Chapter Twelve: Hit List

Chapter Twelve: Hit List

            Saturn

            Raven Home Base

            The entire Raven gang had gathered around the holo-projection sets, murmuring in shock. The latest headlines indicated that the police and Ultra-humanists were locked in battle inside the hotel, and the diplomats had been safely evacuated.

            “…on the road to the spaceport,” the anchor was saying. “According to reports, several diplomats have suffered mild to severe injuries, but they are in police custody. The reason for the attack has been revealed by the Ultra-humanist leaders; apparently, they feel that making peace with aliens is an injustice to humankind.” Stefan shook his head.

            “That’s horrible,” he murmured, turning away. Shepard followed, her eyes full of concern as she watched the screen.

            “I agree,” she said. ‘Do you think it was the Ministry?”

            “Who else could it be?” He countered. “Their messes usually require this kind of radical cleansing, and the Ultra-humanists were their allies.”

            “So what do we do?” She asked.

            Stefan sighed. He had an idea, but he knew exactly what he had to do and exactly what it was going to look like. “We find the people they’re using to do this, and we figure out why. Then we kill them.” Shepard blinked; that wasn’t like Stefan at all. He might be a bit psychotic, and certainly possessed a certain disregard for life. Even so, he was no stone-cold killer, and that was never his first call in a situation.

            “Are you sure?” She asked. “I mean, not everyone in the Ministry is a murdering lunk-head. They don’t all need or deserve to die.”

            “Maybe not,” Stefan replied. “But these ones do. They’re killing other people, Shepard. By the hundreds. I’d say that qualifies them for summary execution.”

            “And are you going to mete it out to them?” Shepard challenged. “You just got off a kick of killing for them, and now you want to go back to kill them?” Stefan shook his head.

            “No. I won’t be working for them, which means I’m not playing by their rules. Nobody innocent dies, and none of the rank-and-file. We go for the people calling these hits.”

            “Hits?” Shepard asked, surprised. “You think that an entire peace conference getting murdered is a hit?” Stefan nodded.

            “We slaughtered over a thousand people just because they might have been harboring a rogue Ministry agent. I don’t think it’s safe to rule out a petulant grudge just yet.”

            “But you don’t think that’s what this is,” she finished.

            He shook his head. “No, someone there knew something. The question is who and how much.”

            “Think we’d get an answer?” She asked. “By the time we got there…”

            “There’d be nothing but bodies,” he finished. “So no. It’d be a waste of energy.” Suddenly, Dani came rushing over to them.

            “I heard,” she said. “It’s awful. Apparently Anders did too, because she just sent us a new assignment.”

            “What?” Stefan exclaimed. “When?”

            “Five minutes ago,” Dani answered. “Here it is.” She held up a holopad, and Stefan and Ali read what it said. The message was short and pointed, with absolutely no excess words. In fact, a few essentials were left out, too.

            Plans changed, it read. Suspected government ties to attacks. Immediate investigation, full team. Pull all stops. Begin on Saturn at GHPD HQ.

            Stefan swore quietly. “Well, that’s nice,” he muttered. Not only do we get to go out and risk our lives, now the government will be hunting us, too.” And more government attention is the last thing I need. Aloud, he asked, “When do we start?”

            Dani shrugged. “When can you?”

            His eyes narrowed and he clenched his metal fist. Finally, a new chance to beat something living up. “Right now.”

            Venus

            Theodore Starnes loaded his RPG, feeling sweat running down his face. He had only recently joined the Ultra-humanists, and he was not exactly fond of the things they had asked of him. True, they had given him the money he needed to support his family, but at the same time, they had asked him to do bloody things. Cruel things, things that appeared in his mind’s eye and made him grimace. Still, as long as they paid, he would continue to do exactly what he was told. And, right now, they were telling him that they were going to blow up a police convoy. While the prospect was far from cheerful, he would carry out his orders. For the sixth time, he checked the load in his sidearm and the number of grenades in his belt. All the bullets and explosives accounted for, he thought. Here was hoping everything went according to plan. Four other Ultra-humanists sat in the car with him, waiting a little less patiently for the convoy. However, their driver had already laid down the law concerning noise: absolutely no complaining or whining whatsoever. He kept his eyes on the highway above them, waiting for the sight of the convoy. Finally, after twenty minutes of anxious anticipation, they appeared. Six nondescript, boxlike grey transport vehicles, all moving at speeds not generally permitted, even with the magnetic velocity enhancers on the thoroughfare. He revved the engine, sending their vehicle lurching into motion.

            “All right,” he said. “Boys, we’re live.” As their vehicle approached the highway, it jolted momentarily before regaining its momentum. Then, the accelerators grabbed it and catapulted it forward.

            Highway

            A few seconds earlier

                The man climbed out of the storm drain, sliding the manhole cover back into place. Those sewers were possibly the smelliest hole he had ever climbed out of, he mused. He took a few seconds to catch his breath, and then he got to his feet. Almost immediately, he heard the unmistakable blare of a hover-tran horn. Later, he would remember the series of his words that popped into his head with embarrassment. Now, however, he turned to face the large grey transport bearing down on him and set his rather harebrained plan into action. He dropped onto the ground ,feeling the magnetic thrusters pulling rather painfully on the nanotechnology in his skin. Still, he reversed his position and sent his hands up, catching hold of the vehicle’s undercarriage as it passed over him. Then, he was stuck there and moving at breakneck speed down the highway, his mind already moving into planning. The Ultra-humanists would not let so many extraterrestrial diplomats go without a fight, meaning that they most likely planned on killing them somewhere down the road. Literally. In that case, he would have an opportunity to let the two sides clash before mopping up with the winner. Still, it might be best if he left nothing to chance. He closed his eyes and mentally triggered the holographic technology embedded in his skin, changing his gray armor into a facsimile of a S.W.A.T. police uniform. The Eaglespike might not be a police weapon, but his SMGs were nondescript enough to fit. His left hand went to his hip, and he swore mentally as he realized that the guns were not there. While most of his gear was non-magnetized metal, the SMGs were not. They were stuck to the magnetic propulsion units, and no amount of pulling was going to get them free. He would have to get a new sidearm, he thought, with a touch of regret. Those were nice guns. His thoughts were interrupted by a deafening explosion, followed by a surreal sense of weightlessness as the transport flipped over and crashed into another. The impact sent him flying several feet into an energy guardrail, which he struck quite painfully. Still, he was on his feet in seconds, the Eaglespike in his hands. He saw now that about a dozen hover-trucks were barreling down the highway toward the police convoy, and the heat signatures they emitted indicated presence of energy weapons. Ergo, Ultra-humanists. His eyes would have narrowed if they could, but he settled instead for activating the synchronized sighting program that worked with his rifle. Taking aim at the passenger of the first car, who was aiming an RPG at the destroyed transports, he exhaled and calmly squeezed the trigger once. Just once.

            Ultra-humanist transport

            Kyle Drexler was aiming his RPG at the transports and preparing to fire when he felt something strike the weapon. He barely had time to blink before the grenade on the tip exploded, sending a shower of burning shrapnel into his face and that of the driver. The vehicle suddenly spun crazily, colliding with two more, which in turn led to several more RPG explosions, which then engulfed a fourth truck. The whole mangled steel mess spun crazily along the highway, finally striking a repulsor guardrail, where it exploded in a brilliant corona of flame. The man at the other end of the highway lowered the Eaglespike. Not exactly as final as he had hoped for, but that many in one shot was not shabby at all. Time to have a little bit more fun, he thought. Taking aim, he squeezed the trigger a second time. The second the needle left the muzzle, he knew the shot was good. Even if he had not been dead on (which rarely happened), the explosives packed into the needle would have done a significant amount of damage. The projectile struck another man’s RPG, but this time it hit the shaft instead of the grenade on the tip. The impact sent the weapon to the side just as the operator pulled the trigger, sending a jet of fire inside the truck and fatally immolating the driver. That one has to burn, the man mused in his general morbid humor.

By this time, the other vehicles in the police convoy had gone out of sight, and the diplomats they were carrying to safety. By his estimation, all of the occupants of the overturned vehicles were dead, making his elimination task complete on the diplomatic score. However, he still had terrorists to massacre. The trucks still barreled down on him, and one swerved in attempt to crush him against the rail. However, the attempt was in vain; the man vaulted up and landed on the hood. Pressing the carbine against the glass, he squeezed the trigger about seven times, pelting the interior with shattered glass and metal spikes. One struck the driver right through the left eye-socket, killing him instantly. The second took the passenger in the chest, sending the RPG spiraling from his grip as he slumped dead in the seat. The rest hit the two men in the backseat, dead before they had even finished collapsing. Reaching through the broken windshield, the man took a silenced .45 HELLCAT (High-Explosive Lead Low-Caliber Ammunition Thrower) pistol and two bandoliers of ammo and grenades from the driver before flipping off the car as it crashed into the traffic barrier. The move would cost him, however, as the next truck clipped him and knocked him against the field. There was an electric crackle, and he swore as one hundred thousand volts spidered across his chest. Getting to his feet, he primed two grenades and leapt into the air, landing solidly on the hood. He punched through the glass on the windshield and dropped both in the driver’s lap, jumping off just before they exploded. The car spun wildly, slamming into the concrete barrier in the middle of the highway before bursting into flame. The man landed on his feet and rolled to absorb the shock, smirking. Well, that’s half. Now, little mice, let’s take the CAT home. Suddenly, he heard a groan. Not from the terrorists’ wrecked vehicles; even he had, he would probably not have considered going back for any one of them. No, this one came from the SWAT transports. He went over to one and activated his scorcher gauntlets. One of the nastiest pieces of technology he wielded, these gauntlets were made of arcturium, a metal known for its high specific heat and superconductive properties. Their variable power settings allowed him to choose what he wanted to burn and how badly; the plasma field that enveloped the digits could do everything form causing minor burns to slicing clear through concrete. Taking the gloves and pressing them to the metal, he sliced a large chunk out of it and looked inside the car. To his surprise, two officers were still alive, though from the look of things, they might not be for much longer. The diplomats and other officers, however, were most certainly deceased. He noticed, with a note of grim satisfaction, that Carademus was among the slain. At least I don’t have to do him in now, he thought. One had a large piece of metal sticking out of his side, while the other had some shattered glass embedded all over him. The man sighed; he knew the rule was no witnesses, but could an unconscious man really count? He made up his mind right there and, drawing the bowie knife in his belt, slashed through the seat restraints and dragged both men out of the vehicle. Kneeling beside the second, he gingerly picked the glass shards out of the man’s body, using his gloved hands (on low heat, so as not to do more damage) to seal each wound after he removed the injurious object. It took about twenty minutes to do, but he managed to get every last piece of window out of the officer. That finished, he went to the first one and, bracing his feet against the ground, yanked the piece of metal out of his side. As he went to treat the wound, he noticed a folded leather object in the man’s belt, which he took and curiously examined. A few pieces of personal documentation fell out, but so did a small holographic projector. Switching it on, the man watched as the officer, dressed in plain clothes, sat at what looked like a covered mess table with several other people. They seemed to be actually enjoying the meal, though why was beyond his understanding. Suddenly, a small figure ran up to the officer’s holographic figure and wrapped her arms around him, and the man watched in stunned surprise as the officer did the same. What was this? He wondered. Why are they so…what’s the word…happy? He shrugged and dropped the leather fold back into the man’s belt. He didn’t understand what he’d just seen, and he really didn’t give a rip one way or the other. Now, to the Ultra-humanists. According to the Ministry, Jackson Rutger had a mansion just outside the city limits. Activating the GPS unit on his HUD, he took stock of the situation. He would take forever to walk there. If, however, he could hitch a partial ride…He looked over the highway, marked a vehicle, calculated traffic speed and fall velocity, gave a nonchalant shrug, and jumped.

            Lead transport

            The driver of the transport could not believe what he was seeing. One man, a run-of-the-mill police officer, no less, had managed to single-handedly devastate half of their attack group. He reached out for the dashboard and activated his communicator.

            “Boss,” he gasped, his voice frantic, “someone just torched half the convoy. We saw ‘em do it. Worse, we lost the cops. The dips are gone.” The voice that answered on the other end was cold and angry.

            “I didn’t ask you for excuses, Klebold. I asked you for results. And that’s exactly what I haven’t gotten.”

            Klebold shook his head. “How do you get results when you’re fighting something you can’t beat?”

            “Something?” Rutger’s voice on the other end was suddenly alert. “What did it look like?”

            “I couldn’t see straight,” Klebold said. “It looked like a cop, from what I saw, but it wasn’t. No cop could do what I watched him do.”

            “What?” Rutger queried. “What did you see?”

            “He torched six cars,” the other replied. “He killed everyone inside, but I think I lost him.” Rutger was quiet for a moment, and then his voice came over the line again.

            “You may have,” he replied, “but I prefer to take few chances. Sorry about this.” Klebold was about to ask what he meant, but that was when he saw the engine temperature gauge spike. Suddenly, the magnetic coils exploded, and the world dissolved in a painful torrent of molten metal.

            Mansion

            Jackson Rutger sat back in his custom leather chair, a satisfied look on his face. Across from him sat two women. Though they looked exactly alike, he knew that, underneath, they could not have been more different. The closer of the two was as intelligent as most supercomputers, easily capable of calculating and executing complex strategies. Her sister, by contrast, knew more martial arts than she had had birthdays, and she was adept at striking enemies’ weak points. Though no one save Rutger knew, these two were the real brains behind the Ultra-humanist operation on Venus, and they had planned the hotel attack for almost six months.

            “I got rid of our loose ends,” he told them. “Just like you asked.” The second girl frowned.

            “Perhaps,” she said. “Still, I don’t like what he had to say. Something attacking our convoy? Sounds to me as though our anonymous benefactor tired of his generosity, and now he wants something in return.”

            “Agreed,” the first one said. “He sent someone to tie up his loose ends. That can’t bode well for any of our lifespans.” She nodded to Rutger, who keyed the microphone on his desk.

            “Stanley?” He barked. The security chief’s voice answered back.

            “Go ahead, boss,” he replied.

            “Get everyone out patrolling the grounds,” the magnate instructed. “That includes the UMs.” Unmanned Security Augmentation Drones, or UMs for short, bolstered his human security forces, which were of themselves quite formidable. Between his guards, his laser-trigger motion detectors, and pressure-sensitive floors, there was no one getting in here without his knowledge.

            Rutger Manor

            Exterior, 5 Hours later

            The guards on the perimeter walked their set courses for perhaps the seventh time, their eyelids drooping from fatigue and boredom. In truth, they saw little point in additional security. After all, nothing interesting ever happened on the grounds anyway. So thought Lonnie Kendrick, the newest of the men on duty, anyway. He had been hired out through the private security firm Redwood Limited, and he held to the firm conviction that his boss had given him this job out of personal dislike and nothing more. After all, protecting some rich guy wasn’t exactly what he’d signed on for. Still, it paid the bills, especially Bill, his landlord, so he had little choice in the matter. He was just considering nodding off when he heard it: it was a small metallic clink, a sound not completely unheard on the outskirts of the property. Still, as part of his duties as a security guard, he figured it was in his best interest to go see what was the matter. Shrugging, he swerved off his path and went to investigate.

            The man watched as Lonnie walked off, a satisfied smile spreading across his holographically masked face. Not too bright, are they? He mused thoughtfully, slipping past the guard post. Then he saw them; laser motion sensors, designed specifically to catch people running across the lawn. Most likely, there was a security system that worked in tandem with them to neutralize threats. Painfully, too. If he had to bet, he would have also wagered that they were synced to a passcode system, allowing security personnel and residents to go unhindered. He shrugged and, in a nonchalant motion, jumped up the brick wall next to him. The scorcher gloves activated, and his fingers sliced quite neatly through the material. He deactivated them, and now he had an improvised handgrip. Smiling at this new innovation, the man began to climb along the perimeter. More than once he froze, waiting with temerity as a guard walked past. However, in the now-low light, not one of them so much as turned their head to look at the man spidering his way along the wall. Finally, his chance came; there was a choke point on the eastern side of the mansion, and he had the good fortune to be passing it just as a guard was. Bracing himself against the wall, he flipped off and landed squarely on the man’s shoulders. Before the guard even saw who was standing on top of him, the other man had pressed the silenced pistol to the side of his head, pulled the trigger twice, and jumped off in the direction of the house.

            The Ministry’s assassin landed on his feet on the patio, feeling no small satisfaction as he watched the guard crumple to the ground. Should have seen that one coming, he mentally admonished. He took about two steps before the alarm went off, and not a quiet alarm, either. No, this was an ear-splitting, mind-snapping, sanity-compromising klaxon howl that made him want to find and destroy every compressed air horn ever invented by mankind. He turned and saw at least a half dozen guards running at him, their weapons raised. The man sighed and slipped the DragonSpike off his shoulder. And there goes the neighborhood.

            Mansion Interior

            Upon hearing the alarm, Rutger immediately went to the security monitors. What he saw stopped his heart; a man in the courtyard, obliterating his security forces. Only one or two fell dead, but he certainly broke a lot of wills and probably more bones. Having exhausted his ammunition, he tossed a fresh clip into the air before knocking it into the pistol’s butt via a blow to someone else’s head. There was a spray of blood, and the guard went down. The next one raised his automatic rifle, only to stop short, a throwing knife sticking out of his chest. The other man lunged forward and flipped over his fallen foe, yanking the knife out of the fresh wound and engaging the sentry behind him in a quick hand-to-hand battle. The guard blocked two blows, but the third, a palm strike to the stomach, doubled him over, which allowed a crippling reverse heel kick to his face. Apparently, one of his friends was feeling especially brave or suicidal, because he immediately charged the mysterious attacker. The man sidestepped impossibly fast and slammed the still-drawn throwing knife into his opponent’s back, just below the shoulder blade. The man’s eyes widened and his knees buckled. The last man raised his shotgun and fired it twice. In a display of Herculean strength and speed, the other managed to twist his body out of the way of the first, although he caught several pellets from the second. Before the man could fire a third, however, the throwing knife was streaking forward at velocity comparable to a bullet, and it sliced the guard’s hand before lodging itself in his shoulder. Dropping the shotgun, the man grabbed a long and dangerous-looking knife from his belt, assuming a strange stance. The blade of the weapon curved forward, and its curious leaf shape instantly gave it away.

            Nepalese kukri knife, the Ministry’s killer assessed. Designed to marry weight and balance. Absolutely lethal. The first strike with the blade was a decapitating horizontal swing, which he ducked before returning with a strike of his own, yanking the knife out of the other arm and slicing right across his enemy’s abdomen. The man flinched, and the Ministry assassin thrust the blade squarely between his ribs.

            “Hate to do that,” he whispered. “They aren’t paying me to waste energy.” He pulled the knife out and performed a quick slash across the man’s throat. “You know, it’s really ironic, but they aren’t paying me at all. Guess I’ll take the knife as compensation for this run.” That’s the end of that, he thought. Easy part over. Time to earn my not-money.

            Mansion Interior

            The guards on duty inside didn’t carry automatic rifles, as those weapons were impractical for the confined spaces that were the mansion’s halls. Instead, they wielded shock batons, shotguns, and submachine guns, all of which had either superior maneuverability or firepower in confined spaces. With the alarms engaged, they were fully alert and waiting, auto-targeting hover drones watching corridors for any sign of movement. There was no way anyone was getting inside this base. A snowball had a better chance in Satan’s breast pocket.

            Mansion Exterior

            The cat was on the roof. Literally. The Ministry’s killer, having dispatched the guards in the courtyard, was now climbing up on top of the mansion’s shingled top, his feet clacking with painful volume against the surface. He maneuvered his way along according to the building’s blueprints. Bedroom…no…Bathroom…definitely no…bedroom number 2…also no…bathroom 2…bathroom 3…goodness, don’t you only need one? Ah, study. Gentlemen, we have arrived. He smiled and activated his scorcher gauntlets.

            Mansion Interior

            Rutger looked up when he heard the shingles begin to heat; they made an unmistakable crackling noise similar to popcorn with nine millimeter bullets put together in a microwave. Apparently, the two sisters heard it, too, because they were instantly on their feet. The more muscular one, Harmony, took a sawed-off magazine-fed shotgun out of her long jacket and pumped the handle. Melody took a small submachine gun out of the holster on her left hip and checked the clip. Full. Rutger reached behind his desk and pulled out a rifle, which he pointed at the roof and sighted. After several seconds of agonizing silence, they heard the crackling again, followed by the sound of molten shingles and scorched plaster tumbling as a section of the roof gave way. Rutger pointed his gun and fired, hearing a grunt. He pulled the trigger again, but this time, only the pinging of the bullet of his study’s reinforced walls greeted his ears. In the kicked-up dust, he could see no further than an inch in front of his face. He looked around frantically, searching for the intruder. He was about to breathe a sigh of relief when he felt an iron grip seize his head. He barely had time to do more than gasp before a knife was set to his throat. A raspy voice whispered in his ear.

            “Call the two girls off or I slice your jugular.” Rutger shifted, but all that did was cause the knife to dig deeper into his neck.

            “I wouldn’t fidget,” his captor hissed. “Novice killer that I am, I could mistakenly slit your throat.” Rutger tried to make a sound, but nothing came from his mouth. He suddenly felt another blade press in the small of his back. “Start talking or I start cutting, old man.” Finally, he found the energy and temerity to speak.

            “Melody! Harmony!” he called, with more authority than he felt. “Drop your weapons!”

            “Rutger?” Came Melody’s voice. “Where are you?”

            “Busy,” The assassin answered. “And I wouldn’t make any sudden moves. I jerk around when I’m nervous.”

            “What do you want?” Harmony asked.

            “Hmmm…” the man mused. “That’s a good question. But you know what, we’ll settle for your boss’s head. That’d do. Now, if you want to play like nice girls, drop your weapons and I won’t do the same to you.” Melody smiled grimly.

            “Kill us?” She asked. “You might find that harder than it seems.”

            The killer grinned. They were stalling to let the fog settle…Suddenly, he felt a burning pain in his back, and the tip of a knife blade punched through the right side of his chest. His eyes narrowed, and he whirled around, his bowie knife slicing a long gash in Melody’s cheek. She gave a yelp of pain and stepped back, her eyes wide with shock. Before Rutger could go for his gun again, the Ministry agent snapped his left wrist, striking at the base of the man’s neck with the kukri blade. As his head went rolling, the man sheathed the Nepalese knife and calmly pulled Melody’s weapon out of his back.

            “I don’t mean to be arrogant or condescending,” he began.

            “Then don’t,” came Harmony’s voice from behind him. She pumped her shotgun and pointed it at his head. “You can’t avoid a blast this close.” He nodded.

            “True.” Suddenly, he vanished. Harmony pulled the trigger, sending pellets flying into the air, but they hit nothing. Melody looked around the room, her eyes narrowing.

            “Smart,” she said. “Some kind of camouflage tech, I suppose?” No answer. Try to get him talking. He seems to like to do that. “Why’d a police officer kill Rutger?” No answer again. “Come on, say something. We don’t have to do this.” Suddenly, Harmony’s gun went spinning from her grip, landing in a far corner of the room. Melody raised her submachine gun and squeezed the trigger. The air in front of Harmony rippled, with small spurts of red appearing, and she heard a grunt. Suddenly, there was a sharp crack, and her SMG went flying from her hands. Suddenly the man appeared again, but this time he looked completely different. Instead of a police uniform and well-groomed hair she saw a pale, scarred face, messy dark hair, and eyes obscured by twin points of fiery artificial light. His armor was nondescript grey with several red highlights. One of these, a patch on the shoulder, bore a strange mark:

           

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

           

           

           

Blood was trickling down his body from several wounds, but the flow seemed…strangely slow, especially given that she had almost emptied a full clip into him.

            “I’d say we do,” he growled, drawing the kukri again. “I asked you to play nice.” Harmony had drawn her own combat knife, and Melody picked hers up off the ground. He turned and went for Melody first, his blades coming in a whirlwind of thrusts, sweeps, and feints. She did her best to parry the blows, but he was moving at a pace far beyond her own. The bowie knife slashed across her palm in a lightning jab, and she dropped the knife. The kukri rose in preparation for a killing swing, but he suddenly spun and threw a powerful reverse heel kick into Harmony’s shoulder, wrenching it and her backward. She stumbled and went sprawling, trying frantically to rise to her feet. He picked Melody’s SMG up from the floor and pointed it at her, while he trained the HELLCAT on her sister. “I don’t ask anything a second time. Makes me feel redundant. Which I already do, but it makes me more redundant.” He cocked the HELLCAT and fingered the trigger. “Give me a very compelling reason not to repaint this study brainpan red, girl. Ten seconds. And you’d better make it really compelling, because I have orders to kill everyone I see.”

            “I…” Harmony couldn’t think of a thing to say.

            “We’re the leaders,” Melody blurted. “We run everything. Not Rutger. He just gave us the money. We’re his daughters.” The man raised an eyebrow (or a gesture close to it; his actual eyebrows had been seared off).

            “Oh, are you now?” He asked. “I don’t believe that for a second. First, Ruger didn’t have kids. Though I’ll admit, he had trouble staying in his own bed at night. Still, why would he use you?”

            “We wouldn’t be suspected,” Melody pointed out. “Our mother’s rich, too. Read tabloids much?” HE shook his head.

            “Enlighten me.” His finger relaxed on the trigger, and Harmony breathed a sigh of relief.

            “To everyone else, we’re just divas with lots of money and not much else.”

            “Based on what I’m seeing, they’re not far off,” he snapped. “Prove you’re in charge of them. Melody rolled up her sleeve, revealing the Ultra-humanists’ shield-sword combination crest.

            “See? We’re members,” she told him. Pointing to the stripes around it, she said, “These marks denote authority.” He nodded.

            “Then why…” Suddenly, a wicked smile formed on his face. “Oh, I like it.” He dropped the SMG and tucked the pistol into his belt. “All right, I changed my mind. You can go.”

            “What?” Melody said, incredulous. The man smiled.

            “I said go.”

            “But you said you had orders,” Harmony pointed out, rising to her feet.

            “I do,” he said. “But that’s not important. Do you two have remote access to your father’s accounts?” They nodded. “Good. Get out of here and find the nearest ICRF agent you can. Abandon this crusade if you value your lives.”

            “But you said you’d let us live,” Melody said, her head spinning. “You said that you’d defy your orders.”

            “I said they weren’t important,” he corrected. “Not that I’d defy them. I will, however, give you a chance.” He pulled a small red detonator switch out of his pocket. “You have five minutes before I send this place up. I’d start running.” He pushed the button, and the two girls raced out of the study. He waited until they were gone, and then he keyed his wrist communicator.

            “Twenty to CirComm. Mission accomplished, over.”

            “Roger that, Twenty. Stand by for evac, over.”

            “Copy that. Twenty out.”