The smell hit his nose first.
Cooked meat. Scorched earth. Burning fuel. That particular combination that meant the air force had done their work.
Lawrence Reynolds dropped from the Huey's skid onto dirt that crunched under his boots. The rotor wash kicked up ash and dust that stuck to the sweat on his face. Fifty meters ahead, the treeline smoldered. Black smoke rose in lazy columns against a sky too blue for what lay below it.
"Sir." His guard was beside him, already scanning the treeline.
Reynolds checked his sidearm and moved forward.
The situation was straightforward enough: The Genoshan expeditionary force operating along Route Nationale 2 had been caught in the open during a convoy ambush. Air support had been called in before they could use their super humans to cover their withdrawal and fade away like they always did. The survivors were being collected now
Intelligence's standing priority for the Genoshans was clear. He was to find out what armed forces from a former British colony were doing in SR Siancong's pay. More importantly, as his CO had put it weeks ago, figure out what "some backwater on the ass-end of nowhere" was doing fielding this many super humans.
Last week's joint intel meeting had been contentious. A French general had spent twenty minutes demanding answers nobody had. The Company man had been calmer but just as pointed. Genosha had no nuclear program, he'd said. No genetic research infrastructure worth mentioning. They shouldn't have the technical capacity for enhanced soldiers.
The evidence disagreed.
Reynolds stepped around a area of distorted terrain that looked like something from a dream. The earth was torn upward in jagged spikes and twisted, like someone had tried to build a wall in seconds. A terrain manipulator's last desperate attempt at cover. The Skyraiders hadn't cared.
More bodies as they pushed deeper. Most weren't recognizable as human anymore—just shapes that had been people. The ones that were recognizable were worse. A hand here. A boot with a foot still in it. Something that might have been a torso.
The collection detail had set up a cluster of tents. The two guards outside snapped salutes as Reynolds and his minder approached.
"Sir."
Reynolds returned the salute and pushed through the flap.
Three Genoshan infantrymen were inside. Two unconscious on cots. The third was alive on his cot but wouldn't be for long. His legs were gone below the knees. Tourniquets had been applied by someone who knew what they were doing but hadn't had enough medical supplies to finish the job. The man's face was pale beneath dirt and blood, his blond hair a mess, but his blue eyes were sharp.
Reynolds knelt. "Good afternoon."
The Genoshan's eyes focused on him. For a moment Reynolds thought he might actually answer. Then the man's face twisted and he spat. The glob caught Reynolds on the cheek, warm and viscous.
"Fok jou!"
Reynolds wiped his face with his sleeve. The hatred in those eyes was pure. The man was dying and he used some of his last moments on this earth to spite him. He stood. The Genoshan was already fading, lips moving soundlessly. More Afrikaans curses, probably.
He turned toward the entrance-
-and the Genoshan's hand shot out, grabbing his ankle with impossible strength.
Reynolds jerked back but the grip was iron.
The man opened his mouth-
BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.
Laurence Reynolds' eyes snapped open.
He was in his bedroom. Gray dawn light trickled through the blinds. His alarm clock read 5:00 AM.
He lay still for a moment, controlling his breathing. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. The dream receded but the smell of carnage briefly lingered in his nose.
The Genoshan hadn't grabbed his ankle. The rest had happened exactly as he remembered: the tent, the dying man's hatred, the spit in his eye.
He sat up. His sheets were damp with sweat but not soaked. Better than some nights.
Routine helped him. Shower. Shave. Brush teeth. Get dressed: charcoal suit jacket and pants, white shirt, green tie.
The kitchen was spotless. Everything in its place. He cracked three eggs into a bowl, separated the whites, and discarded the yolks. Scrambled the whites in a pan with a touch of salt. No butter. No oil. Poured black coffee from the percolator he'd started before showering.
Reynolds sat at his small kitchen table and ate mechanically. Egg whites and black coffee. No meat before combat. An old habit from the Army. Probably superstition at this point, but superstition had kept him alive so far.
He washed his plate and coffee cup, left them in the drying rack, and checked his watch. Six-twenty. Time to go to work.
The Fifth Avenue office was dark when Reynolds arrived at six-fifty. Security waved him through the turnstile,used to his early hours. He took the elevator to fifteen and walked past rows of empty cubicles to his corner office.
He sat at his desk after flipping on the lights. He began to pull files out of his inbox and began working through them methodically.
Vendor proposal from Lockheed for guidance components. Flagged for legal review.
Contract revision from Oscorp. Reynolds reviewed the pricing structure and made notes for negotiation. The company had been easier to push around since Stromm and Osborn both passed, leaving any prospective clients with more room to maneuver during talks.
The work was soothing. Predictable. He could lose himself in the rhythm of it: read, evaluate, decide, document, move forward. The rest of the office would start filtering in around eight. Until then, the floor was his.
09:43. The office phone rang.
"Reynolds."
"Sir, it's Washington. The bird has landed."
"Good." Reynolds kept his voice level. "You're in position?"
"Affirmative."
"Excellent. Good luck Moses."
He hung up and returned to his paperwork.
The waiting was the hardest part. Everything was in motion now. Davis would audit the code and hopefully get a response. The trap was set. All Reynolds could do was trust his people and execute his own part of the plan.
12:50. The phone rang again.
"Reynolds."
"Sir." Washington's voice was still flat, but there was a distinct air of satisfaction underlying it. "They've taken the bird to the castle."
The C-suite meeting was scheduled for 16:10. If the Wraiths were gathering at the building now, they weren't just preparing an ambush. They were doing something that required time. Something that required Davis.
It could be a ritual.
"Understood. Thank you."
Reynolds reviewed a bid proposal from a machining contractor,making a note to counter-offer.
His mind drifted briefly to New Orleans, a few months ago. The trip had been legitimate enough. The Deterrence Research Corporation had some electronics contracts with NASA, and there had been some problems at the Michoud Assembly facility that needed his personal attention. But that hadn't been the only reason for the trip.
The rumors about the Wraiths having some form of magical capacity had been too consistent to ignore. He'd needed expert advice on how magic actually worked, and he'd needed to get it discreetly.
His day-to-day work didn't require knowing any magic practitioners. But he'd needed to consult one, and he'd needed to do it discreetly while he had an ostensible cover. That meant starting with the only southeastern crime contact he had: Ulysses Lugman, a generously proportioned Miami crimelord.
Lugman had been cautious on the phone. "Magic guys? In Louisiana? Yeah, I might know someone who knows someone. But this is gonna cost you, Reynolds."
The someone had turned out to be Damon Dran. Dran was an Romanian arms dealer keeping a low profile in New Orleans after an unspecified incident. He had started establishing connections in the city, including to the magical community, and knew just who to direct Reynolds to.
That's how Reynolds found himself in a cemetery off St. Charles Avenue, surrounded by graves, talking to a man who introduced himself as Samuel Barone.
Barone was a tall black man, maybe six-two, bald with a neatly trimmed soul patch. Southern accent, though Reynolds couldn't quite place where from. He spoke with an odd formality, almost theatrical. Something about him was off in a way Reynolds couldn't quite articulate. He'd seen enough in his line of work not to be easily unsettled. But Barone had a quality that made Reynolds' instincts itch. The way he glided between the tombs. The way the shadows seemed deeper around him. The way he seemed to almost caress the mausoleums.
"The ground around New Orleans is so naturally swampy that normal interment is impossible," Barone had explained, gesturing at the mausoleums with an almost professorial air.
Reynolds had kept his questions vague.
But Barone had smiled unsettingly and answered anyway.
Magical rituals. What happened when they were interrupted. Backlash.
"Rituals require focus," Barone had said, moving between the tombs like a preacher working a congregation. That theatrical quality again, every word chosen for effect. "Concentration absolute and unwavering. Break that concentration at the right moment..." He slammed his hands together. "The energy has to go somewhere, you understand.."
"And if there are multiple people casting the ritual?"
Barone traced a finger along the edge of a nearby mausoleum, almost lovingly, before answering.
"Then there are multiple targets for the backlash. Shared burden, shared consequence."
Reynolds had thanked him for his advice and left, unwilling to spend more time with the magician than absolutely necessary.
If the rumor mill was right and the Wraiths really did use magic, and ifhe interrupted them at the right time it could buy him an edge.
The intercom buzzed at 14:20.
"Mr. Reynolds? Marcus Brookman from IT on line two."
Reynolds picked up. "Afternoon, Marcus."
"Lawrence." Brookman's voice was tight with nerves. "Seldon is flagging increased activity. The whole Turing group is here."
Reynolds leaned forwards in his chair.
"Are they gathering on a specific floor?"
A pause. The sound of keys clicking. "Yeah. Level 20. We've got.... Ten generis profiles swiped into level 20 in the elevator. 2 more just swiped in at the desk."
Level 20. The floor that hardly anyone used anymore. They were probably using the old conference room.
"Should I tag the new profiles who swiped in?" Brookman asked. "There are at least five more that Seldon hasn't flagged who headed up to 20."
"No," Reynolds said. "Don't tag them. Things will come to their natural conclusion today one way or another."
"Understood." Brookman hesitated. "Lawrence?"
"Yes?"
"Good luck."
"You too, Marcus."
Reynolds hung up and checked his watch. 14:30. The Wraiths were gathering. They had Davis. They'd do whatever they planned to do with Davis, then likely move against the board meeting.
He got up from his desk, cracking his neck. Things were finally in motion.
He walked past his desk to the outer office. Ms. Hoover looked up from her terminal.
"Ms. Hoover, take the rest of the day off."
She blinked. "Sir? It's only two thirty?"
Reynolds paused, hand on the doorframe. She'd worked for him for three years. Competent, discreet, never asked questions she shouldn't. She deserved something slightly more conclusive.
"It's been a pleasure working with you," he said.
Something in his tone made her face shift. "Mr. Reynolds-"
"Enjoy your weekend, Ms. Hoover."
He strode out before she could respond.
After walking out to his car,. Reynolds popped his trunk and pulled out a large, well-loved, gym bag that sagged heavily when lifted. He carried it back through the front entrance, nodding at the security guard.
"Just storing some knick-knacks in my office, Bill."
Bill glanced at the bag. "Sure thing, Mr. Reynolds. Need help?"
"I've got it. Thanks."
Back in his office, Reynolds locked the door. He lifted his office phone, dialed a number, waited for the tone, and spoke two words.
"County. Homeplate."
He hung up, grabbed the gym bag, and took the stairs up to the 18th floor.
Past the hustle and bustle of the afternoon grind, there was a narrow hallway that led to the building's secondary stairwell. Tucked beside it was a maintenance room that had been converted into a records storage room sometime in the early seventies, then forgotten when everything went to microfiche. Washington had discovered it six months ago during a fire drill. The door still locked, but it wasn't on any cleaning rotation. No one came here.
It was perfect. Reynolds placed the bag on the table, and waited.
Approximately ten minutes later, Washington came through the door. Behind him: Martinez and Brooks, the two other men who filled out the team that had been tailing the Wraiths. Each of the three men carried a large canvas duffel bag that sagged with weight.
Five minutes later, there were more footsteps. Eight other men filed in. Reynolds recognized each face from DRC: Dawson, former Army infantry, now worked security. Kowalski, former Army infantry, acquisitions department. Nakamura, also former Army infantry, desk job in logistics currently. Jenkins, ex-Force Recon, in security. Mitchell, Henderson, Sullivan and Harris were all ex-Marines. Mitchell in the motor pool, Henderson doing warehouse inventory, Sullivan and Harris in security.
A low murmur of conversation filled the room. Greetings, nervous jokes, the sound of men who expected combat.
Everyone in the room had been a line rifleman at minimum. All combat arms. All people Reynolds knew personally and trusted. Most worked behind desks now, but they remembered how to clear a room.
On top of that, Reynolds had scanned every one of them personally with the prototype scanner before he had brought them in on his plan. Dev Unit #3 was the only scanner he knew for certain was functional, before the Wraiths had done whatever they'd done to the first 60 unit run of production models. He'd pulled it from the lab himself, told no one, and used it to build this team one careful verification at a time.
He'd used it on Davis too, at their first meeting. The man had passed, making him perfect bait.
Reynolds coughed, bringing the room to attention. "Gentlemen." He hefted his gym bag onto the table and unzipped it. Inside: twelve suppressors packed in foam, and twelve fifty-round casket magazines loaded with subsonic 9mm.
Washington, Martinez, and Brooks dropped their duffels. The zippers opened to reveal twelve Spectre M4 submachine guns packed four to a bag, stocks folded.
Jenkins opened a crate in the back of the room that contained twelve sets of soft body armor and twenty-four additional magazines. Nakamura had the grenades in a backpack: six flashbangs, two frags, three smokes.
Kowalski hefted one of the Spectres, checking the action. "Didn't know you preferred Italian hardware, Lawrence."
"They fell off a truck," Reynolds said flatly. "Can't exactly trust our armory for sensitive work nowadays."
Kowalski nodded. "Fair enough."
"Gear up," Reynolds said, grabbing a suppressor and three magazines.
The team got to work. Attaching suppressors to guns, loading magazines and strapping on vests.
Reynolds suppressed a brief flicker of relief. If the Wraiths had chosen the sub-basement for their ritual instead of the twentieth floor, things would have been more inconvenient.
Small mercies.
He waited for everyone to finish gearing up, then broke the uncomfortable silence.
"Gentlemen. We've been waiting for an opportunity like this for months now." Reynolds paused. "All the Wraiths in our company are converging on the twentieth floor. We're going in, and we're going to kill all of them."
He let that sink in for a moment.
"A good plan violently executed now is better than a perfect plan next week. We have the element of surprise." He looked at each man in turn. "Let's get this done."
They took the stairs to the twentieth floor. The stairwell was concrete and steel, their footsteps muffled by careful placement. No talking. Hand signals only.
At the door, Reynolds paused. Listened. Nothing.
He cracked it open. The hallway was empty. Fluorescent lights humming, cubicles stretching away in rows of beige fabric and fake wood, like an abandoned monument to 70's workspace design trends.
The assault team moved in pairs, leapfrogging their way across the floor. Two men cover while two advance. Then those two cover while the next pair moves. Slow. Methodical. Reynolds passed a cubicle with a burnt-orange office chair that caught his eye.
Someone should renovate this floor, he thought absently. Strip out all this out of date design language, update it to something from this decade.
Then again, if things went wrong in the next ten minutes, interior design quibbles would be the least of the Deterrence Research Corporation's problems.
More cubicles. More empty offices.
The assault team moved past a printing room with a machine that looked like it hadn't worked since Nixon. Bathrooms that smelled of industrial cleaner and neglect.
Then they reached the final corridor.
The conference room was at the end of the corridor. Double doors in dark walnut with brass kick plates that dated back to the Ford administration barred the way.
Reynolds held up a fist. Everyone froze.
There was movement at the doors. They were opening.
Reynolds pulled back, and gestured. The team melted into the cubicle farm, pressing against fabric walls and cheap desks. Washington crouched beside Reynolds, gun already up.
Two figures emerged from the conference room. A man and a woman, business casual, like they were stepping out of any corporate meeting.
They walked down the hall, casual, unhurried.
Reynolds waited. Let them get clear. Far enough that the conference room doors had closed again.
He caught Washington's eye. Pointed at Nakamura and Dawson. Gestured.
The three men rose smoothly. Guns came up in synchronized motion. No commands needed.
The suppressed weapons cracked.
Both Wraiths went down. The shooters had aimed for the head, five rounds each.
The corpses promptly began to turn to ash.
Reynolds exhaled quietly. It was good to know that wasn't a rumor.
After a few moments, the doors to the conference room remained shut.
Reynolds gestured to the assault team. They stacked up on either side of the doors—Nakamura took point on the right, Dawson directly behind him, then Jenkins and Kowalski. On the left: Washington on point, Martinez behind, then Henderson and Brooks. The remaining four men positioned themselves to provide covering fire down the corridor.
Twelve men. Twenty-something Wraiths. Bad odds on paper.
But they had the element of surprise and men who'd survived worse than what some aliens could throw at them.
If what Barone said about ritual backlash applied to Wraiths,and if the Wraiths were doing what Reynolds suspected, they'd have a decisive edge.
Nakamura's hand hovered over the brass handle, a flash grenade in his other hand. His eyes met Reynolds'.
Once more into the breach.
Reynolds nodded.
Nakamura turned the handle.