3

Grady returned with two guys I didn't know. I assumed they were on his spec ops team, part of a security element. Probably badasses who specialized in mixed martial arts and who’d been hired to kill me if things went south.

I hadn't been popular among my peers, even when I was spec ops, but I thought most of them could empathize with my situation. Their masters could turn on them at any moment, the same way they had with me.

Maybe not the spec ops guys, but definitely anyone who'd seen something the folks upstairs didn’t want other people to know.

All three of them were average height and build, unless you knew what to look for. Walking down the street, they'd look like normal guys. None of them had the over-muscled physiques of bodybuilders, but I had no doubt they were strong as hell and ready to throw down.

Grady's knuckles were covered with massive scars from all the fights he’d been in. He had another that ran from his upper lip down across his chin—not unlike the shrapnel wound ten years ago that nearly claimed the eye I was born with. We used to tell him he should grow out some facial hair and cover that ugly scar up, but he never did.

Death row wasn’t like other prisons, or other parts of prisons. No one cat-called me or harassed my escorts. We didn’t really know each other, and few of us had the energy for those types of shenanigans. We were doing our time and facing our end in our own way.

When the last prison gate slammed behind me, I realized this was actually happening. I was leaving this place, maybe for good, and it felt like waking from a long dream.

Grady and his two buddies escorted me quickly to a shuttle full of humorless soldiers. From there, we entered a slipspace tunnel. The pilot refused to fill me in on the flight plan, so I could only guess our destination.

Not that it really mattered. They handcuffed me to a table in a briefing room, forcing me to listen to the briefing we were about to have. I guess they knew me well enough to know I probably would have opted to crash in my room for the duration of the flight.

Briggs always entered a room the same way, fast and pissed off. He slammed down a pad on the huge table as other members of the team filled the room. These were officers and handlers, very important people who planned things so that other people could do the fighting and dying.

Grady moved to the back with a couple of other spec ops guys to listen and take notes.

“All right, Cain,” began Briggs. “This briefing is for you. Everyone else knows the whats, whys, and wherefores. So we’ll get down to the details you need to know and start getting you fitted for your gear. We’ll be entering a slip tunnel soon, which will take us to the system in question. Don’t ask. You don’t need to know where it is.”

“I know what system Dreadmax is located in,” I commented.

The officers and intelligence types murmured and typed alarmed messages into their pads. One put a hand to his ear and hurriedly left the room like the sky had just fallen.

Briggs leaned toward the table and stared down at me where I was handcuffed in my chair. “Thanks. For that.”

“No problem. When you play stupid games, you win stupid prizes. I didn’t think that was a secret, or why would you have told me where I was going?”

What followed was an awkward silence. Maybe some of the officers were pissing their pants as their careers evaporated from what they already saw as a failure. Hard to say in a room like this, but one thing was certain: this mission was such that failure meant a lot of resignations, with enough blame to destroy lives.

And I was at the center of it.

None of them could imagine going in alone to Dreadmax and bringing out a hostage or prisoner or whatever this guy was. I’d been in dark ops long enough to know anything they told me needed to be taken with a grain of salt. And a shot of whiskey, if possible.

“Your mission is simple, or at least straightforward,” began Briggs. “Doctor Paul Hastings was lost on Dreadmax during a humanitarian mission. You were selected due to your training and specializations. We will insert you with a small team who will provide overwatch and extraction once you have located and secured the target.” Briggs flipped through several pages on his device to check details. Apparently, few of them were for my edification.

By team, Briggs meant the group of elite operators who would watch my every move without actually helping. I’d take all the risk and they’d do…whatever.

“This is a good deal for a retired spec ops guy like you,” I said to Briggs. “Giving out orders and walking us through it like a middle grade teacher. Probably makes you long for the good ol’ days.”

My old friend Grady suppressed a smile. Other operators laughed openly.

“I’m active duty,” said Briggs, curling his lip in annoyance.

“Hard to say with a face like yours,” I said with a shrug.

Briggs activated several screens. “Check yourself and pay attention. You won’t be able to come back and ask me questions when shit goes sideways.”

“Okay. How big is the quick reaction force if I find the principal and can’t rescue him unassisted? What if there are casualties? What’s the rally point?” I asked, firing questions at him.

An officer who didn’t name himself moved forward. “You’re putting too much thought into this. You go straight in, grab the target, and come straight out. That’s it. Don’t get creative.”

“Why don’t him and his guys do that?” I said as I hooked my thumb toward Grady and his squad of elite soldiers.

They gave me half answers and straight-out lies. I knew there were two reasons I was going on this mission. One, they didn’t care if I died, and two, there was going to be some killing involved. “Am I bringing Hastings out or taking him out?”

The unnamed officer went white as a sheet. “What the hell kind of question is that?”

A glance at Briggs, then Grady, confirmed my suspicions. Not everyone in this room understood what I was. The pretentious schmuck telling me not to get creative would probably shit his pants if he knew I was a Reaper.

Arguments broke out. Briggs glared like he wanted to throat punch me.

“Everyone settle,” said Briggs, casting a glance around the room. “Cain knows he’s expendable, and that’s a big part of the reason for his selection. But I can’t overstate the fact that his training and his track record in deep infiltration into hostile areas is unequaled.”

“All true,” I said, taking a paper cup and drinking its contents, which turned out to be water when I was hoping for coffee.

Briggs launched into his serious-as-hell commander’s voice. “I also know you’re too proud to do this half-assed and you’ll go all the way to get him back. The fate of the Union depends on his recovery, and that’s no shit this time. He has someplace to be. You’ll get him in twenty-four hours or go back on death row. Grady and his team are good, but not even they have that for motivation.”

“What happens after twenty-four hours?” I asked.

“People die. So don’t be late.” Briggs gave Grady a hand signal. “Get Cain kitted out. Make sure he’s proficient. Jerking off in a prison cell probably hasn’t done much for his combat efficiency.”

“You’d be surprised,” I said, right before I was escorted from the dimly lit room.

* * *

The Armory on the ship said a lot about what type of vessel we were on. The UFS Thunder was far larger than I expected. I wondered if we were going to rescue a doctor or start a war. There were enough lockers to equip a company of soldiers. Fortunately, none of them were here now. We left our escort outside the door.

"I was getting worried," I said, walking around still handcuffed near my waist. After I counted the lockers and looked for various wear marks that might indicate the age of the ship, I faced Grady and his two tough guys.

He walked to a table in the center of the armory where the gear I'd be wearing was stacked. "About what?"

"I've got a better imagination than you, Grady. If I said I wasn't worried about getting stuck into some sort of experiment with a high mortality rate, I'd be lying."

"Get over here so I can explain this stuff."

I sauntered over, still deep in my assessment of this room. If I were to make an escape attempt, this place would be important one way or another. Whoever came after me would be armed from this room. There was a door to a powered-armor-equipping area and another to bots and drones.

“Why don’t you just send these soldiers down to storm the place and clean up with your spec ops guys?"

The slow look he gave me confirmed my suspicion. That was probably an option.

"Holy shit, Grady. What type of people are we running with?"

Instead of answering, he pulled out an HDK 4 with a silencer. A moment later, he placed a pistol, also with a silencer, down and lined it up precisely with the first weapon. I had forgotten that about my old friend. He was compulsive.

"I bet you still have three t-shirts perfectly folded in your locker on top of your other inspection-ready uniforms."

"You got a problem with that?" he asked, furrowing his brow.

"No. What about body armor?" I separated the stack of gear into equally neat piles and lifted up a ballistic vest.

"Put it on so Sergeant Crank can check the fitting. It should be pretty close, because we have your exact height and weight measurements from your CIM,” Grady said.

“How about we save some time and do it all at once?" When I'd geared up from head to toe, I turned around and spread my arms from Crank to check my work. There was a weird moment when I thought he might pat me down, but he checked all the straps and tie-downs with methodical professionalism instead.

"You're good to go. Looks like you stayed in better shape than the other assholes on death row," Crank said. Up close, he looked like he could probably deadlift two or three times his own weight despite his deceptively lean build. I made a quick note of his flexibility, because he seemed to have a hard time getting up and down.

Maybe that was from a recently completed workout or a nagging injury, but it didn't matter. If this guy came after me, I'd use the information accordingly. If he was the one coming to save me, I hoped he’d suck it up and get the job done.

"Happy?" Grady asked.

I wasn't happy because they knew they could do better. "You took the stuff straight off the rack. The HDK has to be ten years old."

"Where we are going, simple is better. Get in, get out—"

“Take me back to my cell on death row," I cut him off.

Grady cursed under his breath and looked at his feet before meeting my gaze. "Listen, Hal, I'm not trying to fuck you. Believe whatever you want about Briggs and the mission planners, but you and I fought together and I'm not hanging you out to dry."

"He fought for this gear," Sergeant Crank interjected.

"There were several people who thought you could do this without being armed,” Grady continued. “It was a two-hour argument. I had to threaten to quit just to get you this much stuff. So stop breaking my balls. I'll be handling overwatch with my team, and believe it or not, I know how to run a QRF. This mission sucks, I'm not going to try and dress it up. But when was the last time you were on a mission that you felt good about from the beginning?"

"Touché." I spent some time playing with the guns: aiming, dry firing, taking them apart and putting them back together. The armor was what really pissed me off. It was dumb gear, no digital enhancements whatsoever. On the bright side, it was less likely they could track me remotely from the armor—or cut the power because it didn’t have power.

"How close are you gonna be, Grady?" I asked.

"You'll have sub-dermal monitoring implants for tracking. Comms will be extremely limited due to the environment shield holding Dreadmax together.”

"Sounds like an ankle bracelet for a parolee," I said, scoffing.

He lifted his hands in an oh well gesture. "Pretty much."

"For the record, the stuff is junk. When this goes sideways, and you know it will, you can tell whoever is in charge of this fandango it failed because they didn't let me plan it."

"I already told him you'd say that."

* * *

There were a dozen cafeterias on a ship the size of the UFS Thunder, some larger than others. Grady and his two buddies took me to the smallest and stood guard while I ate. I waved a hand toward the prepackaged food. "Help yourself."

Grady crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair. "I wasn't sure how much you’d need."

"Are you going to just stare at me while I shovel this crap down?"

"Has to be better than what you ate on death row."

"Food is just food. Fuel for the machine. Give me a chocolate bar, and we'll talk."

Grady nodded toward one of the packets in the meal ready-to-eat. "You never know what you’re going to get."

I skipped ahead and tore open the small package with my teeth. It was full of some chewy, fruit-flavored candy. I threw the entire handful into my mouth at once and mashed it, thinking it might grow on me.

"Any more details than they gave in the briefing?” I asked. “Does this guy have medical needs? Allergies?"

"Finish your food, and we’ll hit the range,” replied Grady, not really answering my questions. “Then we'll run through some training exercises, make sure you're still sharp."

"I'm good to go right now," I said, slapping both hands hard on the table and standing abruptly. A jolt of electricity shot through my left arm. For a hot second, I thought they’d left the prison restraint software active.

Grady and his men flinched and tightened their security. I pocketed some of the soft candies from the other MREs without letting them see it just to see if I could do it.

If they realized I had palmed the items, they didn't let on. Grady wanted me to sharpen my skills, so I was going to sharpen all of them. "Let's do this!"

"He's a fucking lunatic," said the third man who I didn't know yet. His name tape suggested he was called Maverick.

He looked like as much fun as a spec ops field manual.

Grady walked in front of me, and the other two followed. We didn't encounter any crew-members, which confirmed Briggs had more than just my old friend and his goons monitoring me right now. This was an elaborate operation, perfectly coordinated between spec ops and ship security. I had to be impressed.

"Quite a hike," I remarked, surveying my surroundings. My left eye revealed evidence of deep, sonic cleaning. This corridor had been prepped well.

"It's a big ship," Grady said without looking back.

"Battleship?" It was a test question. I still wasn't sure how friendly my old friend was. Would he save me when the chips were down or leave me to fend for myself?

"Destroyer class. But you already knew that."

"How would I know that?" Looking back at Crank and Maverick, I gave them a winning smile. "I was in dark ops, not the Fleet."

Sergeant Crank didn't answer.

Grady stopped at the door and swiped the security card. "It's a VR range. Better than the real thing."

"Says you."

Inside, I realized it was not only a virtual reality facility, but a small, infrequently used one. Probably for fleet officers who only used it once or twice a year the day before mandatory qualifications.

Grady waved his hand at the practice weapons. I stepped forward and started with the HDK—short barrel, magazine fed from the bottom between the trigger assembly and shoulder stock, optics on top, flashlight below the barrel, and a personal favorite of mine. My escorts stood back and said nothing. They were probably impressed but never showed it. I drew a smiley face on one target with bullet holes just to make sure they were watching.

“Nice,” Grady said. “You always were a fucking spaz.”

“So what if you can shoot," Sergeant Crank said. "How is your conditioning?"

It was a dumb question. The guy should’ve known better. He'd been in spec ops long enough to know we worked out wherever we could, even if it was a cell. That was what kept us from going crazy.

What he was really doing was looking for a fight. First, we’d have some sort of macho gut check workout and, lo and behold, we’d wind up on the mat punching and choking each other.

He probably wouldn't poke this bear unless he was confident in his abilities. A quick glance at Grady and the other guy confirmed my suspicion. They were curious, probably had a betting pool going.

"I'll get by," I finally answered.

Crank popped his knuckles and furled his upper lip into a sneer. "Yeah? You been doing jumping jacks and push-ups?"

He was trying to piss me off. Yeah, sure I’d done the calisthenics, but I’d also been doing handstand push-ups and making every conceivable exercise as difficult as possible—from doing tons of reps superfast or super slow or in combination with other body-weight exercises.

He had to know this. That was what he would've been trying to do if he was taken prisoner and put in confinement. There were also meditation exercises and a number of other techniques to hold on to the sanity for as long as possible in the harshest environments imaginable.

"You want to throw down or what?” I asked, tossing a glance back at him.

“Yeah, Cain. That’s just what I want. We’ve got a ranking system. How long an operator can keep me from choking them out. Grady lasted thirty-eight seconds.”

“How long are you gonna last?” I asked.

Crank’s eyes went wide, and he smiled in anticipation. "You gonna give me a fight, then? Some real competition?"

The stiffness I’d noticed earlier probably indicated he trained a lot, too much, like a black belt in jiu-jitsu trying to maintain rank. So he had some injuries, and also five hundred ways to put me down.

I walked onto the mat and kicked off my shoes. He snorted a curse.

"Aren’t you going to bow to the mat?”

I faced him and started moving around to get loosened up. “Why don’t you make me?"

"That's bullshit. You can disrespect me, but don't disrespect the dojo or the art," he demanded, giving me a hard look.

I’ve always had a healthy appreciation for practitioners of martial arts and other disciplines. But the mat is just a mat to me. I'd never been here before and I didn't know who ran the place. Maybe if I did, it would be different. There was no wise sensei or sifu demanding respect, just a couple of spec ops dudes squaring off for no good reason.

"Fine," he said when I didn’t respond. Crank gave the training area a short bow, but the moment he got on the mat, he rushed me with a flying superman punch.

I sidestepped without even raising my hands to block.

Landing on one foot but recovering quickly, he circled around to face me again. He dropped low and tried to take me down by pulling my knees out from under me like a galactic-class wrestler. I lowered my center of gravity and widened my stance, pushing down on his head and one shoulder to keep him away.

Takedown defense wasn’t one of my best skills, but I stuffed his attempt easily.

I winked at Grady.

"Are you even breathing hard?" he asked, panting a little himself.

"Nope."

“He’s got ten years on you, Crank. Step it up a notch,” commented Grady, clearly enjoying the spectacle.

Crank tried the tactic again and I drove my knee into his face. Blood spurted across the mat. Without waiting for him to recover, I grabbed one of his arms and pulled him past me, then jumped onto his back to lock in a rear-naked-choke.

Eight seconds later, he was out cold.

Had he learned his lesson?

Of course not.

Pushing himself to his feet, he shook his head, trying to focus his eyes on something other than abject humiliation and defeat. Moments later, he snarled curses. “Again, you son-of-a-bitch.”

We circled each other for a while, fists up and feet moving nimbly. I remained cautious. Just because I put him down once didn’t mean he was a pushover.

"You think that was clever?" he asked. “All you did was raise the price you're gonna pay."

I dropped low and shot forward, grabbing his left knee and leveraging my weight into it. There was no way one leg could hold my entire body weight. He went down hard.

With no hesitation to celebrate, I scrambled on top of him and took the mount position. Getting my heels locked in and holding him in place took longer than I planned. He continued to fight, but I chipped away at his defenses until I had him in an arm bar.

He rapidly tapped his hand to submit, but I increased the pressure until he screamed.

Grady tried to pull me off a second later, but I stood on my own and walked away.

"That was a shit move, Hal,” he said, his face a mask of fury. “You could've maimed him with that stunt."

"He'll be alright. I know when to stop, unlike him."

Grady held my gaze for a long time, his expression tense. "I think that's enough testing for one day. Let's get ready to do this mission before you disable the team who is supposed to come and help you."

Grady kicked everybody else out of the room after Crank and I were done beating the shit out of each other. I got hit by a bit of agoraphobia in the large training room, which wasn't large by a normal person’s standards. As tough as I thought I was, spending so much time in isolation on death row had probably done permanent damage to my psyche.

"That was a fucking circus," I said.

He pulled a bench from the side of the room and sat on it, steepling his fingers together and looking at me thoughtfully. "It had to be done, and you know it. None of these guys have seen you work or trained with you."

"I'm glad you remember, at least."

He shrugged. “You’re a freak of nature. Always were. I wasn’t surprised they made you a Reaper.”

"We have time for real training?"

He probably knew this was coming. Behind all the ass kicking and trick shooting were hours of practice. We moved onto the mat and went through combative drills, slowly at first, and then much faster. I pushed the pace until we started making mistakes and then backed down to a more reasonable level.

By the end, we were sweaty and laughing.

"I wish I knew what went wrong with you, Hal." It almost sounded like there was a hint of regret in his tone.

Not having an answer, I strode toward the door, pretending I could leave whenever I wanted. It kept me sane, but I knew it wasn't true.

Grady joined me and we went into the main room.

It didn't take much to see what was going to happen next. The camaraderie we’d shared slipped from his expression the closer we got to the exit. In the main room, a squad of ship soldiers waited.

One of them stepped forward. "I'm Sergeant Myers. Turn around. My men are going to place you in restraints."

Grady started to say something.

The sergeant interrupted him. "This was discussed. Cain is still a criminal. He doesn't get to roam the ship. Look on the bright side, our brig is much nicer than death row."

OceanofPDF.com