The Stefan Mendoza Trilogy Boxed Set: The Stefan Mendoza Trilogy, #4

By P R Adams

Assassin. Cyborg. Avenger.

Stefan Mendoza spent his life doing the government's dirty work until he was double-crossed by one of his own.

When a traitor betrays Mendoza's black-ops team, only he can push through the torture and escape. But he has to put dreams of revenge on the back burner, because the world has changed while he's been out of circulation. To survive, he must tap into his underground network.

Mendoza's quest for vengeance pits him against assassins of every stripe. He quickly discovers that relying on the trust he spent decades building could be fatal. Betrayal, corruption, and a labyrinth of conspiracies threaten not just his quest for revenge but his chance at winning his freedom.

The Stefan Mendoza Trilogy is a high-octane cyberpunk techno-thriller you won't easily forget. Complex conspiracies and intrigue combine to make an immersive, noir-style sci-fi world.

Pick up this series and take a walk on the dark side of justice!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Promethean Tales
• Release date: Jul 28, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386881445

Book preview

The Stefan Mendoza Trilogy

THE STEFAN MENDOZA TRILOGY

P R ADAMS

PROMETHEAN TALES

CONTENTS

Also by P R Adams

Into Twilight

P R Adams

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Gone Dark

P R Adams

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

End State

P R Adams

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

About the Author

ALSO BY P R ADAMS

For updates on new releases and news on other series, visit my website and sign up for my mailing list at:

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http://www.p-r-adams.com

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Books in the On The Brink Universe

The Stefan Mendoza Trilogy

Into Twilight

Gone Dark

End State

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Stefan Mendoza: The Human Deception Trilogy

Split Image

Hard Burn

Null Point

The Rimes Trilogy

Momentary Stasis

Transition of Order

Awakening to Judgment

The ERF Series

Turning Point

Valley of Death

Jungle Dark

Chariot Bright

Dawn Fire

The Lancers Series

Deep Descent

Deadly Game

Dire Straits

Dark Secrets

Desperate Measures

Domino Effect

The Burning Sands Series

Beneath Burning Sands

Across Burning Sands

Beyond Burning Sands

Inside Burning Sands

Over Burning Sands

War for Burning Sands

Through Burning Sands

To Burning Sands

On Burning Sands

The War in Shadow

Shadow Moves

Shadow Play

Shadow Strike

Shadow Talk

Shadow Pawn

Shadow Fall

The Chronicle of the Final Light

Forge of Empire (2023)

Sudden Strike (2023)

Breakout (2023)

Final Treachery (2023)

A Dark Time (2023)

Fatal Blow (2023)

Into the Abyss (2024)

Return of the Light (2024)

Counterattack (2024)

Shadow Gate (2024)

Imminent Fall (2024)

A Light Undimmed (2024)

Rekaan’s Blade

Servant to the Garnet Throne (2023)

Fallen Prince (2023)

Weave of Deceit (2024)

Beyond Black Seas (2024)

In Stygian Depths (2025)

Web of Stars (2025)

Infinite Realms

Call of Destiny

The Dark Realm

Warlords of Dust

Mirror of Souls

Dread Empire

Through Infinite Realms

Books in The Chain Series

The Chain: Shattered

The Journey Home

Rock of Salvation

From the Depths

Ever Shining

For the solos, netrunners, techies, med-techs, and fixers.

INTO TWILIGHT

BOOK 1 OF THE STEFAN MENDOZA TRILOGY

P R ADAMS

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or otherwise, without written permission from the author.

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INTO TWILIGHT

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Copyright © 2017 P R Adams

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All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.

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Cover by Justin Adams

www.variastudios.com

Vellum flower icon Created with Vellum

For Michael. Enjoy your second infinity.

CHAPTER 1

The shakes had me bad. They always did when shit was about to get real. I got up from the bed, felt the warmth of the silk-smooth hotel bedspread transition to coolness. The air conditioner droned, struggling against my anxious heat. My clothes—brown button-down shirt, gray slacks, grayer wool socks—clung to my skin. The Koreans handled the humidity so much better. As if I didn’t already feel like a foreigner: my maternal grandfather’s six-foot-tall, thick-chested frame; my father’s black hair, pale brown eyes, and faintly copper-brown skin; my maternal grandmother’s pronounced nose, broken during Krav Maga sparring gone a little too far.

Foreigner, definitely.

I parted the curtains. The street below coiled between the business park’s diamond-bright towers. The sky was gunmetal gray, burned through to the west by an acetylene torch sun. To the north, ash-white smoke blew out to sea, the ghost of old Seoul. Towering robot vehicles carried radioactive debris scraped from the heart of the ruins to the harbor in Incheon, passing them on to robot ships, which smothered the remnants of the once-grand city in concrete before depositing everything in the depths of the Philippine Sea.

How many millions had died in the desperate nuclear blast the North Koreans had finally delivered in a futile attempt to avert defeat? No more than were vaporized in Pyongyang and Hamhung in the retaliatory strike, certainly. And how many had died in the subsequent depression? Too many.

My data device vibrated at the same moment I heard a chime from the speakers grafted to the bone behind my ears, then a voice. It was distant chatter until I tapped the fine mesh that was a second skin running across my right palm to crank up the volume.

Even before I heard the voice or saw the identity on the inside of my shades, I knew it was Stovall. Brady Stovall, Agency operator, mission head, and man of his own dreams.

I tapped again, keying the mic built into my shades. What?

Stovall’s face filled the lenses. Handsome, with curly brown hair, a cleft chin, and washed-out blue eyes, he’d had a rough life and it showed. Stefan, we need to talk. It came out all earnest and smarmy. Typical Stovall.

So talk. I hated dealing with him, the entitled little prince. He hated dealing with me, the know-it-all hick from Idaho.

If something happens, I want you to have Jacinto ride on Danny’s connection.

What, run the drones? I chuckled in disbelief.

Jacinto de Guzman was my Gridhound, what some liked to call a hacker. Second-generation Filipino American. He was a shady little fuck who was becoming shadier and less reliable by the day—too many drugs and who knew what else. And I was running out of patience with his dismissiveness when stress hit. He had a big head and skinny body, greasy black hair, dark gold skin with tattoos and piercings, and he liked to dress in a black leather jacket and pants, even when it drew unwanted attention.

Danny. That was Danny Chowla, my sniper. Former Marine, ace sniper, expert drone operator, and about as laid back as a human could be. Until it was go time. Then he became the one person you wanted watching you from the sky. To those who didn’t know him, he was a lean guy with a big nose and twitchy brown eyes, someone who could be Arab or Indian or maybe even Hispanic like me. But get on the wrong side of him, and he could drop you with a right hook you never saw coming. Or take your head off with a sniper round. I kept him separated from Jacinto normally. It was the only way to keep the little shit alive.

Danny won’t buy it, I said.

He will if you pitch it to him. Sell it as a good training exercise for Jacinto.

Is it? He can barely keep up with everything going on in the Grid anymore.

Stovall sighed—imperious, condescending. He’s still the best you’re going to find.

I’m thinking I’ll start exploring my options when we get back to the States.

Always so sure you’ll come out alive. You know the odds of anyone reaching fifty doing what you do are less than ten percent. Every mission, your odds go down. That’s got to worry you.

I wanted to track Stovall’s location in the hotel, kick in his door, and punch his teeth in. One day. I don’t need to reach fifty, Stovall.

Oh, right, right. I forgot. Saving up for retirement. How’d you do after the market crash? He snorted. You’re just another unmarked grave outside a prison compound. That’s all people like you are any good for.

That and pulling the trigger to keep precious little princes like you from dirtying your chickenshit hands meddling in foreign affairs. One day, this is all going to come back around and bite us in the—

The chime again. Jacinto this time. I added him to the call.

Movement in the Grid. Jacinto sounded dulled by something very illegal.

The disagreement with Stovall would have to wait. What do you see?

Rhee. Moving toward the elevator. Jacinto’s breath caught. Bodyguards. Full entourage. This is it. Vehicles moving into position outside the lobby.

Feed the channel. I stroked my palm with the pattern to mute and open a text to Stovall, then dictated: We’ll finish this later.

He texted back: Deploy, but maintain a safe distance. Remember to have Jacinto run the drone.

I disconnected Stovall and came off mute. Looks like the team’s getting the feed now. I pulled a display sliver from my pants pocket: clear plastic, palm-sized, flimsy. The circuit fabric came to life, turned rigid, and slowly built out a merged image culled from security video feeds, commercial Grid traffic, and our own drone data. A simulacrum of Rhee stepped into the elevator on the thirtieth floor, joined by seven other people, six of them dangerous-looking. Black suits and ties, black sunglasses, shoulder holsters, barely perceptible scars on hands and jaws where cyber-implants had been inserted.

PSS. Presidential Secret Service. Another team would be in the lobby, a third waiting with the vehicles.

Any sign of Yuh’s team, Jacinto?

Yuh Hyun-kyung. Chinese-trained North Korean assassin. Terrorist. Person of interest. I flipped the display sliver over and scanned through the bots Jacinto had hunting down Yuh. All green.

Jacinto got out a half syllable, but my attention was on the feed, where a signal had crept toward amber. I tapped it, and the data stream turned into a summary. A van and two cars—boxy Kias, rentals—were heading south on the Dongbu Expressway.

We have a potential. I drilled down into a detailed view. Dongbu Expressway. Rentals flagged as questionable. Possible Yuh connections. Headed south. Nine minutes and closing.

The display sliver powered down and went back into my pants pocket as I peeled my raincoat from the desk chair and hurried to the elevator, re-keying to speak to the team. We’re live. Jacinto, Clemens needs—

On his way to the garage. Danny, too.

Good. Steal whatever bandwidth you need. I want constant updates.

Jacinto snorted. Riding government priority channels. Feeds will be live.

You have your door secure? For someone so aware of computers and signals precautions, he was notoriously weak on physical security.

Yeah.

Braced with a chair?

I’m good. A growl, like he thought it was intimidating.

I narrated a text to Danny as I hurried into the elevator lobby: Special request today. Play nice with Jacinto. Let him tool around in your drone. Just have a kill switch ready for his connection.

Danny replied as only he could: Sure. Kill switch.

I connected to the whole team. I want two vehicles. Clemens, get the gear ready.

On my way, yeah? Danny, he will get his gear and head to the perch at the Samsung Tower construction site. The big Swede huffed as he spoke over the echoes of hurried, booming steps; he was in a stairwell. Danny would be in the lead, long legs and arms pumping.

Norimitsu held the elevator door for me. Skintight black pullover shirt, slightly looser black pants, mirror sunglasses—he was compact, and the clothing made him seem even smaller. It was all misleading. He was quick and wiry strong. Bright elevator lights drained color and vigor from his golden skin, thinned slicked-back black hair, and creased his squarish face with wrinkles. Sweat sheened his forehead.

Trouble?

Ichi. He set a forest green gym bag on the elevator floor and tugged black grip gloves on as the doors closed.

I bowed my head. Fighting with Tae-hee again?

Norimitsu lifted the gym bag; it was perfectly centered. The child knows no discipline and does not respect her mother.

Sixteen. Tough age.

The slight tilt of Norimitsu’s head said I was taking the wrong tack.

You said she was doing well with her training.

The problem is with her academic studies. It will be resolved when I return to Miyoshi. He sucked in a breath, then said, Sharks eat their young.

I smiled. Children were a distraction, but he was in the moment now. They left me perplexed and always wondering how the human race survived. Ichi was a good kid, but she was old enough now to think she knew it all. And then there was the unspoken stigma of having a Korean mother.

Tae-hee. The only person who could have ever threatened my friendship with Norimitsu.

Norimitsu turned toward me slightly. Traffic will be light.

If Rhee’s convoy heads south, negotiations are done for the day. He’ll be heading for the Blue House. If he headed north.

The door opened, and I stepped back, allowing two runners in, each shouldering the other as they jockeyed for position. Roberto and Morena Porto, my drivers. Our Brazilian twins, decked out in charcoal gray pants and royal blue windbreakers. They sported the same hairdo: shoulder-length, styled to soften their square jaws. Mirror shades rested on wide, bronze noses beneath thick, black eyebrows.

I needed the more disciplined of the two. Morena, you take lead with me.

Her thick lips curled down in disappointment. You say he heads south?

"If he heads south."

We got off at the second floor and hurried toward the parking garage connection. The outside air was like running into a barrier. Three sports vehicles were parked just beyond the entrance, the body of each washed in waves of color—metallic green, sea green, brilliant orange blossom. Animated designs shifted: a dragon, a jet, a cheetah. Hidden behind concrete support beams deeper in, our rides didn’t stand out as much. Silver Mitsubishi Sparrow cars with smooth curves and dangerous slopes that were remarkable only in the manufacturer. They hummed to life as we approached, now in pairs. The space just beyond the vehicles had earlier held a Kawasaki Super-Ninja, a black-and-chrome indulgence that did not match our inconspicuous specs.

It was typical Danny and worth it.

Clemens crawled out of the back seat of the closer Sparrow, a black rectangular box in each hand. His wide face was dull, pasty, piled over by thick blond hair. His blue eyes were vacant, revealing nothing, like crystal. He tossed a box to me, the other to Norimitsu. The Swede jerked his head toward the cars as he looked the twins over. Under the driver seats for yours, he said.

The twins didn’t break stride.

I tapped a finger sensor, and the box unfurled into a shoulder holster with a Remington R60 automatic pistol. Pure ceramic composite construction, and un-chipped, they could pass through many detection systems, were immune to hacking, and couldn’t be traced to anyone. And they left control to the shooter. I slipped the holster on and let the strap’s smart material adjust until snug against my shirt, then pulled my coat on over.

As I sank into the passenger seat next to Morena, I said, Jacinto, status please.

Convoy’s moving toward Dongbu.

Clemens grumbled as he slid in behind me. The Sparrow was advertised for four but meant for two. At nearly six-foot-four and 250, he was bigger than me and hating life.

Something started to gnaw at the back of my mind. It’d been there but just a whisper until now. Any imagery on those vehicles?

Still searching the security cameras. Jacinto was testy.

Morena accelerated as we descended to the street below. Concrete and LED lights flashed past in a blur. I trusted her driving, but I had to close my eyes while we shot through the parking garage.

What about video from Dongbu? I didn’t like pressing Jacinto, but the whisper was shifting to a scream.

Smoked windows. The testiness was more obvious. Backtracking. A minute.

Our Sparrow flitted through traffic, and I spotted the last of the convoy—big and black and immune to the smog and dust. They’re heading south on Dongbu. Danny, you copy?

The Ninja’s roar was a muffled purr through Danny’s microphone. Yeah, I’m pulling into the construction site. I’ll keep an eye south. I’m moving the drones now.

Seconds sped by. We shifted lanes and shot up the on ramp as the light shifted to red. In the rearview, Roberto ran the red and struggled to avoid a banged-up SUV. Morena smirked. Sibling rivalry.

I pulled the display sliver out again and set it against the palm of my left hand. The three rentals were two minutes out and closing fast.

Check Feed Four, Jacinto said.

I swiped and tapped and Feed Four came up. Not simulacra but actual video. Choppy but good resolution. Six people exited an apartment building. Scrawny, sickly. NoKos—North Koreans. Four men, two women. Dressed simply. Sunglasses. Three men hurried into the bowels beneath the apartment building, and the Kia van and cars appeared a few moments later.

Two people for a van that size? I watched the video until the vehicles disappeared. My pulse ticked up. Something was definitely wrong. What are the odds they could get their hands on explosives or materials to brew their own?

Nope. All six on the watch list. Simple jobs—construction, delivery, robotics repair. They come near anything dangerous, they’re arrested.

What about ramming? Could that van be heavy enough to knock these SUVs around?

One. Maybe.

Morena snorted and glanced at me. These PSS guys, they know what they do. No van gets close enough to do anything dangerous.

It was true. The whole operation seemed unnecessary, but Stovall knew something. The Agency wouldn’t stand up a team of contractors otherwise, especially not an expensive one, and my team was premium.

I took our channel private and encrypted—no Stovall snooping. This is just us. I need your thoughts. Norimitsu? Jacinto? Danny? I glanced at Morena and twisted around to look at Clemens. Does this seem odd?

Clemens shook his head.

Morena shrugged. Yuh makes three attempts on Rhee, right? The Agency stops one, the Koreans the others. This just another attempt. Right?

Roberto wouldn’t say anything different. It was all a paycheck to him.

Danny whistled. I’ve got the vehicles in sight, doing eighty and accelerating. I got two birds at high altitude over the expressway. Hey?

Yeah? I wanted opinions, not updates, but I needed both, and it was always tough keeping Danny talking, especially if he’d let his meds dispenser run low.

Uh, no helicopters in the area. No drones, either. We own the sky.

Jacinto said, He’s right. Clear for miles.

Norimitsu’s voice was silk on the line. Rhee has enemies. Within the military. Hardliners.

I flipped the display over and pulled up Rhee’s files. His rivals wanted tighter security, more clamping down on NoKos, greater alignment with the corporate giants like Samsung and Hyundai.

And liquidation of NoKo political prisoners.

I looked down and to my left, trying to put the pieces together. What’s the angle for the Agency? Are they being played? Were we being played?

Danny said, Yeah, um, we’re out of time, guys. They’re not much more than a mile back and closing fast. I don’t have a clean shot on anyone, but I could try for the van driver.

No. At the speed they were going, it sounded too risky. Roberto, let Norimitsu take a look at them.

The image on the display shifted to a slightly delayed feed from the camera in Norimitsu’s glasses. Roberto had slowed until parallel with the lead car. Thermographic video showed two human forms within. Backscatter imagery showed potential assault weapons between the front seats. Roberto drifted back to the second car, and the imagery showed the same.

We’ve got assault weapons in the cars. I drilled down to examine the passenger. Extra magazines in thigh pouches. What’s in the van?

The Sparrow drifted back and adjusted speed to match the van.

Norimitsu sighed. If they have assault weapons…

He didn’t need to finish. The decision was already made, but I had to know—

Machine gun fire flooded Norimitsu’s channel at the same time a hole erupted in the van’s side. I was barely aware of Roberto’s head and shoulders spraying across the dashboard and windshield before the video cut out.

I flinched, for a second unwilling to accept what I’d seen. Morena twisted around. What was—

The trailing Sparrow twisted and flipped, then it went airborne, arcing end-over-end. Shattering. Shedding plastic panels, spraying glass like rain. Leaving only the chassis. Twisted, crumpled.

Norimitsu.

The NoKos’ rentals accelerated.

I brought Stovall back onto the channel. NoKos have engaged. Jacinto, hit them with everything you’ve got.

Clemens didn’t wait for my signal. He pulled two R60s and twisted around, tracking the closest car and opening fire. The vehicle between our Sparrow and the car braked and swerved, clogging the lane, leaving the NoKos exposed. The R60 bullets tore through the Sparrow’s body and shattered its rear driver-side window, and blew out the Kia’s windshield. Armor-piercing rounds punched neat holes in the driver and passenger. They seemed unaffected at first, the passenger hauling up her assault rifle, then they both spat up blood and slumped in their seats.

Morena jerked the wheel to the right to cut off the second Kia car as it came around the failing lead vehicle. I had a good look into the smoked glass of the driver’s side, then opened fire. Glass exploded, gloved hands flew up, and blood tracked down the driver’s lifeless face. The Kia drifted into the retaining wall, and the scream of twisted metal and cracking plastic reached me over the drone of the engine and tires.

The van shot past, and Clemens blew out the windows on the passenger side. I looked past Morena, saw tears streaming down her cheek, and I knew I didn’t have to tell her what to do.

The Sparrow leapt forward and slammed into the van’s front passenger wheel well. I grabbed at anything and everything as we fishtailed, then she had us under control.

Something moved in the back of the van—big, heavy, rocking the vehicle.

Morena braked and slammed the wheel to the left just as a machine gun tore chunks of concrete out of the road ahead of us. I had a vague sense of something quadrupedal, almost cat-like, and then the Sparrow was jumping forward again, even with the van.

Clemens, the driver, I shouted.

The big Swede was already firing. The van twisted and jerked, and a part of the sliding side door crumpled and fell away, giving us a clear look at the slumping driver.

And the robot in the cargo area.

It was half again the size of a tiger, with armored plates covering joints and chest. The feline impression came from the head, which was like a puma’s thanks to the armor.

Three eyes at the center of the face locked onto us. The thing leapt through what remained of the door, tearing it off like so much aluminum foil.

Morena had time to mutter a curse before impact. The robot’s metallic front paws punched through the windshield and into her chest. Blood shot onto the dashboard. The impact rocked the Sparrow up onto two tires; I fell against the belt and door. Concrete whipped past, unnaturally close to my right.

I pressed a hand against the window for balance.

Clemens fired, but his bullets couldn’t get through the robot’s armor. The metal cat’s claws dug into the Sparrow’s failing frame, then Morena’s seat, to get closer to Clemens.

My window shattered, and my right hand flailed against nothing but air, touched concrete, then exploded in pain as my arm was pinned between the Sparrow and the concrete.

The feline jaws opened, clamped onto Clemens’s head, and bit down.

Servos whirred, gears ground, and bone crunched; metal and plastic scraped against concrete beneath me as I gagged on blood and brains. I had the vaguest sense of my lower arm tearing off, then my shoulder was scraping against the road. The carbon mesh of my coat dug into my skin, then melted away.

Flesh was pulped. Muscle. I blacked out, then woke to the car coming to a core-rattling stop.

The Sparrow groaned beneath a great weight.

Stefan? Stefan? It was Danny. A million miles away. Panicked.

He never panicked.

Can…see… I was drifting. Robot…

It’s, uh, moving away. I lost Jacinto. Stefan? Stefan? I—I need to bug out. We’re compromised.

The… We had something else. A last trick up our sleeves. My trick. I heard distant gunfire. PSS. Why stop? The robot couldn’t catch them, could it? The…robot?

Moving toward the presidential convoy. Stefan, you gotta get out of there.

I tried to move, nearly blacked out. Can’t.

I—I can get to you. I can.

No… Someone screamed, and I wished I could see what was going on. I could feel my glasses gouging into me but couldn’t see. I wondered what the drones were feeding— I remembered! The…drones! Drop…

Drop the… Danny gasped. I—I could save the drones. Nothing’s in the airspace—

Drop…on…robot.

Oh.

I heard huffing and grunting, and then I heard the Ninja’s engine come to life. Danny had abandoned me. There were only two people I had ever come to truly trust in my years in the military and at the Agency and now as a contractor—Norimitsu and Danny.

And now I had lost them both.

I blacked out again for a moment and woke to a minor earthquake. Glass skidded and bounced inside the ruined Sparrow. Time seemed to drag, then faces entered my field of vision. Gold-skinned. Stern. Humorless. They pulled the pieces of Morena and Clemens out of the wreckage and after a long time came back for me. They spoke among themselves, men in business suits and military uniforms. Finally, they seemed to agree on something, and the Sparrow was brought back upright.

What remained of my right arm came off in all the jostling, and I finally passed out completely.

CHAPTER 2

Death took its sweet time coming. I woke to the smell of alcohol and puke, latex and gore. A bitter, sharp medicinal taste drifted across bruised and broken gums. I danced between gagging and choking on the blood collecting at the back of my throat. Machines hissed and pinged, a strange, life-sustaining symphony. The pain was too intense to truly sink in, so it settled for running jagged claws through my brain and guts. I couldn’t see anything, but I had the sense I was in a surgical ward. The voices were strange, distorted by acoustics and drugs.

When I felt something tearing through the flesh of my remaining arm, my body jerked against restraints. When the tearing became grinding through bone, the darkness came again.

There were days after that where I would wake, feel the raw nerves and the ruined flesh, taste the bile in my throat, smell the chemicals keeping me alive. I could hear the pathetic rasp of my breathing, the faint groan of cushions as someone shifted. My mind would teeter toward snapping because I couldn’t see what had been done to me. That was when I’d cling to the realization that Stovall had done this. He’d betrayed my team. He’d gotten Norimitsu killed. Clemens. The Porto twins.

I would fantasize about breaking his neck and watching him slowly die.

Then I would succumb to the drugs.

The periods of awareness lengthened. My surroundings changed—the machines sounded different, echoed strangely. Voices came in snippets. Men, mostly. Harsh, choppy. Korean. They slacked back the medication until I couldn’t sleep, and my awareness compressed down to the core of my shattered body. I compartmentalized my thoughts the way the Agency had trained me to, focusing when I could on the mission and my duty to the Agency and country.

No training was enough, though. My arms demanded my attention. They wanted me to move them, but when I did I couldn’t feel anything below my left shoulder and less from my right. My hips ached, and my legs felt like lead. Acid-laced lead.

I wanted the pain to go away. I wanted to sleep.

My hosts wanted something else.

The first day that truly carried an almost normal clarity with it came with a special sensation. I was moved. Not for a bath. Not to check my injuries. I was vaguely aware when those things happened.

I was moved to a chair. Sturdy. Rigid. Anchored. Uncomfortable. With hard leather straps that bit into flesh that was nowhere near healed.

A voice—Korean, deep, brusque—asked, Who you work for? The words echoed off concrete or stone.

I felt—heard, smelled—other bodies around me. Breathing. Clothes rustling.

Something heavy and hard cracked against my thighs, and I realized something was wrong with them. I caught a soft sound just before the pain lanced through me. Intense pain. Bone-broken pain.

Who do you work for? A different voice. Refined. Sophisticated. Almost accent-free.

My face shook, and I struggled to shout something, anything. I would confess to whatever they asked of me if I could. But I couldn’t. I could barely whimper. It was the conditioning, the months under chemical and psychological stress. There was no betraying the Agency. Fuck you.

It was all I could manage. A solid, defiant curse. It felt good.

The strike against my thighs came again, and the bones cracked the rest of the way.

I screamed, and it was like running rusty blades over raw vocal cords. Then I passed out again.

It went like that for too long to keep track. I had no sense of days or hours. My awareness was a feverish, terrified suffering that made me wish for death interlaced with numbness. I would recover in a drugged-up coma, then wake to someplace that sounded like it might be a prison. I would receive just enough care to regain my strength, then discover an all-new hell. Their approach varied wildly. After breaking my legs, they switched to my ribs. While those healed, they pulled out the last of my remaining teeth. After that, they snipped away pieces of my ears. Then they ruptured my testicles.

Only the questioning remained: Who do you work for?

Sometimes, the pain became so extreme that I could hear Stovall’s snobbish East Coast drawl. You know what’s wrong with you, Mendoza? You think you know everything. You think you’re better than everyone else. Want your cake and eat it, too. How do you feel about that now?

That was Stovall’s thing, and it had been for as long as I’d known him. He hated the way I could call bullshit on his political views without access to the finest education money and being a legacy could grant. He’d worked hard to be born into that. In his view, you had to have that lifetime of special access and treatment to see all the layers, all the nuance and contradictions. It was the only way to justify his belief that it was fine interfering with another nation’s politics. For me, it was all hypocritical nonsense. I worked for a paycheck, and I knew the day would come when Stovall and his type would cost the country terribly.

What I was going through felt like a special hell designed by Stovall and his pledge brothers.

Weeks passed that way, perhaps months. I wondered what they were using to keep me alive and how they had arrived at such a science to know the limits of the human body.

Finally, they gave up.

I woke in a hospital bed. A pale green gown felt itchy against my chest, and a stiff gray blanket covered everything below that. Sunlight slipped through louvered windows, turning a floral display at the foot of my bed gold-white. Empty leather chairs lined the wall opposite me—painted the sort of pale yellow you would most likely see in a hospital—and curtains blocked off a glass wall to my left. Condensation collected on the side of a plastic pitcher resting atop a rolling tray just beyond my reach. My throat ached for a drink.

A nurse came into the room, granting me a glimpse of a busy hallway before closing the door behind her. Her slender frame was hugged by a tight, blue outfit. With pale, soft flesh, full lips, and large brown eyes, she could have been a mail-order bride.

Or a facsimile of Tae-hee.

The nurse bowed slightly and said, "Kamsa Hamnida. Mr. Smith, you are thirsty?"

Yes, I rasped, taking relief in the knowledge I hadn’t cracked. They had to have acquired my true identity from all the DNA they had access to. Or maybe they hadn’t.

She pulled a cup from behind the pitcher with delicate hands ending in blood-red nails. The water was diamond sparkles splashing, and it was sweet and cool as she tipped it into my mouth.

You are better today? Your eyes are recovering? She leaned in enough that I could see down her top and smiled when I did. Maybe we can do something about your arms, hmm, Mr. Smith?

She set the cup down and gently patted my chest next to the sleeve—tied shut—where my right arm should have been. You have money for regrowth? We have excellent clinics. Top doctors. From the war. We learned so much. You would like it.

I’ve got money. The desperation in my voice was pathetic. Not enough for… I closed my eyes.

Her hand moved to the center of my chest. Maybe your friends could help? You have friends, Mr. Smith?

Norimitsu? Danny? Not anymore. Can you just let me check out?

She chuckled and her fingers drifted across my chest, back to the sleeve. The bright nails slipped inside the strings closing the sleeve. Feather strokes of delight shot along my stump, drawing a deep, throaty laugh from her.

You like that, Mr. Smith?

I shook my head.

Tell me about yourself, she said as she untied the sleeve. She pulled it back, revealing the puckered, ruined flesh. Who do you work for?

Fury replaced her smile. Her fingers turned into razor-sharp scalpels that she dug into the scar tissue.

Blood spurted. The scalpel-fingers found nerves and shredded them.

My scream transformed into plastic and steel tearing. Glass shattered, and my arm fell through a hole where the Mitsubishi Sparrow’s window should have been. My fingers scraped along concrete, instinctively trying to hold the rest of me up. The Sparrow fell the last few inches, pinning my arm, twisting and mashing it and tearing it free. The car groaned with the puma robot’s mass. Its gory jaws opened and reached for my head.

Then the robot was gone, replaced by the cruel nurse.

Who do you work for? she asked.

And then I was in the hotel elevator with Norimitsu. The color of his face seemed drained away by the bright elevator lights. His slicked-back hair was thinner and gray-streaked.

He looked up at me, wrinkled and tired. Who pays for all this?

We all did. The whole world. He knew that. It was part of the contract.

The doors opened, and we exited on the second floor, the Porto twins just behind us. Walls blurred and sharpened around me. The entry to the parking garage glowed.

And his question ate at me. Who had financed the whole operation? So long to think it through and shift the puzzle pieces around, and it still wouldn’t come together. Someone paid me good money for what I did.

Why? Who? And what were we doing there?

Why protect Rhee? Why not tip off the Koreans? Why didn’t we know about the robot?

I slid into the Sparrow, checked the R60, buckled in.

Clemens grumbled from the back seat. We should have purchased bigger cars. The Agency go cheap on us, yeah?

That was the answer. All I had to do was acknowledge it, and the pain would end.

I looked up into the nurse’s cruel eyes, saw the puma robot, then darkness.

The Sparrow sped down the expressway, and the robot hit us again. Morena’s blood splashed across my face. Clemens’s brains were on my tongue, in the back of my throat.

The puma’s head came closer, jaws wide, ready to crush my skull as it had Clemens’s.

Who do you work for?

Steel gums slid over my bloody face, and the pressure began. Crushing. A roaring like the ocean in my head. Drowning on fluids bursting into my sinus cavity, tasting my own brains.

I screamed.

Darkness.

They shifted tactics again and again but eventually grew tired of me. I wondered if I might have cracked without realizing it. Something they had gave them access to my mind, maybe getting them beyond the Agency’s conditioning, as well as my own refusal to surrender. Memories were theirs to draw upon, to manipulate and make real. They could simulate vision for me, produce a world where I was still whole.

I had no reality.

Until I woke to drowning.

At first I thought it was just another dream or memory manipulation, maybe even a torture session. Water splashed around me, foul with sewage. I had never been in a benjo ditch. It wasn’t memory.

I gagged. I twisted, raised my head up to what had to be the sky. Drops splashed on my face. Rain. Current pulled me. Foul water caught in my throat.

I was drowning.

I kicked with legs that had never been properly set. The pain nearly broke me again. One of my feet caught on something sharp—plastic or metal. I pushed off, felt the edge gash into my flesh, but my back went up against something smooth and hard. Rock. I pushed again, harder, and my head cleared the water the rest of the way. Drops splashed against me. More rain.

I heard the voice, distant, distorted, almost indecipherable. But it was English. American English. There!

Splashing, cursing. More than one person coming closer as I gulped at the air.

A different voice, equally American. Shit! What’d they do to him? He’s a fucking wreck. Put a bullet in him, do him a favor.

Uh, you want me to work for you? It takes this guy right here. Or I walk.

Danny. My voice was a broken croaking sound. But it was Danny, I was sure of it. I tried again. Danny!

Hands grabbed at me and hauled me out of the water. Something went around my waist then my thighs—a rope. I was hauled up, and I heard the rotors of a helicopter approaching. It was overhead, lifting me. The rope burned against my ruined legs, and I nearly passed out. After an eternity, I was dragged aboard, and I heard concerned voices. A female voice started talking to me, asking me what I was feeling, what they had done to me, what I remembered.

Panic hit me like a jab to the gut.

A new tactic. A new way to get me to crack.

Shit, what’s wrong? Danny’s voice again.

A strong hand gripped my shoulder.

I-I think he’s crying, the woman said.

Stefan? Stefan? You hear me? Danny leaned in close. We’re taking you home. Got a job for you. You’re going home.

I reached for Danny’s hand, then remembered that I didn’t have any hands of my own. Phantom pains. Tortured nerves. Maybe even a broken mind. Maybe. Is he alive? I asked.

Stovall? Yeah. Last I heard. His voice was close, whispering. I left him for you.

Laughter. Ragged, terrible to hear. My voice.

It was reality. If I’d given up Stovall’s name, I would already be dead.

I was going home. I was going to live. And someone was going to pay.

CHAPTER 3

They put me up in a hospital, this time a real one. The blankets scratched against my skin, the sheets crisp but soft. Sunlight was a warm patch on my chest changing throughout the day. Machinery hissed and beeped, and people shuffled in and out of my room, sometimes murmuring, sometimes silent. Mostly, it was nurses. On occasion, I could detect perfume or cologne. I assumed those were the newer ones. The others smelled like fatigue and surrender, broken and going through the motions. When they touched me, it was rough and uncaring. Too much death had sapped away their empathy.

By the time the first doctor visited, the sun had left me but it felt warmer. She had a different way about her—harder soles to her shoes, a more energetic step, a more antiseptic smell.

Mr. Mendoza. I’m Dr. Jernigan. She sounded young, energetic, under fifty, for sure, maybe with a drawl, with a somewhat deep voice. How’re you doing?

I’ll leave that to a professional to determine. I think I smiled, but who knew how I looked. For the first time, I really heard myself without teeth and hated it.

You’ll survive, but you may wish you hadn’t. Tapping sounds then—fingers on a computing device. You have a cybernetic device behind your ear. Useless now, but we can replace it.

It used to be a simple radio receiver and speaker. I don’t know what they did to it.

They?

The people who did this to me.

It looks like they may have been using it to… A sniffling sound. Disapproving.

They were in my head.

Hmm. They’ve destroyed your legs. Multiple fractures in both femurs, none set properly. Your hip bone has suffered extensive atrophy. Many of your bones are going to be a problem. You’re not responding well to most of the antibiotics we’ve tried. Sighing replaced the confident voice. Honestly, you being alive makes very little sense.

No snappy comeback came to me, and I was missing the parts essential to crossing my arms and glaring. That’s it? That’s your bedside manner? No hope?

Of course we have hope. We— More tapping. It’s going to be very hard on you, Mr. Mendoza, that’s all. In your weakened state, I have concerns about your ability to withstand the rigors of what’s ahead.

She had no way of knowing what I’d been through. What do you have in mind?

Cybernetic replacements for your limbs—that’s not my decision, it’s what was paid for. It’s not just the money, though. You understand, I’m sure. Same with your eyes. Facial reconstruction. We’ve been provided excellent imagery to work from, and in some places we’ll go with bone replacement. Teeth implants. The ears we can regrow. All of it could be regrown, actually, if someone were willing to pay. She paused again, but I didn’t hear tapping this time. Were you consulted about these decisions?

I’m sort of in debt to the people who saved my life, so I can’t second guess them. Where are we, by the way?

The Guillaume Clinic. You familiar with Rockville, Maryland? About ten minutes west of there. We handle severe trauma cases. Experimental spinal surgery. Cybernetic implants.

Exclusive clientele. You ever handle anything as severe as my case?

No.

Like that. Honest, up front.

It sounded like she started to say something but settled on a small throat clearing. The complication you bring is that you’ve been through sustained trauma. You have drugs in your system we’re unfamiliar with. You have infections. And the timeline for your surgeries and rehabilitation is beyond aggressive.

Of course. The mission Danny had mentioned. Will the quality of my life improve?

She paused again, then tapped her device. If you live.

I didn’t feel like reminding her that she’d said I would live. The heat on my skin was strange, not just the small patch caused by the sunlight. It was like a smoldering fire. The sun went down?

It’s late afternoon. This time of year, it’s starting to get dark earlier.

Autumn. It feels hot in here.

The drugs are working clear of your system. And there’s the infections. You’ll experience pain before we can safely switch you to our own medications. I wish it were something we could avoid. I’ll check back tomorrow.

Her gait was different as she exited, and I wondered if she was distracted by lying to me or by what was ahead for me.

I didn’t have to wait long to find out.

Sometime after slurping up dinner, I woke screaming. I was strapped down, and my awareness of my surroundings was compromised.

People came in and out, cold cloths and ice packs were placed all over my body, but no one did a goddamn thing to stop the pain.

I was in the Sparrow again.

I was in the torture dungeon.

The Korean nurse who’d seduced me was straddling me, driving her thumbs into my eye sockets and laughing like a devil. But she was different now, curvier, with lighter hair and emerald eyes.

It cycled like that.

I fouled myself and someone cleaned me.

I ran the fields of our farm back in Idaho, gold in the summer sun.

I watched from the cargo bay of a helicopter as smoke curled up from the ruins of Jerusalem.

I dove through the midnight sky toward a firelit drop point in Syria.

And always the refined voice would ask me, Who do you work for?

More and more, I felt certain I knew the answer. And so did he.

Then I remembered what Stovall had done to me and my team, and I whispered the real answer: I worked for no one.

When the worst of it passed, I woke to the smell of my own sweat. What remained of me trembled. Someone was there, assuring me everything was going to be fine. I couldn’t imagine how. It felt like waking in the torture dungeon all over again. They drew blood and cleaned me up, then left me.

Days dragged by in a feverish, pain-filled haze until Dr. Jernigan finally returned.

You’ve surprised a few people, Mr. Mendoza. There was almost a hint of humor to her voice. The infections seem to be responding to our medications, and the painkillers have begun to clear your system. We’ve started you on something that should help, but you still have quite an ordeal ahead of you. Are you ready for this?

I focused on the memory of Stovall’s face when he’d pitched the Korea mission to me—that condescending, lying face that could only belong to one of the untouchables.

I want to get better, I said. It came out shaky.

Of course. We’ll start tomorrow. We’ll be taking your legs. You understand? There was a catch in her voice.

Yeah. They’d been taken from me by my torturers anyway.

You’ve shown amazing resilience. I believe in you. She touched my chest with a warm, strong hand that lingered, then was gone.

I should have had weeks to fight through the withdrawals and infections. Time to recover from the amputations before the cybernetic grafting. Months of rehab. The schedule didn’t allow for it.

Just as Dr. Jernigan had said, it began with the legs. The surgery was the next morning, before the sun had warmed me. I woke to all sensation below my waist being gone, but that was quickly replaced by a sense of dead weight. My arms and eyes were next, followed by my teeth. The drugs did a reasonable job, but the experience was like walking into an ice cream shop run by the most wicked of sadists: Every imaginable flavor of pain was there. Move incorrectly, and fire shot up your spine. Sneeze or breathe too deep, and the phantom pains left you imagining you were twitching. You couldn’t go wrong combining flavors—all the pain was exquisite. Assuming you liked pain, that is.

Then came the morning where the gauze came off my eyes, and I realized I hadn’t been feeling phantom pains. The world was a strange palette of reds and grays. No real colors, just shades. Sunlight was a glare beyond a window framed by melting ice.

My limbs had been replaced. I couldn’t control them, but I could see them—arms that could have been mine, mounds that hinted at normal legs beneath the blankets.

The door to my room opened, and a woman carrying a computing device entered, dressed in a pale hospital uniform and lab coat. I could only make out that she was tall, dark-haired, and probably in her late thirties, perhaps even her forties. With no way to know her skin color, I could only rely on her squarish face and angular nose. I guessed at a north European heritage. The familiar gait and hard soles gave her away.

Dr. Jernigan? I asked.

Her head tilted slightly and she smiled. The eyes are working. Good.

Everything’s shades of red, sort of. Reddish gray.

She came closer and set her computing device down on a chair next to my bed. I had a better sense of how large she was—maybe a bodybuilder. Her hands settled on my thighs, but I couldn’t feel the touch. We’ll adjust the eyes. It takes some getting used to. They’re capable of extremely sharp sight within normal human range, as well as ultraviolet and infrared up into thermographic range. I’m assuming you know what to expect?

Yeah. I’ve worked with full-spectrum infrared, if that’s what you mean.

Good. She pinched my thighs. Now how about these?

Should I feel that?

Not yet. If you’re not in pain, then we’re doing very well.

There was no longer any normal pain scale for comparison. I don’t think I am.

That will change, unfortunately. She fetched the device back up from the chair and seemed primed to go—uncomfortable, probably. The worst of it is yet to come, but my work is almost done. We have some more bone reinforcement to do yet.

Reinforcement? For the atrophied bones you mentioned?

Your entire body, really. A good deal of that is handled through injections, but it takes time. Initially, we focused on the bones that are critical to supporting the stress your cybernetic limbs will generate. It does no good to have a leg that can kick a door in if the pelvis it rotates against is as flimsy as tissue paper or the spine can’t support the torque without snapping. Would you like to see some images of that sort of injury?

I winced. No, thanks. Along with the cybernetic limbs, what’s the reinforcement going to do to my weight?

Not much. The cybernetics use lightweight plastic for bone and structural integrity. It’s about twice the strength of a healthy femur and less than twice the weight. The muscle fibers and other components are actually lighter than their organic counterparts, so the net is almost a wash. And I believe you’ll find the synthetic flesh the most appealing part of your new body.

I glanced down at my arms. They looked unremarkable.

She lifted a hand up to show me. Note the lack of prints along the surface of the palm and fingers?

That’s going to be a problem for security devices.

Not once you’ve learned your body. Your prints are registered in the system. They’ll be as close to the original as your face.

I wished for a mirror. How close is that?

Your face? Very. You’ll see soon enough. As for your prints, once you’ve mastered your new limbs, you’ll be able to bring those prints out.

Or I could go without prints at all. How long before I get to meet the people who did this for me?

Once the reinforcement process has completed, the physical therapists will start working with you. You’ll need to rebuild your torso to support the stress your limbs will be generating. They’ll push you and leave you quite fatigued and sore. The technicians will monitor your cybernetics, and the nurses will monitor your health, but no one is going to slow things down. You’ll have perhaps a month to adapt to the new you. After that, you’ll have to improve via practical use.

Of course. Someone had a deadline. You said you did limb regrowth work. How much would it cost to rebuild me right, to get back what was taken from me?

Her lips pursed. Five, six million. It’s a significant undertaking, and it doesn’t always work.

It was far more than I had saved after years of scraping pennies. Thanks for what you did.

She stopped at the door and gave that strange head tilt again. Wait until you finish the rehabilitation process, Mr. Mendoza. You can thank me then.

I closed my eyes. Pain had been a part of my life since signing on with the Agency. Before that, even. I was ready for the next phase in my recovery and for the mission that lay ahead.

And when that was done, I had an appointment with Stovall.

CHAPTER 4

I was released from Guillaume in the middle of February, nearly a month early. Someone had left me a simple outfit—sweater, pullover shirt, jeans, and sneakers. And a long coat. Black. The style I favored, including the integrated light carbon weave armor.

Danny.

The clothes felt strange on me, from a different time. Just slipping into the sleeves took getting used to. Not the coat. Like my rebuilt face, the coat really made me feel like my old self.

It was a cold day, washed in soft sunlight. Smog was a gray smear that nearly blotted out D.C. to the south. A small limousine with reflective windows pulled up outside the lobby. Danny leapt out, looking deceptively thick in a bulky tan jacket and baggy brown slacks. His hair was longer, and whiskers shadowed his sunken cheeks. He hooked an arm around my waist and settled me onto a solid but comfortable seat.

A woman sat across from me, frowning.

Danny took the space next to me as the door closed. You’re looking good, Stefan. Um, you know Heidi? She’s running the mission.

Heidi Ostertag. She’d aged since the last time I saw her—brown hair cut shorter now, streaked gray, and noticeably thinner. Wrinkles puffed her face out and swallowed her brown eyes until they were just dark specks beneath the faint trace of eyebrows and thick eyelids. She’d always been slender, but now she was closer to skeletal. A black pantsuit with a burgundy blouse hung loose off her frame, accessorized with gold bangle bracelets that only drew attention to her bony wrist. But her perfume hadn’t changed, still a sweet cherry blossom seeping into the leather and chrome of the interior. She sipped from a shot glass and watched me with those beady eyes until the limo pulled into traffic and headed south. I shivered despite the choking heat in our compartment.

You’re limping, she finally said. I was told you’d be ready.

Danny’s eyes darted from Heidi to me. He’d already settled into his typical deferential mode. He avoided conflict until there was no choice.

I was different. I had a ridiculous rehab schedule cut short. You think that might play a part?

She shrugged. It wasn’t my call. Our employers had a change of plan.

It must be something big. They spent millions on me; now they’re putting it at risk.

This whole thing’s been a risk. I wasn’t even sure we had a real mission until last week. Now I’m not so sure I have someone to run the team.

There was no alcohol to be seen in the limo’s bar. That was good, as I was on powerful painkillers. I’m walking around on artificial legs that’re still figuring out how to interface with my nervous system. I tapped the slightly raised patch of skin over the cybernetic receptacle embedded behind my ear, which provided a constant, comforting chatter from the Grid. I’m getting live updates and monitoring. I’ll be fine.

She glanced out the window to her right. You’re lucky to even be alive.

If you’re looking for a thank you, I—

I’m looking for someone who can pull off an extremely tricky operation, Mr. Mendoza. That used to be you. She hit me with those beady eyes again. Is it still?

Danny didn’t meet my gaze, but he did glance up. It was clear the same question was eating at him. It was something I’d wondered a million times while recovering. Depends on the mission.

Assassination of a United States politician. You in or out?

My heart sank. Just like I’d known would happen. I’m not political. Who is it?

She shook her head. I need an answer.

Is this Agency work?

Those beady eyes locked onto mine. In or out?

You were never one for this sort of work. What changed?

Everything. In or out?

I owed her my life, and if I ever wanted to get Stovall, I needed money. In.

She tossed back the last of her drink and set the cup on the floor next to her feet. Nerves or alcohol made her clumsy. Senator Kelly Weaver.

Political or not, the name registered. Weaver had a long history with the Agency. She was pragmatic, the sort of politician who didn’t identify by ideology so much as results, and the Agency had delivered the sort of results she valued. Why’s the Agency want her dead?

You’re not working for the Agency. You’re working for me.

That drew a raised eyebrow from Danny, who apparently hadn’t been privy to the mission particulars.

Heidi was former Army Intelligence, recruited by the Agency when she was fairly young. She’d parted ways with the Agency only to become a contractor. Better pay, none of the politics. I never could get a clear read on whether she left on her own like I did or whether she was let go. But she was never the sort to run operations that needed someone like me. She was given inconsequential work that wasn’t worth Agency resources, or work so dirty it couldn’t be touched officially. Stovall had once described her as low level, someone more concerned with getting her team out alive than getting the mission done. He’d meant it derisively. After Korea, I wasn’t so sure I agreed.

The limo accelerated onto the Beltway. Cars hummed all around us, most of them battered and cracked, but a few rivaling the limo in appearance. To the south, glistening towers of steel and glass rose from the gloom.

D.C.

I like to know what I’m doing and why, I said as the limo changed lanes and slowed.

Assassination is pretty straightforward, isn’t it? She clenched her jaws, projecting bitterness and what might have been revulsion. A sigh, then, To the why, you’re not really in a position to ask that sort of question, are you?

Now it was my turn to stare out the window. When Stovall became too precious, I could walk, maybe get in his face. Neither was an option with Heidi’s contract.

The limo exited the Beltway as we approached the city outskirts and began a series of maneuvers that left me slightly nauseated. My head was clearing by the time we approached a parking garage adjacent to an angular gold-and-silver tower. I caught a glimpse of the sign: Glorious Shining Star. I’d never heard of it. The exterior managed what dull gleam the hazy sunlight could produce—a new building, one I couldn’t recall, and I knew the city well.

After parking between two polished, upscale rentals, the limo powered down. Danny helped me out, and we followed Heidi. I