Anew: Book Two: Hunted (12 page)

Ian

T
he man I see in the
mirror over the bathroom sink looks better than he has any right to. Watching
Amelia come again and again is a hell of a mood booster, and not just because
she’s the most sensual women I’ve ever known. I’ve taken a step toward
believing that I can be with her and still stay in control. One step, that’s
all. I don’t mistake it for anything more but it gives me hope. Never mind that
my cock, still hard and aching, may never forgive me.

I finish splashing cold water on my face, towel dry, and
head downstairs for the debrief. Everyone else is milling around shooting the
breeze while they enjoy the high that comes with a job well done. I dump my
armor on a chair and nod to Hollis to begin.

We start with what matters most. “Five injured,” he reports.
“All being seen to in Medical. We might have a couple of guys off duty for a
few days but that’s it.”

I take a moment to give thanks and at the same time make a
mental note that the Research and Development team deserves another bonus.

“Good, what about the other side?”

“We counted twelve dead before we withdrew. Plus there were
another fourteen bodies of civilians in the Crystal Palace before it exploded.”

“Everyone else got out?” If they did, it’s thanks to my men.

 “Looks like it. A few more were killed or injured by
falling debris but most got away unharmed.”

“All right then. Let’s see what we’ve got.”

Hollis activates the screen that takes up one wall of the
conference room. Officially, my company controls several surveillance
satellites that we use for mission-appropriate tasks. Unofficially, I have
backdoors into many others, including one in geo-synchronous orbit over the
city that gives us a detailed, time-lapse view of exactly what went down at the
Crystal Palace in the minutes before it exploded.

“The assault force haloed in from stealth fliers,” Hollis
says as we watch the shapes of men falling from high altitude, their chutes low
opening at the last possible moment to give minimal warning of their approach.
“They took up position around the building and immediately jammed the main
entrance as well as several side doors. Only one was left open. Our men waited
to engage until the first flash grenade was launched. At that point, when there
was no possible doubt that we were dealing with hostiles, we opened fire.”

I nod. We all take a moment to acknowledge the shock that
the attackers must have felt when what they would have expected to be a
cakewalk turned into a fight to the death. One that more than a few of them
lost.

The images continue to flow as I go around the room,
listening as each of my lieutenants reports on his team’s part in the
engagement. The consensus is clear. The Crystal Palace was attacked by a
professional force that nonetheless was unprepared to deal with serious
opposition.

“They were good,” one of my guys says, giving credit where
it is due. “But I didn’t get the sense that they’d worked together a lot. There
wasn’t much cohesion.”

We all know what he means. Group cohesion turns individuals
focused solely on their personal objectives into members of a team willing to
sacrifice for a larger purpose. It’s essential wherever the stakes are high and
performance is critical, which is why we’re never done drilling for it. That’s
paid off big time tonight but then it always does.

“They seemed to only be prepped for a quick in-and-out
against a soft target,” another lieutenant says.

Both observations agree with what I saw and they beg a key
question. As the sat feed continues, I ask, “What about their objective? Do we
have anything on that?”

Mercenaries like the man I saw commonly have no identifying
marks, even their fingerprints have been removed. They don’t exist in any DNA
banks. Figuring out what they were after likely will be the only way to unlock
the identity of whoever sent them.

Gab says, “The chatter we intercepted suggests that they
intended to take control of the Crystal Palace and everyone in it.”

“For what purpose?” I ask. “Hostages?” Most of the city’s
elite were in attendance, people wealthy and powerful enough to be valuable
bargaining chips. But to what end?

“Could be,” she allows. “But some of what we heard suggests
that they were really after only a handful of individuals.”

“Who?”

“Don’t know,” she says. “The targets were referred to by
code names.”

 “If they were only after a few people, why blow the
whole place up?”

“They were ordered to when it became obvious that the
mission was failing,” Gab says. “The order came in the open, not encrypted,
which suggests that it was spur of the moment.”

“As in someone was watching in real time, didn’t like what
they saw, and wanted to destroy any evidence of what had gone down?”

Gab nods but she adds, “Or whoever was running the op just
lost it and went off the deep end. My thinking is tending in that direction,
which could mean that we’re dealing with someone who isn’t entirely rational.
But we need to do more analysis.” She pauses for a moment, listening to the
feed coming in through her head com.

Frowning, she says, “MPS officers are removing the bodies of
the attackers and what’s left of the dead civilians. They’re not waiting for
any forensics, nothing, just dumping the remains into security vans.”

Sanitizing the scene is par for the course but it won’t
limit the panic that will already be setting in as news of what happened spreads
through the city.

She listens again, then says, “Okay, this isn’t good.
They’re bringing in dead scavs and arranging them around the ruins of the
Crystal Palace.”

We’ve all seen some really fucked up stuff but this is a new
low in a city that bills itself as among the most cultured and refined places
on earth.

“One guess who the city council is going to blame for the
attack,” Hollis says. He doesn’t mask his disgust.

“At least publicly.” I say. Behind the scenes, they’ll be
scrambling to find out who was really responsible. The short list of private
companies with the resources to conduct such an operation starts with Slade
Enterprises. I know without asking that the sat feeds have already been
scrubbed of any evidence that it was my men who took out the attackers. All the
same, between my take down of the HPF and what’s happened tonight, I expect to
hear from the council before long. I need to put together a strategy to deal
with them.

 “We’re not going to figure this out right now,” I say.
“Everybody check in with your families and get some rack time. Until this is
over, we stay on high alert. I don’t want anyone below par. We’ll reconvene in
eight hours.”

The nods and grateful looks that go around the room tell me
that my consideration is appreciated. I don’t ever question my men’s level of
commitment but I also never abuse it. They’re the best in the world at what
they do and they deserve to be treated as such.

The room empties except for Gab and Hollis. The three of us
help ourselves to more coffee and settle around the conference table. The sat
feed is still running. It’s jumped to real time. Where the Crystal Palace stood
a few hours ago there’s nothing left but a smoking ruin surrounded by the
grisly remains of poor bastards who could never have come close to pulling off
such an attack but who are the fall guys anyway.

“The council just happened to have a bunch of dead scavs on
ice to use like this?” Gab asks. Her skepticism couldn’t be clearer or more
deserved. The ugly reality is that the bodies are likely still warm, having
been rounded up and killed expressly for that purpose. After all, who’s going
to miss a few dozen scavs except those who are equally powerless?

They’ll have heard by now, the men, women, and children who
scratch an existence from what their “betters” throw away. Some will flee
off-island, others will burrow deeper into whatever sanctuaries they can find.
They’ll wait it out as they do whenever the city authorities see fit to blame
them for some fuck up and declare a crackdown. But this is bigger than anything
that’s ever happened before. I’m skeptical that the city’s residents will buy
the idea that scavs could have pulled off such a coordinated and well-armed
attack, let alone its explosive ending. Whoever made the call to blow up the
Crystal Palace definitely didn’t do the powers-that-be any favors. Their
ability to maintain control is about to be pushed to its limits and just
possibly beyond.

“The council must have seen this coming,” Hollis says,
voicing what I’m thinking. “Not the particulars, obviously, but they had a
heads up that something was going to happen. That’s why they put more cops on
the streets.”

“But not where they would actually have made a difference,”
I point out. “If we hadn’t been at the Crystal Palace tonight, the outcome
would have been very different.” I turn to Gab and tell her what has emerged
front and center in my mind. “Charles Davos and a half-dozen other men left
right before the attack began, through the only door that wasn’t jammed.”

Her eyebrows arch. “You think they’re responsible?”

“Possibly. If they are, they were smart to put in an
appearance so no one would remember afterward that they weren’t there and ask
why.” Grudgingly, I add, “But they could have been the targets and someone
warned them just in time for them to get away. Whatever the case, you should be
able to identify who left with Davos from the sat feed. Once you do, I want to
know every association they share, every communication between them, anything
that links them. If they’ve pissed in adjoining urinals recently, I want to
know about it.”

She grimaces but nods. “Nice image, boss. I’ll see what I
can find out.”

I’m running down a mental checklist for anything I’ve
forgotten when Hollis says, “This sure has been a night for surprises.” He
shoots me an amused look. “Top among them, Miss McClellan. It’s not every day
that I get outflanked by a ballerina.”

 “Fast was she?” Gab asks, deadpan.

“Oh, yeah, and hell bent on making sure that the boss here
was okay.” With a nod in my direction, he adds, “Probably just as well that you
brought her back with you. Left to herself, she doesn’t seem to have a whole
lot of regard for her own safety.”

Ignoring the fact that I agree wholeheartedly with that, I
say, “She’s a guest here.” A loaded word weighted down with warnings about
courtesy owed, respect due, and the wisdom of backing the hell off.

Gab and Hollis exchange a glance. She stands, grinning.
“Sure thing. If that’s all, I’m going to get on that urinal research.”

“And I’m going to get some of that rack time you mentioned,”
Hollis says as he, too, rises. Innocently, he adds, “You should get a little
shut eye yourself, boss. Looks like you could use it.”

I knock back the dregs of my coffee and push away from the
table. The talk about getting some rest reminds me of how Amelia looked when I
left her in my bed. Fast asleep, her soft, plush lips slightly parted, her
breathing soft and deep, the diamonds still gleaming against the pale
perfection of her skin. A sleep of utter exhaustion and, I hope, satiation.

I straightened her and laid her head on the pillow, catching
the scent of her perfume as I did so. My hands lingered until I forced myself
to step back and pull the duvet over her. Even then, I could hardly bear to
leave her.

And I can’t wait to return. Just for a moment to be sure
she’s alright. Still determined to prove that I’m in control, I stop by the gym
showers first. Standing under the pounding jets of hot water, I feel myself
really relax for the first time in days. Having Amelia close at hand where I
can keep her safe makes everything else more manageable.

Half-an-hour later, wearing gray sweatpants and a sleeveless
T-shirt, I head upstairs. The apartment is hushed and dark. Beyond the walls of
windows, I can see the city, suspended in the brief interval between when the
late night clubs close and dawn breaks. The impression is deceptive. In some of
the towers below me ambitious young men and women are in the middle of their
work day. They rarely see the light, living as they do in sync with the Asian
time zones and beyond. I wonder what nerves they’re having to soothe as word of
what happened spreads.

I step out onto the terrace. The wind that’s almost always
present at this altitude follows me as I walk around to the north side, facing
the park. At this hour, it would normally be cloaked in darkness but to the
west where the Crystal Palace used to stand banks of mobile lights blaze. I
watch for a few minutes, envisioning the scene--officials, many of them
survivors of the explosion, struggling to reassure the public, the media
dutifully transmitting every word while the disaster voyeurs congregate,
lapping up the excitement as though it’s a drug.