Gorgon

CHAPTER 15

After setting off the white-noise net, Sam pulled a four-foot loop of beaded wire from over his shoulder and placed it on the roof. He turned his back on it, and pressed a stud on a small box. The ring detonated, primarily downwards, cutting a near perfect hole through concrete, wood, and plaster. He turned, and immediately jumped through it.

The big HAWC landed hard, his near 500-pound electronic and hydraulic-assisted frame sinking an inch into the parquetry floor. Switching his lenses to thermal, he searched quickly in the swirling cloud of dust and darkness — he knew he only had seconds before his quarry made his way to a fortified space. As if in direct response to his thought, a wall slid back at one end of the room, revealing a door with a dull metallic sheen, and so thick it wouldn’t have been out of place in a bank vault.

A coughing, spitting sound from behind a huge couch sent Sam rushing over to heave the large piece of furniture out of the way. He lifted the crawling man to his feet, dragged him to a chair, and slammed him down hard. He grabbed his jaw, looking into his face to assess his identity.

‘Don’t kill me.’ Monti flinched away, crushing his eyes shut. It was a logical reaction to being confronted by a towering stranger dressed in black with bulb-like goggles, who had just dropped down through a hole in your roof.

Ready for a chat then, Sam thought. The big HAWC slapped the man hard. He needed Monti talking … and fast. There was no time for negotiation or pleasantries. Today, lives depended on speed … and brutality.

He grabbed Monti’s jaw again, and got so close his face nearly touched the Italian’s. ‘Live or die?’

Monti babbled and tried to reach up to Sam’s hand on his jaw.

Sam slapped him again, even harder. ‘Live or die?’ he screamed.

Monti looked like he’d been physically beaten. He began to weep, and pointed with one shaking finger. ‘There’s money in my safe.’

Another slap, this time so hard Monti was almost knocked from the chair and his eyes rolled in his head for a moment.

Sam grabbed his face again and pulled him close. ‘Fuck your money. Live or die, you get to choose. Last chance.’

He reached into a pocket and pulled out a photograph; it showed a tanned and handsome Janus Caresche. He held it up in front of the trembling man’s face. ‘What was he after in the Basilica Cistern?’

‘Huh …’ Monti squinted at the picture. ‘I … I don’t know.’

Sam exploded, lifting the man and throwing him into the wall. Monti lay still for a moment, then scuttled toward an ornate desk. He reached for something underneath it, then spun with a small silver pistol in his hand. He fired point-blank, hitting Sam in the chest. Sam was rocked back a half-step, and snorted. The biological plating wasn’t even dented.

Monti turned to crawl toward the panic room, but Sam lifted one large boot and stomped down on his gun wrist, breaking the bones. Gianfranco Monti screamed, holding his arm, the hand flopping loosely at the end of the crushed radius and ulna.

Sam gritted his teeth; he hated this part. But men and women were dying out there, while this creep had been happily sipping champagne.

‘What was in the Basilica Cistern in Istanbul?’ he roared. He flipped the desk over and dragged Monti back to the seat.

The Italian shook his head, weeping. ‘I don’t know … no one knows.’

There was a commotion outside the locked door, and a few zipping shots from an automatic weapon. Sam saw Monti lean forward, an atom of hope in his eyes. Perhaps his men had come at last to deal with this monstrous brute.

The door crashed inwards, and Monti slumped as four HAWCs appeared. They nodded to Sam, then stationed themselves outside the room.

Monti’s face paled at what came in next. The Arcadian moved smoothly, seeming to absorb the light and air around him. He was like a large predator, eyes silver, his suit dappled with camouflage, almost invisible amid the floating plaster dust and flickering light. The only areas of the suit that stayed in focus were splattered red with blood.

‘No.’ Monti held up a hand, but seemed unable to tear his eyes away.

Sam nodded to Alex, but the other man wasn’t watching him. His stare was fixed on the small Italian, so intense it could have been a pair of machine lasers set to burn holes right through him.

‘Time’s up; my turn.’ Alex’s voice was without pity.

Sam drew back a fist that was as big as Monti’s head. ‘Last chance, asshole, or I turn you over to him.’

Monti reached into his pocket, and pulled out a silver key. He pointed toward the vault room with a shaking hand. ‘The locked cabinet, bottom drawer — Constantine’s Sauromatian Codex.’

‘Hold.’ Sam held up a hand, stopping the HAWCs on the ornate oaken staircase. They froze, weapons up, sighting at different quadrants through their scopes.

Sam listened closely to the incoming coded message from Hammerson. ‘New team — ten gatecrashers coming in from your east using Spec Ops stealth pattern four. Look like they know what they’re doing. Could be Spetsnaz.’

‘Roger that,’ Sam said. ‘Engage?’

There was silence for a second, before Hammerson’s voice came back low and slow. ‘If Russian, send ’em to hell. Payback for Graham. Put your masks on them and leave the bodies exposed. Let Volkov explain that to the Italians.’

‘Acknowledged.’ Sam turned to his Red and Blue teams. ‘We got ten incoming in an S4 double wedge from the east. We are authorized to use all force. Trident formation — no mess, people.’

The HAWCs reloaded, then flew down the steps toward the front doors. Red and Blue would take the sides, while Alex and Sam would get between the two five-man teams.

Sam’s comm unit pinged again. ‘Hold,’ he said, repeating the order that had just blasted into his ear.

‘Be advised, new team are carrying HKMP5 submachine guns, and I can see an L96 sniper rifle. They’re SAS — send ’em home, and then wrap things up.’ Hammerson spoke matter-of-factly, all urgency gone.

Sam knew Hammerson was drilling down with VELA — he’d be able to tell the color of their eyes if they were visible. He grunted. ‘Acknowledged.’

Hammerson’s voice lowered. ‘Be advised, Mission Leader, that Prodigal Son may not be in control.’

‘Fuck it,’ Sam whispered.

‘Send him to negotiate — a little friend-from-foe test,’ Hammerson ordered, and signed off.

‘Acknowledged, out.’ Sam looked at his teams. ‘At ease, people, we got friendlies.’ His eyes stayed on Alex a while longer. The man looked calm, in control. ‘You’re up,’ Sam told him. He cradled his weapon, and motioned with a small bow to the front door. ‘Go and consult with our British friends … and be nice.’

Alex pushed his rifle up over his shoulder, and walked through the remains of the huge door he had obliterated only minutes before. Alone, he stepped out onto the front landing. The response was immediate: a flash grenade went off right at his feet.

The powerful percussion wave was accompanied by blinding light and momentary heat. Anything within twenty feet would be temporarily blinded. Anything closer would be blown backward and receive debilitating flash burns. Six of the SAS team came in low and fast, expecting to occupy the front landing, and neutralize any targets with any fight still in them. What they got was something very different.

When the smoke cleared, Alex was still standing, legs planted wide, a black-clad colossus. His body had immediately adjusted to the change in pressures, rebalancing him and keeping him rooted to the spot. His suit smoked in places, but the biological plating had absorbed the force of the small blast. His arms hung loosely by his side, relaxed. He looked at the six soldiers. ‘Cupboard’s bare; stand down.’

The men approaching froze, weapons up and trained on him. All wore black and green assault suits, with night black paint stripes on their faces. Several wore a Cyclops night scope over one eye.

‘Fucking Yanks, great.’ A man stood from where Alex knew the other four British Special Ops team had concealed themselves. He pointed at Alex with a gloved hand, the trigger finger exposed. ‘Like shit we’ll stand down. You’re even further out of your jurisdiction than we are. We’re here to do a job. Stand the fuck down yourself.’

Alex shook his head. ‘There’s nothing left. Go home, boys.’

The Red and Blue team HAWCs appeared from the east and west side of the building, guns loose but ready. Sam stood in the doorway, arms folded over his cradled weapon. Alex could see that the SAS men still concealed had their guns shouldered and their eyes to scopes, moving back and forth between the HAWCs. They were far from at ease.

He took several steps forward, coming to the edge of the verandah, and looked down at the seven SAS standing on the front lawn. ‘Search if you want, but clear a path. We’re leaving.’

‘Bullshit.’ This from a huge soldier standing out to the left side of the first speaker. ‘You guys have cleaned us out — you better learn to share, and quick.’

The SAS ringed the steps, clearly ready to oppose any move the HAWCs made to vacate. Their guns were pointed down, but fingers were on the triggers.

Behind Alex, Sam’s comm unit pinged, and he heard the big man say softly, ‘Incoming — Polizia di Stato. Ten minutes.’

Alex looked back at the first speaker with the fingerless glove — obviously the SAS group leader. ‘You heard. Italian police coming in — things are about to get messy. Next time, get here earlier.’

The bigger SAS man stepped to within a dozen feet of Alex, barring his path. ‘Messy for you maybe. We got you outnumbered nearly two to one. Show us what you retrieved and we all go home happy. Okay, sunshine?’ He grinned, his long teeth overly white in his black-painted face. ‘I’d hate to have to take it off you now.’

The smile dropped as the big man rolled his enormous shoulders. Alex took a last look along the line of SAS soldiers, assessing distance and readiness. He held his arms wide and yelled, ‘Attention!’ The word had the desired effect — the seven standing turned toward him, and the three sniper scopes followed. He’d drawn their focus, and then he moved — fast.

One minute he was on the verandah, and then he just … wasn’t. He struck the huge British soldier first, up under the chin, causing the long white teeth to clack together like castanets. He didn’t stop to see if the man was unconscious, he didn’t need to. He continued on to the leader of the group, grabbing him around the throat and dragging him quickly to the tree line and away from his forces. His men tried to follow him with their guns, but Alex used him as a shield. The tough warrior struggled against Alex, but Alex’s grip was like iron cable.

Alex whispered into his ear: ‘We’re all on the side of the angels here. I’m sure you’ll negotiate a better outcome through other channels. Don’t push us — not here, not today.’

He quickly disarmed the man, released him, and let his weapons fall to the ground. The British soldier was up in a flash, hands bunched into hard fists, but Alex had already turned away.

‘Hey.’ The SAS man took a step and then paused. ‘No one’s that bloody fast.’

Alex kept walking, and the other Brits moved their aim between him and the HAWCs on the verandah. The HAWCs came down the steps to join Alex, stepping over the SAS giant still out cold on the grass.

The SAS leader rubbed his neck as he angrily picked up his weapons. He waved his men down, and they stepped aside.

Alex turned to him and gave a small salute. ‘Next time.’

The man walked toward Alex, looking him up and down. ‘Well, well, what do you fucking know — the freak is real. The fucking Arcadian.’ He gave Alex a small salute that ended with him pointing at Alex’s chest. ‘Next time it is then, sunshine.’

He turned to his men and pointed to the big downed soldier. ‘All right, lads, get that arsehole up on his feet, and let’s bunk it. Party’s over.’

Alex waved the HAWCs on, and they started to jog, picking up speed on the way to their concealed chopper.

The SAS leader watched them go, then barked an order. ‘Jimmy, Bolter, get up there and see what state they left Monti in. If he’s breathing, he’s coming with us. Bag him if you have to.’