TROY DENNING
This story takes place three months after the United Nations Space Command’s extraction of the 717th research battalion by the elite Spartan Blue Team from the volatile and besieged colony of Gao (Halo: Last Light).
1420 hours, October 14, 2553 (military calendar)
Officers’ Club, UNSC Recreational Facility 6055-NA-A
Liberty District, Neos Atlantis, Alcides System
It had been just a hundred days since Veta Lopis left Gao to join the Office of Naval Intelligence, and already she’d become one of those jump-weary planet hoppers who never had time to enjoy the local wonders.
Today, she was on Neos Atlantis, facing a panoramic window at one end of the officers’ club in UNSC Recreational Facility 6055-NA-A. The window afforded a spectacular view of the Theran Crown, a gloomy, spire-studded cryovolcano ringed by ice cliffs as green as emeralds. But Veta was actually watching the interior of the window, using the reflections on the glass to keep tabs on her three young subordinates.
Ash-G099 and Mark-G313 were seated in the back of the crowded club, a half-empty pitcher of lemon pels resting on a high-top table between them. At only fourteen, they continued to show hints of adolescence in their soft-featured faces, but their size and musculature were those of twenty-year-old junior lieutenants fresh out of ODST school—which happened to be their cover legend.
Still, they really didn’t look like young officers on leave. Both were sitting bolt upright, constantly scanning their designated surveillance arcs and paying no attention to the gravball match on the screens above the bar in the center of the room. The empty cocktail glasses scattered across their table resembled exactly what they were—props designed to make it appear as if the pair had been drinking for hours. Most telling of all was their reaction to the young women who sauntered past and glanced in their direction, clearly attempting to catch the eye of one or the other. Mark returned their smiles with complete indifference, while Ash merely looked sheepish and shy.
It would take a trained observer about two minutes to penetrate their covers—which was the whole idea, of course—but Veta thought the pair might be overdoing their “incompetent operatives” act just a little. The opposition in today’s training exercise was a top ONI espionage unit, and, if her Ferret Team hoped to prevail, they couldn’t allow their foes to smell a trap.
“Guys . . . you need to loosen up a bit, or Oscar Squad won’t buy it.” Veta pretended she was speaking into the commpad strapped to her wrist. “Down some of that pels.”
Ash and Mark’s only response was to raise their mugs and drink. Like everyone on the team, they had a thread-style microphone sewn into their clothing and a miniaturized reception-dot concealed near one eardrum, but field protocol dictated that subordinate operatives remain comm-silent unless reporting a development to the team leader.
Veta could not quite believe she was ordering a pair of fourteen-year-olds to guzzle alcohol, but they were being trained for undercover work. They were bound to face times when their lives depended on their ability to imbibe all manner of spirits, and ONI had taught them how to do it without losing their edge.
Still, fourteen. Sometimes, Veta wondered if letting ONI recruit her had been smart . . . not that there had been much choice. Her career as Gao’s top homicide investigator was over. In fact, so was her entire life on Gao, period. After helping Blue Team escape with a powerful Forerunner artifact—one coveted by the planet’s unscrupulous president—it would have been a death sentence to stay behind.
A few gulps later, Ash stopped drinking and belched, and Mark put his mug down and wiped his mouth. Neither looked relaxed. Veta sighed and feigned speaking into her commpad again.
“Try to look like you’re having fun.” She shifted in her seat and began to watch the pair in her peripheral vision. “Smile at the ladies.”
Ash spotted three women approaching, probably on their way to the exit, and signaled Mark. The pair waited until their targets were adjacent to the table, then executed simultaneous stool-pivots and flashed broad, toothy smiles.
The women rolled their eyes and hurried out the door.
“Oh man, you guys,” Veta said. “When we get back to the Mill, remind me to request a flirting course for the entire team.”
Ash dropped his chin and stared into his pels. Mark shrugged and went back to watching the entrance. Veta told herself not to worry. Her Ferrets had a lot to learn before they were ready for a real field assignment, but they were good students and tireless workers. They had accomplished in a hundred days what most ONI trainees needed a year to achieve, and she had no doubt they would soon master the necessary social skills.
Veta was more concerned about what they needed to unlearn. Her subordinates were all Spartan-IIIs with superhuman reflexes and nearly a decade of military training, and they remained soldiers at heart. When pressured or surprised, they had a tendency to revert to lethal action . . . and starting a firefight was seldom the best solution for a spy in a tight spot. In fact, Serin Osman—the ONI admiral in charge of the Ferret program—was so concerned about the situation that she had warned Veta they might need to rethink building the team around Spartans.
And that Veta could not allow.
Like all Spartan-IIIs, her people had been recruited as war orphans and molded into supersoldiers through a rigorous program of training, discipline, and biological augmentations. But they also came from Gamma Company, which meant they had undergone a special round of enhancements that resulted in an unstable brain chemistry—a liability that ONI now deemed an unacceptable public-relations hazard with the potential to damage the entire Spartan branch.
Veta had no idea what had become of the rest of the Gammas, but she had agreed to lead a four-person Ferret Team for the sake of the three she had met on Gao, and she had no intention of letting Osman remove them.
They were just kids. They deserved someone who thought of them as something more than weapons.
Her third trainee, Olivia-G291, was at the near end of the bar. Wearing a formfitting sheath dress and carefully applied makeup, she appeared older than her two fellow Gammas and could easily pass for a first lieutenant—or even a captain. She was being chatted up by a pudgy guy in wrinkled trousers and a collarless four-pocket jacket, and she was leaning toward him and smiling, listening intently and maintaining steady eye contact. Like dozens of women in the club, she looked like she was enjoying the company of her companion and was interested in spending more time with him.
There was only one flaw in Olivia’s cover. Her suitor appeared to be distinctly civilian and at least three times her age, and the disparity was drawing puzzled glances from younger men and raised brows from disapproving women. Even the servers were scowling as they passed, eyeing the fellow as though they could not understand how such a lecher had made it past the door guards.
And that was a good question. Located in an ambiguous zone between the Inner and Outer Colonies, Neos Atlantis was a high-security world surrounded by orbital maintenance docks that serviced only UNSC war vessels. The installations employed close to a hundred thousand civilian technicians, but a security-conscious UNSC maintained segregated recreational facilities for the sole use of fleet personnel. So it was hard to believe this civilian had simply wandered into the club on his own.
Hoping to get a closer look at the subject, Veta faced the central bar and raised her glass as though signaling for a fresh drink. She saw no sign that the fellow’s girth and flabby jowls were a disguise, and it seemed unlikely that any member of an elite espionage unit would lapse into such poor fighting trim. The guy was probably just a former officer who had been hitting the bottle too hard since retirement, but Veta knew better than to make unwarranted assumptions. During her time on Gao, she had taken down half a dozen vicious murderers who passed as happy family men and pillars of their community.
A blond woman in the khaki pants and white blouse of a server stopped next to Olivia and her companion with an open bottle of sparkling zantelle and two flutes. Olivia’s eyes widened, but the companion merely smiled and handed her a flute, then took the tray and turned to find a table. The server immediately began to look for thirsty customers and spotted Veta’s upraised glass. She smiled and came over.
“Another whiskey?” The server was tall and fit, with pale blue eyes and laugh lines at the edge of her mouth. “The Titan Smoke is smooth and silky, if you haven’t tried it yet.”
“Actually, I’m not a whiskey drinker,” Veta said. She found it odd that a server didn’t know the difference between a rocks glass and a doffer, but it was probably hard to find experienced bar personnel who could pass a rigorous security check. “But I’d love another two-tailed comet.”
The woman flashed a sheepish grin, then said, “You don’t know what you’re missing, ma’am.” She took Veta’s doffer and turned to leave. “But a two-tail it is.”
Once the server was gone, Veta glanced back toward the bar—and saw no sign of Olivia and her companion. All of the tables in the area were occupied by groups of bantering customers. Veta faced the window again and searched the interior reflections for some sign of the missing pair.
When she found none, she pretended to speak into her commpad again. “Who has eyes on Olivia?”
Mark took a swallow from his mug and shot a glance across the far end of the bar, then Ash propped his elbows on the table and cast a more leisurely look in the same direction. The corner they were indicating was hidden behind the club’s huge central bar, but Veta knew from her initial reconnaissance that it contained a handful of cozy booths. There was also an emergency exit and a kitchen entrance, which meant it would be a good spot for a capture attempt.
Veta was tempted to move closer so she would be ready to offer support if Oscar Squad tried something, but changing seats would only confirm to their observers that she and Olivia were both operatives.
“Okay, keep her in view.” Veta paused and smiled to misdirect any Oscar Squad observers, then added, “And, ’Livi, don’t let that guy move you anywhere else. There’s something off about him.”
The order went unacknowledged, of course, and Veta used her commpad to bring up the feed from Olivia’s microphone. The sound quality was dull and scratchy, and the only thing she could hear was the murmuring of the civilian’s deep voice punctuated by the occasional jingle of polite laughter from Olivia.
The server returned with a rocks glass filled with a dark, coppery liquid that was definitely not a two-tailed comet. Veta found the poor service annoying, but the last thing she wanted to do was make herself memorable by pointing out an inexperienced server’s mistake. Besides, she had more important things to worry about—Olivia’s laughter was lapsing into a cackle that suggested the zantelle was having more of an impact than it should. Veta thanked the server and paid by pressing her thumb to a tabpad. She picked up the glass and sniffed. Whiskey. She pretended to sip the lip-blistering stuff.
The voice of Olivia’s companion grew more distinct, as though he were leaning closer, and Veta heard him asking, “. . . were you posted before the Rochester?”
“The Academy at Mare Nubium, of course.” Olivia was drawing on her cover legend, but her tone was mocking, as though even she didn’t believe what she was saying. “I graduated seventeenth in my class.”
“Really?” the civilian asked. “I didn’t know Spartan-IIIs were trained at the Luna OCS.”
Veta’s gut knotted, and she had to resist the urge to rise and start toward Olivia. According to Admiral Osman, the opposition hadn’t been briefed on the composition of Veta’s team. But Oscar Squad was an espionage unit, with the capacity to do its own research.
Olivia remained quiet for a moment, then finally giggled and said, “There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”
“Go on,” he said. “You can tell Uncle Spencer. You’re from Gamma Company, aren’t you?”
Olivia’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Spencer, I . . . can’t tell you that.” Her voice was halting and her speech slow. “How do you know?”
Veta stood and turned toward the bar. “ ’Livi’s been dosed.” She was so alarmed that she did not even bother to lift her wrist and pretend she was speaking into her commpad. “Extract now. I have ’Livi. Mark, secure the subject for interrogation. Ash, take distraction and cover.”
By the time she finished speaking, Mark was already heading for the far end of the bar and Ash was gathering glasses from the table. Veta had no idea whether the reference to Gamma Company was another of Osman’s tests or a genuine security breach. But she did know that any leak regarding the identity of her Gammas was a threat to the team’s existence and perhaps even their lives—which made this the kind of high-pressure situation likely to bring out their lethal instincts.
So, another test.
“And don’t kill anyone,” Veta added. “Don’t even bust them up. This is a training exercise.”
She circled around the near end of the bar. Mark was just stepping past the far end, moving briskly toward Olivia’s booth. He was smiling broadly, as though he were on his way to greet a friend, but his torso was tilted forward and his gaze locked on the back of the subject’s head. Because of the Smoothers necessary to keep their unique brain chemistries in balance, Gammas had a special fear of psychoactive drugs—and a burning hatred of anyone who used one on a fellow team member.
Veta began to have second thoughts about sending Mark in first. In many ways, he was the team’s coolest head, someone who always maintained focus and could not be rattled. But he was also protective of his teammates and utterly ruthless, with a bitter streak so dark that Veta had not too long ago suspected him of being a serial killer. If he thought Olivia had been harmed by the dose . . . well, training exercise or not, it might be bad to let Mark reach the subject first.
“Mark, let’s—”
The command was cut short when a tremendous shattering of glass sounded from the opposite side of the bar. Ash was creating the distraction as ordered. Veta ignored the reflex to glance over and continued toward Mark, watching as a server with a tray full of drinks whirled into his path. It was the same blonde who had served Veta earlier, the one who had brought her a whiskey instead of a two-tailed comet and hadn’t known a rocks glass from a doffer—and the same woman who had brought the zantelle to Olivia and her companion.
Mark didn’t even slow down. He simply grabbed the server’s tray and shoved it into her chest, then used a foot-sweep to kick her feet from beneath her. She landed flat on her back, slapping her arms out to break her fall and tucking her chin to avoid banging her head.
Both actions suggested training in hand-to-hand combat. The server rolled onto her side to counterattack with a scissor kick, but Mark was already two steps past her, still holding the tray and just approaching Olivia’s booth.
Taking the server for a member of Oscar Squad, Veta angled toward her—and began to wonder what had been in the whiskey the woman had been pushing. Had she been trying to dose Veta too? A large man stepped away from the bar. He was a little older than Veta, perhaps thirty-five or so, with a square jaw and wary eyes that did not match his smile.
Veta tilted her head as though she thought he was coming on to her, then flashed a sly grin herself. The operative’s smile grew more natural, and he offered a hand as though to introduce himself. At the same time, he was slipping into position between Veta and the action at Olivia’s booth. Veta allowed him to herd her toward the bar, but extended her hand past his and grabbed hold of his wrist.
“Nice to meet you.” Veta propped a foot against his ankle and drew him forward. “Never dose one of my people again.”
The operative’s brow shot up, but he was already off-balance and in danger of falling. His fingers closed around Veta’s forearm as he struggled to stay upright. She popped her free hand against his elbow just hard enough to hyperextend the joint, then pulled loose, spun around behind him, and delivered a vicious knuckle-punch to the kidney.
The operative staggered forward and dropped to a knee, in too much pain to do more than gasp. He would be pissing blood for a day, but he’d be back on his feet in ten minutes—which was no doubt less time than it would take for Olivia to recover.
When Veta looked up, she found a lot of curious eyes watching her. She covered by shaking her head and scowling, trying to suggest the guy had said something inappropriate, then continued on her way.
A few paces from Olivia’s booth, the blond server who had tried to stall Mark was being helped to her feet by a couple of young men. Judging by their confused expressions—and the dirty looks they were shooting at Mark—it seemed clear they were just bystanders who had seen the woman go down.
Mark had already reached the booth and was using a wrist-lock to walk the older “civilian” toward the emergency exit. Olivia was sitting on the edge of the seat, eyes glassy and dilated as she stared after Mark. Veta grabbed her by the hand and pulled her toward the club’s main entrance.
“How are you feeling?”
“Fine.” Olivia stumbled and grabbed Veta’s arm for support. “Okay . . . maybe not. There’s a helmet fire inside my skull.”
“I imagine there is,” Veta said. “That had to be some kind of Babble Juice in your zantelle.”
“You . . . think?” Olivia released Veta’s arm and began to lurch forward on her own. “I’m gonna crush that fat fart’s tiny little . . . ears.”
“His ears, huh?” Veta was relieved to hear the anger in Olivia’s voice; she was still in touch with her emotions, so the dose had probably been light. “Really?”
“Okay, not really,” Olivia said. “But whatever I crush, it’s going to hurt him. A lot.”
Veta smiled—she couldn’t help it. “As long as you don’t kill him,” she said. “Remember, this is still a training exercise.”
They reached the blond server. Noting that the bystanders who had helped her to her feet were continuing to scowl after Mark, Veta stopped to address the two men.
“We’re from FLEETCOM, Criminal Investigation Division.” Veta took Olivia’s arm again, then continued, “I need to get this officer to an infirmary, but the server you’re helping is a witness.”
An alarm bell rang briefly as Mark hustled the “civilian” out the emergency exit, but the two bystanders merely looked over and immediately returned their attention to Veta.
“Hold her here until one of my people comes for her,” Veta said. “Is that clear?”
Both men came to attention. “Affirmative, ma’am.”
Unable to protest without breaking her own cover, the server glared at Veta, then said, “No problem. I can use the break.”
“Good. I’m glad we understand each other.”
Veta thanked the bystanders for their help and steered Olivia toward the main entrance.
They had barely taken three steps before Olivia leaned in close. “But we’re not CID,” she said. “We’re—”
“Whoever we want to be. We’re Ferrets, remember?”
Olivia hesitated. “Right,” she said. “I’ll do my best.”
They met Ash on the far side of the bar, just a dozen steps from the exit. His trouser cuffs were wet, and he smelled like pels, and he was doing his best to swagger as though he had drunk too much.
“Drop the act,” Veta said. “You’re CID now—and watch Mark’s back. Oscar Squad is everywhere.”
“Affirmative.” Ash straightened his posture and snuck a peek at Olivia. “Is she going to be—”
“She’ll be fine,” Veta said. “We’ll meet you at the suite. Bring the prisoner—and make sure you aren’t tailed.”
Ash nodded. “No worries.”
“And don’t hurt anyone.” Veta pulled Olivia toward the exit. “This is still—”
“A training exercise,” Ash said. “I know.”
Veta led Olivia across a small foyer to an elevator bank, where they gazed into a security panel so the base AI could identify their facial features. A door opened, and they stepped into a steel-walled car. The car began to ascend, and a crisp, androgynous voice sounded from the overhead speaker.
“Lieutenant Bati’s eyes are dilated.” The AI was referring to Olivia by her legend identity—though it was hard to say how much longer the cover would hold, now that the Ferrets had engaged Oscar Squad. “And her pulse rate appears heightened. Do you need to stop at the infirmary?”
“Negative,” Veta said. “Lieutenant Bati will be fine. Just take us to our floor.”
“As you wish, Major.”
The car stopped and the elevator door opened. Veta hustled them down the corridor to their rooms, which were adjacent to each other and across from Ash’s and Mark’s. They quickly changed into service dress and returned to the elevator, heading for the suite they had taken as a safe house. Instead of merely looking into the security panel, this time Veta pressed her palm to the biometric reader in the center.
“Flag Floor Three, Halsey Suite” she said. “Access code Mike Oscar Mike Four Niner, unlogged.”
The door did not open.
Veta’s stomach clenched. Olivia had secured the suite by hacking into the central booking system and reserving it the name of a fictitious captain in ONI Section Zero. It was a clever ploy. Section Zero was ONI’s internal investigations division and therefore the most secretive about its personnel and activities. But Olivia was only half-finished with her Digital Infiltration and Sabotage course, so it seemed all too possible that her breach had been discovered.
Veta repeated the code.
“Your access code has already been verified, Major Keely,” the AI said, addressing Veta by her cover identity. “Lieutenant Bati’s has not.”
Olivia placed her hand on the security panel. “Tango Angel Papa Eight Five.” She hesitated a moment, then the Babble Juice compelled her to add, “But I’m not really—”
“Thank you, Lieutenant.” Veta pulled Olivia’s hand away from the security panel, then said, “And make certain our access remains unlogged.”
“Of course,” the AI said. “For the next twenty-four hours, there is a log blackout on everything concerning the Halsey Suite.”
The doors opened, and a minute later, Veta and Olivia were inside the cavernous parlor of a large room with a sunken seating salon and a majestic view of the cryovolcano’s gloomy caldera. It had a kitchenette to the left of the entrance and a water closet to the right. Two private bedrooms were arranged opposite each other on separate sides of the parlor.
Veta deposited Olivia on a couch, then retrieved a field kit and ran an analysis on the Gamma’s blood. A code appeared in the readout window identifying the toxin as NTL—a quick-acting form of Babble Juice more properly called nicothiotal. It was a favorite of ONI and other intelligence services because it hit quickly and the outward effects resembled intoxication. But it did have one drawback—an overdose could shatter one’s mind, destroying the barrier between dreams and memories and leaving the subject in a permanent state of hallucination.
Oscar Squad was playing rough.
Veta administered a counteragent and had Olivia remain on the couch while she prepared an interrogation room for the prisoner they were expecting. When she finished ten minutes later, Mark and Ash still had not arrived with the captive. The delay was a bit alarming, but not terribly. They had to be certain they weren’t being tailed, and even if they weren’t, sneaking around a UNSC recreational facility with a prisoner in custody was no easy thing.
Veta took the opportunity to debrief Olivia and was relieved to find her rapidly coming around. But she did not learn much of interest—only that Olivia’s suitor had been sitting at the bar when she arrived and approached her before she had a chance to find a seat.
“And that didn’t raise an alarm?” Veta asked. “He had to be waiting for you.”
“You saw him. Did he look like ONI to you?”
“Not until he dosed you,” Veta admitted. “But a guy that age? What were you thinking?”
“That he liked me and wanted to talk.” Olivia raised her chin. “Is that so hard to believe?”
Veta sighed. “No, actually. Not at all,” she said. Like most Spartan-IIs and IIIs, Olivia had been robbed of a libido by her biological augmentations, and where men were concerned, she lacked normal instincts—and apparently creep radar too. “In fact, you’re way out of his league. When we get back to the Mill, we have some course work to do.”
“I know how sex works. It’s not that complicated.”
“Neither is crossing a street,” Veta said. “But if you wander into either one blindfolded, there’s going to be trouble.”
Olivia rolled her eyes. “Sure, Mom. Whatever you want.”
Veta was hardly fond of the nickname, especially since the Gammas used it when they thought she was being overprotective. But the door to the suite swished open before she could object, and Mark and Ash stepped into the foyer, now wearing the service dress of ODST junior lieutenants.
There was no one else with them.
Veta stood. “Where’s the prisoner?”
Ash stepped in front of Mark, as though to shield him. “That’s my fault, ma’am. I grew distracted by the casualties—”
“Casualties?” Veta climbed out of the seating salon and started toward them. “What did I say about casualties?”
“To avoid them, ma’am,” Ash said. “But I didn’t cause them. They were already down when I arrived.”
“At the least, the first ones were,” Mark added. “And they weren’t fatalities.”
Veta grimaced. “You’re going to need to clarify that. First ones?”
“Two men, near the end of the bar,” Ash said.
Veta nodded, recalling the two men who had helped the blond server to her feet. “I used them to stall an Oscar Squad operative. How bad are they?”
“They’ll recover,” Ash said. “One guy has a broken jaw; the other one was out cold.”
Veta could only shake her head. She had expected the woman to try slipping away, but not to attack a pair of bystanders. “Go on.”
“Ma’am?”
“Who were the other casualties?”
“Well—” Mark said. He started to step forward, only to have Ash extend an arm and hold him back. “Ash, we have—”
“There was a big guy,” Ash interrupted, “closer to the center of the bar. He was on his knees, holding his back like someone had kidney-punched him.”
Fairly certain Ash was referring to the operative she had dropped—and that he knew it—Veta narrowed her eyes. “Someone had.” She took Ash by the shoulder, then drew him aside so she could scowl at Mark. “Mark, what did you do?”
Mark’s face fell. “You mean besides get stabbed?”
Veta looked him over and saw no obvious wounds. “What are you talking about?”
Mark placed a finger in his collar and pulled it aside to reveal a blood-dotted bandage over his clavicle. The depth of the wound was impossible to tell, but the location was alarming. Had the blade struck just a couple of centimeters closer to his shoulder, it would have severed his subclavian artery and killed him in less than a minute.
Feeling guilty for her sharp tone, Veta looked up and spoke gently. “How did it happen?”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you,” Ash said, stepping in to shield Mark again. “It wasn’t Mark’s fault. Oscar Squad is way out of line.”
“Ash, stop.” Veta glanced from Ash to Mark and back again, then said, “Please, just tell me.”
A look of resignation came over Ash’s face, and he stepped aside.
“Ma’am,” Mark began, “I was escorting the subject down a service corridor when I was attacked from behind.”
“You were taken by surprise?” Veta was not quite sure she understood the report correctly. “Someone snuck up on you? How is that possible?”
Mark’s face flushed. “My attention was elsewhere,” he said. “The subject was resisting.”
“It was my fault,” Ash said. “If I hadn’t gotten distracted by the casualties in the club—”
An alert chime issued from control panel near the door, then the AI’s voice sounded from the speaker. “Officer on deck.”
Ash and Mark immediately snapped to attention, and, down in the seating salon, Olivia sprang to her feet to do the same.
Veta turned to the control panel. “Secure the door.” It was probably someone from Oscar Squad, coming to confirm her Ferret Team’s location. “Access to the Halsey Suite is restricted to current personnel.”
“The restriction has been expanded to all authorized personnel,” the AI said. “Admiral Osman is authorized personnel.”
Veta glanced over to Ash and Mark. “I’ll handle this,” she said. “Not a word.”
The door opened, revealing a tall, olive-skinned woman in a white uniform. She had short-cropped hair and a slender, high-cheeked face wrenched into a grim scowl. Standing behind the admiral were a pair of armed escorts and the square-jawed Oscar Squad operative Veta had incapacitated in the officers’ club. His eyes were wary and his expression angry, and Veta suspected that, had Osman not been present, he would have been tempted to return her kidney shot.
Osman motioned for her escorts to remain outside, then led the operative into the foyer and paused to look around.
“You certainly travel in style,” Osman said. “Even I don’t stay in the Halsey Suite.”
“We needed a safe house.” Veta spoke with an ease she did not feel. Whatever had happened in the service corridor, the incident had to be a serious one to warrant Osman’s direct intervention. “And you’re the one who keeps telling me ‘the only rule is there are no rules.’ ”
Osman flashed a tight smile. “Except for budgets,” she said. “Budgets are like the laws of physics. Break them and die.”
“Now you tell me.” Veta forced a laugh, but did not take much comfort from the banter. The Ferret Team may have been Osman’s brainchild, but the admiral was too tough-minded and analytical to continue investing ONI resources in a program she was starting to doubt. “Not that I mind having you drop by, Admiral, but bringing Oscar Squad along kind of spoils the exercise.”
“We have bigger problems than the exercise.” Osman didn’t bother to introduce the Oscar Squad operative. Instead, her eyes darted toward Mark. “I think you know that.”
“Not if you’re talking about what happened in the officer’s club, I don’t,” Veta said. “We weren’t the ones who roughed up those two bystanders. That’s on Oscar Squad.”
The operative emphatically shook his head. “Don’t try to pin that on us,” he said. “We didn’t touch—”
“That’s enough, Svenson,” Osman said. “Nobody cares about a couple of ensigns getting hurt in a bar brawl.”
“A bar brawl?” Veta was growing confused. Ash hadn’t said anything about that. “Admiral, it was barely a scuffle. There was no brawl.”
“But that’s what the ensigns have been ordered to report, and that will be the end of the matter,” Osman said. “I’m more worried about the situation Commander Svenson observed.”
“Which was?”
“I caught up to these two in a service corridor,” Svenson said, indicating Mark and Ash. “They were hauling a body.”
Veta’s stomach sank. If there was a fatality, her Ferret Team was done for. She turned back to Osman and, trying to buy some time to think, attempted to sound more surprised than she was. “Yeah, sure. Are his jokes always this bad?”
“It’s no joke,” Svenson said. “They were carrying a body. It looked like the big guy who was trying to work your girl.”
Given what Ash and Mark had already reported, Veta did not doubt Svenson’s claim. But there was a lot he wasn’t saying—and she wanted to figure out why. “And you’re not a hundred percent on that? You don’t even know your own operatives?”
“He wasn’t one of ours,” Svenson said.
“Of course he wasn’t,” Veta said. “And neither was that server who was working with him.”
Svenson scowled. “What server?”
“The blonde who helped the guy dose Lieutenant Bati,” Veta said, still referring to Olivia by her cover identity. “She’s one who brought the zantelle. We know the lieutenant’s glass was laced with nicothiotal.”
Svenson looked appalled, then turned to Osman. “No way. We wouldn’t do that, Admiral.”
“I’ll show you the field test.” Veta stepped closer to Svenson, invading his space and pressing a finger to his chest. “You have no idea what could have happened to her if it had taken full effect.”
Svenson did not retreat. “I know how to use nicothiotal—which is why I’d never use it in a training exercise.” He continued to hold Veta’s gaze, but addressed his comments to Osman. “Admiral, if someone drugged the lieutenant, it wasn’t our team.”
“No?” Osman was starting to sound doubtful. “Then who was the server? And the man she was working with?”
“I have no clue,” Svenson said. “All I can you tell is they weren’t ours.”
Veta didn’t believe Svenson for a second, but she was having trouble figuring out what he was trying to hide. Fortunately, she possessed the skills to find out.
“Then we’ll ask the victim,” Veta said. “Where’s the body?”
Svenson’s eyes shifted toward Mark and Ash. “I don’t know,” he said. “You’ll have to ask them.”
“So you can’t actually produce a body?” Veta asked.
Svenson looked at the floor.
“Commander?” Osman demanded. “This is a serious accusation. Do you know where the body is or not?”
“I couldn’t keep up.” Svenson shot a glare in Veta’s direction. “I was too sore.”
“You couldn’t keep up with a pair of men carrying a hundred and forty kilograms of deadweight?” Veta raised an eyebrow. “That’s hard to believe.”
“I don’t know what to tell you. It’s what happened.”
“Let’s assume there’s a reason for that.” Osman’s tone was wry, no doubt because she found it perfectly reasonable that a pair of Spartan-IIIs carrying a body that large would be able to outrun a standard field operative. “Where did you lose sight of them?”
“I never really had them, Admiral. I saw them going around a corner. By the time I got there, they were gone.”
“I see,” Veta said. “Then how do you know the person was actually dead?”
“By the smell,” Svenson said. “His bladder had released. So had his bowels.”
“Not much help,” Veta said. “It’s hard to establish identity from odors. What about signs of a fight? Did you find any weapons or blood, for instance?”
Svenson nodded. “There was some blood spray up the corridor from where I saw them, but it’s not there now.”
“You cleaned it up,” Osman surmised. Standard procedure called for a team in the field to eliminate any trace of a hostile engagement, whenever possible. “Good job.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” Svenson said. “But it wasn’t us. By the time we realized we weren’t going to find the targets and returned to sanitize the scene, it had already been done.”
Osman turned to Veta. “Impressive.”
Now it was Veta’s turn to say: “It wasn’t us.” She couldn’t admit to cleaning the scene without admitting to the homicide, and she wasn’t ready to do that until she knew what Svenson was trying to hide—or at least figured out who the victim and his accomplice were. “Is it worth checking the surveillance feeds?”
Osman looked at Veta as though she were thinking about sending her back to the ONI Trade Craft School.
“We weren’t the only ones who put a block on the officers’ club feeds,” Svenson said. “We assumed the other block came from you.”
“Actually, I was thinking of the service corridor,” Veta said.
“Deleted,” he said. “We assumed it was you.”
“Now, that’s convenient.” Veta quickly turned to Osman. “Admiral, have you considered the possibility that there is no body?”
“There is a body,” Svenson said. “Why would I make up something like that?”
“Well, you are standing in our safe house.” Veta saw Osman’s eyes narrow and knew she’d struck a chord. “And now you’ve had a look at my entire team.”
Svenson turned to Osman. “Admiral, that’s ridiculous. I don’t know what kind of unit you’re putting together here, but letting them turn this training mission into a farce is not going to help them survive in the field.”
“On the contrary, Commander. The only rule is that there are no rules.” Veta gave him a sly smile. “Either you’re proving that—or we are.”
“She does have a point, Commander,” Osman said. “You can wait in the hall with the escorts.”
Svenson’s face clouded with anger, but he merely acknowledged the order and spun toward the door. Once he was gone and the room secure again, Osman turned to Veta.
“So, what’s the answer?” she asked. “Who’s the one being played here?”
Mark immediately stepped forward. “Admiral, there’s something—”
“Mark, I’ll handle this.” Veta pointed him to Ash’s side, then turned back to Osman. “I don’t know what Commander Svenson saw or didn’t see, or whether he’s telling the truth that the server and the other guy were not assisting Oscar Squad. But I can promise you this—nobody on my team did anything wrong.”
Osman studied her for a moment, then said, “You’d better be sure of that, Lopis.”
“I am. And I can prove it.”
Osman smiled in obvious relief. “Good.” She turned to leave. “I expect to hear from you in two hours.”
The door had barely closed before Mark whirled on Veta. “Why did you do that?”
“Do what, exactly?”
“Lie to the admiral. You know I killed that guy.”
“I do now,” Veta said. “What I don’t know is why.”
“The why doesn’t matter,” Mark said. “I don’t need you lying to protect me.”
“Mark, you’re on my team,” Veta said. “Of course I’m going to protect you.”
“You shouldn’t. Now you’ve put the whole team at risk.”
“Mark . . .” Veta had to pause and bite back the impulse to make a harsh retort, to tell Mark that he was the one who had put the Ferret Team at risk. “Look, we’re all in this together. We either have each other’s backs to the end, or we have nothing.”
“No, the team comes—”
“Mark, shut up.” Olivia climbed out of the seating salon and approached her teammate. “That is so like you, thinking you’re so damn good that you’re all the protection we need.”
“Maybe that’s because I’m the security specialist.”
“Maybe it’s because you have a big head.”
“ ’Livi’s right,” Ash said. “And it’s not just your ego. I’ve tried your helmet. It’s like wearing a ten-liter bucket.”
Mark blinked, his anger draining away. “Really? I have a big head?”
“Enormous,” Ash said. “Can we tell Mom about the dead guy now?”
“Please,” Veta said. “We have work to do.”
Mark shrugged. “Fine,” he said. “But you know most of it. I was walking the fat guy down the corridor when I see this silver blade flash past the corner of my eye and there’s a carving knife slicing down my chest.”
“That’s when I came around the corner,” Ash said. “It was that server from the bar, the blonde? She’s about your height and build, boss, and she was damn good with that knife. If she hadn’t been so small, I would have taken her for a Spartan.”
“I’m not that small,” Veta said. “How did the subject die?”
“Reflex,” Mark said. “I brought him around to use as a shield, then chest-punched him when he resisted. He must have had a weak heart, because he dropped like a sack of water.”
“By then, I was on my way,” Ash said. “The blonde threw the knife at me and took off.”
“What happened to the knife?” Veta asked.
“Same thing as the blood spray,” Mark said. “We came back and got rid of it.”
“So I guess I did just lie to Admiral Osman,” Veta said. “Good. Now, what about the body?”
Ash tipped his head toward the gloomy cryovolcano outside the suite’s window. “We found an airlock.”
Veta frowned.
“Relax, will you?” Olivia said. “We’re not the police. We’re supposed to get rid of the bodies.”
“It’s not that,” Veta said. “We still need to figure out who this guy was, and that’s going to be a lot harder without evidence.”
“Covered.” Ash reached inside his uniform jacket and withdrew a thick packet of personal belongings. “His name is Spencer Hume.”
Veta’s heart climbed into her throat. “What . . . ?” She took the packet from Ash and began to go through it. “You can’t be serious.”
“That’s his cover, anyway.” Ash said. “Why?”
“Didn’t you guys listen to the BuzzCast when we were on Jastolo?” Veta groaned as she found a laminated identity card confirming her suspicions. “He was the newsmonger doing those exposés on ONI.”
“I listened to one,” Mark said. “It was a smear job. The Spartans had nothing to do with what happened on Tanuab III. That was a meteor impact.”
Veta wasn’t so sure about that one, but wasn’t about to argue the point—especially not now. “That’s not what matters,” she said. “Spencer Hume was an investigative reporter—”
“A shit-flinger,” Mark said.
“Fine . . . a shit-flinger,” Veta said. “But he was still here, working Olivia, and now he’s dead.”
“I don’t have a problem with that,” Olivia said. “Not after he dosed me.”
Veta said: “And he had help, remember? Expert help.”
The expressions of all three Spartans fell.
“We need to know who that woman was.” Veta handed the packet of Hume’s belongings to Olivia. “Find out everything you can.”
“Affirmative.” Olivia pulled a commpad out of the dead man’s possessions and retreated to the prep island in the kitchenette. “I’ll need an hour to crack the password.”
“Get started.” Veta turned to Ash and Mark. “But if our target is smart, we’re not going to find her real name in his commpad.”
“Not likely,” Ash said. “We already know she was good enough to block the officers’ club security feeds.”
“And delete the trouble in the service corridor,” Mark added.
“Wait. That wasn’t you?” Veta said.
Ash shook his head. “Not us,” he said. “I was going to ask ’Livi for help.”
Veta nodded. “Yeah, I know . . . just hoping.” The facility AI was pretty basic, but subverting even a dumb AI fell more into Olivia’s skill set than Ash’s—him being the team’s surveillance expert, and her the information specialist. “Ideas?”
“Just one,” Ash said. “All we’re trying to do is identify her, and anyone that good has probably crossed paths with ONI before.”
“So she’ll be in the FRD,” Veta said. ONI’s Facial Recognition Database. “We just need an image of her face.”
Ash nodded. “Exactly.”
“And you know how to find one?” No response. Veta waited for him to answer, then finally asked, “Am I supposed to guess?”
“Sorry, ma’am. I was just thinking it through.”
“And?”
“There’s no use trying to find her through the surveillance feeds,” Ash said. “If she’s good enough to subvert the AI, she’s good enough to neutralize common surveillance files.”
“But there’s one file she can’t block.” Mark was starting to sound excited too. “Not if she wants to keep moving around.”
“The master comparison file?” Veta asked. Like many medium-security facilities, this one relied on a facial recognition system to control access to all interior locations. The target couldn’t erase her image from the master file without eliminating her ability to move around the facility. “Olivia, can you pull up those reference images?”
“We should have access already.” Olivia continued to tap on Hume’s commpad. “Just ask the AI.”
Veta raised her brow. “The AI will let us raid the master security files?”
“Sure,” Olivia said. “He let us have this suite, didn’t he?”
An hour later, Veta was still standing at the door, going through facial images on the control panel’s palm-size screen, when Olivia let out a whoop.
“I’m in!” she said. “And you’ll never guess what kind of intel that bitch was feeding Hume.”
Veta thought back to the snippet of “interview” she had heard while eavesdropping on Hume’s exchange with Olivia. “Details on the Spartan-III program, right?” she asked. “Especially Gamma Company, and your reliance on Smoothers.”
“That, and it gets worse. She mentioned us specifically.”
“Us? As in the Ferrets?” Mark asked. “Then it’s a good thing I killed the reporter. It saves ONI the trouble of sending us after him later.”
“I’m not sure that fixes the problem,” Ash said. “If word is already leaking about the Gammas, we’re done. They didn’t even want us as Spartans.”
“Nothing has leaked yet.” Veta froze the image on the control panel, then said, “And nothing is going to. I just found her.”
“You did?” Olivia switched to her ONI datapad, and a few moments later, she said, “You’re sure?”
Veta stepped over to the prep island and peered over Olivia’s shoulder. The datapad’s screen showed an image of the blond server from the officers’ club. But now the woman was wearing the dress blues of a UNSC Naval Commander, and below her image were the words OTA GALLO, RETIRED.
Ash joined them and peered over Olivia’s other shoulder. “So, she’s ONI.” The records of most field operatives read RETIRED or, in deep-cover cases, KIA. “They’re stress testing us again.”
“Or trying to sink us,” Mark said. You ever get the feeling Admiral Osman is out on a limb with us?”
“Sometimes,” Ash said. “But if she’s out on a limb, why would she want to sink us?”
“Not her, genius,” Olivia said. “You don’t think Osman has rivals? Word has it Parangosky is grooming Osman to be the next CINCONI. And you know the Section Chiefs aren’t going to take that without a fight.”
“Maybe,” Veta said. Bureaucratic infighting was certainly one motive for sabotaging a mission . . . but this time, the stakes seemed too high. A successful play would cripple ONI—and getting caught meant a bullet in the head. “Show us the rest of the jacket, ’Livi.”
Olivia scrolled down. Gallo’s record listed a handful of postings over the better part of two decades. Beyond that, the details were sketchy. More than a hundred entries read either REDACTED or CLASSIFIED.
But it was the final entry that Veta found most interesting. Just a week earlier, Gallo’s file had been marked FINAL DISPOSITION: DARK MOON. NO CONTACT, NO ACCESS.
“What’s Dark Moon?” Ash asked.
“I have no idea,” Veta said. “But whatever it is, ONI doesn’t like it. See what you can pull up.”
Olivia typed an inquiry, and an entry appeared.
Dark Moon Enterprises was listed as a comprehensive security company that provided force-enhancement services throughout the human-controlled portion of the galaxy. A month earlier, the firm had appeared out of nowhere with a prestigious list of clients and began to hire former UNSC personnel to provide security services in a broad spectrum of hostile environments. Within two weeks, Dark Moon had grown so fast that they began to pursue active-duty personnel, and the UNSC put them on the NO CONTACT, NO ACCESS list. Rather than back off, Dark Moon offered its clients a menu of privatized intelligence and threat-management services, then started to recruit former and current ONI operatives to fulfill its contracts.
Mark whistled softly. “I don’t know who’s in charge of that outfit, but they have more guts than brains.”
“You might have it backward,” Veta said. “Dark Moon has a lot of guts, clearly. But they’ve only been in business a month, and already they’re an interstellar company growing so fast they need to raid ONI for employees? I’d say they have plenty of brains too.”
“Yeah,” Ash said. “Doing all that in a month seems kind of remarkable, at least by civilian standards.”
“It is.” Veta turned back to Olivia. “Is there is anything else on Dark Moon? The identity of the founder, perhaps? A list of company executives?”
“What you see is what we have,” Olivia said. “There’s not even an above-clearance file.”
“Then they’re making a smart play,” Veta said. “A bold one . . . but very, very smart.”
“No way,” Ash said. “Messing with the military is one thing, but pissing off ONI? That’s a death wish.”
“Don’t do that, Ash.”
“Do what?”
“Underestimate the enemy.” Veta tapped the datapad’s screen. “Assuming this file is right, Dark Moon came out of nowhere, and they aren’t afraid to poke a stick in ONI’s eye. But ONI doesn’t even seem to know who’s behind Dark Moon—much less why it was founded.”
Olivia shrugged. “That’ll change soon enough,” she said. “Intelligence takes time.”
“Not for Dark Moon,” Veta said. “They’ve only been in business a month, and already they know enough about Gamma Company to give ONI a public-relations nightmare. That means they’re either as good as ONI—or a whole lot more agile. Whichever it is, I wouldn’t bet against Dark Moon when this thing turns ugly.”
The Gammas scowled in unison. “Come on,” Mark said. “You’re being crazy.”
“Am I?”
Veta reached up and jammed a thumb down on Mark’s wounded clavicle. He didn’t drop to his knees, but he did flinch and back away. Ignoring his look of surprise, Veta raised her thumb, presenting it to the trio.
“The biggest guy doesn’t always win.” She raised her index finger, leaving about a centimeter of space between it and her thumb. “Gallo came this close to killing Mark because she struck first. And so far, Dark Moon has been doing all the punching.”
The Gammas remained quiet for a moment. Olivia finally said, “And we’re their point of attack. If word gets out that Admiral Osman is using Gammas on her Ferret Teams, ONI is gone.”
“Probably not gone,” Veta said. “But certainly crippled—and that leaves a power vacuum to be exploited. I’ll bet Dark Moon has contracts ready to sign now.”
“You’re saying this is about contracts?” Ash seemed horrified. “Dosing ’Livi and trying to kill Mark—that’s just business?”
“Ash, people kill for a lot of reasons,” Veta said. “And you better believe money is at the top of the list.”
“I guess,” Ash said. “I really miss being just a soldier. Risking your life used to mean something.”
“It still does,” Olivia said. “But we’re Ferrets now, and I’m not about to give that up too.” She turned to Veta. “How do we fix this?”
“Gallo was Hume’s source,” Veta said. “That means she can be someone else’s source too. We have to stop her before that happens.”
“Then it’s simple,” Mark said. “We kill Gallo.”
“Mark,” Ash said, “we’re not supposed to kill anyone this time. Remember?”
“That’s right,” Veta said. “But Gallo really isn’t part of the training exercise.”
Mark flashed a smug smile. “Excellent. So we do kill her.”
“Only if we have to,” Veta said. “We should try to capture her—if she gives us the chance.”
“Like that’s going to happen,” Olivia said. “She doesn’t seem like the surrendering kind.”
“Not really,” Veta admitted. She was already turning her thoughts to locating Gallo, trying to put herself in the other woman’s position. “Now we just have to find her.”
“That’s not going to be easy,” Ash said. “For all we know, she could be offworld by now.”
“I don’t think so,” Veta said. “She just started at Dark Moon a week ago. This has to be her first assignment.”
Mark cocked his head. “So?”
“So would we give up?” Olivia asked, catching on faster than the other two Gammas. “Especially on our first job?”
“Exactly.” Veta turned to Mark. “What are the chances that Gallo knows Hume is actually dead?”
Mark looked at Ash, and Ash said, “I’d say good. She was closer than Svenson, and he knew Hume was dead.”
“Then we’ll have to do this the hard way,” Veta said. “Olivia—”
“On it.” Olivia set her datapad aside and started to tap a message into Hume’s commpad, then spoke without looking up. “And, boss, maybe you should send a copy of Gallo’s file to Admiral Osman and ask her to lock down the facility.”
Veta nodded. “Good idea.” She raised her wrist and began tapping a message on her own commpad. “Thanks.”
“It won’t work,” Ash said. “If Gallo’s as good as we think she is, she’ll slip free faster than we would.”
“Gallo’s not going anywhere,” Veta said. “She needs to recover Hume’s commpad before ONI can start digging into it. Sooner or later, they’ll find something that leads back to her—and she knows it.” She finished her message and sent it, then said, “Putting the facility on lockdown will tip her off, and Dark Moon will hear about it. That puts even more pressure on Gallo.”
Mark smiled. “I like that strategy. If she doesn’t recover Hume’s stuff, they’ll kill her.” He watched Olivia tap on Hume’s commpad for a moment, then said, “But what’s ’Livi doing?”
“Writing a message to Gallo and copying Admiral Osman,” Olivia said. “I’m reporting everything we learned about her connection to Hume.”
“So Gallo will know we know?” Mark’s brow rose. “You want to get this done fast, don’t you?”
“We can’t afford to sit around waiting,” Olivia said. “The admiral only gave us two hours, and half of that is gone.”
“And we need to put the pressure on Gallo, not ourselves,” Veta said. “She’s either going to hit us fast or hit us smart, and it would be better to know which.”
Olivia stopped tapping and smiled in triumph. “Okay, done.” She raised Hume’s commpad, her thumb poised to execute a command. “Ready?”
Veta took a moment to consider, trying to think of anything she had forgotten, then nodded. “Do it.”
Olivia had barely depressed the SEND key on Hume’s commpad before a hissed HOLD! sounded outside the suite door. Muffled and barely audible, the whisper was still distinct enough to catch the attention of Veta and all three Gammas. They wasted a precious second looking at each other in astonishment, and Mark smiled and mouthed, Nice plan.
“She’s here!” Olivia whispered, and Ash hissed, “Down!” and the muted click of a snapping switch ticked through the door.
Mark and Ash were already flinging themselves against the wall on opposite sides of the door. Olivia was diving over the peninsula that separated the kitchenette from the rest of the suite, one hand grasping a knife-block she had snatched off the prep island as she moved. Veta, always the slowest to react, was dropping to floor, reaching for a sidearm that was not there and cursing the regulations that prohibited carrying weapons in a facility where intoxicants were served.
The blast was deafening, the concussion wave so powerful that it sent the prep island tumbling over Veta’s head. Her reflexes now honed by ONI’s twice-weekly close-assault drills, she rolled against the suite’s forward wall.
A pair of grenades came flying out of the smoke where the suite’s door had once been, crossing in midair and dropping to the floor on opposite sides of the sunken seating area. Veta’s training kicked in and she realized the pattern probably meant a three-person squad—two throwing grenades and a third covering with automatic fire.
Sure enough, chunks of wall and balls of couch stuffing began to fly as suppression fire streamed into the room. Veta didn’t bother wondering how Gallo and her people had smuggled weapons into the facility. There were a hundred ways, and the Ferrets knew most of them. And the next time they went on a training exercise, Veta intended to use them.
But now it was time to move, before the shooters could step into the suite and start raking fire along the perimeter. She grabbed a broken stool leg and gathered her feet beneath her, duck-walking forward.
The first shooter stepped through the door, his M7 submachine gun spitting bursts as his gaze swept the foyer. Veta hurled the stool leg at his head and saw him flinch as it tumbled past. She sprang forward, diving for his legs, twisting around to keep an eye on his weapon. The M7 swung her way, orange flashes erupting from the muzzle, chips of broken tile dancing across the floor ahead.
Mark appeared from the far side of the doorway, slipping a hand in front of the shooter to clasp the barrel and force it down so abruptly that the man’s suede loafers erupted in a spray of blood, bone, and leather. By then, Mark had his other hand clamped on the shooter’s throat, and he was swinging the fellow around to serve as a shield. The shooter’s body began to shake and jump as his companions sprayed him with fire.
Ash reached in from the opposite side of the doorway, grabbing the second shooter by the forearm and jerking him into the foyer. The Gamma landed a quick trio of rabbit-punches to the base of the skull, and the man collapsed to the floor.
Veta found herself unarmed and staring through the twisted remnants of the door into the little elevator lobby outside the suite, where Ota Gallo stood with an M6 sidearm in one hand and a grenade in the other. She locked eyes with Veta, then smiled and used her thumb to flick the pin free.
“Grenade!” Veta’s ears were still ringing so hard from the earlier explosion that she couldn’t hear herself scream—much less be certain anyone else did. She tried again, then rolled away from the door and saw Olivia standing ahead. The Gamma’s uniform was scorched and she was bleeding from about a dozen places, including both ears and the nose. But her throwing arm was outstretched and her gaze was fixed on the door, and there was a knife missing from the block in her free hand.
Olivia’s mouth opened and formed the word grenade, then she tossed the knife-block aside and threw herself on top of Veta.
The Ferret Team did not attempt to sanitize the site. With Ota Gallo sprayed all over the lobby and the suite door blasted open, and blood and bullet holes everywhere they looked, there didn’t seem much point.
Besides, the team had more important things to worry about. They needed to remove what remained of Hume’s commpad and possessions to a secure location. And despite what Olivia claimed, she was in need of an infirmary. Veta grabbed a field kit and took a couple of minutes to patch her up, then ordered her Ferret Team to evacuate. They would worry about the surveillance feeds and the AI later.
Or not.
They didn’t get very far. When the elevator opened, Admiral Osman was inside, standing behind four large ONI security officers in helmets and body armor. The officers were carrying shotguns and submachines and weren’t being shy about where they pointed them.
Veta motioned her team to stand aside, then turned back to Osman. “You’re a little late to the party, Admiral.”
“So I see.” Osman waited for her security escort to clear the area, then stepped out of the elevator and looked around wide-eyed at the little lobby. “Is this what you call keeping a low profile, Lopis?”
“Considering the alternative.” Veta gestured to Olivia, who, despite her injuries, was standing at attention. “You saw Olivia’s message?”
Osman’s expression softened. “I did.” She nodded to Olivia. “Good work.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” she said. “But it was all of us.”
“I’m sure.” Osman pointed at the charred packet in Ash’s hands. “Are those Hume’s effects?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Ash said. “What’s left of them.”
“Let me have them, son.”
Ash passed her the packet. “The breaching blast did a job on the electronics, Admiral. I don’t think they’ll be much help.”
“And they won’t be much harm either. That’s half the battle.” Osman stepped over to the suite, then peered through the empty doorway. “This isn’t good, Lopis.”
“Not our choice, Admiral.” Veta stepped away from the door. “All we did was clean up ONI’s mess.”
“Really? And what about Spencer Hume?” Osman spun on Veta. “Was he part of the mess too?”
“In a manner of speaking,” Veta said. “Hume was going to name Gallo as his source. She killed him to prevent that.”
Osman’s eyebrows shot up. The lie was an obvious one, but believable. She studied Veta for a long time. Finally, she suppressed a smile and turned to Mark.
“Is that what happened, Spartan?”
Mark looked Osman straight in the eye. “Yes, ma’am, that’s exactly what happened.” He waited a beat, then declared: “And, Admiral, just to be clear . . . I’m a Ferret now.”