Arcane Ops Page 2

  The red dot representing Hank—who had been the one to respond to Quinn’s call for help—had grown notably closer while she took care of her injuries, and she waited impatiently for her ride home to arrive. It was a surprise when it took the form of a large black truck that rolled onto the shoulder beside the clearing. He swung down from the cab and walked over to regard her with his arms folded, looking appealingly muscular and vastly relieved. There had been a moment when she thought something might happen between them, but she’d quickly learned they weren’t a good fit. Fortunately, she and Anik were and they’d spent quality time together on the sly.

  She tugged her helmet off and set it aside before she frowned at the dirt that covered her heavy riding boots and jeans. Her leather jacket had taken the worst damage, with scrapes and tears now its most notable feature. She unzipped it and pulled it off to reveal her black ARES tunic, which had quickly become her favorite base layer. “Hey, Hercules, were you in the neighborhood?”

  He shook his head with a laugh. “I was on the way back from getting this baby finished.” One arm made an expansive gesture at the truck behind him. “It’s ready.”

  Her eyes widened and she couldn’t contain the grin. “Damn. That was fast.”

  Hank shrugged. “Many of the fight club guys are mechanics, as it turns out. They helped in exchange for a continuous flow of beer and bourbon.”

  Cara laughed. “So, everything is installed but it’s all upside down, is that it?”

  His laugh was filled with pride. “Everything is perfect, exactly as it should be. You know me. It couldn’t be any other way.” She did know him and he was undoubtedly correct. There was nothing in his records or in their history together that would suggest anything but the most complete diligence and competence from the big man. He tilted his chin at her former ride. “That’s quite a mess you made.”

  She nodded. “Yeah. Something went wrong—other than the rider, I mean. There was a small lurch, followed by a big lurch, and I was suddenly a poorly aimed projectile.” She stepped forward to clap him on the arm. “But we’ll deal with that later. Show me the truck and show me now. Oh, the boss hasn’t seen it yet, right?”

  He shook his head. “Nope. I wanted you to be the first. I’ve only now picked it up from the final install of the skin. We had to go out of house for that. It’s damn sophisticated stuff.” He walked to the back of the vehicle and put his palm against a flat panel on one of the doors. They parted with a mechanical whir to reveal BAM Pittsburgh’s long-awaited mobile armory.

  Tiny lights flickered to life across the ceiling to provide a diffuse glow in the interior. It was grey on black and a bench ran down one side with lockers on the wall opposite. More storage space was present above the seat, high enough that even the tallest members of the team would be able to avoid concussion. In the portion nearest the cab, a stretcher and equipment were positioned ready for emergency medical support.

  She whistled. “Damn, it’s exactly what you said it would be. I thought it might have to lose some of the planned features once you really got into it.”

  Hank shook his head and looked proud. “I had to make some concessions, so while everything is large enough to suit its purpose, there’s minimal room left over, but it all fit. Let me show you around.” He pulled a folding step out of the bumper and climbed up. Cara followed, still amazed by the actual reality of the mobile armory she’d argued for—Diana would say whined about—since they’d started working in Pittsburgh.

  Weapons racks were affixed to both sides as she entered. On the right were vertically stored rifles and shotguns, one row above the other. On the left, a series of pistols stored grip-out was positioned between selections of grenades above and below. She selected a handgun and confirmed it was the agents’ standard Glock-19. “Spare mags are in the lockers,” he explained and led her deeper into the vehicle. He opened one and gestured at the gear inside. A complete outfit rested on a combination of hangers and shelves, including vest and AR glasses. “This is only a mockup. Once we decide who gets what locker, Kayleigh and I will put in a full set of custom kit.”

  Cara shook her head. “Damn, man. You have far, far exceeded my vision for this thing.”

  He grinned. “You haven’t seen the half of it.” He turned to the storage above the bench—which was only about a foot high—and slid the front panel up and over to reveal heavier weapons.

  She frowned. “A missile launcher? Really?”

  “You never know. It’s better to have it and not need it than need it and be without.”

  Other pieces were in the overhead compartments as they moved toward the cab, including a disassembled mortar with a number of different shells. They appeared to be custom-built. She mentioned it, and he laughed. “Kayleigh’s added a few toys. I don’t know what they all are, but I’m sure the boss does.”

  They passed through some kind of static field as they entered the medical area, and she shook her head. “Sterile?”

  Hank looked offended and assumed a posh accent. “What an impertinent question. I am quite fertile, thank you.” They laughed together, and he continued in his normal voice. “Not perfectly so but enough to at least knock off the big dirt. Our gear is protected against it.”

  “There isn’t much room to work in. We’ll have to hire a small medic.”

  His pride in the vehicle showed in his wide grin. “Not necessarily.” He glanced upward. “Okay, Marvin, you can come out of hiding now.”

  A voice emanated from hidden speakers throughout the truck to add barely a hint of echo. It sounded like Alan Rickman from Dogma, uppity accent and all. “Welcome, Agent Binot.”

  “Uh…hi, Marvin.” She looked at Hank. “Why Marvin?”

  He shook his head despairingly. “Have you not seen Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy? For shame.”

  “I prefer my Marvins to be Martian, thanks.”

  “Cretin.”

  “Jerk.”

  Marvin added, “If you are done being clever, allow me to take care of the…um, ‘big reveal,’ as Agent Stills calls it.” Panels slid aside with a soft hiss, and a robot arm unfolded from the ceiling over the stretcher, while another extended from the front wall of the truck. They spun and rotated to display the wide array of equipment built into the ends of each—scalpels, needles, and a host of other scary-looking implements. “I am a fully functional trauma medic.”

  She realized her jaw was hanging open and pulled it shut, then turned to stare at Hank. “How?”

  He grinned. “I still have some military contacts. This took a big push from the higher-ups, though. I only got our foot in the door. It’s in testing, so we get to be part of that.”

  “I’ll stick with healing potions.”

  “Oh, I think we all will. But there’s always the possibility that we’ll run out or that someone might, say, crash their motorcycle due to bad piloting and need treatment.”

  Marvin interrupted her snarky reply. “I have communicated with Quinn, Agent Binot’s AI. The issue in this particular incident was not skill-related. The vehicle was struck by two bullets—the first in the exhaust pipe, and the second in the front wheel. It would have been impossible to avoid a crash.”

  They exchanged alarmed glances before Cara asked, “Do we know who did it?”

  “The aerial coverage did not reveal anyone, and the shooter was beyond the range of the cameras mounted on your helmet and motorcycle.” She thought she detected a note of frustration in his voice. I have to be making that up, though. The AIs aren’t that good. Well, other than Quinn.

  “Dammit.”

  Hank affirmed her opinion. “And double damn it, too. Marvin, put the word out to everyone to be on the lookout. Mention to the boss that she might consider kicking the warning up the ladder, too.”

  “Done.”

  Cara sighed and swung out of the truck to retrieve her helmet, gave the wreckage of her bike one last forlorn look, and sighed again. As she turned to Hank, he leapt cleanly from the vehicl
e, collapsed the stairs into their storage position, and palmed the sensor to close the doors. He swiveled to face her and offered a broad smile. “So, lady, do you need a lift?”

  “I guess I do. It’s quite a ride you have here.”

  He tilted his chin up. “And I didn’t even mention the stuff on the roof.”

  “What stuff on the roof?”

  He laughed considerably during the drive back to the base so she could pick up one of the ARES vehicles but didn’t reveal anything else about the truck despite her cleverest attempts to coax it out of him. Oh, well. I guess I’ll find out when I need to.

  Chapter Three

  Rath twisted and hurled two knives he held in his right hand. The blades flew unerringly across the garage to embed themselves in the new targets Chan had hung since their previous practice session there. They were the last blades he carried in the sheaths strapped to his ribs, although he still had the one at his lower back his teacher had given him when they’d first begun working together. His new ones were as high-tech and perfect as Kayleigh and Emerson could make them, so he wore the original as a talisman that connected him to his training rather than a weapon to use.

  The older man clapped. “Well done, Rath. Six for six. It is clearly time we found something more challenging for you.”

  The troll grinned at the praise and the joy of working with the weapons master. “Throw all six at once?”

  A laugh accompanied the reply. “No, not that. You already have those skills, based on what you’ve accomplished so far. I have no doubt you could hit whatever you threw at. But what if you couldn’t see your foe?”

  Rath frowned when he realized such a situation was highly relevant to his hearing-impaired teacher. There were movies he’d seen, of course, where the hero was taught to battle blindfolded. He chuckled inwardly and imagined himself whining like a certain future Jedi. I can’t even see. How am I supposed to fight? Somehow, he didn’t think Chan would appreciate the complaint.

  He caught the cloth his mentor threw and tied it around his head. The man retrieved his knives and slid them into their sheaths with small pushes. Rath ran his fingers along them in a newly developed habit to confirm that all six were in place and ready for easy access. He let his arms hang at his sides while he waited. The sounds of the room became more prominent and the hum of the air conditioning almost overwhelmed the sound of the traffic that passed outside. He started when Chan spoke from much closer than he’d expected.

  “I will make my way through the garage. When you think you can hit me, throw. Don’t worry about hurting me. I’ll be fine.”

  The student frowned, not sure whether that was a commentary on his skills or on his teacher’s, but let any concern slide away. If I’m not good at this now, I will be soon. That’s what counts. He crouched slightly, turned toward where he’d last heard the man, and shifted his feet as quietly as he could so he would hear any clue that might present itself. Dagnabit. I don’t remember where stuff is in the room. Stupid. Another mistake never to make again. He heard a sound from ahead and to his left, and he drew and hurled a blade backhand. It clattered as it struck something that definitely wasn’t his target.

  Chan’s instruction was calm, serious, and nonjudgmental. “That was a good attempt. You were within a couple of feet of me. If you’d been in balance when you threw, you might have hit true. Don’t overreact. Stay focused.”

  Rath was tempted to cheat and throw while the man talked, but only for an instant. He rotated in that direction and listened carefully. The scuff of a shoe on the concrete floor caught his attention, and he made a mental note of its location but held back from attacking. When the next sound came, he was able to determine the possible line of travel and drew two blades. He threw one where his target would be if he’d stopped and the other to where he’d be if he kept moving. His teacher clapped loudly. “Excellent work. If I had not been crouched, you would have had me.”

  Drat. Right. Aim lower. Another sound alerted him and he deliberately reacted to that one, hurled a blade with his left hand, and listened carefully for movement in response. He heard a faint footfall under the sound when the first knife clattered into the wall and threw with his right. Another clap greeted his effort and his teacher’s voice was pleased. “Remove the blindfold.” He complied and saw the man standing with his palms pressed together in front of him, the blade trapped between them and only inches from his chest. “That was a perfect throw.”

  He grinned. “Fun. More?”

  Chan returned the grin. “Oh, definitely. That was mostly luck. We need to practice until luck is irrelevant.”

  “Teach me to catch knives?”

  His teacher laughed. “You have to walk before you can run, my friend. We’ll get there.”

  The troll squinted as he left the garage. When he’d arrived, it had been bright daylight. Now, dusk was falling and coated his teacher’s neighborhood in shadows and grey haze. It was a fairly long walk home. While he usually enjoyed the journey, there was something about tonight’s ominous sky that made him uneasy. He checked to make sure his batons were ready in his backpack and that he could reach his knives under the light coat he wore to conceal them. In the early days of his training, the blades rode in the pack as well. The Remembrance attack on Cara at the train yard had inspired them all to pay more attention to security, however, and he now kept what weapons he could at hand.

  Gwen played DJ for him, spinning songs he didn’t yet know but that she thought he’d like into his earphones. She was right at least two-thirds of the time and sometimes hit a streak. She was in the middle of one now with something she called “surf rock” that had great drums in it. He bounced along to the happy rhythms, greeted people he passed, and generally enjoyed himself as he crossed into the outer part of the neighborhood that surrounded the house he shared with Diana and Kayleigh.

  An unexpected voice interrupted the music. “Troll, don’t you think it’s time you paid your respects to those who have gone before?”

  It was scratchy, heavily modulated, and unidentifiable. Paradoxically, those simple facts made it abundantly clear who it was. Amadeo. How did he get into my comms? Kayleigh will be upset.

  “What?” The man didn’t reply, and Rath realized he’d stopped walking without intending to. He glanced to his right, saw the graveyard he always passed on this route, and decided that was what the man must be referring to. Drat. Being predictable in my route home. He’d not visited the cemetery before and in the darkness, its layout looked confusing.

  With his comms compromised, he couldn’t call for backup or even ask Gwen for a map without the assassin knowing. He dithered for only a moment before he turned and entered. The man hadn’t shown any inclination to hurt him at their previous meetings and there was no reason to think that had changed. If it had, he could have let him know he was present with a bullet, rather than a message. A path stretched ahead, sufficiently wide for two people to walk beside one another, and headstones filled the grassy areas on either side. A light winked, caught in his peripheral vision, and he swung in that direction. When he moved close enough to make it out, he discovered the object of his search seated on the steps of the largest building in sight, which appeared to be a family mausoleum of some kind.

  When he came within earshot, Amadeo spoke, his voice still distorted to preserve his anonymity. “Times are becoming dangerous for you and yours, troll.” Even without the normal tones to judge by, it sounded like an observation, not a threat.

  Rath fingered the knives on his left ribs with his right hand but still sensed no imminent danger. When he got closer, he discovered that the assassin was dressed for trouble in an outfit that mostly resembled the ARES combat kit plus a mask that covered his face. Or maybe that’s how he spends all his time. Who knows? “What danger?”

  The synthesized laugh was eerie. “It seems like all kinds of danger. Crazy half-robots, insane witches, evil men from another planet, and now, simply for fun, bounty hunters and assassins.�
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  “Like you?”

  “Never. I limit myself to eliminating criminals who deserve their end. None of you fit that description. Yet, at least.”

  The troll halted his approach when he reached the bottom of the stairs and folded his arms. “Who, then?”

  Amadeo spread his hands wide. “Anyone who’s anyone among this town’s criminal element, really. The news is out. There are bounties offered for the two leaders of your group, dead or alive.”

  “By who?”

  He shrugged. “An unnamed party. This is normally handled by word of mouth and the underworld grapevine, so it’s unlikely that you’ll be able to track the source. But it’s not that hard to guess, is it?”

  Rath shook his head. “Many possibles.” With a frown, he asked, “Anyone other than those two?”

  “Not on the bounty list. But you can probably assume that everyone connected to them is in danger of one kind or another.”

  Double drat. He knew he had to ask the next question but really didn’t want to. In the silence before he could bring himself to speak, the assassin stood suddenly and he had to force himself to remain still. “Why do you care?” he blurted.

  The tall man looked at him, any revelations his expression might provide hidden behind the featureless black mask he wore and behind the flat black plastic triangles that obscured his eyes. His body language communicated nothing other than a permanent readiness as if he were always seeking an edge against anyone who might consider confronting him.

  When he spoke, his voice was deep and harsh, the masking device apparently deactivated. He sounded older than Rath would have expected. “I know I am a bad man who does bad things. It’s a choice I’ve made, and I am content with it and whatever results from it. But that doesn’t mean I can stand by and let harm find those who do not deserve to come to harm. You and your people are good, and I am obligated to assist.”