Chapter 1
No Safe Harbor
Year 2086
Manzanillo, Mexico
Earth
Ripley Willis Lee took a step over a severed hand. It still clutched a rosary, its fingers charred. Lee didn’t want to know why a person had lost their hand, or how it had ended up here. He looked away as he continued to walk down the sidewalk, doing his best to push the image out of his mind.
Three blocks away, a hover-SUV with tinted windows and a mounted .50-caliber machine gun drove past a group of children kicking a crushed can over a shabby grass field.
When the children glanced at the vehicle, they scattered. The SUV revved its engine and accelerated around a corner, disappearing from view.
These days, if someone walked alone in Manzanillo, Mexico, they’d find themselves either dead under a bridge with their organs stolen or kidnapped for auction into slavery in the underground Perbudakan networks. Yet now, Ripley Willis Lee strode down those very streets.
The city, also known for its drug trade and cartel presence, had a great view of the Pacific Ocean. Lee had to give it that much. As he walked down the broken sidewalk, the waves rumbled in the distance.
After his Olympic gold medals in sharpshooting and yet another rejection from the military, he didn’t care about playing it safe. Not anymore. The gig he’d drummed up down here in the slums would pay him the money he needed to help himself. Supposedly, the job guaranteed his safety too.
Lee touched the crinkled edge of the military rejection letter folded in his pants pocket. He remembered opening the email on his data tablet nearly a year ago—the words were burned into his mind: “…disqualified from service due to retinitis pigmentosa, with visual acuity below acceptable standards…”
He’d printed it off and carried it with him wherever he went. When the paper would wear down, he’d print off another one. His eyes had failed him—the very tools he needed to pursue his military calling. Something needed to fuel his drive, and this letter did it for him. He’d sacrifice every luxury until he could afford the corrective surgery. Still, it didn’t make sense. He was a perfect shot, even with his eye problems. The gold medals proved as much.
Lee fished out a plastic card from his other pocket. In dark ink, someone had scribbled his contact’s address on the back.
I’m almost there, he thought.
The narrow street stretched before him. He’d been on foot for almost twenty minutes, ever since the taxi driver had refused to venture further, saying something about this neighborhood being under new management. It was a thinly veiled warning that the cartel had recently muscled their way into this forgotten corner of the city.
With a Higgs 92X Compact pistol in his hand, he walked around a loose slab on the sidewalk. He halted to rest his shoulder against a building with a hanging sign above the entrance—the Calle Libertad—while he looked at the card again.
Another two blocks.
Before he’d made his way down to Mexico, his soon-to-be new boss had told him over a comm call to carry a weapon, though he’d promised Lee would be safe. Lee had taken the counsel seriously.
In front of him, weeds burst through cracks in the uneven pavement. Bordering the sidewalk, rusted lampposts blinked. Stray dogs prowled the empty storefronts across the street, their fur dark against the flashing neon of a lonely cantina.
This area is sketchy as hell.
As he started to walk again, two men headed in his direction. Lee tucked the card back into his pocket. When he attempted to pass them, one man in a gray sweatshirt stood in Lee’s way.
“Wallet and anything else valuable.” One of the men spoke with a definite Texan drawl, the guy no doubt from Texas. The other individual looked local.
Lee took a slow step back and tipped his head toward the Higgs 92X in his hand. “I’m good. How about you guys?”
The local threw his arms out to his sides. “Are you threatening us?”
“Be careful making quick movements like that, my friend,” Lee said. “Some trigger-happy tourist may take your head off.” He kept his focus trained on the two men in front of him while also maintaining awareness of his peripheral vision for anyone else who might approach from the sides of the deserted street.
“Who you callin’ friend? Give me your money,” the Texan replied.
“Look, fellas, I don’t want any trouble. Just let me go on my way, please.”
The local man sneered. “Give us what you got, or you’ll find yourself someplace you don’t want to be.”
I’m kinda already in that “someplace.” “I’m an expert with my weapon.”
“We know.” The man from Texas laughed. “But we’re asking nicely.”
Neither person carried a gun—at least, not in plain sight. Still, they exuded an air of confidence. Too much confidence. To Lee, it meant they probably had armed friends somewhere nearby. He kept his gun low. If he raised it, someone would likely send a bullet through his back.
Lee relaxed a little. He remembered his new employer had pledged to keep him safe. “I’m here to see Miguel Ángel Treviño.” Maybe saying the man’s name would do the trick.
They exchanged looks. “Miguel Ángel Treviño? You’re lying, bro.”
“I’m not.” Lee frowned. “I’m his private security contractor.”
The local man chuckled. “Nice try. Look at you, all skinny with glasses. How do you know Miguel’s full name, man? You look and sound, and kinda smell”—he sniffed a few times—“fishy to me.”
“He’s hired me. That’s all I can say.”
The Texan looked behind him. “They’d have had Arturo come and meet you and guide you to the compound by now. You’re trespassing. Give me your damn money or die. Either way, I’m still rich.”
Lee’s pistol hand twitched. One squeeze of the trigger and he could end this confrontation fast.
Across the street, a large dumpster caught the corner of his eye—potential cover if he played his cards right. Behind the Texan, an alleyway gave him a quick escape route if he could outmaneuver his adversaries, who might be more than just these two hostiles.
“I’ve got no money,” Lee said. “None. So walk away.”
The local man spat at Lee’s feet and eyed him for a good five seconds. “You’re Ripley Willis Lee, famed Olympic star. With whatever endorsements you have, you’ve got money. Hand it over.”
They didn’t want him for just his wallet. If they kidnapped him, they could garner tons of money via holding him hostage.
Have I been set up? Was this my new employer’s plan the entire time? Lee wondered.
The Texan raised a fist. “When I open my hand, you die. I’m giving you three seconds to hand over your wallet and—”
“The endorsements pay lousy. I’m barely getting by as is, hence why I’m down here. And if I hand over my wallet, you’ll grab me. I look away, even for a millisecond, you have the advantage. Simple as that.”
“You’re a confident guy, aren’t you?” the Texan said.
Lee shook his head. “Confident? No. But if you take a step in my direction, I’m confident I will kill you.” Without moving his head, he glanced at the local man. “And you too. So leave me be.”
One way or another, if he lowered his weapon, fished for his wallet, or even budged a millimeter, they’d take him to the ground and wrestle his pistol free.
If I die today, I take one of these guys with me.
The Texan continued to hold his fist in the air. For a brief second, he took his eyes off Lee. In a flash, Lee raised his gun. Two shots rang out, and both adversaries fell to the sidewalk.
Lee dashed toward the alleyway a moment before a bullet ricocheted off the wall and dust clouded in the air. Gunshots reverberated throughout the street. The pounding of heavy feet, perhaps of a dozen men, entered the vicinity. Men hollered while Lee turned down the side street. A bullet sank into the concrete near his heel. Without looking, he returned fire.
Lee leaped over a pile of crates before he found cover behind a crumbling brick wall. The dozen men chasing him sprinted close behind. Their shouts echoed through the narrow alleyway.
As he scanned his surroundings for an escape route, a fire escape ladder leading to the rooftop of an old apartment building presented itself. Without hesitation, he ran toward it. A bullet whizzed past his head and sank into a wooden eave, cracking it in half.
Lee gripped the rusted metal rungs and climbed the ladder. His muscles burned as he moved as fast as he possibly could. He reached the top of the building. His expression dropped. It was a dead end.
Sheer walls rose several stories higher on all sides. Concrete stretched out before him. Ten meters in front of him stood a solitary apartment window caked in cobwebs.
He looked down the ladder. Several men climbed after him. Lee’s breaths came quickly as he turned and faced the window. He charged forward. Once he reached the glass, he threw his shoulder against the window with all his might. The glass shattered, and he tumbled into the empty apartment. Shards cut into his skin as he rolled across the dusty floor.
Two of his pursuers rushed onto the roof after him. Their guns were drawn as they burst through the broken window. Lee reacted in the blink of an eye, his own weapon already in hand. He fired off two quick shots, the bullets finding their targets.
The first man dropped right away. Dead. The second man—Lee gasped. Young. Too young. The boy’s eyes widened with shock. The kid reached up to touch the crimson blossoming on his chest. He couldn’t have been more than sixteen, maybe seventeen. For a fraction of a second, they stared into each other’s eyes. In the next instant, the life drained from the poor kid’s face.
Shouts drew closer. Lee bolted out of the apartment and down the hallway, raced down several flights of stairs, and broke through a door leading to a wide, empty street.
He forced down the vomit rising in his throat. He had to move. Had to run. Questions about why they’d send a teen after him could wait.
Three more individuals appeared from around the corner, their weapons raised. Shots pierced the air. Lee dove behind a dumpster, his pulse pounding. Bullets ricocheted off the metal.
I need to act… now!
He popped up from behind his cover and rapid-fired three rounds. Each one hit its target. The men flopped backwards.
Seven down. A handful more. I’m an idiot and got myself in deep crap. How did I not see this when I signed up for this gig? Lee asked himself. Stop thinking! Move, move!
Bullets whizzed through the air. Lee ducked down after squeezing the trigger to an empty magazine. He slammed a fresh mag into his weapon, racking the slide to chamber a new round. “Lord, help me… please, please. It’s not my fault,” he muttered under his breath. “I don’t want to kill any of these guys.” He crawled toward an overturned car, using it as a makeshift barricade.
A fiery pain burned his shoulder as a bullet nicked him. Lee gritted his teeth. He pushed through the discomfort as he rounded the side of the car for better cover. Blood dripped.
He grimaced as he eyed a few men strutting down the middle of the road. They wore heavy overcoats and clutched rifles. Either those were stolen and reprogrammed old Synths, or those individuals had a death wish.
With a burst of adrenaline, Lee charged forward, his gun blazing. One assailant fell. Another fired but missed wide, the shot slamming into a light pole. Lee’s bullet caught the man square in the middle of the forehead. The guy went to his knees, the weapon falling from his listless grip. The third person moved to the left, no doubt trying to find cover. Lee pivoted, his weapon tracking the man’s movements. He squeezed the trigger. A round tore through the attacker’s chest and sent him to the ground.
Lee held his breath. How did I live through that?
He surveyed the hellish sight around him. The street was littered with bodies.
I have to keep moving. Gotta stay one step ahead. Ten down. Where’s the rest?
Lee bolted down the street to put as much distance as possible between himself and the scene of the firefight. He didn’t know where he was going or exactly where he was.
Holding his wounded shoulder, Lee made his way through the winding streets. As sirens in the distance grew louder, Lee wandered into an old industrial warehouse. Rusted metal walls surrounded the area. He could tell the building had once manufactured advanced propulsion engines for large navy space vessels as he passed by one of the massive engines lying on the asphalt. Beside it, a hatch showed.
With a grunt of pain, Lee pulled open the heavy metal door and lowered himself into the tight space. Musty air carried to his nostrils as he pulled the hatch closed, plunging himself into darkness.
He pulled out a lighter from his pocket and flicked it to life. The small flame sent a dim light over the area. He was in a small storage room filled with rusted tools and spare parts.
Lee glanced at his throbbing shoulder. He peeled back his shirt, wincing as the fabric stuck to the blood. The bullet had taken a chunk out of his flesh.
Searching the storage room, he found a small knife. With a quick motion, he sliced off the sleeve of his shirt and, using his teeth and his good arm, wrapped the fabric tightly around the bullet wound. The intense pressure helped to dull the pain. He needed proper medical attention, and soon.
As he stared at his blood-soaked sleeve, a soft whir sounded close by. In the corner of the room, a small surveillance drone hovered. Its blinking red light focused on him. Lee cursed under his breath. If it was the attackers or their cartel masters watching, he only had seconds to decide his next move.
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