At the same time, she doesn’t deny her age. She has never bothered with cosmetic surgery, and so far, she is letting her thick hair follow its natural transformation so that its dark brown has become mixed with lines and highlights of silver and gray. She wears her hair confined in a short French braid.
“Hello, Friday,” she says, addressing the house AI. “Let me see Mr. Yusri Atwan.”
A wall monitor at the opposite end of the room wakes up with high-definition video from a lobby security camera. It shows Lincoln, still fit and strong despite his injuries, escorting the taller Yusri past the glass exhibit cases in the lobby. Lincoln is saying, “We’ll be in touch, sir. We’ll let you know our decision.”
Yusri nods. “Whatever you need me to do,” he says, “I will do.”
They shake hands. Then Yusri exits past glass doors, crossing the front terrace with a determined, almost angry gait. But at the parking lot’s edge he hesitates. He looks back, his expression quietly desperate. Weighing the value of returning, of pressing his case? But he goes to his car instead, a sleek silver Lumina Zus. He doesn’t notice the glint of a tiny camera lens, part of a low-profile tracking and surveillance device tucked against the black glass and rubberized lining at the top of the windshield. Prior to his meeting with Lincoln, Yusri agreed to background checks, although ReqOps did not specify the nature of those inquiries.
True looks around as Chris Kobeck, ReqOps’ Director of Military Operations and Training, comes into the conference room. Chris is thirty-nine—ten years younger than True—a former Special Forces operator who served under Lincoln’s command in the clandestine unit known as Rogue Lightning. True’s oldest son was once part of that unit too, eight years ago now.
Chris had been watching the meeting, evaluating the client. As True returns her gaze to the monitor, she asks him, “What’d you think?”
“Good people,” he tells her.
On the other side of the half-full parking lot is a high masonry wall, with three tall maples standing sentinel beyond it. Their leaves, yellowed by autumn, flutter through the air and skitter on a breeze across the concrete as Yusri gets into his car, secures his seat belt, and drives slowly toward the automated security gate.
“Good people, but naïve,” Chris amends as he claims a chair and sits. “I hope there’s something left of her when we pull her out.”
True turns a skeptical gaze on him. Threads of gray are starting to show in his thick black hair, and still, his fine-featured Caucasian face relies on heavy eyebrows and a neat goatee to bring it some maturity. “When we pull her out?” she asks.
“Give it up, True. I know you can’t wait to do this, and Lincoln’s not going to be able to say no.”
She gives him a dark look. Never mind that he’s right. “It has to pencil out,” she insists, sitting down again. “It’ll cost at least ten K, probably more, just to determine if an action is possible.”
“Pittance,” he scoffs. “Lincoln won’t blink at that.”
This draws a smile from her—and reluctant agreement. “Not in these circumstances, anyway.”
Mostly, Lincoln is a hard-headed businessman. He founded Requisite Operations on the back of a $500,000 VA loan, and only four years later the company is valued at twenty-five million dollars. But despite his pragmatism, Lincoln possesses a penchant for dangerous idealism. It’s a trait she admires. It keeps her job interesting.
She hears the electronic locks on the security door cycle, feels the slight change of pressure as it opens—and resists a rush of anticipation.
“Get ready for it,” Chris says with an expectant smile.
Lincoln appears at the door. “I like it,” he announces immediately in his growling voice. “I want to look further into it, confirm the situation, the current circumstances.”
True assumes the role of devil’s advocate: “The State Department might already be planning something. I’ll check into that. We need to know we’ve got an open field before we commit too many resources.”
“Do it,” Lincoln agrees, returning to the seat he inhabited before. “But while we’re waiting for confirmation, we move ahead with our investigation.” He looks from Chris to True. “If it comes to it, are you both willing?”
Chris speaks first. “If the setup looks right.”
“True?”
“Yes,” she says without hesitation. “It would be a privilege to bring down Hussam El-Hashem.”
“Good.” Lincoln rests his elbows on the table. He weaves his fingers together, articulated machine digits and jointed flesh. “This is how we’re going to handle it. We’ll do an initial assessment on our own dime. No fee to Atwan. If the mission looks like a go, we bill him two hundred thousand. That way he’s got skin in the game and doesn’t feel like a charity case.”
“You’re okay with just two hundred?” Chris asks. “If we don’t get Hussam—”
“Fuck Hussam. If we get him, we get a two-million-dollar bonus. Yay, hooray. But we’re after Fatima Atwan. She is our mission goal. The way I see it? We make a hell of a profit from the business of war. We can afford to do the occasional pro bono. So get started on the intel. I want a go/no-go within three days.”
Mercenary
Lincoln stares into the cool blue eyes of his sparring partner as they commence another round. Renata Ballard is tall, fast, aggressive. She moves first, opening with a headshot that he blocks with his left forearm. He’s careful to take the impact high on his forearm, but he still feels a stab of pain at the junction with his prosthetic hand. He ignores it and, using the same arm, he blocks a second strike, this one aimed at his solar plexus. He sweeps her arm away while stepping in, stepping close.
She tries to evade but he gets his arms around her in a bear hug. His right hand locks high on his left forearm to hold her. She locks her arms around him too, tries to take his foot out from under him, but this time he’s faster. He leans back, lifts, lofts her off the ground. He twists at the same time. She holds on tight, not letting any space open up between them.
He drops to his knees, dropping her hard on the mat. She doesn’t yield her grip at all—and he doesn’t get his left arm clear in time. Her weight comes down on top of the junction between his flesh and his prosthetic hand.
“Aw, fuck!” he swears, grimacing as his arm ignites in white-hot wires of pain that shoot past his elbow to curl around his shoulder. He pulls back, biting down against a howl that wants to escape the cage of his clenched teeth.
Renata rolls clear, coming up on her knees with an annoyed scowl. “Did you break it again?” she asks.
He’s on his knees too, left wrist pressed against his belly. Sweat runs down his cheeks, his chest, gliding past his scars.
Focus.
Four deep calming breaths.
As the pain subsides, he’s able to raise the hand. The bony mechanical fingers are trembling in response to his shocked nerves. He decides this is a good sign. At least they’re still connected.
He experiments, moving each finger, tapping them against the thumb in a pattern he learned during physical therapy. “Not broken,” he concludes.
Renata rises to her feet. “Come on, boss,” she says in disgust. “This is why no one else will spar with you. You know you can’t play that hard anymore.”