"Oh yeah? Why is that?"
Her face darkened. "Because a man I need to kill is there."
Mateo sidled closer, eyes wide. "You're going all the way to New Haven to kill someone? What did he do?"
Her face transformed into a mask of fury. "He murdered a woman a long time ago."
Mateo frowned. "That's not right."
"No, it's not."
"Can I touch your arm?"
She glanced at him in surprise, jerking back. "What? No."
"I just want to see if it's cold. How does it work? Is it connected to nerves in your shoulder? Does it register pain if it's injured?"
"You ask too many questions." She edged away, glancing at Cash. "I've been in that box a while. I'm hungry. Where's your galley?"
His arms folded. "Like I'm feeding someone who's holding my rig hostage. Forget about it."
"Never mind. I'll find it on my own." She brushed past him, heading for the hallway.
"Don't touch the steak. That's for special occasions. I'm serious!"
Cash turned to Mateo. "Just what is your deal, kid? How old are you anyway?"
Mateo's brow creased in thought. "Seventeen. I think."
"You think?"
"Can't be sure."
"Why not?"
Mateo's head dropped. "Don't wanna talk about it."
"Well, seventeen's old enough. Hell, I was a man at seventeen. So why does it seem like you're twelve years old sometimes?"
"I don't know."
"Well, if we're gonna be partners you better start knowing. Otherwise you get off at the next stop just like Ms. Cyclops."
"Ms. Cyclops? I thought her name was Happy."
Cash threw us his arms. "See? That's what I'm talking about."
Mateo yawned. "I'm hungry too. You said something about steak?"
"I said no one eats it. And we're not done talking."
"I don't wanna talk anymore." Thrusting his hands in his pockets, Mateo abruptly strode away.
"Hey, come back here. I'm not kidding, Mateo. You hear me? And don't touch that steak!" Cash's voice echoed in the suddenly empty room. He glanced at the monitor screen, which had gone dark. "Deejay?"
A tittering sound was the only answer. He turned in the direction of the cell in the corner. Jinx leaned against the bars, open amusement on her face.
"Looks like you're losing control of your little situation, el capitán," she said.
He growled and stormed out the cargo bay, followed by her mocking laughter.
Special Agent Ryan Hessler ignored the stares. He ignored the noise. There were twenty-two other Agents on the scene. Four forensic androids, seven drones, twelve assistants, and an entire squadron of twitchy Marines. He tuned all of it out and compiled the data. In his eyes, the loss of thirty-seven lives and the destruction of a top-secret compound wasn't a tragedy. It wasn't a disaster. It was a puzzle waiting to be assembled. It was scattered data waiting to be collected and accessed.
He did the math.
"I hope to God you're not wasting my time."
Major Salter had the reputation of a sterling military man. Gruff but fair, a brilliant tactician, strongminded but honest. To Hessler, those qualities only meant that Salter was of the old guard. Believed in hunches and gut instincts, wary of numerical certainties. Salter was a pebble in Hessler's boot, something to annoy and slow him down.
The compound was a burned-out husk. A few corner walls still stood, the rest were rubble. The air still smelled like smoke, scorched metal, and burnt human bodies. It was close enough to the scent of a barbecue gone bad to make Hessler feel uncomfortable about feeling hungry.
He kept his eyes on the data feed from his holoband. "Not at all, Major."
"The HSSC say you're some kind of whiz kid. Say things just come together in your head." Salter's quizzical expression revealed his disbelief in the notion. "I met one of their Agents who actually did stuff like that. Mike… what was his last name?"
"Trudo, sir. And yes, I assemble evidence and facts in a shorter time than most people. I suppose Agent Trudo did as well."
"Whatever happened to him, anyway?"
"Dead, sir."
"Shame, I suppose." The Major harrumphed through his mustache. "Well, I don’t like wasting time. I have a squadron on hold ready to track and take down the ravagers who did this."
"It wasn't ravagers."
Salter's thick white mustache twitched. "The distress call we intercepted says otherwise."
"The distress call was faked. There's no ravager cell strong enough to take down a compound like this. Systematically wiping out two squads of Special Forces soldiers in close-quarters combat. Leaving no trace of their presence behind."
Salter shifted uncomfortably. Hessler knew the idea had been discussed, glaringly obvious as it was. The problem with some military brass was they just wanted an enemy to fight. In lieu of a present one, any enemy would do.
Hessler placed a hand on the holographic display of the building and flicked it to the burnt remains, creating a digital recreation of the compound as it looked before the attack.
He pointed to the main entrance. "The assailant entered here. No record of alarms or break-in, indicating legal access. He was either known or had proper clearance to enter. He detonated a small EMP device immediately on entry, disabling the security cameras, drones, and response androids."
Salter grudgingly nodded. "Smart."
"Definitely. That left human security to deal with. With the reliance on technical security, the soldiers may have been just a step off. Rattled at being blind and invaded. The assailant took advantage, wiping them out in a full-out blitz, one squad at a time."
"You keep saying assailant. One man couldn't take out two squads. Had to have backup."
Hessler tilted the hologram until it displayed an overhead view, then waved a hand over the building, creating a display of colored dots. Blue for the victims, red for the attacker.
"Look at how the bodies were found, sir. Had they been fighting another squadron, they would have chosen different formations. Looking at where they died, a pattern becomes apparent. They were fighting one man. Someone much faster, stronger, and more skilled than they were. In addition to perfectly aimed head and chest wounds, many soldiers suffered broken limbs from hand-to-hand combat. The attacker worked his way from one to the next, cutting them down with near-digital precision."
"No way. I don't care how you crunch your numbers; that's physically impossible."
"Impossible? No. Improbable, yes. But I don't think the attacker was a norm."
Salter scrubbed a calloused hand across his chin. "You thinking synoid? I thought those machines had unbreakable programming parameters. They're not supposed to be able to kill."
"Unless they're military HK models. But I don't think that's the case here. The EMP kills that theory. I think this person is enhanced. A rogue Elite, perhaps."
"One of ours? That's a loaded accusation, Hessler."
"It's the most logical explanation. And he wasn't alone. There were flattened grass and soil patterns equivalent to a hover ship. The pattern signature goes on for around half a mile before disappearing. The ground damage at the final point is more severe, indicating a thruster liftoff. So they're traveling in a hybrid ship that skims and flies. Which means they're well-funded. Boot prints on the ground reveal they're ex-military."
"How's that?"
"The organization of the tracks. Not haphazard or chaotic. Not the prints of an undisciplined ravager band. No, Major — this compound was assaulted by a rogue military unit, led by a single Elite. The others didn't enter until after he killed the squads inside. They knew what they wanted, got it, set up the fake distress call and burned the place to remove traces of their presence."
"What did they want? There's nothing here except a training facility and data storage."