“The same competitor,” probed Bowie, “whose friends and family Nilo killed?”
“No,” said Reiser without emotion. “Different one. Apparently, a lot of these super-rich like to collect old hokey-pocus Savage junk. Why? I don’t know. It’s their thing. That’s above my paygrade, Jack. I, like you, am just here to get paid, and I don’t care who we have to kill to get whatever trinket some fat cat wants.”
“Hocus pocus,” murmured Bowie and studied the insertion site on the holo-display. It wasn’t a big roof, but it was enough to bring the AN-16 down on. He’d done it with less during a six-month war no one ever heard about called the Kasselgrov Insurgency. Naval intel had been fighting that dirty little secret for reasons that were never clear and not publicly known.
“So, after that it’s wetwork,” continued Reiser. “That’s also in your skill set. Jack.”
It wasn’t a question. And rather than a statement, the older spook made it sound like an indictment. Not to prove he was better than Bowie. But that he was right down there in the cloak and mostly dagger sewer of what it was they did for the galaxy. Hitting.
“How many?”
The number was twelve. Twelve koobs needed to die for the building to be clear before he could access the vault. Then open the front doors and create a breach in the Team Nilo–installed security perimeter to allow the transport teams to move in and remove the artifacts.
Mission done.
“What am I working with?” asked Jack.
Reiser smiled and showed Bowie to the table that contained his kit loadout.
“Though evidently you’re fairly capable with a blaster, we know, according to your skill set, Jack…”
Sarcasm.
“…that you prefer the high-powered sniper engagement system mainly in the form of the N-18 with Greiss Telemetrics. Unfortunately this is going to be close quarters. Up close and very personal. That means blasters are a problem because the koobs are keeping it near dark in there and our hit time will be sometime during the night. Tonight, most likely. Or early tomorrow morning. Koobs have better than human night vision and so they don’t mind the dark. Any light show from a blaster, even one with a sophisticated light suppressor, is going to be a disadvantage in there. So, we’re going old school.”
Reiser indicated a pair of pistols on the table. “These are Legion. I’m sure the Marines ran ’em for you and we’ve got a range set up to give you some time with them for the next few hours. 9mm. Slug throwers. The suppressor is integral and it barely allows sound, or flash. At less than twenty meters it sounds like a mouse fart. So, take out tandem targets walking patrol, quickly. It’ll make a sound that’s clear to the partner to keep their senses twitching and either sound the alert or start engaging with their own brand-new Black Leaf toys. Anyone on their own, you’re clear to engage and keep moving.”
Bowie picked up the weapon, checked to make sure it was clear, and ran a quick systems check. He’d run the Legion’s little puff puff before. It was a good weapon. But it absolutely required put-down hits in the pump and pipes to make sure the target couldn’t make much of a fuss after being hit. He’d need to make sure he had koob anatomy right to make that happen on the first and second shots. Otherwise they could start screaming… or croaking… and the whole thing might go pear-shaped.
“A couple of knives,” continued Reiser. “If that’s how you want to do it.”
They walked through the kit loadout.
“Blades are coated with a central nervous system nano-virus that will remain active on contact for up to twelve hours once we start the mission clock and pass the Go Phase Line. One cut or scrape, and the target goes fetal, whether they like it or not. Fifty percent chance of death by cardiovascular infarct within the first thirty seconds, so you might want to go ahead and stick it in the brain pan at the base of the koob skull and give it a quick twist for the fatality. Do not test the edge yourself. I repeat. Don’t, Jack. Like I said, the viral coating remains active for twelve hours regardless of how many froggies you stick. Cut yourself, Jack, and you’ll go fetal too.”
Bowie studied the knives. Standard graphite blade tactical with nice rough sandpaper grips. One tanto and two boot knives.
“What about the bots?” asked Bowie nonchalantly. He was expecting bot-poppers, the micro-grenades used by the Legion that set off a localized EMP blast. But Team Nilo had arranged something different.
Reiser picked up a small subcompact-light blaster. Then a fat silencer. He screwed it onto the barrel quickly with practiced efficiency.
“This is Black Leaf, too. Fancy and fun. The bolts this fires don’t do kinetic. They take out electrical systems by delivering activated photons in the bolt that basically explode on contact to create micro, two-meter radius, EMPs. This baby will shut down a warbot with a direct hit. We call it an EM blaster. Not available in stores.”
Reiser was smiling as he popped out the folding stock, activated the tri-dot laser targeting, and took aim at the wall. Holographic targeting scrolled around the point of impact along the wall in ghostly red data.
“That’s not telemetry. Or rather, it ain’t only telemetry, Jack. It’s there for the shooter in case things get real hectic. Range-measured power against the target and chance of off-line at impact. Adjust the sight picture and it’ll update as it scans the bot, telling you where you’re most likely to get a kill. Some of the old warbots were hardened via modular components against micro-EMP strikes. So, this
