Call of Destiny Read online

  “So did I.”

  “Yeah, well–” She tapped the microphone again. “Go ahead, Six-Pack.”

  There was an unmistakable hostility in the way she looked into the rear, where Riyun was inspecting the dead. He’d killed his target, but the other shots had to be her doing. It wasn’t perfect—one had required a couple rounds—but given the circumstances, it was solid work.

  She twisted around in her seat, helmet in hand. “Rooftop security monitors are offline. We’re a go.” There was a strange calm to her voice.

  “You okay?”

  She stared at the helmet. “I guess. I–I really thought you were gone.”

  “That didn’t seem to stop you from finishing the job. Good work.”

  Her eyes tracked across the bodies. “Thanks.”

  Riyun leaned out the open door, powered the grav pack on, and dropped toward the terrace below, landing as his tac-net flickered red.

  “Power empty.”

  He shook his leg out. “I noticed.”

  Symbra landed beside him. Canvas canopies slapped noisily in the wind, tugging at the anchoring tables that were covered with silver serving sets. Strings of lights strung from the building to the terrace edge swung like jump ropes, reflecting crazily from puddles and water-slick surfaces.

  Overhead, the Kydaas skimmer descended, still running dark.

  They were alone on the south terrace except for the corpses of what must have been the legitimate staff. The bodies had been dragged to the west end of the open structure and left in front of tall, potted plants. Dark green fronds danced in the wind, sometimes hiding the dead from sight.

  He exhaled. “South terrace clear. Whisper, Six-Pack—proceed to the north terrace.”

  The skimmer headed to the opposite side of the building, the soft static hum of its motors just another part of the stormy night.

  Symbra checked her weapon. “How’d you do that?”

  “Survive the lightning strike?”

  “Yes.”

  Riyun rapped a knuckle against his helmet. “Quick thinking.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Nah. It was pure luck. If I’d been on the ground, I wouldn’t have. Everything came back online just before I became part of the decorations.”

  “Don’t take this wrong, but I prefer the idea that you were in control the whole time.”

  “No one’s always in control, Symbra.”

  “I know. I just prefer to believe that.”

  She knew a lot for someone her age.

  Tawod established a video connection through the tac-net. It was good enough to make out the north terrace—smaller, with darker tiles, empty except for a few waterlogged tables and chairs bunched against a wall. The terrace hadn’t been used during the governor’s visit, except maybe for a private rendezvous.

  Business was conducted that way—away from monitors and prying eyes.

  The hacker skipped up to the sliding glass doors, which were protected by a steel-and-glass overhang. There was enough illumination coming from inside that he had his camera set for visible light. He removed his helmet, checking his reflection. He was a handsome kid–the same long brown hair and bronze skin as Symbra but with a strong nose that really complimented his sharp cheeks. He was also a good hacker, but his vanity was becoming a real problem.

  He brushed back his hair and mimicked a kiss. “You getting that, Symbra?”

  Riyun adjusted his armor. “Stay on mission, and stick to call signs.”

  “You bet. Entry looks clear.”

  Whisper took her helmet off as well, revealing brown, frizzy hair in the reflection of the sliding glass door. Her real name was Javika. With skin darker than Tawod’s and a broad nose, she looked nothing like him or anyone else on the team. She cupped her hands over her black eyes and pressed against the glass. She was taller than the hacker—nearly as tall as Riyun—and her wiry frame and dark violet armor made her seem comparatively skinny. “We can proceed?”

  Riyun cocked an eye at Symbra. “You see anything on the scanners when you were up in that vehicle?”

  She hesitated. “Um…”

  “Any patrols between that terrace and the operations center?”

  “I—I didn’t scan them.”

  “Why?”

  Tawod chuckled. “I ran the scans remotely for her. All clear. Just like I said.”

  The assignment had been Symbra’s. Riyun made a mental note to review procedure with her later. “All right. Proceed.”

  Javika and Tawod sealed their helmets back up.

  They were on the building network now, encrypted visitor traffic no one should notice, given Tawod’s skills. He’d been inside the building systems undetected, so it made sense the team hadn’t seen much trouble.

  The north terrace doors hissed open, and the two of them entered.

  An overlay of the building interior settled over Riyun’s tac-net HUD, merging with his own infrared and ultraviolet video.

  Tawod strutted through what must have been a banquet area, and the lighting dimmed to the point where he switched to infrared. “Operations center’s down this hall, then two levels down and off to the east.” As he spoke, the path he described turned blue on the display.

  Nothing significant showed up: furniture and equipment–cold, unused.

  “Proceed.” Riyun waved for Symbra to follow through the sliding glass doors that would let them into the building. “Whisper, check the route to the conference chamber. They should have patrols of some sort. The rest of you, when the signal comes, insert through the north terrace.”

  Javika and Tawod split, the handsome hacker jogging toward the stairwell, the wiry assassin sliding along the walls that would take her to the eastern conference chamber, where the terrorists were supposedly holed up with the captive governor. Her duster darkened to black, his shifted from a bright green to a forest green in twilight.

  Something moved beyond the doors as Riyun approached. He waved for Symbra to take cover behind one of the tables and did the same, lying flat on the tiled terrace floor.

  A tablecloth flapped wetly in the wind until he pinned the material to the table leg.

  The doors opened. Two sets of legs stepped out. Booted feet. Black pants.

  Migra Rutai.

  Riyun unclipped his gun and set it down softly, then drew his khanza long knife. “We’ve got two visitors.”

  This close in, gunfire would be a problem, and the knife could handle most armor well enough.

  After setting her weapon down, Symbra pulled out a menij dagger—shorter, narrower. He’d seen one like it before—the tip could punch through even heavier armor than his blade. Someone who knew what they were doing could drive the length of the blade completely through a helmet. Like a lot of what Symbra carried, it was the sort of weapon that cost more than he’d made in his best year of work.

  Riyun signaled that he would take the terrorist approaching on the east side. Symbra crawled the other way. By the time he reached the end of the table, the terrorists were coming around the corners.

  He flashed a sign: Go!

  She launched herself into her target; he did the same.

  His blade seemed to draw in the darkness, a shadow in the gray. When he brought the weapon down, armor gave beneath the blow as easily as flesh and bone. Blood gushed—black as midnight until caught in the dancing lights—and the terrorist fell back.

  There was an instant to catch the look of shock on a puffy, middle-aged female face, the desperate confusion as training told the woman to bring her weapon up and fire, and instinct told her to clutch at the wound and staunch the bleeding.

  Then she was down, still confused, but now too weak to be a threat.

  But Symbra’s target was still up.

  Riyun sprinted for the melee, guts coiling in dread.

  The other terrorist was big. Really big. A powerfully built man with a finger-high, white strip of hair rising from close-cut dark hair. He had Symbra by the right wrist and was twisting
her around and pushing her back.

  Before Riyun could close, White Stripe swept Symbra’s legs.

  She hit the concrete hard and lay still.

  White Stripe brought his gun up, sighted—

  Riyun growled and desperately hurled himself at the bigger man. The swing of the long knife was wild, too wide to hit the other man’s exposed head. There was no chance the blade would cut through the brute’s heavy armor, not with the limited swing necessitated by the hasty jump.

  The blade scraped across the big man’s armored chest just as he brought his weapon around.

  But the terrorist was too slow.

  Riyun was past the barrel, hugging the brute. And there was no way the lieutenant was going to let go.

  His blade clattered to the tiles, as useless as the terrorist’s gun the way they were clinched.

  They went to the floor.

  Compared to most, Riyun was a big man and brawny, and he knew his way around close combat better than most. But he was no match for the towering White Stripe. Punches only seemed to anger the huge thug.

  But when the brutish terrorist punched, it rocked the lieutenant’s head, and stars flitted in his vision.

  Another punch and Riyun groaned. His arms were noodles.

  Blood drizzled onto the mask of his helmet as the big man wrapped his paws around Riyun’s throat.

  Blood? That seemed odd. It was turning watery in the rain…

  It wasn’t his blood! Symbra had actually managed to get her dagger into the huge terrorist’s neck.

  He was hurt. Bleeding.

  Significantly so. Even his grip seemed weaker than his first punch.

  Riyun kept the brute’s attention by grabbing one wrist with a rubbery hand, while sneaking the other around and up to the bloody wound.

  As the lieutenant’s shaking fingers reached for the ugly hole left by the dagger, his vision narrowed into a dark tunnel.

  Then he found the wound.

  At first, he scraped a gloved thumb over the inflamed flesh, then immediately after he drove his middle finger in.

  Deep.

  White Stripe reared back, hands now clutching at the gory hole. His lips twisted in an agonized snarl, and he let out a tormented howl.

  Riyun searched around for his knife and tried to wriggle free of the other man’s weight, but the brute kept his enemy immobile.

  And then White Stripe shook off the pain. His eyes narrowed.

  He punched Riyun once again, and something popped in his jaw. A stunted groan followed, despite his best effort to hold everything in. His awareness seemed uncertain, with prickly lights teasing at the periphery.

  Fight it! Stay awake!

  Then the big brute stiffened. He shivered and made a small sound as blood trailed down his face from a new wound.

  The terrorist swayed for a second, then slumped, revealing Symbra and her dripping blade. “You okay, Lieutenant?”

  “Lightning.” Riyun wriggled free of the terrorist. “And I’m fine.”

  “Oh. It looked like he—”

  “I’m fine.”

  “He was a huge pile of meat.”

  “I’ve killed bigger.”

  “I thought he was going to—”

  Riyun grabbed his knife. “Drop it.”

  Javika was in his ear. “There were two guards in the corridor.”

  Were. That meant she’d killed them and hid their bodies.

  The video she sent showed a hallway with pale splashes of light and deep shadows. The door they wanted was beyond a bend and another short hall.

  Eight dead terrorists. Riyun was on the clock now. He waved for Symbra to follow as he slipped through the sliding glass doors. “Six-Pack, status?”

  The hacker sent a video of himself standing in front of a long mirror. “Still looking great, Lieutenant.”

  “Lightning.”

  “Looking great, Lightning.”

  “Thanks. And the operations center?”

  The image shifted to a closed door several feet away. “Ready to go on your mark.”

  Riyun picked up the pace, no longer concerned about someone hearing their squeaky, booted steps. The halls were clear. The team could begin insertion. “Listen up, people. On my mark, drop to the terrace. Six-Pack—”

  “Take out the operations center.” Tawod wiggled his fingers, as he liked to do before major hacking activity. “I know.”

  A turn, a short hallway brightly lit, another turn, and they would be at the long, dim corridor where Javika waited.

  Symbra’s soft panting bled into the open channel, only slightly louder than the echo of their hardened soles on the polished tiles.

  Riyun sprinted. “Go!”

  Video from the skimmer showed the rest of the team dropping to the north terrace.

  Ahead of Riyun, the wiry assassin separated from shadow.

  Tawod shouldered the operations center door open with a chuckle. “Show time!”

  And then his video feed died.

  3

  Riyun had an instant to register what he’d seen just before the rumble of an explosion shook the floor.

  There’d been a tripwire. Backpacks. Devices with flashing lights.

  A booby trap.

  Why had Tawod been so sloppy? Training. A failure in training.

  And now the kid was dead, and his death had triggered a deafening alarm, which clanged around inside Riyun’s helmet. The hallway’s dim lights were out. The lightning strike had broken something in his armor, and he was cooking.

  If he didn’t come up with a solution, the heat would be the least of his problems.

  The plan had been simple: Take out the operations center software, insert some cameras into the conference room, get a sense of where the terrorists were, and then remove targets one at a time until the team had to charge in.

  Now everything was complicated.

  He had to uncomplicate things and fast. “Let’s move, people.”

  Javika bolted down the hallway, and he followed, stopping at the turn.

  Symbra scraped to a stop behind them. “Anything?”

  They were looking at double doors. According to the overlay still on their tac-net, the room beyond was huge, with several smaller rooms on either side. There was also a window that looked out to the east.

  How many terrorists were there?

  Boots clattered in the distance: His team was coming.

  The double doors burst open. Three people ran through, weapons at the ready.

  Riyun grunted, then popped around the corner and opened fire.

  The terrorists dropped, shock on their faces.

  These weren’t professionals, or they would’ve known better.

  Javika sped past, taking a position to the left of the double doors. Riyun waved Symbra to the right side, then followed, yanking the doors open.

  It was a desperate move, but it was a desperate time.

  The governor. They had to save the governor, or even expenses wouldn’t be paid for.

  As expected, the Migra Rutai had taken up position in the main conference room. There were twelve of them huddled around the large table, with the governor seated right in the middle. He’d probably demanded that chair at the end of the table at some point. The look on their faces was precious: stunned, disbelieving.

  Riyun had a moment, and he took advantage, opening fire on the people to his left, away from the corporate executive-turned-politician.

  Javika followed up as if she’d read the lieutenant’s mind, darting behind him to the right, using him as cover, until she was close enough to jump onto the closest of the terrorists to the right. She had a sword, but unlike Riyun, she was a master of the blade, an artisan. The weapon slashed, and blood spurted from the terrorist’s neck.

  That was all Riyun saw, although he heard the screams of surprise from the other terrorists between the bursts from his gun. Then Symbra was at his side, her own weapon booming.

  But the terrorists were no longer surprised. T
hey were returning fire.

  Bullets rattled off Riyun’s armor.

  He dropped to a knee, gasping from the impacts.

  There were still several terrorists, and one of them had run for Governor Dareth, propping the older man up as a human shield while screaming. “Freedom for humanity!”

  It was so typical and predictable, and Riyun could do nothing about it. The wind had been knocked out of him, and even though the bullets had been stopped, his body felt like it had been pummeled by a thousand robot-driven hammers.

  But Symbra didn’t hesitate.

  She kept firing, dropping to a knee and still using him as cover. And Javika moved from one terrorist to the next, keeping each target between her and those trying to fire on her. The terrorists had no choice but to shoot their own.

  And then the graceful assassin would move on to her next victim.

  A distinctive, throaty whirring came from behind: the squad’s heavy assault weapon. Powerful rounds tore two of the terrorists apart.

  The weapons went silent.

  Only the lone terrorist holding Dareth hostage remained. Skinny, dressed in layered black, the terrorist’s greasy, black hair and tattoo-covered, sunken cheeks made it nearly impossible to tell age or gender. But the wild, gray eyes—those held desperate murder. “Pawns!”

  The governor was a big man long gone to fat. His bronze face was red now. Still, he was a greater physical presence than his Migra Rutai captor.

  Riyun held out his hands. “This doesn’t have to end in death.”

  “Of course it does.” A tear trickled down the terrorist’s cheeks and disappeared against the spirals of black ink. “For me today. But they’re coming for all of us. The sky is burning!”

  The politician didn’t wait to have his brains blown out, instead elbowing the terrorist in the gut and shoving him away. “Kill him!”

  Riyun aimed at the terrorist. “Drop it!”

  Resolve settled on the tattooed face, and the terrorist pointed his gun at Dareth and fired.

  At the exact same moment, the rest of Riyun’s squad fired.

  The terrorist jerked for an instant, then fell back in a gory heap.

  Governor Dareth doubled over, clutching his gut. “You irresponsible imbeciles!”