One of my contacts had scored me the use of a jet copter to get out into the Mara and back from Nairobi Field. Flying is exhilarating for me. Don't get to do it often, any more. But out here there is not traffic, no automated controls. Just me and the machine. Flash, though, finds it pure misery, and an airsick cheetah, who has gorged on about twenty kilos of meat the night before, is not a pleasant travelling companion. Try to distract her with the sheer, uncomplicated joy of the hunt she felt yesterday in bringing down three antelope in quick succession, our contribution to the memorial feast, but it doesn't work. To put her constant complaints out of my mind, I access my personal phone. Not the Free State implant, a secondary that Enrique had grafted onto my video feed link, with an encryption and anti tracking system that will take a couple of decades yet to beat.
Sixteen messages in total, the summary of everything that happened yesterday. Work through them in order. Ronnie's beating and treatment. He is recovering slowly from the witches brew they gave him, but should be fully conscious and mentally alert in about eight more hours. The bones and the bruises will take longer, even with accelerated healing techniques. Cardiac arrested once during detox, I'll really have to do something nice for that doctor.
Gart alive and working for our enemies, confirmed by Hans. He found the clinic that regrew his hand and teeth, once he had Gart's correct gene map. The one in Records was, unsurprisingly, wrong, but Maphane's own copy was untampered with. The clinic is under security stakeout. Hans knows the drill. There may be another Seer – Seraphina has covered that, she won't say how. A girl needs to have some secrets.
Don Brent's people found the two hired hands that interrogated Ronnie. Didn't take them long, and the two found out what a real interrogation is like, courtesy of James, Hans and Sergei. Hired muscle, they know little, but James and Hans are following up every scrap of information. Sergei is devoting full time to guarding Seraphina. Because she is our ace in the hole. And Tanekawa is probably alive and working for our enemies. Little Riku. Faster than me. More experienced than me. Better than me. Shit.
With a mental apology to Flash, and over her howling scream of protest, I shoved the throttles all the way to the gate, then through to full emergency power. This thing can do nearly Mach one, and I find myself suddenly in a hurry.
* * *
Captain Margareta Cruz, FSG, makes a final inspection round of the clinic. Really like doing surprise inspections. All squads are alert for the slightest sign of trouble. Drop by the patient's room. Reeves asleep, and Suilien glad of the company, though slightly dazed by the flood of painkillers in her system. Healing again after the latest round of enhancement surgeries.
“What is happening tonight, Captain? Any assassins creeping through the corridors?” Flippant tone, but drawn and tired.
“None yet, but the day is young.”
“Oh, is it daytime already? My implant is stuck on Pacific time, and I can't change it yet.” Suilien sounds irritated. “ I understand the coddling you are giving us, with the attempt to kill us and all, but what is the hold up in training? We should have had our implants loaded with data two days ago, to start to get used to accessing them. Instead, nothing. It feels like a missing tooth, but inside my mind.”
What to say? Thank the Sibyl that there were no little mental bombs in her or Luis' minds and implants! “There have been a few problems getting the tapes together. It will take a couple more days before the new ones are ready for loading. Until then,” she smiles and holds up a small disc, “Would you care to live a movie?”
* * *
Laying in bed. Should really get up, but I just don't feel like it. When Luis told me, I got a quick montage of scenes. No surprise that he'd have had others, but it makes me feel fragile. Bad. Threatened. Being driven away from the only man who simply accepts me, and my curse, as I am with love and the enormous compassion that he is careful to hide from others.
Tap on the bedroom door. Sergei has been lovely. A true friend. He puts his head round the door, then comes in with a simply huge tray of breakfast.
“You need to eat. Thought, if you didn't mind, I'd join you.” It is a nice thought. Doubt I'll eat much, but the company is nice. Slide over and make room for him to sit on the edge of the bed. The tray deploys it's legs, becomes a small table on the bed between us. “Now – eat.”
Pick up my plate reluctantly and start to half-heartedly stab at it with the fork. Sigh.
“What will Cat be doing this day and time next year?” Sergei asks around a mouthful of scrambled eggs.
“I don't know, He is alive, but I can't see him.” I reply automatically.
“You can't see him in his day to day life, only in crises, emergencies and death. Because his life and yours are entwined. That is how you explained it to me.” Sergei calmly carries on eating as the sun finally rises in my soul.
“Do not tell him he will be alive then, Sergei. That is always bad to know. It extracts a price from the one who knows it.” I say warningly. “It is why we Sibyls are not supposed to answer that question, ever.”
“I wasn't going to ask,” he replies drily. “It is part of the fun, not knowing.”
I am suddenly hungry. Really, really hungry. After all, I am eating for three. And tonight I join the hunt. My man will be needing me.
* * *
Team meeting. The usual stuff, discussing ground plans, pairings, distances. Everyone looks sharp and alert. A few are using breathing exercises to forcibly relax themselves. We all expect this to be intense.
The building we are going into is a derelict shopping mall, boarded and awaiting demolition. Complex ground plan, lots of small and not so small enclosed spaces covering three floors. Plenty of holes and access ways to cause problems, so recruited two more trackers, Jameson and Gutierrez. Gutierrez' linked animal is a cat, Jameson's a terrier. Both small enough to check out the service tunnels. Del Toro is moved up as part of the strike team, to cover the Trackers.
We'll start at the top and work down, standard operating procedure for a search and destroy. Peters' squad is coming with us this time, to hold sections as we take them. They get additional briefing, but they have already heard the stories of the last run. It is mostly they who are doing the calming exercises. Luis will co-ordinate from Wickham's squad leader position – about the safest place I can put him while keeping him in the action. Really need him this time, there is too much co-ordination to do. All in all, we are taking ninety two people this time, the biggest strike mission ever assembled.
“Right people. Assemble at Dispatch in three hours. Good luck and good hunting.”
* * *
Luis runs through the pre-op routines. Test communications links. One bad link, between him and Wickham. Going to be right beside him, so it isn't vital, but rotate to a different frequency anyway. Too many people to track, quick conference with Wickham and agree to use a band well outside the normal frequencies. Better to do it now than to attempt to if we get separated in the heat of battle. Mapping projection, live and functional, busy slotting bioidentifiers into its database, allowing him to identify where everyone is instantly, and to route help where needed. Hand brushes over his belt. The usual sun grenades that he carries, plus a few additions. A gun and ten full magazines, a present from Margareta. Not hugely useful to him, he has never been much of a shot, but she was very insistent.
Forming up. First rank of mop up squad beside Wickham, three paces behind the Strike force and directly behind Franco. Strike squad right on the red line, to give room for the rest of the team behind them. Cat is speaking.
“Remember, twenty seconds between strike and mop up, protection comes through forty seconds after that. Mop up, put your flamethrowers on safety until you get through please. I think I speak for all the strike squad when I say we prefer out asses uncooked.” A ripple of tense laughter as Cat turns to the control booth and gives the thumbs up. The wormhole powers up with a throbbing hum and crackle of ozone. Luis idly glances around at the glassed in booth and freezes. A Sight! Force his muscles into motion and leap through the wormhole, right on Hong's heels.
“What the fuck?” Wickham spits furiously. Of all the time for an experienced Operative to get buck fever! “I'm gonna kill his ass for that!” The clock ticks around to twenty seconds and he strides through with the leading wave of his squad, who immediately fan out to cover any threats. Wickham takes the regulation five strides forward, then stops and looks around threat checking, then more frantically. They are on the roof of the shopping mall. Open channel to Dispatch.
“Dispatch, Wickham. Where the fuck is the Strike team? They aren't here.” Protection squad is coming through now, fanning out to fill the gaps in the arc.
“Wickham, Dispatch. Say again please.”
“Dispatch, The fucking strike team is not fucking here. You landed them somewhere else, you morons!” Movement in the shadows. The strike team may not be here, but something else is. Waiting.
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