts, her face hidden from the cameras.  It was a snap.  For the first time in a while, she felt like a rogue again.

 Book 1 - Chapter 25

    Nestled within the DMV was Adam''s Apple, the place to be if debauchery was what you had in mind.  The club attracted a lot of local talent, many of whom had menus for their unique nocturnal services.  Here, everything under the howling moon was negotiable.  A dozen huge bouncers manned the ropes outside or watched the crowded interior.


    Past the door into the ambient atrium, several raised dance stages dominated the main floor.  From below, the dancers seemed taller and sleeker, offering those seated their best angles and generous peeks.  An iconic rotating disco ball from the ceiling deflected green and red lasers shooting from the far walls, the beams exploding into multi-fractals.  In the backroom, feminine silhouettes in black smoky lights, intertwined under an Eden theme of a holographic tree, apple, and snake.  For those seeking a more intimate venue beyond the generic lap dance, stereoscopic hook-ups with synchronized scent-organ accompaniment were available to stimulate senses outside the human experience.  They offered heightened states of eroto-phoria no drugs could induce.


    Most nights, the main floor was standing-room-only with the local yokels.  The crowd was mostly businessmen -- you could tell them easy enough -- out-of-shape pasty executives with corporate logos stuck to their man-boobs.  Tonight, the fief Affiliates were loose, deigning to share the air with the cultural and economic trash.  Representatives of the energy, software, medical, electronics, and even the soft drink industry were there to unwind after a conference ended.  In Megacity East, aka the MCE, all corporate affairs were endemic and reserved for Affiliates of AEL unless it received an allowance to contract with extramural business.  In other megacities like the GCE -- Greater Chicago Expanse -- or Emerald City, AKA Francis-Jose of North California, the paramountcy model was adopted in much the same way within those protective enclaves.  Individual companies didn''t worry about competition outside their fief market.  Their job was to produce.  Decisions to expand or defend market shares rested with the collective under paramountcy leadership.  Being an Affiliate was akin to having a ticket on a super-liner, riding in comfort and protection with all-you-can-eat and drink.


    A group of middle-aged men, unremarkable in every respect, sat in the half-moon booth of the VIP Lounge with six dancers and spending big.  Other men accompanied them, those with unamused looks, company bodyguards in crumpled suits.  Hard cash and hard liquor flowed in abundance, exchanged for erotic aesthetic and tactile titillation, cozy relationships these girls depended on and valued.


    Warchild had joined T-Bone for a different purpose.  The former wanted somewhere he could soak his raw nerve, someplace that deflected his pain at least for a few hours.  T-Bone sought a similar place of distraction as well, where he could feed his libido.  While the younger T-Bone was ebullient, Warchild was morose, unable to shake his visible glumness.


    "Yo, what''s the matter, man?  You''re bringing me way down," T-Bone said, shaking the older man.  "Look at all the talents here.  You''re letting them go to waste."


    Warchild shrugged.


    "They''re guaranteed to blow your mind and rocks off.  How bout you lighten up?"


    "I''m all right," Warchild replied in a sour manner.


    "You don''t look it, cabr¨®n.  Get your head out of that shit. Happens to everyone, me included.  You don''t see me crying ''bout it."  T-Bone turned Warchild toward a blond making her way from table to table.  "How ''bout her?  Oh, hurt me."


    Warchild leaned forward, a remorseful look on his face, putting a hand on the younger man''s shoulder.  He wanted to say something soulful to T-Bone but backed off.  "I better go.  Not cool to drag on you."


    "What are you going back to, jefe?  Move on, man."


    "Intend to.  Watch your ass."  A strange warning.


    "She can have it."  T-Bone smiled and waved Warchild off.


    Alone in the VIP area, T-Bone immersed himself in a nor-amphetamine euphoria without any baggage.  Normally, this private corner was roped off to nobodies.  Except now, he had a trump card -- he was famous.  Young and full of aggressive energy, he didn''t care about the scrutiny.  He relished it.  Tonight, his star shined in this corner of paradise.


    The exquisite girl took his invitation and sat down next to him, the cream of femininity no straight man could resist -- early twenties, tall, lithe, blonde, and with a face that would free her from all responsibilities.  These days, some girls were not born but made.  Inside, many were boys altered in every way to become ultimate Barbie fantasies.


    T-Bone ordered a stiff drink to settle a surprising anxiety.  When he first saw her on the dance floor, from afar, the tight dress advertised a healthy chest and an athletic body.  She snubbed the three-deep circle of rich businessmen and gravitated toward him.  She''d snuck a gentle smile through, tentative and distant as their eyes met.  Some duffus offered to buy her a drink.  She declined with a coquettish smile and a shake of her head.  Another tried talking to her; another asked her to dance.  She rebuffed them all.  She played with him from across the room, nursing her glass and sending out silent messages to him, which drove him wild.  He was damn glad Warchild had left, leaving him to his heady business.  Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.


    "Help, can''t breathe," he managed his most direct come-on, summoning all his wiles and charm.


    "Why is that?"  She cooed with a bright grin.


    "You took my breath away."


    "How old is that line?"


    "Did it work?"


    There wouldn''t be a sarcastic remark followed by a back turn -- not here.  Not tonight.  The sensuous sound of her voice moved over him, like silk on his skin.


    "Oh, most definitely," she said flashing her perfect smile that made him stiffen.


    At this moment, he''d forgotten his name.


    A slow ballad came on cue.  "Do you dance?"


    "I''d love to."


    Her touch was warm, her skin carmine, not synthetic and pasty.  And there were no micro lines of implants.  She appeared organic, at least on the outside.  Sub-dermal was a different matter.


    He''d managed not to step on her toes while she glided with grace.  She brushed his bulge with her thighs from a few innocent pelvic thrusts.


    "What''s that on your neck?"  He asked, making conversation about her tattoo.


    "Oh, that''s my dragon.  She whispers in my ear."


    "What does it say?"


    "If I should like you or not."


    "I''m very lovable, you''ll see."  He trembled like a teenager, flushed with heat.


    After some heart-pounding minutes of close dancing, the pair grabbed a table in the VIP section, okay-ed by the headman to the bouncer guarding the lounge.  T-Bone ordered more drinks as they chewed the language of strip-joint romance.  She straddled him and unbuttoned his shirt.  She glanced at his stomach, washboard and bare.  He reached up into her tight dress, found the dental floss she wore and felt her wetness.


    The drinks arrived by a waitress who interrupted the pair.  The girl grabbed them both.  "Let''s go upstairs," she breathed into his ear.


    He panted an affirmative, fumbled to roll up his sleeve for a debit scan, a deer in headlights.  She surprised him by paying instead, took the drinks and beckoned him with her smile.  Captivated, he watched her from behind, heady in her scent.


    Upstairs held rooms with locks -- the private suites.


    T-Bone threw off his clothing while she was in the bathroom freshening up.


    When at last the girl emerged from the lavatory, her nakedness silhouetted against the light behind her took his breath away, her breasts far more prominent than the short dress had allowed.  A goddess!


    She had a tall drink he had bought for her, her fingers trailing up and down the frosty glass.  She offered it to him.  Without breaking his gaze at her, he gulped it down.


    "Come," she said embracing him while feeling his member against her inner thighs.


    "Tell me what you like."


    "Just leave it to me, love."  She descended to her knees and took him in her mouth.  At first, he thought it must have been the ecstasy clouding his mind, but a few seconds later, his vision blurred into grayness.


    Finally, into delicious oblivion.


    She caught his collapse and dragged him to the bed.  After rinsing out her mouth in the bathroom and slinking back into her tube dress, she unlocked the door.  Outside waiting were three men with huge valises, two of them the same guys at the bar who had hit on her.


    They studied her work, looking at the nude man sprawled out on the bed.


    "He''s alive?"


    "Out like a baby," she said.


    "Good way to go."


    "We sure he''s one of them?"  The first man said.


    "Better be or I''d wasted my charm and the twins on a stranger," she said.


    "It''s him," said the third man, tall and thin, closing the door behind him.  "Get to work."


    "How long do we have?" the second man asked.


    "One hour," she said.  "Then they will want the room."


    "You know what to do, Casper.  Move it."


    "How''s the bathroom?"


    "Tub, like you wanted," she said.  "It''s heart-shaped for two."


    "No sweat, I''ll melt him."


    Two of the men picked up T-Bone, one by his ankles, the other his armpits and brought him to the bath.  The third cracked open the suitcases.  Inside were gloves, gas masks, linoleum sheets and two large five-gallon jugs marked with skull-n-crossbones.  Warning labels had H2SO4 stenciled on the bottle.


    "Good night, sleep tight," Lockheart said looking at the body.  He turned to her.  "You don''t need to be here.  They got this."


    She shrugged, looking at T-Bone, a sadness in her eyes.


    "And thanks," Lockheart said.  "Hate that you had to do this, Schatzi."


    "Es hat Spa? gemacht."


    "Not too much fun, I hope."  He seized her bottom, pulling her into him.


    She broke off his embrace.  "I''m off to our second engagement.  The night''s young."


    "I''ll find you shortly."  He winked.


    She smiled and left the private suite.


    Lockheart returned to check on progress in the bathroom.  He found them hunched over the tub, each man wearing a full face-mask.  They gave him thumbs up.  Lockheart turned on the overhead air vent.


    Casper unscrewed the cap of the caramel-colored jug and poured it on the naked body in the tub.  The moment the liquid touched skin, it hissed as the tissue crackled, spewing hot acidic aerosol.  On contact, the dermis began to blacken into a carbon residue of charred meat.  Under a minute, the consuming acid exposed white bone.


    "Whew," breathed the man with the jug, examining the disintegration of bone.  "That''s some concentrated shit."


    "You two stay here and make sure you pull the drain," Lockheart said to the cleaners, covering his nose and mouth.  "And bleach everything."


    "No worries."


    "When you''re done, take the stairs out the back.  You know where to go after?"


    "The Black Irish, right behind ya."

 Book 1 - Chapter 26

    A quiet dive bar was preferable to a raucous sexually-charged club, somewhere Warchild hadn''t been before.  No one would recognize him here.  In this rundown part of the DMV, a drink hovel stood on every block corner to succor the wretched, and to relieve the dregs the last of their creds.  The spurting neon clover outside had a name underneath -- Black Irish.


    From the outlook, the pub might be a favorite among the local working class.  It was a no-nonsense drinking hole, frequented by the wearied and the have-nots.  A place such as this offered refuge, at least for a few hours from their apathetic spouses and asshole bosses.


    Warchild pushed past the doorman who gave him a once over.


    The interior was dark, just how he liked it.  The coolness soothed his mental anguish.  The lighting overhead was yellow and tired.  Rows of colored bottles, none labeled, decorated a long foggy mirror that took up the entire length of the dive.  The place reeked of stale beer and was thin of patrons.


    Warchild made his way to the bar.


    "What''d you have," grunted the barkeep, a fat man wearing a stained apron, drying a mug with a dirty rag, his bald scalp glistening from recessed LEDs.


    "Strongest proof you got."


    "I got just the thing.  It''s homemade."


    "I don''t care, keep ''em coming."


    The barman eyed him.  "Bad day?"


    Warchild nodded.  "Yeah, a string of bad luck.  You serving or what?"


    The fat man hesitated, then reached for a low ball and a bottle of clear liquid.


    "Lose the glass."  Warchild stuck out his arm for the barkeep to debit his account.  The scanner''s blinker stayed on red.


    "Something wrong with your chip?" The barman asked.


    "Nothing wrong, Hoss."


    "Well, it ain''t accepting the charge."


    "Swipe it again."


    A second time didn''t help; the scanner stayed red.


    "No green, no jelly bean," the bartender said, taking back his bug juice.


    "Here, this is worth something."  Warchild unscrewed his wedding ring and tossed it to the barkeep.  "It''s platinum."


    The barman weighed it in his hand, then passed Warchild the bottle.


    In one motion, Warchild tilted the nozzle down his throat.  In seven gurgles, he''d drained the content down to its neck.


    The barman stood transfixed, his mouth wide in amazement.


    "Either you got a hole in your gut, or I''m serving root beer.  Some trick you did."


    "It''s in the blood, man," Warchild said without missing a beat.


    "Yeah, I''m Irish too . . . but I can''t drink like that.  No one can."


    "Another."


    "Now listen--"


    "Go on.  I''ll let you know when I''m done."


    "Go kill yourself elsewhere, buddy.  Not in my place."


    Warchild lashed out and grabbed the fat man''s arm.  The grip was vice-like.


    "All right, all right, it''s your life, whack job."


    It was the nastiest swill Warchild ever tasted, most likely distilled in the back and cut with methanol.  But he didn''t care.  He waited for the warmth to flood his cheeks and a soothing to fill the hole that was his life, feeding the bitterness, restoring color to the surrounding grayness.  If he could, he''d climb in the bottle and never emerge.


    As he emptied the second fifth, nearby conversations wafted toward him from a group of four local yokels.  Talk was about the same two things everywhere: politics and poverty.


    "Oh yeah?  They''re talking about closing down the plant, cause we''re obsolete."


    "Shh, keep your voice down.  You wanna get dinged?"


    "I''m an Unaffiliate, so are you.  What can they do, keep us poor?  We''re already outcasts."


    "I might apply for a work visa with Midland."


    "Yeah? I hear parts of the GCE are ghost towns."


    "Dust-bowl Detroit too, miles of it."


    "Then get useful.  Get more training under your belt.  We technicians work and eat."


    "800 million mouths is too many to feed, man.  We need some kind of population control.  You control people -- through their stomachs."


    "Why don''t you ask the 2.5 billion Chinese how they do it?  No kidding around over there.  You steal anything -- zap.  You say anything -- zap." The speaker made a mock shaking from being tased with a lethal charge.  "Then night cremation.  I was a contractor there once."The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    "Is that so?"


    "Once a population gets into the Bs, life loses value."  He gulped his beer.  "Yeah, scratch a million, that''s chump change compare to 2.5 billion."


    "We''re far from that number here."


    "They say in ten years, we cross the B mark in North America.  Then all hell''s loose."


    "It''s already loose, you idiot," cried the loudest drunk.  "Trust in the paramountcies, brothers.  Arbeit macht frei -- Work and be free.  What a crock of shit."


    The group nodded furiously while downing their swill.


    "You come from shit, cause you weren''t born in the right caste or go to the right school."  He spat on the floor.  "We toil for them, so they could build their towers to keep us out."


    Warchild looked away.  The misery club bothered him.  The words seeping in, breaking up the lovely haze, and keeping him sober.


    He almost missed a new gaggle of customers entering, then his training took over.   With a quick glance, he picked up four men, younger than the locals, fitter, and among them was a firefly -- an irresistible female lure.


    She had an immediate effect.


    The locals stopped talking for a second to notice the newcomers taking a table in the far corner, then resumed their griping.


    Warchild didn''t turn but he could feel eyes on him.


    In no time, the firefly wandered up to the bar to order drinks for her guys.   The conversation of the locals paused, necks craned to ogle the strutting talent.  She oozed confidence and a sexual magnetism even he found compelling enough to glance over.


    Warchild returned to his bottle.  But he missed nothing, his mind still clear, and curious.  What are you after, girl?


    A wiser voice answered in his head -- If you haven''t spotted the chump, then you are the chump, a lesson he learned long ago.  Stop it.  He shook the thought away and returned to the drinking, agreed it was the stupid training that was out of place in civilian life.


    But was it stupid?


    She shifted to him, giving him a curious smile.  "Rough day?"


    Warchild returned a fake grin.


    "That''s his second bottle," the bartender said to the girl.  "What will you have?"


    She gave him her order for five: four lite beers and a glass of cranberry for her.  No ice.  A strange combo, Warchild wondered, the alcohol content from all five barely equaled one gulp from his.


    And again, she turned to him.  "Two bottles and you''re still standing?"


    Definitely a looker, ripe lips, glowing skin, long-lashed green eyes, a diamond in a pile of pebbles, he thought, sure of who she was.  The chick just didn''t belong in a shit hole like this.  This sty was for the abused, the overused, and the obtuse.  She''d have been home in a high tower, luxuriating in silk and hobnobbing with paramount Affiliates, fingering champagne flutes.  Not down here with the have-shit mud boys.


    "I''m Angie.  You are?"


    "Still sober," Warchild said dismissively.  He knew better than waste his time.  Her iris waxed in brightness, telling him they were synthetic -- high-end ocular implants.  A firefly this perfect had to be artificial, the spanking new body a dead giveaway.  Girls like her he can''t afford anyhow.  "Nice tattoo."


    She touched her neck.  "It''s my little dragon.  You know what he whispers to me?"  She leaned in closer.


    He cut her off just in case she had ideas.  "That I don''t have money?"


    She straightened up, her eagerness suddenly turned obscene.


    Warchild smirked.  "My bad, unless it''s for free."


    "I''m no whore, buster." She bristled with righteousness, pulled down her micro skirt as if the leather were elastic, and glared at him with murderous eyes.  "Go to hell."


    Warchild nodded, agreeing with her.  He was there right now.


    The girl slipped back to her crew with their drinks, ego bruised and spiteful.  He saw from the mirror she whispered something to the men.


    Shit, there goes another angry woman.  He was better off alone.


    "Yo, bartender," Warchild called out and pointed at his empty bottle.  "Keep it coming."


    "No, you''re done.  I''m cutting you off."


    "What do you care?  The ring I gave you is worth at least three more bottles.  Come on, hand over the shit or the ring.  I ain''t leaving, Hoss."


    The barman passed him a square bottle and tapped out the sale.  Warchild burped loud enough to show his disdain.


    "Him?  He said what?"  A male gruff voice wafted over.  "Oy!"


    Warchild ignored the challenge.


    He glanced in the mirror -- the four men at the back table had gotten up and were heading his way.  They surrounded him.  He noticed the details now: they wore loose comfortable utilities, nothing constricting.  Their hands rough.  But their eyes revealed much more.  No fear.  Much aggression.  And purpose.


    They looked hard at Warchild -- measuring him.


    Towering over 6''2", the alpha male of the group made his way over.  Thick barrel chest, spiky hair, cranial implants, bioware heavy, cybernetic shards breaking his skin.  Aussie accent.


    "Oy, I''m talking to you, mate."


    Warchild took a swig from the bottle, hoping that the swallow would change the scenery.


    The snub didn''t sit well.


    "What the fuck -- Lookie here boys, he insults our sheila, then turns his back on us," the big Aussie said, stirring up his posse.  "That hurt our feelings, don''t it boys?"


    Angie the firefly grinned instead, whispering to the bruiser.  Most girls would be incensed, and loud.  Her calculative silence told Warchild all he needed to know.


    The big Aussie suddenly poked him on the neck and growled.  "Oy, you will answer me, cunt."


    Warchild looked straight ahead at the mirror.  "Go away."  As he brought the bottle to his mouth, the man swatted it from him, sending it careening across the floor.


    "All right, break it up." The bartender waved the bouncer over.


    The latter took three steps and stopped.  The doorman was no heavyweight, everyone could see.  He was paunchy and carried no standout tech; he was unaccustomed to real violence.  He turned to Warchild and said, "Come on, let''s go, mister.  Else you get the collar.  Cops won''t be so polite."


    "That''s aright, we''ll take the bloke off your hands, eh?" the Aussie said.


    Warchild scowled at the big man.  "I ain''t your guy."


    "Get him out of here."  The fat owner behind the bar snapped his fingers at the reluctant bouncer to do his job.  The latter approached tentatively, wary of the circle of men.


    "Up you go, buddy."  The doorman took Warchild''s arm.


    "Fine," Warchild said, teetering, the alcohol finally having an effect and imparting a discomfort in his bladder.  "Pisser first."  He got up from his stool, made a show to stumble to the washroom.


    "Go with him," the bartender ordered his cooler.  "And make sure he leaves."


    Warchild pushed open the lavatory door and sauntered up to the middle urinal next to the stalls while the bouncer waited behind him with arms crossed.  The bathroom was small with four stalls arranged opposite two washer-bowls.


    "You gonna help me hold it?" Warchild teased.


    "Hurry up."


    As he shook it off and zipped up, the door opened.  And no surprise, in walked the same four led by the big Aussie who thumbed to the guard.


    "Beat it, mate.  We got business with ''im."


    The bouncer didn''t try to argue, seeing vicious blades in their hands.  He took off past them out of the pisser.


    "Those for me?"  Warchild said, playing the drunk.  "This isn''t over the girl, is it?  Cause if it is, then I''m sorry.  I didn''t mean nothing."


    The burly Aussie grinned, one tooth glinting gold.


    "No, mate, ain''t about her."  The Aussie brought up his knife, an eleven-inch carbon-fiber Bowie knife with serrated edges. His buddies had their blades out too.


    "Dumb-ass, I''m the wrong guy to mess with."  It didn''t matter what he said.  They weren''t going to listen.


    "First, I''m gonna gut you, then I''m gonna cut out your face and take your fingers.  And nobody in Hades will know who you are tonight, mate."


    Warchild removed his belt, wrapping it around his left forearm.  He had one thing going for him -- the washroom was narrow enough that only one attacker at a time could come at him.

 Book 1 - Chapter 27

    Rotter entered the Black Irish, and at once noticed something was off.  The doorman had a startled look on his face, glancing at the fat bartender then back as if he were seeking permission to let this customer in.   The doorman stepped aside.


    Yet, the place was empty.  The locals had cleared out when he came in.  "What, is there a drunk convention down the block?" Rotter joked, hoping to draw some laughter.


    The barman continued cleaning a glass mug.


    Rotter looked around for Warchild and walked up to the barkeep.  "Hey, I''m looking for a friend of mine.  Supposed to meet him here."


    An eerie feeling crept into Rotter, making his scalp itch.  Then he saw the girl sitting at the table, the only customer he could tell.  And a real stunner at that.


    She got up and approached him with a magnetic smile, "What does he look like?"


    "Regular looking guy, this high."


    "Lemme guess, dark and handsome, six-feet, two hundred, short hair, early thirties?"


    "He ain''t handsome, but yeah, something like that."  Damn, did Warchild dial-in with this chick?


    "I think he might be in the back," she said, glancing at the barman who nodded quickly.


    "Can I get you something?" The barman rushed the order, a little too eager.


    "Yeah, strongest stuff you got."


    "You Irish too?"  The bartender reached for the bottle under the mirror.


    "Penn Dutch, baby.  Why?"  Rotter raised an eyebrow.  Weird question.


    "Your friend downed two bottles."  The girl was quick to answer.  "Didn''t look too good after."


    "Yeah, trouble with the wife," Rotter said and winked at her.  "You are?"


    "I''m Angie," she cooed.


    "Hello, my sweet angel," Rotter said, taking her hand.


    A muffled groan came from the lavatory.


    Rotter perked his ears.  "Must have taken it hard.  You stay right there, sweetness, I''ll be back after I check on my friend."


    "Not going anywhere, darlin''," she grinned, a darkness emanating from her pupils.


    Rotter made his way toward the bathroom door alongside a small hallway.  "Hey, you all right, man?"  He pushed open the door and the sight he saw stunned him.Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.


    A big spiky blond man lay on the floor.  Another had his head in the cracked urinals.  Warchild was hanging on the light fixture from the ceiling, fifteen-feet off the ground, his feet walking the top of the stall walls.  The remaining two dudes turned to Rotter.


    This shouldn''t be a contest in any measure.  Warchild could have taken ten men with little effort.  Yet, he held back, balancing on top of the stalls.


    Rotter was about to finish what Warchild started when he felt a white-hot pain seared into his lower back.  Somebody had jumped on his back -- the girl from the bar.   She wrapped her long legs around his waist, and held on, stabbing him repeatedly.  He twirled and kicked like a bronco, trying to throw her off.  But she rode him, gripping him tighter between her legs.  He crashed her against the wall, but the impact failed to dislodge her.  In return, she gored him again repeatedly, slicing into his collarbone and just missing his jugular by inches.  He bucked and spun to get her off, but her legs held on.


    Then someone had her, ripped her off him, and flung her into the main room.  It was Warchild.


    The girl landed on her feet with uncanny feline agility.  That was when Rotter saw her hands.  She carried no edged weapon, but black jagged things protruded from her fingertips.  They were more like hooks or claws, combat implants he was well acquainted with.  She smiled, licked her lips and took off for the door, along with the two males, leaving the big Aussie and another behind.


    Rotter leaned against the wall, breathing heavily.  The beauty had inflicted three puncture wounds he could tell -- a deep pain in his lower back, another burning in his right rib cage, and lacerated collarbone, his shirt and skin wet with blood.


    Warchild helped him limp toward the main room.  The fat owner, wide-eyed in horror, backed off.  The doorman was gone.


    Warchild clutched the proprietor by his throat.  "You set us up!"


    "I didn''t know those people, honest," he stammered, raising his hands.  "You gotta believe me."


    The barkeep was many things, but he wasn''t vicious enough to do this, or smart enough.


    Warchild hissed, "I want towels.  You''re gonna stop his bleeding or I stop your breathing.  Understand?"


    "I got a medkit in the back."  The owner shuffled into his office.


    "Who are those fuckers?" Rotter asked in searing pain.  "Did you see her hands?  She got the same -- "


    "Shh, take it easy.  Sit."


    "Hot chicks know how to hurt you, don''t they?" Rotter turned to examine his wounds.  "This isn''t something out of the blue.  And they don''t look amateur, Ken.  What did you do?  You owe money?  This a mob hit?"


    "Spaghetti boys don¡¯t have claws.  And they''re not after just me."


    "How do you know this?" Rotter grimaced, trying to settle into a comfortable position.


    "Let''s get you out of here first," Warchild urged.


    "I want answers.  Those two assholes in the bathroom got answers," Rotter said, thumbing toward the bathroom.  He contorted in pain once his butt touched a chair.  "I say we go shake it out of them."


    "And if they return?" Warchild said.  "Look at you, you''re a bloody mess."


    "I bleed for love."


    "Get serious, moron.  We need to scram."


    The bar owner returned with a gauze bandage and disinfectant.  Rotter grimaced as he sloughed off his tattered shirt.  The fat man examined the wounds and said, "Hmm, bleeding has already stopped.  Maybe the cuts weren''t so deep."


    "Oh, it''s deep enough." Rotter winced.


    "You''re gonna need stitches, son.  There''s an Emergency Care Facility''s near here."


    "No hospital," Warchild said quickly.  "Sterilize the wounds and bandage him up.  And give him a new shirt.  Do that and we''ll be out of your hair."


    "Gladly."  The fat man wrapped the gauze around Rotter''s waist where the wounds were vicious.


    "I need your phone," Warchild demanded.


    The fat man sighed. "Here, take the damn thing."


    "Why do you need his phone?" Rotter asked.


    "Because my Atlas is inert.  And I bet yours is too."


    Rotter looked at his forearm, piecing things together.


    "We done?" The bartender whined.


    "My ring, I want it back."


    "I hope it brings you everlasting bad luck."


    "Already has."


    "I''m calling the cops after you two leave.  So get moving."

 Book 1 - Chapter 28

    Adams Morgan, a renowned neighborhood in the DMV, was no stranger to riots.  The last burning had left many buildings in this neighborhood blackened and broken.  When fief-induced austerity rolled in and money dried up, they left the ruins marred and abandoned.  The colorful culture once notable in these parts had taken on a sinister tone.  Another kind of clientele had moved into 18th Street -- the tech boosters, amp-juice dealers, organ peddlers, and the harvester gangs.  Adams Morgan had become a toxic latrine.  And so many turds in one place had brought in private security goons and police stooges.  Armed relay posts now stood guard every half-mile in this enclave.


    Screaming sirens from police hover-patrols overhead faded with distance.  In this part of the capital, protesters mobbed the streets, trudging about like wraiths dressed in some variety of Obscura.  Four years ago, the couture appeared in Paris, Tokyo, then New York.  Fashionistas said the trend was a protest statement on the sub-human condition of the plebeian mass compared to the lavish lives of the fief-lords.  Paranoid anarchists said it was against the security culture prevalent in many of the world''s cities where everyone was monitored.  No one knew for sure which subculture or ism had inspired it.  Now, it was no longer fashion; it was a basic necessity.  Men and women wore face-shields or hid parts of their faces in spray-on face paint, fabric, or veils, and under hoods.


    The air smelled of ozone after a heavy downpour.  Porsche walked past a curved building splashed with graffiti.  Onlookers took no notice of her -- she was just another figure in an oversize hooded raincoat.  And she was armed.  More than the weapons, she held a dangerous confidence that deterred thieves and brigands.  Predators had a sixth sense whether prey was easy or not.


    Fifty yards ahead of Porsche was her new assignment -- the walking brick wall was hard to miss.  This one had acquired notoriety, an unneeded distraction in Porsche''s line of work.  Fame in all forms was no different from a toilet whirlpool, sucking in all kinds of bad shit.  This play was becoming too high profile.  You should have walked.


    Porsche cursed her avarice.  And DeWitt.  He knew her buttons better than she did.  He''d dangled the pouch like a lure and she''d bitten down hard.  The bait was too juicy to ignore; she was closer to the elusive fuck-you money than ever, a stash large enough she could do anything she wanted -- retire and disappear for good.  She was aware of the attached risk, now higher than ever.  Uncle wanted to find Lockheart, with whom she was desperate to avoid entangling.  And in front of her was the looming amazonian, her only lead to the Sandman.


    Porsche followed Marlboro from the Metro stop into raucous Adams Morgan.


    Ahead, clusters of lights amassed around tents as if a circus had laid down stakes here.  18th Street was no longer an open road.  A tent city for ''AM gypsies'', lit under crisscrossing strings of bootleg lights, sat hemmed in by Columbia and Champlain.


    Marlboro moved fast in a straight line.  Something had spooked her and quickened her pace.  Instinct told Porsche to fall back just enough to maintain a line of sight.


    Ahead, an angry crowd chanted and beat makeshift drums.  The protesters held bullhorns standing on statue mounds crying out their message of injustice and reform, while the mass chorused their responses.


    The big girl quick-stepped into a jog, moving between gaggles of people with ease.


    Damn.  To keep up, Porsche risked being seen.  Just then she caught quick movements across the street -- two men in a mass of people also hurried their strides, betraying their cover.  She almost missed them -- would have if they hadn''t picked up the pace as she was about to do.


    Porsche wasn''t the only shadow.  There were other hunters.  They looked professional, could be the same night visitors who''d knocked on Moreau''s door.  By luck, she spotted two of them.  But seldom was there just one pair.  A standard surveillance box employed a second pair covering the other side of the street.  And a third wouldn''t be far.


    Footsteps shortened, coming up fast behind her.  She could hear a commotion just over her shoulder, someone pushing through the crowd.  She veered off to visit a kiosk.


    "Hi, how much is this?" She asked the vendor pretending to be interested in his wares.


    Two men in raincoats rushed by, one brushing her right shoulder as he passed, one mouthing words she couldn''t hear into comms, their attention locked onto her amazonian fifty yards ahead.  But they screwed up.  Their myopia had missed Porsche.


    Confirm.  She glanced at the crowd, trying to catch the telltale signs of recognition, and found none.  She wasn''t on the menu.


    Porsche waited at the kiosk for a minute, oblivious to what the vendor was selling.  Sure there were no more tails behind her, she picked up her pace, keeping under neon advertisements and billboards that hissed and crackled with static.  One sign flashed on and off with bright neon -- Report All Suspicious Activities: a message from Homeland Security.  Another banged away with audio, its sounds warping from punctured speakers -- Do Your Part: Pride in cleanliness.


    The rabbit was going home, less than a mile away.


    Porsche knew the address.  Aware the others were ahead of her, she decided to close the distance and zigzagged through conjoining street alleys, keeping in mind the direction of the townhouse.  Caution screamed for her to abandon the pursuit with good cause -- she had no clue the number of bandits on Marlboro''s trail or their intentions.  Yet, the danger drew her forward irresistibly.


    And with each step she took, a looming decision crept closer.  The dilemma visited her once again . . . Watch or act.This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.


    * * *


    Alex arrived home to the rental duplex she and Camila shared.  They had the upper floor, the townhouse owner the ground level.  Alex flung open the front door, startling Camila who was wearing only her silk robe.


    "What are you doing home?"


    "My Atlas isn''t working.  So, they sent me home."  All true so far.


    She kept the chip deactivation to herself for now.


    Alex smiled and kissed her.  "I love you."  She held up a brave face.  Deep down, she was gasping for air.


    "What''s happened?" Her lover sensed something.


    "Nothing."


    "I have a fun idea," Camila said, brightening.


    "What''s that?"


    "Why don''t we go away?  Just pack up and maybe never return."


    "Baby, where would we go?"


    "There''s a whole continent we can explore.  Apply for a Midland visa.  We can live off the land in Montana or Minnesota.  You can fish and hunt and I can cook whatever you bring home.  That''s romantic."  Camila squeezed her.  "Just like the wagon trails in those old western movies."


    "That''s a tough life, mi amore.  I can do it if I have to, but you wouldn''t last more than a week before screaming to return to electricity and running water, and your electric shaver."


    Camila pushed her playfully.  "Hey, you like me smooth."  She disrobed and stood naked in front of the mirror and sighed.  "Now I got to get dressed."


    Alex enjoyed watching her girlfriend get ready for work.  Always had.  And Camila knew it. Freegin'' women, all the same, no matter how you flip them.  Even ones whose chromosomes said they were born with different plumbing.  Alex discovered Camila''s truth early into their relationship and it enticed her even more.  It was the rage to swap out your gender and go on the wild side for a month or so and return anytime you want.   ''Why get locked into one boring existence'' the ad-service had crowed about the painful gender morphing procedure: as easy as putting on clothes.  But many took the perm route once they discovered they liked their new selves and refused to revert.  Take a beautiful boy and snip off his frank and beans, buy him a silicone rack -- and she was standing there bitching about lipstick and clothes, or staring herself for hours in the bathroom mirror with her rear-end hanging out.  But how Alex enjoyed the routine, watching Camila laser her eyelids with precision-paint, the topo-laser spraying a thin blue tint below her eyebrows and layered in a shade of pink over the lids.  Heck, there was a goddess prancing around blessing the floor with her underwear.


    That''s why I love the little slut so much.


    "I have something to tell you," Alex said, stroking Camila''s hair, turning her around.


    "Uh-huh?"


    But here and now seemed brusque and improper.  She should wait for tonight.  Alex could only kiss her neck to fill in the disquieting gap.  "Never mind."  The kissing became passionate.


    "Can''t."  Camila pushed herself away.  "No time.  But my shift ends early at nine."


    "Oh, you tease," Alex said, slapping her butt.


    "Hey," Camila feigned protest and laughed.  She danced her way to the shower, wiggling suggestively.  "Only if we had time . . ."


    "We could, you know." Alex followed her to the shower stall.


    "No, alone."  Camila giggled.  "Save it for tonight."


    "Okay," Alex said, her heart in her throat.  "I''ll get something scrumptious for us to eat.  Can you duck out early?"


    "I will for sure."


    "Go on then, you cow.  Get in the shower."


    Alex went to the living room, reached into her liquor stash and fished out a big bottle of clear alcohol.  She unscrewed the metal cap and filled a tall cup to the rim.  The TV was on to occupy her.


    There were other programs she could watch to kill time, but she returned to the news like an addict.  Reports banged away about the death toll from riots in Caracas and elsewhere, numbers unverified but estimated to be in the hundreds stemming from last night''s fighting.  Chaos floated in the air, closing on her.


    Alex turned it off and cursed herself for watching.


    With her Atlas inert, she was unhooked for a few hours of peace.  Peace, who was she kidding?  By turning off her Atlas, someone had drawn first blood.


    As she gulped down the clear liquid, she heard a chime.  She hadn''t gotten used to hearing the doorbell in the new place.   Ping, the doorbell rang a second time.


    Through her hand terminal, she saw what the door camera captured.  Two cops in uniform stood beneath the camera lens, looking up.


    "Yes?" Alex spoke into her hand-held.


    "Metro PD, open up," the first cop replied, a tall pockmarked man.


    "Let me see your badges."


    Their chest shields looked official -- but the badges could be toys from cereal boxes for all she knew.  Compelled to obey, she slid off the chain.


    "What can I do for you officers?"


    "You Alexis Marlboro?"


    "Yup."


    "We got a complaint about you jumping a Metro turnstile," the pockmarked cop said.


    "You kidding?"


    "We have you on camera."


    "You mixed me up with someone else."


    "You''re under arrest, Alexis Marlboro.  Please turn around."  Cop 2, a pudgy fellow with narrow eyes, produced handcuffs from his belt.


    Alex backed away, refusing to comply.


    Just then, Camila emerged from the bedroom in a long shirt three-buttons opened.


    "What''s going on here?" Camila demanded, scowling.


    "We''re taking your girlfriend in, miss," Cop 1 said.


    "On what charge?"


    "Public theft."  The pudgy cop leered at her, making her close her shirt.


    "This is wrong," Alex snapped, sensing danger.  "Get the hell out."


    "You can''t throw us out," Pudgy said.


    "You got a warrant?" Camila demanded.


    "Don''t need one."


    "Go and call the cops," Alex said, retreating and gesturing for Camila to make for the bedroom.


    "We are the cops."


    "No fucking way," Alex said.  First her Atlas, now this.  "I ain''t going nowhere with you fake cops."


    "We could do this the easy way -- or the very hard way," Cop 2 said, his hand moving to the Taser holster.  "Your choice.  Personally, I like the bumpy road."


    "Bring it on."  Alex squared her stance.


    Pockmarked cop cued his body mic, tilted his head and spoke, "We got a problem.  Better come up."


    "Now you''ve done it," Pudgy said to the girls with a creepy grin.


    "Lock the door!"  Alex yelled out to Camila, putting herself between her girlfriend and the men.


    Camila raced to the bedroom and slammed the door.  A click of the lock satisfied Alex -- but it won''t hold for long.  The door is cracker-thin.  Get out through the window -- please.


    Just then two men in great overcoats appeared at the front door.  One carried two huge valises and placed them on the floor.  She heard glass clinking within.


    "What''s that for?" Alex said, eying the ominous suitcases.


    "That''s for you," Pudgy replied with an icy grin.


    "You want to take me, fine.  But you let her go," Alex said.  "I won''t resist."


    The two cops and the luggage man circled Alex.  They produced stun sticks instead of firearms.  She knew why.  No mess, no evidence.


    "The girlfriend''s in there," the pockmarked man spoke to his buddy.  "Go get her."


    "You said nothing about a second body."


    "You''re the cleaners," Cop 1 said.  "So clean."


    "We don''t have enough shit for two more bodies."  He skirted around the circle and made for the bedroom.


    "No, stop!" Alex pleaded with outstretched hands.  "Do whatever you want with me.  Just leave her alone."


    "Sorry babe, wrong place, wrong time," Cop 1 said.  "Should have come quietly."

 Book 1 - Chapter 29

    Porsche neared the row house, but stayed on the far side of the street, using passing crowds for cover.  She spotted two men guarding the alcove of the two-story duplex.  The others were inside, surely, the Sandman among them, she dreaded.


    She skirted the building and found a back entrance through the alley.  A wooden fence encased a small yard with potted geraniums.  Porsche undid the latch and snuck inside.  The building had an ancient fire escape ladder made of iron.


    She leaped and caught a rung, swung and pulled herself up like a gymnast, careful not to make any unnecessary sound.  Atop the platform, she crouched outside the open window listening for sounds that told her she was in the right place.  The window had streak marks; a pane had spider-cracked, a hand-print smeared on the glass.


    Porsche nudged the window up until it couldn''t go any further and slid through the opening into the room.


    She saw high-heeled shoes, pink bras over the chair, a snow globe and flowery decor, dolls thrown on the floor.  It didn''t strike her as Marlboro''s style.  The woman she''d read was an eater of men, not one to play with girly-girl dolls.


    There was clear evidence of a struggle.  Someone had kicked in the door, the hinges bent, the doorknob embedded into the drywall with force.  Whoever lived here had tried to escape through the half-open window -- but no one made it out.


    As she neared the doorway, Porsche could detect faint voices coming from the living area.


    The conversation said: "Get them to the bathroom.  Rest of you, watch the front.  No one comes up here."


    "Yo, this one ain''t dead."


    "So? Put the two lovebirds together, two birds for one jug.  Hurry, he wants us out in thirty mikes."


    "Two bodies will take twice the time."


    "Just do it."  The speaker let out a mumbled curse.


    Footsteps were coming down the hall.  Two distinct patterns, the second set slower, dragging something heavy.


    Porsche waited until the sound moved past her, then glanced out into the corridor.  The bathroom was four feet to her right, slightly opposite the bedroom, filled with large moving shadows lit by vanity strip lights.


    Two men strained to lift something heavy into the tub, sounding like a side of beef slapped on a steel slab.


    The voices in the bathroom continued: "Make sure you cover your face.  This stuff can eat through your nasal membrane."


    Another voice said, "Will you look at this one.  What a waste.  Could''ve had fun with her."


    "Get moving.  This one first.  Then the other.  No goofing around."


    "Relax, Casper, we''re on it."


    She got one name -- Casper, and his tone sounded like he was Lockheart''s right hand.


    The clasps of a suitcase clicked opened, a snap of rubber -- the lip of latex gloves, heavy glass bottles clinked.


    "Mask on."


    She heard the popping of a plastic stopper.  Then a gurgling sound of liquid being poured.


    A faint hissing emerged.


    More curious now, Porsche inched closer to the door opening, when the fumes sent her reeling.  It burned her nostrils and brought tears streaming from her eyes, but she bit down to suppress the urge to cough.  Porsche knew at once what it was -- acidic mist discharged upon contact with organic tissue.  They were here to liquefy bodies.


    Her skin crawled and itched, either from the noxious mist or from her revulsion.


    She remembered hearing -- this one''s not dead.  Two victims then.  Which one was Marlboro, alive or dead?


    Once again, the question of responsibility faced her. In Caracas, she watched while Cerberus ripped apart people.  Later, she spied on Moreau while a hit team torched him.  She was a voyeur by trade -- and was sick of it.  Now the same killers were at it again, drawing an acid bath for these women.  She could do more than watch.


    Dropping her left hand to her side, Porsche fingered and squeezed a lump inside her left bicep -- an on/off switch to a sub-dermal actuator.  The micro-pump did the rest, excreting a coagulating liquid that dripped from her cuticles.  The liquid carbon alloy built up resembling quick freezing icicles.  A cell then sent out a tiny electric charge which bonded the molecules into rigid lattices.  Once electrified, the compound was stronger than steel, producing razor-thin edges as sharp as obsidian glass.  This augment was her little secret, a gift from the Agency.  Few operators had access to it, the tech reserved only for those in the close-quarter business.  Because it was liquid, it was hard to detect, was noncorrosive, inert, and accepted by her body.  An elegant weapon, not crude like a knife or gun she had to hide, she regarded it as an extension of her hand.  And once the voltage cut off, the claws would melt away in seconds and her fingers returned to normal.  This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.


    Liquid metal from her venous reservoir dripped.  She let it build up to a good length before electrifying it into talons, the longest hook extending five inches from her middle finger.  Good slashing length, ideal for intimate wet work.  She turned her head, drew in a deep breath of clean air and held it.


    Porsche moved fast.  She could see two men in gas masks bending over, one man sloughing the naked body of a girl into the tub, the other holding a large 5-gallon bottle of acid over her.  Where the drops touched tissue, it smoked as it dissolved skin and bones.  The second body waiting for the bath was Alexis Marlboro.  Alive or not, Marlboro was her mission.  Sorry about the other girl.


    As silent as a scythe, Porsche ripped her hooked fingers into the nearest man, cutting through the straps of the gas mask, slicing rubber, neck tendons, and his carotid artery in one motion.  Arterial spray hit the flower-patterned wallpaper.


    His shock muffled by the mask, the second cleaner dropped the flask.  The glass shattered, splashing acid everywhere as her blades plunged into the nape of the second man.  Instant death.


    The spill smoked their clothes and skin.  The dead didn''t feel the bite of acid.  Porsche stepped back, checking herself.  No sulphuric burns.  Porsche gave the gory bathroom a satisfying glance, the floor slick with the blood of two animals.  For an instant, she wished she hadn''t been so thorough in taking them out.  They deserved the acid.


    But there was no time for debate.  The crash of the bottle had been shockingly loud.


    Get her out now!


    Porsche squatted and grunted as she hauled Marlboro out using her one normal hand, not daring to breathe until they were in clean air, the pressure popping her ears.  In the hallway, she exhaled and paused.


    The talking from the living room ceased.


    "Everything all right back there?" One voice called out.


    Move!


    Porsche stayed low to drag the big woman and her one-ninety-five-pound mass into the bedroom with one hand; the claw-hand would do more damage than good.  And she can''t afford to turn it off this second.


    Soon, she heard: "Go see what happened to those two idiots."


    Sure enough, one set of footsteps thumped down the hall.   He coughed from the fumes.  "Jesus.  What the hell are you two--"


    She imagined he came upon the carnage and was stunned at the bloody sight.  She had seconds to act.


    Porsche sprang from her hiding place, coming at him so fast from behind the man hadn''t time to shout.  Her claws ripped out a chunk of his larynx.  He gurgled liquid and dropped to his knees.  She cupped his mouth and caught his fall.


    By now the rest of them would know something is wrong.  And they won''t stop to ask.


    Looking at her talons, the weapon would be useless for what was to come.  Porsche deactivated her claw-hand and rummaged through the body of the third assassin.  A suppressed pistol hung in a shoulder holster with a full mag, an extra clip in the jacket pocket.  She slid back into the bedroom, leaving a bloody trail of footprints.   There was nowhere else to hide so she left the Marlboro woman where she lay.


    A floorboard from the hallway squeaked.


    Three men remained and they wouldn''t bother with the bathroom.


    The first shooter barged in and sprayed a wide arc of bullets into the bedroom -- the continuous staccato from automatic fire pattered, slugs punching holes in the drywall and closet, into the mattress and headboard, splintering wood and glass from the dresser and mirror.  The gunman peppered his blind spots, leaving nothing to chance.  What he missed was Porsche lying on her stomach under the far side of the bed.


    She shot out his knees from her prone position.  The man howled, crumbled onto shattered joints, and fell over.


    His backup appeared at the door.  Porsche was quick to roll out and plugged two to the chest, the slug impacts throwing the wingman into the hallway.


    She froze and tried to listen while her heart boomed in her ears.  A series of scurrying sounds told her the last man had scampered away.  But he''ll be back with more.


    She got to her feet and approached the guy she''d knee-capped.  He was still alive but writhing in agony.  She kicked away his weapon, bent over to grab his collar and said, "Who do you work for . . ."  She reconsidered, and asked a better question:  "Where''s Lockheart?"


    He looked up at her, a mask of rage and pain.  She could tell he didn''t expect anyone other than Marlboro and the dead girl in the tub.  All he said before she plugged him between the eyes was, "You''re dead, bitch."


    Scratch number five.


    She checked Alex''s breathing -- shallow draws.  They''d tasered her, judging from the burn holes of the electrodes, but otherwise, she was unharmed.  That almost hadn''t been the case.  Porsche had done good.


    She patted the woman on her face to wake her.  Marlboro didn''t move.  Porsche smacked harder.  The next group of shooters coming through that door will wipe us out.


    "Come on, lady, wake up already."


    Marlboro''s eyes began to flutter.  Then she coughed and convulsed, sucking in a lungful of air.  Her eyes wide open, she screamed, "Camila!"


    So, Camila was the owner of the high-heels and dolls in this bedroom.


    "Hey, take it easy okay?  I''m here to help," Porsche said.


    Swirling under delusions, the big girl lashed out and had Porsche by the neck with one giant hand, crushing her throat with vice-like strength.  Porsche''s eyes bulged, ready to pop out of their sockets. Can''t breathe.  The periphery of her vision began to fade, seconds from passing out.


    The amazon was focused on Porsche with murderous intent.


    Porsche slammed the butt of the pistol onto Marlboro''s temple, twice, thrice, before the latter shuddered and collapsed onto her back.  Porsche fell forward onto her and rolled off, coughing and hacking.


    "Holy shit," Porsche gasped, rubbing her bruised neck.


    That monster grip!  This is the thanks you get.


    Now how to move that man-size body from here before the killers returned?  There was only one way -- the hard way.  Porsche dragged the dead weight toward the fire escape, smashed the glass and cleared the window frame of cutting shards.  She hefted the burly mass through the window and shouldered her onto the emergency exit.  "Goddamn bitch is heavy."


    The height of the second floor wasn''t so bad.  Porsche felt her sore neck -- it''s going to leave a freegin mark.  Payback.  Porsche kicked the unconscious woman over the railing.  The body thumped onto a flower bed.

 Book 1 - Chapter 30

    From the Black Irish pub, Warchild and Rotter limped out into the street and tried desperately to mix in with the mass of pedestrians.  Hard to do with a bleeding Rotter getting unwanted attention.  People recoiled from the blood; many began recording the pair for social media.  There was no escaping the cameras, hundreds of them filming.  From afar, Warchild could see police converging on Air-Segways, coming in fast, ushered toward them by the pointing crowd.


    Luckily, it was getting dark.


    Warchild hefted Rotter onto his back and carried him, sprinting as fast as he could away from the neighborhood.


    Police sirens got louder.


    The fastest way out was the Metro Red Line, built on a 12.8-mile double-tracked, standard gauge rail, a station every half mile.  Almost the entire route was set on elevated rails snaking through canyons of high-rises.  A station was close by, within jogging distance.


    Their progress was slower than expected, Rotter grimacing with each crushing step.  But he took the pain.  They soon reached the overpass station.


    During off-peak hours, train schedules were twenty minutes apart.  Feeling safer now that they were a few blocks away from the police maelstrom, they loitered to wait in the shadows between support struts.


    And they weren''t alone.


    Around them, eyes of the homeless watched these intruders, peeping out from under makeshift shelters.  Rotter and Warchild had stumbled upon a dreg encampment under the rail bridge.  The free-air residents gave them proper distance.  In these parts, young strong men on foot out at night were seldom the gentle kinds.


    "Power''s turning on us.  I can feel it.  This isn''t a one-off," Warchild said, holding Rotter up as the pair stumbled outside.  "We need to warn the rest of the team."


    "You do that."  Rotter winced with each stabbing step.


    "First, we need to ditch the trackers," Warchild said.  "Or we won''t get very far."


    "Just how do you plan to do that, with our teeth?"


    "Ask them for a knife or something sharp."  Warchild gestured to the vagabond camp.


    The piggyback pair sauntered over to the nearest tent, which was made from glued cellophane and plastic trash bags.  Warchild put him down.


    Rotter approached and tugged on the side of the bivouac, holding his sides.  "Excuse me."


    "What you want, man?"  An unkempt man appeared from the other end holding a pipe.  Other people appeared behind him.


    "Sorry for the intrusion.  We''re hoping to borrow a knife, something to cut."


    "Go away, I kill you," the tent owner hissed.


    "Come on, anything with an edge."


    "Here," the old man threw them a rusted can lid which rattled on the cement.


    Rotter grimaced to pick up the filthy scrap.  "You kidding me.  Might as well use a rusty spoon."


    "Improvise, didn''t they teach you anything?" Warchild said, thumbing the edge.  He sliced the lip against the spot where the Atlas chip hid.  He ran the jagged metal over the skin until it gaped open to red meat underneath.  At a sufficient depth, he handed the can lid over to Rotter and enlarged the bloody hole with index and thumb.  His fingers dug deep, his face showing no pain.  Then he found it, pulling the micro-cylinder from the ragged wound.  "Your turn, we don''t got all night."


    Rotter copied Warchild and in no time pulled his out.  He crushed it underfoot.Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.


    "Now what, we got no money, nothing," said Rotter.


    "Jump the gates," said Warchild.  "Just watch for the cameras."


    Rotter registered horror on his face.  "I got no meds except for what I have on me."


    "How many doses?"


    He checked the pill canister in his pocket.  "Enough for two more days.  I got a month''s stash at home."


    "Forget it," Warchild said.  "We move on.  Well, that was easy -- we just established our priorities.  Find more meds.  Everything else is secondary."


    "And clean bandages too."


    "Now we wait for the train right here."


    "There''s no one up there," Rotter said.


    "You don''t know that.  Not smart being on an open platform."


    "So who hit us, man?"  Rotter asked, trying to stand upright.


    "We should ask -- who else did they hit?" Warchild said, troubled.


    "Why you think that?"


    "We''re under a kill order -- can you guess why?"


    "The video leak," Rotter said.  "But we got nothing to do with it."


    "You tell them that," Warchild said.


    "Come on, where''s this blasted train?"  Rotter became uncomfortable, biting down on the surging pain.


    "You all right?  Hang on, kid."


    "Need a minute." A moment later, he said almost pleading, "Whoever hit us is long gone, man.  I say we go for the train."


    "Yeah?  Keep on believing that," said Warchild flicking his head down the road beneath the rail line.


    The street, lit by a few working lights, was pockmarked with glistening puddles from rain spill off.  The asphalt like a blackened tongue unfurled before them.  And at the far obscured end was a maw they couldn''t see.  Until a set of headlights two hundred meters away suddenly flared.


    They grew brighter, floating above ground level by ten feet.  With its distinctive high pitch hum, this was no car.  It was an aeroflyer.


    "Move," Warchild snapped in a hushed tone.  The pair sunk back into the shadows, edging toward the vagrant camp.


    Crouching behind a dry heap of rubbish, Rotter managed a hoarse whisper, "Maybe it''s just cops.  If so do we come out?"


    "You kidding?"  Warchild said.  "They tracked us here."


    "Mother f--."


    "We keep out of sight and let ''em pass.  Make like we''re bums."


    "How''d you make like a bum?"


    "Think poor."


    The flyer hovered, advancing slowly.  IR scanning waves pulsed out from the craft, penetrating around every corner.  It picked up multiple thermal signatures from those in the encampment as clear as noontime, running biometric scans on their faces.


    Warchild and Rotter knew to put their heads down.


    The scratchy whine got louder, then gradually faded into a gentle wheeze.  And silence.  The men breathed sighs of relief.


    Not a minute later, above them, the sound of a coming train rolled down the track.  They could see parts of the overpass growing brighter from flashing beacons embedded in the platform floor.


    "Do we take it?"  Rotter asked, eyes wide, muscle coiled for a sprint.  "Now or never, goddammit."


    "How are you going to run?"  Warchild said.


    Just then, the aeroflyer did a one-eighty and proceeded on its way back.


    "Oh, Christ Jesus," Rotter mumbled.


    "And the hits keep on hitting," Warchild cursed.


    Just then, another set of headlights appeared under the overpass far to the left side.  A car this time, with a noisy antiquated internal combustion engine.


    "It''s a jalopy," Rotter said.  They looked at each other knowingly.  Government assassins didn''t drive fifty-years-old junkers.


    In the meantime, the aerocar neared.  This go-round, the scanners wouldn''t miss.


    No time to lose, Warchild carried Rotter on his back and raced toward the wheeled truck, moving in and out of the shadows so as not to draw attention from the aerocar.


    They reached the pickup, parts of it half-eaten away.  It was a scrap hauler paid by the city to truck out heaps of refuse to the dumps. There was plenty of room ¨C inside, behind the mound of garbage.


    They popped up on the passenger side window, startling the driver.  The man produced a snubnosed .38.  "Back off, I got nothing for you."


    "Mister, we want no trouble," Warchild whispered with his hands up, while Rotter kept an eye on the other set of headlights getting nearer.


    "What do you want?"


    "A ride."


    "Piss off."


    "I can pay," Warchild said.  Rotter glanced at him -- with what?  They''d removed their Atlas, which meant no access to any payment means.  Warchild licked his ring finger and yanked out his thick wedding ring.  "It''s pure platinum.  Brought me nothing but trouble.  Maybe it will give you luck.  What do you say, sir?  Please."


    He handed the ring to the geezer who gauged the bauble by its weight.


    "I''m going to the dump."


    "That''s where we''re going too," Warchild answered.  "Imagine that."


    "Any trouble and you two are gone."


    "No trouble from us, sir, honest," Rotter added.


    "Come on then, get in the back."


    Rotter and Warchild hopped in the back.  There was an old muddy tarp covering loose refuse.  As they pulled on it, rats scampered between their feet causing Rotter to yelp.


    "I hate rats," he hissed.


    "Quiet!"


    The pair flattened on their backs and pulled the tarp over their heads, ignoring the squeaks of critters.


    The whine of the aerocar grew louder.  It hung about to the left of the truck for longer than usual, running its scan.  The men prayed the metal skin of the pickup would mask their heat signatures.


    "What?" the driver shouted at the Aerocar''s blackened windows.


    Eventually, it drifted off.


    Ten miles out, the truck pulled over and left the pair by the side of the road.

 Book 1 - Chapter 31

    With kids, there was no time to waste.  Papa was first to find a job after Team Cerberus''s dissolution, and the Murphy¡¯s had picked up and moved to Philadelphia.  There they found safe residence housing in the third conurbation hump of the MCE.  Phillie¡¯s vast burbs once joined to New York¡¯s overflow, formed the densest population concentration in North America, second to Shanghai¡¯s concentric core.


    Bonnie had her reservations about the area beforehand, but the promise of a job for Papa had quieted her.  The news didn''t help -- reports of shooting fatalities during a gangland hit in neighboring boroughs only set Bonnie on edge.


    Rumors her sister told her were true -- criminals were bolder in these super-dense cities, and police reverted to tactics that targeted both the innocent and guilty.  The cops were no better than the crooks as both demanded payoffs.  Local fief magistrates estimated the numbers of weekly arrests to number in the hundreds.  Naturally, the media began to compare Megacity East to South California''s equivalent -- Angeles and Diego, two rival megalopolises locked in perpetual turf wars.  The lawlessness, many pundits argued, stemmed from the bitter standoff between two paramountcies -- Pacifica and TexPax in their tug-of-war for South California.


    But here in the Atlantic Coast, governed by the stable Eastern Economic League, conditions were supposed to be safe and prosperous.  Bonnie thought otherwise.  Every day, the troubles she heard crept closer around her family.  Sitting in the new kitchen, she fed her teat to the toddler, the suckling sounds soothing her.  Because the more she listened to the news, the more trapped she felt.  And things weren''t getting easier.  Their 4th was due in days, a prospect both joyful and terrifying.


    "Is this company safe, Papa?"  Bonnie asked, looking up at her husband while he poured his coffee.  She still called him by the nickname the boys gave him.


    "They got a new contract not so long ago.  They''re doing good," he said.


    "What does that mean?  It''s not publicly-traded or an AEL Affiliate.  If they lose this one contract, they''re gone," she said lifting and adjusting her engorged breast for a better position.  "And where would we be?"


    "You worry too much."


    "You don''t worry enough," she snapped at him, startling the child, and quickly replaced the nipple before she could cry.  Bonnie lowered her voice as the drawing renewed.  "Where will we go if you get canned?  Me and four kids?"This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author''s work.


    He frowned.  "What''s gotten into you this morning?"


    "You kiss their behinds."  His wife gnashed her teeth like some rabid rodent.  "You do what it takes, Papa."


    "Course I will."


    "The world is ugly," she said, her voice strained with tension.  "The streets are ugly; the sky is ugly."


    "You''re not very nice this morning."


    "You did this to me, Papa."  She was on the verge of tears, her emotions on wild swings.


    Papa put down his mug, came over and held her.  She resisted at first, then fell into him, trembling.  He hugged her, squashing the baby in between.


    "I''ll do everything to keep us safe, you believe me?"


    She relented, nodding.  "Sorry, I get panicky with mornings like this."


    "Stop watching the news, love.  It will rot your brain.  And it''s not news anyway, just a bunch of shouting buffoons trying to scare the bejesus out of you.  The old days they call that Fox Journalism."


    "Please, don''t be late.  Go to work." Bonnie urged him with a kiss on the lips as she got up and pushed him toward the door.


    Papa left the modest duplex rental, and stepped out into urban din, knowing his wife was right.  Bonnie was practical and realistic.  Life was precarious and the five of them would be out in the cold quicker than he could snap his fingers.  The prospect frightened him and gave him an urgency in his steps.


    He hopped in his vehicle, a twenty-year-old electric automobile that still ran on half-charged battery.  It had more divots than a golf ball and its yellow paint had worn to the base metal at the edges.


    He engaged the auto-drive and merged into street traffic.  LIDAR beams spanned out, avoiding rushing cars and busy pedestrians.


    Auto-drive sensors picked up a white van pulling off the curb fifty yards back.  It followed at a set distance between them.


    Two miles ahead was a choke point where pedestrians streamed out into traffic from four different directions.  With the auto-Nav''s perfect record in collision safety, foot traffic ignored street crossing laws.


    The van closed the gap as the bottleneck neared.


    Reaching the intersection, Papa''s car queued in line waiting for the light to change as dozens of walkers swarmed the streets upon cue to cross.


    Holo X-lights counted down the seconds, syncing with every car''s drive AI.


    5 . . . 3 . . . 1 . . .


    Just then, the van behind Papa rushed forward and swung left, blocking his car.  The maneuver caused his tires to squeal as the anti-collision system locked up.


    The side door of the truck slammed back.  Three men in balaclavas jumped out, the lead man with a crowbar, the others with yellow-painted hand weapons.  The first smashed the driver''s window of Papa''s car and cleared the glass shards.  The others armed with tasers shot him at point-blank with two full charges of 50,000 volts.


    Papa convulsed and collapsed forward in his seat, saliva foaming from his mouth, bowels and bladder opening to soil his pants.

 Book 1 - Chapter 32

    Harry waited in a cafe on the second-floor concourse, inside the cavernous Union Station.  He observed the throngs of people migrating on the ground floor while the space above him was abuzz-ed with drones and MAVs performing their tasks, some on surveillance, some for protection, and like their human counterparts crisscrossed in swarms without hitting each other.  The air seemed thick and antiseptic, hard to breathe; the CO2 scrubbers must be down, he imagined.  Being here rubbed him with an irritating itch.  At this moment, a strange sensation crept over him, one he can''t remember ever experiencing.  It was a mix of anxiety and nostalgia.


    Once an instructor at the Farm, Harry DeWitt had taught many green recruits the trade crafts they needed -- surveillance, recruitment, infiltration, how to cultivate unspoiled legends; how to survive in the wilderness, at sea, underwater, in a gas chamber, some of them more brutal than the program allowed, and how to endure a rolled-up ops when an agent fell into enemy hands.


    Over his career, there were two notables.  The girl was watching his back at this moment, perched high inside an air intake vent with a silenced rifle, looking down at the mobbed concourse.  The male, a student Harry had hoped never to cross paths again, was due to appear -- at his request.  It was akin to waiting for a leopard to show and hoping it had eaten.


    While watching the currents of passengers with curiosity, Harry recalled his two protegees at the Farm.  He''d shown them each how to compartmentalize thoughts, control emotions, and keep an even disposition, things the girl and boy mastered easily.  He''d pushed their cognitive performance and stress, teaching them to devalue everything they held dear.


    On the antisocial spectrum, Porsche was a functioning sociopath; she knew how to interact with people, her indifference concealed.  In contrast, Lockheart functioned in the deeply impaired end, psychopathic, with extreme traits that were disinhibited and egotistical, and he regarded people not as stepping stones, but as sheep.   Well acquainted with his capabilities and his flashpoints, which were profound and numerous, Harry would be the first to admit that Lockheart was smart, unpredictable and highly lethal.


    "Subject acquired," a voice chirped in Harry''s inner ear.  "He''s on his way to you.  Northwest entrance.  You should see him in five . . . Three . . . Now."


    Wearing a turtleneck under a thick wool jacket, Lockheart seemed organic and genteel, not synthetic as the current outlandish fashion of masks, visors and Obscura cloaks.


    The two men spotted each other; neither showed emotional misgivings.


    Lockheart approached the table and looked down at his old teacher, then pulled out a chair to sit.  Neither extended his hand.  Master and student exchanged stares until a mechanical server appeared.


    The robo-waiter took Lockheart''s order: coffee, black, no sugar.  Harry already had his espresso in a demitasse, getting cold.


    "So you want to talk?" Lockheart opened.


    "Heard you''re back in the Agency''s graces again," Harry replied.


    "And you''re with Midland Corporate Intel.  A rare post.  Congratulations."  His tone shifted from cordiality to seriousness.  "Rarer still is your interest in Fednik business."


    "My interest is the same as yours, Milo."


    "Is that why you sent dear old Porsche to trip me up?"  Lockheart chuckled.  "She still holds a grudge against me?"


    "Hell has no fury -- you know the saying."


    "Tell me, she''s humping for scraps still?"  Lockheart sneered, his eyes scanning the ceiling.


    "Tell that prick to go fuck himself," Porsche scratched in Harry''s ear.


    Lockheart''s face took a harder edge, his emotions changing on a dime.  Some men got hot when stirred to anger, some became cold as a corpse.  "You''re running interference.  Porsche killed my men.  I have reasons to crush you using every means afforded me --"


    "She said it was self-defense," Harry replied even-keeled, keeping a poker face.  "And I''m here to propose a truce.   Ceasefire?"


    He scoffed.  "You''re trespassing into where you don''t belong."


    "The greatest victory is that which requires no battle -- Sun Tzu.  Listen to what I have to say before you dismiss it."


    Lockheart shrugged, the chill turned biting.


    "So where is our girl, Porsche?  I don''t see my sweetheart anywhere."  Lockheart feigned looking around, agitated.


    "I''m lined up, got him between the eyes.  Just say when."


    "She sends her regards," Harry said, keeping a calm demeanor.


    "With telescopic sight in hand and crosshair on my forehead, no doubt?"  Lockheart waved in all directions, not knowing where she hid.


    "Keep waving, I can reach you from right here, asshole."


    "You would need her to have an advantage over me," Lockheart said.


    The coffee arrived.  Lockheart took a big sip of the hot liquid without flinching.  "You wanted this meet, so talk.  I don''t have all day, DeWitt."


    "A few days ago, you and your crew took something that didn''t belong to you."


    Lockheart seemed surprised.


    "What is it we''re speaking of?"  Lockheart asked as his eyes scanned the domed ceiling for possible nooks where a sniper could be.


    "A Honeywell 5000 series CSU -- cranial storage unit."The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    Lockheart looked confused at first, then his eyes narrowed. He lowered his voice in a mock display of discretion, "You mean the head?" then laughed out loud, the humor disjointed and cruel.


    "The merchandise is spoken for."


    "Yeah, by Director Moreau.  But I relieved him of it."


    "The arrangement had been promised to my paramountcy.  We expect to take possession."


    "Are we in arbitration this moment?"  Lockheart scoffed.


    "I''m giving you a chance to sort things out."


    "I never pegged you to be in the body parts business."


    "The data," Harry answered, keeping cool.


    "Heads up, I''m seeing movement.  He''s got friends and they''re breaking cover.  I count two, no three," Porsche broke into Harry''s thoughts.


    "You got a receipt of ownership by any chance?"  Lockheart chuckled.  "No?  Oh, well."


    "Whatever they''re paying you, I''ll double it."


    "What makes you think I still have it?"


    "Oh, you do.  The head''s in cold storage.  Just give it to me."


    Lockheart sneered.  "Not a chance."


    "Milo, do you even know what''s in Moreau''s head?"


    "Not my concern."


    "Small mind, small errand, a clerk sent by masters to collect," Harry said, sipping the last of his espresso.  "When will you wise up?"


    Lockheart''s eyes flashed dangerously.


    "I''ll tell you anyway -- you have in your possession the entire data scope of Project Carnivora, from proforma designs to fourth stage performance results."


    Lockheart bent his bottom lip into an inverted U.  "Never heard of it."


    "Defense Advance Research Project, Catalog Number: Alpha Zero Zero dash Eight, codename Carnivora -- it''s a bio-augmentation program aimed at creating the perfect soldier."


    "So what?"


    "You still don''t get it.  We''re talking organic enhancements that mimic animal traits." Harry sighed.  "Increase the number of olfactory receptors and you can track a target from half a mile away -- by smell, or sniff out a person''s lies by his chemical changes up close.  Double the number of retinal rods and you could see in the dark better than the best ocular implants; up hemoglobin count and you could stay underwater for half an hour.  Bone densification, variable muscle fiber -- you could outrun an Olympic sprinter, and keep up the pace for twenty miles without cramping.  And those are just the first phase possibilities.  Now do I have your attention?"


    Lockheart may have shown disinterest at first, but his enlarged pupils just betrayed him.  "Go on."


    "Second stage is the piece de resistance -- hemonite coagulant enrichment that could accelerate regeneration and myogenesis -- aka, rapid healing.  The blueprints are all in Moreau''s nugget.  Now, shall we talk?"


    Harry allowed Lockheart a moment to digest.


    "What do you suggest?"


    "Turn it over to me."


    "I''d be begging for someone just like me to come along and take my head too," Lockheart mused.


    "We can provide protection and asylum to you and your crew.  You can disappear under our fief umbrella and retire rich beyond your dreams.  Whatever you desire.  All you have to do is give me Moreau."


    "I''m neither stupid nor impulsive."


    "Or loyal to anything," Harry said.  "Give me Moreau and get paid.  Be selfish.  This is your golden ticket."


    "Just for fun -- give me a figure.  What are you willing to part with?"


    "Five, seven million at most."


    "Always the sand-bagger." Lockheart scoffed.  "If you''re here, then it''s probably worth a hundred times more."


    "Name your price then."


    "Fifty million."


    Harry sat back.  "Be serious."


    "All right.  A hundred mil, and not one penny less.  If you can''t come up with that amount, then you''re not serious."


    "Sit-rep, final count -- eight tangos, all around you.  Careful leaving, Uncle."


    Hearing Porsche''s warning, Harry carried on without missing a beat, "I''ll run the numbers up the food chain and see."


    "Why should I listen?" Lockheart said, his demeanor shifting.  "For that matter why should I sell it to you?  If it is as valuable as you say, then let the market bid for it."


    Harry saw the crooked wheels turning in Lockheart, and shook his head.  "The data is useless to you," Harry said.  "But not to someone with the right network and backing."


    "Like you?"  The sneer was cutting.  "So full of yourself."


    "Try to fence the data in the open market, and you''ll be flagged without question.  Once your master knows, you''re shit out of luck.  They''ll fish your corpse from the Potomac."


    "Don''t try to scare me, Uncle.  You know better.  I do the fishing . . . And the dunking."


    Harry exhaled.  "You have three choices: a pat on the back from your employer when you deliver Moreau''s head; a knife up your culo by the same, if you''re caught stealing.  Or you can get paid big what you deserve, the proper way, the safe way.  You decide."


    "Remember my price -- one hundred followed by six zeroes," Lockheart repeated.  "Take that to your boss."


    Harry exhaled.


    "If you agree to my demand, take out an ad in the Dupont Discourse.  I''ll be watching.  You have ''til tomorrow.  Nice seeing you again, Uncle." Lockheart got up and walked away


    Harry got up as well, taking the opposite direction.


    "Keep moving to the exit," Porsche said, directing him.  "You got a tail on the move.  Woman in orange Obscura and green visor, forty yards behind, four o''clock off your left shoulder.  Can''t miss her, the hot blond."


    "Anyone else?" Harry mumbled, double-timing through the crosscurrents of commuters.  He''d suspected he would be tailed.  Hell, Harry remembered teaching that very lesson long ago -- a maze of crisscrossing corridors and adjoining train platforms was the ideal escape venue.


    "Only one as far as I can tell."


    "I''m leaving your visual range, heading downstairs.  Bug out, we''ll meet up later."


    * * *


    "Madam," Harry said, catching Regent Augustine in her office, her image appearing on his terminal.


    "You''re not in Chicago."  It wasn''t a question.  "Spending a lot of time back East, anything I should know about?"


    "I''m still on the Moreau affair."


    "There''s more beyond death, apparently.  I''d appreciate an update," Augustine said, her tone patient.


    "Apologies, ma''am,  I had to go dark for this . . . I made contact with the man who took the head."


    "Nasty business."  Augustine feigned to shiver.  "For what purpose, Mr. DeWitt?"


    "Carnivora."


    "I thought we agreed the program is toxic," Augustine said.


    "Moreau and the project together is a difficult packet to swallow, but now that they''re apart, Carnivora is attractive as an acquisition, infinitely more desirable as a stand-alone.  Now no one can say we abetted a renegade thief."


    "So, you''re on a shopping spree."


    "Yes, ma''am."


    "It''s also why you decided to call now."  She sighed.  "So how much will it cost our treasury?"


    "One hundred million -- that was the price tag he demanded."


    "Absurd."  The Regent balked.


    "Considering its potential, it''s a bargain."


    "A bargain?"


    "Would you prefer TexPax holds the patent and monopoly on this technology?"


    Augustine kept quiet.


    Knowing he was getting through to her, he pressed, "The tech is proven and Caracas was its proving ground."


    "Caracas is a quagmire."


    "For different reasons, ma''am," Harry said.  "I need your approval to proceed . . . Or we walk away."


    "How do you plan to verify what you bought is legitimate?"


    "The fund release is contingent upon data verification by one of Moreau''s scientists."


    "And you have secured such an individual?"


    "Before his death, Moreau gave me the names of his entire staff for admission into Midland.  That isn''t the problem . . . No, the problem is the buy amount."


    "You realize I''d have to appear in front of Carlyle for this sum?  And this would take time."


    "Yes, but your word can act as guarantor which the banks will issue their letters of credit against, payable upon verification.  So what will it be, ma''am?"


    "Dammit, Harry, I''m under enough stress from the business with Red City and the upcoming Conclave.  I don''t need this distraction."  She dragged the silence out until it broke. "I''ll have a memo drafted for Midland Central Bank.  I''ll be guarantor.  Do it, close the deal."


    "Thank you, ma''am."


    "Then come home.  I need you here."

 Book 1 - Chapter 33

    Having been given carte-blanche, Lockheart was in the position to surround himself with a dozen ronins, all formerly disavowed, all without patronage, all of whom owed their livelihoods and loyalty to him.  Without hesitation, they accepted his position as leader.


    His posse came from Kiev, Marseilles, Berlin, Tel Aviv, Damascus, Seoul, and Cape Town, in addition to one stunning female -- Harpy.  The men kept a distance from her out of respect for their boss.


    Her ethnicity was a mixture of Near-East and Teutonic blood, an exotic blend whom Lockheart met when he advised French Intelligence in Marseilles.  Soon after, their relationship blossomed beyond working.  Already a looker to start, she had her bone structures lasered to precise Fibonacci ratios, her features aligned in perfect symmetry.  Below her chin, the body designers had shaped and reinforced her musculature into a sleek powerful fitness frame.  And more than that.  Of the group, she was the only one to receive internal weapon implants, a gift from Lockheart, which she had used on the kid in the Black Irish.


    Harpy jolted up and looked over at the clock projection.  The iridescent 5:05 AM floated over the bedside table.  Outside the glass walls, it was still dark.  On her stomach, she patted the left side of the bed.  He wasn''t there.


    Instead, Milo Lockheart was sitting in a chair, staring out the dark window.


    "Can''t sleep, mein Schatz?" Harpy asked rolling over and propping up on two pillows, her neck against the plush leather backboard.


    "Lots of things keeping me up.  I lost five men today.  Good men."


    "We lost them to your old girlfriend, how ironic."  She chuckled with derision.


    "It lasted a month."


    "And the men, how do they feel about the loss, you consider that?"


    "They want blood, of course."


    "And what do you want?"


    "Now is not the time for retribution," Lockheart said.  "We''re close to getting everything we want."


    "Then I''ll take your Porsche out," Harpy said.  "My gift to you and the fellas."


    "She''s no soft target."  He gazed at Harpy''s reflection on the glass.  "No, I won''t risk you."


    "Don''t you think I''m capable?"  She narrowed her eyes at him.


    "I didn''t say that."


    "Two things going for me, I''m better endowed than she is -- in more ways than one."  She winked.  "And she won''t know when I make my move."


    "No," he said with finality.


    "Or is it because of DeWitt''s offer that''s making you -- what''s the word, skittish?" Harpy said.


    "I don''t get skittish."


    "A hundred million makes everyone skittish -- could set us up for life."


    "What kind of life is that, mein lieber engel?"  Lockheart said without looking at her, lost to some distant pull.


    "We could live like those ¨¹bermenschen in the clouds," she cooed.


    "We''ll always be looking over our shoulders.  Is that what you want?"


    "Better than now."


    "I see another path," he mused.  "What if we use the technology.  With Moreau''s bio-weapon, we could become a force unmatched, an invincible army of super-soldiers . . . We could walk in and take over a host fief, imagine that, run our own territory."


    "Your ambition is frightening, if not fantastical."  Harpy lifted one milky leg over the sheet.


    Lockheart turned to her at last, scowling.  "What will you have me do?  DeWitt''s deal is a fool''s dream, even if it''s for real.  We''re nothing but be liabilities to him.  He could throw us to the wolves anytime he wishes, and why wouldn''t he?  He''s done it before."


    "You hate him that much, your mentor?"


    "Hate is wasteful," he said evenly.  "We don''t need anyone''s patronage.  With this tech, we are a power of our own."  Lockheart got up from his chair.  He stretched his nude frame and turned toward the bed.


    "You''re not worried?" she huffed.


    "About Balkan?  One thing you must realize, Schatzi, Balkan is like any other Fednik official -- he''s a slave to public scrutiny.  Everything is bluff and bluster because any of this leaks out, they would fry him.  We have no such constraints.  You see, Balkan thinks he has power, but he''s a serf like any other cabinet member installed by the PIP.  I know how to handle these mollusks."


    "Yet, he''s waiting for you to deliver Moreau tomorrow.  What will you tell him?"


    "Nothing.  He''ll get the Cracker Jack box."  Lockheart shrugged.  "But no compass inside."


    "I hope you know what you''re doing," Harpy said, kicking the sheets aside.


    "Absolut mein Schatz."  Lockheart smiled, slipped his head between her legs, and bit her inner thigh.If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    * * *


    It was a nice sunny day, cool and crisp as Lockheart and Balkan strolled along the Reflecting Pool near the Lincoln Memorial end.  Visitors who had come out to see the Tree were thick near the monuments.  The men stayed clear from them and sat down on a bench, keeping a few feet between each other.  Balkan had on a half-face mirror visor; Lockheart wore none.


    Lockheart placed a cooler between them.


    "Is that it?" Balkan said with disgust, eying the case as if it were a rabid cur he was forced to pet.


    "Wrapped in dry ice.  He won''t bite."


    "Revolting."


    "Hey, if the storage device was in his arm, I would have taken that instead."


    Balkan picked up the plastic case with his fingers and dragged it closer to his leg.


    "So what''s in his head that you want so badly?"  Lockheart asked, the corner of his mouth bent.  "I''m curious."


    "You''re aren''t paid to be curious."


    A faint smile took over Lockheart''s face.


    Balkan wrapped the handle twice with a handkerchief.  "I hate this skulking about.  We should have met elsewhere."


    "The more you hide, the more attention you get."


    "Stupid saying -- is that why you aren''t covering up?" Balkan asked.


    "No one knows my face," Lockheart said.  "And it''s fresh, recently morphed; my new biometrics aren''t on any security database.  So, relax."


    "Five of your people are dead, yet four names on my list are still at large," Balkan said, looking ahead.  "Should I relax?"


    "Not my fault," Lockheart said.


    "Then whose?"


    "Look in the mirror if you want to know."


    Balkan chuckled, not from amusement.  "Don''t be impudent."


    "Shall I tell you how?  You wanted a hunt but had no clue of the terrain."


    "Meaning what?"


    "There are other parties interested in the package."


    "Irrelevant."


    "Aren''t you at least curious?" Lockheart asked.


    "I don''t care.  Stick with your objective, mister."  Balkan fidgeted trying hard to look away from Lockheart.


    "And there lies the problem, Mr. Secretary," Lockheart sneered.  "You sent me to hunt but I wasn''t the only hunter."  He sighed.


    "What?"


    "We''ve encountered a mechanic, an Agency asset no less, female, well trained.  Imagine my surprise."


    "An Agency asset?"  Balkan dismissed it with a flick of his head.  "Impossible.  Oliver would have known."


    "Director Oliver wouldn''t know his ass from his nose.  Her existence is below his radar.  At this moment, her status is inactive, her file taken out of circulation just days ago."  Lockheart made a ticking sound with his tongue.


    "And how did you know and the DCI didn''t?"


    "The evening we torched Moreau''s place, she was there watching him -- and us."


    Balkan listened without a word as Lockheart relayed the details of that evening.


    "We thought this was a fluke encounter.  Then when we moved against Marlboro, guess who showed up again?"  Lockheart paused with a carping grin.  "Somebody got the same idea you have, Mr. Secretary, except they''re playing defense.  As a result, I lost five good men that night to the same mechanic.  Because we didn''t know what we were walking into."


    "Not my problem," Balkan said, grinding his teeth.


    "You''re wrong, it''s our problem.  You see, the mechanic is no stranger.  I knew her well, know what I mean?"  Lockheart winked.  "She''s known by one name -- Porsche, a talented she-wolf with extensive experience whom I had the displeasure of plowing."  Lockheart made a pumping motion with his fist.  "But her handler is the real worry.  His name is Harry DeWitt."


    "Doesn''t ring a bell."


    "No?  It should.  DeWitt is Regent Augustine''s strategist -- and my old mentor," Lockheart said with a mischievous grin.  "You should know who your real enemies are -- because Midland is running interference."  He chuckled with a disapproving head shake.  "I''d say your secrets are blown, Mr. Secretary.  A rival fief is on your scent trail throwing headwind against us.  And you didn''t even know."


    Balkan kept quiet, looking out at the twinkling surface of the long reflecting pool.


    "You see where I''m going?"  Lockheart exhaled with force.


    "No."


    "Can''t leave either of them alive and expect to complete this assignment."


    "You can''t even handle this Porsche."  The Secretary sneered.


    "I will if you don''t step on the brakes."


    "What?"


    "I can take DeWitt off the board, and throw Midland off balance."


    "No," Balkan said, his decision resonated like a slam of a door.


    "He''ll dig until he finds dirt, that''s his way."


    "I forbid it."


    "Okay, then have him arrested.  I''ll do the rest."


    "On what charge?"  Balkan said, his eyes narrowed.


    "That shouldn''t be so hard: embezzlement, body parts trafficking, narco slavery, whatever flavor of the day is."


    "You think we''re so capricious?"  Balkan bit his lower lip.  "When a paramountcy is involved in a major dispute, it compels the federal watchdog to step in with established Rules of Conduct.  I can''t touch an adviser to Augustine without legal review from Dallas and approval from the Attorney General.  Do you understand the delicate nature involved?"


    "I don''t profess to know your fancy rules and etiquette but consider this -- they put a tail on Moreau, which means they were interested in more than the man.  Moreau was a top tech maven, so ask the question -- which science does Midland desire?"  Lockheart allowed the silence to soak.


    "Imagine I take off your leash, what happens then?  Midland goes into a war footing, and the fief gloves come off.  They accuse me in public.  The other Houses will go into defensive postures, which brings out Justice, the Press, Congress and Jesus Himself," said Balkan.  "Don''t hunt rabbits in bear country."


    "DeWitt is no rabbit."


    "DeWitt is off the menu."


    "Bad move."


    "You''ve given me nothing but heartaches and excuses.  Your people are supposed to be attack dogs.  Instead, I got poodles, whimpering at the sight of a pussy cat, one woman besting the lot of you," Balkan snorted, wrinkling his nose.  "Maybe I should hire her in your stead."


    "Go ahead, see who would take such a job."


    "Are you threatening me?  I''m the wrong person to extort --"


    "I have losses I need to cover and ranks to shore up," Lockheart said with a cold glare.  "Time to either double-down or walk away, Mr. Secretary.  Those are your options."  He got up from the bench, unexpectedly.


    "Sit down!"  Balkan growled.


    The Sandman stopped and returned to sit, a derisive grin on his face.


    "You have names I want gone," Balkan said, his tone amenable.  "I will discuss Midland''s involvement with Dallas.  But do nothing against DeWitt.  We clear?"


    Lockheart nodded.


    "And you''ll get your resources."


    Balkan got up from the bench, grasped the medical cooler and headed toward the Lincoln Memorial while Lockheart took the opposite direction.  Farther ahead, a group of men and a woman materialized among the throng of people to join the Sandman.


    * * *


    "And?" Harpy asked, one eye cocked.  She, Lockheart''s lieutenant Johann Casper and two other men stopped playing tourists to join him.


    "He swallowed."  Lockheart gloated.  "Before long, he''ll think DeWitt and Midland took Moreau''s kernel when he finds the noggin''s empty."


    "He¡¯s not stupid," Casper said.


    "Let¡¯s not wait for him to find out."  Lockheart beamed, clapping his friend on the shoulder.  "Have you made contact?"


    "I have," Harpy said with a headshake.  "We got one nibble.  I¡¯m thinking Europe might be better."


    "Going outside North America could make this sticky with the Fedniks, turn it into a capital crime."


    "A bullet is a bullet, no matter from which barrel."


    Lockheart planted a kiss on her neck, inhaling her scent.


    "What about the current assignment?" Casper asked.  "Do we suspend pursuit of Cerberus?"


    "I suspect that once Balkan finds out he has an empty skull, we''ll be the center of his fury.  So we better shore up for the storm."

 Book 1 - Chapter 34

    When Alex woke up, it took her a few seconds to realize she wasn''t in her shared apartment.  All she had were thin memories.  However faint, they were of intruders shattering her life.  The more she remembered, the greater the pain she felt.  They took Camila out of the bedroom, and one of them had put a plastic bag over her face . . . and choked the life out of her.  Horrendous images returned, and they shook Alex to the core.  She sobbed for hours, shaking her head with an incredulous rage toward the heavens.  Who would do this?  Kill me, I could understand.  But Camila''s hurt no one.  She was all good, the best of people.  The bitter truth surfaced, Alex knew she did this to her lover.  Her sins had spilled over.


    The bare white walls corralled her, bedding and mattress clean and simple, a room for lunatics.  A glass of water and a sandwich were next to the bed.  How long had they been there?  Days?  She wasn''t hungry, doubted she would be for some time.  Rage had a way of suppressing one''s appetite.  She must have laid curled up in the fetus position looking at nothing for hours, each minute turning the pain in her gut into something else.  Any humanity she once had melted.   She understood Warchild now.  He was true to himself, was right to pull the trigger.  She was the fool, and a liar to herself -- no such thing as a killer with a golden heart.  You either are one or you aren''t.  The ceiling was spinning, making her sick.  Alex didn''t know how long she''d been without serum.  Nor did she care.


    The warnings from med techs, once sacrosanct, sounded hollow in her mind: "Never go more than two days without a dose.  Your life depends on it.  If you do, you will experience acute cellular degeneration.  Symptoms include powerful fatigue and nausea, followed by days of comparable wellbeing.  After that, cell death in the gastric and intestinal tissue causes massive diarrhea, and tract bleeding."  She once cringed at the thought of enduring these conditions, now little mattered, least of all her life.


    Coming back to reality, she remembered faintly that someone had revived her, someone had smacked her face, someone she''d almost crushed to death.  The memory was as repulsive as was everything else here.  Through that door was the answer.


    Alex got up.  She cracked her knuckles, her jaw set to work that door.  But the knob was rigid; the door sealed tight.  She didn''t know there were top and bottom deadbolts fastened on the other side to contain the beast.


    She pounded on the metal surface hollering at the top of her voice with curses and obscenities, every word she ever learned from the streets.  Yet the door remained in place.


    Though she was strong, she couldn''t break through steel.  After an hour of howling and beating on the reinforced door, she gave up and returned to the bed to curl under blanket.  Yet there was no restful sleep.  Numb with apathy, she sank in the trough of despair that dragged her to its depth -- because of the memories.  Memories of the time they met, memories of Camila laughing, seeing her smile, her warmth and generosity, all the goodness were forever snuffed out, a loss to the world.  Whoever had done this had taken a chunk of her life and grounded it to nothing.  Worse, she couldn''t escape the thought of the plastic bag over her face.  The opening bunched around her neck, her eyes wide as eggs, her mouth pulling the plastic inside her mouth.  At this point, there was nothing left to life but to avenge Camila.  And where was my Camila?  What did they do with her?


    Sometime later, she passed out, at last, shaking with exhaustion, when a faint knock rapped on the door and a voice came through.  It was that of a woman.


    "Alexis?"


    No one called her Alexis, not even her mother when she was mad.


    Alex didn''t answer.  She stared at the knob.  But, the will to exert herself had fizzled.


    Alex''s rage snapped alive like a kick to the groin.


    She shouted, sitting up, "Open the fucking door!"


    "A lot of bad things have happened.  I''m sorry for your loss.  But we''re here to help."


    "Then open the door."  Alex gritted her teeth.


    "You need to calm down before then."  A pause followed.  "You probably have questions.  We don''t have all the answers . . . Alex, we are not your enemy."


    "You locked me in," she screamed.


    "It''s for our protection."


    A day later, there was again a knock on the door.


    "Yeah," a calm broken Alex uttered.  There were no pitch curses and threats.


    "Will you allow me to open the door?"


    "Yeah, whatever."


    The deadbolts slid back, first top, then bottom.  A man opened it.


    "I''m Harry DeWitt and I want you to feel safe here," he said.  "This is a nice residence, quiet neighborhood, and it comes with staff.  Everything you need."


    "I need answers -- for starters."


    "Why don''t we have lunch first.  I''m going to let you out now.  Please don''t do anything foolish."


    He left the door open.  In time, Alex emerged.


    He showed her the washroom.


    In front of the gilded mirror set along a marbled wall, she, at last, saw what she had become, unrecognizable with dark bags under swollen eyes, her skin looking like dried brittle leather, aged beyond her years. If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.


    After a good facial wash, she found the dining room, occupied by a long elegant mahogany table and eight Gothic high-backs.  Crimson wallpaper wrapped the room among golden fixtures and a chandelier.  Then she noticed the seated occupants -- a man and a woman.


    She recognized the woman as the last face she saw before her blackout.  Alex took the seat opposite her.


    "Call her Porsche," Harry said.


    Alex didn''t register any emotion.


    "How you feeling today?"  Harry asked.


    "I could eat."


    "Appetite''s a good sign," Harry said.  He nodded to a woman standing in the kitchen doorway.


    "Who are they?"  Alex asked, surprised they weren''t seated at the table.


    "They''re butler staff," Harry said.  "Here to help out with the domestic side of things."


    The male butler was a harsh-looking man, short and stocky.  He had a shock of coarse black hair that stood up like the fibers of a steel brush, dark olive skin with large pores, salt n pepper goatee.  The woman in the kitchen was fit and muscled like a sprinter.  She wore her long black hair pulled tight in a ponytail over a turtleneck, cargo pants, and boots.  They didn''t participate.  Judging from their clean-cut appearances, they were private security, ex-military, now working under the corporate aegis.  Natural enough, most former service guys had two routes once their tours expired, the private sector or the feds.  The fief paid better for sure if you passed their admission bars.


    "They look like corporate goons to me," Alex said dismissively.


    "Yes, they''re trusted employees from Midland Superior," Harry said.


    "You''re a corporate leech too?" Alex turned to face Porsche.


    "I''m freelance."


    "Freelance means what?" Alex said, becoming surly.


    Porsche made a crooked smirk with her lips, not taking the bait.


    "What is this place?"  Alex said, looking around.


    "A safe house."


    "Safe from who?"


    Harry shrugged.


    "What territory is this?" Alex shot-gunned her questions.  "What city?"


    "We''re in Western Pennsylvania, Midland territory.  You''re protected."


    "I don''t need protection," Alex hissed.  "Now how bout you tell me everything you think you know."


    "Just relax.  Food''s coming.  I talk better on a full stomach," Harry said.  When Alex was about to object, he raised his voice.  "My house, my rules."  The suddenness made her pause.  "You eat and we talk."


    The kitchen help brought out a tray of Reuben sandwiches and placed it on the table with a side dish of extra pickles and sauerkraut.


    Alex bit into her sandwich and found she couldn''t chew.  There was no saliva in her mouth.  So she forced the morsel down and pushed the plate away.


    "Let''s start with an easy question -- why were you following me?  You first." Alex pointed at Porsche.


    "My job."


    "And what job is that?"  Alex asked, her tone cold but reigned in.


    Porsche glanced at Harry.


    "I paid her to follow you," Harry said, taking responsibility.  "And from all accounts, you should thank her."


    "Thank her?" Alex''s temper flashed, climbing the mercury.  "For what?"


    "Easy now," Harry said.  "She saved your life."


    "You left her to die, bitch," Alex said, a low growl coming from her throat.  "I should kill you."


    "Believe me, you tried," Porsche said, touching the dark bruise on her neck.  "There was nothing I could do.  She was already . . . when I got there."


    Alex gasped and swallowed hard, her voice wet with the coming of tears.  "Where is she?  I want to see her."


    Harry and Porsche glanced at each other but neither answered and secrets at this moment agitated Alex even more.


    "Someone''s gonna tell me something or I start breaking heads," Alex snarled a warning, her calm tone ominous.


    Harry said.  "She''s in the city morgue."


    "But you don''t want to go there," Porsche added at once.


    "Why?"


    She hesitated to say.  "They used acid.  She''s . . . half-gone."


    Alex shrieked as if a thousand volts had surged through her, burning her synapses.  She hammered the table, putting dents into the wooden surface, her face contorting between rage and grief.  Alex turned and doubled over, her back arching like a cat, hair rigid and erect, then she vomited the bite she had swallowed.  Harry motioned the help to stand back and wait.


    Holding her head in her hands, Alex shook in real physical pain, apoplectic.  She flung the chair against the wall and stormed to her bedroom.  The door slammed shut.


    Harry breathed a sigh of relief.


    "That went well," Porsche said, safetying the Taser on her lap, glad she didn''t need to use it.


    "It went the only way it could.  The first steps to recovery are usually hard."


    "Now what?"


    "You stay here, and keep an eye on her," Harry said.  "She''ll come around.  And when she does, befriend her."


    "And you?"


    "I got business in Chicago."


    "I didn''t sign up to play house.  I did my part.  She''s your responsibility now.  I told you I have to return to DC."


    "Leave everything, you''re with me now."


    "I still have personal items.  Family photos and memorabilia."


    "I taught you not to get attached to things, not in our business."


    "Well, school''s out, been out for a while, teacher," Porsche said, unmoved.  "I''m going."


    "Fine, do what you must, then come back.  I need you."


    That night, the sobbing resumed, sometimes punctuated by rage as Porsche listened outside her door.  Betty and Bruce had their duties, part domestic, part guard dogs.  The next morning, the door opened from the inside.


    A grim Alex emerged.


    "Coffee?" Porsche asked.


    "Sit, let''s talk."


    "All right."  They sat in the same spots as the day before.


    "You''re the one who took out five of them -- that''s what he told me.  That true?"


    Porsche nodded.


    Alex said gruffly at the table.  "What''s your involvement?"


    "Not much to tell.  DeWitt hired me to shadow you."


    "That part I know."  Alex nodded.  "But why?"


    "Ask him."


    "Why did you bring me here?"  Alex demanded, narrowing her eyes.


    "No other place to go.  We had to get you out or else," Porsche said.  "Look, before you, I watched some majordomo tech-director got snuffed.  The same crew that hit him, went after you.  Okay?"


    "What were your instructions besides watching?"


    "That''s all I will say."


    Alex snatched Porsche''s hand with one swipe, faster than a snake.  She squeezed hard, never breaking her eyes from Porsche.


    "We''re holding hands now?" Porsche winced, the pain mounting from her crushed fingers.


    "Talk."  She hissed under clenched teeth.


    "They told me to keep tabs on you.  And to watch your back."


    "Why?"


    "You''re very special.  I read your dossier."


    Alex released her as the former jerked back her hand.


    "You have a file on me?"  Alex demanded, then sighed.  "Classified used to mean something, I guess."


    "With billions tied to biotech R&D -- you''re more visible than you think."


    "Well, you did a piss-poor job protecting me then."


    Porsche rubbed her bruised hand. "You''re alive, aren''t you?" Porsche said, earning a sharp glower.  "Sorry, I didn''t mean --"


    "These fuckers, I want to know who they work for.  I''m gonna burn them all down!"


    "That crew could be from any outfit, feds or fief.  But between trying to save you and running, didn''t have time to ask.  Besides, that''s a question way above my pay grade."


    "Right, save it for DeWitt.  I can''t wait to see the wizard."  Alex exhaled.  "I need coffee.  My head''s pounding."


    Betty heard her.  She brought forth a mug of black brew and painkillers.


    "Take these, they help," Betty said.  Bruce leaned by the doorway, watching warily.


    Alex nodded, popped the pills and grimaced at the bitter coffee.


    "Where the hell is DeWitt?" Alex asked after swallowing.


    "He pops up when you don''t want him to and vanishes when you need him," Porsche replied.  "I''m leaving you in good hands.  Good luck," Porsche got up.  She nodded toward the staff that she was ready for the hand-off.

 Book 1 - Chapter 35

    Porsche''s pit-stop back East was to be as brief as possible.  She would return to work, for one purpose -- to resign.  She doubted they would give her any fuss.  Things felt strange from the start.  There was a ring of silence placed around her.  No one talked to her; her colleagues didn''t invite her to a farewell lunch.  Then she went home to box her few personal items.  The final task was to retrieve an emergency go-bag she''d stashed at the gym.  In it were a portion of her carats she had squired -- her screw-you money, a handgun, and several passports.  She''d always kept it near where she lived.   The rest of whatever junk, the landlord could do as he pleased.  She planned to vacate the next morning.


    The gym was small, personal, and all women.  And it had an Olympic-sized pool.    Among her routine to relax was swimming laps, then a long soak in the steam room.  She looked forward to her last time there.


    Porsche showered cold first in the locker, then came out to the pool area.  Being a member of this gym for years, she''d recognized some of the regulars.  She gave them a nod of cordiality here and there.  Other than that, no one approached to converse.


    Porsche wore a one-piece black racer.  She bought it not only for speed but because it looked good with its high-cut legs and low back that showed off her assets.


    She stood at the edge of the pool, loosened her arms and shoulders before plunging in.  Each length being 164 feet, she''d need to do 30 lengths to make a mile: that was her daily goal.


    Four middle lanes were empty.  She chose the far right for herself, secured her goggles and dove in.


    The regularity of strokes gave her an interlude of peace and meditation.  She maintained a comfortable pace, her mind blinking out all the troubles and questions, including Moreau, Marlboro, the acid bath and Uncle.  Her strokes rhythmic, her breathing even, she cut a smooth wake with her first lap and flip-turned on her way back.  Fifty more to go.


    Somewhere between the twentieth or twenty-fifth length, she sensed another swimmer in the left lane.  She wouldn''t think twice, only that this swimmer matched her speed, stroke for stroke, and maintained her pace.  Decorum said to leave a length or two.  And of all the unused lanes, this interloper had taken the one next to hers.  The nerve.


    Porsche tried to slow.  The splashes didn''t advance.  She tried to speed up.  The splashes stayed on her left.  Damn rude.  She didn''t need a leech glued to her.  Her calming peace dashed, the intrusion became a distraction.


    At the turn, she caught a glimpse of the unwelcome entrant and the bluish shimmer of her suit.  The girl was wearing an elastic skull cap and goggled.  Porsche didn''t make out the face.


    Porsche pulled ahead, determined to lose her.


    In no time, the splashes inched up to her again.


    Porsche fumed.  She''d lost her lap count.  Agitated, she was ready to confront the interloper.


    At the end of the length, she stopped and called out, "Hey."


    But the pest didn''t stop.  She flip-turned and continued down the lane.


    What the --


    Her anger unfounded, Porsche realized she was being stupid.  The paranoia was all in her head.  Maybe she was more shook up by Moreau and the gruesome death of Marlboro''s girlfriend than she realized.  Damn if she could remember which lap she stopped on.  Gotta be nearing thirty by now.  She''d lost concentration.


    Blast.


    She jumped out of the pool, grabbed her towel and headed for the locker.  She gave a spiteful glare at the swimmer who had ruined her routine.  But the girl raced away, oblivious to Porsche.  She didn''t mess up your laps, you did.  Got rattled for no reason.


    Porsche felt knotted still.  She needed to unwind in the steam room.


    She stripped off the skintight suit, wrapped the towel over her breasts and waist, and headed for the foggy room near the showers.


    It was empty.


    The eucalyptus scent soothed her.  She closed her eyes, embracing the luxurious heat as the cycle kicked in, spewing out a fresh cloud of hot aromatic mist to cleanse her body and mind.  These mini-vacations replaced expensive therapy on the couch.  She would go insane without them.  Her muscles loosened; she drifted off in the hot cocoon.


    The pleasure of being alone was short-lived.


    The glass door hissed open, snapping her back to the present.  Someone had entered her privacy once more.  She could see the hour-glass silhouette through the steam.  Whoever it was, wasn''t wearing a towel.  The smashing silhouette was youthful, she noticed.  Fit and strong.  The girl came closer and sat on the upper ledge next to Porsche.


    Something familiar about her.  Porsche straightened up, closed her legs, and adjusted her towel.  The steam cycle continued to pour out thick folds of mist, obscuring the girl''s face.


    "Amazing, isn''t it?" the girl made small talk.


    A sudden silence set in.  The blower had shut off as the mist curtains held steady.  Porsche spotted a tattoo of something on her neck.


    "Yes, it is," Porsche replied, closing her eyes.  I have seen her before.


    "I could do this every day."


    Porsche smiled, her silence telling.


    "I saw you in the pool," the girl persisted.  "Nice form.  I tried to keep up."


    The interloper!


    "I''m new in town."


    "That''s nice," Porsche said.


    "I''m Angie."  The girl extended her hand.  A slight Teutonic accent.


    Porsche didn''t linger to make friends.  "That''s it for me.  Enjoy the heat."


    "I will," the girl smiled in a strange manner.  "Perhaps we could swim together."If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    "Sorry, I do my laps alone.  No offense."  Her senses, honed through the years, sent alarm bells crashing into her head.  Then she remembered -- this was the same girl who''d followed Harry in Union Station.  Porsche''s chest tightened, her heart pounding, adrenaline flooding her system.  There was one reason she was here.


    "Not at all.  I understand people need alone time.  What with all the stress at work, right, Porsche?"  The girl had a delicious grin under wet bangs.


    "You''re here for me." She wasn''t walking away from this one.


    The girl puckered and blew her an air-kiss.


    "What do you go by?"


    The girl smirked.  "Harpy."


    "Let''s get it over then."


    The genial smile from the girl had changed into a wicked grin.  "I intend to."  Harpy licked the sweat glistening from her upper lip.


    Porsche remembered she hadn''t refilled the liquid metal reservoir since her last use at Marlboro''s apartment.  She cursed herself for this lapse.  There won''t be enough to defend myself.


    At this moment, the steam cycle kicked in bellowing a wall of thick mist coming between them while the din from the compressor drowned out all sounds.


    Already naked, Harpy dropped her hands by her side.  In the gray steam lit by one overhead LED, her fingers extended grotesquely, the tips solidifying into barbs.  They were like Porsche''s, the same weapon system surgically installed in her by the Agency.  Except her foe had them in both hands, twice the number of talons as Porsche''s.


    Porsche removed her towel and twirled it around her left forearm as a shield.  She found the lump located inside her right bicep.  She prayed it worked.  A current shot through her body, making her flesh goose-bumped.  A tingling sensation ran down her arm as a black fluid oozed from under her five cuticles.  It spurted and coughed.  Empty.  As the remaining liquid hardened, she realized her blades were stunted, barely half as long, more like spikes than claws.


    She doubted she could make the door.  Even if she could, then what?  Run naked through the gym and onto the streets?  No, make or break, all right here.


    Porsche retreated, taking a step higher up the sitting platform.  Cornered against the back wall, she poised above her foe.


    Through the folds of steam, Harpy moved into attack mode, claws extended.  Her talons stunted, Porsche had one advantage -- the high ground, though that won''t be enough.


    The girl lunged and swiped sideways at Porsche''s thigh, going for the femoral artery.  And missed.  Porsche kicked out, sending Harpy back but not before the latter had tagged her with the other hand.


    Five cuts went deep, filleting her thigh, the pain exploding in her ears.  Porsche let out a cry, felt the warm wetness running down her calf, not daring to look down.  Her leg weakening, Porsche staggered trying to stay balanced.


    Harpy noticed the bloody gash and crimson spray and smiled.  An artery was cut.  She closed in to finish her off.


    Gasping in pain, Porsche limped and retreated farther back as the assassin pressed nearer.  She was out of steps to climb.


    Seven yards . . . six.


    Now or never.


    Porsche leaped down on Harpy, blocking the slashing blow with the toweled forearm, her other hand grabbing Harpy''s wrist.  They crashed hard onto the wet tiled floor and slid against the back wall.


    With her last ounce of energy, Porsche rolled on top, straddled the slippery Harpy.  Porsche turned her torso, caught another slash, this time sacrificing her bare biceps to the cuts in return for a vital opening.  Porsche plunged her right hand into the girl''s abdomen, the stubby barbs sharp enough to rip open a cavity beneath the ribcage.  Harpy groaned in mortal pain, eyes rolled into her head, Porsche''s hand deep inside going for the vitals.  Under the sternum, sharp fingers wound their way in and pierced the beating heart.  The assassin tilted her head back, gurgled black blood from her lips and became still.


    Porsche rose and stood over Harpy''s body, slick with mixed blood.  She limped out of the steam room, found the nearest towel, then ripped it into cotton strips.  She made a loop, inserted a metal hanger and twisted it into a tourniquet above her thigh wound.  The spurts became trickles until the flesh turned blue.  The pain in her arm, she ignored.


    They had tracked her, so getting rid of her Atlas became critical.


    Using her sharpest finger, she sliced into her left forearm lengthwise, careful not to cut more arteries.  She bit into the towel, muffling her agony.  Voltage turned off, the last of the liquid metal dripped onto the carpet, her right hand returning to normal.  With plain fingers, she pried open the forearm incision.  Her nails slipped, missing the micro cylinder.  She hissed at the shooting pain and braced for more.  Thrice she attempted and failed, groaning with frustration.  She took a deep breath for the final attempt and dug her fingernails in the wound until they clutched the metal cylinder.


    The outer door clanged open.  Other women were entering.  Porsche grabbed her clothes.  With neither time nor strength to dress, she rushed past the incoming people and out the door.  A few steps away, she heard screams of terror as someone had found Harpy in the steam room soaked in blood.


    Porsche clutched her bloody clothes and her precious Go-bag to her chest and staggered outside.  The cold air against her naked skin woke her from creeping headiness.  She was losing blood, and she knew it, her vision on the edge of going dark.


    No time to dress and desperate to put some distance between herself and the dead girl, Porsche hopped on her H1 rocket-bike and started the hydrogen engine with her thumb ignition.  She gunned the accelerator and clutched into gear with bare feet; the bike fish-tailed before straightening out and screamed away.  No more than a hundred yards down the avenue, she keeled over, crashing the racer into a mound of refuse.


    * * *


    The orderly led Lockheart into the cold-room where several bodies were laid on wheeled gurneys under white sheets.  One was a woman, judging from the mammary swells under white linen, his beloved Harpy.  His face alluded to no pain except for a muscle twitch beneath his left eye.


    Lockheart rolled the sheet past her abdomen, uncovering the mortal wound.  Mortuary Services had drained and washed the body.  The tear, left unsutured, was translucent and gray.  The coroner said the wound extended past the ribs deep into the heart cavity, puncturing the cardiac muscle.  He looked at length, almost mesmerized by the brutal wound -- the outer edges uneven and ragged.  An edged blade hadn''t done this.  Neither did projectiles.  He didn''t need their findings to know what made the lacerations.


    Lockheart touched the gash under the ribcage, a gaping hole wide enough for a small hand to enter.  The weapon used on his girl was clear -- it left no duplicable patterns because it used the same compound in Harpy''s liquid reservoir.  His head hung on his chest as he gathered his loss and bitterness, and fell into a quiet rage.


    Harpy''s beautiful face remained unblemished and at peace . . . slain by a huntress he should have buried a long time ago.  Some women you can''t escape from.  Porsche wasn''t done bleeding him.


    Deep down, he relished seeing her again, but for dark reasons now.  Porsche was off the reservation, moonlighting for some other outfit -- which made her fair game.


    He could remember her like yesterday, an eager eighteen-year-old from some Ukrainian shit hole.  But she was DeWitt''s pet student, favored and nurtured.  She oozed sexuality and knew how to wield it as a weapon.  And he had tumbled into her web.  The two had a secret dalliance that turned toxic almost at once, and Lockheart was left holding the short stick.  She''d made him look pathetic and impotent when the secret came out.  She humiliated him in front of his peers and superiors.  Enraged, his fragile ego knew of only one sanctuary to hide in -- a mental dungeon equipped with moat and spikes around an unsympathetic personality.  He swore their paths would never cross again, until that night at Moreau''s.


    It was dumb luck a top-cover drone over Moreau''s place spotted a birdwatcher on an adjacent tower two hundred yards away.  Captured biometrics later confirmed the one person he thought gone from his life forever, had resurfaced.  Sneaky Porsche.  The next morning, Lockheart met with Oliver to inquire if there were ongoing Agency operations on Moreau he hadn''t been told.  The answer was an emphatic negative -- the Agency wouldn''t conduct surveillance on North American soil.  And on an important Affiliate.


    How did this happen then?


    He had expressly told Harpy to leave it alone but she''d gone against his wishes.  Was it out of jealousy or was killing Porsche her gift to him?  No matter, she''d paid the price for her misjudgment.


    He looked at her sleeping face and his eyes moistened, a rare thing.  Good night, sleep tight.


    There will be payback, he raged silently.  But not yet.


    Pleasure could wait.


    A simple inquiry told him Harpy''s killer was in the hospital under police custody as a murder suspect.  Porsche was in intensive care, in a coma.  She wasn''t going anywhere.  Besides, he wanted her awake when he turned her lights out for good.


    He had important matters that shouldn''t be clouded with thoughts of vengeance.  Lockheart may be unstable, but he was also pragmatic, which made for a dangerous combination.

 Book 1 - Chapter 36

    A tilt-rotor V-280 Valor approached the Midland Spire, once called the Sears Tower, to land on the 109th-floor platform. Multiple spotlights projected a white-blue icon with the capital letter M superimposed onto the low cloud cover, a sort of light flag one could see for miles around. As the plane fought against Lake Michigan gales to land on the aerie, wind barriers automatically rose to form a revetment. Ground crews rushed forward to place stoppers against the wheels and a step-down ladder underneath the fuselage main door.


    Men and women in suits waited nearby for the one passenger to disembark, careful to stay outside the starboard tilt-rotor as it powered down.


    Once the cabin door slid aside, the aides snapped to at the sight of Her Excellency, Devlin Augustine.


    The Governor Regent of Illinois walked past them into the elevator. At the 98th floor, the young desk secretary jumped up when he saw her.


    "Morning, Madam!"


    Augustine nodded. "Has DeWitt returned?"


    "Yes, ma''am."


    "Locate and send him to my office."


    "Right away."


    Inside her spacious quarters, Augustine tossed her coat on the couch, a holo-placard following her wherever she went.


    Not long after, a chime sounded.


    "Madam, Mr. DeWitt is here."


    The double doors slid aside as Harry DeWitt entered alone.


    "Welcome back," Augustine said. "I hope it was what you expected." Augustine waved at him to sit out of habit. He would have taken it without her offering him.


    He settled into a wraparound seat, his hands resting on the armrests. The seat''s electronics recognized the occupant and adjusted to form fit better.


    "It never happened."


    "Oh? "


    "A no show." Harry shrugged. "He''s going elsewhere for a buyer."


    "Then it''s out of your hands. What a relief."


    "I could try to reengage."


    "You don''t take rejection easily, do you?"


    "I''m afraid what the tech could do in his hands."


    "I take it you know this headhunter?"


    "He was my student long ago."


    "Ah, now the student is teaching the master a thing or two. Let it go, Harry."


    "As you say, ma''am," Harry said. "So what have I missed in my absence?"


    "Most of our Regents voted to pare down Red City." She shook her head dejectedly. "And TexPax is dumping theirs as well. We''re in a dumping race who can sway New York faster for Conclave."


    "And Vargas is leading the charge?"


    "Who else?" she curled her lip and jabbed a finger his way. "Red City is the key to the entire Mississippi column, from the Delta to the Lakes. And he wants to give it up to block TexPax from becoming the PIP again."


    "Not a good trade?"


    "Half a dozen solid companies going over to New York, in exchange for votes -- that''s near 50 billion in annual revenue we gave up, reducing our Red City holdings to just under 38%. Is it a good deal, you tell me?"


    "Maybe this is what the Chairmark had in mind, reduce profit for peace with TexPax," Harry said, frowning. "What did the Chairmark say -- ''losing growth for stability is a good trade?''"


    "Carlyle is ancient; I lost count, maybe a hundred and fifty-seven or more, though he has a new body. You can sharpen a knife only so much before you run out of metal."


    "You''re no spring chicken yourself," Harry jibed.


    Augustine flashed him a look of annoyance. "Scientists can replace every piece of the human body. But the mind. Perhaps his has become dull after so many years." She shrugged, then lowered her voice. "These concessions either stop or . . . We look for a new Chairmark."The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.


    "You mean his sons?"


    "God forbid."


    "The Carlyle House will always be apex in Midland; it''s tradition."


    "Tradition is a jailer of new ideas."


    "I never thought I would hear that from you."


    Augustine got up from behind her desk and walked toward the glass wall facing the shimmering waters of Lake Michigan. With privacy mode deactivated, she allowed cold moonbeams to batheher office in abluish wash. To the east, she had a commanding view of the twinkling forest of glass towers. The low cloud cover that rolled in from Lake Michigan lay at her feet.


    "You should have heard the meeting," Augustine said, contempt etched on her face. "Vargas running the negotiation and our Regents cowering before him like a mad prophet. And I looked at them and wondered if I had stumbled into some Jonestownwiththe Kool-Aid in front of me." She sighed. "Pathetic. And if I could see their meekness, surely they''d see my revulsion of them."


    "What will you do, resign?"


    "Resign?" She wheeled about and chuckled, "Not a chance." Then returned to her long gaze through the window. "How to sink TexPax''s chance at becoming PIP again without giving away Red City -- that''s the trick."


    "You''re on a crusade."


    "Ha!" she scoffed. "You were too young -- How could you remember what it was like before all this?" She sighed. "Before Conclave, this continent was mired in bipartisan poison. People hated each other. They riot, they corrupt. Wars were fought between nation-states because governments had stopped functioning and became problems unto themselves. Then all that changed with the Cataclysm -- systems collapsed; nations everywhere failed. It was the paramountcies who rose to assume control and took over every aspect of society. We," she patted her chest, "saved civilization. No more central governments after that. No more state-sponsored conflicts. Stability now exists because of a responsible fief system that works. But after twelve years of the same PIP in the White House, we risk returning to the past. Time will make a desert of us."


    "A proverb?"


    "A warning," she said. "That''s why I need something to give us leverage."


    "I brought you Moreau, but that wasn''t enough?"


    "Moreau was toxic. As I suspected, Dallas-Austin had him targeted -- we almost stepped into the same bear trap."


    Harry sighed, looking at his hands. "That error was mine. I should have locked down Moreau while we had the chance."


    "Don''t beat yourself, it''s water in the sewer." She sighed. "It''s over."


    "Hum, no. We''re still in the game," Harry said, stretching the words out, causing Augustine to raise an eyebrow. "What if I were to tell you we have in our care the Marlboro woman."


    "Who?"


    "The woman on that video."


    Augustine''s face brightened at first, then waned just as quick. "Can you connect her to TexPax? I don''t see how."


    "Maybe I can, maybe I can''t, but it might rattle them to know we have her."


    "Your insights always impress me. How did you manage that?"


    Harry took a deep breath before explaining. "She and her team were scheduled for liquidation, but we intercepted at the one-yard line -- with luck and lots of carats."


    "Carats?"


    "I authorized it, under your name."


    "Why am I not surprised?" she gave him a hard expression.


    "It''s worth it, trust me," Harry said.


    "Then tell me."


    "Story goes -- the feds were doing a purge the same time our good Director decided to take Carnivora. It didn''t take much to put Moreau on top of the target list . . . But we have the second best thing -- Alexis Marlboro."


    "I''ve underestimated the PIP, nasty people over there in DC." The GR clapped her hands with delight. "But you get an A-plus, Harry."


    "Well, before you pop the champagne, there''re a couple of snags."


    The grin on Augustine waned. "There always are."


    "Marlboro''s unhinged in the worst way. She''s unstable. She lost someone close when they went after her."


    "Help her, give her what she wants."


    "She wants blood."


    "Blood, money, position, title, land, whatever a girl desires."


    "Well, that brings us to our next problem."


    "Why do you always hand out problems piecemeal like they''re candy? Dump it."


    "She''s dying."


    "You''re being metaphorical?"


    "Not at all," Harry said. "Apparently, Moreau didn''t mention that his volunteers had to stay on an immunosuppressant regimen or else the hemonanites multiply out of control. Engineered cancer."


    "Ghastly," Augustine said. "Can our people reverse it?"


    "There''s little anyone can do. I doubt our labs can arrive at the molecular phenotype in time."


    "Meaning?"


    "She doesn''t have long. Besides, you can''t control a bomb that''s about to go off. No one can."


    Augustine stared off elsewhere, her mind churning with dark machinations. She said at last, "No, but we can steer it."


    "What?"


    Augustine''s face held no emotion. "We direct the bomb to its intended path -- and step back. Let bombs do what they''re best at."


    Harry pondered for a second. "I see."


    "We can''t prove TexPax''s shenanigans but then we don''t have to. Let the media do the heavy lifting -- ''see, the chickens have come home to roost.''"


    "And the hen house will need a proper washing," Harry said with a crooked grin. "Yes, it might work. I''ll get on it."


    Leaving Augustine''s aerie, Harry DeWitt tried calling Porsche to let her know of the new play. As of 9 PM CST, she hadn''t picked up. He had left three messages and by now he was beginning to suspect something was wrong. And in his business, that usually involved death.


    Ten minutes later, he had Midland''s Security Intelligence Division do a sweep of her RFID signal. Nothing. Her Atlas was either suppressed or deactivated, her whereabouts unknown. He began to think about the impossible. Would Lockheart go after her? It''d make no sense, too provocative and without purpose . . . But a black heartwas capable of anything.


    DeWitt quietly directed his snoopers to check the twenty-plus metropolitan morgues back East for any young Caucasian female recently admitted in the last forty-eight hours. There were plenty, but none of the corpse photos matched Porsche''s profile. However, it didn''t take long before Midland''s AI-driven search software produced high probability hits -- that she was in a hospital in AEL-controlled territory.


    Jane Doe 112963 fitting Porsche''s description had been brought in from a crash two night ago and was admitted to intensive care. DeWitt scoured the triage assessment log and read Jane Doe''s conditions: deep lacerations to the inguinal ligament, in the anterior groin region. Patient 112963 suffered from acute hypovolemia and anemia resulting from the severing of her femoral artery and remained in a coma. Furthermore, Jane Doe 112963 was under police guard, secured inside D Ward, wanted for questioning for the murder of another female in a stabbing death.


    As soon as she woke.

 Book 1 - Chapter 37

    The incessant drizzle continued, adding a damp chill to a funeral. The dead man had no final instructions, so it was left for his fief to arrange his resting place. A large group had gathered in a cemetery that overlooked the Potomac River under a November sky of tarnished silver.


    Just seventy-two hours ago, the news had burned up the Ethernet of a massive tower fire. Hundreds had to be evacuated, and there was one fatality. Metro PD had found charred remains inside the smoldering apartment. It didn''t take long for investigators to uncover that the dead man was a tech jockey with heavy connections, a prominent science director with TexPax affiliation; this demanded discretion. The authorities omitted to the press that the man''s head was missing; they did say the investigation was wrapping up, the cause of the blaze believed to be a faulty gas valve.


    Ian Moreau rested in a closed casket. Sealed, the coffin hung in a motorized sling over a marble crypt, surrounded by powerful dignitaries of commerce and government. With seven years immersed in a classified enterprise, Moreau had engaged a mix of high-level technocrats and bureaucrats. Most of them were present for his final sendoff: Governor Regents, Viceroys, military brass, and senior Fedniks, three layers deep ringing the hole in the ground. Standing in the front row by himself was Secretary Balkan, gray and grim in his demeanor, Lisbeth Hunt a noted distance away wearing dark shades over her eyes.


    A priest in a white smock stood at the head of the flag-draped casket as he performed the requisite rites that would usher the departed on his journey. His Excellency Dominic Lazard, TexPax Governor Regent of Oklahoma, gave the eulogy, evidence of Moreau''s lofty fief standing. It was the usual spiel about dedication and service to the PIP -- and country -- a great humanitarian, and how his untimely demise was a loss to society.


    They held their heads low, hands clasped, under a rain-proof EM field, generated from four portable wave emitters. The funeral party needed no tent as the charged air over them frizzled hot and crackled like a bug zapper, atomizing the rain. Those outside the artificial awning observed the service under suspended drone umbrellas as droplets drummed on their taut surfaces.


    Though the shock of his sudden death was real to the gathering, besides a smattering of far-flung relatives, there were few true mourners. Whatever somber empathy given toward Moreau was at best ersatz. The viewers were obligated to be there -- to win, place and show for the cameras.


    The folded flag passed to Moreau''s sister.


    A three-volley salute followed, jolting Lisbeth. She looked away, shades covering her tears, secrets wrenching at her. As people filed out, they queued to give Moreau''s sister their final sympathies.


    Lisbeth lingered behind, then walked up and offered, "Please accept my condolences."


    "Thank you -- miss?" Moreau''s sibling said.


    "It''s Beth. I was a close colleague of Ian."


    "Ian was very smart, too smart for his good, always busy doing this or that. Most the time I never knew where in the world he was," the sister replied in a guarded manner. "So I never knew he had friends, though I''m glad he had you. Oh, I didn''t mean it that way."


    Lisbeth could feel her cheeks warming. "I''d hoped we''d meet under better circumstances. If there''s anything I could do, please don''t hesitate."


    Moreau''s sister nodded and shook her hand.


    Lisbeth turned on her heel, hooded her head and stepped into the rain. At once, a drone umbrella paired with her and settled noiselessly over her head, keeping the rain away.


    From the side, a male voice called out suddenly, "Undersecretary Hunt."


    She stopped to find a reporter quick-stepping up to her. He had a mini-telescopic microphone earpiece aimed at her. "Would you care to comment on rumors you plan to leave Defense to be a Midland Affiliate?"


    Lisbeth stopped and glared at the pack of news-hounds waiting to waylay VIPs. A camera orb spiraled in and hovered too closely; she swatted as if it were a gnat. "Scat!" At once, she realized her rashness. It made her look cantankerous and crabby going after that pesky thing. There was always somebody who saw them as pets. People adopted rocks and highways, why not AI orbs?


    The spherical drone disengaged.Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.


    "Gentlemen," Lisbeth said changing tack and smiling. "There is no such decision on my part or anyone else I know of."


    "There are also rumors Caracas-gate has shaken up Defense and your departure is one of its aftershocks. Is this true?"


    Lisbeth managed a labored smile. "No further comment. If you''d excuse me."


    The reporters understood to fall back and snoop elsewhere.


    When Lisbeth thought she was out of the media gauntlet, a different voice caught her attention.


    "Are the lights too bright, Beth?"


    Lisbeth pivoted, digging her heels into the wet grass, almost toppling over. A black suit approached under a floating umbrella. She recognized Balkan as she would a rash -- the more you scratch, the uglier it gets. "I''d like to get out of the rain if that''s all right with you, Victor."


    "You''re not taking my calls."


    "Is there a point to this conversation?"


    "Last I checked you''re my subordinate. I placed you."


    "What do you want, Victor?"


    "Talk?"


    "Talk is cheap," Lisbeth said, turning away.


    "Then it wouldn''t cost you anything to listen," Balkan said, sidling up to her. "I see you''ve been crying. Shame about the accident."


    "Don''t try it."


    "Try what?"


    "It was no accident." She scoffed.


    "Be very careful. What are you saying?"


    "You have some nerve to show up at his funeral," she hissed with a cold chuckle. "The killer at the victim''s wake."


    "I didn''t kill anyone," he said, acting surprised from her vehemence.


    "And the lies keep on rolling."


    "Keep your voice down."


    "What''s the matter, are the lights too bright?" She threw it back in his face.


    He grabbed her arm and gave it a hard jerk.


    "Get off," she growled, ripping it back.


    "Don''t be stupid," he warned, his eyes reflecting off her shades. Balkan nodded for his bodyguards to walk ahead, leaving him his own trailing rain canopy. "Not wise in front of the networks -- I see CNN, FOX, ADP, BBC . . ."


    "Let''s not forget FBI, DOJ, plenty of three-letters to choose from." She turned her head, then snapped back. "How could you?"


    "What is it you think I did?"


    "Stop the lying!"


    The secretary sighed.


    "You practically threw the plan at me and Oliver," Lisbeth cried. "Then you hired that maniac to do the job. So don''t stand there like an altar boy. You may not have pulled the trigger, but you murdered him."


    "And what does that make you?" Balkan snapped, which surprised her.


    "I''m leaving, Victor," she said and felt relieved of the sopping shame. "You''ll have my resignation tomorrow morning."


    "You knew beforehand, didn''t you?" Balkan said, standing his ground. "You knew he was going to defect with the stolen data, and yet you kept it from us."


    Her tongue flattened, pinned by the truth. There was no convincing rebuttal.


    "I could charge you with conspiracy and treason."


    "I dare you to. We can both go down together."


    "Don''t cross that line, Beth darling. You won''t like it. I have the backing of PIP and Fed. What do you have?"


    "Justice would be very interested in my testimony, I''d say."


    "I doubt you''d make it that far," Balkan said, lowering his voice just above the patter of rain. "But I''ll make you a deal."


    "I don''t deal with murderers!" she spat.


    "So says the traitor."


    "Patriotism and treason are twin sisters, only time can tell them apart." Her face hardened.


    "It doesn''t have to be," Balkan offered.


    "You''re offering to buy my silence?" she laughed in pain.


    "Whatever you wish. Promotion? An agency top position, fief affiliation, just name it."


    "And I''m so easy to buy? You insult me."


    "This is the carrot." He eyed her dangerously. "You won''t like the stick, Beth. Take the carrot."


    "Son of a bitch, spare me your damn threat," she said with affront. "I''m a public official. My visibility is my shield. I am not afraid of you."


    The Secretary bristled, his eyebrows plunging, overhanging sharp bright eyes.


    "What gets me is that you''ll be POTUS soon, a soul with your dark disposition shouldn''t have such power."


    "It was Dallas'' prerogative. Not mine."


    She paused and choked. "No, not Dallas . . . by God." She lifted her dark glasses to her forehead. Her mouth twisted in grotesque scorn, pupils dilating with realization. "This was all your doing -- Caracas-gate, the video leak, POTUS losing face, all to get Dallas to switch the incumbent candidate. Am I right? You engineered it all."


    "Calm down, Beth."


    "Already you''re head of the military and with your Praetorians, you control an independent force outside any checks and balances. You could wage a private war and no one could stop you."


    "I have no such ambition."


    "You''re power-mad." She recoiled from him, her eyes wetting again, not from guilt as before but from a horrible truth that she was complicit in all this. He had used her. "That''s why you had them all killed. Liabilities had to be eliminated."


    "We''re in the business of balance sheets, you forget, Beth."


    "And to think I slept with you . . . God, I hate myself." She agonized with burning pain in her chest. "I''m going to be sick."


    She bent over and heaved, the drone umbrella dropping likewise to block out the rain.


    "This is how it''s going to be," Balkan went on. "You sign an affidavit stating you knew of Moreau''s intention and treason -- it''s my insurance since the fairer sex tends to be capricious. In return, there''s a position opening up in Anacostia needing a conscientious administrator. Lots of visibility and perks. Perfect for you."


    He offered her his hand.


    "Get away from me," Lisbeth said with disgust, pushing past him.


    Balkan turned and resumed his path toward a black Cadillac stretch-hover parked a few yards away; his bodyguards fell in around him. But before he was out of earshot, he gave her a piece of parting advice. "Be smart and take the carrot, Beth."


    The aerodyne he entered had an embossed logo on its fuselage, two letters, a capital T superimposed over a smaller X, both laser-etched in silver. Inside, a Governor Regent from Dallas was waiting for him.

 Book 1 - Chapter 38

    Balkan settled into the stretch aeroflyer which could hold ten comfortably.  Leather seats wrapped the interior.  Governor Regent Lazard and Secretary Balkan sat facing forward, sealed in the hermetic cocoon.  They spoke freely, the TexPax aerodyne sanitized of bugs and trackers.


    "I''m glad we have this opportunity to talk in person," Balkan said.


    "Of course, I''m at your service," Lazard replied.


    "Has Chairmark Drexel said anything more about my candidacy?"


    "Your candidacy shall be made public in two weeks'' time during an event held in Poseidon''s Crown."


    Balkan stiffened.  "I wasn''t informed of the venue."


    "Leland Drexel is hosting a gala and you''re the belle of the ball, Victor.  Every global paramountcy and its delegation, including this custodial federal government.  Yes, the White House will be there.  Imagine the President''s face when he hears the decision."


    "I was hoping we could spare him the embarrassment and do this with discretion."


    "Isn''t it better to take bad news from friends than strangers?" Lazard said.


    Balkan smirked, looking out the window of the speeding craft as it ascended against a sheet of rain and banked in a shallow turn.  "What''s really in play, Dom?  The gala is mere window dressing.  He wouldn''t throw one just for my announcement."


    "If you must know, it''s Conclave maneuvering, of course."


    "Ah, where do we stand?"


    "TexPax''s been guaranteed votes from Pacifica.  It didn''t cost us much."


    "The rest of the Big Five isn''t so accommodating, I''m sure."


    "We''ve made considerable concessions to Gulf-Con and AEL," Lazard said.  "If only one of them swings our way, we''d have a Conclave majority locked up."


    "And Midland will try to block, naturally."


    Lazard sat stone-like, his neck rigid as if held in a brace.  Balkan wondered if the GR was averse to flying.


    "Naturally."


    "Who''s heading the Midland delegation?" Balkan asked.


    "The Snow Owl, backed by their General Counsel, Emile Vargas."


    "I heard Augustine is formidable."


    "Indeed.  But, she has little room to maneuver.  There is only one concession worth considering:  Red City for the White House."


    "Except Drexel wants both the cake and the figurines."


    "You see the dilemma then," Lazard said without emotion.  "This gala is the final round of our tug-o-war, which I have the honor of being lead puller for our side."Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.


    "I envy you."


    "So tell me, how''s the international front going?  I''m concerned about our Asian partners."


    "Quieter than Red City," Balkan said, knowing he''d have to offer some intelligence morsel to this important oligarch.  As a former TexPax Viceroy before taking political office, Balkan had always been junior to Lazard, from prep school to the Ivies and up the paramountcy ladder.  Even now, the Secretary gave Regent Lazard deference that was innate.  "Well, of course, the Asian paramountcies are stirring."


    "Which ones? We have five in North America; Asia has fifteen."


    "D¨¤ l¨®ng, the Great Dragon.  They''re leaning to fill the void in Venezuela.  Cyber traffic and hacks confirmed an aggressive posture, which in all practical purposes, sends a clear message for us to keep out."


    "The Chinese are in bed with Brasilia, everyone knows that."


    "Yes, a friendly government in Caracas would have put a wedge in the Sino-Brazil bloc, but it''s too late for tears now.  The campaign is a total write-off.  And a costly one for us."


    Lazard nodded stiffly.  "The Chairmark is putting our Caracas facilities up for sale to the Mexicans who''re dumb enough to bite."  Both men laughed.  "As for the rest, Lloyd''s would indemnify our losses.  We''ll be okay.  Anything else around the world?"


    "As I gave POTUS my brief this morning -- Europe is quiet.  Africa has their usual petty regimes and civil spats but that''s of no concern."


    "Yet, what is of great concern has to do with Ian Moreau -- just before his death."


    "Yes?"


    "He planned to defect to Midland, I''m told," Lazard said.


    "You''re well informed."  Balkan glanced at the Regent.


    "Most disturbing.  You can imagine how we''re taking this news in Dallas-Austin . . ."


    Balkan nodded knowingly.


    "Because no one defects without bringing something to the table."


    "Project Carnivora," Balkan conceded, beating the Regent to the punch.


    "Shameful."  Lazard exhaled, the hiatus pregnant.  "Did you retrieve the data?"


    How would he know?  I only got the head yesterday.


    "There was no cranial storage unit," Balkan reported, keeping his face even.  "It''s been absconded."


    The senior Regent sat unmoved, staring ahead.  Balkan realized then that Lazard all this time was hooked into a HUD VR window.  No telling with whom he was linked.  Could even be Drexel himself.  "Carnivora cannot be allowed to get to the open market.  Not only would we lose a substantial R&D investment, but if it gets out we are using animal DNA to augment humans, there will be backlash from every conservative and religious corner the likes we haven''t seen since the Inquisition.  This would jeopardize Conclave, Mr. Secretary."


    Balkan didn''t reply, though he began to sweat.


    "What are you doing about it?"


    "With due respect, I don''t ask how you run your territory, do I?"


    "Fair enough."


    "Just know we are doing everything possible to retrieve the merchandise," Balkan said, irritated, toying with his collar.


    "I suspect you don''t have to look far for the culprits."


    Balkan shook his head.  "The people I used don''t know what Moreau carried."


    Lazard smirked in a condescending manner.  "You presume much, Mr. Secretary.  Occam''s Razor -- the simplest solution is usually the right one."


    "I have another theory -- what if Midland acquired the data?  They''ve been running interference against my efforts."


    Regent Lazard shook his head.  "You''re mistaken.  Chicago doesn''t have it," he said matter-of-factly.


    "You are so sure," Balkan said, the tone flushed with smugness.


    "Do I ask how you run your world?"  Lazard returned the snip.  "Trust me when I say Midland does not have possession.  Not yet, anyway.  For one, the tech is unique and hard to conceal.  Whoever has it would need a top-rated lab prepared in advance and stocked with the necessary equipment, not to mention personnel trained in the subject material.  We would have been alerted, Mr. Balkan."


    "Is that so?"


    "In fact, there''s little going on we don''t know in Chicago."  Lazard sighed.  "And sadly, they can say the same about us.  Greed breeds spies like flies."  Lazard paused and gave Balkan a sudden glower.  "The Chairmark is concerned, as am I.  Locate and retrieve our property."


    "The situation is being addressed.  Rest assured," Balkan said quickly, his temperature rising.  First, it was Moreau, now his own man -- Milo Lockheart.  Balkan''s problems were compounding, all due to thieves.  Retrieving Carnivora became priority.  Liquidating Cerberus seemed a distant second just now.

 Book 1 - Chapter 39

    Lisbeth hadn''t eaten today; her appetite had gone missing the past few days.  Sleeping proved difficult too.  She was on the verge of tears again.  She had sobbed in the ladies'' room until her eyes were puffy and red.  Enough crying, she gritted her teeth.  I could do with a couple of espresso martinis.


    Instead of heading home, she ordered a destination change to the AI-Nav system of her PAV.  The craft veered from the flight path over the Potomac toward the F Street corridor famous for its lively restaurants and bars.


    The Red Parrot was her favorite: hip pulsar lounge music, ultra-chic decor, haute cuisine, and packed with beautiful does and bucks showing off their antlers and furs.  But it was all fake, all show and bluster.  Real power didn''t need approval.  Real power preferred the shadows and privacy and killed with a word.  She was tired of it all, sick to her stomach.


    Lisbeth walked through the front door.  The ma?tre d'' recognized her, took her coat and whisked her to a corner table.  For one?  She declined the table.  Tonight, she wanted the bar.  And people.


    The ma?tre d'' made sure she had a seat, making a hole in the three-deep bar.  Lisbeth squeezed in between two handsome men in well-cut suits.  They noticed her and smiled.


    More masculine bullshit, God help me.


    Laughter and inane chatter began to grate on her.


    All she could think of was the meeting with Lockheart, Balkan and Oliver, etched deep in her memory.  She despised them and herself for being part of the conspiracy.  Her hands were soaked red too.


    A cold rage burned through her.  Hate for Lockheart.  Venom for Balkan and Oliver.  They had corrupted her soul with Harry''s murder -- and how many others?  She had witnessed unspeakable things behind the walls but was sworn to secrecy on pain of imprisonment -- or worse.  They made her culpable, an accessory to high crimes and corruption she''d sworn against when she first took federal office.


    This happened under my nose -- because I''m a coward.


    She caught Dick, the bartender''s attention.


    "Espresso martini!"


    The panacea would help her forget and forgive herself, at least until she was sober.


    Dick poured the sumptuous mix of vodka, coffee liqueur, and espresso into a generous martini glass to the brim.


    She eyed the indulgent creamy liquid, placed her lips on the glass, and sipped with her eyes closed.  When she opened them, she found the two men, one on each side, watching her.


    "You really enjoy it."  They flashed their bright smiles.  They offered her their best come-ons and wittiest remarks.  It was a game well-rehearsed.  And for a second, she contemplated dropping the safety net for the night and living dangerously.  Perhaps a sweaty screwing was what she needed with a stranger, or two.  What does it matter if she was already damned?  For an instant, she was a woman again with unfilled desires, then reality reminded her who she truly was -- a captive of her position.  She was a victim, like the little people here.


    "Listen," Lisbeth told them.  "I''m not interested." She returned to her drink and swallowed a generous gulp to restore the buzz and push the bitter bile away.


    "Aw, not even for poor Ian?"


    The name jolted her out of her skin.


    She felt a hot breath on her neck -- and jerked upright, fear pounding in her chest.  Lisbeth almost screamed for help.


    She twisted around.  There was no one in arm''s reach.  The suitors had moved yards away.  Couldn''t be them.  She was going crazy.


    Desperate, Lisbeth got up to leave.   She needed to clear her mind and cold air would do it -- she knew just the place.  She downed the martini in three quick gulps and pay-swiped her fee with the standard tip.  She nudged bar-goers out of her way and made for the exit past the ma?tre d'' who called after her.  She had left her coat behind.


    The Wharves of Alexandria was a popular tourist area in the DMV, known for its art galleries and the ample cobblestone buildings that hearkened to the days of it being a colonial river port.  It was also Ian''s favorite place to rendezvous with her, their trysts made in salacious secret.  Those heart-thumping memories once dear had turned into bitter bile she was desperate to eject.  Perhaps she could exorcise his phantom and her guilt with this final cathartic visit to their old haunt, though she had no funeral lei to say farewell.  Forgive me, Ian.The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.


    Farther out, the extended boardwalk abutted ferries and water taxis that connected Old Town and the National Mall in DC.  A no-hassle way to see the river, the Potomac Ferry offered a one-hour cruise of the historic sites for cheap.  A boat ride seemed perfect, refreshing, and full of memories of their relationship.  Perhaps she could close it once and for all.  A river burial.


    The last ferry to depart the Wharf was at 8:45 PM.


    At this hour, Lisbeth was one of the few to board.


    The November chill came off the water.  She cursed herself.  In her rush to leave, she had forgotten her coat.  So be it.  If she caught her death tonight, it''d be a fitting end for a coward.  She moved into the ferry''s enclosed interior out of the chilly draft.  She sat alone, immersed in a bubble of guardedness.


    The gangplank removed,  sounds of boat horns echoed across the expanse of darkness as the shore slipped away.  An occasional spray caught by deck light leaped up, sparkled and died.  Twinkles of LED bulbs from river piers passed by as the boat powered north upriver.  It was a simple joy she yearned, no technology, no media, no people to accost her.


    Not true.  Dressed in a long coat with collars turned up, an older man with graying hair and an aquiline nose moved from the opposite end toward her.


    "Where does this boat dock?" he asked, looking unwell, his skin taking on an ashen hue under the ceiling light.


    "At Ohio & West Basin Drive near the old FDR Memorial," Lisbeth said.


    "Good, then we have half an hour of uninterrupted peace."  The man sat down on the bench next to her.


    She moved away.  He matched her.


    "Do you mind?"


    "No, I don''t."


    "Get away from me before I scream."


    "Don''t be nervous," the man said, appearing gentle.  "I''m a friend."


    "You''re no friend."


    The man persisted, "Don''t you want to know what really happened to Ian?  How he died?"


    "You people killed him.  Assassins!" Lisbeth spat, trembling from fear and the cold.


    The man took off his trench coat and offered it to her.  "Here, you''re freezing."


    She flung it away.  "Balkan sent you here to kill me, so get on with it."


    "You got it all wrong, I want you alive, and Ian too -- but I was too late."


    "Who do you work for?  If not Balkan, Charles Oliver?  One or the other." Lisbeth raised her voice.  "I''m the Undersec -- "


    "Shh, not too loud," the stranger whispered, offering her his coat a second time.  "All shall be revealed.  Take it, please, before you freeze to death."


    With her teeth chattering, she caved in and took it.  "Thank you."  Reluctantly, Lisbeth found herself calmed by him.  There was a gentleness about this man; he was grayish but knowing, like a kind uncle.


    "We just talk, is that okay?"


    "You got ten seconds," Lisbeth said, her hands frozen, stuffed in the pockets.


    The man began, "Ian came to see me a few days before he was murdered."


    "Why?"


    "He wanted to trade Carnivora for a future -- with you."


    "Oh, Ian."  Lisbeth shook her head, her eyes stinging.  "He may be an academic but he''s naive.  I told him to get out of town and go back to Dallas where he''s safe."


    "We were going to offer him fief membership and set him up, that was the plan."


    "Dumb plan, it was never going to work.  That probably got him killed instead."


    "You know the truth -- your boss killed him."


    She paused, more curious now.  "I thought you were one of them.  Which fief do you work for?"


    "Shouldn''t we exchange names first as friends?"


    "I don''t want to know who you are, mister."  Lisbeth shrugged, not taking his hand.


    "I''m Harry," he said taking his hand back.  "And I''m an Affiliate of Midland.  We have an interest to see the PIP change with this year''s Conclave."


    "What''s that have to do with me?"


    "Ian was our friend.  You could be our friend too . . . Help us change the PIP."  Harry repeated his familiar offer.  "As you know, Caracas was illegal -- using federal assets to aid the interest of the PIP.  That violates the International Paramountcy Accord, and it will come out, I assure you.  But you can get ahead of the curve."


    "You''re asking me to commit treason."


    "Treason is a nation''s term.  That no longer applies.  Paramountcies are nations now."  Harry paused to study her.  "A wrong minus a wrong equals a right.  Ian believed in it."


    "And he died for it."


    "Ian had conviction and passion," Harry said.  "That''s why you loved him."


    She eyed Harry with suppressed fury.


    "Yes, Balkan knew about you two, not just us," Harry said gently.


    "Shut up."  She quivered, her emotion wrangled and twisted.  "You used him."


    "We offered him a way out.  The same offer is on the table for you."  He paused.  "If revenge is what you want, there is no sweeter dish than outliving an enemy."


    Lisbeth sighed, gazing at a patch of dark water where a few lights crossed the horizon.    The ferry was approaching a well-lit Key Bridge busy with traffic.


    Harry resumed, "Ian was going to defect, so they killed him, along with many others.  Don''t let that go unanswered."


    "You think I am without conscience?"  She huffed and gnashed.  "It gnaws at me every minute of the day."


    "Then do the right thing.  Help us.  Help yourself."


    Lisbeth stared at the illuminated monuments coming into view, lost in some far-away thought.  "I joined the federal service to make a difference."


    He succored to her.  "Not while a fief in power can do whatever it wants, reminiscent of the old ways.  This has to stop."


    "The King is dead.  Long live the King." Lisbeth looked into the dark as her shoulders slumped.   "You own us now.  Slavery and feudalism never went away, they came back in different clothes."


    "You''re wrong, Ms. Hunt." He cajoled.  "Let us help.  Ask and you shall receive."


    "You think I''m your ally?  I don''t want your money."  Lisbeth exuded a righteous contempt.  "Ian died because of money."


    "And pride."


    She glared at him, biting her lower lip to keep her from exploding.  They sat in silence for a while.


    "So what do you want from me?" Lisbeth asked at last.  "I won''t go public if that''s what you have in mind."


    "Of course not.  Can I contact you from time to time -- for information?"


    "What sort of information?  I''m no dollar-store."


    "Only critical life-saving stuff.  Trust me."


    Lisbeth scoffed and digested what he meant, her silence a loud acceptance.


    "I think we''ve arrived," Harry said and got up.  "Keep the coat, you''re chilled to the bone."


    She handed the trench back to him.  "Not on your life.  I don''t want your stench on me."

 Book 1 - Chapter 40

    Alexis Marlboro had always been a problem child.  Growing up in the streets of Baltimore, she had run with the local gangs since she was 13.  As she grew up, she began to feel different.  She wasn''t one of the boys, she knew.  She was better than them.  And she realized something about herself ¨C ¨C she didn''t like men.  They weren''t complementary.  They were competitors eating from the same bowl.  By 15, she rose in the ranks of the Dead Rabbits, the recognizable skinhead outfit in many eastern cities.  DR took in Blacks, Whites, Hispanics and butches, sporting their shaved heads as their trademarks.  Smarter, more violent, Alex took on every job that was risky.  By 17, she had her own troupe within the gang, was made capo 10 years younger than her competitor.


    But the good times didn''t last.  She stepped on toes, pissed off the wrong goons.  So, they set her up.  One day, they sent her on a mule job to pick up a truckload of contrabands.  The truck never showed.  But the cops did.


    This was her third stint in juvie.  The judge gave her a choice: do the time in orange or in green.  It was a no-brainer.  And the rest was history.


    That decision had changed her life, sending her from violent uncertainties to violent purposes.  She found she excelled at being a soldier.  She was a big girl, to begin with.  But while in the service, she worked on her body.  She became more muscular, faster, stronger, beating out young men her age.


    And things were looking up.  She made Rangers, then Airborne, then Special Forces.  Yet, there were always physical limitations . . . until she heard of the Program.


    Her life was filled with purpose, duty, and honor.  Her peers respected her, her superiors recognized her, her family was proud of her, at least her mother.


    And then she met Camila and her life changed once more.  She had fought and lived in the world of the masculine, now she tasted the feminine.


    She had dreamed of her and Camila walking down the aisle in a traditional wedding.  What Camila had always wanted was to be a princess, the dream of every girl, to wear the long white gown with a veil.  Alex herself would wear military parade uniform with her shiny metals, walking under a canopy of swords held by her boys.


    She saw herself gingerly putting the ring on Camila; she felt the trembling happiness of gushing love.  And when the pastor said, "you may kiss the bride," her heart leaped into her throat, her eyes welling with tears.  For good reason, this moment filled her with utter fright as she reached to lift the veil from Camila''s face.


    The gossamer fabric felt too delicate in her broad fingers.  She feared she may mar the purity of this gift.


    Her fingers clutched at the silk -- and slipped.  Alex fumbled to get a better hold.  But the more she tried, the worse she failed.  She could hear the laughter behind her from the guests.  Even the pastor couldn''t hold his amusement.  They were laughing at her behind her back, all around.


    She turned, saw their faces, ugly masks guffawing at her expense.  She returned to Camila, but the veil was gone . . . replaced by plastic.  A plastic bag over her head, the neck tightened, cutting off air.  Camila''s eyes bulged as she gasped, sucking in the bag.  Alex reached out to remove the fucking thing, but her fingers had no traction, clutching at air.  All she could hear were the suckling sounds of choking.  And the laughter.


    Alex snapped awake, screaming out her lungs, soaked through with sweat.  The horror turned once again to despair as she pulled up her knees and sobbed.


    Black bitter hours dragged by, keeping her awake.  But every time she closed her eyes, a black-and-white strobe effect started again flashing.  And faces swam by, with mocking sneers, culminating in the plastic being sucked in by a mouth.   The plastic, the gasps, she couldn''t shake the image of Camila.


    * * *


    Outside the door, the house sitters recorded what they had heard, that night terrors had left Marlboro in the same state each night.  Without question, the girl was falling apart mentally -- as well as bodily.  At this rate, she would be a thumb-sucking straight-jacketed loony in no time, if she didn''t die from the cancers that had begun to eat into her organs.  The sitters reported their findings to DeWitt.


    That evening, the old crow returned to the house.  He could see her marked deterioration.  Alex looked ill, lethargic, without purpose, possessing no desire to live.Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.


    Harry DeWitt came prepared, armed with information, ready to invigorate her for her final role.  But the pitch required a light touch.


    The pair occupied the kitchen table.  With her hands laced together, Alex faced the patient crow, her eyes unblinking.


    "I want the fuck who killed Camila.  I know you know."


    "I have an idea.  But first, let me say I''m sorry.  She was collateral damage.  Wrong place wrong time.  You were their intended target."


    "No shit."  Alex''s breathing quickened.  "Tell me something I don''t know."


    "Okay," Harry said.  "All your men are dead, liquidated."  Harry produced files and photos of accident victims.  They were faces Alex knew.


    Alex listened without reaction, gray as the sky outside.


    "This is Strange, Will, drowned in the Chesapeake," Harry said, tossing her a hard copy of the report.  "Dodge, John J. -- stepped in front of maglev traffic.  They ruled that one a suicide."  He slapped another file on top of the previous.  "Wagner, Frank, electrocuted.  Kenjo -- aerocar went haywire and crashed; Mallow slipped and fell in a construction site, and so on and so on."  Harry paused to look at an aloof Alex.  "Any of this sink in?"


    "Why show me this?"  Alex said feebly, eyes unfocused.


    "Your team was the first successful human trial of nano-blood -- then before it can stretch its legs, the higher-ups ended the Program -- and the people in it.  No one was spared -- not even your chief wizard Moreau.  Don''t you want to know why?"


    "Don''t care."


    Harry pressed, "You have an obligation."


    "And you''re getting on my nerves."


    "Don''t you want to make some noise, or are you already dead?"


    "Get off my back," Alex said getting up from the table.


    "Three of your guys are alive."


    This made Alex stop.


    "How you know that?"  She tensed, looking at him with pending violence.


    "Because they''re not on this stack of accidental death and dismemberment," Harry said, holding up his palms.  "And because information is my bread and butter."


    "All right, then who''s alive?"


    "Mars, Corona and a man called Papa Smurf."


    She made an unpleasant grimace.  "You could be behind this."  And glared at him like a panther to a deer.


    "If I were your enemy, would we be talking now?"


    Alex sat back.  "Keep talking."


    "My people had their ears turned up past couple of days."


    "How?"


    "We canvassed law-enforcement traffic nationwide."


    She exhaled.  "I''m not surprised you would."


    "That''s how things get done."  Harry smiled.  "Anyway, we set up trace programs to pick up any mention of your friends.   And so far, sorry to say, they''re all in the morgue.  All except three."  He paused, an expression of sympathy on his face.


    "It''s too late," Alex said quickly.


    "Why?" Harry raised both eyebrows.


    "I''m zero days without meds.  The Program''s toast and there ain''t no refills.  Moreau promised me he had a reserve he could give us, but . . . "  She looked at her hands.


    "Autoimmune suppressants to control the stuff in your blood, right?"


    She eyed him, surprised that he knew her secrets and discomforted that she was so transparent.


    "Without it, the bugs run amok and presto -- terminal cancers," he expounded.  "Moreau told me all about it."


    "That bastard.  Then you know tumors are developing in my liver, pancreas, lymph nodes as we speak." Alex spoke freely.  "I can already feel a lump in my chest that wasn''t there days ago.  He installed a built-in auto-destruct bomb, so the monsters don''t run loose, get me?  And that''s the least of my troubles.  A second drug keeps me from going batty so I can function in society.  If that''s gone, no telling how fast Ms. Hyde would emerge."


    "We can duplicate the meds.  Just need the formulas."


    "Aw, Moreau didn''t share."  She made an ugly pout.  "Fat chance then."


    "What if there''s a way?  Organ replacement, blood doping, all the tricks of modern medicine to keep you stable for now?"


    "You''re not listening, old man," Alex said, losing patience.  "I''m done.  They turned off my Atlas.  It''s obvious they pulled the scripts.  So, don''t bother.  What time I have left I want to find the pricks who killed Camila.  And tear them to pieces."  Her canines flashed white.


    "We could certainly help in that department," Harry said.  "We could provide intel, equip you, give you tactical support even.  Will you let us?"


    Alex grimaced, her expression a somber affirmative.  "You''re slimy, DeWitt.  It oozes from your skin."


    He smiled with calculation.  "Everyone is slimy."


    She pursed her lips, eyes wet, struggling to shake off the bitter emotions, only to chuckle painfully.  "Let me die with dignity, ass-wipe."


    "How do you plan to exact your revenge without my help?"


    "Don''t jerk me around, old man.  I''ll crush you."


    "I''m being real."


    She blinked her eyes to dispel the welling of tears.  "It''s obvious you want something.  Spill it."


    Harry dropped his guard for this moment.  "I need your help to bring Porsche back.  She''s under police custody."


    Alex laughed.  "What has the bitch done now?"


    "She was attacked.  She survived."


    "Pull your strings, you''re the puppet master, I''m told."


    He shook his head.  "It''s in AEL territory.  Using our own security personnel and subcontractors for a jailbreak isn''t smart."


    "No balls."


    "There are accords agreed by the Big Five.  Any fief violation during the commission of a crime in another''s territory is a cardinal breach, which incurs federal incursion.  Next thing you know, there''s an army of DC boys in our backyard popping up like prairie dogs."


    "I''m expendable, right?"


    "You''re already dead, you said."


    "You and she can kiss my ass."


    "She saved your skin."  Harry leaned closer, his breath against her face.  "You owe a life -- yours."


    "You''re guilt-tripping me -- you must be desperate."  Alex laughed, her tone ominous.  "Okay, I''ll get your girl -- but my way."  She locked into his eyes.  "After that, I want one thing from you -- information.  Who set those dogs on us -- who killed Camila?"


    "Okay."


    "I give you one warning, DeWitt, don''t stand between me and mine."


    "Would never dream of it," Harry said, recoiling from her ferocity.

 Book 1 - Chapter 41

    The moment her eyes pried themselves from lashes crusted together, Porsche found herself in a clean bed with white sheets, under pale fluorescent lighting.  Clear plastic tubing from a suspended IV bag fed fluid into her arm.  A nurse attendant monitored her vitals.


    "Welcome back," she said trying to be cheery and bright as she was trained to do.  "How are we feeling today?"


    Porsche blinked several times, her eyes irritatingly dry.  She mouthed, "Where am I?"


    "Georgetown."


    "When?"


    "They brought you in a few days ago with a severe concussion, broken hip, cracked ribs, deep lacerations to your artery, and . . . you pulled through."


    "What happened?"


    Porsche had no memory.


    "You apparently crashed from a motorbike . . . But there''s more.  I''m not allowed to say.  You''re lucky to be alive."


    There had been a terrific crash -- yes, she recalled slowly.  No, there was more to it than that.  She just couldn''t remember all.


    "Now get some rest, I''ll let the doctor know you''re awake."  The nurse pulled the curtain around Porsche''s bed.  "Morphine button next to your left hand."


    "Wait --" Porsche tried moving her arm, and suddenly realized she couldn''t -- her wrists were secured to the side banisters.  Shock quickly turned to anger.


    "You''re in police custody, dear."


    "I want a phone call!"  Porsche rattled the bed railings causing other patients and nurses from the hallway to notice.


    "Stop it."   The nurse frowned, hands on hips.


    Porsche fumed.  "Then get me someone in charge."


    "Funny, people are real anxious to talk to you, too."


    The nurse left and a minute later returned with two men, one in cop armor, the other in civilian clothes.  "You have five minutes," she instructed the pair, and retreated, closing the door behind her warily.


    The civilian stepped forward.  He wore a leather jacket over dark zipped-up turtleneck.  "I''m Detective Frito-Lay, Metro PD."


    Up close, Porsche could see a portion of his face had micro seams covering the quadrant over his left eye.  The detective had extensive bioware implants.


    The uniformed cop didn''t introduce himself but stood back to observe.


    "You seem to be a mystery, miss," Frito-Lay said.  "We have no ID on you, no fingerprints or biometrics in our database."  He smiled, showing chrome teeth.  "So why don''t we start by you telling us who you are."


    "Why am I in police custody?"  Porsche rattled the cuffs against the railing again.If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.


    "Well, there''s a matter of a dead girl in the steam room not far from where you crashed your bike.  Would you say that is of some concern?"


    Porsche didn''t answer, looking at Frito-Lay without expression.  Then the picture slowly began to form and she realized why they were here.  Indeed, there was more -- in the steam room.  A girl.  Talons.  She attacked me . . . I killed her.  Her gut began to churn and sour.


    "How we know you''re involved?  For one, you hadn''t a shred of clothes.  And second, you were dipped in blood.  Blood in the spa too.  So, two plus two makes four.  But there''s a snag -- we can''t find no murder weapon.  Now you want to tell me what happened?"  His eyepiece whirred to scan her.


    "I want a lawyer."  Porsche turned her head to one side.


    "Don''t want to cooperate?  All right, then just listen -- you''re going to be charged with murder, first degree against -- funny, we don''t know the victim''s identity either.  Something wacky about all this.  We will get to the bottom of it, I promise you."


    Porsche tried to show no signs.  Inside, injuries sustained from the crash and lacerations throbbed, almost making her swoon.  Breathing remained difficult, her ribcage bruised.  Flashes of light appeared in her retina, spots that blocked her vision, stemming from burned-out synapses.  She tried blinking, getting tears to wash away the gray veil.  Not yet.  Stay awake, don''t slip back.


    She could see Frito-Lay didn''t expect more.  The real inquisition will come later.


    Then the door to the room opened.  A third figure she can''t make out appeared and was blocked by the second cop.  A few seconds of whispering and the cop let him pass.


    "Who are you?"  Frito-Lay demanded.  The cop standing guard blocked him.


    The visitor pulled the detective aside and whispered something in his ear.  Frito-Lay reflexively stepped back as if he had touched a snake.


    "Give us a second, will you detective?" the new man said.  "I''ll return her shortly."


    "Okay, I got jurisdiction," Frito-Lay said.  "This is a Metro murder investigation."


    "All yours, I promise."  The man winked.


    Frito-Lay turned and left with the uniformed cop, locking the door behind them.


    "Hello, Porsche."


    "You -- I thought the air changed," Porsche said, her heart beating faster.  She couldn''t tell which emotion was swirling inside her: hate, fear, loathing . . . love?


    "Still alive, how lucky for me,"  Lockheart said, looking down at the bed-ridden woman hooked up to monitors and machines.


    "Don''t you wish I was dead, you mean?"


    "I thought I''d seen the last of you."


    "I''m like a rash returning to torment you, Milo."


    "That -- you''ve done, moya lyubov.  Dearly."


    "Don''t you ever call me that!" She turned her head from him.


    "This feud is getting old."


    "You sent her to kill me.  I should have put a bullet in your head when I had the chance."


    "Harpy did it on her own."


    "Oh, I see," Porsche said and blew air between her lips.


    "I wouldn''t have risked her -- not for you."


    "You got bad taste in women." Porsche sneered.


    "You had a chance to walk, but stayed to play."


    "I saw you torch Moreau and burn some innocent girl."


    "You killed five of mine!"  Lockheart snapped, then calmed just as quick, his eyes relaxing.  "Now six, and for what?"


    "I only regret I didn''t make you number seven."


    He reached out, grabbed her neck and squeezed, choking the air to her brain.  She was too weak to resist, her gasps becoming weaker, all the while his face showed no emotion.  Lockheart released her suddenly as Porsche exploded in violent coughs, her chest heaving for air.


    "Not like this."  He shook his head.  "When I heard what happened to my sweet Harpy, and you survived, I wanted to put you down.  But standing here -- "


    "No . . . balls," she mocked him between grunts.


    "In time.  I''ll find you, and I''ll work you -- in private.  For now, Metro PD is waiting for their murder suspect.  Don''t get too comfortable."


    "Get out," Porsche growled with a ferocity that was pulled by a veined neck and a snapping face. It sapped the little strength she had as the pain bowled her over.  She tamped on the morphine button as fast as she could as yellow bile dribbled down her face.  She panted and coughed, her vitals spiking amid monitor alarms.


    Lockheart said with a knowing grin, "I''ll see you in a few.  Good night, sleep tight, moya lyubov."


    Amid the beeping machinery, the nurse rushed back, seeing her bluish condition.  "Out, get out!"


    Lockheart made his way out past Frito-Lay and the boys in blue.  Porsche passed out from exhaustion.

 Book 1 - Chapter 42

    Hospital policy was clear on how to transport a person of interest under police custody.  Therefore, Jane Doe 112963 went out via a ground ambulatory vehicle, insisted by hospital administration, though not without police escorts.  An SUV in front, the other running aft, were packed with law enforcement.


    They had strapped Porsche onto the wheeled gurney and rolled her into the hold of the ambulance.  Neither was she alone in the box.  An armored cop remained to guard the suspect at all times.


    "We got clearance from FRTA for off-mag driving all the way to Oz.  Can you handle manual for twenty minutes?"  Frito-Lay said to the driver of the ambulance.


    "Don''t you worry, I do this day in, day out."


    "We''re on channel 8."


    "Got it," the EMT said, a dependable four-year veteran of the urban jungle.  The driver hopped into the front cab with his companion.  Between them was an access corridor into the hold.


    The convoy began to roll as the lead escort pulled out taking point.  The ambulance pulled out next, followed by the rear ute, all three running in tight formation to form a moving perimeter.  A few feet in front, two air-Segways powered up a few feet off the ground and flanked the convoy with blaring sirens and flashing lights.  Aero-cycles were simple designs -- cut an aerocar along its length, you''d get half the weight, and twice the speed.  With an open cockpit, it could either be manned or run autonomously.


    Curious about the patient in the back, the senior EMT of Ambulatory Vehicle 17 wouldn''t stop talking.  He offered his idea who Jane Doe was to his new companion.


    "This happens all the time, you know," he said, almost shouting above the sirens.  "You know something''s  big when you see all these guys."


    "I see that," the dark-skinned female in the shotgun seat said.


    "You''ve been an EMT for how long?" The driver eyed his backup with curiosity.  She had on a paramedic jumpsuit a couple of sizes too small for her frame.  He didn''t seem to mind, she gathered.  Complaining it was hot, she had unclipped the neck guard and zippered down halfway.  Under the white t-shirt, she was flat-chested with thick pectorals, her torso toned and sinewy.


    "Four years."


    "What''s your name again?"


    "Alex."


    "So where the hell is Jerry?  How come you''re here?" the veteran asked, glancing over several times without intending to.


    "Last minute fill-in.  Jerry got sick and went home.  That''s what the Schedule Coordinator said, I dunno."


    "Go check on our passenger, make sure she''s strapped down and happy."


    "Sure thing."


    Alex got up from her seat and moved aft into the hold where the guard and Jane Doe were.  Porsche held in the wheeled stretcher was sedated, her head lay on one side, eyes shut.  Alex straddled up to the gurney, and pretended to peruse some readouts.


    She could feel the cop looking at her.  So she smiled at him.


    "How long before she gets up?" he asked, seeming to notice nothing.


    "Shortly."  Alex reached out to check her pulse when the cop snatched her wrist and turned it over.  He saw the faded half-inch scar.


    "You''re kidding, right?  It''s a felony offense to tamper or remove an Atlas implant."


    "And we were having such a lovely conversation," Alex said, her eyes narrowed dangerously before reversing the hold.  She now had a lock on his forearm.  She could see the surprise registered on his face as she jerked him out of his seat, her elbow crushing his nose.  It was easy to choke out the stunned man after that.  She removed his cuffs, looped them around a metal rail support, and slapped them on his wrists behind his back.  She relieved him of his sidearm, safetied the automatic, then taped his eyes shut, leaving his mouth free to breathe as blood and mucous clogged the man''s broken nose.  Alex didn''t want a cop''s death on the long list of charges against her.


    The quick take-down which rocked the vehicle hadn''t gone unnoticed in the front.  The driver shouted amid the blaring of the sirens, "Hey, what''s going on back there?"


    Alex returned to her seat, her demeanor calm and business-like.


    The driver studied his companion while trying to keep his eyes on the road.  His right fingers inched toward the holo-switch on his left wrist in an effort to access the com channel.


    It didn''t fool Alex.  "Hands on the steering -- nine and three where I can see ''em.  Keep away from your coms."  The cop''s sidearm was in her hand.


    He hesitated, unsure what to do, fearful eyes pin-balling between the road and the barrel leveled at him.


    "Don''t think.  Just drive," warned Alex.  "Else I''ll splatter you all over the window."Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.


    "Okay -- okay, just take it easy."


    "Stay at the speed you''re on.  No sudden breaks or jinks, Clifford, is it?"  His name tag was on his uniform, she saw.  "I know all the tricks so don''t try to be a hero, Clifford.  Got a wife and kids?"


    "Uh-huh."


    "Be smart then.  You drive ''til I tell you different."


    They drove in silence for a while, keeping to the convoy speed, listening to the radio chatter.  No one outside their cabin had a clue something was amiss.


    The turnpike was a straight five-lane highway.  As they headed out toward Dulles, the dense conurbation landscape astride the highway became more agitated, stretches of sprawl giving way to jutting towers.  They were nearing the Reston-Oz tunnel.


    Now or never, Alex.


    "Okay, Clifford, you listen carefully," she instructed.  "Your right hand ¨C put the vehicle in auto-cruise."


    Done.


    "Left hand -- unlock the door . . . Easy does it."


    "You don''t mean --"


    "Shut up and do it."


    Clifford depressed the switch to Unlock.  Clack-clack.  The driver-side door bolts ratcheted back.


    "Now, open the door."


    The left door creaked open and buffeted against head-on drafts as siren noise and kerosene-smelling air rushed into the cabin.  Door ajar, cabin lights came on.


    Clifford glanced nervously in front, left and at the gun, his face agonizing over the choices -- a dive onto concrete, crushed by traffic . . . or a bullet to the brain.  He hesitated, pleading for a third choice.


    "Wait --"


    Alex didn''t.  She shifted her weight, putting her back against the door on her side, and delivered a swift stomp that sent Clifford out into the night.  She heard him roll, picturing him tumbling like socks in a dryer.  Her ears perked for the eventuality-- but there was no thump from the undercarriage.  Clifford had cleared the back wheels.  Yet she could hear the rear Ute screeching and swerving, avoiding the bouncing Clifford.  It began honking and flashing its lights.  The radio exploded with chatter and shouts.


    Sliding over, Alex grabbed the wheel without jerking it too much and locked the doors.  The cab interior darkened.


    The sirens of the rear vehicle vied with the ambulance, its V12 block in overdrive, speeding up to intercept.  Front and aft, the two escorts coordinated their intercepts, as she''d expected.  Her side mirror showed the rear juggernaut making a move running up on her left while the front Ute applied breaks to box her in.


    Alex focused on what she was seeing through the side rear mirror.


    Bastards are going for the tires.


    The black beast was sneaking in on her left, its windows lowered, gun barrels sticking out aiming low, trying to get off a shot.


    She swung the wheel hard left.  The sturdy truck, its gross vehicle weight topping 15,000 pounds, ground the Ute against the concrete divider.  As soon as its front tires caught the embankment, the pursuit vehicle flipped on its side, throwing off sparks.  Its momentum continued until friction stopped its slide.


    Alex stepped on the accelerator.  The ambulance lurched forward ramming into the front vehicle, clipping the left corner of the rear bumper, spinning it sideways.  She hammered the nose of the truck into its flank, and drove forward mercilessly, crushing its front door and wheel wells.  Misaligned tires of the ute squealed and smoked, its drive axle fractured, its undercarriage in pieces.  In a panic, the men in the SUV opened-fire like a broadside from a ship of the line, cratering her windshield and engine grills.  To no avail.


    The tires of the lead SUV soon burst, rubber disintegrating on the asphalt, rims sparking, the crushed frame began to shift away from the impact center and fell by the wayside, allowing the ambulance to plow forward unimpeded.  Ground traffic in front of her split, individual cars pulling over in an orderly manner; their autonav computers in swarm logic made a hole through which the ambulance powered through alone.


    But she was far from getting away Scot free.


    The pair of aero-cycles running point became aware of what was happening behind them.  They climbed to two thousand feet, then banked right to swing around.


    Alex got off the turnpike heading for the tunnel, lead-footing the ambulance with sirens blaring.  She could spot faint lights in the sky making a U-turn.  Fifteen hundred feet, the lead aerobike came around and lined up its EM suppressor guns on the jinking vehicle.  A static charge from such weapons, she knew, would disable all electronics and drive systems aboard the truck.


    The tunnel was straight ahead, no more than two thousand yards -- but backed up with traffic.  She pointed the nose of the vehicle into the opposite lane and gunned the engine, her hands cracking from the grip of the steering.  She glanced at the digital speedometer ratcheting up to 93 . . . Then 98 . . . 105.


    Come one, come on.  Incoming traffic blurred by as the collision warning klaxoned in the dashboard.  She banged on the wheel, shouting obscenities back at it while her eyes watched the sky.  The lights above were diving and angling in for a deflection shot.


    No way they''d let her slip away.  Besides, a tracking beacon was somewhere on this truck.  All emergency vehicles carried one.


    From the corner of her eyes, Alex saw flashes from on high -- weapons discharge.  Bluish grapefruit-sized plasma balls lobbed toward her.  One bright ball hit the top of the ambulance.  Static charges snapped and crackled from the wheel, giving her mini-shocks at the same time everything went dead, electronic, hydraulic, dynamo.  The engine may have lost drive but the ambulance still carried momentum, bleeding off speed as it barreled into the tunnel.


    With no power, Alex heaved against the locked wheel of the ambulance and aimed it at the far left wall embankment to avoid colliding with oncoming traffic.  It crashed into the railing and slid against the tiles, taking out chunks of the sidewall.  At this instant, something hit Alex like a two-by-four, temporarily knocking her out.


    Coming to, she realized the airbag had deployed.  She tasted metal in her mouth, realizing the inflaters had given her a bloody lip.  She peered through the cracked windshield.  Up ahead was the source of the traffic jam, a disabled vehicle on fire, taking up one lane.  This was her plan.  She needed to get moving.


    Alex tore off the crash-bubble and tried to stand.  The knock on her head made her wobble on her feet as she stumbled into the rear hold.


    Everything was in shambles, tools and med-equipment flung about.  Porsche, secured to the gurney was still out.  The cop was moaning, his arms still cuffed to the frame, probably broken; it jutted at a grotesque angle.


    Alex unstrapped Porsche''s arm and leg bonds, losing thirty seconds in the process.  She heaved and dead-lifted the body onto her shoulder; kicked open the back doors and jumped down.  People were coming out of their cars, some angry, many were filming the accident.


    A beat-up Hemi pickup pulled aside the back, screeching its tires.  It idled long enough for Alex to throw Porsche in the back.  Once she leaped in, the pickup accelerated for the tunnel exit.  In the back, Alex pulled a tarp over her and the sedated woman.  They were coming out into open sky.


    She had no time to check on Porsche before.  Under the tarp, Alex turned her neck and fumbled to find her carotid artery.  Breathing normal.  Strong pulse. Sleeping like a beauty.


    Now, we''re even.

 Book 1 - Chapter 43

    Papa felt the coil around his wrist, cutting into his skin.  He had been plasti-tied and was lying on his side -- on a vibrating surface.  He opened his eyes and stirred to a shaft of light that pulled him out into clarity.


    A metallic taste lingered in his mouth.  Blood or bile?  The burning in his nostrils and throat told him something hot had ripped through his body.  And there was a foul odor he smelled, coming from him.  Papa tried to recall the last memory he had.


    The car was waiting at the light -- when a loud bang ripped out the door.  He tried unbuckling his belt to flee.  Then nothing.


    How long have I been out?  His thoughts went to his wife and girls.


    Calm.  Think.


    His thoughts jumped somersaults trying to figure out what his abductors wanted.  Was it money?  He barely made enough for a family of five, soon to be six.  No one except Bonnie would pay a ransom if she could.  He had no money, no valuables.  Not true, he realized.  He had one priceless secret -- arriving as an afterthought.  His blood.


    Focus.


    The man squatting in front of him smelled of old sweat and an acrid odor associated with cordite.  Hunter.  Soldier.  The odor was unmistakable to those who lived with the gun.


    Papa blinked and squinted against the brightness, letting his eyes adjust.  He was in a van -- the same one that had taken him.  In front were two more men.  Four altogether, a menagerie of villains gathered in this space, rough and stern-looking. If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.


    Papa managed, "Who are you people?  What do you want from me?"


    "You lay there and relax, Papa Smurf.  It''ll be over soon enough."


    He didn''t recognize the voice -- but it knew him.  No mistaken identity there.


    The van bounced along for a while as Papa listened to the sound of the road and the change to the vibrations.  He heard rubber hitting metal gratings every half-second apart -- they were crossing a steel bridge he figured.  And he could guess which one.  They were crossing into Jersey, where he would disappear for good.


    The nearest captor gestured at the water bottle in his hand.


    This was the moment.


    Papa nodded he wanted a drink.  As the man neared, Papa lurched up and head-butted him, sending him crashing against the interior wall holding a gushing nose.


    Papa rolled and got to his feet.  With his hands still tied behind him, he hurled himself toward the back door and threw his shoulder into it.  His two hundred pounds weight plus momentum burst the hinges, throwing him out the back.  Crashing face-first onto the metal grating, Papa bounced and rolled several times as cars around him screeched to a halt, their proximity collision radar forcing the brakes to lock up and avoid running him over.


    Battered, Papa raised his lacerated face and peered behind him.  The van also stopped, and the side door banged open.


    Get up!


    In crushing pain, hands still tied, he willed himself up using his knees.  They were going to zap him again and this time it would be permanent.  There was only one chance of escape.  He limped at first, then stumbled into an erratic run toward the side of the span.  His feet gained traction, pumping faster into a wild sprint.


    The walkway railing was chest high, so he threw his neck and back over the barrier like a high jumper, falling head-first.  Though the trajectory was gradual, the free fall was remarkably long,  and the water promised to be as hard as concrete.


    Papa braced himself, gritted his teeth as he careened over.  No use positioning his spine and neck in neutral.  He would crash into the waters of the Delaware River.  He''d hope to stay conscious after hitting the water and not drown.

 Book 1 - Chapter 44

    An instinct, more than anything else, told them it was safe to move. But safety was often an illusion. Kill teams were out there, waiting for Warchild and Rotter to make a mistake.


    Rotter''s wounds needed to be cleaned and dressed for rapid healing to take place. After some debate, the pair found a motel room, one farthest from the office, broke the back window and climbed through.


    A shower was prudent after sitting in the hold of the garbage truck.


    "Go on, wash up," Warchild said. "I got first watch."


    Rotter stripped off his clothes to wash them in the shower. Warchild stayed by the window and peeked out between the curtains. Apart from a few headlights coming and going, there was nothing out there. He turned on the TV for information, piecing together whatever he could. Again, there was nothing beyond the brief announcement that multiple bodies were discovered in the Black Irish, a bar in the F level of the city. It was a gangland hit, the anchor had said. They''re covering it up. Which meant their pursuers had a long reach. The list of candidates grew very short.


    On TV, the scene of the crime was abuzz with law enforcement. Forensic investigators would have descended to work on the massacre, collecting probative physical evidence -- biological, print, digital, firearm. Yet, how many of the people brought in were legitimate law enforcement and how many were cutouts, passing information back to whoever was after Cerberus?


    And they wouldn''t have to go far to get eyewitness accounts. The fat barman would have volunteered. Besides, a dozen or more videos taken by passing pedestrians indicated two men had escaped on foot for three blocks, and one was bloodied. The suspects disappeared among the tent cities under the metro platform and did not appear on any trains. A door to door search followed, with no result.


    Warchild waited until Rotter finished his shower, then took his while the kid aired his laundry and cleaned his stab wounds which were closing up remarkably fast.


    Warchild scrubbed thoroughly, rubbing his flesh raw, getting the filth from the past two days off him, and out of his mind. Lisa probably rolled in the sack with joy now that he was a fugitive and murder suspect. Her claws in him were losing their effect. His wife''s infidelity seemed so trivial, compared to the gargantuan problems he was now facing. He soaped his underwear, socks, shirt, and trousers and tossed them in a pile on the bathroom floor. He stepped out of the shower and spread them over a heater set on full blast. Their jackets couldn''t be helped, stained with yellow liquid and reeked with a sour odor.


    Rotter sat on the bed, tearing a towel into bandage strips while watching the news. He was feeling much better; his wounds, though deep, were pinkish and translucent. "They said it was gang activity, nothing more. No mention of us."


    "What did you expect?" Warchild said, wrapping a towel around his waist.


    Rotter peeked behind the curtain. "Getting bright outside."


    "Better get going soon."


    "Where to?"


    "Shit if I know," Warchild said, trying to remain calm.


    "You gotta be thinking it too, yeah? We''re going to be out of scripts soon."


    Warchild nodded.


    Rotter looked befuddled. "How long before we denature?"


    "Three days, maybe?" Warchild said.


    "I say we go north, or south, Canada or Mexico."


    "How you figure we travel hundreds of miles and cross the border on no money, no passports, no ID? And on no meds?"


    "Then it''s game over. Might as well give up,''" Rotter said.


    Warchild sat down on the other twin bed, and put his head in his hands, rubbing his scalp.


    They hadn''t noticed the broadcast had changed. It was no longer talking about them.Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.


    "In news from the Philadelphia Sector, a strange event occurred when a man burst from the back of a vehicle he was in, jumped into speeding traffic. He then dove headfirst into the Delaware River, authorities believe was a bizarre attempt of suicide. Medical experts doubt anyone could survive the fall. From such heights, water is as hard as concrete. The shocking occurrence was caught by several passerby videos now archived on multiple media sites." A side profile of a man running with hands tied behind his back appeared. "If anyone recognizes this individual, please contact the local authority for assistance. So far, no body had been recovered ten miles downriver. On other news . . ."


    Warchild lifted his head, glancing at Rotter.


    "Holy shit," Rotter stammered. "That''s . . ."


    "It''s Papa," Warchild said at once. "He''s alive."


    "Not anymore. He''s dead from the fall -- they said so."


    "The media doesn''t know squat. You forget he could sit down there and wait out the search, bob up every half hour if he needs air. That''s what I''d do. Besides, Papa came from Coronado. Those pups trained to do that with their hands and feet tied." Warchild clapped his hands together. "You ask where we''re heading -- to Philly, baby. We gotta get to him fast before they do."


    "Wait, you sure that''s Papa or someone who looks like him?"


    "What?" Warchild scowled.


    "We''re desperate and desperation could make you see things."


    "Bonnie would know." Warchild produced the phone he took off the bartender . . . And hesitated. "This is a one time use. We have to assume they''re listening. We still want to do this?"


    "I''m not going to Philly after some mirage."


    Warchild powered on the clear device. Tone clean. Of course, it hadn''t been shut down. The line would be tapped. He dialed in the numbers he knew by heart for all Cerberus members.


    "Hello?" a familiar voice strummed with anxiety. It was Papa''s wife, Bonnie.


    "Hey Bonnie, it''s Ken -- "


    "Something''s happened to Papa, Ken!"


    "Calm down," Warchild said and nodded to Rotter. The tension in Bonnie''s voice confirmed their hunch. "Take a deep breath and tell me what happened."


    "The cops found his car at an intersection."


    "Car?"


    "Our car was left abandoned in the middle of the road. Near home. No driver. No Pete. I called his work. He never showed up for his first day."


    "What did the cops say?"


    "They won''t file a Missing Persons Report until forty-eight hours had passed. They said maybe he''d turn up. They asked if we had a fight this morning. I told ''em no, not at all."


    "Did the cops try pinging him?"


    "His locater flat-lined." She paused, then gasped. "Does that mean he''s dead?" Her voice began to crack over the phone.


    "You need to be strong." Warchild glanced at his own arm. Papa''s the third Atlas shut down, he thought -- there''s no doubt now. "Pete will turn up, I''m sure."


    "How do you know?"


    "What else did they say?"


    "That''s all," Bonnie said.


    Warchild thought for a second. "Do you have any place to go outside the area?"


    "I have my sister in Jersey."


    "Bonnie, listen to me -- pack up the kids and go there immediately. I''ll try to find out what happened."


    "You know something, don''t you? Tell me, dammit!"


    "You''re letting your fears get to you."


    She paused, then said. "Does this have anything to do with the video leak?"


    He''d arrived at the same question earlier. "Of course not." He cringed.


    "You''re lying. I can hear it in your voice. Something happened to you too, didn''t it?"


    Papa didn''t marry no dummy, Warchild thought. "I''m not." He hated lying to her but the less she knew, the safer she was.


    "God help me, I''m by myself. With three kids and one on the way." She sobbed on the other end.


    Warchild didn''t give her time to panic further. "Bonnie!"


    The sobs subsided.


    "Go to your sister," Warchild said. "Stay there until you hear from me. I will find out what''s going on."


    "I''m freaking out, Ken."


    "You hang tough, Bonnie," Warchild barked into the phone. "I swear to you, I''ll find Pete."


    "Please," Bonnie gasped. "Pete has always trusted you. We need you."


    "Right now, your children need their mother. So pull yourself together."


    "Okay."


    "Pack and leave now. I''ll contact you in a few days."


    "I''ll give you my sister''s number."


    "No!" Warchild stopped her. "You told me her name once."


    After he hung up, Warchild removed the SIM, crushed and trashed the bartender''s phone. He glanced at Rotter who''d heard the conversation, a knowing thought passed between them.


    "Papa''s turn," Rotter said quietly.


    Warchild exhaled. "We go find Papa."


    A blessing he had Rotter with him, even if the kid was wounded. The lacerations he received from the firefly should close up in a day or two. Their immediate problems were elsewhere. And Rotter beat him to the punch.


    "Problem ain''t going away, boss." Rotter struggled to put his clothes on. "How do you imagine we get there with no dough?" With no working Atlas, they were without means of survival in a digitized urban environment, except as carrion, and scavengers. Worst of all, neither of them could return home to pick up the remaining meds. Between them, they had enough dosage to last for the week. After that, they''d face a degenerative spiral.


    "Beg, borrow and steal." Warchild closed the curtains. "Pick one."


    "I''m tired of begging, don''t feel like borrowing. I''ll take door number three."


    "I''m inclined to agree."


    Hopeful, Warchild and Rotter snuck out of the motel. Farther up the street, they scoped out the sleepy town. It didn''t take long before the men discovered a robo-bus depot where the vehicles scheduled for maintenance were serviced and returned to circulation.

 Book 1 - Chapter 45

    At five past eight that evening, two men walked past the gate of the Tinker Bell Bus Carrier Depot. They sidled up next to a blind spot in the fence line where a tree blocked the corner cameras. One climbed the tree and pulled the other thither.


    Warchild stepped over the top of the fence with little difficulty, hit the ground and rolled. He waited, waved to Rotter in the tree to jump, and caught him as he hit the ground. There was a sharp gasp of pain from Rotter.


    Once cleared of the fence, they scampered in silence, their rubber soles making little sound on the concrete. A blue edged-lit area lay ahead, the size of ten football fields stacked with rows of oblong buses.


    A cluster of lights grew brighter. It was a robotic mule on a tracked chassis approaching from a maintenance run. The illumination from its undercarriage and the torch on its articulated arm bathed the ground in a bluish LED wash.


    The figures froze and flattened, merging into pools of midnight around drainage holes.


    Once the robot mule passed, darkness returned.


    Warchild helped Rotter to his feet and ran across the open stretch keeping away from the well-lit receiving area.


    The bus farm was lit by two lone stadium lamps atop hangar-like roofs. From above, the layout of the buildings would have looked much like a capital F.


    The pair moved in a series of spurts, communicating with hand signals.


    Warchild, on point, made a fist. Hold. He sniffed the air. A breeze had picked up an odor. He knew at once what it was. So did Rotter, ingesting the molecules of air.


    Palm parallel to the ground -- Down! They flattened on their bellies again.


    Movements ahead.


    Armed guards on foot.


    Then Warchild made a sign every thief dreaded -- the erect index finger and pinky. People made that gesture in old Europe to ward off the Evil Eye. In the music world, this was a devil sign for the Goth and heavy metal devotees. In combat, the sign of the horns meant only one thing -- canine.


    A dog patrol was dead ahead, a little more than a hundred yards away on the ramp, led by two rent-a-cops, carrying sidearms. The guards were not the worry.


    A dog''s hearing could capture frequency resonance and range far beyond that of the human ear. It could pick up a pin drop from two hundred yards away, even the earth''s tremor before a quake. Then there was its special sense. Its olfaction was a thousand times more acute than that of primates, having over 220 million receptors in its nose, compared to 5 million in humans.Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.


    Warchild and Rotter knew it had smelled them, as they had it.


    The dog stiffened. It had sensed menace lurking in the dark.


    Guard dogs fell in two broad categories -- trackers or attackers. The former would alert its handlers, but wouldn''t go near the targets. The latter would fly at your throat.


    Warchild sensed this German Shepherd was an attacker. Pound for pound of aggression, the dog was by far the greater threat than the two human guards were.


    Warchild cupped his mouth, breathing down onto the concrete to prevent his scent from drifting. If only he had pepper spray. At this distance, a mist of that substance would be like pouring Tabasco sauce down the dog''s nostrils. And his and Rotter''s as well.


    The hound growled, locking its eyes on them in the dark, its nose tasting the molecules of scent.


    Neither man dared move.


    The dog pulled at the leash, ears flattened.


    Warchild had no weapon, the claws drained and empty. So he lay there holding his breath. Let it pass. They usually did. It is the unwarranted action of the weak-minded that betrays, he had learned in SF School.


    His heartbeat was deafening in his ears.


    The voices of the handlers were muffled; their faces suddenly brightened from the reflected glow of a passed lighter. Cigarettes. No -- cigars, judging from the bright cherries.


    The Shepherd became more agitated, barking into the dark, lunging repeatedly against its leash, fur bristling.


    The guard holding the leash pointed at the direction the dog was barking. The second sentry held a heavy steel flashlight at shoulder height, sweeping the beam out toward the field from left to right. He found nothing. The torch''s intensity thinned with distance -- at fifty yards, the night had overcome its effective brightness.


    But the shine had afforded Warchilda glimpseof quick darting shadows to his right. He heard the scuffling in the underbrush. They weren''t the only intruders. Big rats were around the motor pool at night, a welcoming presence.


    A quick jerk of the tether from its master brought the hound to heel. The dog gave a final yelp as the patrol retreated, their voices fading away.


    Warchild made an okay sign, then got up. Behind him, Rotter kept pace, moving toward a group of buses already washed and fueled for the morning''s run. They moved in quick time, drifting from one undercarriage to another until they reached the intended heist.


    These were auto-drivers meant for long-range inter-coastal ferrying; autonomous drive controls allowed the bus to run its pre-programmed course, and return to base once its circuit completed.


    The Blue Bird Super Cruiser had no elaborate locking mechanism. Just a simple electronic seal applied to the door. All you needed was a wooden wedge and a long metal rod.


    Warchild inserted the wedge into the top part of the main side door. Through the small opening, he extended the metal rod to depress the lever of the lock.


    The interior had been cleaned, electrical power on full. Warchild accessed the onboard Nav-schedule -- the Blue Bird was scheduled for a run to Memphis. He''d need to reprogram a new destination. He took time to identify drive components and layout of the dash and went over procedures on how to activate manual override.


    A few minutes later, "We''re good to go," Warchild announced.


    "What are we waiting for?" Rotter asked, seeing Warchild pulling out a recliner.


    "Dawn -- when the fleet goes out on a timer. Once we''re on the interstate, I pull the transponder and we make a detour. Not before. No need to trip up alarms when you don''t need to."


    "You''ve done this before?"


    "Get some shut-eye."

 Book 1 - Chapter 46

    The most important rule during underwater training was never to hold your breath.  For good reason -- according to Boyle''s law, the air in a diver''s lungs expanded during ascent and contracted during descent.  As long as the diver breathed continuously, excess air could escape. But trapped air would cause the lung walls to rupture.


    And the second rule when things went tits-up:  do not panic, a lesson drummed into Papa from his instructors when he went through the crucibles of Underwater Demolition training.


    Before hitting the surface of the water, Papa had squeezed all the air from his lungs.  After that, he sank like a rock, touching the muddy river bed.  With the oxygen-saturated hemoglobin in his blood, he wasn''t worried about passing out and drowning in 40 feet of water.  Not for 30 minutes, the length of time a real seal could stay underwater.


    Papa used this time to free himself and find his bearing.  His reflective eyes could see the riverbed was full of trash and twisted metal hulks of man-made objects -- the frame of an ancient automobile, a rusted bicycle, a boat''s broken hull swallowed by mud, and dozens of tires.  He found a rusted edge of a car door to cut his bonds, running the plastic up and down until it snapped.


    The current was surprisingly strong so he let himself drift downriver, always looking up to the surface.  He knew the search for his body would be underway.  To get air, Papa ascended gently from the deepest part, took a few breaths to replenish the hemo-reserve, emptied his lungs, and returned to the depth.  Sitting on the river bottom, he reconsidered -- the people who took him weren''t amateurs.  They would do their homework.  They would know of his augments and their capabilities.  If so, they would be patient as he must likewise.


    Surface activities were more frequent.  Instead of running the length of the river, some boats circled overhead and anchored.  He could see searchlights from helicopters piercing the gloom as they scoured the shallows.  It was River Police & Rescue.  But he couldn''t take the chance they were there to help.  Surely, the ones who wanted him dead would be waiting, at least to confirm the cops had dredged the river and found his body.  No, better they think I''m swept by the current.  That would buy me a day or two to find Bonnie.  She must be out of her mind.


    Disturbances on the surface caught his attention.  Rescue divers and ROVs had entered the black water and were using wide search beams to illuminate the riverbed for his body, in case it had snagged on some bottom trash.  The dive lights crept closer.


    Papa sensed he was getting close to the thirty-minute mark.  The first signs were the light-headiness and the rapid heart rate pounding in his ears.


    Next came the burning in his lungs and muscles as lactic acid built up, similar to intense physical exertion.  He could taste sour metal in his saliva and sensed the narcotic effect of extra nitrogen in the body which impaired sensory perception.  These symptoms required that he ascended right away.


    He let go and ascended, breast-stroking with the current.  It didn''t take long to put distance between himself and the bevy of search activities.  Yet, several times, the eddies around bridge pylons and river bends threw him into jagged debris where he cut his arms and shoulders and banged his head in the low-light.


    The gradual float up eventually broke the surface.  He took several small breaths to replenish his blood-oxygen supply and felt safe enough for a good peek of the surroundings.   The current had thrown him so far from the bridge he could no longer see the bright city core. This narrative has been purloined without the author''s approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    He drifted another half mile before he made it to the left shore and stumbled onto a sandy bank, cold, exhausted but alive.  A marina was nearby, lit with moored boats and human activities.  People would call the cops no doubt.  Trust no one.


    Papa climbed the stone steps and made his way to the main road, careful to keep out of sight.  Chilled to the bone,  he rubbed his arms to increase circulation and warmth.  There were no clothes conveniently hanging on the dry-lines or from a nearby laundromat he could steal.  Fairy tales wouldn''t happen until he made it happen.  He could roll some unsuspecting pedestrian and take his clothes, but then he''d have all of them after him, cops and killers alike.  Take the cold, he decided.  Hell, he had gone through worse, balancing a log in freezing surf for half an hour with seven other men.  Now that was real hell.


    Not far away, he could see signs leading to the interstate.


    Past the ramp, huge robot-semis hauling precious food destined for the big cities whizzed by blowing the flaps of his wet jacket.  Armed men in modified trucks guarded these half-mile long caravans in Mad Max fashion, hired to protect the eighteen-wheelers and their cargoes.  Food jacking by organized crime had risen of late since food relief convoys became more valuable than armored cars carrying gold.  A truckload of vegetables or meat didn''t have a shelf life.  Once taken, they were stripped under five minutes.  These thundering fleets dominated the mag-lev highways like buffalo herds of old.


    When his thumb caught no one''s sympathy or generosity, he settled in for the long walk.  A twenty-mile hike was no biggie, he thought.  He might even enjoy the freedom of the road.  And the expanse felt good, giving him room to stretch and keep his mind off his family.  He began a slow bouncing jog along the curb to keep warm.


    Just then, a hair-raising horn boomed behind him.  He spun around, almost tripped.  A Blue Bird bus braked, hissing to a stop -- its mammoth appearance startling, its lights searing.   Papa stood there for a second, perplexed but soon his apprehension gave way to joy.  This was manna from heaven.  Fairy tale did happen.  Covering his eyes against the glare, he glimpsed the two faces behind the windshield.


    "You want a lift or you prefer walking like a big duffus?"  A voice through the exterior speakers squawked.  Papa could detect a smile behind it.


    "Sons of bitches!"


    Papa howled with laughter as the door hissed open.


    The men came together in a hearty embrace; laughter mixed with profanity and vigorous pats on the back.


    "You''re blue as ice," Warchild said.


    "No idea -- man," Papa said between trembling words.


    "Get out of the wet rags.  I got the heater cranked up," Rotter said.


    Papa stripped off his wet clothes, hung them over the seats, and rubbed his arms and chest vigorously to warm himself.  "How?  How did you know to find me?"


    "Who else would be loco enough to jump in the Delaware in late November?" Rotter said with a wide grin.


    "We saw the news clip -- of you on the bridge, and your side view -- that''s how we knew for sure it''s the Smurf," Warchild said.  "Besides, there was no report of a body -- only meant you were sitting down there, waiting for nightfall.  It''s a simple matter of factoring in drift downstream and bingo, there you are trying to hitch a ride."


    "Halle-lujah."


    Warchild shook his head with disapproval.  "That was risky, Pops.  What if it wasn''t us?"


    "No choice," Papa said, his smile melting away fast.  His body was warming up fast, the stuttering ebbing.  "These pricks zapped me -- pulled me from my car.  I came to later, figured I was a goner -- if I didn''t make a break for it."


    "You were lucky," Warchild said.


    "We got hit too," Rotter said, lifting his shirt to show Papa his wounds.  "I got shanked by this really hot chick --"


    "All of us got hit," Warchild said.


    "All of us?"


    "The whole team," Warchild said.  "I can''t confirm but I''d bet good money many of the boys bought it.  So we gotta be real careful from now on."


    "They''re not the only worry," Rotter said.  "We''re out of meds."


    "I gotta get to Bonnie," Papa said with a sudden spasm of panic.


    "Relax, I spoke to her the day before," Warchild said.  "She and the kids aren''t in Philly no more.  They''re with her sister."


    "Then that''s where I''m going," Papa said firmly.  "To New York."


    "Slow down, big boy, we''ll get your family," Warchild said.  "But we can''t rush in there without a plan.  We have to assume they''re being watched."


    Papa nodded.  "Then we have from here to New York to hatch out details."


    "Two hours," Rotter mumbled.

 Book 1 - Chapter 47

    The first-hour proved uneventful.  Papa was fast asleep and snoring, balled in a corner with blankets from overhead bins.  Warchild was watching the onboard television, immersed in some news.  Rotter was wedged in a seat, playing with his hand terminal, cranking out a series of beeping noises.  The straight shot, up the Jersey Turnpike, was mag-lev smooth through denser traffic.  Yet it was orderly, thanked computer-sync driving.  In no time, the turnpike entered a refinery forest punctuated by dozens of gas flares that lit up the low cloud cover.  The refineries gave way to a giant tank farm owned by Phillips 66, a company of Atlantic Economic League, where tanker liners waited in long queues to dump their loads.  Ten minutes later, the bus exited the fuel park and ran parallel to Newark''s runway.


    Then things began to change.


    Warchild, no longer watching the screen, called Rotter upfront.  A road work area, fast approaching, forced the right lane to merge into the maglev space, slowing down their speed.  Warchild pointed to Rotter the real trouble.  Waiting in the shoulder taper were two police interceptors, painted in AEL colors and proprietary fief markings.  As the bus passed, the two vehicles rolled out and accelerated, placing themselves behind the bus.


    "And we have number three," Rotter called out as a third police interceptor merged from the shoulder ahead.  A fourth soon joined to box in the bus, their sirens, and lights inert.


    "What''s going on?"  Papa snapped awake and quickly assessed the situation.  He checked the dark sky and saw red nav lights and white strobes.  "We got a pack of police birds on our ass."


    "How they track us so fast?" Rotter questioned defensively.  "We cleaned every tracker on this bus."


    "Not all," Warchild mumbled.  "All right, no sudden movement.  We play cool.  Hop on and deactivate autodrive."


    Rotter took the driver seat and soon found it inert.


    "Trying."  Rotter gritted his teeth, gripping the wheel.  "I got no control."


    "The bus got captured," Papa muttered the truth.  The Blue Bird''s drive AI had been slaved to the Master Traffic Controller.


    The wheels turned by themselves as the power train decoupled from the mag lanes to drift toward the curb.  The two lead interceptors shepherded it to a complete stop on the right shoulder.


    "I''m not going down without a fight," Papa said.


    "Me neither," Rotter agreed, stepping back from the driver seat, one hand on his wounds.


    "Man," Rotter said.  "What I wouldn''t give for an SMG or my blades refilled."


    "Bare knuckles and teeth can do wonders," Papa growled.


    "Everyone calm the fuck down," Warchild barked.


    It was peculiar the cops hadn''t rushed the bus or pulled out their guns.


    The loudspeaker from the front interceptor bawled, instead:  "This is Green Sector, Newark PD.  You got weapons, put them away.  I''m coming up to talk."Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.


    Talk?  The trio inside the bus glanced at one another, astonished with this development.


    A broad-shouldered man in a worn trench approached the bus from the front with his hands raised and a stubby soaked cigar in his mouth.  He rapped on the door, metal against metal -- brass knuckles or metallic fingers, they wondered.


    Warchild okayed for Rotter to open the door.  It hissed aside as the glass panels folded to one side.


    The man entered and climbed the steps.  They could see he was armed from the bulge in his jacket.  His square face was etched with micro-seams, a sign he had cranial cyberware implants.  One iris focused imperceptibly.


    "You schmucks know you''re in a stolen bus?  You stand out like a beacon in the dark.  Thank your lucky stars we got to you first."


    "Who the hell are you?"  Rotter said, backing away deeper into the bus.  Warchild and Papa did the same, drawing the cop inside.


    "Never mind who I am," the cop said.  "Ditch this thing and come with me if you want to live."


    "Forget it," Papa snapped, his stance aggressive.  "I ain''t going swimming again."


    "We went through some shit couple of days ago," Warchild explained.


    "No shit," the man said.  "Why I''m here."


    "To finish the job?"  Rotter growled, eyes checking out the cop''s target zones and the piece under the coat.


    "You could stand there and waste my time, or come with me and save yourselves.  Oh, I should mention, your wife and kids are waiting for you, Papa."


    Papa rushed forward menacingly.  "I''ll kill you if you lay a hand on them."


    Warchild put a hand against the big Smurf.  "Hear the man out!"


    "They''re safe," the cop said quickly.  "Your friends saw to it."


    "What friends?" Warchild said, now interested.  "Who you work for?"


    "That''s my business.  I got my skin to protect too.  You coming or staying?  Last chance before hell and high water."


    The cop didn''t wait for an answer as he backed out of the bus.


    The three men followed him out to the lead cop vehicle and climbed in the back.  The four police interceptors accelerated and merged left into the mag-lanes, leaving the Blue Bird behind for a robotic tower to handle.


    Ten minutes later, the interceptor they were in came off maglev, decelerated abruptly, and took the exit ramp as the others continued on.  They were alone and dawn was approaching.


    The cop interceptor entered a maze of industrial grayness that extended from ground to sky.


    The cop in front with the cigar said, "We''re here."


    Warchild checked his whereabouts.  "Where''s here?"


    "Doubt you know, so relax."


    The vehicle stopped at a heavy gate with steel barrier as auto-cameras and security orbs investigated the visitors.  After the proper scanning, the steel barrier came down, allowing their entry.  The patrol car drove into a vast industrial canyon made from forty-footer containers stacked hundreds of feet high.


    Warchild nudged Rotter awake.  Papa was already bug-eyed alert anxious to see his family.


    "I''m hungry," Rotter said, feeling bold and smelling the air.


    "This is a food distribution hub," the cop said.  "You''ll get your fill."


    "Who runs this place?" Warchild asked.


    "This is a Free Trade Zone which supplies a good chunk of perishables to Meg One.  This corner here is the main meat and dairy hub, run by Midland," the cop replied.  "Does that answer your question?"


    Papa heard but didn''t care.  He was in a rush, but not for food, his eyes darting about missing nothing.  "Well, where are they, dammit?"


    "I told you they''re safe, patience."


    The car stopped in a gravel-filled compound surrounded on three sides by unloading semis and forklifters the size of small houses.


    "Midland Paramountcy . . . what do they have to do with us?" Rotter shrugged.


    "You''ll find out, kid.  Good luck," the cop said and walked off to shake hands with an unremarkable man waiting some yards away who took delight in their arrival.


    The trio disembarked.


    Med-techs led Rotter away to tend to his wounds.  Papa''s family rushed forth from their places and fell into a bear''s embrace.  Warchild noticed that not far away, standing from the doorway of an office trailer was another figure -- the silhouette unmistakable.  Instead of welcoming warmth, he felt chill.

 Book 1 - Chapter 48

    "This is Harry DeWitt," Alex introduced Warchild to the watcher.


    Warchild remained reticent.


    Papa wasn''t; he approached and grasped Harry''s hand with both his huge paws.  "Thank you, thank you for all you''ve done for us."


    "Call me Harry."  The old crow smiled warmly.  "You''re safe now, all of you.  There is hot food, shower, and change of clothes inside.  Shall we?"  Harry gestured for them to accompany him inside the warehouse.


    They met up with Bonnie inside a reception space converted from an empty office.  There were several cots and blankets already prepared.


    Bonnie burst into tears, the emotional strain too much for her to bear.


    "Now, now, not good for the baby," Harry said as he patted her trembling shoulders.  "When are you due?"


    "Tomorrow," wife and husband replied together.


    "The doc will make you comfortable,"  Harry ordered the physician to gently usher her to her bed.


    "She''s going to have it here?"  Papa asked with wide eyes.


    "Hospital is out of the question, too risky.  Besides, I''ve chosen a qualified pediatric physician and we spared no expense bringing in equipment and staff.  Your wife''s in very good hands."  Harry turned to the doctor.  "How is she?"


    "Other than hypertension and slight dehydration, mother and child are perfectly fine."


    "Have you given her anything?" Papa asked.


    "I was about to give her a mild sedative to help her sleep."


    Papa nodded his approval.


    "Bless you, sir," Bonnie said, led away by the physician.


    Alex and Harry both watched Bonnie being led away, with Papa glued by her side.


    "Now that she''s taken cared off, I''d like to know -- who are you, Mr. DeWitt?" Warchild said warily.  "Why do we deserve such generosity from Midland?  What''s the real price tag?"


    "A strange way to show gratitude," Harry said, looking over to Alex.


    "Without his help, we''d be in a world of shit," Alex said with a tinge of embarrassment and scolded.  "Try not to be an asshole all your life."


    "No, he''s entitled to be wary," Harry corrected her.  "Yes, Mr. Mars, there is something I have in mind.  When you feel up to it, I''d suggest we all sit down for a talk.  There''s much to discuss and time is scant."


    "It''s your show," Warchild said.


    A quarter of an hour later, the four remaining Cerberus congregated in an office kitchen and sat around a pot of coffee.  Rotter''s wounds were cleaned and dressed, and at this moment offered little discomfort, judging from his wide grin.  Likewise, Papa was so ebullient rain clouds couldn''t dampen.  The wet towel was Warchild, sitting with his arms crossed opposite of Alex.  Neither looked at each other.Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.


    At the head of the small table was Harry.  He began a slow recount of what had happened from the moment the Caracas video was aired as the first fallen domino.


    Rotter mumbled.  "We didn''t deserve this."


    "Your existence is evidence of the PIP''s tampering with a foreign government . . . Aggravated with the coming Conclave."


    "Sons of bitches," Rotter muttered.


    "What about the others?" Warchild asked.


    Harry turned it over to Alex.


    "They''re gone," she choked and looked away quickly.


    "There were devastating consequences," Harry said under his breath.  The men knew what he meant.  Alex got up from the table to compose herself elsewhere.


    "The deaths were made to look like freak accidents," Harry continued in her absence.


    "And do you know this?"  Papa asked, impressed.


    "We were following leads stemming from Moreau''s murder."


    "Holy shit, Director Ian Moreau?" Rotter exclaimed.  "He''s dead?"


    "I came to see him," Alex said rejoining the table.  "To get his help about getting us some T-Stoff.  The next day, I found out he was killed."


    "The meds!" Papa sat up, alarmed.  "I''m behind, two days now I think."


    "We all are,"  Alex said in an impassive manner.  "This is why we''re here."


    Harry told them Moreau had downloaded the entire project into a CSU with the intent to defect to Midland.  But he had lost his head.


    "I know who took it," Harry paused.  "The same man who pursues you and killed your friends."


    Warchild looked at him inquisitively.  "Who is he?"


    "A devil I trained."


    "You trained?"


    "I wasn''t always with Midland."


    "So you had a hand in all this?" Warchild accused.


    "There are deep roots in the world.  Go back far enough and we''re all related."


    "You tell me his name."


    "His name is Lockheart."


    "But there''s another he goes by -- the Sandman," Alex added.  "Psychopath killer."


    "So are we," Rotter said.


    "Cute."  Warchild grimaced with a twisted smile.


    "So what does this sick joke have to do with us?"  Papa asked.


    "He took Moreau''s head -- literally.  Carnivora could keep you alive only if we can access the chem-sequence in time."


    "So says the killer''s mentor," Warchild carped.  "Don''t dangle it in front of us.  Say what you came here to say."


    "Warchild, you watch your tone," Alex snapped.


    "That''s all right.  Right now, Lockheart is taking the drive to sell it to the highest bidder.  That happens, everyone loses."


    "And you want us to hit him?"  Papa said.


    "To retrieve the data -- and save yourselves."


    "And Midland walks away with the prize," Warchild said.


    "Yes, we want it too."


    "I can''t get involved," Papa said.  "My family -- Bonnie''s about to pop.  I can''t take any more risk."


    Harry said softly.  "How do you feel?"


    Papa hung his head, knowing the truth.


    "Doing nothing is the same as suicide, Pete.  With no T-Stoff to counteract the ravaging cancers, Bonnie would be a widow in a week or month -- and your children without a father.  You will hold your newborn in time to die."


    Papa bit his lips hard, turning them purple.


    "You have to reconsider."


    "I''m feeling kinda good," Rotter said.


    "It''s the painkillers they gave you," Harry said.


    "I didn''t take any."  Rotter shrugged.


    "I''ll leave you all to make your decision,"  Harry said, getting up.


    As soon as the old crow left the kitchen, Warchild was the first to say, "I don''t trust that man.  Why would anyone do this?"


    "We''re all here breathing -- because of him," Papa said.  "I''m indebted.  You should show a little gratitude."


    "How bout you, Rotter?"


    Rotter thought for an instant and said, "I guess I''m in.  Where else am I gonna go?  Tired of running anyway.  Time we dish out what they''ve been cooking."


    "We''re the dead walking," Alex said to the others.  "We got nothing to lose."


    "Is that the only reason?" Warchild mused, his eyes narrowed.


    "What are  you getting at?" Alex returned his glower.


    "Honesty."


    "We all have our crucifix to bear.  Mine is my own."


    "Is it going to compromise us as it did before?"


    "Before --"  Alex rose from her seat, trembling.  "You want to open that wound again, don''t you?"


    "Let''s everybody calm down," Papa said.


    "Yeah, we were just getting along," Rotter said.


    "She carries emotional baggage and will cost us all," Warchild snapped.  "You two conveniently forget?"


    "Then fuck off," Alex said.  "And die on the street like a dog . . . Or stay and do something about it."


    Papa uttered, "Yeah."


    They all waited for Warchild, who never broke his glare from Alex.


    "Don''t be a dick and leave us hanging," Rotter said.


    Warchild finally gave a nod.


    "Then I''ll let DeWitt know we''re all in this -- together."


    "Together," Rotter and Papa concurred.


    "If we go, we go all the way," Warchild said.


    "Deal," Alex said.

 Book 1 - Chapter 49

    A black twin-rotor gyrodyne descended onto a restricted yellow-striped platform without permission.  It powered down onto Pier 45 amid Lower Manhattan''s cluster of skyscrapers.  It sat there, impenetrable under the balconied walkways that spiraled along the edge of a colossal tower, resembling pleats of a giant frilly skirt.


    Every modern tower block had these built-in rolling sky promenades for pedestrians to use.  With much of its subway flooded from rising sea levels, the Big Apple, an anchor megalopolis of the vast MCE,  now boasted networks of water-logged canals instead of streets and cheap nimble jet boats instead of yellow cabs.


    The commerce line was rezoned to begin at a minimum of fifteen stories up per new NYC ordinance because Manhattan''s AEL Affiliates were comfortable no lower.  Pinstripes and silk suits replaced grimy Obscura cloaks at these heights.  Beyond the reach of the huddled masses, there were no shortages of aged porterhouses, and creamy spinach and other delectable decadence to be scooped up by ringed fingers and stuffed between greasy cheeks.  Doormen along the private promenades made sure no agitators or hungry vagabonds lingered long enough to spoil their patrons'' dining ambiance overlooking the bloated Hudson.


    Hence, few landing platforms allowed loitering for more than five minutes, except for police emergencies.  City authorities considered VTOL zones wasted space and visual blights to be hidden from discerning tastes.


    The big craft sat undisturbed.  Pedestrians scowled at its obtrusive arrogance, but they gave the matte black vehicle a wide berth as they crossed from one tower to another; it was best to avoid anything that didn''t sit right.  There were rumors of bomb plots foiled at least once a week, somewhere.  Best to be wary.  Terrorism alert remained at the crimson level.  And it wasn''t the foreigners who were dangerous.


    A lone NYPD cop, sitting nearby on a pedestrian bridge, had had enough.  He approached the driver''s side window and tapped it with authority.  The glass whined halfway down.


    "Can you read, buddy?" the beat cop said, one hand on his holster, the other thumbing a pulsing holo-projection a few feet above the vehicle -- "No Landing Zone Except with Permit.  And I don''t see you got one.  So, beat it."


    The occupants gave him silence in return.  So, he pulled out his ticketing scanner and zapped the plates.  He didn''t like what he saw.


    The officer returned to the driver''s side window.


    Peering inside, the beat cop bristled.  "You people just do what you want, don''t ya?  Freegin Fedniks."  With a grimace, he stepped away to log the disturbance and let it go.


    The window whined back up and resealed. The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    Pier 45 where they landed offered an unobstructed line of sight.


    In the front seat, Lockheart drummed his fingers on the door panel.  Ten past eight.  Six more men sat in semi-circular sofas farther back, a full load, with automatic pistols hidden inside coats, comms green.  No one in the gyrodyne talked.


    Just then, a large quad-nacelles hovercraft appeared over the towers and began landing procedures onto its reserved LZ.  It was shiny and expensive, which meant non-government.  It was a personal transport for a paramountcy big-wig.


    "He''s late."


    They could see a party disembark from the craft, a ring of bodyguards surrounding one man, stepping onto the concourse for the Grand Amsterdam Hotel.


    "Is that him?" Casper, his lieutenant said.


    "He looks legit, but we''ll find out," Lockheart said, straightening out his sleeves.


    "You sure you don''t want me along?"


    "That might spook the corpos.  I''ll be fine, Johann.  Okay, take up your watch positions."


    Walking alone, Lockheart proceeded to take the escalator up to the mezzanine that fed into the hotel''s atrium.  There, he would meet his contact.  This business wouldn''t take long.


    Lockheart spotted the dandy easily enough -- already waiting for him in the reception lounge which could double as a mini-botanical garden, replete with expensive orchids and lilies.  The executive was urbane and well-groomed, of the sorts accustomed to luscious vices only lots of disposable cash can afford.


    As Lockheart came closer, a ring of security stepped forward, blocking him with outstretched arms.


    "What''s your business?"


    Lockheart didn''t reply, though it irked him.  He stood waiting for the suit to wave his bodyguards aside.  The wall of linebackers parted to let Lockheart step through.  He took a seat next to his contact, both men looking without interest at the hotel guests coming through the lobby.


    "A public venue, just as you requested," Lockheart said, admiring the ornate marble and glass decor.


    "I don''t know you and New York is AEL territory.  This is the only place for us to meet.  So do forgive my precautions."  The groomed man crossed his legs.


    "Let''s make this quick.  I don''t want to be here either."


    "My broker said you have something for me?"


    Lockheart produced a velvet box that typically held an engagement ring.


    "But I hardly know you," the executive joked in an effeminate manner.


    Lockheart smirked.


    "A taster -- for you to consider.  A bargain at triple the price."


    "What is it?"


    "If you don''t know what it is, then you don''t need to know," Lockheart said.  The slip revealed that this peacock Affiliate was only a junior errand boy, after all.  "Your superior can verify its authenticity.  Don''t'' worry, it''s only a sampler."


    The mule pocketed the box inside his jacket without further examination.


    "And if it is something we''re interested in?"


    "We make the swap, data for dollars at a place of your choosing."


    "I don''t make this decision."


    "I know that," Lockheart said sharply.  "Your boss has twenty-four hours to decide.  After that, I go to his competitor."


    "Someone''s in a rush?"


    "I''m anxious to leave this hemisphere."


    "A running man.  From whom, I wonder?"


    Lockheart ignored the remark.  "I want asylum and position in your fief -- for me and mine.  My terms are non-negotiable -- details are all laid out inside."


    "I''ll pass it along."  The man shrugged.


    "Then we''re done here.  Remember, your people have twenty-four hours to make it happen.  A minute after, it''s off the table."


    The man nodded and made a crooked smile.  "Same channel, sweetheart?"


    "As before."

 Book 1 - Chapter 50

    "Show me where the bastard is,"  Balkan growled impatiently.


    In a secret observation center outside the Dulles corridor, Balkan stood facing a digital map of the Northern Hemisphere.  Two men were with him, the Imaging Supervisor and Director Oliver.  The session was not logged and the controller held to secrecy.


    On a nod from Oliver, the controller zoomed the screen and centered on North America.  The focus then panned south over a black unmarked topography -- the Gulf of Mexico.


    "What is that?" Balkan asked, pointing at a pulsing dot.


    "A ship," Oliver said.


    "With Lockheart aboard?"


    "High probability."


    Balkan piqued, eyes narrowed.  "How is it he knows how to move around undetected in the age of Atlas?"


    "The Agency trained him.  Indeed, he''s gone dark -- no RFID echo," Oliver said.


    "Then how did you find him?" Balkan demanded.


    "Your rabbit''s clever."  The tech pointed at a flat signal meter and beamed proudly.  "But so am I -- picked up his voice pattern and zeroed him yesterday.  Today, he and his men took a ride down to the Big Easy, then a ferry and ended up right there -- near the shipping lines where there are baffles and interference.  Smart cookie."


    "How wide did you cast the net?"  Balkan asked, impressed.


    "Lemme see, North America?"


    "What ship is that?"  Balkan shifted his weight from side to side.  His blood was racing.


    "Luxury Yacht, a hundred fifty footer." The tech whistled.  "Twenty cabins jet-cruiser with helipads and sat-arrays.  It can do eighty knots easy in open ocean.  The only thing faster is a Go-boat."


    "Well," Oliver said.  "The ship is a big problem."


    "Problem?"


    "The Lady Celeste is flagged in Panama under North Star Dry Shipping, a company belonging to the Gulf-Con paramountcy.  Worse of all, she sits in international waters which means I can''t even get the Coast Guard to board her for inspection."


    "And you know for sure Lockheart''s aboard?"


    "Show him," Oliver instructed the camera tech.


    "Hold your horses, gents."  The operator pulled up an image of the ship''s deck, his mannerism bold and flippant.  "Alright, here we are -- what do you see?  That ain''t no bikinis."


    Balkan squinted his eyes at the screen.


    "Notice how many people are on deck and what they''re carrying?"  Oliver said.


    Balkan squinted.  "They''re armed security --  every fief employs them.  That''s hardly curious."


    "There''s got to be fifty men easy.  The question is -- why would you have so much firepower on a leisure ship?  Certainly not for a pleasure cruise."


    Balkan considered.  "But you haven''t shown me Lockheart yet."


    "The ship has three levels," the tech said with a shrug.  "He''s in there.  We have imaging from this afternoon."


    "Show me."


    The tech pulled up a set of digital photographs, but the angle was shot from above.


    "This is no good.  I want visual confirmation, dammit," Balkan barked at the cameraman.  "You can do that, can''t you?"


    "Yes, sir.  The best way is to get a miniature aerial vehicle in there, look just like birds, except they''re all wires and actuators.  And cameras."


    "Don''t you have robo-porpoises?"  Oliver asked.  "I''m thinking we''re dealing with a watery environment, no?"A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.


    "Sure do.  Navy uses them all the time."


    "Good."


    "Except it will take longer."


    "How much longer?"


    "You have to requisition one, then unpack it, then get a Coast Guard corvette close enough to launch.  There''s approach time and . . ."


    The tech knew to stop as Balkan grimaced and rubbed his temple.


    "Recommendation?"


    "I''d use a MAV --  it''s the quickest way in my opinion."


    Balkan made an inquisitive scowl.


    "Miniature Aerial Vehicle," the tech explained with an exhale.  "We pack one in a weather rocket and shoot it high over the ship.  The canister pops out and the bird vectors itself to target on its own.  Black to full visibility, three hours tops."


    "No other choice?" Balkan asked.


    Oliver shook his head.


    "Get it done."


    "See to it," Oliver said to the technician.


    The Imaging man went into active mode pushing buttons and relaying requests.


    "Say, we confirm Lockheart is there, what are you thinking?"  Oliver pulled Balkan aside.


    "We snatch the chip.  Torch everything else."


    "And risk all kinds of violations, including paramountcy and UN laws?"


    "Give me another option?"  Balkan rubbed his temples.  "Lockheart''s there to make an illicit deal.  We have the right to retrieve our property."


    "That''s for the lawyers to hash out,"  Oliver said.  "Look, I can get a team there in no time.  But we have to be sure, else we''ll have a domestic incident on our hands.  And we don''t need another one right on top of Caracas."


    "It''s on me, okay?"


    "Reckless, Victor.  Forget the White House, Dallas-Austin would crucify you."


    "The alternative is to let Carnivora go to a hostile party.  Yes, Dallas-Austin would have something to say then.  You''re damned either way."


    "Okay, okay," Oliver agreed.  "I''ll pull an extraction team together."


    "Are they good?"


    "Tier-One, they don''t get better."


    "How fast can you get them there?"


    "Closest team is in Panama," Oliver continued, "They can high-tail there before sunrise and take the ship, once it''s confirmed."


    "Then, spin them up, Charles.  And stay frosty.  I''ll let you know once I know."


    "Where would you be?"


    "Right here with him."  Balkan thumbed at the tech, then slumped in the chair.  There won''t be any peaceful sleep tonight.


    * * *


    "Heads up, we have contact."  The Imaging man tapped the FLIR monitor with his index finger, waking Balkan.  "First customer."


    "What time is it?" Balkan jolted up, rubbing his eyes.


    "Time log 0242 hours."


    "I told you to wake me when the MAV is operational."


    "We''re jacked in," the tech announced, his fingers dancing on the holo-board, sounding like raindrops on foam.  "RedEye is open."


    "So what do we have?"  Balkan ignored the insolence, leaned forward and blinked several times to wet his eyeballs.


    "Angle of approach good, strong easterly," the man at the controls said.


    LIDAR beams ranged out from the drone''s cranium while micro actuators powered up, fluttering its wings in a whisper blur, much like a real hummingbird.


    The avian drone fell from the night sky and flared its wings, catching the strong wind.  It hovered at first to get a bearing.


    "RedEye is active.  Telemetry strong.  Visuals good.  We have flight dynamics.  I''m enhancing No. 1.  Standby."


    Camera 1 zoomed in on the sprawling deck as the drone caught lift, rising higher with each flap and pull.


    "You see, no worries," the tech said.  "They''re the Cadillac of MAVs.  Very stable.  They could fly in thirty-mile crosswinds, no problemo.  Ten-hour battery.  Excellent cameras array and collision radars."


    The bird soon picked up a pair of armed guards walking the upper deck and fluttered back over dark waters.


    Balkan watched the streamed images from RedEye, its dual cameras overlapped to offer a 360 viewpoint in stark black and white -- thermal differentiation.


    The fake bird hovered outside a window and alighted on a ledge, getting a view of the interior.  With insulated glass filled with silver chloride gas, it could only make out blurred silhouettes.


    "We have only visual packets . . . No audio at present," the controller reported.


    Balkan leaned closer to the screen.  "Find him."


    "No RFID reading from inside anywhere.  They''re covering up.  That''s a good sign."


    "Good?" Balkan remarked sourly.  "How so?"


    "They got signal baffles all around the ship.  It means whoever''s aboard doesn''t want to be found."


    "I don''t care if you have to crash that thing in there, if they''re taking a leak, I wanna see it zipped up.  And continue to take that flippant tone with me and I''ll throw you in Oz, get me?"


    Beads of sweat formed on the tech''s brow.  His voice skipped a beat.  "Yes sir, I''ll spin up RedEye and scan along the port side.  There''s bound to be someplace I can make entry."


    A few minutes later, the bird disappeared through a porthole into the galley.


    "We''re in," the controller whispered as if that mattered.


    RedEye hovered and settled onto an exposed pipe running along the ceiling.  It perched high in the darkened corner, its cranial cameras rotating independently like the eyes of a chameleon.


    Data poured out from RedEye as it tracked the figures walking below it.   From its angle, capturing their faces for a full biometric scan proved difficult.


    Balkan waited.


    "Zoom in on that one," said Balkan, tapping on the monitor.


    "Copy," the camera geek obeyed.


    A kitchen staffer in white uniform roamed the kitchen, making a sandwich late at night, arranging delicacies on a porcelain plate.  The food was for someone else.


    "Stay on him," Balkan insisted.  "I want a usable profile."


    RedEye shifted position and flapped its wings, disturbing the air ever so slightly as it followed the kitchen-hand, hopping in spurts down the corridor to the guest cabin.


    The staffer knocked.  The door opened.


    The biometric sensors started to beep.  Balkan didn''t need their algorithm to recognize the man.  Lockheart stood in the doorway without a shirt as he accepted the covered tray.  Farther inside the cabin, a slender arm reached up from under his covers.

 Book 1 - Chapter 51

    The quickest air transport Harry DeWitt could get his hands on was a converted Hercules hauler with rotating jets.  If anyone bothered to check, the plane carried a commercial registry, owned by Flying Lyon Inc., an Affiliate member of Midland Superior.  And its flight plan, made on a weekly basis, was southbound to Panama and back.  Except this time, the pilot was dialing in a new waypoint that was a slight degree off course veering eastward over the Gulf.  As the air traffic controller had squawked the digression, the pilots had stayed radio silent.  Eventually, they''d make an attempt to get back on the flight path.  But not just yet.


    Sitting in the cargo bay amid crates of machine parts and parcels destined for a Panamanian plant, the four stowaways were reflective, each in his own dark thoughts.  This was Cerberus''s last mission, and it wasn''t for fief or country.  It was personal, and to some, there was a blood score to settle.


    Two hours ago before takeoff, the four had been given their last meal.  When chow was over, Harry laid out the gear they would need -- neoprene wet suits, a lowly contrast to the hi-tech body armor they had worn in the Caracas drop.  And no aqualung.  Alex said they didn''t need it.  The apparatus would only serve to slow them down while adding risk of detection.


    "Just drop us a mile out.  We''ll swim the rest," she said with no intended bravado.


    "And what would you do when you get there?" Harry tested her.


    "For you, retrieve the CSU.  Beyond that -- it''s our business."


    "I''m curious," Warchild said.  "What is our business?  I seem to remember we each have our reason."


    "Mine is survival," Rotter said.  "And the best defense is offense, right?"


    "Don''t forget the meds," Papa said to Harry.  "You can replicate it, for sure?"


    "Our labs are on standby.  Just need the formulation.  Otherwise, we''d waste critical time with trials and errors and we''d never know if we got it right."


    "There you have it," Warchild said.  "Alive is better.  The mission is clear -- retrieve the chip and meds so we can stay alive."


    "You''re one to speak about leaving someone alive."  She scoffed, then hissed at him.  "Lockheart is mine.  He''s bled me and took from me my life.  So, don''t think of coming between me and mine."


    Warchild threw up his arms, not wanting to exert his weight against a stone wall.


    "Let''s talk gear," Papa said, changing topics.  "How are we looking?"


    "And weapons," Rotter added, relieved that he did, rubbing his palms together.


    "I got just the thing, SMGs.  Clean and oiled," Harry said.  "They''re compact, light, and guaranteed to work wet."


    "How many rounds?"


    "Thirty per mag," Harry said.  "Best I could scrounge up in so short a time."


    "Good enough."  Papa nodded.


    "One last thing -- I was saving this for the right moment," Harry said which got everyone''s attention.  "It was difficult but I managed to find it -- liquid metal.  For those who prefer CQB."


    "It adds twenty pounds to our body mass," Alex carped.  "Makes the swim that much harder."  She didn''t want to say in front of them she was feeling weaker than usual, accompanied by recurring aches and shortness of breath as if ravaged by influenza.


    "You prefer to be without?" Warchild said, raising a carping eyebrow.


    "I''ll take mine if you don''t mind," Rotter said.  "As a backup."


    "Course I will."  Alex shrugged.The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.


    Papa sat with the doc first.  "How''s Bonnie?"  He asked as the physician administered the injection.


    "She''s fine.  Keep your arms up," the doc replied while pumping four hundred cubic centimeters of the metal compound into the reservoir slit under Papa''s armpits.  He then charged and tested the firing electrodes in Papa''s biceps.


    While Papa was getting his metal injection, the rest of the team made final checks to parachute backpacks, ensuring rigging, main canopies, and reserves chutes were packed correctly.


    "The plane will hold altitude at thirty thousand by the time you''re feet-wet," Harry reminded the group, using his palm as the plane.  "You''ll freefall to eight hundred feet before deploying your parachutes."


    "Standard HALO insertion, got it, old man," Rotter said.


    "You have fifteen minutes," Harry continued.  "The Herc will hold orbit ''til then after which it will descend and hover over the helideck for pickup.  If you''re incapacitated or late for pickup, it''s a long swim back to shore."


    "Roger that," Warchild said.


    "That''s cutting it close, yeah?" Rotter asked with one raised brow.


    "I figured you''d be needing a Submarine Scooter -- you''d cut time to target by half."


    "That''s decent of you," Rotter said.  "I''m good to go."


    "Let me check on Bonnie first," Papa said.


    Alex said nothing as she stripped without care and squeezed into the wet suit.  Zipped up, she stepped into the chute harness, and tighten straps against her shoulders and crotch.  Without a word, she grabbed her fins and went outside.


    Now sitting in the cargo hold, the ride was reminiscent of their one and only drop to Caracas, the heavy silence, the nagging expectation, her legs shaking from the combat adrenaline.  But this time, it was her hands that trembled, not from any chemical boosters but from an onset of a debilitating neurological condition that had appeared only a day ago -- the first sign the death spiral was well underway.


    She nurtured the rage, fantasying what she would do once she had him.  Would it be quick or slow?  How did Camila die?  The thought of the acid bath eating that beautiful face choked her windpipe.  Slow, very slow.  Tears came to her eyes, not sure caused by what, the memory of a life she could have had, or that all of this was coming to an end.  And after she relished the cold dish of vengeance, she would die herself . . . dig two graves, Confucius taught.  Papa was a fool, she felt sorry for his family.  There''d be no meds to stop the legions that were eating them alive.  Truth be told, she was fine with it.  And it gave her peace.


    At the third hour, the copilot made his way into the cargo bay.  Too loud to talk openly, he splayed his hand for the group to see -- five minutes before de-pressurization.  The Cerberus four began their deep breathing regimen and stretching, filling their blood with oxygen as the copilot returned to his pressurized habitat.  They latched themselves for the opening and emptied their lungs.


    As the countdown expired, the aft of the Herc cracked open to a black sky, and ear-ripping noise.  Alex felt the hard jerk of the decompression, trying to fling out whatever wasn''t secured.  The depressurization was over in a second as the subzero cold rushed in.  The Herc rocked and stabilized.  Warning lights flashed on the wall they were over the drop zone.


    Weapons strapped tight across their chest, the four unlatched themselves from their seats and penguin-walked aft, carrying the lightweight scooter between them.  Papa, the heaviest and tallest, volunteered to carry the cigar-like Diver Propulsion Vehicle hooked to his back.  Ready, they stood facing a vast unfathomable inkwell without a horizon.


    Green flashed on the wall panel.


    Without hesitation, all four raced and flared into the blackness.  With no point of reference saved for rushing air, it was difficult to tell whether they were falling or just floating.  Even with enhanced eyes, Alex had to rely on her altimeter readouts embedded in the helmet HUD.  Reaching terminal velocity after 12 seconds, estimated time to opening was one-three-five seconds, the digits racing down to nil.


    At zero time, the ripcord popped, chute deployed, jerking her up violently.   Unable to judge the distance to the water, she counted another ten seconds before hitting the chest release button, dropping her into the black water.


    Rising to the surface, she tried to get her bearings and locate the others.  In no time, she saw them bobbing in the calm waters not far from her position.  They swam to her.


    "Whew, I missed that rush," Rotter said with a wide grin, bobbing in the water.


    "Give me a hand with the DPV, will ya?" Papa said, spitting water from his mouth.


    Warchild swam up and freed the dive scooter from his back.  "Alright, where the fuck are we, anyone?"


    "Cactus One-Five, come in.  This is Straydog" Alex called the Herc at thirty thousand feet.


    "Straydog, One-Five, reading you loud and clear."


    "One-Five, would appreciate a directional assist to target."


    "Roger, you''re five point three klicks, bearing  O-six-five degrees.  Do you have it?"


    "They dropped us over three miles out," Papa mumbled.


    "We''ll make do, One-Five.  Straydog out," Alex replied.  Then to her men, "Just follow your nose, gents, it always knows."


    There was a faint odor in the air only they could pick up.


    "Yup, 065 is that away."  Rotter was the first to detect a scent on a breeze.  "I can see the damn diesel trail.  That''s another reason not to use fossil fuel."


    "Alright, clock''s ticking," Alex said.


    "Twenty minutes is damn tight," Rotter grumbled.


    "You just wasted five seconds talking.  Let''s move."


    Warchild powered the DPV and throttled up while the others grabbed on and hung from his belt.

 Book 1 - Chapter 52

    Approaching the last two hundred yards from the brightly lit Lady Celeste, the group held their breaths and descended to a depth that cleared the keel.  They breast-stroked all the way to the stern, disengaged the scooter and floated in stasis to ascertain the threat condition above.


    Movement -- a sentry stood in the lowered diving platform of the super-yacht, his outline blurred and warped when seen from below.  Suddenly, a continuous stream of liquid broke the calm surface from above -- the man was peeing, the splashes right on top of them.  The stream soon stopped.


    Warchild let out bubbles from his mouth on purpose.  The divers watched as the air globules wobbled up and burst.  The guard bent low to check out the disturbance.


    A hand exploded from the black water, grabbed him by the neck, and pulled him down.  A minute later and fifty feet deep, Warchild let the body float away.


    The group broke the surface without a sound, nostrils puffing out air.


    The yacht above was lit up from bow to stern with exterior and underwater lights.  The triple-decker was as large as a freighter.  The Lady Celeste carried two 24'' motor skiffs under tarp in dorsal cradles and she had ample space for other amenities, including a retractable helipad.  Securely strapped onto the raised platform was a long-range Sikorsky tilt-rotor gyrodyne.


    Cerberus sniffed the air -- there was company nearby.  Two sentries patrolled a few yards away on the main deck, just above their sunken platform.


    Alex nodded to her boys.  They removed their leg daggers.


    She unclasped her dive belt and tossed it into the water, creating a loud splash.  At once, the conversation on the sun deck stopped.  Footsteps grew louder, two sets, now just above the ledge over the bobbing marina platform.


    Warchild and Rotter launched straight up, their blades skewering each sentry under his jaw, severing the brain stem -- silent death as the bodies were pulled down and released quietly into the depths.


    "You two take the bridge," Alex whispered.  "Papa and me are after the honcho of this ship.  Clear?"


    "And where is the damn bridge?"  Warchild asked.


    "I''m thinking it''s the deck above this one, maybe two?"


    "This will be fun," Rotter mumbled.  "Just four of us."


    "And Sister Surprise," Papa said.


    Alex released her SMG from her chest harness and switched fire selector to three-shot burst.  The others copied her.


    Alex led the way, climbing the boarding ladder.  Rotter was next in line, then Papa and Warchild.  Their movements created no sound, not even from dripping water, the fluid draining through micro rivulets in the neoprene suits.


    Twelve minutes remained.


    Moving toward the bow on the main deck, they forked into two pairs, Alex and Papa port side, Warchild and Rotter starboard.


    They moved on the deck lounge, coming upon midship.


    Without warning, an outer door swung open almost hitting Alex in the face.  A figure casually stepped through.  A man.  Functional clothes -- not the ship''s crew.  Armed security.  In a split second, Alex had him by the collar, the SMG muzzle dug into his chest barely making a burp.  He shuddered and collapsed forward.  She flung the body over the rail and entered the midship gallery at the same time Warchild and Rotter appeared a few yards opposite them.


    On the wall was the layout of the super-yacht.  She traced her fingers along the diagram and memorized the design:  Crew quarters -- fifteen rooms, lower and aft; master''s chambers top floor; and the bridge occupied the middle deck with a clear sight of the bow.


    Ten minutes ten seconds.


    Warchild and Rotter headed for the bridge while Alex aimed to find the master of the ship.  Grabbing the headman and getting him to disarm ship security would make finding Lockheart that much easier.  And at this hour, the master had to be in his chamber.


    Alex, followed by Papa, made for the uppermost deck, racing up a carpeted spiral stairwell wide enough for two.  They ran headlong into a night steward station that serviced the master floor and the VIP rooms.  Barreling into someone wearing a white uniform, Alex hugged him without meaning to.This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.


    "Who owns this ship?"  She recovered and held him at length.


    "Regent -- Lemaire."


    "Show me his cabin."


    The frightened man hesitated.


    "Talk!" she shook his Nehru jacket.


    The steward stuttered and turned his face toward a closed set of oaken doors set in a cul de sac.


    She passed him to Papa, who gave him a warning.  "Find a hole and hide in there, if I were you."


    Just then, a ship-wide alarm blared and whooped.


    Alex cursed.  "Those two dick heads below must have buggered something."  Now it was imperative they grabbed this Lemaire.


    No time to knock, she shot off the hinges and kicked in the heavy doors, which caved in easily.  The Regent''s chamber was immense with an attached living room suite.  Beyond this wasteful space was the bedroom.  The door was open.  Two people were in bed, a girl pulling the sheets to her chin, the man going for his cotton robe.


    "How dare you intrude my private sanctum."  After tying his belt, he turned toward Alex, incensed.  "You know who I am?"


    "A rich prick," she replied without emotion.  She hadn''t forgotten about the girl.  "Bitch, get out."


    The party girl scrambled out of the room past Papa with her rear exposed.  He looked but didn''t laugh.  Alex''s murderous warpath was no joke.


    "You have a guest here," Alex said calmly, returning to Lemaire.  "Lockheart, where is he?"


    "Get out of my bedroom or I''ll have you whipped."  The Regent came toward her, finger extended.


    Alex hurled the butt of her submachine gun against his collarbone, hoping to break it.  His torso collapsed like a reed in a strong gale.  He curled on the floor, gasping in shock.


    "Jesus, Lex," Papa said.  "That''s a Regent you smacked.  We weren''t supposed to touch him."


    "You didn''t see nothing."


    She grabbed Lemaire''s terry cloth robe and lifted him with one arm.  His chicken legs wobbled.  She knew the blow had numbed his left arm by the way it hung limp.  The Regent''s face turned purple, contorting in the most surprising expression -- pain, something a man of his station had never experienced, the pain of being beaten, of being humiliated.  This was the kind of pain only little people knew, she wanted to say.  And at this moment, she despised him and his kind.  Powerful people did all this.  Fat cats wheeled and dealt while Lilliputians got trampled.


    Lemaire caught his breath and his wit, at last.  "You''re not part of this ship''s crew."  He tried swallowing to wet his throat.  "If this is some kind of piracy, then take whatever you want and leave."


    "I will repeat -- you have a guest here." Each word fell like hammer blows against his face causing him to squint.  "His name is Milo Lockheart, don''t fuck with me."


    Lemaire gulped, his bravado running down his legs.  His frog eyes told her that he knew at last why she was there.


    As if to punctuate the point, automatic gunfire erupted downstairs.


    "How many armed men on this ship?"  She hissed at him, spittle sprinkling his face.


    "Security isn''t my concern.  I am Louisiana Governor Regent Lemaire, senior Affiliate of Gulf-Con --"


    "I don''t give a shit."  Alex slapped him across the face.  "How many?"


    Stunned, he stammered, "Twenty . . . Thirty men, I don''t know."


    "You come with me," she said and pulled him behind her.  "Pops, cover our rear."


    "On it," Papa sighed, bringing up the rear with his SMG.


    She exchanged position with Lemaire, putting him in front of them.  "First, you will stand your men down.  Second, you''re going to call Lockheart out.  And if no one listens to you, then you die first."


    "Jesus, let''s talk this over --"  His attempt to negotiate ended abruptly with a smack to the back of his head.


    "Walk, Mr. Big Shot." She coughed, fighting the coming sickness, her face brown-gray, her skin losing its elasticity and shine.  Visibly, she was deteriorating the fastest of the lot.  Papa was also sick, but he was handling it better than her.  So did Warchild.  The puzzle was Rotter, chippered as ever, sanguine, and not a single visible legion.


    They rounded the spiral stairs while Lemaire called below, "I''m coming down.  Hold your fire."


    The corridors had fresh holes and burn marks, precious Amazonian mahogany placard splintered and destroyed.  Cordite was heavy but the air filtering system was drawing the smoke out just as fast.


    Alex pulled the Regent back before he stepped into the crossfire.


    "You alright, sir?"  A voice Alex didn''t recognize shouted from behind cover.


    "Disarm now, your Regent is speaking," Lemaire said with authority.


    "But sir."


    "Obey me, dammit!  These people don''t mean us harm."


    "Sure about that?" Alex breathed in his ear.


    "You want Lockheart, don''t you?  You go once you have him, yes?"


    "That''s the plan."


    "Eight minutes," Papa reminded her from behind.


    Gulf-Con security men began to lay down their weapons and stepped back.


    At the end of the corridor toward the bow, Warchild and Rotter emerged behind the bridge entrance.  They had the bridge second in command as a hostage.


    "Fine mess you made.  What the hell happened?" Papa demanded.


    "Silent alarm got tripped by one of these jerk offs," Warchild said, shoving the duty officer forward.  "Then they came out of the woodwork and cornered us in there."


    "But we disabled their comms," Rotter said with glee.  "No outside interference for sure."


    "Good, cause we have less than eight minutes to find Lockheart," Alex said.


    "Slow down," Warchild said, grabbing her wrist.  "You''re not thinking right."


    "Never been clearer."  She jerked her arm back and growled at Lemaire.  "Take me to Lockheart now!"


    The Gulf-Con Regent gawked at her with a new fear, knowing there was no rational sense he could bargain with.  There was only blind fury.


    "He''s in the Guest Rooms below this floor," Lemaire responded, then twisted to face her.  "Wait, you got to know -- he has four men with him."


    "Then you better pray he doesn''t start shooting.  Move it!"


    The four Cerberus took their two hostages and descended to the Guest galley.


    "They''re in there," Lemaire said, pointing at a section of the compartment shaped like a U with doors along the wall.  Several cabins were wide open.  Rotter searched a chamber, Warchild another.  They returned with vapid looks on their faces.


    "They split," Warchild said.


    "Topside now!" Alex pushed through Lemaire and ran up the nearest stairwell aft.


    "Wait," Papa cried out.


    "She''s flipped," Rotter said.


    "That wacko bitch is out of control," Warchild mumbled, shaking his head.  "We need the chip to survive, dammit."


    Papa ran after her.  "Come on, you bastards."

 Book 1 - Chapter 53

    Alex spanned four steps with one leap and emerged aft of the main deck lounge.  Ahead of her, she could see four men around the Sikorsky.  They were removing the tethers for escape.


    Mad with rage and combat hormones, she shouted at the top of her voice, "Lockheart!"


    The men didn''t stop what they were doing, except one.  He stood and returned her stare.


    "Lockheart!"


    She dropped her SMG by her side, one hand found and depressed the bicep actuator.  Warm liquid dripped from her fingers.  A chilling shock coursed through her spine as a voltage aligned the molecules of the liquid into hardened polymers.


    Lockheart saw the blades from his distance and tapped one of his men on the shoulder while the others continued working to release the gyrodyne.  Lockheart''s bodyguard stepped forward, producing a pistol from his jacket.  Walking toward her, he fired off repeated rounds, one striking Alex on the shoulder.  The shot may have jerked her torso back but she didn''t flinch, combat steroids couching her pain.


    Instead, she sprinted toward them, uncaring of the rounds slicing through the air inches from her torso and head.  Then she did a thing only a Cerberus could do.  Alex leaped high in the air as if she were in lunar gravity.  Her feet could have stood on a regulation basketball hoop.  For an instant, the shooter watched in shocked amazement, his eyes bulbous, forgetting why he was there.


    She didn''t.  She stuck her landing, rolled and plunged all ten talons into his abdomen.  The man heaved and pitched forward, groaning his death knell.


    She tossed him aside.  And faced Lockheart.


    The Sandman didn''t cower as she''d hoped.


    "A Cerberus at last," Lockheart said, impressed yet unflinching.  "You must be the famous Alexis Marlboro, hard to kill."


    "You killed my lover," Alex said calmly, her plunging wet eyes locked onto his.  Her teeth gnashed and grind.  "Fed her to acid."  She panted, moving closer.  "I will tear you apart."


    Knowing it was futile to escape, his men had stopped working on the heli and had produced their guns.  But no one fired.


    "Drop your weapons," Papa''s voice bellowed from behind Alex.  He, Rotter, and Warchild came out of the club lounge compartment at the same time, their SMGs facing down Lockheart''s group.  Lockheart''s men did as ordered.


    Cornered and alone, Lockheart retreated a few paces.  "I have the Program.  I have Carnivora.  Kill me and you will all die."Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.


    "Take it to hell."  She gave him an infernal grin for someone with nothing to lose.  Her arms lifted, clawed hands poised toward Lockheart.


    Just then, something from behind her, something large and heavy, tackled her.  She crashed to the ground with this mass atop her back.  In a split second, she realized it was Warchild.


    Warchild -- you motherfu --.


    She struggled but he pinned her and splayed her arms to keep her lethal claws at bay.  He groped her left arm and found the button beneath her skin.  As his fingers depressed the mechanical trigger, her claws dematerialized into liquid, spilling onto the wooden deck.


    She screamed murder at him.  But he wasn''t alone.  Worse, Papa and Rotter stood by letting this happened.  Traitors!


    "I can''t let you kill him," Warchild said as if his explanation would soothe her rage.  "He''s got the ace and we need it."


    "Fuck you!"


    "Calm the hell down."


    "I''ll calm when he dies.  Let me have him!"


    "I''m glad someone''s sensible," Lockheart said while looking down at her, an amused grin on his face.


    "You shut up," Papa snapped, training his submachine gun on him.  "I wouldn''t mind killing you myself . . . But you''re gonna give up the chip."


    Lockheart glanced at a subdued Alex.


    "A trade then.  Your life for Carnivora," Papa said.  "You can get in that boat and disappear to wherever you crawled out from."


    "Do as he says," Warchild groaned, holding Alex still.


    "Not on your life," Lockheart said.  "I came here to make a deal with Gulf-Con and that''s what I''m going to do."


    "Then we all die."


    "Get off me, asshole," Alex hissed, the bullet wound in her shoulder squeezed and bled.


    At that moment, the earbuds of every Cerberus buzzed.


    "Cactus One-Five on approach for pickup."


    Zero time.


    "Problem solved," Rotter said while covering Lockheart''s men.  "We take him with us and sort it out later."


    "Sort what?  You think I carry it with me?"


    "Absolutely," Papa sneered.  "You were scurrying out of here like a rat with cheese."


    Lockheart laughed.  "You think the drive is on this ship?  You are denser than I give you credit for."


    Papa looked at Rotter, a duped expression on his face.  Warchild craned his neck at them both, confused.  One thing for sure, even without the ace, Lockheart had the winning hand.


    A second squawk sounded, "Straydog, One-Five, be advised we have a bogey vectoring your way --"


    The link went dead.


    "Say again One-Five," Papa cued the radio but only static returned.  He looked skyward into the black sky and saw nothing.  Then they heard a low whine, distinct enough over the moderate blow.  Alex and those of Cerberus knew the familiar sound, something they had heard before, had even ridden in one -- a stealth dropship.


    A search beam from above, brighter than the sun, hammered their vision.  And from the black sky, an armored assault squad crashed onto the deck along the aft section, a dozen, maybe more.  Half the force went to take the ship''s interior, the other half secured the helipad and everyone on it.


    Beams of fork lightning struck several of Lockheart''s men.  They fell in violent spasms until they were exhausted and became still.  One charge hit Lockheart in the chest and he keeled over in a fit of seizures.  They were hit by military tasers, more robust than the commercial kinds, designed to achieve immediate neuromuscular incapacitation.


    Papa glanced back at Rotter.  A thought passed between them, Alex saw.  Before she could say a word, a charge hit Warchild on his back, putting him and Alex into tremulous convulsions.  Before blacking out, Alex saw them sprinting toward the port side of the ship to swan dive three stories into the black water.

 Book 1 - Chapter 54

    Harry came to visit Porsche at the general hospital within Midland influenced territory, the section of her room sealed off and under guard.  One hand holding a vase of flowers, he opened the door trying not to make a sound.  The room was spacious with only one bed.  Single bedrooms were reserved for Affiliate patrons.  She was in bed, hooked up to dialysis machines and micro-filters.


    Awake, she grimaced with a mix of pain and distaste when she saw him.


    "No, don''t get up," he joked, putting down the carnations beside her bed.


    "Cruel man, you did this to me."


    "You look like an old woman."


    "I lost nearly four quarts of blood, they told me."


    "You''ll bounce back in no time, all youthful and glowing."


    "Flowers?"  She eyed him, knowing him too well.  "You must want something, Uncle."


    "Am I so predictable?"  He chuckled.  "That could be dangerous."


    "A leopard doesn''t change its stripe, or is it a tiger?"


    "I don''t plan to be extinct."


    "Well, what do you want?" she asked, trying to get comfortable.  Every movement made her jerk.


    "I need your magic."


    "Look at me, I''m through," Porsche said, turning her head away.


    "I know it''s tough --"


    "I''m broken up inside," she snapped.  "And I''m spent, didn''t think I ever could be."  She faced him coldly.


    "What''s eating you?"


    "You''re diseased . . . and so am I."  She sneered.  "Our pasts are catching up with us.  Mine certainly did."


    "Lockheart''s lives have run out.  The feds got him."  Harry beamed.


    "He visited me, did you know that?"


    Harry shook his head, sensing a sadness underneath what she said.


    "He didn''t send Harpy after me.  It was all her."


    "What are you telling me?"


    "She loved him.  She wanted to protect him, so she sacrificed herself."


    "Would you rather die instead?"


    "Don''t be stupid," Porsche hissed.  Harry waited, teasing it out.  She said, "I''m tired of hating.  Of killing.  I lost count the number I wasted through the years."


    "This is not the right time for a conscience."


    "Even Marlboro has more integrity and conviction in her fingernails than you and me combined."  Tears fell from Porsche.  "She loved someone, had someone return that love."


    "And she lost her in the worst way.  Do you want that?"


    "I realized nearing death that I love nothing and no one.  I know how to seduce and use people because I was trained to do so.  Now I face my reality ¨C  I am a monster.  And you¡¯re corruption."  She sneered with a hurtful chuckle.  "We make a slimy pair of parasites, don''t we Uncle, prostrating ourselves to shitty people.  We have no integrity or honor . . . I''m disgusting."  She pinched an amount of loose skin and let go.  It hung flaccid as if she were wearing a bodysuit two sizes larger.  "And this filth can''t be washed."


    "You''re too hard on yourself," Harry said.


    She stiffened.  "There''s a trail of death and destruction following you from the years we spent fashioning mayhem.  Haven''t you had enough?"The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    "But we''re still standing.  Because we''re good at what we do."


    "No, Uncle.  Good people are wasted, the best I''ve seen.  The Cerberus group -- they''d die for each other without a second thought.  Would you?  Could you?"


    "You look up to them."


    Porsche turned away.  "Better human beings than we''d ever be.  Now they''re gone."


    "Not all -- your hero''s in trouble."


    Her eyes crestfallen, Porsche looked at her old mentor with pity, for both of them.  "To the last, I will stab at thee . . . For hate''s sake -- "


    "Don''t be melodramatic," he said with a pinched expression.  "While you were laid out, we found three Cerberus survivors.  They''re safe.  But your amazonian heroine took it upon herself to go after Lockheart."


    "Not without your coaxing and prodding, Mephistopheles."


    "I had nothing to do with it.  I even advised her against it."


    "And now, they''re caught by the feds.  Then your game''s over.  Don''t be a sore loser, Uncle.  Let it go."


    "Well, not all were caught.  Two escaped.  We picked them up after a few hours floating in the Gulf.  As for Marlboro and Lockheart, they''ve --"


    "It''s not going to happen," Porsche beat him to the punch.


    "Look girl --"


    "I''ve given you everything, even my black soul to play with.  I''m done, Uncle.  So please, have mercy," she said with finality.  "And let me go."


    DeWitt gave her a severe glare.  He reached out and lifted her chin so their eyes met.  "Don''t do anything foolish, Porsche.  We know too much, have done too much.  We''ve met the devil together, and we''ve seen heaven, haven''t we?  And we know they''re one and the same."


    "So you''ve said before."


    "I need you."  He changed tack.  "You admire her, well, she needs you."


    "Don''t bullshit me.  You used her to get to Lockheart for the biotech program," Porsche shouted and realized her voice bounced off the walls.


    "I did.  I saw the opportunity and took it."


    "Hallelujah, truth at last.  Save me the sermon and your warped morality, Uncle.  I''m out."


    Harry shook his head as a father would.  "You''ve always been my favorite student."  He gazed deeply into her as he gave her a sharp tug on her wrist.  "You were a bedrock of loyalty from the day I took you in.  There was no one more steadfast in her resolve than you."


    "That person''s gone."


    The patience on his face vanished, replaced by a sharp angry mask.  "You think I''ll let you go?  There is no leaving.  Once you''re in, you''re in for life, Victoria Ivashko."  He called her by her true name, one she hadn''t heard in years and it shook her.


    "So, this is blackmail?"


    "It''s a warning," Harry said.  "I''d hate to see something happen to you.  Our enemies are out there, and they know we''re alive and kicking."


    "I can best anything -- or anyone you, or they send against me."  She snarled between clenched teeth.


    "No doubt, but for how long?  Next time, you''ll face someone better than Harpy.  You''d have to look over your shoulder for the rest of your life.  A terrible thing to live in fear."


    "Bastard."  She lunged for him and fell back, exhausted, breathing hard.


    "Or you could pick yourself up, and come back to me," Harry said with a paternal smile, his tone now warm and soothing.  "Things will be different -- I promise -- autonomy, transparency.  You can decide on future assignments according to how you see fit.  And more glitter and bling to your heart''s content."


    "I have enough stashed away for a comfortable life."


    "But an empty one, so you said.  To know love begins with helping people . . . You know I''m right."


    "Khuligan."  She looked away.  He smirked, knowing the insulting word -- molester.


    Harry stayed quiet, not daring to interrupt the closing moment.


    "You give me a clean exit when I want it.  No future harassment," she countered after a pause.


    "I might consider it."


    "You leave me be when I say so, that''s my condition."


    "I recruited you, took you out of the filth you were in, saved you from a Cossack rape camp and Spetsnaz kill team.  Where''s your gratitude?"


    "I''ve paid my debt to you ten times over."


    "You''re short still," Harry said.


    "Fuck do you want from me?"


    "Go in.  Find Marlboro and retrieve Carnivora.  And at this second, all the pieces are in the same location -- Lockheart included.  You could finish the job you started years ago."


    "Go in, how?  My body''s wasted."


    "This is the moment I''m vulnerable.  Ask and you shall receive -- anything."


    "New body, with T&A that would slay a virgin.  Do that and I might consider it."


    "Requisition''s been sent through, parts grown from your DNA as we speak.  Anything else?"


    "I''ll think of something, don''t you worry."


    Harry smiled, leaned in and kissed her on the forehead.  She twisted away from him.  Harry made his way to the door, while at the same time, three men out in the hallway followed him out.  They were his security detail.


    Alone, she couldn''t shake the dread her teacher had instilled.  Harry DeWitt was an unrelenting coach, testing her, pushing her.  How naive to think she could leave.  Dyadya wouldn''t think twice about throwing her to the wolves -- if she tried leaving.  Porsche had always been a realist since she was a child.  To escape her conditions then, she had to abide her time for the right opportunity.  Right now he had her, and she knew it.  The Puppeteer was usually three steps ahead of everyone in planning.


    She thumbed the morphine button to ease her pain as the nausea returned with a vengeance.  This body was hopeless.  Even if she managed to recover, it would never be the same.  And forty years from now, she would get the dreaded diagnosis of some fourth stage cancer.  Dump it.  Uncle promised her a new body, grown and matured -- after all this.  She''d keep her face though, at least the profile.  Maybe change sex?  Nah, she liked being female -- and being underestimated.  She wondered how long before she could get accustomed to the new nervous system, the tactile sensitivity, the motor coordination, a slew of things she never had considered before.  This was one of those operations no one acknowledged to exist, accessible only by the uber-rich.


    Kristos.

 Book 1 - Chapter 55

    A conversation among three men and one woman transpired within Harry''s Chicago office, one of many he used, depending on where he was.  Men like him were never tied to a central desk when their playground was the world.  Porsche was present, heavily medicated and held together by a compression bodysuit under clothing.  Still, she moved stiffly as if her joints were abraded in sand.  The others were Papa and Rotter, rescued, dried out and were more than eager to get back into the fight.  Papa''s condition, however, was degenerating quicker than expected, while Rotter seemed remarkably fine.  And listening over them was the old crow who pecked with machinations.


    "That''s just it, we can''t penetrate their security perimeters," Papa said.  "We need a hacker to scramble their security firewalls.  And I''m not sure it can be done.  Sophisticated stuff in there -- the building has mil-spec hardware -- intense EM baffles coming out of that place."


    "There''s no time to find digital lock pickers," Porsche said.


    "Then I don''t know how else to get into Oz," Papa snorted.  He stiffened suddenly, his muscles cramping.  He put out a hand to say he was okay.  "Oz is no joke.  It''s a super-max, the only one in DC where opponents of the PIP go.  It''s run by the Special Security Service."


    "Yeah, Balkan''s Praetorians," Rotter affirmed with vigorous nods.


    "We need a human back door," Porsche said abruptly.


    "That''s funny." Rotter sighed at Porsche with dreamy eyes and a perpetual smile.  Everything she said sounded wonderful.


    Papa snapped his fingers at Rotter''s face.  "You with us or what?"


    "Yeah, man," Rotter said, straightening his posture.  "I''m cool."


    Porsche affirmed, "This is the only way I know how to get into tight places.  I need access codes and an insider to open doors and walk me through.  I''ll take care of the rest."


    "I''ll see what I can do," Harry said.


    "If she''s going alone," Rotter said protectively.  "Then I''m going in too."


    Papa rolled his eyes.


    Harry shook his head.  "They know your face, kid.  Besides, she knows what she''s doing."  He returned to Porsche.  "You''ll have Oz''s security access codes, I''ll make sure of that."


    "How?" Papa was surprised and impressed.


    "That''s my business, Mr. Murphy."


    "Fine," Porsche said coolly.  "You get them asap.  Also, I''m going to need a morphing agent.  Something mild, not so caustic, just to make me pass for a different race temporarily."


    Harry shook his head, not liking the idea.  "It''s going to be murder on your body.  The cordite resin is toxic as you know -- it will discolor you.  You''ll be sick, my dear."


    "We have an agreement."  She narrowed her eyes at Harry.  "I''ll recoup in the Cote Azure after all this is over with a new bod," Porsche said with a wink to Rotter who melted with a longing sigh.  "And lots of zeros in my account to bear the pain easier."


    "You''ve used this morphing agent before?" Papa asked.


    "Only because I had to.  Changes you from within and scars your inside," Porsche explained.  "Not a pleasant trip."


    "I''ve never seen it done before.  How long before it takes effect?"


    "Two, maybe three hours of delicious pain, if you''re into that sort of thing."


    "And how long does it last?" Papa asked.If you come across this story on Amazon, it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it.


    "Long enough," Harry said.


    "I want the counter-agent with me, just in case,"  Porsche said.  "Now for the insider."


    "That''s the easy part.  We have people on the payroll."


    "Okay, assuming you could get me the access codes and keys, where am I meeting your guard?"


    "I have a plan in mind."


    She eyed Harry warily.


    "Relax, he''ll find you," Harry said with surety.


    "Once in, what''s your priority?" Papa asked.


    "Free Marlboro," she said and gave Harry a harsh glance, "and hope to question Lockheart about the whereabouts of the drive."


    "Will you kill Lockheart?"  Papa pressed.


    "I don''t know."  She shrugged it off, not wanting to dwell on it.


    "So then I will leave Porsche to your care," Harry said to Papa.  "You ferry her there and you make sure she returns to me in one piece.  Clear?"


    "Copy that," Papa replied.  "Least I can do."


    "For sure, we''ll see to it.  Nothing bad''s gonna happen." Rotter beamed from a carmine wash of his cheeks.


    "And how''s your condition?"  Harry asked gingerly.  "Forgive me I didn''t inquire about it ''til now."


    "I can do the trip and back, by then Bonnie will have delivered," Papa said, a little sad.


    "Sorry," Harry said.


    "It''s our fourth, she''ll understand."


    "And the pain?"


    "They''re controllable.  For how long, I don''t know."


    "How bout you?" Harry asked Rotter.


    "This kid feels great," Rotter said, puffing up his chest, aware Porsche was watching him.  "Ever since I got shanked in the Black Irish."


    Harry gave Rotter an odd look.


    "Great?  I didn''t expect that."


    "Yeah, no joke.  Never felt better in my life."


    "We''re going to have to give you a full medical workup when we get back."


    "Sure thing."


    "Okay, how do we get back east?" Papa said.  "I don''t suppose we''re using terrestrial modes, yes?"


    "A V-jet is waiting nearby, hangar 53B.  It''s fueled and prepped.  But no one moves an inch until I secure the access keys."


    "Smart," Porsche answered for all of them.


    * * *


    "Christmas is only a few days away.  You have something or have I wasted a trip?" Harry said, sitting in her apartment without lights.


    "Jesus Christ, you can''t be in my apartment.  There are networked cameras."


    "Relax, they''ve been switched off," Harry said, crossing his legs.  "The building manager guarantees we have ten minutes.  So let''s get on with it."


    "This will be my swan song."  Lisbeth handed him a black drive the size of a plump date.  "Conversation between Balkan and Chairmark Drexel.  Even the President doesn''t know."


    "It would upset him, I imagine."


    "Give it to your pals, go public, burn it, I don''t care.  Now, will you just leave?"


    "Is it safe?  I don''t want Balkan''s Praetorians kicking down my door once I turn it on."


    "It''s encrypted.  But the data is safe to handle."


    Harry looked at the drive with great interest, his eyes vacillated between her and it.


    "If you''re so determined to bring him down, why not go public as we suggested?  Expose Balkan for what he is.  Bring him out into the light, for his wrongs.  Regent Augustine is looking for --"


    "You think that''s easy?  Do we ask him to confess his long list of trespasses?  He''s Tsar Protector for the continent, for God''s sake.  He''s got the military and those Praetorians behind him.  You could remove the President easier than you could unseat Balkan, now that he''s been offered the Oval Office.  Besides, what venue would you suggest I follow?  The PIP controls the Executive and all the cabinet posts.  They own Justice.  So do I go on TV?"  She scoffed.  "What protection do I have they can''t circumvent?"


    "You''re a public official."


    Lisbeth blew air between her lips.  "That used to mean something, not so much these days.  I''ll be deader than a snail crawling on a stretch of salt."


    "Yet you give me this toxic thing."  Harry clasped it in his palm.  "Isn''t that contradictory?"


    "Doesn''t matter anymore."


    "They''ll know where this came from eventually."


    "Like I said, this is my parting shot."


    "Maybe you should go away.  Don''t pack, don''t tell anyone.  Just go."


    "A wonderful idea, isn''t it?"  Lisbeth smirked.  "And how would I live, in the woods?  They''ll turn off my Atlas, then where would I be?"


    "We can help with asylum."


    "Great, and transfer my debts to another fief lord.  I''m an Unaffiliate for a reason."


    "Ms. Hunt, you can either sit back and wait for your arrest, or you can go on the offensive."


    "No thanks, I''ll stay put and roll the dice," she said with a ferocity that emanated from some deep dark well.  "They will know who hurt them.  I won''t run."


    "Pity for such a brave soul."  Harry prepared to leave.  "You have something else for me?  The security pass to Oz?"


    Lisbeth produced a clear card from her coat pocket and handed it to him.  It had a red V on the front.  "This is the best I could get in such a short time.  Visitor badge only accesses non-critical areas.  But it will get you inside . . ."


    Harry pocketed the key.


    "Dream darkly, and it may come true," she remarked offhand, deep in some thought.  "I heard they''re doing a number on those caught on the Lady Celeste.  You better hurry."


    Harry glanced at her, eyes narrowed.  "Come with me.  You have nothing else here.  Don''t sacrifice yourself whee you don''t have to."


    "Please go.  I''d like to be alone."


    Harry offered his hand.


    Lisbeth walked past him without shaking it.


    "Take care of yourself," he said and left by the front door.

 Book 1 - Chapter 56

    The city of Reston had undergone drastic changes. Once a city proper in itself, the corridor of I-267 along the old Dulles Toll Road now fed directly into a gaping tunnel, disappearing under an imposing range of glass and steel towers crowned with huge parabolic dish antennas. Reston, hyphenated Oz after Secretary Frank Oz, a former Viceroy of TexPax who had first proposed its assumption under Eminent Domain, had taken on a central role in the business of Continental Security. Oz-Reston was headquarters to the Black Praetorians.


    Ever since its ascendancy, Balkan''s Special Security Service had been given a fortress city as its home, where relay stations and Cray supercomputers could pore tirelessly over gibberish data without concern. National Security often meant PIP Security. Cracking the communications codes of foreign governments and those of competing paramountcies were different only by degrees. Both mandates funneled intercepted signals to the substations and disseminated them in bulk from the same stream. No wonder then that Oz-Reston became a gravity well, pulling in friends and foes alike.


    Within the high-security core that was inaccessible to the public, a black-mirrored building sat over where its town center once had. The trapezoidal structure resembled a monolithic ziggurat, a place of power for the cult of secrecy . . . and pain. It was also the new supermax Federal Detention Center.


    A row of gleaming dragon''s teeth, vehicular barriers, blocked the main electronic gate. A courtyard lay between the perimeter and the dominating building of One Justice Way. Though it was late, the structure beyond was lit up, every office and floor bright and active.


    There was a doorway behind the post for personnel entry, so you didn''t need to activate the entire barricade. Late at night, a woman dressed in a frumpy housecoat walked up to the guardhouse.


    As she approached, a sentry stepped out of the box, one hand on his side holster.


    "Ma''am, can I help you?"


    "I''m the new RN," the woman said, looking timid. "I''m to report to the infirmary for the night shift. It''s my first day." She handed him her clear badge.


    "You''re at the wrong entrance."


    "I am?"


    "Would you give me your arm, please."


    She did as he''d asked. The security guard ran a DHS scanner down her forearm. He didn''t notice a fresh scar under skin paint.


    He radioed inside. "Control, Checkpoint Alpha -- I got a walk-in, her name is Maria Dominguez -- "


    "Senora Dominguez," the woman corrected him though she didn''t look a matron.


    "Mrs. Dominguez . . . Yeah, she''s been cleared by Homeland. Green-certified. No arrest warrant of any kind . . . Okay." He nodded at Maria. "Wait here, ma''am, someone will come to get you."


    A few minutes later, a guard emerged from inside to escort the new nurse past the security perimeter.


    The seal of the Special Security Service, etched in marble on the lobby floor, greeted everyone who entered the main atrium through the two rotating circular doors. Written in a dead language to awe the easily impressed, the designers had chosen a famous Spartan motto to represent the spirit of its charter: Aut cum scuto aut in scuto -- either with shield or on shield. The phrase exalted duty above self-interest.Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.


    Security cameras zoomed in on Mrs. Dominguez as she walked through the lobby. She set aside her phone and personals and went through detector arches. Other than the Atlas chip, it found no sizable metal or explosives on or in her.


    A female guard led her downstairs to the infirmary. Before that, Mrs. Dominguez made several detours of her own, wandering onto the open floor to face the wall of pictures before the escort set her back on course.


    "Stay with me, ma''am."


    "Very important people," she said to the escort by her side. "They are your boss?"


    "They''re photos of past officials who once held office. It''s late, ma''am."


    "You don''t go home? You don''t have boyfriend?"


    "This is our home," the guard replied sadly.


    They reached a long hallway with blue doors set every ten yards, each with a light above. If lit up, it meant the room was occupied, and not to be interrupted.


    The escort led Mrs. Dominguez through a door stenciled with a gold C.


    "Please wait here, a screener will be with you in a minute."


    "Gracias."


    The door shut. She heard a click, locked from the outside.


    Mrs. Dominguez looked around the room. Small, no mirror. But there was a camera at the corner of the ceiling on the opposite wall. A red light on the housing told her it was live; she was being watched and the scanner was done through more than just white light. It painted a heat map of her face and measured stress in her voice. It could tell if her perspiration came from being nervous or if she were lying.


    She didn''t have to wait long.


    The door opened as a male guard entered.


    "I''m Officer Myers. I will be conducting your interview. Please sit."


    Mrs. Dominguez chose a seat adjacent to him. Between them was a small rectangular table that had seen a good amount of use from the dents and scratches on its metallic surface.


    "Are you comfortable, ma''am?"


    Dominguez nodded, anxious to get it over with, stealing glances of the camera.


    The interviewer brought out his PAD to log his observations and notes.


    "You put me in record?"


    "It''s standard procedure," Myers said.


    Mrs. Dominguez accepted.


    The screener read from scanned data, "For the record, interview Charlie-780-Foxtrot is in session with Maria Dominguez, age 46, residing at 1951 Los Lobos Avenue, Zone 23, Maryland, hereby known as Personnel 5329-S. Case Officer, Drew Myers, that''s me. The subject has no local criminal record, no military record -- obviously." Myers twitched his neck at the absurd question. "And is not connected to any subversive organizations to our current knowledge." The information he read was taken from a prior swipe of Dominguez''s Atlas chip upon her admission through the front gate. "Date and Place of Birth, Juarez, Mexico, 2026. Naturalized North American, non-Affiliate status."


    "Why all that?"


    Myers looked up from the PAD. "This is just preliminary to give you clearance of the facility."


    "Tests? Everything was done with Homeland."


    "Well, they have their ways, we have ours. We canvass on reliability, patriotism, reputation, you understand. This is a full-time placement in Oz?"


    Mrs. Dominguez grinned in a sheepish manner. "Nightshift."


    "Then we have to do this, Mrs. Dominguez."


    "You can trust me."


    A few questions later, Officer Myers said, "See, all over," as if he had administered a painful injection. "No red flags, you''re A-Okay. If you''d follow me, I willtake you to your station."


    He closed the PAD and escorted the nurse out.


    Along the way to the elevator that would take them to the infirmary, Myers changed his tone, the professionalism replaced by a worried knowing. "You''re late. I expected you two hours ago. People are wondering why I''m still hanging around here and not be home."


    "It is what it is," Porsche said, looking at the descending numbers overhead. "There are moving parts I can''t change."


    "Alright, your class B clearance is in the system. Your pass can get you into most places. My job is done. Good luck."


    "No," Porsche said abruptly. "You''re going to take me to where they are."


    "I didn''t agree to this."


    "Not until then." She glared at him.


    "You''re going to get me cooked, dammit," Myers hissed, wiping the sweat from his forehead.

 Book 1 - Chapter 57

    Signs to the infirmary linen locker were painted on the wall, so navigating through the maze of corridors took no time or effort.


    The morphing agent she had taken, had altered Porsche''s appearance, making her more plump and fleshy, hence she wore a compression skinsuit beneath to keep her pulp together.  Her skin tone also changed to a browner shade and her bond hair quick-dyed to black.


    Porsche rummaged through what nurse uniform was available in the dirty bin.  She found one, stained and smelly, worn by a petite five-foot pygmy.


    She unzipped the nurse uniform, stepped in, and slunk with effort.  She cursed as it caught her hip.  Carefully, she hiked up one corner at a time, trying not to tear the seams.  She felt ridiculous and over the top in the super-tight getup, sending out the wrong message.  To the wrong audience.


    Officer Myers waited in the outer room and shook his head when he saw her.


    "There''s nothing else," Porsche said.   It''s going to have to do.


    Trying to look like a dutiful nurse, she slipped out into the corridor with Myers and glimpsed at once the two cameras locking onto her -- one in front, one behind.   Porsche picked up a hand terminal and walked with purpose.  With the skin-tight outfit, she couldn''t help but sashayed with an exaggerated flounce from each step.  Sex always made a great distraction.  The watchers would see the new nurse on duty, and elbow each other, and they would leave her be.  She hoped.


    In the daytime, the corridors would have been filled with prisoners moving about.  At night, the floor and corridors were devoid of guards.


    Officer Myers was on edge, eyes darting from Porsche, then to the doors.


    "Hurry," he said between clenched teeth.  "She''s down in D-Block.  We need to move now."


    "You need to calm down," Porsche hissed between her teeth.  "Act like you belong here."


    She followed a few steps behind him without a word, as a nurse would naturally follow an escort.


    Ahead, a door swished aside and a uniformed guard came out, startling her escort.


    "Drew boy, still here?  Your shift ended hours ago."


    "Hey Chuck," Officer Myers addressed the guard who took an obvious interest in Porsche and her tight clothes.


    "New nurse?" Chuck asked, looking her up and down.  "You are?"


    Porsche smiled and offered her hand.  "Dominguez."


    Myers quickly said, "Taking her to D-Block.  Got a sick con down there."Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.


    "Have fun," the latter replied, making a smirk at the overflowing nurse.


    The pair proceeded to the elevator.  As the door closed, she could hear him exhale with fright.


    "You''re doing good," she whispered to a nervous Myers.


    He led her down the hall to a set of steel doors, each with a one-way mirrored window.


    He waved at a camera over the door.  The door clanged open and retracted by motor.  They stepped through and waited for a second set of gates to open as the metal door behind them slammed shut and locked.  A buzzer went off; the motor struggled to raise the heavy barrier.  It cycled through with a teeth-rattling clang; the echoes filtering through the long corridors.


    A long linear hallway lit by tubular fluorescents met them.  The first thing Porsche noticed was the air -- the scent of ammonia insulted her nostrils, making her wince as if the air here carried pathogens.  Sounds seemed stunted -- echoes muffled, whispers murmured, coughs suffered.  It was graveyard-heavy.  Even the light was repugnant, yellow, and infectious.   And she noticed tiles covered all the surfaces -- walls, floor, ceiling.  Drainage grills lay every five yards; high-pressure hosing was routine here.  Porsche could only guess what sort of things needed hosing.  Here, everything was antiseptic, clean, and cruel.


    "Where the hell are we?"  She hissed.


    "Holding tanks, C-level."  Myers pointed to glass-walled chambers lining the left and right of the hallway.  Inside each cell were dozens of inmates jammed together.  Segregated by sex, some prisoners were sitting, others lying on the hard rubber floor with their heads pillowed on toilet rolls.  Mounted high on the wall, a flat-panel monitor was blasting a popular sitcom rerun, but no one was watching, its purpose more mob control than entertainment.


    Myers said, "Remember this -- you exit through the kitchen staff entrance on B.  Got it?"


    She nodded.


    "Then I''m done.  Right?"


    "You''re on our payroll, so shut up and do as you''re told."


    Officer Myers cursed to himself but acquiesced.


    The corridor sloped lower until they emerged into a short hallway where they faced an arresting set of gates.


    A lone custodian occupied the first chamber to the left.  He wore a white lab coat and hosed down a metal table that looked as if it belonged in a forensic lab.  The sweet odor of formaldehyde and old blood seeped from the room.


    Porsche put a hand over her mouth and trudged on.


    Ahead, a high-security area loomed.  She knew this because of the unmistakable sign ''Authorized Personnel Only'' and the hand scanners placed to the side of the metal blast door.


    From all indications, the room was a command box.


    "This is it," Myers said pointing at the black door with no number or lettering.  "That''s the Fishbowl, they call it.  And this is as far as I go.  You do what you gotta do, I''m out of here."  He fumbled from his belt a key chain holding a set of chrome tube keys.  "Here take this.  You''d need it to open the doors manually."


    "Wait, is it empty?"  She whispered.


    "That''s your problem," Myers said, scurrying away.


    She let him go this time.


    Audacity is the spice of life, she told herself.  If there were someone inside, she could talk her way out of it.  It was her first day, stumbling through this maze.  And a little shake of her assets here and there would do wonders.  The male psyche was shared by two heads, and the smaller one was L''Enfant Terrible.


    She inserted one tube and twisted.  Freon spilled out.  The room was kept chilled for all the tightly packed electronics.  And it was empty.  She stepped through into the control room.  To her right was a two-way mirror.


    Beyond the glass, she saw Marlboro tied to a chair, blindfolded and gagged with a ball.  Judging from the way she slumped, she was passed out.


    And she wasn''t alone.  Four men were fitting a second prisoner in the same manner.  The identity of the second prisoner was a mild shocker, though she expected he would be here too.


    Before she knew it, voices outside grew louder coming down the hallway.  Too late to backtrack.  Instincts told her to stay put.

 Book 1 - Chapter 58

    Alex jerked awake, but couldn''t see.  Blindfolded, she became aware of her situation: she was sitting upright in a chair, her forearms bound on the armrests.


    A metallic taste lingered in her mouth. Something soft and large filled her maw behind her teeth, not allowing her to speak.  She tongued its soft rubbery surface -- a ball-gag.


    She tried to fight against her restraints and winced.  The bullet wound in her shoulder reminded her of its sting.  Memories were in tatters.


    Ship.


    Lockheart.


    Warchild sitting on her.


    A drop ship -- an assault team . . . Papa and Rotter had betrayed her by siding with Warchild.  But they jumped clear, her faculty returning in translucent folds.  Yes, everyone else was zapped.  Taken.  She was a prisoner.


    Can''t be so long ago, a few hours, a day?  Her thoughts soon returned to the present -- she was tied up -- her bare feet touching a cold smooth floor.


    Alex calmed her mind and sent out sensory feelers.


    Focus.  She smelled five people, elevated testosterone, one with a fast heartbeat.


    Everything began to click in place.  She was in the lair of beasts.


    Then she heard, "She''s awake."


    Rough hands removed the blindfold.  A sucking sound escaped her mouth as the ball-gag plopped from her lips.


    Alex blinked and squinted in the new brightness, letting her eyes adjust to the odd surroundings.  They were in a square room, the floor and walls covered in white ceramic tiles.  Overhead, surgical lights hammered her eyes.  Tiles in a room such as this said much -- it was a bad place, a black site, and she was in its grip.  Mentally exhausted, flesh wounded, sickened with nausea and bone ache, she was dying, with or without their help.


    A man crouched on bent knees feet from her, studying her.  Behind him, she sensed there were more in the room.  Her olfactory picked up five distinct masculine pheromones in the room.  Along the long wall, there was a one-way silvery mirror -- more men behind there, she guessed.


    The squatter held in his hands a pair of pliers.  He had an unwholesome look about him while clipping his fingernails, each click jolting her nerves.  Click-clack-click-clack.  An odd appearance, one ear higher than the other, a crooked ridge that was his nose, he stared at her with cold crazy eyes.  He lay down his clippers and gestured at the water bottle.


    Alex nodded.  He put the nozzle to her lips.  She sucked on it like a hungry infant on a teat.


    "I''m John," he said gently, tilting the bottle for an easy pour.  "Your dossier said you''re something special, jacked-up to be some kind of killing machine.  Should I be impressed?"  The man got rough, gripping her chin with his finger and thumb.  "But all I see is a raggedy girl.  And you don''t look so hot.  Feverish?"  He touched her forehead.  "I got something to cool you off, soon enough."If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    After slaking her thirst, she managed, "No need for this.  Ask your questions.  I''ll answer."  The pledge was as inane as it was poignant.


    John shrugged.  "I''m so glad.  I''d make things go easier."


    "Get on with it," she said, resigned to her fate.


    "No rush, not until the right audience gets here."  John gave her a chilly grin.  "By then, I hope you''re both still thirsty."


    Both?


    As John the clipper moved away, she saw another prisoner who had been blocked from view, sitting opposite her.  Alex''s skin tingled; her ears burned.  Lockheart -- sat strapped in an identical dentist chair -- just out of reach.  And he was awake, grinning at her, his mouth free of a ball-gag.  How she had fantasized the moment she''d see him again, which medieval methods of execution was apt -- death by a thousand cuts, boiling water, or the iron maiden, twisted visions that had kept her going each night.  When she had him in her grasp on the Lady Celeste, Warchild had foiled her plan.  And where is Warchild?  She didn''t care because Camila''s killer was in front of her . . .


    A fire inflamed, lighting the rage in her belly.


    Feed it, feed the hate.  It will keep you alive -- long enough.


    But it wasn''t just her emotional resolve; she was burning hot inside, putting out so much heat her skin glistened with moisture.  She was running a high fever without the delirium.  The wound in her shoulder was throbbing deliciously inside a ring of carmine warmth.  Yes, the hemonanites were mending and rebuilding her damaged tissues, she realized with astonishment.  So, this was what it felt like to regenerate.


    She returned to the devil in front of her, his gaze unblinking.  The Sandman was calm, almost nonchalant.


    Yet, something didn¡¯t add up. Lockheart wasn¡¯t here by chance. They used him to shake her up obviously ¡ª how much did they know? And where was Warchild? He was knocked out like she was, last she remembered. Perhaps they¡¯d put him in a different room. Perhaps there were complications. Some tickers didn¡¯t react well to being shocked. But Warchild was a Cerberus. They could drop a piano on him and his heart would keep on ticking ¡ª that was the promise of Moreau.


    Yet, something was happening inside she couldn¡¯t explain. A warmth was spreading from her torso to her limbs ¡ª the yoke of pain she experienced these past days was lifting, replaced by euphoric energy and lightness not felt since the augmentation, the specter of death retreating. Then it hit her like a two-by-four beam ¡ª as long as her body underwent repairs, the damn meds weren¡¯t needed. Maybe they were placebos, to begin with. Did Moreau introduce T-Stoff and A-Stoff to keep Cerberus on the leash? Moreau had to know, she surmised ¡ª fucker hid the truth of regenesis from us.  She almost laughed out loud.  How ironic it had to be here that she learned the secret.


    "So, don''t you look stupid coming after me?" Lockheart taunted.


    "You don''t talk to me," she said, her voice a low growl.


    "Why not, these may be our last minutes together.  Balkan''s Praetorians don''t mess around, I should know.  I''ll tell you what''s going to happen -- they''ll set up some secret tribunal, give you fifteen minutes with a lawyer -- after that, a double-tap to the skull."


    "Better than acid."


    "Don''t be sore."  He chuckled.


    "If I weren''t in restrains, I''d tear you apart."


    "I don''t doubt it," Lockheart said.  "But you should know, it was never personal.  The word came down to disappear you all -- I figured acid," he shrugged in the restraint, "is a good clean way.  Most people have cranial implants and biowares, you know."


    "She was flesh and blood!"


    He paused first.  "Sorry about your girl.  She wasn''t part of the plan."


    "But you killed her anyway."  Alex jerked forward, lips puckered; she spat at him, her spittle falling short of the distance.  The attempt caused a tearing pain in her chest.


    "Eh''nt -- three-points declined.  I''d save my strength for what''s coming if I were you."


    "Without the meds, I''ll be dead soon enough," Alex bluffed, knowing the truth.  "But you, they''ll keep alive.  And I hope you suffer a thousand times what you caused."


    "Not going to happen," Lockheart scoffed, and turned his head to the mirrored wall.  He reminded those behind the glass.  "If I die, so does Carnivora.  Only I know where it is."


    "You''re wrong.  They can reverse engineer the shit out of my cells, Musk-out on my corpse anytime they want.  I am Carnivora."  She grit her teeth.  "In a way, I''ll be the cause of your death and that''s alright."


    "Wanna bet?"

 Book 1 - Chapter 59

    Words reached the Secretary''s ears in a matter of minutes: the prisoners had arrived and had been placed in lockup.


    His Praetorians had done wonders.  They had nabbed not only the renegade Lockheart but two of the Cerberus operatives as a bonus.  The other two had escaped overboard.


    The elation was short-lived.  Balkan twitched nervously, sweat beading his scalp, his heart galloping all day.  He couldn''t shake a nagging foreboding that at the moment of triumph ¡ª he was about to fall.  The powers could still turn him into a scapegoat.


    The ominous feeling, like the Ides of March, continued to needle his brain.


    No telling how the White House would react if this sideshow was discovered.  Have him arrested?  Dallas-Austin had assured his protection, but that was no guarantee.  The PIP would cut him loose just as they did with the incumbent, and twice as fast.  Balkan was desperate to bury Carnivora, Cerberus, and Caracas, all the cancers that were plaguing him -- before Conclave.  He was so close now, the last hurdle before his nomination by the PIP.  In six months, none of this would matter with him installed in the new Oval Office.  President Balkan -- it rang right.


    Lisbeth was right all along: he who has the spears makes the rules.  With his Praetorians, he would take back Executive power from Dallas-Austin and be as powerful as any Chairmark.  The plans were coming to fruition, the dreams tickling his belly.  But I have promises to keep . . . The White House has spies in the Bureau as well as in Oz, don''t kid yourself.  So the faster this is over, the faster I can sleep.


    Balkan summoned a dozen of his Praetorians and set about for Oz.


    It was nearing 10 PM and the correctional facility was in nightly lock-down.  Most of the day personnel had gone home.  The guards'' night shift was a skeleton crew and General Population was in their cells.  Balkan hoped his entry wouldn''t raise any alarm, and if it did, his men would take care of that.


    The trip to Oz-Reston took a little less than five minutes by air, which was too long for an anxious Balkan, his fingers tapping with nervous energy.The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    Upon landing onto the rooftop of the block-long building dotted with red blinkers and dish antennas, he led the way to the elevator, trailed by his bodyguards.


    They stepped into an Otis lift and pressed G.


    The chief administrator, a sort of warden rushed from his office to meet the Secretary.


    "We''ve held questioning until you''ve arrived," the warden reported, keeping up the quick gait astride Balkan.


    "Good," the Secretary said.  "You have them in a secure area?"


    "They''re in the isolation wing."


    "No prisoner manifest, I hope?"


    "The admission was off the books, sir."


    "Let''s see them, then."


    The warden snapped his fingers at the attending guards.


    The pace of the entourage was snappy, moving along the subterranean Correctional Facility via an underground conveyor walkway.


    Coming into the first security stratum through the jail lobby, the group took a second elevator down to B1, then B2.  It stopped at B3.  The warden placed his palm against a biometric wall scanner.  A green horizontal light rose from the panel, engulfing his thick fingers; the distinct swirl patterns verified against security records logged in a clearance database.


    ID confirmed, the lift freed itself and continued to the underworld.


    "We''re now in the facility''s heart, sir," the prison official explained as he led the entourage onto a wide catwalk thirty feet above the hard floor.  "Down there is General Population."


    Below them was a courtyard furnished with bolt-in aluminum tables and metal seats.  Rows of multi-unit cells stood against the back walls, their doors closed, prisoners secured in their cells.


    Two guards with tasers came out of the over-watch fishbowl to meet them: Tweedledee and Tweedledum, bald and portly security men in black police uniforms with DOC patches sewn onto their left breasts.


    "Send them away," Balkan instructed the warden.


    The prison administrator intercepted them.  "Officers, turn in your badges and go home.  No questions.  You will have full credit of hours worked."


    The guards complied.


    Another elevator took the group lower until they emerged into a short hallway where they faced an arresting set of gates.  Beyond that, the wet room.


    The Praetorians ushered Balkan into a dark room filled with electronics.  And through the long silver-glass mirror, he saw a connecting room with two people strapped into dentist chairs.  The man he recognized with dripping malice, the woman with indifference.


    "Appreciate the assist," Balkan said to a man sitting in a corner shrouded in shadow who hadn''t gotten up when the VIP appeared.  "Couldn''t have done it without you."


    The shadow said, "We have a bargain, I expect you to honor."


    "That depends on the results," Balkan said, then to the inquisitors waiting.  "Let''s get this madness over with."

 Book 1 - Chapter 60

    "Sir."  A voice came from the doorway.


    "What?"  A man known only as ''John'' said, twisting his neck around.


    "The Secretary is here."


    "Okay, batter up!  You''re first in line, mister," John said, pointing at Lockheart.  "Watch closely, Marlboro, you''re next."


    Alex observed with a mixture of satisfaction and regret.  She''d prefer handling it her way, though, at this point, Alex didn''t know who would enjoy Lockheart''s session more, she or John the Inquisitor.


    John circled the chair like a shark circling a wounded fish.  Lockheart followed him with calm eyes.  Alex did the same, careful not to blink and miss the show.


    The facility was topnotch, ideal for water sports.  John went through the preamble, detailing the amenities: nice clean tiles with proper drainage grills, twenty-gallon water drums, and towels.  The lead interviewer spared no detail, explaining to Lockheart what was coming.


    "1200 gram Egyptian cotton holds water best.  The thicker the towel, the less water passing over the mouth, the better the effect.  Does this make you nervous?"


    Lockheart gave him a puckered air kiss.


    "Tough hombre.  Don''t worry, no one lasts more than two minutes."


    "Arabs could," Lockheart quipped.  "I once dunked this Wahhabi sand jockey for half an hour in one sitting.  I went through five-forty gallons.  They''re like camels, they can suck up water like nothing."


    "How long did he last?" John played along, grinning.


    "Thing is, camels don''t drown -- they grow a third hump."


    John guffawed and slapped his thigh.  "I got to remember that."  His smile disappeared.  "Let''s get started.  Why don''t we try something simple?  You''re up for it?"


    "Good night, sleep tight?"


    "Not yet, not for you.  So -- where is it?"


    "I wouldn''t have opened like that," Lockheart retorted.  "You gotta build up the suspense."


    "Take him down," John instructed his helpers.  Three men converged around Lockheart who didn''t thrash or kick.  The handlers tilted the metal barber chair.  A reinforced neck guard held Lockheart''s head in place, his arms secured by thick rubber restraints tied to the armrests.  Lockheart gave Alex a taunting wink before the tilt put him horizontally.  When it stopped, Lockheart''s head was lower than his feet.


    A towel fell hard over his face and snapped his neck back.  It covered his nose and mouth.  Then the heavy downpour began, not giving Lockheart time to catch his breath.  His legs kicked.  Water filled his stomach, then seeped into his lungs.  He was drowning in a dry room.


    After twenty seconds of violent flailing and desperate gurgles, reaching the breakpoint, the downpour stopped, the soaked towel taken off Lockheart''s face, allowing him a moment of respite.  Lockheart wracked and quivered, bubbles frothing from his mouth.  He heaved forward, throwing up half a gallon of milky fluid from his stomach.  That was the easy part.  To expel liquid from drowning lungs proved more painful. A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    "Bring him up."


    The chair swung upright; Lockheart''s head plopped to one side, eyes lolling toward the ceiling, lips hanging limp, a series of guttural snorts emanating from inside.


    "Make it easy on yourself," John''s tone seemed almost sympathetic.


    Lockheart heaved, sucking in precious air.  Between fits of shudder, he forced out seven words, "I can . . . do . . . this . . . all day -- asshole!"  Then shook violently, his skin goose-bumped, teeth chattering, half-moons darkening under the eyes.


    "Brr, gives me the chills just watching you."  John''s voice seemed to dance.  "Damn you''re leathery -- six years in the Stans, then Ukraine, seen action in the worst shit holes."  John got up close.  "I should take a couple of pointers from a legend like you . . . Am I doing things proper?  You would tell me, right?"


    "F -- ack!"  He spat up saliva and phlegm.


    John laughed, pleased.  "I don''t want to do this, Milo.  Just give it up.  Where is it?"


    "S-- safe."  Out of the corner of his mouth, a weak but defiant grin appeared.


    "Take him down."


    The procedure and ordeal repeated themselves, and stopped at the threshold again.


    Water flooded the lungs and choked off oxygen transfer. At this point, the clock ran down; half-conscious and enfeebled by oxygen depletion, the captive went slack, head drooping, clear water spilling from his mouth and nose.  Lockheart blinked out.


    An medic stood over the body, checking Lockheart''s vitals.  "He''s had it.  Needs rest before we can work on him again."


    John approached and lifted Lockheart''s head to examine him himself.  Lockheart''s eyes had rolled back white, mouth agape, his breathing shallow, his throat and nostrils hissing and gurgling.  John slapped the head down with disgust.


    And turned toward Alex.


    "You ready to go for a dip?  Nice and warm."


    "Look, this isn''t necessary, I told you," Alex stammered.  "Whatever you want to know, just ask.  I got nothing to hide."


    "Now that''s downright accommodating."  John beamed.  "How about you start by telling where he left off.  Where is Carnivora?"


    "How should I know?  I came there to kill that sonuvabitch."


    "Liar!"  John snapped, then calmed himself.  "You need Carnivora to live, isn''t that right?"


    "You know about our biology," Alex said, avoiding his eye contact.


    "More than you know.  You came there to take it from him, didn''t you?  The robber stealing from a thief."


    "I didn''t steal any damn thing."  Her eyes began to water.


    "But someone put you on that ship.  Someone with means . . . Give me names and contacts.  Which fief''s bankrolling you?  Is it Augustine?  You tell me, you walk out of here.  Okay?"


    "Now who''s lying?"


    "Fine, I tried to be fair." John shrugged.  "Who did you reach out to?  Who else knows about Carnivora?  That weasel Lemaire from Gulf-Con can''t be all there is."  John sighed.  "I ask again, is Augustine behind you?"


    "You know all there is."


    "They tell me without the proper meds, you waste away.  Horrible death.  Tell me who helped you and I''ll have the pills brought in."


    "I tell you I don''t know anything!"


    John the Inquisitor lashed out with his left hand, grabbing Alex by the neck, squeezing her windpipe.  She gasped for air.  Panting, she glared at him with one overwhelming intention, her veins plumped up in her neck and forearms as she thrashed in her chair.


    "Who helped you?  Give us a name and all this will be over."


    "Piss off."


    John sighed.  "Take her down."


    Two men held the broadcloth towel, snapping Alex''s head back, and smothered her.  A third man tilted a forty-gallon canteen over her face, the force of the downpour pried open her jaw, plunging fluid down her throat and nose.  She jerked in panic, arriving at the moment between burning and the calm beyond.  The reptilian part of the brain hadn''t realized drowning had the same sensation as being on fire.  The flailing lasted for what seemed like a long time, an instant that stretched too far.  Then the pour ended.


    Seemingly from beyond, Alex heard an amplified voice called out, "Report to Control."


    They uprighted the chair as Alex went through a wretched cycle of coughing and vomiting.


    John mumbled curses under his breath.  "Everyone, take five.  Get her ready.  We resume when I get back." And spun on his heels for the control room.

 Book 1 - Chapter 61

    At the far side of the wall was a set of fold-out closets.  Porsche yanked it open.  The space was full of boxes stacked atop one another. But in the ceiling was a gaping cavity.  Go up there.  It''s your only chance.


    In the closet, Porsche fumbled in the dark and felt for a solid footing.  The ceiling had a false top to cover up the concrete and pipes, so she hopped up and reached for the hole.


    Sliding aside the gypsum-foam ceiling tile, she placed one foot on the boxes, the other on the top of a wall divider, and heaved herself through the corner hole.  It was sturdy.  Drop ceilings were reinforced at the corners where two interlocking beams met.   Moreover, within the plenum space, thick piping from the sprinkler system ran from room to room.  The framework at this spot should hold her weight easily.


    But the nurse uniform caught a snag and wouldn''t let go, causing her to dangle from the corner hole with her rear hanging below.


    Voices from the control room grew nearer.  She cursed and tore herself free, ripping a flap from crotch to belly.


    Now entirely situated inside the cavity, Porsche gingerly replaced the foam board back onto its place, and bunched together her knees against her chest, butt cheeks balancing on water pipes.  She toed her nurse flats onto the edge of the grid beam, careful not to punch a hole through it.  From where she was sitting, she could see through the crack into the control room.


    The rustling below got louder.  There were half a dozen people in there, voices all male.  But one had power over the others.


    She held her breath to pick out that one voice.  She''d heard it before and on numerous occasions, usually during a speech.  And it belonged to a very powerful Fednik cum senior officer of TexPax.  Victor Balkan.  This discovery struck her as strange, like coming across a penguin in the Sahara.  Why would someone like him come here?  Because he''s the Ace of Spades, the one behind all this.


    * * *


    "I don''t have the stomach to see a woman like that," Balkan said, looking through the one-way mirror at Alex.


    The prison official hesitated.  "I can''t agree more."


    Just then the hall door opened and John the Inquisitor entered.


    Balkan glared at him.


    "Cease further questioning with Marlboro."


    "As you wish," John said.


    "You won''t get anything out of her," the man in the corner said.  "She knows nothing, you''re wasting your time."


    "Then, what do you have in mind?"  John asked.


    "Everyone leave.  I will speak with him alone," Balkan ordered as the Control Room emptied.  Except for the shadow sitting in the corner.  "You stay."


    Balkan let his displeasure be known.  "I''m tired of having my strings pulled, first by bloated Regents, and now by the thief Lockheart.  I want Carnivora delivered in my hand today."


    "We have three of his henchmen we can work on," John said.


    "Do what needs to be done."


    "And her?"


    "I would suggest you keep her on ice," the lump in the corner said.  "In case nothing pans out and you don''t retrieve the Program.  You might need a live donor to reverse engineer things, wouldn''t you?"The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.


    "We also have you," John said, narrowing his eyes at the speaker.


    There was an ominous silence between the men.


    "No, he''s proven useful," Balkan said after musing over.  "Move her to isolation for safekeeping, but she doesn''t leave Oz."  Balkan opened the door and instructed the warden of his decision.  "I want her cleaned up.  Administer T-Stoff to keep her in good health."


    "Yes, sir."


    The warden snapped his fingers at Tweedledee and Tweedledum.  The portly guards went to the closet where Porsche was a mere three feet above and brought out a blanket.


    They entered the tiled room next door, the warden of Oz trailing behind.  The three interrogators stepped aside.


    The warden looked into her eyes and must have wondered if there was any consciousness.  "Bring her to isolation and call the physician, make sure she''s okay."


    The guards freed her arms first.  The prisoner seemed docile enough, not reacting to their touch.  They were about to attach the belly chain around Alex when she jerked her arms away, fully awake.  She kicked the guards nearest her backward -- and touched her bicep.  The other men, including the interviewers, rushed forward . . . but it was too late.  Long black hooks protruded from her fingers.


    "She''s loose,"  they cried from the other room.  "Hold her."


    The guards rushed at her, but the claws were out.  Alex slashed them both from belly to collarbone, gushing arterial spray.  Seeing the violence, the warden bolted for the door.  The three interrogators tried to tackle her but Alex''s agility was beyond human.  She somersaulted over them from her sitting position and gored them from behind.


    Those in the control room watched with horror and amazement.  No one noticed Lockheart was waking, still strapped to his chair.


    "You didn''t drain her reservoir," the shadow man screamed at John.  "I told you to do that first thing, shit for brains!"


    John whipped out a .45 automatic from his shoulder holster.


    "That''s not going to do shit," the man said.  "Stay here, protect him."


    "Where you going?"


    "To do your job, asshole."


    * * *


    The starting gate banged open; the black mare, boundless in energy, rocketed off.  This was how she''d felt that day in Caracas: Cerberus unleashed, drunk in a blood rage.


    Then and now, Alex watched her body perform as if she were detached.  She could only marvel at its lethality, muscle memory in total recall, every movement deliberate and exact.


    The pain from the shoulder wound had vanished, her muscles relaxed and loosened.


    In the time it took droplets to fall, liquid metal had formed and had locked into jagged hooks, its base anchored into her reservoir channels running up her arms.  The blades became a part of her hand, her forearm, her limb.  With a burst of incredible speed, she launched herself over her captors, cutting through them like a scythe in a wheat field.


    The warden managed to escape because he was nearest the exit.  She let him go.  The prize was before her, strapped to his chair -- the reason she was still alive.  Nothing else mattered.


    With glaring hatred, she strolled up to Lockheart, taking time to gloat over the assassin.  She wanted to understand this infernal animal who had caused her so much pain, and the motives behind it.  But his blank expression gave her neither insight nor satisfaction.  She expected to see a cowering man, instead, he met her with defiance, even tilting his neck to offer Shiva the Destroyer his carotid artery.  He made no attempt at pleading for his life, no quip to buy time, neither explanation nor confession.  At this second, it surprised even her.  Alex respected his coldness.  The bastard knew how to die properly.


    Now, his debt will be paid in full.  She raised her right hand for the mortal blow . . . When the door banged open.


    Her eyes went to the door only to recoil in a shocked disgust that choked her throat, her stomach threatening to rebel.  The magnitude of the truth made her head spin, the memories, the pain, none of them able to make sense of the vile rat standing there.


    For an instant, she didn''t know whom she hated more, the Sandman, or this nemesis, a thorn in her side that had long festered into a poisoned wound.  Seeing Warchild unscathed and free could only mean one thing -- he was a fifth column, a traitor.


    Warchild stood there, both his arms by his side, his fingers elongated with protruding talons.


    "Scumbag," she snarled with outrage, eyes tearing.  "You killed your own friends."


    "I didn''t.  I only made a deal after."


    "To save your worthless skin."


    "If I help them find you."  Warchild sneered.


    A chuckle near her hip got her attention.  "Nothing like a good family feud," Lockheart muttered with satisfaction.


    She''d forgotten about Lockheart.  She raised one hand over him, fingers extended, ready to decapitate the cause of her misery.


    "Stop, you don''t want to do that," Warchild said cautiously.  "He has Carnivora.  Kill him and you kill us all.  I got a better proposition -- you and me, winner takes all.  It''s time we settle this.  Or don''t you think you can take me?"


    She scoffed.


    "I''ve played second fiddle to you since day one."


    "Come on then."  Alex moved into a fighting stance.


    She kicked Lockheart over in his chair and shoved him aside with her foot to clear more room.


    Alex and Warchild circled low, talons ready to lock in a death spiral.

 Book 1 - Chapter 62

    "Let''s get you to safety, Mr. Secretary," John nudged Balkan by his arm.


    "Wait."  Balkan jerked his elbow back, mesmerized by what he was seeing through the two-way mirror.  "I saw their training once but this -- this is for real, between two augments.  And we got ringside.  I''m not going anywhere."


    "And if she wins?"


    "You can secure the room from here," Balkan said.  "Can''t you?"


    John searched for the emergency lock-down switch and found not only the locking mechanism but a gas release trigger under a plastic safety cover used to incapacitate out of control inmates.


    "I got it," John said as he flipped on emergency lockdown mode.  A buzzing sounded followed by a motorized whirring -- then a muted metallic clang.  The tiled room was secured, its door penetrated by steel rods coming from all sides.


    John returned next to his master to watch.


    "I''ve waited to see this," Balkan spoke excitedly, as the combatants in the other room squared off.


    "This is risky . . . if she wins --"


    "Then make sure she doesn''t," Balkan said.  "Carnivora comes first -- I need Lockheart alive to make a deal.  No way around it.  You make sure Lockheart lives."


    "Gladly."  John the Inquisitor glanced over at the knock-out gas button within his arm''s reach.  "I can do it now, no need to wait."


    "Would you interrupt two gladiators in the Colosseum?  No, let them fight."


    * * *


    Porsche, sitting in the cramped space above the closet, had no view into the wet room.  Yet her ears picked up all she needed to know, the screams and shouts of the prison guards, the gag reflex of the warden as he came barging in the control room, and the steady icy tone of the official she suspected were Victor Balkan.  Worse, she''d painted herself into a corner, trapped sitting on pipes as a spectator.  Though they hadn''t discovered her presence, the window to get Marlboro or to question Lockheart had closed with the arrival of Balkan and his entourage.  By now, guards in other parts of Oz was looking for nurse Dominguez.


    She heard the warden stutter like a fool, "Vitals, didn''t you see their necks?  She cut them in half -- as if they were standing still."


    "Calm yourself," Balkan scolded him.  "Go see the doctor.  We have things in hand."


    She heard the door hissed shut.  With the prison official gone, she could discern three men in the room.  There was Balkan, of course, and the interrogator from the waterboarding.


    Yet there was a third at a distance.


    Something had happened.


    From the back of the room, the mystery man shouted, "You didn''t drain her reservoir.  I told you to do that first thing, shit for brains!"


    He knew about the liquid weapon implant.


    A pregnant pause.


    "That''s not going to do shit," continued the voice.  "Stay here, protect Balkan."


    "Where you going?" the inquisitor said.


    "To do your job.  Someone has to."


    She could hear someone leaving the control room to face the berserker next door.  Someone equally formidable; someone Marlboro knew; someone the amazon despised, judging from her dripping tone.  It could only be another Cerberus, Porsche concluded.  She''d met Marlboro, Rotter, and Papa, but there was a fourth, one she hadn''t -- a man they called Warchild.  And a traitor working for Balkan.This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    The ensuing conversation beyond the glass confirmed her suspicion, amplified through speakers.


    Porsche could do nothing but sit back and listen to the fight unfolding next door.


    * * *


    The first lunge made by Warchild was a test and it went wide.  Alex clashed his claws with hers.  She twisted right, smashing her left elbow to the back of his head.


    He recovered and grinned.  This was foreplay getting underway, watched by an audience.


    "You know you can''t win," Warchild said.  "Even if you did, you''ll never leave this room alive."


    "Leaving here was never in the cards.  Don''t matter."


    "Put down your arms and I''ll make it quick.  Or they''ll take their time with you."


    "Is that your line when you snookered Lisa?  Where is she, by the way, pile-driven by some other dude?"


    Warchild''s grin broke.  She''d found one weak point.  She''d need every advantage to beat him.  When they tangled before, she got lucky with a blow to his groin.  He won''t fall for that again.


    Warchild took two steps forward, claws pointed toward her.


    Though the type of blades Cerberus used may be different from the traditional combat dagger, the principles of knife-fighting remained unchanged.


    Real combat wasn''t graceful, nor was it like fencing with ample room to lunge and retreat.  A combat stance was flat-footed with legs apart, knees bent slightly, torso crouched.  A free arm was a shield, not for balance, bent at the elbow, held across the chest and turned inward to protect its major arteries.  Slashing was for show.  Stabbing was for dough, and usually up on an angle.  Lastly, the choices of targets never changed.  An opponent''s stomach and chest were secondary targets and should be avoided -- a belly wound took time to bleed out; ribs, and of late, internal bio-armor protected the major organs.  The best targets were the exposed primaries -- eyes and throats.


    Alex poised herself in this position.  Warchild copied her.  There wasn''t a trick she could use that he didn''t know.  Cerberus had trained together to use the liquid claws.


    Going low was suicidal.  He was stronger than she was.  But she had speed.


    She leaped high and came down with her left hand and right knee.  Warchild met her in midair, blocked the lunge with his arm, sustaining a deep gash while he thrust his right at her and connected.  Alex winced, taking the wound on her leg.  The sharp blades stung, blood spurting from both fighters.  No one was leaving here with a couple of scratches.  There would be severe damage.  But a mangled limb meant nothing compared to flat-lining.


    He lunged, trying to take her to the ground where he could finish her off.


    Again, she jumped, this time not as high due to her wounded thigh.   Warchild blocked the blow but took another deep cut.  His arm was crimson, superficial flexor muscles sliced into fillets.  His left arm was now useless, tendons severed.  Likewise, Alex''s arm was shredded from another vicious slash.  She could feel her fingers stiffening, closing shut.  Something vital in her arm had been sliced.


    Neither fighter was able to reach the primary targets of the other, their reflexes, skills, and damages equaled.


    Flat-footed, crouched, cautious, Warchild circled her, searching for an opening.  Alex pivoted to face him.  Their orbits widened, turning in a clockwise figure-eight over a slippery tiled floor slick with blood: theirs and that of those she had dispatched.


    Blood loss began to cloud her vision.


    Concentrate.  No pain.  Find the hole.  Slash, block, circle.  Once more.  Alex''s arm and leg throbbed, she limped and dragged a few feet at a time.


    But Alex became aware of something else happening as if a flu-like dullness had lifted, her mind more alive now than during the past few days.  This was fighters'' euphoria, runners'' high.  She was renewed, the hemo-nanites on overdrive.


    Jab.  Block.  And circle.  She was exhausted, reaching her limit.  He''s stronger but you''re quicker.  Use your speed, she repeated.


    Then it hit her -- give him something.  She backed herself into the corner, the worst mistake one could make.  He would follow to finish me.


    She feigned to succumb, dragging her leg and arm toward the back wall while fighting for breath.  As she expected, Warchild, sensing victory, pressed forward, closing for the kill.


    Alex wedged herself in the corner.  And waited, offering her body to his claws.


    Warchild lunged and hit home.  She groaned, paying dearly for the bargain.  His good arm was suddenly stuck, the talons buried deep in her arm; she held tight, clutching them against her bosom.  They were face to face, embraced in a death dance.


    He pushed.  The claws ripped into her chest.  She gasped, feeling her sternum crack, tasting a gobble of regurgitated blood.  She had sacrificed her arm and chest.


    Now it was her turn.


    She upper-cut with her free hand.  Her fingers lodged into his throat.


    Warchild gagged.  His larynx collapsed.  Thyroid artery severed.  He gurgled on his own blood and fell to his knees, eye sockets dripped red.  Alex removed his hand from her soaked chest and let him keel over.


    One down.  One to go.


    She dragged her body toward Lockheart, still tied to the overturned chair on his side.  She stood over him, her face and body soaked crimson.


    "Is it my turn?"  Lockheart managed.


    Alex straddled over his waist.  She raised her hand over his face, all fingers grouped like a knife, each extended blade like the serpent''s tongue of a carving fork.  Lockheart closed his eyes, ready for a long peaceful sleep.


    She released a long-held howl of vengeance . . . Gas popped from the ceiling and hissed.  Almost at once, she went rigid and fell on top of Lockheart.

 Book 1 - Chapter 63

    "Never imagined they could move like that," Balkan exclaimed, clapping his hands.  "Better than any ringside by far."


    "You lost your backup in the process," John said, turning the gas switch to the ''off'' position.


    "Inconsequential.  Milo Lockheart''s alive.  Good job.  You''ve earned your pay this week, mister.  Call the rest of the guards.  Have him cleaned up and moved elsewhere.  This place needs hosing down -- it''s a slaughterhouse in there."


    John nodded.  "I need to vent the room before anyone walks in."


    He clicked on emergency ventilation and heard the fans spun up, sucking out the chloro-remifentanil aerosol.  As he deactivated the locking system, the rods pulled back from the door frame, resounding in soft thuds.


    Once the air cleared, Balkan and his interrogator made their way outside where prison guards waited to enter the tiled room.


    John turned the knob, took a tentative step past the threshold.  He remained standing.  The odorless knockout agent was gone.  Balkan went in after to survey the bloodbath.  There were seven bodies in the room; only one was unscathed, though the Sandman looked to be a corpse himself, drenched in crimson.


    John dragged Alex away by her arm, knew where to deactivate the claws, Balkan observed.  Something''s not right, Balkan thought.


    "You know where the off switch is," the Secretary said.


    "Your rat Warchild told me."


    "Then why didn''t you drain Marlboro of her claws?"


    "Because what fun would that be?"  It wasn''t John who answered but the man getting up from the floor, untied by the Inquisitor.  "Thank you, Johann."  Lockheart staggered, held up by his false tormentor.


    Backing toward the door, Balkan hadn''t grasped the full picture, his mouth hung open stupidly.  "How?  The gas?"


    "Oh, I had a lung filter implanted just for these gaseous occasions, complements of the Agency, of course."


    In a fit of panic, the Secretary ordered the Praetorians, "Shoot them."  But no one raised his weapon.  The grins on their faces revealed everything.  With hubris came nemesis.  Balkan had been hoodwinked, been made a fool, and was now at the mercy of the Sandman, a terrifying prospect.  For the first time in his life, Balkan felt true fear that buckled his knees.


    Able to stand by himself, Lockheart picked up a clean towel and wiped his face.


    "What -- what are you going to do?"  Balkan stuttered.


    "The game continues."


    "TexPax will hunt you down -- "


    "I imagine they will have bigger problems to worry about.  Conclave for one.  And you are expendable, Mr. Secretary.  I never go back on a deal I made."


    "You can''t kill me."  Balkan took a step back.  "I''m the TexPax nominee for the next POTUS."


    "Oh, I won''t kill you."


    Balkan breathed relief.If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.


    "He will."


    In a blur of motion, John had released the .45 automatic from his shoulder holster, the weapon already chambered and safetied off.  He fired three shots at the Secretary at point-blank range.  The first slug staggered Balkan, the second flung him back, the third put him out.  Balkan''s body flew out into the hallway, twisted in a heap.


    "Good night, sleep tight."


    * * *


    After an hour, her legs began to go numb.


    Porsche stayed where she was even after the door hissed shut.  Through the speakers, she''d listened as they discussed what to do with the amazonian.


    "Leave her.  Makes for a compelling case of revenge killing.  Just look at all this mess," Lockheart had told his lieutenant Johann Casper.


    Satisfied there were no other sounds but machinery whines and hisses, she squeezed through the crawl space that encased the pipes and wormed her way over the hole. Carefully lifting the gypsum board out of its frame, she swung her legs through the false ceiling and dropped one foot at a time onto sturdy boxes.


    The guard who''d brought her here was long gone, she suspected, probably skipped town as soon as he heard what happened.  That would be smart.  The proverbial hell was not only loose, it will be on a rampage soon.


    She hadn''t expected to be here this long.


    The detention center went into meltdown shortly thereafter.  She could hear loud voices and stomping boots coming down the hallway just beyond.  Quickly, she replaced the gypsum board and climbed down.


    The door flew open and guards in riot gear came in to check the control room and found an infirmary nurse.


    She feigned ignorance, raising her hands.  "Don''t shoot!"


    "Who are you, what are you doing here?"


    "I just walked in, trying to make sense of all this.  It''s a massacre."  She switched on rehearsed hysterics.


    "Help her out of here," the riot guard leader ordered one of his men.


    "I''m alright," Porsche said wiping her tears.  "I can help."


    One of the guards checked the video banks.  "It''s been erased."


    "Did you see anyone leave?"


    "Place was empty -- except -- "  She shook her head convincingly while holding a hand to her mouth.  A body had been dragged from the hallway, evidenced by blood trails and left sitting against the wall.


    "Holy shit --  is that?  That''s Secretary Balkan.  Jesus, go get the warden.  Move it!"


    "Let me check on the others," Porsche said.  "There might be survivors."


    When the door to the wet room opened, the men staggered and reeled.


    "Oh my --"


    One of the guards gagged and ran off.  Several men in riot armor turned green and threw up in their visored helmets.  They backed away from the carnage.


    She made her way past them.  They didn''t try to stop her.


    Porsche went straight to Alex Marlboro.  She''d lost a lot of blood, her pulse weak.  Bleeding stopped.


    "This one''s still alive," Porsche told the remaining guards.  "One of you help me take her to the infirmary.  Hurry!"


    Two men snapped to, stepping into the hellish room.  They lifted the big woman under the arms just as the first robotic gurney arrived;  they hefted the dead weight on it.


    "I got it from here," Porsche ordered with authority, pushing the men away from the gurney.  "Go back and check on the others.  Go."


    She directed the electro-gurney down the hallway as fast as she could run, remembering what Myers said about the exit --  it''s on B Level.


    The elevator ran past the infirmary.  On the third level, Porsche heaved the gurney,  stumbling into the kitchen crew who were coming in to prepare breakfast.  The prisoners gave her a curious look but stepped aside when they saw the blood.  No one wanted trouble while the alarms were blaring and guards were running everywhere with riot gears.


    The delivery entrance was a few feet in the back of the kitchen.  She rolled the gurney out into the breaking dawn.


    The sky outside was turning purple.  She had made it out in time.


    Not far was the VTOL lot where PAVs were parked, where Papa in a guard uniform waited nearby.  He heaved Alex off the gurney as Rotter came out of the vehicle to help.


    "She''s alive,"  Porsche said.  "Tough bitch."


    "We keep on ticking," Rotter said, while Papa stuffed Marlboro in the back.


    Porsche slipped into the backseat of the craft, spent physically and mentally.  She and Rotter looked at each other.


    Rotter managed a stupid line.  "What''s with the hubbub?  The place is going into shut down."


    "We better leave," Papa urged, jumping in, wiping the blood from his hands.


    "What did happen in there?" Rotter insisted.


    "Hell happened.  Victor Balkan is dead."


    "Holy --" Papa gasped and covered his mouth.


    "Good riddance, he got what''s coming," Rotter said, offering a sympathetic smile to a worn-out Latina that was once Porsche.


    "If you''re wondering -- it wasn''t me," Porsche said and closed her eyes.  She was fast asleep in the next second.

 Book 1 - Chapter 64

    The intelligence report on Augustine''s gossamer screen showed the woman called Alex Marlboro in civilian clothes.  If anything, the oversized clothes made the amazonian look stouter, her shoulders even more formidable.


    Augustine sat in her office overlooking Chicago''s jutting skyline at night, her mind deep in troubled thoughts.  The myriad lights stretching into the horizon had lost their wonderment, now resembling a moving carpet of termites, flying and crawling.


    A sense of unfulfilled expectation squeezed her chest.  She kept turning to the report, searching for new insights.  But there was no more.  She had to accept that Balkan''s death was an opportunity killing, unplanned and therefore unpredictable.  But the death of such a man would bring tremors.  From within.


    As if on cue, her aural mic chirped.  A message from an aide informed her of a priority call pending connection.  On the other end was the Special Counsel to the Chairmark, Leggett Emile Vargas, the Midland weasel.  The lawyer had always made her uncomfortable and on guard.  The man oozed in his slickness, yet somehow had attained such heights with her Chairmark.


    Augustine leaned back in her chair.  She calmed her mind with a hit of oxygen, then swiped the connection request from her screen, granting the caller a full-torso holographic representation.  Vargas materialized in the chair in front of her from abdomen up.  The mini-clock on the screen told her it was eight AM wherever he was, probably in Asia, at one of their subsidiaries in Kuala Lumpur, or Singapore or Macao.


    "Devlin," he opened with a cheerful grin.  The true chromatic emitters showed him wearing a tan silk shirt with ascot, skin melanin-adjusted for the tropics.


    Pretentious bastard.  "Vargas, what can I do for you?"  A ridiculous greeting from her, of course.  Both knew exactly why he called.  And she didn''t care for him using her familiar.  She was a GR no less and should be given due respect.  But according to the Midland organizational chart, his position sat directly underneath the Chairmark alone on his own strata, sharing power with no other.  Vargas was independent, autonomous and untouchable.


    "I heard some incredible news all the way from Saigon."


    "Victor Balkan?" She feigned coyness.


    "Yes."


    "Tragic.  Play with spiders, one day you''ll be bitten."


    "Good advice, yet a little bird told me you were running a side op close by, unsanctioned I might add.  Were you involved with his death in any way?"


    "Absolutely not.  I would never --"


    "You are candid about non-involvement?  I ask because there''re concerns from the Chairmark."


    "The concern is?"


    "Will you go on record?"


    "I see no need."


    "I will determine if there''s a legal need or not, thank you.  That is my purview," Vargas said, his smile sagging.  "Why don''t you tell me what you know, Devlin."


    "Know?  What''s there to know?"


    "This is not a time for games, Your Excellency."


    Augustine smirked, holding herself from reacting.  The little man is playing with me.  "Very well, a few days ago, I was approached with a private offer from Ian Moreau, you know -- the prominent TexPax technologist.  He wanted to negotiate his defection."


    "Yes, I heard something about that, he''s a TexPax technocrat of some repute."Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    She hid her annoyance that he was so informed.  "In exchange for protection and Affiliate status, he was willing to turn over the files of Carnivora, the auto-generation bio-program TexPax ventured with DARPA . . ."  She paused.  "We rejected the offer, of course.  And that was the last I saw of Moreau."


    "Why did you say no?"


    "He wasn''t forthcoming about matters relating to Caracas-gate."


    "For what reason?"


    "I wanted Moreau to blow the lid off Conclave.  Since that wasn''t going to happen, I walked away."


    "From a multi-billion-dollar bio-enhancement program?"


    "The risks were too high."


    "Yet you never shared the information with me or anyone.  It wasn''t your place to determine acquisition risks."


    "I am a senior Governor Regent, second to the Chairmark.  And it is political risk that I determined."


    Vargas sighed visibly.  "And then?"


    "Two days later, Moreau was murdered."


    Vargas frowned.  "You should have consulted us."


    "I didn''t solicit him.  Moreau fell onto my lap," she said unapologetically.  "He was mine to deal with however I wish."


    "And in the end, he''s dead . . . and now Balkan."


    "Of what happened to Balkan I had no foreknowledge."


    "No?  Madam, you''ve ignored established Rules of Acquisition and Proper Engagement Protocol." Vargas paused.  "What I don''t understand is, why didn''t you offer Moreau security, knowing he was defecting?"


    "Now hold on."  Her temperature was rising fast.  "I did -- but it was too late.  A purge had been issued."


    "So, you did know more than you''d admit."


    "Be careful what you say next, Vargas."


    "You claim Balkan issued the kill order but that would make no sense," Vargas said, rubbing his chin.  "He''s a cabinet secretary and former Viceroy.  He would never do something so provocative or risky to the PIP."


    "He did what was required -- because Austin had offered him the Oval Office for the next Conclave, to replace the lame-duck president.  They wanted Caracas-gate to go away."


    "Is this your speculation?"


    "I have it from a good source."


    Vargas carped.  "Had it occurred to you this might be a trap?"


    "I wasn''t trapped in any way." Augustine scoffed at the absurdity.


    "Not you, Your Excellency -- Balkan," Vargas stretched his words into a mocking sneer.  "Austin probably used him to do the dirty work.  They knew the affair with Caracas would blowback and might affect Conclave.  So, they promised a hungry fool ''if you clean house, you get to play master.''  Balkan jumped at the offer never realizing it was a deliberate ploy.  He fell for it . . . And so did you."


    "I did what I thought best to advance our position."


    "Instead you''ve jacked up political risk by abetting an assassination."


    She stiffened.  "I did no such thing!"


    Vargas resumed the cross-examination.  "Did you not aid this woman Marlboro and her friends who happened to be trained killers?  Yes, I know all about that too."


    Augustine bit her lip.  What doesn''t he know?


    "I gave her sanctuary.  So?"


    Vargas sighed loudly.   "You dragged us into an affair we have no business in.  Now Austin knows we had a hand in killing Balkan, which makes things rather precarious from where I''m sitting."


    "Don''t try to pin this on me," Augustine said, a low growl emanating from her throat.  She felt hot, her neck constricted by her collar.


    "I don''t have to.  Carlyle is very displeased."


    Here was the next move then, she thought.  "Are you the messenger or my executioner?"


    He struggled to smile.  "The situation between Midland and TexPax is endemic, more so with Conclave looming," Vargas continued.  "They''re continuing to push into our southernmost sectors."  His digital voice even but firm.


    "That''s old news."


    "As of this morning, ten more corporations and two townships in Kansas have folded into their spheres, fifteen last week.  Last count: Visitor - twenty-five; Home - nil.  Luckily these industries aren''t vital to our security, but soon one will be.  Then we''d be forced to react."


    "You''re underplaying Conclave," she suggested.


    "What about it?"


    "We win Conclave, we turn the tide."


    "It''s a moot point," Vargas said.  "Balkan''s death will hurt us.  They''ll spin his demise as a victim of foul play.  This is the result of playing nursemaid to his killer, Your Excellency.  Once this gets out -- and it will -- the other fiefs will isolate us as the aggressor.  Which means what -- another four years for the PIP . . . You may have sunk our chances."


    "I will remind you that I am a Governor Regent in the Midland Superior paramountcy."  Her nostrils flared.


    Vargas retorted without missing a beat.  "If this blows back on us, I will have your full deposition to prepare a defense."


    "My defense, whose?"


    "Yours, of course."


    "I see -- you''re pushing for my resignation.  Only the Chairmark can demand it.  You''re a mouthpiece, Vargas.  You have no power."


    "Oh, no, Your Excellency.  You don''t get to resign so easily.  The hot seat needs a body and you fit so nicely in it."

 Book 1 - Chapter 65

    Lisbeth woke up and looked over at the clock projection.  The iridescent 5:05 AM floated over the bedside table, accompanied by a continuous double beeping.  Outside the glass walls of the landmark Watergate Apartments, it was still dark.


    As she swiped her hand across the luminescent field, both time and chime disappeared.


    She sloughed the covers off her body and grabbed her underwear on the floor, dropped there from last night''s romp.  She gazed at the mound under covers on the right side of the bed with indifference.  This was risky behavior, she knew.  But it was what normal people did, no?  They date to find the right animal pair bonding.  It was downright National Geographic.  STD tested, FDIC insured, MD or JD certified, these pretentious Fednik peacocks were like emergency tampons, good for one night only.  By the next day, their freshness was gone.


    This new bird she''d brought home had agreed to leave once they were done, but he lingered, always with a promise of five more minutes.  Then she fell asleep, woke, and he was still here.


    She went into her bathroom and faced the full-length mirror.  She was proud of her mature body -- long legs, athletic frame, breasts that were neither small nor cumbersome.  Her skin was smooth and glowing, not a trace of cellulite or imperfection anywhere, the result of regular expensive mineral wrap sessions.  Her hair, shiny and luscious, fell to her shoulders.  She tried to eat well and exercise regularly.  Lately, however, her routines had become impossible.  And it showed too.  There were bags under her eyes due to the lack of sleep and mounting tension.  Harry DeWitt''s warning lingered, haunting her every minute of her waking hours.  Would she run?  Could she?  She returned to the same answer -- where?  DeWitt offered protection -- but he lied as he was meant to.  No fief would assume the risk of giving sanctuary to someone like her, a whistleblower for starters.  Then there was also federal property tampering and passing state secrets.  She was an open sore that needed closing.  Just as Balkan had purged Cerberus, someone would purge her.  And running would just make her die tired.


    She stepped into the shower and let the hot water strum against her shoulders for a time.  Enjoy the delicious heat -- one last day, Lisbeth.  She was going to miss these simple little pleasures.  The security apparatus had gone on high alert.  Crackdowns and investigations revved up.  Balkan''s Praetorians were stepping up their searches and seizures, turning over every suspect and every rock, in every agency.  They knew there was a traitor.  It''s only a matter of time.  Everything was bugged and eyes everywhere.  Even in her bedroom, she assumed.


    Run, Beth!  Get off the continent, while you still can.


    She stepped out of the steamy glass box feeling refreshed, but the euphoria didn''t last long.  She quickly fell into worry, thinking of the coming day and the looming arrest.The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.


    The body dryer lapped up excess water and applied a mist of skin protectant made of collagen-vitamin.  She leaned over the sink, closed her eyes, and applied her makeup -- a topo-laser scrolled across measuring the area around the eyes and sprayed the right proportion of mascara and shadow in one quick swipe.


    Satisfied with her appearance, she returned to the dark bedroom, ignored the sleeping interloper, and went into her preset walk-in closet.  After donning fresh panties and bra, she selected a digital ensemble ¨C business attire No. 7 -- a silk blouse, designer suit, and matching to-die-for pumps, the separates rolling out on circular racks before her.  The smashing outfit lent her strength; it was perfect for the coming walk to the gallows.


    "Federal News Network," she commanded as the wall facing the bed illuminated with this morning items.


    "Jesus, come back to bed," a deep voice muffled under the blanket.  "It''s not even six."


    "Get up.  Get dressed.  Get out."


    "Don''t be like that, sweetheart."


    "I''m not your sweetheart, and I have a long day ahead."


    "You really want me out?" he said propping himself upon the pillow.  He smiled at her and patted the bed.  "I thought we fit well last night."


    "Look, I''m trying to be nice --"


    "It''s Cliff."


    "Time to leave, Clifford."


    "I''ll leave, but not just yet."  He rolled onto his back.


    "You either leave on your two feet or get dragged out on your back.  All I have to do is call security."


    "You''re bitchy in the morning, aren''t you?"


    "It''s for your own good, trust me. I''m doing you a favor.  Now!"


    "Alright, goddamn bitch.  Let me get my things."


    She escorted him to the door after he got dressed.  Had he shown an iota of obedience, she might have offered him some breakfast -- to go.  She slammed the door after him.


    Alone, at last, she went into the kitchen, grabbed her espresso and bagel, and headed toward the balcony.  The glass door slid aside as chilled air, unimpeded by any climate screen, rushed in.  Docked on the newly constructed roof terrace, her personal PAV sat in its covered alcove.  This prestigious building had a unique feature that validated the residence''s upward mobile status ¨C every penthouse suite had access to a terraced garage.


    Sensing the RFID chip in her arm, the passenger door of the Hum-bird swung up.  She climbed in and issued an order.  "Navcom," she prompted the flight controls.  "Initiate."


    "Navcom ready.  Standby for engine power-up sequence . . . Nominal.  Please state destination."


    She sat there for a moment, her chest heaving frantically in a panic attack. Tears streamed from her eyes.  Can you do it?


    Instead of saying ''Office'', she said, "Reagan."  The instant she made her decision, she felt free and light, her soul unburdened.  Yet a new terror had gripped her, now that she''d made her choice.  Was she too late?  She had hard cash stashed elsewhere.  She needed nothing else.  Get out.  Get out, her mind screamed at her, her heart in her throat.


    The aeroflyer revved up, its turbocharged nacelles gyrating faster.  It lifted off smoothly to a hundred feet, banking over the Potomac.  As soon as it passed the Kennedy Center on its left and over the Theodore Roosevelt Bridge, four robust drone interceptors swooped in.  They boxed in her aerocar, their Vehicle Capture System hacked her nav controls, slaving its computer to lock down the passenger compartment and to proceed to a new destination -- Oz-Reston.


    Her hands splayed against the windscreen, she screamed in panic, trapped and sealed inside.  She tried pushing all the dials, and even cutting power to the PAV.  All systems locked down.  The aeroflyer and its escorts continued toward Oz.

 Book 1 - Chapter 66 -- Epilogue

    The news of Balkan''s death had traveled fast, the air electrified with narrow-eyed suspicions and finger-pointing. Yet, the specifics of his death were undisclosed to the public.


    And the fewer the morsels, the more rumors mushroomed. For the next forty-eight hours, the wires and Internet imagined the gamut of possibilities -- that this was an assassination by a rogue faction in the military; that a rival fief had a hand in it; that it was a hit from Montana anarchists and Freemen. Whatever the truth may be, the stink went no further and began dissipating. The remains were fully disseminated and chewed on until they had no more meaning, until the media bluebottles buzzed off to find other scents to chase.


    The District Medical Examiners central facility handled the lion''s share of mortuary affairs for the central sector of Megacity East. At 1,500 victims per 100,000 residents, a much higher rate of violent crime than the concentrated average saved for Red City, the morgue never saw downtime. The usual dead under white sheets were laid head to toe on wheeled gurneys to be ID''ed and recorded. Forensics delved into the business of the mundane -- what was in the stomachs, what type of food and where it came from, ethnic or mainstream. They tested urine and sought the levels of contaminants to shed further insights, for example, a higher concentration of iron might show the crime took place in a sector with rusted water pipes. Unclaimed bodies were cremated. But two corpses were exempt from all that probing -- per orders that came down.


    Displayed on wall monitors, the same headline repeated every fifteen minutes: "Two hours ago, the Tsar Protector and Cabinet Secretary Victor Balkan was assassinated by persons unknown. The attack also involved the deaths of brave men and women of federal law enforcement. We have little information -- whether this was perpetrated by one individual or abetted by others. Federal authorities and police are doing a full canvassing . . . "


    "And we have all seven of them here," a mortician in a white coat said offhand, as he listened to the news. He tied a toe-tag on a stiff splayed foot.


    Balkan''s body was cleansed, dressed on-site, and prepared for an elaborate horse-drawn state ceremony, while the other six bodies were put on ice.


    "What do you think really happened?" his colleague said in a stained apron. "This can''t be the work of anarchists?"


    "I bet the bushwhackers out there from Montana and Idaho did it. Gotta be from one of those places."


    "Heads up, body snatchers," ME 1 whispered.


    A group of suits marched into the main complex, having passed the front desk security. The moment they stepped into the inner sanctums, they recoiled and grimaced with disgust. At first, the smell was like an egg-diet fart. The sulfuric odor got progressively worse the deeper they went in, ratcheting up to the stench of decomp. Mixed with cleaning detergents, the sweet odor had a sickening dimension that lingered on your skin and clothes.


    The medics rolled their eyes and shrugged off the intrusion.


    "Hey, you by the door! In or out, dummy." ME 2 with the yellowed apron looked up. "You lettin the coolant out. Want to stink up this place some more?"This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    "You can''t get worse than this," one suit said, stepping forward and looking around. "Damn ripe in here."


    "Here," ME 2 tossed him a small vial. "Minty."


    The man unscrewed the top and smeared a streak of ointment onto the dent above his upper lip. He sniffed the air with his nose. "Thanks."


    "This is nothing, man. It gets so bad sometimes we have to wear HAZMAT bio-suits with our own air."


    "You authorized to be here, buddy?" ME 1 looked at the suit with wariness, partaking in no pleasantries.


    "Special Security Service," the visitor said without making eye contact as he flashed his credentials.


    "You''re here for pickup or deposit?" ME 2 said knowingly.


    "Pickup."


    "Ah, give us a few minutes, the Secretary will be ready."


    "Not him. I''m here for the one called -- Mars, Ken."


    "Figured someone''s gonna come for that one," ME 1 said. "He''s in the freezer."


    "We''ll taking possession when you''re ready." The suit snapped his finger as two black uniforms appeared at the door.


    "You got paperwork?" ME 1 said.


    "Yeah, right here." The stranger pointed to his badge.


    "Let sleeping dogs lie, Joe," ME 2 said


    "None of my business, as long as my boss knows," ME1 set the rules.


    "Yeah about that one . . . since you''re here, maybe you can riddle me this," ME 2 said, waving the suit over. The agent followed the morticians to the refrigerated unit. ME 2 opened the cooler''s door and pulled out the body tray. One toe tag was tagged Mars, Ken: NPD -- Not for Processing or Disposal.


    "See this?" ME 2 said, touching the naked torso.


    "Yeah?" The agent said.


    "DOA, jugular laceration, lungs punctured, the vic bled out -- that would have been my prognosis."


    "So?"


    ME 2 scratched his head. "But you cut away the skin, just beneath you''d find massive scar tissue buildup. I''m seeing tissue damage response -- rapid blood clotting and the massing of epidermal cells to the injury. But I''ve never seen scar tissue like this -- as if he had a protective layer like packing bubbles around his organs."


    "Who authorized you to cut into him?" The agent berated the MEs.


    "You see any Y incision?" ME 1 said in their defense. "Like the man said, we''re not authorized."


    "He''s got to know," ME 2 said.


    "Joe, you said enough." ME 1 gave his colleague a sharp look.


    "Know what?" the agent demanded.


    ME 2 said, "We did a cursory exam -- cause of some anomaly we found."


    "And what are those anomalies?" the agent muttered, frowning at what he was hearing.


    "Look here. No rigor since admission." ME 1 bent Warchild''s fingers. "No cardiac activity means there shouldn''t be any morphological, cellular, or molecular activities, right? But you''d call me a liar with this one here --"


    ME 2 interrupted excitedly, "Chemical scan picked up a thermal blip I thought was some residual chemical reaction when a body decomposes. But nope, that''s --" ME 2 touched the corpse''s chest. He halted, eyes widened. "What the hell -- the body''s hot."


    "This is X-Files freaky, man," ME 1 said, feeling the warmth himself. "Is there a pulse?"


    The mortuarist bent down to check for vitals, but the agent pulled ME 2 back. "Stop what you''re doing -- now. And step back."


    The examiners froze and looked at each other. The undertone was unmistakably hostile.


    "How many of you examined Mars?"


    "Just us."


    The agent sighed. "Winnie the Pooh poked his nose in too many beehives and got stung."


    "What the hell, our job is to poke," ME 1 said.


    "Not this one. I''m taking him off your hands." The agent nodded to his men. "And you''re coming with."


    "What?" Joe said, incredulous.


    "Get your hands off me," ME 1 snapped.


    "Help these nice gentlemen pack up," the agent called to the Praetorians.


    The black uniforms corralled the MEs and led them out.


    At that moment, Warchild''s right hand and forearm slipped and dangled off the table. Dead fingers that should have been stiff as wood, twitched.


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