The field is definitely my world, my backyard, the place where I feel most comfortable, regardless of the actual country where I carry out an operation. From the jungles of El Salvador to the desert of Lebanon, from the dark alleys of Serbia to the drizzling streets of London and the gripping architecture of Paris, my senses become one with my surroundings, adapting to them, probing them, using them to achieve my objective—whatever the goal happened to be at the time.
Today, I walk alongside my boss, who is dressed in a lovely pair of black pants, a long-sleeve shirt, and boots. She is also wearing dark lipstick to go along with her dark eye shadow and fingernails that have already turned the heads of otherwise indifferent French businessmen taking a stroll on their lunch hour by the Luxembourg Garden, in the heart of the Latin Quarter in Paris.
Rachel’s short hair is once again heavily moussed and brushed straight back, like she wore it in Austin, exposing her forehead, highlighting her large, Italian-looking eyes and the ever-present freckle that constantly challenges my commitment to the job—or better yet, to the cash waiting for me in St. Thomas.
But what the hell? I’m in the City of Love walking side by side with a beautiful woman, pretending to enjoy a warm but still quite pleasant Parisian summer day, just as I remember from way back when.
Kids play with remote-controlled sailboats on the pool in the center of the legendary gardens, flanked on the east side by the Boulevard Saint-Michel. Fountains in the middle of the large octagonal pool shoot streams of water twenty feet high, misting the surrounding air as a light breeze sweeps across the garden, creating a glittering canvas used by sunlight to paint rainbows. The effect is almost surreal, adding to the beauty of the place.
Too bad we’re here on business.
“How do you know he’s still living here?” she asks.
“Because he has no other place to go. Remember what I told you back in Austin?” I reply, failing to suppress a yawn. We’re both jet-lagged, having arrived at the Charles de Gaulle Airport just north of the city about three hours ago. We didn’t even get the chance to hit the safe house and take hot showers before being ushered to this section of town. So I’m feeling and also looking a little scruffy, unlike my younger superior, who, as I continue to admire, has managed to look and smell like a million bucks by spending just fifteen minutes inside the airplane lavatory prior to landing. There’s youth for you.
“Yes,” she finally says. “I remember.”
I’m willing to bet that good old Randy Wessel is still holed up in this place after screwing the Libyans out of twenty million bucks some years back at our request. I was the one who helped him set up the deal in Egypt, where Randy delivered empty crates instead of fifty Stinger II missiles but snagged the funds anyhow. Luckily for me, I was working undercover, so the Libyan top cats never knew who I was, but due to an unfortunate technical error on our part, they figured out where Randy and his partner—a fellow arms dealer named Sal—were hiding before they got a chance to leave Egypt. The Libyans dragged them to a secluded terrorist camp outside of Cairo, where they skinned Sal alive while Randy watched. They fed Sal’s skin to dogs before slowly chopping off various body parts, also feeding them to dogs while the poor bastard screamed his ass off and Randy watched in what had to be the ultimate creep show—and more so because he knew he would be next. And all the while the Libyans were roasting ducks and eating them while enjoying the freak show. Randy was shaking pretty badly when we stormed the camp with our helicopters and broke up their little party before they got to Randy.
I still remember afterward just how pissed he was at me for the savage death of his partner, for his own near-death experience, and also because life as he knew it—as a black-market arms dealer—was over. The Libyans and their vast connections in the international terrorist community had put a price on Randy’s head. All we could do was stage his death, alter his face, and then set him up with a new identity to live out his days in early retirement.
A lot of that going around, huh?
Anyway, a lover of all things French, from the food to the wine and especially the women, he requested Paris. A grateful and somewhat embarrassed Troy Savage granted the request and set Randy up with a comfortable flat just off the Boulevard Saint-Michel plus a generous cash deposit, which the black-market businessman put to good use in another shadowy business: running high-class hookers, something Troy allowed him to do for two reasons. One, because it was harmless from our perspective and would keep him busy. And two, if properly managed, the arrangement could provide us with intel on the private lives of his clients, who last time I checked ranged from high-ranking foreign dignitaries, businessmen, and industrialists to the local and visiting brass and the unavoidable members of criminal organizations. You would be amazed what sorts of secrets men will reveal under the sexual spell of a high-class courtesan. And best of all, none of this was on the official Langley books, meaning Troy had himself a great source of intel to cross-check that gathered through official channels. But since Troy vanished and I retired, no one from Langley has bothered Randy, because everyone thinks he is dead.
I gaze down at my left wrist and frown when seeing the Plasmaflex instead of my Rolex. I still haven’t gotten used to wearing my watch on the right side and keep banging it on doorways and other places.
It’s just past one in the afternoon, and I’m willing to bet that my old informant is still sleeping from another night of drinking and whoring. The wrist implant, however, does remind me that we have a team of ten operatives covering a five-block area in case Randy gets spooked and tries to run away. After all, not only has no one bothered him in over a year, but part of the deal we made with him was that only Troy and I would approach him. He was dead as far as the rest of the world was concerned. And since I don’t look like Tom Grant anymore, there’s a chance that he will panic.
There is one disturbing aspect of this operation, however. I have not met—or seen for that matter—any of the surrounding spooks, and neither has Rachel. Morotski had insisted on keeping the support team totally isolated from the recon team—that’s Miss Italian Freckle and me—under the pretext that the fewer the people approaching the target, the less chance of getting burned.
And that’s fine and dandy, but it certainly doesn’t explain why Rachel and I weren’t allowed to meet the support team and review the operation beforehand. On top of that, we’ve been requested to keep our nanotransmitters enabled the entire time so not only can our entire conversation be monitored and recorded, but also the support team can jump into action and come to our rescue if we run into trouble—or so they told me. My spook sense, however, screams at me that something is wrong with this picture, but I lack enough clout to file a formal complaint. I tried to circumvent procedure by writing Rachel a little note on the way here asking her if we could just turn off the transmitters once we went inside Randy’s house to at the very least get a chance to assess the intel we would gather before it reaches a broader audience, but she would not hear of it. And when I insisted, stabbing the note with my finger, she replied in her own silent language: an elbow straight into my ribs.
So we just continue through the motions of the agreed upon approach, cutting right, heading up Rue Cujas, an inclined, narrow, and gloomy street connecting the wide boulevard to the Pantheon, a Neo-classical structure several stories high with an incredible 360-degree view of Paris from its large dome.
But we don’t reach the legendary building. We stop in front of one of many three-story homes in a row, almost resembling brownstones, only these have slate layering their facades. In front of each narrow structure is a small but manicured garden blooming with colorful flowers and protected by a waist-high, black wrought-iron fence, the metallic pickets topped with white-painted fleur-de-lis, which upon closer inspection look quite sharp.
“Not the place to land,” I say, tapping the tip of my index finger against the nearest fence top, “unless you’re into acupuncture.”
And what do you know? I do manage to put a brief smile on her face with that one.
Most homes in the Latin Quarter have balconies on the upper floors filled with flowerpots that overlook pedestrians visiting the Pantheon just up the road.
“Is this it?” Rachel asks while I remember the last time I was here.
“Unless he moved, though I doubt it. The Libyans really spooked him. I told him that as long as he remained in this place we would guarantee his protection. I’m betting he believed me and stayed put.”
“How are you going to handle the fact that you don’t look the same?”
“Randy also went through the Agency’s beautification process. He’ll know it’s me. And remember, once inside just follow my lead. I might have to get a bit rough with this guy before he starts to play ball. Don’t forget that Randy Wessel is scum all the way. First a black-market arms dealer and now a Parisian pimp. In fact, his nickname was the Weasel. He’s as slimy as they come, so feel no pity for him.”
I walk up to the small ornate gate in the middle of the fence, separating the sidewalk from a cobblestone walkway flanked by flowers and evergreens.
“Going in,” Rachel mumbles into her implanted microphone to the mystery support team—which one can only assume is indeed covering our butts in case we run into trouble, though I can’t be certain since the communications are supposed to be just one-way. The backup team has been instructed to maintain radio silence with us. We’re supposed to update them, but they can’t reply.
“Tighten the grid,” she adds, coming loud and clear through my implant.
There is no doorbell, so I just knock, pause a few seconds, and knock again. At this moment our team is supposed to be forming a security cordon around a two-block area. The operative in me, however, doesn’t like this, but I can’t tell why.
“Oui?” comes a faint voice from the other side of the heavy wooden door.
“Randy? Tom Grant. Open up, buddy.”
“Pardon?”
I exchange a glance with the boss, who says, “You sure you got the right house? They all look alike in this neighborhood.”
“This is the one all right,” I whisper to her. “I leased it myself for him.”
I knock again and say loud enough for him to hear me, “Look, man. Troy and I promised we wouldn’t bother you unless it was urgent. This definitely qualifies. All I need is a few minutes to chat. Promise we’ll be out of your hair in no time.”
Slowly, the door inches open and the long and narrow face I remember we gave this slimy cat before setting him up here peeks out behind a door chain. His nose is thinner than I remember, and so are his lips, a bit on the wiry side, but it’s his eyes that remind me of the legendary arms dealer. Randy had always managed his affairs with the cunning of a weasel, and I found it somewhat poetic that his new CIA face actually made him look like one, except for his bushy brows, which drop over his blue eyes as he begins to back away. “Who in the hell are you?”
From this angle he can only see me, which works just fine. One surprise at a time.
“The Agency gave me a facial too,” I say, using my right hand to get Rachel to step farther away to avoid being anywhere near Randy’s limited field of view while he peeks through the crack in the chained door. “Just like we prettied you up so that your Libyan buddies wouldn’t skin your ass and feed you to the dogs like they did to Sal.”
Still staring at me, Randy hesitates, then asks, “What’s the one thing I can never eat again?”
I smile and say, “Quack, quack, quack.”
Rachel looks confused. I never told her the part about the ducks.
“Tom . . . Jesus, man, for a moment there . . .”
“You stick to the rules by staying away from your old profession and you will be safe,” I tell him in my most reassuring tone even though the hairs of my ass are uncurling for reasons I can’t explain. Something is going down. I can feel it in the depths of my gut.
“Can we come in?”
He still has the door just cracked and can’t see Rachel next to me. “Who’s we?”
“Just me and the boss lady. You’re going to love her.”
“Boss lady? I thought Troy was your boss.”
“That’s part of the reason I’m here. But relax, man. All I need is a little intel and I will be on my way.”
“Hmmm . . . I thought you were retired.”
“Retired? No, but I did take a leave for about a year,” I lie. “I needed to recharge after twenty-five years in the shit. Now I’m back.”
“That’s not what I heard. Word out there is that you fucked up and were put out to pasture, sort of what happened to me.”
“Where did you hear that?”
“Here and there.”
“Well, I’m still at it, pal. Now, are you going to let us in?”
“All right,” he says. “Just give me a minute.”
When the door closes I turn to Rachel and whisper, “So much for CIA database security. The fucker knew I was retired. See why I can’t rely on official reports for the critical stuff?”
As she opens her mouth to reply we hear fast-spoken French from inside the house. The guy’s got company, and that makes Rachel and me instinctively reach for our weapons.
As the door swings opens, we stand aside, but instead of a group of banditos, two tall, thin, and strikingly attractive women, elegantly dressed, step out, purses hanging loosely from their narrow shoulders. One is zipping up the side of her skirt. The other is buttoning a silk blouse. They’re both brunettes, wearing their hair long, have heavy makeup, and shoot me sideway glances as they walk by, their awesome perfume tickling my nostrils. They look like models, but given Randy’s new line of business I know better.
He stands in the doorway wearing a dark robe, slippers, and a frown. Like me, he also looks ten years younger. His square face is devoid of wrinkles beneath a full head of dark hair.
“Looks like your new line of work continues to treat you well,” I say.
“It was until you decided to barge in,” he replies.
“Yeah,” I say, grinning at him and then at Rachel. “A lot of that going around. Anyway, this is my boss, Rachel.”
Randy’s tight face softens a bit as he lays eyes on her. “Bonjour, mademoiselle,” he says in his best French, taking her hand and lifting it to his face to kiss it.
Rachel jerks it back before he can.
At Randy’s puzzled look she says, “No offense, mister, but I have no idea where those lips have been.” She stretches a thumb over her right shoulder at the departing duo.
I almost pee on myself laughing while Randy stares at me, and I have a feeling that the backup team is enjoying this too.
Rachel frowns and elbows me again.
“Aghh, shit!” I say, still smiling in spite of my burning ribs. “What did I tell you, man?” I ask. “Isn’t she a piece of work?”
“Come, come,” he says, looking past us and waving at his lady friends walking down Rue Cujas toward Boulevard Saint-Michel.
He ushers us into an awesome foyer, floored in marble. A beautiful chandelier hanging at the end of a long chain casts a soft, yellow light on what resembles an art gallery. A long dining room table flanks the left side of the foyer, and beyond it extends a gourmet kitchen. Countertops layered in the same marble as the floors and stainless-steel appliances tell me that Randy is certainly living well beyond the means of his CIA budget, meaning the pimping business must be booming. A freestanding wooden staircase spirals up to the second floor on the left side of the foyer. Straight ahead, an open living area is adorned with a large Persian rug, tapestries, artwork, and leather furniture.
I think of my galvanized palace back in San Salvador and wonder where I went wrong. I’m hoping this time around I come out a richer man—and alive, of course.
“You have done wonders with the place,” I say. “Which one of those two was your interior decorator?”
“I know you didn’t come all this way just to break my balls, pal. Let’s go upstairs so we can talk.”
The round staircase leads us to a large red-carpeted room on the second floor, dominated by a round bed in the center, a well-stocked minibar off to the right, and a fancy sound system to the left next to a plasma television hanging from the wall, where we see ourselves walking in the room. A high-end digital video camera stands atop a tripod.
Definitely the party room.
Rachel pokes me in the back while pointing at the ceiling, where I see my reflection staring down at me in a wall-to-wall mirror.
“Nice touch, buddy,” I say, extending an index finger at the ceiling and then turning it toward the peculiar leather garments hanging from the wall, where I also see a few sets of handcuffs, a whip, and some carnival masks that remind me of a weekend I spent in New Orleans during Mardi Gras. There’s a couple of those full-size female sex dolls leaning against the wall. They flank a male doll with a winky that definitely challenges Señor Grant. The plastic trio stands beneath a shelf packed with dildos and other sex toys. Opposite the bed is a large open bathroom with a Jacuzzi tub big enough for six people, an oversized shower, another camera on a tripod, and beyond that there was a third room that I can’t tell what it is.
“I’m sure your parents back home would be proud,” says Rachel.
“A man’s gotta make a living,” Randy says, shrugging, before adding, “Besides, if I don’t do it, someone else will. There are way too many fine young girls in this town alone wanting to make the big bucks, so I set this up as a sort of training room to help them develop their new trade. The sooner I get them trained and onto clients the quicker we all profit.”
“And I’m sure you handle all of the training yourself?”
“Don’t let someone else do what you should do yourself,” Randy replies. “Besides, it does keep the overhead low.” Then he starts climbing up the stairs to the third floor.
I exchange a glance with my boss, who is looking a little upset. I guess she didn’t get exposed to this at the Farm, while in Madras, or when working in Internal Affairs. Yours truly, on the other hand, is quite immune to this crap after spending so many years stationed in the darkest and dirtiest corners of our world. But I do present her with my most grave face even though my warped mind is laughing while imagining the CIA director explaining this arrangement to a congressional panel if it ever leaked. A former black-market arms dealer is now into training high-class hookers—and all financed with taxpayers’ dollars?
We move up to the third floor, where the décor turns formal once more. This is an incredible room, once more decorated quite traditionally, like the first floor—and unlike the raunchy second floor—wooden floors, rugs, lots of artwork, a baby grand piano, an old-fashioned bar with a half-dozen stools around it, and a second living room with a large sectional sofa, two chairs, and an entire wall of shelves packed with books. A colorful rug spans the sofa and the chairs, beneath a cocktail table topped with what looks like very expensive ceramic vases—all beneath an array of recessed lights. The room opens to a balcony overlooking the Pantheon.
“Please,” says Randy, pointing at the sofa before taking one of the chairs.
Rachel sits unusually close to me, as if feeling insecure being in the home of a pervert. Pretty damned ironic when just five minutes ago I was the pervert. I guess everything is relative.
“All right, Tom. The clock is ticking. What do you want?”
“Information on contacts from your past life.”
“From my arms-dealing days? That was four years ago, pal. Most of the people I dealt with are either retired, out of business, or dead.”
“I know you can do better than that.”
Randy shrugs. “Sorry, man, but I think you’ve wasted a trip. I’ve been out too long—as instructed by Troy and you.”
The Weasel is definitely at work. He’s got a good thing going here and wants us gone so he can get back to his cushy life, which is precisely the weakness I was looking for.
“Know anyone who might have purchased a dozen high-end ultralights, the ones with the radar-absorbent material used by the military for stealth operations?” I start, continuing on to describe the specific model as well as the high-end EMP guns used to disable the security Orbs at USN, plus the incendiary explosives the terrorists used to try to cover their tracks.
“Sorry, man. I can’t help you,” the former arms dealer says with a slight shake of his head.
“I see. Then perhaps we have wasted our time. I was hoping you might be of value again so we could justify the new investment.”
His small eyes narrow at me while his nostrils flare as he breathes. The Weasel is smelling something he doesn’t like. “What new investment?”
“Oh, we had a security breach at Langley. Someone stole technology capable of downloading the archives we keep up in outer space, including your file. Now we have to judge what cases are at risk and need relocation, including new plastic surgery, new documents, new life—you know, the works. And that costs money.”
The Weasel is squirming in the chair. “What are you saying? That my new life—all of this—could be at risk?”
“The breach occurred over two weeks ago, which is plenty of time for someone to learn of your whereabouts and mount an operation to get a little payback.” I pause to let that sink in before adding, “You might be able to steal a million bucks and get away with it, but when you weasel twenty million bucks from a terrorist group, they will find you, unless, of course, they think you’re already dead. The only reason you’re here today carrying out the honorable task of turning schoolgirls into hookers is that we made the Libyans believe you were six feet under. The moment those sand lovers learn that you’re still ticking . . . man, it’s quack, quack, quack for you.”
Randy stands, an index finger stretched at me. “You—you—”
“Me—me what? Spit it out, man!” I bark.
“You and Troy promised me, man! You swore to me that everything about me would be deleted, erased, gone forever! You told me there would be no records—nothing about this setup. You bastard! You lied to me!”
“Now, Randy, don’t get your panties all tied up in a knot. There are certain files that fall beyond my jurisdiction and—”
“Bullshit! It’s all a bunch of bullshit!”
“Mr. Wessel,” Rachel says, standing, walking up to him, putting a hand on his shoulder. “I have come prepared to offer a generous arrangement . . . far more lucrative than the one Mr. Grant and Mr. Savage negotiated for you. You help us and we in return relocate you and set you up with a new life, and with as many toys as you want to support your . . . new endeavors.”
Well, well, well. Miss Pretty Legs is really turning out to be a hell of a straight guy—or gal—while I play the asshole.
“But I like my life just the way it is,” he says, shaking his head, sitting back down, falling under her spell. For a moment I wonder if that’s what happened to me on that beach.
Focus, Grant!
“Think about it, pal,” I add without missing a beat. “Six months from now you will have forgotten all about this and will be enjoying a whole new life.”
“A better life,” says Rachel.
“But I don’t want another life,” he replies, extending his hands. “I have it all already, more money and women than I can handle, more sex than a man can dream of in ten lifetimes, awesome cars, and this great place. What can be better than that?”
“It’s really out of my hands,” I say. “They’ll catch up with you, and when they do those pretty girls of yours will find you chopped up in pieces and stewing in that Jacuzzi downstairs one fine day in the not-so-distant future.”
Sitting down, elbows on his thighs and his face buried in his palms, Randy says, “How do I know you won’t screw me, won’t sell me out?”
“You’re going to have to trust us,” Rachel says.
“And I hate to say it, but you don’t have a choice. It’s either us or the ducks.”
“And we will pay in cash,” she adds.
“All right, all right, what do you want to know?”
“Know any arms dealers who might have come across the equipment I described?”
Randy hesitates for a moment before slowly nodding and saying, “Yeah. One possibility. Do you remember our old friend Rem Vlachko?”
Randy might as well have kicked me in the balls. I take a deep breath and look at Rachel, who impresses the hell out of me with her poker stare. Taking her lead I too put on my professional mask and nod thoughtfully even though I feel like puking.
“Vlachko?” she asks, pretending to be trying to remember. “The arms dealer?”
I say, “Yep. My friend here and Vlachko started at about the same time, but unlike Randy, Vlachko continued after he retired.”
“Yeah,” the Weasel adds, “the bastard took over my territories thanks to him.” He stretches an index finger at me.
“Anyway,” I say, still looking at her while trying to calm down, “Vlachko and Randy go way back.”
“Yep,” says Randy, crossing his hairy legs. “I got word that Vlachko had negotiated the purchase of some of the equipment that you described. He claimed that the buyer had an urgent need and he also got wind that if he was successful, the equipment would be used to obtain a batch of revolutionary armament—something with the bite of chemical, biological, and nuclear weapons combined, yet very small, safe to handle, and easy to control and deliver. Vlachko was promised a piece of the sales of that cutting-edge hardware, and apparently someone did come through on that and now he has his hands on the stuff. Is this what you’re looking for?”
This is certainly far more than what I was looking for, but I maintain an indifferent face while asking, “When did you learn this?”
“Last week. He was here in Paris.”
“What else did you learn?” asks Rachel, also displaying a professional face even though I’m sure her heart is doing cartwheels, like mine.
“Nothing else until you show me the money,” he replies, realizing that in spite of our finest poker faces, he’s got us hooked like a writhing marlin. The alley cat has apparently seen right through us.
“That’s not how the game is played, buddy,” I say. “First you give us the intel, then we check it out, and then—and only then—you get paid, or have you already forgotten?”
“That’s not how we’re playing it this time,” Randy replies. “You already screwed me once. This time around I get everything up front or there’s no deal.”
“Fine,” I say, standing up, deciding it’s time to play hardball. “Have it your way, asshole. Let’s go, Boss. I have another source in Brussels who is better looking and more appreciative than this piece of shit.”
Without skipping a bit, Rachel Muratani is up and following my lead, heading for the stairs, leaving a surprised Weasel gawking at us with those slimy little eyes of his.
“Hey, give my regards to Sal when you see him,” I say when I reach the stairs, deciding to be a gentleman and let Rachel go first. She nods, winks, and climbs down to the second floor.
“Wait—wait a moment,” he says, standing.
I go down after her.
“Tom, look, wait,” he says, rushing toward us.
We reach the sex training room on the second floor and just keep going down.
“Stop, dammit!”
I stop, looking up. “All right, pal. We’re listening.”
“Two of my girls were doing Vlachko in a suite at the Hôtel de Crillon, the one near the Place de la Concorde, when his mobile phone rings. He tells them to do each other while he watched and talked on the phone. They did, but they also listened to his side of the conversation. He mentioned something about heading to Berlin this week to meet a man named Christoff Deppe from CyberWerke, the German high-tech conglomera—”
“I know who they are,” says Rachel before turning to me and asking, “but why CyberWerke?”
“That’s for us to decide later,” I say to her, subtly admonishing her for providing any information to the Weasel, who could just as easy use anything he learns here against us if he ever came across someone who could protect him—and pay him—better than us.
She realizes her mistake and says, “Can you be more specific about the exact time and place of this meeting?”
Randy shakes his head. “I seldom get specifics from my girls, just snippets of info they hear here and there while getting banged by their clients. But they did hear him mention another name on the telephone—Rolf Hartmann.”
I nod. Everyone on the planet has heard of Hartmann, the tycoon considered by many as the Bill Gates of the decade, managing not just to turn CyberWerke into a global powerhouse while also thrusting the German economy ahead of the pack by a long margin. In addition, CyberWerke has injected many Third World nations—most of them long abandoned to rot by the modern world—with enough capital and industries to jump-start their economies, in essence buying the loyalty of those governments.
“Is there anything else that you can tell us?” asks Rachel.
Randy slowly shakes his head.
“Heard anything about our old pal Troy Savage?”
“Yeah, that he died about a year ago.”
I frown, deciding to release some intel to see if I can jog Randy’s memory a bit. “He actually disappeared a year ago. We have reason to believe that he is working with Vlachko.”
Randy leans back and makes a sound like a horse snorting. The man is laughing. “Troy working with Vlachko?” he manages to say in between laughs, before adding, “Now, Tom, man, really. That’s the dumbest thing I’ve heard all year. Troy Savage wouldn’t associate himself with the likes of Vlachko any more than you would.”
Right about now my spook sense is telling me that something is downright screwy. “So you haven’t heard if Troy is in any way associated with Vlachko?”
Randy adds, “Look, man. I’m being straight with you, and not just because of the money, or because you and your lady friend here just threatened to turn me in to the fucking Libyans. I’m giving it to you straight. Vlachko is the guy you’re looking for, and he’s somehow associated with CyberWerke, with this Christoff Deppe guy he’s going to meet in Berlin. And I have no clue how in the world Troy Savage could fit into whatever scheme those Germans are cooking up.”
It is at this exact moment that my wrist implant starts to tingle at a frequency that brings back instant memories of Singapore. Someone has just painted us with a laser.
“Enable countermeasures,” I tell Rachel, who is already glancing down at her—
The explosion is deafening, blinding, consuming. The world around me is on fire as an invisible fist surging from below shoves Rachel against me with animal force.
Before I know it we’re flying across the room, gasping for air. Disoriented as everything turns into a blur of flames and smoke, I instinctively clamp my arms around her, holding her from behind as my back crashes against the floor, as we slide over the hardwood floor, as my head hits something hard.
I try to get up, try to find a way out of the rapidly enclosing inferno, but my legs won’t move; my arms won’t respond. The world around me begins to spin, merging the flames and the smoke into a swirling cyclone that makes me dizzy, lightheaded, until I pass out.