Linda Nagata - The Last Good Man

“Can’t wait,” Felice growls between gritted teeth.

On the flight over they had learned time ran out for one of the hostages. A beetle, secreted beneath the anti-surveillance canopy that covers the courtyard, emerged with video of Noël Poulin’s brutal ritual execution.

True thought the execution meant Hussam was ready to move on to a new safe house; she expected him to be gone even before they landed in Cyprus. She was sure the mission would be delayed and eventually scrubbed.

But Hussam has not left the house in Tadmur. Not yet.

Now that they are here, they need him to stay just one more night.

She lowers her gaze, crosses her fingers. “I hope Hussam’s comfortable in that house,” she says. “Reluctant to leave. Feeling a little lazy, maybe.”

“Don’t worry, Mama,” Rohan says in a rough undertone without turning around. “We’ve got him.”

“Truth,” Juliet affirms. “Hussam’s had his fun. Tonight we have ours.”

Jameson’s laugh is soft, but deep and reverberant. “Roger that shit.”

“Amen,” Felice adds.

True raises her gaze again, in time to see the rearview mirror capture Khalid’s slight, approving smile. His reflected gaze meets hers. “It’s getting real,” he says, before looking back to the dusty street. “I can’t fucking wait to ship that bastard out of here.”

Khalid did six years of US Army service, first in the infantry and then in intelligence where his sharp mind and fluency in Arabic earned him steady promotion. Those skills have let him continue to thrive in the two years since, working on his own.

He steers the cab onto a side street. “The house where Hussam is staying belongs to a war tourist from eastern Europe. Real prick. But I didn’t figure out that Hussam had rolled in until the call came from ReqOps and I went looking.”

The cab pulls alongside a three-story apartment building. “Home, sweet home,” Khalid says. The building is only a few years old, but bullets have already chewed up its concrete walls. Khalid parks in an alley, just outside a ground-floor apartment’s weathered door. “Everyone around here wanted to believe I sold drugs, maybe weapons. So I left the door unlocked a few times. Now I’m just Khalid the taxi driver.”

It’s a relief to escape the cramped cab. This late in the year the air is pleasantly cool, and True takes a few seconds to stretch and enjoy it while Rohan and Felice fetch two large, mismatched suitcases from the trunk.

They follow Khalid inside to find a single room with smooth concrete walls. There is a counter with a sink, a small microwave oven, a double-burner propane stove. Beneath the counter is a case of bottled water. A toilet cubicle is in the back corner. A low, electrical buzz emanates from a ceiling fan as it turns at an easy clip above furnishings limited to a worn rug and a mattress on the floor. The only windows are narrow clerestories at the top of the outer wall; they give no view of the alley and admit only a little light, but they do make it difficult for anyone in the alley to see inside.

“We clear in here?” Juliet asks in a quiet voice barely audible above the buzzing white noise of the ceiling fan.

“Just your own equipment,” Khalid assures her.

True eyes the upper walls and ceiling, looking for a surveillance beetle. It takes her practiced eye only a few seconds to spot it flattened against the concrete in an upper corner of the window. The little device is positioned so that its camera eye can swivel to watch the room or the alley outside.

“Everything is ready on my end,” Khalid says quietly, tension in his voice. “If you don’t want to wait, if you want to do this in daylight, we can.”

“Less possibility of civilian casualties if we go late,” True points out as she turns to check the room’s inner corners for other microdevices. “We got any reason to hurry? Any sign of the target bugging out?”

Jameson looks at her, eyes barely visible past the screen of his visor. “Boss says steady so far.” He grins. “He also says to tell you, don’t worry. The place is clean and he’s watching over you.”

That’s the QRF’s standard operating procedure. Lincoln watches over everything. He tracks their positions, monitors the video feeds gathered by their visors, surveils their surroundings, and keeps an eye on relevant regional politics.

Still, True can’t resist trading a sly look with Juliet, who nods knowingly and says, “I bet every man in this neighborhood whispers the same sweet promises. ‘I’ll watch over you, baby. You don’t need your freedom or your MARC.’”

“They’re all full of shit,” True says.

“All of them,” Felice agrees.

“Ladies, ladies ,” Rohan says. “Let me come to your rescue.”

He drops to his knees beside the suitcases, pops them open. Inside are camouflage uniforms, body armor, disassembled assault rifles, a collection of grenades, tiny surveillance robots, and fist-sized kamikaze robots—both scuttling crabs and hovering copters—armed with small explosive payloads. But it’s the visors Rohan retrieves, three of them, stored in their hard cases. “Plug in quick,” he says, tossing True hers, and distributing the others to Felice and Juliet. “Hurry up, now. I do not want to see you get the shakes.”

“You’re such an asshole, Valeski,” Felice says, snapping the case open and sliding her MARC over her eyes. “Never change.”

True puts hers aside long enough to peel off her restricting abaya. Beneath it she wears a second full-coverage layer: a long-sleeved pullover, ankle-length athletic tights, and army boots. She is still hot from the car, so she unhooks her shoulder holster and unstraps the arm sheath holding her knife. With those out of the way, she peels off the pullover, releasing a flush of heat. Her skin is shiny with sweat, sports bra soaked with dark patches.

“Sexy mama,” Jameson says, sitting with easy grace cross-legged on the mattress. “You look ready to kick ass tonight.”

The contrast of the cool morning air sends a shiver running through her. “I’m a cartoon superhero in a brass bra,” she agrees, strapping the shoulder holster on again. “Now move over.” She pulls on her data glove and slides on her visor. “My ass needs a cushion while I confer with the boss.”

Their communications are set up to bypass the local cell network, relaying instead through a solar-powered surveillance drone operating at high altitude, beyond the range of casual weaponry. The drone, like much of the equipment they’ll be using on this mission, is leased from a regional company called Eden Transit that specializes in support services for PMCs.

Lincoln confirms that everything is on track. He posts a satellite map to her display, with Red Team’s location marked—they’re in a hostel a few blocks away. Lincoln says, “The surveillance drone is set to red alert if it detects more than foot traffic at the target house. If it looks like Hussam has decided to bug out, we’ll know it—and we can launch with seven minutes’ notice, but it won’t be a clean hit.”

“Yeah,” True says. “We’d guarantee civilian casualties.”

“Roger that. So we’re working out the details of an alternate plan. If it comes to it, it’s better to hit them outside of town.”

“Agreed.”

Afterward True returns the MARC to its case, but she continues to wear her TINSL so she can receive alerts and maintain voice communication.

She gets up again, to help Khalid, who’s preparing breakfast. A skillet of reconstituted eggs, with bread and chopped dates to round out the meal. Whether the mission goes off or not, his career as a taxi driver is over. He’ll be returning with them to the United States.