Mind Bender

By Dean C. Moore

Globetrotting assassin, Amy Farr, and her ex-Navy SEAL partner, Trevor Hunter—the good guys—cross one continent and one country after another in an effort to retrieve a scientist's formula.

Once injected with the mind-bending substance, 'mind over matter' stops being a catchy saying and becomes a reality.

In the right hands, it's the stuff that new generation soldiers are made of. And in the wrong hands? When you think that few have the mind control of a Zen master, empowering the average joe's imaginings, well . . . The formula is Armageddon in a bottle.

To get their hands on the substance, Amy and Trevor must face off against their counterparts: Curt Hammon, a sadist and Delta Forces commander with more than one team at his disposal; and Lara Lietoman, a mastermind and corporate head of a transnational empire of crime.

There's nowhere to go in this world where Lara and Curt can't track you. And the only one more tech-loving than our assassin Amy Farr, with her hands on even more cutting-edge stuff, is Lara.

It's a clash of titans grown small in a world where each new tech breakthrough makes yesteryear's giants seem like today's roadkill.

Pick up a copy today and you'll be turning the pages as fast as you can to find out not just our heroes' fate, but the fate of the world.

 

 

OTHER IT TAKES TWO NOVELS:

 

DUELING TIMELINES

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dean C. Moore
• Release date: Sep 30, 2017
• ISBN: 9798215852293

Book preview

ACT ONE

THE ENEMY WITHOUT

ONE

July 25th, 7 AM . . .

MEXICO CITY, MEXICO

CAFÉ TRANQUILO

What are you doing dating an assassin, Trevor? If you wanted the adrenaline fix, you could have just re-upped with your SEALs team. Amy’s idea of a vacation is trading in her pistol with fifteen in the mag for one with six in the mag.

Trevor refused to let the thought ruin the delightful ambiance of the sidewalk café in Mexico City. She’d agreed to this getaway at the last minute after he’d begged for months and had pretty much made up his mind to go without her. To her credit, she really seemed to be living in the moment. Amy let the wind play with her hair as she brushed it out of her face absently and took in everything around her, the sights, the smells, the sounds, the slightest movements; nothing escaped her. It was almost as if . . . Perish the thought, Trevor; she wouldn’t dare.

The waiter came to take their plates. He was so handsome, even the straight guys seated at the adjoining tables with their dates wanted to do him, judging by their furtive looks. Their server sported a sleek defined bronzed swimmer’s build, on display under his fishnet tee shirt, but he moved more like a dancer in his Capezio shoes. He smiled the way only Latin men could smile, as if it was just asking too much to contain the tease over what incredible lovers they were. It was a macho cliché in these parts; Trevor should have grown used to it by now. Good thing his girlfriend didn’t go in for superficial god-like beauty or he and Trevor would be Greco-Roman wrestling between courses of the three-course meal. Can I take your plates? Bring you some more wine? the waiter asked in Castilian Spanish. The enunciation, the word choice, everything pointed to Barcelona. For whatever reason, he was just as much of an import as the two of them.

Hmm? Amy said distractedly.

Can I take your plates, ma’am? the attendant repeated in English, already reaching for them. Some wine, perhaps?

What’s your dessert rack like? Amy asked.

The Queen of England grounds her Osprey right over there on her fly-overs rather than pass them up. The waiter pointed to the circular island park in the middle of the rather broad boulevard. Trevor figured the Osprey, with its ability to shift from plane to helicopter mode, could indeed nestle quite comfortably on the green. He smiled at the waiter’s razor-sharp wit and his whip-like response, every bit on par with the two professionals at the table, even if it was limited to throwing words rather than bullets.

I think I’ll investigate personally. Amy got up and followed behind the waiter as he bussed the plates, walking a couple steps ahead of her.

Huh. She missed the joke, Trevor thought. She didn’t even smile at the waiter, for Christ’s sake. He deserved double the tip just for that remark. Maybe she was at saturation point from Trevor’s wise-cracking. Unless . . . She wouldn’t dare. The words reprised like a refrain in his head.

Her vacant chair had opened up the view, and who should be seated one circular table down but the most distinguished caramel-skinned man in a cream suit, fingering his newspaper and looking better put together than James Bond. The salt-and-pepper hair, brushed and gelled back, would withstand a category three tornado without a strand so much as budging. The well-manicured fingers could probably net him a decent income hand modeling. The poise and confidence, the sense of ease; here was a man who was very much on top of the world.

The target?

If she agreed to this vacation only so she could sneak in another hit, I’ll skin her alive. But she wouldn’t have sat with her back to him like that, where she couldn’t possibly determine when to make her move. Nor would she leave herself so exposed. It wasn’t London, but even this place had to have at least a half dozen cameras clicking away. If not as part of the city grid, then in the hands of casual tourists and locals.

You’re being paranoid, Trevor. You’re renowned for your sweet tooth. Probably why she’s taking her time. Probably loading up an entire tray for you.

He took in the ambiance the way Amy had earlier, relaxed out of the straight-jacket of tension he was slipping into. How not to enjoy the nudist seated at one of the circular tables enjoying the rope of cinnamon buns hanging around his neck, inching them forward like a snake slowly slithering down his throat?  The women in their poinsettia red, Indigo blue, and mustard yellow hats and skirts and scarves were like rare orchids battered by the wind, but resilient. Trevor was still trying to get used to the color palate down here, the favored hues so different than what he was used to, painted on the dishes in rich magenta and jade green sauces as much as on people’s attire. What struck him as lurid and garish at first was starting to play now more like fine notes on the steel drum of his psyche.

He took in a deep breath, and with it the scents of salsa-covered shrimp, pork in chocolatey mole. He could taste the succulent lemony ceviche at back of his tongue. Tingling sensations exploded under his skin like fireworks as the strong breezes relaxed the final spots of tension out of his body.

It was the perfect place to propose to Amy. It was why he’d selected this particular café. There was enough hubbub between traffic and the busy to and fro of the eatery that no one would notice. They’d be completely anonymous, invisible even, surrounded by a city full of people. It would demonstrate without a doubt their ability to carve out a niche for themselves anywhere that was their safe refuge, an island no one would ever get to. How perfect was that for two people always in the thick of things? What was more natural for an assassin and an ex-SEAL but to be invisible in plain sight? It would be their thing, for now and forever more. When she opened the box on the engagement ring, the bubble would start forming around them, pushing all those other sights and sounds and smells to the periphery, warping space and time itself; engendering the Amy-Trevor effect.

CRACK!

The brutal ear-drum beating brought him out of his reverie. It was the unmistakable muffled thunder of a .308 Sniper Rifle with an AAC Cyclone sound suppressor attached.

Trevor craned his head from the once Renoir-worthy Fine Gentleman in a Cream Suit, now looking more like a Salvador Dali exhibit, for all the surreal touches Salvador added to the canvas of petty concerns of the late-morning rat race types. The blast radius of the bullet had continued to widen from the exploded head—opened like a piñata after the swing of a mighty big bat. The ultimate distance of that concussion wave was measured by the widening circle of screams and people pulling back from the site of the crime.

By the time Trevor’s eyes arrived at the café’s interior, he had to put on his shades, because squinting wasn’t going to do it. The smart lenses cut through the shadows and darkness relative to the blazing light levels outside, the way x-rays cut through bones. Amy and Trevor’s sexy waiter was stowing the .308 rifle for Amy behind the glass display case of refrigerated desserts. She was long gone. So she had slept with the waiter! And for a very long time. It would take at least that to get this kind of cooperation, and possibly to sneak in the required training on how to play it cool as well. The entire café staff had to be in on it. Did she sleep with them all? And not a thought once of including Trevor? He was all for open-ended relationships; their jobs kind of required it. You did what you had to in order to elicit the cooperation you needed when it came down to a certain decision being made by the mark that could spell the difference between life and death for the operative. Trevor even grasped that she couldn’t always share with him all the details of what she was doing. But surely if these people were that on board with her, they could be considered family. And family always shared everything.

There’d be hell to pay on that point if nothing else.

The next sounds Trevor heard, besides the screaming—in three different registers of soprano amid the chorus, mind you—tell me Amy couldn’t have planned that better, if only out of consideration for your sensitive hearing—was a Lamborghini’s screeching tires as it pulled up to the curb. The passenger door opened upward all too invitingly. He didn’t hesitate to take the offered ride.

As he jumped in, Amy said, I’ll make it up to you in Cairo.

What, you’ll give me someone to kill there too?

Strap in.

Maybe you should let me drive, he said as the tires echoed their fingers-across-a-chalkboard squeal of earlier, and she pulled off.

Why?

Let’s just say you’re better on offense. That just requires pure aggression. Escaping from legions of killers, on the other hand, while keeping the body count low, that requires tact and finesse. Something entirely unknown to you.

What legions of killers?

Check your side-view mirrors.

She examined them and the rearview. "Yeah, okay, maybe you should drive."

Would it be too much to ask who this guy is you shot? Trevor asked, crawling over Amy as she slipped under him, both trying to avoid getting goosed by the gear shift. He had one hand on the steering wheel in transit, and both hands solidly planted about the time his ass made contact with the driver’s seat. Plenty of time for her to answer his question. Bullets flying or not. But no such answer had been forthcoming.

As he made the car take a sharp right, like only a Lamborghini could, she finally spilled, To be honest, I don’t know. The money was good enough not to ask any questions. Three mill, even. Her hands kept passing over her hair in the breeze of the accelerating convertible like a pair of windshield wipers hopelessly pushing back rain.

I guess that explains the Lamborghini.

No, I stole this.

Should have known yellow really isn’t your color.

Yes, you should have, she said with an edge to her tone he didn’t appreciate under the circumstances.

What if this gentleman you shot is actually a good guy?

He was worth billions. I found out that much. Trust me, no one worth that kind of money is a good guy.

I admit the odds against are long but . . . Such a cynic. One look at her face told him all he needed to know. She was playing dumb; she knew a lot more about her mark than she let on. He could live with the trust issue. It was the other complications that might be harder to get around. 

He drove aggressively through traffic, cutting people off, swerving out of one lane and into another one at the last second without the warning of signal lights, hammering on the horn. In America he would have been making quite the scene. Here, as it turned out, everyone drove the same way, which was making his getaway hell.

He heard a whistle. Not just any whistle. The sound of a rocket propelled grenade; heading his way. He had dodged enough of them over the years to be familiar with the sound. Duck!

She tucked her head down.

The rocket took out the front windshield of the convertible without slowing.

They both donned their shades in unison as their heads came up like a pair of synchronized swimmers. Good thing you have some justification for taking that tone with me, she bitched.

The car that had exploded in front of them—filled with drug dealers, judging by the white powder that still hung in the air—was being swerved around without anyone feeling particularly put out; or for that matter, the stalled vehicle causing any more car accidents. This, despite the breakneck pace of traffic and the blaring horns; the latter enough to give the brass section of a 1950s big band a complex. These people always drive like this? Trevor said flabbergasted.

Honestly, this is fairly calm for them.

Remind me never to stage another getaway in Mexico City.

You mind swerving toward that fruit stand. I’d kill for a pomelo.

He did as requested, but not by choice. One of the chase cars, a black, smoke-windowed Humvee, caught up with him on the left and hammered the jeep against the Lamborghini, so Trevor pretty much flew into the fruit stand.

Thanks, she said, as if he’d orchestrated the whole thing.

She could keep whatever cards close to her vest she liked, but Trevor had to wheedle more information out of her just to survive their immediate situation. Watching her calmly pegging her fruit and losing his temper, he screamed, Come on! Taking his voice down a register, he said, You had to do some reconnaissance on the guy to learn his habits, where he’d be when. You had to find out more about him than you knew going in.

I was handed all that information by someone who did the surveillance for me. I can tell you, whoever planned this, planned it even better than I could.

She glanced behind them. He checked his rearview mirror again. The Humvees giving chase were knocking the cars out of the way in front of them as if this were all a game of bumper cars. They barely had to slow, unlike Trevor who could afford to play no such game. The Lamborghini would likely not survive the next hit. Sherman tanks these things were not.

Those are military-issue Humvees, to dish out punishment like that without even slowing, she said. That tells us something.

I think the fact that this guy travels with his own private military escort just to take a cup of coffee at a sidewalk café tells us something!

Don’t take that tone with me.

What tone? Trevor glared at her; it was quite the luxury considering the cost of taking his eyes off the road at this speed. That’s panic, in case you were wondering.

I can hear the panic just fine; but there’s a tone, I tell you.

He sighed. That’s because I proposed to you back in that café. At least in my mind. I had rehearsed the whole thing a hundred times before we even got there. It was going to be perfect. All the commotion, no one to notice, as if we were invisible in plain sight, like we could create an eye for the tornado wherever we were, just by being together, no matter what craziness was swirling around us.

She hit him with the neutral face. If there was one thing he hated international spies-turned-assassins for, it was the fact that they never betrayed anything in their expressions if they didn’t want to. Finally, she relaxed out of it, as if something in the formulation of the quick-drying cement of her façade just failed. That’s actually pretty romantic.  She kissed him.

As if he wasn’t having enough trouble driving with his eyes on the road.

You’re going to get us killed, he said, breaking off the kiss.

No, I think they are, she said, slipping back into take-everything-in-at-once mode. I hate to break it to you but there are snipers in the windows of those high-rises.

You’re being paranoid. He checked anyway. Too many reflections to spot the sun bouncing off a sniper scope, in any event.

One of the sniper bullets took out their front tire on the driver’s side, causing him to do some last second correcting to avoid colliding with the island in the center of the road. What was it with these people and their drive-around-in-a-circle interchanges?  Why couldn’t they do a simple four or five way intersection like every other city in the world?

I suppose you think that was a flat tire from a nail left in the road. Finished with the fruit, Amy drummed her fingers against the lip of the rolled-down window to help her channel her irritation.

No, your sniper idea just took on a lot more street cred.

And now we’re easier targets, she said, her eyes still going to the windows in the high-rises she found the most suspect.

Yeah, screw this. He noticed that traffic was slowing, with mounting congestion up ahead. Ready to rock and roll?

Always.

He slammed on the brakes to slow their roll. With the car at a complete stop, both of them popped the doors and sprang to either side. Thank God for the scissor doors that went straight up rather than out, as it made it that much easier to find an opening amid traffic.

They kept their heads down amid the cars in the adjoining lanes. After groaning at the price his elbow had paid making contact with the asphalt and rubbing the joint’s smarting surface, he said, I guess that answers any questions about why we’re dressed in black leather from head to toe, in a tropical country with eighty-five degree heat and ninety percent humidity.

There are a couple motorcyclists coming straight for us. From the way they’re outfitted, I don’t think they’re tourists.

Try not to kill them before they get here.

There’s an original idea. Amy took advantage of her unobstructed view, with the scissor doors of the Lamborghini raised high and out of the way, to glance at Trevor. Her tone changed abruptly, Oh wait, I see where you’re going. She unzipped her jacket, reached into the shoulder holster, raised her pistol with both hands, and prepared for her shot.

He did the same. And that explains why we’re all zipped up in eighty-five degree heat and ninety percent humidity. He mumbled, Though I think the nudist had the right idea about not giving a damn about putting people on edge.

The motorcyclists didn’t need to wait to get off a precision shot. Their automatic weapons allowed them to spray the general vicinity. And they were keen to test how quickly those banana magazines could be emptied.

The spread of bullets managed to strike a few gas tanks and trigger a couple of car explosions. The bicyclists and motorbike enthusiasts among the civilians saw no reason to slow on account of the fires in their faces, and continued zipping between the arrested cars.

Trevor and Amy both targeted the dominant hands of their attackers on the motorbikes, and put those hands out of commission. The automatic weapons in the hands of Trevor’s and Amy’s attackers went flying. Without missing a beat, the assailants plucked the pistols out of their chest holsters and started firing with their non-dominant hands.

Trevor and Amy took up cover in front of the stopped cars in the adjoining lanes, to make themselves less of a target. With congestion worsening, traffic was no longer moving. Nobody trains to fire just as well with their non-dominant hands as with their dominant hands, Amy said, unless . . .

He’s got his own assassins. And for the record, their motorcycle training was a lot better than yours.

Well, to be fair, they tried with me. It just didn’t entirely take. Turns out finesse driving does require a willingness to tone down the aggression a tad, as much as it pains me to agree with you.  They’d been firing at their attackers now for a few volleys.

Trevor noticed an enterprising capitalist had jumped in their stolen Lamborghini, appropriating it for himself, and intending to make off with it the instant traffic began moving again. He was dividing his time between making love to the vehicle with his hands and checking about to make sure he really was going to get away with this.

You realize that when traffic flow picks up, we’re dead, Trevor said. From the way these people drive, no one is missing a green light because there are a few humans standing in the way.

Yeah, if we don’t jump clear in time, they’ll just assume we’re robbing them.

Both bikers went down with the latest shots from Trevor’s and Amy’s pistols, their bikes colliding into the cars in the lanes to either side of them.

Once Trevor and Amy donned the helmets off the dead assassins, they got the bikes out from under them. Well, the helmets should help with the sniper rifles, he said, cinching down his helmet strap tighter.

Amy examined the slug wedged between the Lamborghini’s rim and the tire. Not with the shells they’re using. I suggest the bikes would help better.

They hopped on the bikes, and roared off, making the most of the traffic jam that had pinned even the Humvees behind them. Those mercenaries were now after them on foot. Good luck with that now that he and Amy were on the bikes, Trevor thought. And unless Rich, Morning Coffee Guy had additional snipers along his travel route, which they were still unwittingly on . . .

Trevor groaned, hearing the pinging of the shots against the bike. No matter how they kept turning down side streets, the shots kept coming. There’s no way we’re still on this guy’s cavalcade course, he said, making the most of the helmets’ built-in-mikes the two paired assassins had been using to communicate. And he couldn’t have the entire city covered with snipers.

Who says? You know how cheap they hire out down here? Of course, if he went Chinese, well, he might have every street in the country covered.

That’s such a racist remark.

Just because, of the two of us, Amy replied defensively, I’m the only one that can be bothered to keep up with economic realities . . .

What’s the point of being rich then? he blurted.

We’re going to have this argument now? Seriously? She glared at him. Traveling at Mach 2 on motorbikes that were built for dirt trails? Shouting over the hoods of cars? She added the last part as both bikes were forced to part in the middle for a last-second, lane-changing, refusing-to-signal jerk.

A glance behind him alerted Trevor to the fact that traffic had cleared behind them enough for at least some of the trapped Humvees to make it onto their street.

As a consequence, the road ahead of them was being blown to bits with rocket launchers fired out of the sunroofs of those wide-axle jeeps, creating big craters, and even bigger sinkholes.

Amy and Trevor were both doing their best Evil Knievel moves over the widening abysses, but these bikes didn’t quite have enough get up and go for these stunts, not without a ramp to shoot off of. The assassins must have chosen the model motorbike they did to better facilitate squeezing between lanes and jumping off the hoods of standing-still cars, if need be, to make sure nothing came between them and their marks. And if the chase took them off-road, to make sure that, even then, they would have the upper edge. But they hadn’t anticipated craters worthy of being pockmarks on the face of the moon.

For some unfathomable reason, Amy swerved toward the underground parking for the building on her right. Trevor had no choice but to follow her.

Now we’re trapped, he whined, exasperated, as he pulled off his helmet. What the hell are you thinking?

She pulled off her helmet. I’m thinking of the helicopter on the roof, belonging to the drug lord living in the penthouse.

They parked the bikes—and took the helmets with them. They had belonged to assassins; they might not stop sniper bullets, but they were probably reinforced enough to stop regular bullets. How do you know it’s a drug lord? he asked. I swear, you’re such a racist.

If you could be bothered to watch the nightly news once in a while . . . She tapped the elevator up-arrow button. Forget about current events. You realize if you don’t keep up with the pace of technology, you’ll find yourself bringing a lead shooter to a laser-gun party?

It’s about training, not toys.  As the doors parted and they climbed inside the elevator car, he hammered the button for the top floor. They would need the drug lord’s private elevator to ascend any further.

She was already making short work of the wiring in the control box to make sure their lift was an express bullet train to the top. He winced as her actions seemed to drive home her point about keeping up with tech better. Do you remember the days, Trevor, when you could take down a third-world dictator all by your lonesome? Of course, that’s why SEALs now fight in teams. Getting to be too much for everyone to be an expert in everything. Cut yourself some slack.

She stood beside him and tolerated the silence as long as she could. So, now you have nothing to say? She shook her head slowly. We’re under fire, I can’t get you to shut up.

I admit, it’s a nervous habit.

No, no, I get it. We all handle stress differently. You like to throw off the attitude and the one liners.

"Wait, how do you handle it?"

I kill people, Trevor. It’s always been enough for me.

Hmm. Very Zen. Less is more, I got you.

He gasped as the bellows of his lungs seemed to be fighting gravity more than normal.

You going to show me the engagement ring? Amy asked.

Nope. Going to need to trade it in for a smaller one just so we have enough running-around money to stay off-grid, until we can figure this thing out.

There he is. The pragmatist. Didn’t take long for him to surface. I suppose I have to wait for another blue moon for the romantic to show himself again.

If he clamped down on his jaw any harder, they’d need a hydraulic spreader to pry it open. You are so sexist, I swear. What globe-spanning spy-cum-assassin-cum-fixer has a romantic streak?

"What, a girl can’t be romantic and deadly at the same time? You’re the sexist, not me."

He sighed. He reached into his pocket and showed her the ring. She buckled at the knees. He had to catch her. It’s the elevator, moving so damned fast, I’m getting light-headed, she lied.

After a few more seconds staring transfixed, she said, You gonna let me try it on at least, before you pawn it?

And then try to get it off the hand of a trained assassin? I’ll take my chances stowing it in an alligator’s mouth. He snapped the box closed and returned it to his jacket pocket.

She made a sour face. Don’t suppose there’s any point getting too attached.

He chose to ignore the innuendo. They had gone as far as they could in the lift. They donned their helmets; and as the doors parted, so did they.

Guns out, they cleared both sides of the elevator, then they headed for the express ride to the penthouse. She hacked the unhackable, number-coded-plate with her trusty Wonder Woman belt, which had various pouches for who knows what. The woman was prepared for the apocalypse—on a good day.

It took her all of thirty seconds to bypass the keypad and the security cameras and to get the doors to open. They were headed upwards, toward a moment of truth.

What drug lord, exactly, didn’t sleep with a contingent of security, if they were lucky enough to find him asleep?

There was a party in full swing when they hit the penthouse. From what Trevor could tell, it had been going full tilt for at least a couple of days. The place was a sty. Grant you, the garbage lying about was the kind typically only seen by maid service, cleaning up a Hollywood after-party. The spent gold chocolate wrappers—made from real gold leaf—were a nice touch.

Trevor and Amy crossed to the sliding glass doors and the rooftop terrace without incident—the terrace with the helicopter. There was some finger pointing by the party’s host, the drug lord, who laughed. And some security types were pulling their guns and firing, but they couldn’t aim to save their lives. Everyone was too high on blow. The mounds of white powder decorated the place like they were all cooking-class students with a pile of flour all their own to help them learn how to bake a cake.

You see them too! the drug lord crooned and laughed some more. It’s time to stop when giant ants start walking the floor on two legs.

Trevor had forgotten about the black, smoked-visor motorcycle helmets. Covered in black leather from neck to toe, they probably did look like a pair of black ants walking on two legs.

I’m not so sure those are ants, boss, said the head of security, identifiable by the fact that he was the most sober of the lot, apparently holding on to more professionalism for longer than the rest.

Whatever they are, feel free to fire away. They’re creeping me out.

Trevor and Amy were on the terrace, and double-timing it, with the don’s last remarks for incentive.

Once inside the helicopter, Trevor took over in the pilot’s seat. He’d been schooled to fly any number of helicopters as part of his SEALs training. I don’t think I can fly this thing.

The drug lord’s security team poured out onto the terrace, and the shots pinged off the mercifully bulletproof helicopter. The don had decided to go with the security upgrade package on the Aerospatiale SA-342L1 Gazelle. Good man. Yeah, but how long before they dragged out the rocket launchers? You’d think people could order them from Walmart-online, by way of UPS, the way Trevor just couldn’t seem to avoid them.

I’m going to resist the urge to say I told you so, Amy said, as she ripped the helmet off his head and replaced it with the one poised on the seat behind him. Everything’s controlled from the helmet with eye-motion.  She slouched into the co-pilot’s seat and curled up for a catnap.

"Now?  Now you pick to go to sleep?"

I have complete confidence in your learning curve, even if you’re positively prehistoric.

He wanted to give her a piece of his mind, but the truth was, it was kind of fun coming up to speed on this bird, and they were dragging out the RPGs, damned predictably.

Trevor already had the bird in the air, but he had to circle around to take the security team out, or he and Amy would never get clear of the RPGs. He was looking for a way to fire his rockets when he realized he wasn’t going to make it. Their RPGs were already en route. He swerved the helicopter out of the path of incoming fire and banged his helmet in frustration. The thing must have taken the hit as a sign they were under fire and popped up an additional virtual reality display he could touch with his fingers that was all weapons systems options.

He let loose with the machine guns. There went the security team. He could have chosen to fire the rockets, but he wanted to spare the party guests inside. They couldn’t all be mass murderers. But there was the stoned drug lord, aiming the RPG launcher at him from inside his living room—forgetting about his bulletproof windows. The blow back alone . . . But it was worse than that. The idiot had the big bazooka’s barrel aimed the wrong way. There went the penthouse. And the terrace.

Trevor pulled up and away before the body pieces raining down on him gummed up the helo’s working parts, all while saying a quiet prayer for the guests trapped inside.

We’re in the clear now, he said, thinking that the rockets which missed them could still seriously mess with somebody’s day. Now I don’t mind you taking a catnap. He checked the airspace all around him with the help of the helmet. Um, spoke too soon. Did you hear me? I said I spoke too soon!  He groaned when she refused to stir. I really wish sometimes you’d have a hell of a lot less confidence in me. Honestly, I wouldn’t mind the condescension, not one bit.

He counted three chase helicopters and two Northrop F-5s, all with Mexican military insignia. The jets had already released a rocket each. And unlike any of the ones fired at them so far—these would lock on. He changed the direction he was headed—straight for the chase helicopters. So long as I can outshoot them, this should work. In theory.

It turned out the Mexican military helo pilots were pretty good shots, and even better with maneuvering around those heat-seeking missiles than he was. I guess I won’t be making any more cracks about the cut-rate Mexican air force. Who’d have thought people collecting a government paycheck could be this dedicated to anything? He glanced over at the snoozing Amy. "Let’s hope what they say is true, and you can appreciate my repartee even from a comatose state."

He stopped trying to target the helos’ weapons’ systems. Their pilots seemed to know how accurately he could shoot at what distance and stayed just out of range. He had rockets; they just had machine guns. But he needed the two he had left for the F-5s, which were going to be even more impossible to hit otherwise.

Then it dawned on him. The technology in his helicopter was far superior to that in the other helicopters. Use that, Trevor. You may hate surrendering control. But maybe this once. He used his index finger on the virtual screen to press Auto Kill.

Whoa! It was like going on a Coney Island ride, a really fast one. His helo maneuvered itself in and around the other three helicopters, all while sidestepping the two chase rockets, until two of the Mexican air force choppers were downed with the very same rockets meant for him.

His autopilot AI then swung around the helo in front, and shot off the main rotor. Detached from the swirling helicopter blades, the flying walrus sank like a stone.

The F-5s fired off two more rockets.

Trevor’s helo, still being auto-piloted, flew straight up. Since when can these things go straight up? His protest was colored by the screeching whine his lungs were determined to produce. His back was forced against the seat so hard that the vertebrae popped.

His tricked-out drug-lord helo went past the vertical height the jets were flying at, then killed the engine. Now Trevor was falling hard. He glanced over at Amy, irritated that she couldn’t be bothered to interrupt her catnap.

He understood in an instant why the AI in the helicopter had elected for this move. Now they were cold. No heat signature. Certainly not one to rival the two jets. But would that be enough for the rockets to lock on to the fighter jets that launched them? Surely the pilots would have countermeasures in place against such a thing. Perhaps the artificial intelligence running the helicopter now was smart enough to hack its way past the computer defenses of the older-model jets. They were an older model, Trevor reminded himself.

Wow. Trevor swallowed hard. However the AI did it . . . Strike two jets which should have been retired long ago.

He panned his head to Amy. Yeah, no worries. I got this. He grimaced and winced as he twisted the kinks out of his back, and started searching for an exit strategy. Now that they had some lead time, at least until whoever was chasing them caught up with them again, they should try and lay low and plan their next move.

Trevor was getting an idea.

Amy wasn’t going to like it.

Suddenly he was delighted she was catnapping. It would mean no argument.

Hours later, Trevor brought the chopper down near a small rural town. The most high-tech thing about the place looked to be the rammed-earth buildings. And the fact that a few of the goats sported bells around their necks. She was going to kill him. No grid to jack into. No electronic gizmo to work her magic on. If that wasn’t bad enough, they were out of ammunition. He checked his magazine and hers to confirm. He hadn’t employed his martial arts training in a while. Of course, the people he was up against seldom let him get that close.

Trevor took a deep breath as the helicopter skids touched ground in the middle of the jungle, just north of the village. He killed the turbine engine on the helo. The first thing to pop into his head was, these people are likely on some drug lord’s payroll to keep guard on his fields—if they aren’t out here manufacturing illegal drugs for themselves. The hideout was probably blown by someone on a sat phone before they could even exit out of the helicopter. Trevor, that’s so racist. Good thing Amy isn’t awake to realize what a hypocrite you are the second you shared your thoughts.

TWO

SHANGHAI, CHINA

The Lesotho prince had boarded an evening cruise boat to enjoy Shanghai's classic skyline views of colonial-era buildings and tall skyscrapers along the Huangpu River. So far, the hype was not nearly as exaggerated as the real thing. The vista: simply dazzling.

Even his royal upbringing couldn’t have given him the world the way Lara Lietoman had given it to him. And his wealth had only grown since relinquishing his rights to the throne of what was a constitutional monarchy, in any case, with little real power. Real power was far more his thing.

Shanghai's broad palette of subtle colors lit up the skyscrapers at night like no other city on earth. By comparison, Tokyo, with all its garish neon, would seem like a sad disappointment. The prince dragged his eyes away from the sight and set them on the case in his hand. The ornate, hand-carved piece, was a Chinese puzzle box. You could own one of them for years, having never fathomed the way in or out of the box. An ancient security measure, to be sure, but he rather fancied the game of skillfully unlocking the box. The cruise, as it turned out, had been well-planned, because it helped him pass the time in between rounds, and drinks, as he determined to find the combination of sliding panels that revealed the treasure