Rath's Trial (The Janus Group Book 4) Read online

  Rath turned slowly and surveyed the room. All four kidnappers were on the floor – in addition to the three he had incapacitated, the cop’s rounds had killed the leader, Rath saw. His eyes met Jaymy’s. Her face was a mask of fear and shock. Rath looked at the cop next. His weapon was trained firmly on Rath.

  “Put the knife down,” the cop said.

  Rath’s heads-up display noted. Rath set the dinner knife on the table and picked up a cloth napkin, wrapping it expertly around his arm and tying a knot with his teeth. His hemobots had already started a rapid clotting procedure; the wound would be fully healed by the end of the day.

  “This cut looks serious,” he lied to the cop. “I better get to a hospital.” He took a step backwards, toward the door.

  The cop shook his head. “Ambulance will be here soon. I think you better stay right there.”

  “I didn’t kill them. I was just defending myself,” Rath noted.

  “I know,” the cop said. “Now just stand still, you’re making me nervous.”

  Rath glanced carefully around the room, weighing his options. The cop had a clear field of fire on Rath all the way to the front entrance, and stood between Rath and the rear entrance. Rath spotted the pistol the leader had dropped on the floor on the other side of the table. He sighed.

  I’m not going to kill him.

  A moment later, three Interstellar Police cruisers pulled up outside the bistro, their blue-and-red siren lights casting eerie shadows around the inside of the dimly lit restaurant.

  Fuck.

  One of the men at his feet groaned in pain, and Rath looked down. What the hell did you idiots want? My money? To hold me for ransom? Or just revenge for one of my kills? And how did you find me? He noted a splash of blood along the floor, from the knife wound in his forearm. My blood. The same blood I spilled here on Suspensys a few months ago, with the same DNA in it, that’s undoubtedly stored in the police database.

  Shit.

  7

  The simulator’s hatch swung open. Paisen sighed heavily and finished unbuckling her straps, then pushed herself out of the pod gently, floating into the zero-gravity of the simulation room. Around her, a dozen pods filled the chamber, some still rotating quietly as the other team members continued the exercise without her. Paisen’s back still ached from the simulated blast of the missile that had “killed” her. She shot a dark look at one of the other simulator pods in the room, and then glided across the room, pulling herself hand-over-hand up a ladder, and finally stepping out into the artificial gravity of the briefing room.

  Vence was waiting for her, the younger woman’s short, lithe form hunched in one of the swivel chairs circling the room’s holographic observation table.

  “That second missile got you, too?” Vence asked.

  “Yeah,” Paisen growled.

  “First time you’ve been killed on a training mission,” Vence noted. “Tepper’s getting smoked when he gets out.” She twisted the chair slowly from side to side.

  Paisen ignored the comment and strode over to the table, activating the hologram. A top-down view of the vehicle convoy in the jungle appeared. Paisen watched silently as the mission continued, looking up only briefly to acknowledge four other contractors as they entered – casualties from the first missile strike on the truck, she guessed. All wore the same black simulator suits studded with fibrous wires and muscles. They avoided Paisen’s glare and joined Vence in the chairs, watching the battle. The hologram flashed orange as another missile struck the rear jeep, but this time, the contractors riding in it had already evacuated.

  Tepper managed to rally the surviving team members behind the burning truck, and they downed the drone with a well-coordinated volley of rifle fire on its next pass. But the drone had served its purpose: all three vehicles were destroyed, and Tepper spent too long treating the wounded and regrouping the survivors. Paisen watched as reinforcements from the camp arrived on the scene – several companies’ worth of infantrymen, spread out in a line formation, threatening to encircle the tight knot of contractors left to protect the target.

  Tepper split his team, throwing smoke grenades to conceal two contractors as they escaped through the jungle, headed for the landing zone, escorting the target between them. Tepper and four of the survivors remained behind, and fought a surprisingly effective rear guard action that dragged on for nearly an hour before the final contractor was killed. In the running battle, the enemy rifle companies took heavy casualties, and were left with barely two squads between them.

  But we lost nearly the entire team. And in the real world, I doubt Tepper would have so much enthusiasm for a sacrificial last stand.

  Tepper, flushed with exertion, emerged from the simulator room moments later.

  “Hell of a fight!” he exulted.

  “Sit,” Paisen said, icily.

  Tepper winced and took a chair, along with the final two contractors.

  “Give me three ‘Sustains,’ ” Paisen said.

  “We got the target out, mission accomplished,” Tepper noted, hopefully.

  “Anyone besides Tepper?”

  Vence raised her hand. “Good violence of action in the initial ambush.”

  “True,” Paisen allowed.

  “The camp infiltration was pretty smooth, up until we picked up the target,” said Rika, a female contractor sitting near the back. “And we maintained good discipline during the retreat from the drone attack.”

  “Yes,” Paisen said. “You did. Let’s switch to ‘Improves.’ ” She eyed Tepper meaningfully.

  He wiped sweat from his brow. “After the drone attack, I should have put up a micro-drone for security. I would have had early warning on the enemy troops.”

  Paisen crossed her arms. “And?” she asked.

  Tepper frowned. “… and we might have been able to ambush them on their way in, or break contact altogether and get everyone to the landing zone.”

  “You don’t want to talk about shooting the camp commandant?” Paisen pressed him. “The decision that alerted the entire camp to our presence?”

  “I don’t think I had a choice,” he protested.

  “You always have a choice,” Paisen shot back. “And that was the wrong one.”

  “What would you have done?” he asked.

  “I would have waited,” Paisen said. “That’s the one thing none of you have learned yet: tactical patience. Just because you have a weapon doesn’t mean you should use it. Violence of action is good,” she looked at Vence, “but it’s only effective when it’s applied at the exact right place and time. Sometimes you need to let the situation develop.”

  She cued up the replay on the hologram above the table, zooming in close on the commandant’s avatar.

  “This is the moment Tepper fired his shot,” she told them. “He saw the commandant recognize the target for an instant, so he took him down preemptively. But look at the commandant’s feet.”

  The young contractors leaned in for a closer look.

  “A person’s feet often telegraph their intentions – if you watch them, you can see where that person is headed next. And the commandant had already decided to head inside. He had decided that he couldn’t have seen a prisoner in a guard uniform.”

  She reached into the hologram, and tapped on the commandant, allowing the simulation to continue his programmed movements, as if he had not been shot. The man hesitated for a moment, and then walked back inside the building.

  “You pulled the trigger too soon,” Paisen concluded. “Patience would have saved us.”

  Tepper looked at the floor. “Sorry,” he said.

  “And even if the commandant had decided to investigate the target before going inside,” Paisen said, “we still could have used that to our advantage. How?” She scanned the room. To her left, a young man raised his hand. “Yes, Huawo.”

  “Tepp and Jacque could have let him walk over, shot him behind the cover of the truck, then tossed him inside the truck
.”

  “Bingo,” Paisen nodded. “And instead of the company commander, I could have mimicked the camp commandant in the lead jeep, and the gate guards wouldn’t have stopped us at all.” She swiped away the hologram, and straightened up. “Go get chow, but be back here in thirty for another mission brief. I bought us forty more hours in the simulator and I intend to use all of them in the next two days.”

  The contractors groaned and stood on weary feet, heading for the space station’s main corridor.

  “You stay, Tepper,” Paisen said.

  He nodded and sat back down heavily on his swivel chair. The corridor hatch closed behind the last of the team members a minute later.

  “You’re regretting making me your executive officer,” he said, sighing.

  “You’re goddamn right I am,” she growled. “But I’m stuck with you now. And you’ve got more actual mission time than any of the rest of them.”

  “Eleven kills for the Guild,” he said, shrugging. “It’s nowhere near fifty.”

  “The rest of the team only has two or three each,” she pointed out. “Wick didn’t even get one; he was fresh out of Training. They need someone with experience to lead them, if I go down.”

  “But they’re all Level One contractors, just like you and me. They’re just as good, they just didn’t get the chance to prove it. And I keep proving I’m a fuck-up.”

  “You keep taking unnecessary risks,” she corrected. She leaned back, sitting against the edge of the table. “Tepper, why did you volunteer for this team? The others weren’t in the Guild long enough to make much money. But you’ve got a nice little nest egg.”

  “Not as nice as you,” he said, smiling slowly.

  “No,” she said. “But more than enough to just fuck around for the rest of your life, and not have to worry about anything. So why join up?”

  “Why did you start the team?” he asked, by way of reply. “You’ve got even more to lose than I do.”

  “Reasons,” Paisen told him, glaring. “Now answer my question: why are you here?”

  Tepper blushed. “I wanted to meet you,” he said. “I wanted to study a legend. I was bored doing nothing … but mostly I just wanted to be part of whatever you’re doing. It’s the same for most of them,” he gestured at the bulkhead, in the direction of the other contractors. “They all idolize you. We’d follow you anywhere.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Paisen said, scowling. “I founded my own fucking fan club.”

  “You founded the most effective espionage and direct action team in the galaxy,” Tepper corrected her. “And we’re ready to prove it. We’re ready for a real mission.”

  “We’re ready when I say we’re ready,” Paisen told him. “And tonight, instead of your sleep cycle, you’re going to write out a letter to every team member’s family and friends, apologizing for getting that teammate killed on our last mission.”

  Tepper sighed. “What family?” he asked. “None of us have a family. The Guild didn’t even let us have any friends.”

  “Then you’re going to address those letters to all of us – the whole team. We’re each other’s family now. And a family needs solid leadership. So Tepper, you better start stepping up your game.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said.

  “They like you. A lot,” she admitted. “But liking is not the same as trusting. They will follow you,” she continued. “But you have to earn it.”

  8

  Atalia recognized him at once from the newscasts. She swore with feeling.

  He’s not even in disguise. This clumsy asshole is going to blow my cover not two minutes after arriving on-planet.

  She watched as Beauceron walked over to the pre-determined meeting spot, a coffee kiosk in the spaceport arrivals hall. Instead of joining him, however, she walked in the opposite direction, heading out to the parking garage. She found her air car and opened the door, taking a seat behind the wheel. Then she waited.

  Her phone rang ten minutes later.

  “Yes?” she asked.

  “Where are you? I’ve got your contact on the other line, he’s saying you’re late for the rendezvous.”

  “Put me through to him,” she replied.

  She heard an electronic tone, and then a new voice. “Am I in the wrong place?” Beauceron asked.

  “No,” she told him testily. “I saw you. Come out to the garage, aisle P4.”

  “Okay—,” he said, but she was already hanging up.

  A minute later, he walked into view in her side mirror. She glanced around the garage, ensuring they were alone. Then she blinked her hazard lights, once. Beauceron saw the signal and rolled his suitcase over to the car. He stowed the luggage in the trunk, and let himself in the passenger side door.

  “What was wrong with the original meeting spot?” he asked, buckling himself in.

  “Didn’t they tell you to travel incognito?” she asked, by way of reply. “I picked the coffee shop because I figured you’d be wearing a disguise.”

  “No one said anything about a disguise to me,” Beauceron said. “I’m sorry, I haven’t traveled to the Territories on official business before. Last time I was here on New Liberia, I didn’t use a disguise.”

  “Yeah, well, last time you weren’t the most famous cop in the galaxy. Jesus,” she swore. “Even if no one told you, you should have figured it out.”

  “I should have,” Beauceron agreed. “I don’t know much about how you undercover agents operate in the Territories.”

  “Carefully, that’s how we operate. We look for fugitives hiding out here, we try to keep tabs on criminal activity, and we keep a low profile. This isn’t a Federacy planet, remember. We’re not even supposed to be here.”

  Beauceron was silent. Atalia maneuvered the car out of the garage, then pulled back on the wheel, rising above the rooftops of the city, before setting a new, southerly course.

  “This is the second time I’ve had to drop my surveillance assignment for this bullshit,” she pointed out. “Every time makes it more likely either the criminals I’m following spot me, or local law enforcement does.”

  “I am sorry,” Beauceron said. “It wasn’t my call to pull you from your assignment. I’m just here because they told me to come.”

  She scowled again, then sighed. “I’m Atalia.”

  “Martin,” Beauceron said, shaking her hand. “Thank you for babysitting me.” He gestured to the trunk. “I have a hat in my suitcase, actually.”

  Atalia grunted. “It’s not much of a disguise, but it’s a start.” She handed him a pair of sunglasses from the car’s console. “You can wear these, too. There shouldn’t be anyone at the factory, though – it’s pretty isolated.”

  “I read your report,” Beauceron said. “You were right to send it in.”

  “Was I? I still have no idea what this is all about,” she said. “I keep asking and they keep telling me it’s classified.”

  “It is. It’s one of the few things from this Guild mess that the public doesn’t know about.”

  “How is this related to the Guild thing?”

  “I’m not sure that it is,” Beauceron said.

  * * *

  Atalia circled the factory once, scanning it with the air car’s thermal sensors. Aside from a few rodents, they picked up no signs of life. She pointed out the impact craters from the air, and then set down by the factory gate and the burned truck. The two detectives climbed out, and Atalia followed Beauceron. He squatted next to the impact crater first.

  “You’re right about the high angle,” he mused, eyeballing the cracked pavement. “It penetrated deeply before exploding. It might have been a PKD.”

  “What’s a ‘PKD?’ ” Atalia asked.

  “Precision Kinetic Dart,” Beauceron said. “Like a metal rod, with a guidance system installed. They’re a space-based weapon, used in orbital assaults.” He stood up. “The guildsmen I worked with used them when we raided the Guild training facility on Fusoria.”

  “They were
both here with you on New Liberia, too – right?”

  “Yes,” Beauceron agreed. “They were.”

  “Well, that’s an odd coincidence,” Atalia noted.

  “I fear it’s not the only one.” Beauceron walked over to the truck. He peered at the burned frame, leaning in close to study it. “Who were the men in the truck?”

  “John Does. Bodies were shredded, and their DNA isn’t on file anywhere. This is the Territories, after all. I think they just had really bad luck – wrong place, wrong time. Best guess: they were scavengers. Half of New Liberia’s economy is dependent on guys like them; they drive around the plains out here, looking for scrap to sell.”

  “You don’t think they had anything to do with the explosion?” Beauceron asked.

  “I don’t think so,” Atalia said. “It’s a convoluted way to commit suicide. And if someone wanted them dead, there’s much easier ways to do it than dropping a bunch of metal tubes on them from space. And if these things are precision weapons, why not just take out the truck? Why blow up the whole factory?”

  “True,” Beauceron said. “It’s excessive. Unless someone was trying to make a statement. Or they just wanted to destroy the factory itself.” He dug his holophone out of his pocket, and used the camera function to take a photo of the frame of the truck.

  “What?” Atalia asked, walking over.

  Beauceron tapped on the holograms over the screen, zooming in on the photo to the microscopic level. “Metal,” he said, shaking his head. “Tiny metal fragments, embedded in the truck.”

  “Shrapnel?” Atalia asked.