1
An inescapable dampness clung to the night, slicking everything in a sheen of beading sweat. Beams of light cut through the thick atmosphere as grav barges circled out over the bay waiting to make port. There were about a thousand other places Ander Rade would rather have been, but he’d learned the hard way that the very act of wanting a thing often resulted in receiving the exact opposite. Which was why, instead of hiding out in some forgotten corner of the world living out his remaining days in peace, he was standing on a loading dock of the Southland Province International Shipping Port in Miami at 2100 hours surrounded by stacks of steel containers, towering cranes, and—more directly concerning—two dozen syndicate hitters armed to the teeth and primed for violence.
The only upside to the situation—if there was such a thing—was that half of the guns present were on Rade’s side. Or more appropriately, he was on their side. In a way. Not that he wanted to have anything to do with this criminal underground horseshit anymore, but he owed a debt, and debts needed to be paid. Especially when they were owed to people like Maksim Antonov—a Russian expatriate, son of a Bratva mob boss, and one of the most notorious arms dealers on this side of the world.
A little over a year ago, Rade had been tracking a man named Darius Turin, an old teammate from the Xyphos Industries private security ops program, who’d gone rogue and caused mayhem across the United American Provinces. Over the course of the hunt, Rade had gotten into some deep waters and incidentally earned himself a top spot on the American government’s hit list, making the op somewhat challenging, to say the least. Antonov had helped smuggle Rade and an agent of the Genetic Compliance Department into a protected region of Atlanta City in the Southland Province just in time to stop Turin from completing his mission. In exchange for Antonov’s help, Rade had agreed to work for the criminal entrepreneur on retainer.
Not a position he particularly cared to be in, but one he wasn’t prepared to neglect either. Not even a highly trained, combat-tuned, genetically modified operative like himself would get away with not paying back what was owed.
So tonight, the order of business was to act as Maksim Antonov’s heavy enforcer while his men met with a contingent of the Triads out of Hong Kong who were looking to use Antonov’s services to move goods out of their stronghold in the Yucatán and into the UAP. The meet was important enough to Antonov’s business that the Russian promised to consider Rade’s debt fulfilled if all went well. Helping these criminal fucks establish their rotten empires was not something Rade wanted any part of, but he had no other choice than to put his newfound morals aside for the time being and see this done.
He eyed the thugs spread out in front of him, scanning their weapons and hardware, assessing their body language. His heightened senses systematically picked out nearly imperceptible cues. The twitch of a muscle. Dilated pupils. The tiny hairs that stood on end as hormones pumped through the bloodstream. The Triad contingent appeared human, or at least none of them had any outward indication of genetic modifications, but every one of them was augmented with heavy biomechanical upgrades and armed with silenced charge weapons. The ones standing in back were trying to mask their nervousness, rivulets of sweat trickling over their skin, tendons in their hands stretched tight as they clutched their rifles. New recruits maybe. Low-level cannon fodder. The older, more experienced gangsters stood front and center, still as statues with their black silk suits. They’d had the discipline to refrain from ingesting body-and-mind-altering narcotics in order to stay sharp during the meet. The tension in the atmosphere was palpable, like the metallic taste in the back of your throat that comes before a lightning storm.
One of the Triad lieutenants gestured, a flash of the hand, and two low-level thugs came forward lugging a faraday crate between them. They dropped it on the deck in the neutral space between the two parties, then backed off.
Rade watched them closely. Over the last few months, the Triads had developed a reputation for ruthlessness that hadn’t gone unnoticed among the world’s criminal elite, and exchanges like these were becoming increasingly dangerous affairs. A double cross wasn’t out of the realm of possibilities.
Alexei Petrov, Antonov’s brigadier in charge of the Miami Region, snapped his fingers and two of his own men moved forward to inspect the crate. Rade remained on edge.
The Russians popped the faraday crate open and waved a handheld frequency reader over the individual chip cases nestled in the foam padding inside. As usual, Rade had no idea what the tech was or what it’d be used for. A small exchange of goods and services to establish the alliance, like ancient warriors presenting peace offerings on behalf of their respective kings. Rade didn’t care either way. His only mission right now was to see this conclude without incident.
After a moment, the Russian tucked the reader in his coat pocket and nodded at Alexei. The brigadier slid his eyes over to the Triad lieutenant standing across from him. “These will cycle in two days,” he said in heavily accented English. “We expect payment to post to the prepared account before then. If it is not, your product will be considered forfeit to the Brotherhood and all future business will be denied.”
The Triad lieutenant’s cold expression never wavered. “The funds are already in transit,” he replied in perfect English. “We look forward to a prosperous coexistence here in the Provinces.” The choice of wording made it clear that although this exchange was thus far peaceful, it was most certainly a takeover. Rade suddenly hoped that Antonov didn’t have anything up his sleeve, either. He just wanted this to be over with. These fucking gangsters loved to posture, and this could boil over any second.
But Alexei only smiled as he waved his men forward to retrieve the case.
If Antonov’s crew were to make a move it would come now. Rade felt his nerves thrumming, muscles tense and ready to pounce. It was all he could do to control his breathing and force his heart into a steady rhythm. The effort instigated another bout of ringing in his head, that piercing ache deep within his skull that came ever more often lately. The pain only excited his instinctive desire for violence. The Stryker hand cannon waited impatiently in the holster under his jacket, loaded with twenty-two-millimeter explosive rounds designed specifically for collateral damage. A fitting weapon for a blunt instrument like Rade. Despite the release of combat endorphins his pleasure receptors were so desperately screaming for, he fucking hoped he didn’t have to pull it.
Two of Antonov’s men moved forward to collect the faraday crate full of chip cases while the rest waited, watching. The Triads remained motionless, and gave no indication they were about to pounce.
Then a phone rang.
A soft chittering, muffled as if through someone’s pocket. The atmosphere electrified, the air suddenly rippling with tension. Eyes came alive, darting around, accusing, searching. Rade felt the change in his bones, his blood heating instantly, knowing what was about to happen. He heard the whine of biomechanical components powering up.
Alexei Petrov’s brow creased and he reached into his pocket. Weapons bristled. Slowly, Petrov drew out his mobile device, tapped the screen, and held it to his ear. The man’s confused look deepened, then he glanced at Rade. He held the phone out. “It’s for you?”
Hesitantly, Rade took the phone in his left hand, keeping his right free to draw the Stryker if it came to it. He kept his eyes on the Triads as he put the device to his ear.
“You’ve got a Delta 3 strike force with NOA tac-response inbound to your location,” a familiar voice said through the earpiece. Rade hadn’t heard from Special Agent Morgan Moreno of the Genetic Compliance Department since they’d parted ways after the Atlanta incident.
“How long?” he asked.
“Sixty seconds.”
His eyes cut toward the sky, searching for incoming beacon lights. “I suppose I’m going to owe you for this.” A statement, more than a question. He already knew the answer to that one. Story of his goddamned life.
“Just get the hell out of there and we’ll talk,” Moreno said.
Floodlights kicked on, washing the pier in blinding artificial daylight. Shouting, confusion. Coats thrown open and weapons ripped from holsters. Repulsor engines screamed overhead as drop ships pushed through the haze, blue and yellow lights exploding from the dark as National Oversight Agency units closed in. Not quite sixty seconds.
Alexei Petrov whipped around, snarling at Rade. Pulsing light danced across his contorted face; his hand went for the nickel-plated rail pistol under his arm. “Suka.” Bitch. Or, more aptly, as Rade was sure Petrov meant here: snitch. He thought Rade had ratted them out to the authorities.
Petrov’s gun came up fast, but not fast enough. Rade’s combat endorphins surged through his body, pumping though his blood and setting his nervous system on fire. His muscles screamed with energy, his focus sharp as a micron blade. The rail pistol was only halfway through a sweeping arc when Rade slapped it from Petrov’s hand. The gangster was only a baseliner—a human, bound by nature’s limitations—and didn’t have time to process the action before Rade’s other arm shot out, striking the Russian in the chest and sending him flying into the side of a shipping container.
Loudspeakers boomed overhead, ordering everyone to lower weapons and get on the ground as the drop ships swooped in. Somewhere, a ripsaw burst from a submachine gun snapped off, and everything went to shit.
Tac-response returned fire from their elevated positions as the Russians and Triads scattered like roaches. Rounds snapped off metal surfaces, chewed up the concrete pier, slapped into flesh. One of the drop ships took a blast from a Triad charge rifle and began corkscrewing through the air, smashing into a loading crane and splashing down into the inky black waters of the harbor below.
Time to go.
The Russians were trying to get back into their heavy ground cars in a desperate attempt to flee, apparently unaware of the fact that in a firefight vehicles became nothing more than bullet sponges, and the shiny black luxury rides were quickly reduced to sagging lumps of heavily punctured metal. Tac-response rushed in.
Rade used the distraction to slide into the shadows, but stopped short when a single white-hulled drop ship roared overhead, engine wash whipping the air into a frenzy. Port and starboard side doors retracted as six up-armored Delta 3s stepped out and dropped thirty feet to the pier below.
Synthetic humanoids, designed exclusively by the Tryvern Corporation for security and combat enforcement, their production sanctioned by the government of the American Provinces. Soulless automatons meant to replace humans on the front lines in the fight against illegal mods around the world. Illegal mods like Rade.
The Delta 3s moved like blurs, flashing from one enemy combatant to the next as if they were teleporting. Triads and Russians alike were being neutralized faster than they could even register what was happening.
Copyright © 2025 by Zac Topping
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