Omega Storm
By Daryll Pung
Part One: The Hunters
Rated: R
I crouched in darkness, waiting.
I was acutely uncomfortable. Hot
and sticky, wet with perspiration; this largely due to the sheer amount of
layered clothing I wore; but I had no choice, since I did not want to give
myself or my companion away. The
air was humid and still; a storm was coming, waiting to break.
It would do so anytime, and then things could get really miserable.
An owl hooted somewhere off to our left.
I stifled a sigh, and forced myself to keep my eyes peeled for our
quarry. My ears picked up the muted
sounds of nighttime insects; occasionally a blurred shape of one would fly past
my goggles, their body heat just a bit too low to properly register on an IR
scan. The unmoving air carried an
array of scents; and due to my companion's preparations, our scents blended
right in.
This did, of course, lead to a certain amount of discomfort on our parts,
as the various night time creepy-crawlies felt right at home creepy-crawling all
over us.
I kept my complaints to myself, for the rewards would outweigh the
discomforts when all was said and done; and ambushes had but one chance to work.
You needed good intel; we had it. You
had to have a good plan; we did. You
had to have patience... and despite my earlier comments, I did.
And you needed surprise; so we needed to stay silent and hidden.
So, I kept quiet. As far as
hidden...
We were well hidden by foliage; and we'd knocked down a large
tree, which was blocking the single lane highway twenty feet in front of us,
roughly forty feet further up the road. We
were basically in the middle of nowhere; hence the requirement for the road,
which was in a condition that barely met the requirements of such a word.
With modern technology, who really drove on the ground for any great
distance anymore? Well, out here in
the virtual wilderness of northern Montana, quite a few people still did; not
everyone who lived out here could afford the luxury of a hovercar; and some no-goodniks
desired to blend in with the locals and avoided such travel, like our target.
It was a short span after dusk, mid-July; the road happened to be the
only one that led to the fortified and sensor-strewn structure our target
normally lived in. He inevitably traveled in a small convoy, and always in the
third vehicle of three or four. His
name was Diego Martinez; but that probably wasn't even his real name, simply
another alias under a series of other aliases.
And he was a traitor, hence the discomfort of my companion and myself.
My name is Fiona,
Fiona Miles. I was once a fighter
pilot in the Air Force; I made my name as the highest-scoring female ace in
history; thirty-three confirmed kills, thank you very much.
Of course, what with the war and all, I had plenty of business.
Then, I was shot down, and captured.
And those who captured me had no compunctions about playing around with
my very DNA, mutating me. Could
have been worse, I expect; they could’ve raped me while they were at it.
Bastards. I
eventually managed to escape; and when I got back... well, it wasn't fun.
Long story short, I eventually escaped the government’s grasp (it does
help to have friends in high places) and found a new way to apply my newfound
talents to make a living... hence the partner I worked with now.
I looked to my right, where I could see my partner hiding.
He doesn't have to wear as much as I; but then, he
doesn't naturally glow like a damned neon bulb, either.
An abrupt stillness drew my attention; all nature activity had ceased.
I idly wondered why. I came
to only one conclusion.
Have I mentioned I was uncomfortable?
Well, the skies decided to make it worse with a peal of thunder and a
stroke of lightning, followed by a downpour. Lovely.
Still, it helped our situation, such as it was.
At least I’d stay somewhat dry; I was wearing too much fabric to get
soaked through short of being thrown in a lake.
Humidity and sweat notwithstanding.
At least the weather is cooperating with us; it helps our plan all the
more. I take advantage of a
particularly loud crack of thunder to shift position slightly.
I envy Fiona now for the amount of clothing she’s wearing; I’m
already beginning to get soaked. My
goggles auto-filter out the flash of the next bolt of lightning, and in the
after image I notice a heat bloom that isn’t natural, and is slowly
approaching.
It is an ancient internal-combustion engine.
I spare another glance at Fiona; not a glimmer of her natural
luminescence is visible. Her face is completely covered in a black baklava like my
own, and her eyes covered by goggles; a high-collar trench coat is pulled up
over the dark hooded windbreaker she’s wearing; I can barely make out the dark
scarf wrapped around her mouth in the flashes of lightning. The rest of her outfit isn’t visible, but it is uniformly
black and dark, like mine; except I’m only wearing pants, shirt, and a utility
vest with my boots. We're crouched
behind a slight rise in the woods; anyone trying to use IR on us would have a
hell of a time, even if they were using the most modern of military-issue
goggles, like us. And other vision
modes available on the goggles wouldn't reveal too much, either; I'd set up a
few scramblers and taken the necessary precautions to prevent an easy ID.
Even the X-ray mode was practically useless at the moment... all it would
reveal is that someone was jamming. No
one else up here had such gear, though; I was ninety-nine percent certain of
that.
I'd say a hundred, but there's always that remote chance, isn't there?
Anyway...
As I return my gaze to the approaching heat bloom, it has separated now
into three distinct blobs; and the resolution of all three is gradually
improving. Excellent.
Fiona glances back at me, and I raise my hand, indicating five minutes;
she nods and readies the detonator for the explosives buried under the base of
the second tree, set to fall either directly atop the fourth vehicle or right
behind the third vehicle of the caravan; another quick check reveals that since
there is still only three vehicles we won’t be killing anybody tonight with
this stunt.
Not that it would bother me either way.
I prepare my own portion of the night’s entertainment; an accelerator
easily capable of penetrating the vehicles in the caravan, even if they’ve
been upgraded; this particular launcher is current military technology.
Still, the rounds we’re using tonight are a subdual round, capable of
rendering unconscious even the mark’s three mutant bodyguards, one of whom
rides in each vehicle, and his genetically engineered sidekick, who rides in the
third vehicle if there is no fourth. They
work by filling the lungs and bloodstreams with an anesthetic.
Even if you hold your breath, this'll still get you, absorbed through the
skin; only a prior injection to the counter-agent- which we both took a
half-hour ago; it doesn't last more than a couple of hours- and continuous
exposure to oxygen whilst in the effects would render one immune... or a real
bizarre mutation. And none of them has such a capability to resist.
I do my homework.
I suppose I should introduce myself.
I am Dexter Theron, former government agent and current mercenary who,
with my partner Fiona, tracks down and brings in assorted wanted scumbags that
are worth a lot of credits to various federal agencies.
Yeah, I still do what I did when I worked for the government; but now I
get paid more, and I don’t have some asshole above me taking credit for my
work and then utterly failing to protect innocent people, including my family.
Sorry, do I sound bitter?
Well, I was, and still am, one hell of a tracker, in addition to being a
brilliant researcher. I am an
expert at gleaning every little nugget of inforama available on targets, and I
am damn good at finding them when all is said and done.
Discovering Fiona and adding her unique abilities to my one-person show
more than doubled the efficiency of the operation, and was another stroke of
genius. Plus, the girl still has
military connections, and can get us goodies we otherwise couldn't get, and the
military is often only too happy to supply us, considering some of the dirtbags
we've brought to justice.
I could go on, but it’s time to focus; the… SUVs, I think they were
called? Well, they’re drawing
near. I pull out my oxygen mask and
put it on, noting Fiona doing the same.
Showtime.
Three rather beat-up hybrid sport utility vehicles, whose engines had
long ago been converted to pure ethanol, made their way along the severely
rutted and potholed asphalt of what used to be a rather nicely paved road.
It was now overgrown and muddy; and the downpour was making things
treacherous. The original color of
the vehicles was impossible to determine; they were a rusty brown currently; the
better to blend in with other such vehicles in area.
They certainly looked as if they'd seen better days.
Inside the SUVs was another matter entirely.
Diego Martinez liked his creature comforts, and the interiors were sound
proofed, and packed with every technological advance these vehicles could be
reasonably equipped with, which included the most modern navigation systems,
audio systems, ergonomic seating, automatic driving, and environmental controls.
His erstwhile employers did pay rather well.
Inside the lead vehicle, dim red lighting illuminated the front seat,
where both driver and passenger had their eyes peeled on the road.
Paranoia was what they were paid for; it was the only thing that had kept
them- and their employer- alive this long.
The driver suddenly cursed as a flash of lightning illuminated what the
navigation system suddenly began alerting them to.
"Warning, obstacle; warning, obstacle," it said in a smooth,
feminine voice.
"Oh, hell," snarled the driver, braking; with the storm, he'd
been using manual control rather than the automatic systems.
In the glow of his headlights, the massive tree looked more like a
bark-covered wall.
"Shit," cursed the passenger.
"This'll be a bitch to deal with!"
She was the first to open her door, and cursed even more as the downpour
began streaming in.
Behind them, at close intervals, the other two SUVs pulled to a stop, at
slight angles to each other. Doors
began to open as others tried to figure out what was going on.
A flash of lightning filled their vision, followed closely by the crack
of thunder... and the loud blast of an explosion; a second massive tree came
slamming down on the road just behind the third SUV.
"Shit!" exclaimed Diego's right-hand man; he quickly realized
it was a setup, his genetically engineered brain piecing things together faster
than anyone else's, his enhanced hearing differentiating between the sound of
thunder and the sound of an explosion before the echoes even faded.
Even as he turned to spread the word, green energy trails raced out of
the woods on the right side of the road; three impacted into the cabins of each
vehicle; the other two were spaced between the SUVs, impacting with small
craters into the cracked asphalt, kicking up chunks.
With muted thwumps, the rounds detonated, filling the area with
thick, hissing, white gas.
It quickly became impossible to see, and Diego's goons were quickly
passing out all over, although his mutant henchmen did try to retaliate; they
made it a whole three yards into the woods before collapsing.
Two black shapes quickly emerged into the white cloud of anesthetic gas;
they dragged the three mutants with them towards the vehicles.
Fiona and Dexter worked quickly, gathering every scumbag they could find,
dragging them out of the vehicles as necessary, placing them all in a row,
facedown, on the muddy, pitiful excuse for a road.
They quickly handcuffed every one of them, hands and feet both, with
carbonized composite cuffs; which were damn near impossible to break, even for
genetically enhanced or genetically engineered individuals. Fiona then withdrew four objects best described as crowns out
of her backpack; she placed them on the heads of the three mutants and the
genengineered sidekick, and activated them; small sharp prongs, eight in all,
extended and pierced their skin, and a hum arose from the crowns as the power
cells were activated. By now, the
elements were dispersing the gas, and flashes of lightning, though decreasing in
frequency, still illuminated the area, followed by gradually diminishing,
rumbling thunder.
Fiona snorted in her mask. "Would
serve the pricks right if the neutralizers attracted a lightning bolt and fried
them." Her voice was slightly
distorted.
Detxer laughed in his, which also sounded a little warped.
"Poetic justice. Unfortunately,
the electric potential is too small to realistically expect that to
happen." He did a quick scan
of the area, eyes on the display strapped to his right wrist; he nodded,
indicating they were clear.
The two removed their masks, and stowed them; Dexter extracted a small
comm unit from his pack, slinging and stowing the accelerator out of the way; it
was pre-dialed in to local law enforcement, such as it was.
He called in the report as Fiona took a deep breath, firmly grabbing hold
of the unconscious Diego Martinez with both hands, her head bowed in
concentration. Once he was
finished, Dexter knelt next to her, and took her right arm.
He, too, took a deep breath, forcing himself to relax.
"I'm ready," he said finally.
A bright flash abruptly illuminated the three; and a ball of light,
roughly eighteen inches in diameter, hovered where the three once knelt.
It stayed for a moment, and then shot into the sky; even as a hovercar
approached and brightly illuminated the area with spotlights, siren blaring, red
and blue lights flashing.
It was barely an hour later when a ball of light whipped through the
darkness of Chicago, Illinois. It
streaked past ultra-modern skyscrapers, and some that weren't so modern; some
were hundreds of years old. Weaving
in and out, it descended, nearing the lakefront, until it settled on the roof of
a shorter skyscraper under the imposing shape of the old Sears tower, which had
scaffolding all over it, as well as other signs of restoration work in progress;
and in a flash the ball of white light once again became three wet, human
beings.
Dexter was the first to move, shaking his head to clear the haze, and
checking to see if Diego Martinez was still unconscious.
After confirming their mark's prone and safely insensate condition, he
glanced up at his partner, who was barely moving, still crouched on all fours.
"Fiona?"
"I'm... okay, Dex," she gasped.
"Just... need a minute. It's
tiring enough... carrying you, but lugging unconscious deadweight..."
He grinned. "I hear ya."
He checked his wrist chrono. "Damn,
girl, you got us halfway across the country in just under an hour; no wonder
you're tired." He was, too; he
could feel a headache coming on, due to exhaustion and the implant in his head
that prevented any type of telepathic or psionic effect from affecting him… be
it technological, like the neutralizers, or a mutant or bio-weapon ability. The occasional migraine headache, he figured, was a small
price to pay for such protection; it’d saved him more than once.
Fiona sat up, and removed her goggles, baklava, and scarf, revealing what
was still a pretty, if pale face, luminous silver eyes, and a wry smile on her
luscious light pink lips. A soft
glow illuminated the area, coming from her bared skin.
"Shit, Dex, that's slow. You
know I can go faster than that!" she managed to get out in her soft voice,
with its slight Midwestern accent. She
reached up and undid the band restraining her hair; the glistening, silky,
silvery mass fell free, to the middle of her back, looking for all the world
like her head was topped in molten metal. Short
bangs clung in sweat-dampened tendrils to her forehead.
Dex removed his own goggles and baklava, a grin visible on his
clean-shaven, slightly squarish face. He
had brown eyes and short brown hair, and other than that his physical appearance
was grossly ordinary; perfect for tailing people and escaping their notice.
"You rest up for a few more. I'm
going to get Junior here comfortable in the cell, and then when the Feds get
their lazy carcasses out of bed in the morning, we'll turn his ass in and get
our reward." His
accent-neutral baritone voice was his one distinguishing characteristic; it was
probably singer quality, but he'd never bothered to try and develop it.
She nodded. "Be right
down," she said.
Dex dragged Diego the few feet to just in front of the access elevator;
he placed a hand, palm up, on the flat panel next to the door, and spoke his
name; after the computer matched his DNA and voiceprint, an indicator light
blinked green and the doors hissed open. Dex
hoisted Diego none to gently inside, and was lost to sight as the doors hissed
shut and the lift began to descend.
Fiona took her time stripping off the extra layers, allowing the breeze
off of Lake Michigan to cool her, somewhat, given the nighttime humidity in the
height of summer; she stopped when she reached the tank top and shorts she'd put
on as a base layer. A soft white
glow now came from all of her exposed, almost translucent pale skin, showing a
remarkably slim, fit figure; she was athletic, with a firm rear and modest bust,
still quite sexy, mutation notwithstanding.
She was now illuminating the entire rooftop garden area around her.
She sighed as she looked out over the Windy City, losing herself in her
thoughts. She used to have vibrant
red hair, green eyes, and light tan skin; but that was before...
She shook her head, eyeing Chicago's skyline.
The largest city in the Midwest of the United States of the Americas had
largely escaped the war, only suffering conventional attacks, and then only a
few dozen times, and nothing large or major.
The destruction caused by those attacks was mostly erased, save for a few
monuments to mark where they'd occurred or where people had heroically
sacrificed themselves. Fiona
herself had come from further north, in Wisconsin, which had also been lucky
enough to largely escape the war's effects, with few exceptions.
Certain other areas, like Dex's hometown on the East Coast, hadn't been
so fortunate.
She sighed, and bent to scoop up the pile of clothing at her bare feet.
After bundling it all up, she padded over to the elevator.
She needed a shower something fierce... and then a snack and a snooze.
She followed Dex's earlier procedure tiredly, stifling a yawn; when the
elevator doors hissed open, she entered and allowed herself to lean against the
wall as she stabbed at the proper number on the touch-pad.
When the doors hissed open again, she stepped out into the office and
apartments that she and Dex shared, on the private level; her half was on the
left. She stopped at another
security door, and repeated the procedure just used on the roof, plus a retinal
scan. The door hissed open, and
revealed a plush hallway; she moved towards her door, and barely acknowledged
him when Dex appeared at the other end of the hallway, via the direct access
through the security door from their main office area below.
He had also removed much of his outfit, and grinned as he approached, his
lean, lightly tanned frame clad merely in shorts, clothes draped over his
shoulder; several scars were visible: a
shrapnel wound across his chest, and burn scars midtorso.
A knife wound marked his upper-right bicep; and he'd been hit with and
old-style firearm in his upper thigh, Fiona knew; but Dex always dressed to
blend in, using make-up to disguise his scars if clothing wouldn't cover them.
"Had enough of the night air?" he asked as he stopped at his
door.
"Yeah," she replied softly.
"How's the mark?"
"Sleeping the sleep of the just... or the unjust, as the case may
be," Dex smirked. "I gave
him a dose of tranq that'll keep him out until morning, and locked him in
restraints on the off chance he should awaken.
I'll set my alarm to wake me so that I can check on him periodically, but
it shouldn't be a big deal. Get
some rest, Fiona."
She grinned ruefully. "Do
I look that tired? Thanks, Dex. Good night, then; see you in the morning."
"'Night, Fiona. Great
work tonight," he nodded seriously.
“You, too,” she returned the favor, before tiredly palming the panel
to open her door and entering, the door hissing shut behind her.
Dex copied her actions across the hall.
The electronic cheep of both doors locking came simultaneously.
Sunlight streamed bright through large, reinforced windows, highlighting
an ancient-looking wooden desk (though appearances could certainly be deceiving,
and in this case, were) at which sat a figure that, the second one laid eyes on
him, instantly commanded respect. Instinct
alone told a person that General Jack "London" Harris was not someone
to be trifled with. He was young;
his ebon skin was smooth where it was unscathed.
He was completely bald, possessing only a black mustache and goatee,
neatly trimmed. His dark eyes
brimmed with intelligence, fire, and determination.
His build showed someone who still spent time keeping fit, despite the
two gleaming stars denoting his rank. Several
scars showed that he had indeed seen action; seen it, and survived.
His uniform was immaculate, his boots polished to an almost mirror sheen.
His awards were all hard-earned, and the ribbon rack that displayed them
was impressive in its width and height.
He set down a minicomputer, the size of a sheet of paper and roughly an
eighth of an inch thick, with a bright display eight inches by ten and a half
upon which was displayed several reports he'd been reading, and spared a glance
around his office. London, as he
preferred those who earned his respect to call him, was a career Spec Warrior,
coming up through Delta Force and other even more secretive groups,
accomplishing the impossible with few people, little to no equipment, and
desperate timetables. Now he
commanded such individuals... or rather, he had.
He frowned. Time was when a
general had it easy; but nearly two hundred years of continuous warfare had
changed the world, and not necessarily for the better.
Firstly, one didn't just have to worry about conditioning the average
human male or female anymore; mutations due to genetic experimentation and
biological warfare were becoming commonplace, granting some individuals
‘special’ powers. Genetics had
improved to the point were genetically engineered soldiers were part of
everyone's arsenal; and all sorts of biologically compatible technologies
existed that could be installed in a person to 'enhance' their abilities in one
way or another. How was one
supposed to treat all of these people equally?
How was one supposed to come up with some sort of comprehensive policy to
govern such a scope and variety? The
original reasons for the war could be traced way back to the twentieth and
twenty-first centuries, with drugs and terrorism and such; but after the initial
conflicts had subsided, and the 'new breeds' first began to appear, the fighting
picked right back up until it blended into one long and interminable war.
Recent positive strides towards true equality had been made in America,
and things seemed to be going well; it was true that the USA was in better shape
now than it had been, with virtually the entire Western Hemisphere of the globe
under the Stars and Stripes; but for every step forward, it seemed as if another
part of the globe took three steps back.
Such as in Antarctica.
He scowled. The neutrality
of Antarctica had been violated one hundred fifty years ago, now, and the place
was turning into a hive of what one of his staff had, in a fit of irony, termed
'mad scientists'. They had been
individual and isolated, initially, often fleeing from other locations on the
globe as the war gradually tapered off and the demand for their services ceased,
and calls for their heads increased; it seemed common sense was breaking out,
and the world was simply growing sick of fighting and their brand of genetic
experimentation. Perhaps humanity,
by and large, was finally outgrowing such behavior. Those now living down in Antarctica were the exception.
They'd been a low-key thorn in the side of civilization since they first
began to migrate there, but now disturbing reports such as the one he just read
indicated they had a leader, who was grouping them together, perhaps for a new
form of terrorism against the slowly calming and uniting world... bio-terror,
the engineering of horrific cross-breed creatures, possibly designed to hunt
humans, that those outcasts were calling 'the next stage in evolution'.
Hence his new reassignment out of the Army to this office, and his new
mission to form a highest-classification available team to combat such menaces;
a small team, with a small support staff, at least initially, but with a lot of
clout in all the branches of the military, and in civilian, political, and even
international circles. He had his
command staff; and the support staff and equipment was all in place; now he just
needed four talented, dedicated individuals to form his field team.
He had several prospects.
His door chimed; London glanced up.
"Enter," he said, his deeper voice calm, yet possessing
overtones of a booming volume and presence developed from years of practice.
The door hissed open, and a short, lithe, and, despite her short hair and
muscular tone, attractive Latin female entered; she bore the rank insignia of a
US Navy Commander. "The report
you wanted, sir," she stated, respectfully, coolly.
She passed London another minicomputer.
"Did they accomplish the pickup?" London asked as he reached
for it.
"Yes, sir, and turned the traitor in at ten hundred hours this
morning," she responded. She
cocked her head. "Why are you
so interested in these two, sir?"
"Sit down, Commander," London ordered, indicating one of the
chairs facing his desk. "Now,
do you know why I chose you for my staff?"
She shook her head negatively, her expression indicating interest.
"Primarily because your analytical talents are superb, and despite
your more recent posts at desk jobs you still think and act like a field animal,
including keeping yourself fit for anything that might arise; plus, you’ve not
forgotten that what happens in offices such as these affects troops out in the
field, and you’re willing to go to the mat to fight for those troops.
All admirable qualities, Commander, and attributes I desire in my
staff."
"I see, sir," Commander Clarissa Manriquez replied.
"Given that," London went on with a grin, placing his index
finger on a panel mounted vertically in his desk; with a fingerprint and DNA
match, the locked drawers clicked open with a beep, "I want to see what you
make of this." He withdrew two
minicomputers and slid them across the desk to her.
"Dexter Harding Theron, ex-Homeland Security Department agent, age
32, DOB 20 December 2231. Native
of... New York City, NY, and only surviving member of his family, all of whom
died there." She grimaced. "Ouch. Left
government service as a result of the attacks on New York and due to
'personality conflict' with supervisor… yeah, right. By the looks of this data, I’m guessing said supervisor
dropped the ball and that’s how his family and hundreds of other innocent
civilians ended up dead, with thousands more injured.
Hmph. Has an implant; a
Psyodyne Model JX4-2… that’s an anti-telepathic one, if I remember
correctly. Aliases Agent Calypso,
Dex Hardy. Seems to be a very
proficient surveillance expert and tracker, according to the arrest records
here... looks to be a decent investigator too, now that I think on it. I recognize quite a few of these names. Some very prominent, but very elusive criminals here; a
couple of war criminals too. Then
he turned bounty hunter… and recruited a partner with military
connections." She set the comp
aside, switching to the other one.
“Fiona Clarice Miles, ex- Major, USAF, age 31, DOB 3 December 2232.
Native of Delafield, WI, only surviving child of her family; parents both
still live there. Three brothers,
two Army, one Marine; all KIA in various actions. She flew F-79E fighters.
Highest-scoring female ace in history, of any nation, with thirty-three
confirmed kills before finally being shot down behind enemy lines and
subsequently captured; was tortured, and then…” Manriquez let out a breath.
“Her DNA was force-genengineered and she was mutated; eventually
escaped because of that mutation, and made her way to friendly lines.
I see a bit of military medical squabbling over her on record here, based
on the hospitals she was shunted to… before she was given an honorable
discharge under the last surviving offspring clause.”
London nodded. “I managed
to pull a few strings and get the docs to pull their fangs out of the poor
girl.”
“You, sir? May I ask why?” Manriquez
blinked.
“You may… and I choose not to answer at this time.
Continue, Commander,” London said.
“Yes, sir,” Manriquez nodded, storing that little tidbit away for
future reference. “Let’s see. Mutation
not only causes a constant, low-level glow from her, but she can transform
herself into a ball of light… and travel at extremely high speeds as said
ball, virtually unstoppable by any means? Mutation
may continue to advance. That’s
interesting. I wonder how it works?
Anyway, she has one alias, Lilya Litvak, after the female Russian ace
from World War Two. Has stayed
proficient in escape and evasion techniques; joined with Theron as a bounty
hunter. Wonder why?”
“Why don’t you tell me?” London smiled, leaning back in his chair,
even as his eyes bored in on her.
She thought for a moment, and then grinned.
“She missed the thrill of the hunt.
That’s what both of them do. They’re
hunters.”
“Correct, Commander. Theron
and Miles will be perfect for locating and tracking targets on a worldwide
scale; plus Miles has her evasion skills and mutant ability as a fallback should
something happen to the team; and Theron’s mental protection is damned useful
too. And I want Theron’s research ability on this team; that man
is nothing short of thorough. If
there’s information on a subject out there, he’ll find it,” London
explained. “Those two are
finalists, as it were, as of right now; we just need two other members, the
other half.”
“Combat specialists; right, sir?” Manriquez opined.
“Spec ops troops?”
London nodded. “Correct; I
only want the best for this group. I’m
monitoring several teams on, shall we say, delicate
missions in a few hot-spots around the globe right now, and their performance in
their current missions, coupled with past records, will determine who I’m
going to select.”
Manriquez smirked. “You
already have a pair in mind, don’t you?”
London chuckled, but didn’t bother to deny it.
“Dismissed, Commander.” He
turned towards the window as she saluted and left, wondering just how his picks
for the other two ‘finalists’ were doing at the moment.
He smiled.
Raising
hell, and enjoying it, most likely!
TO BE CONTINUED...