Scarlet (7 page)

Roark laughed, the sound rusty from disuse. Bannon really was a bastard. He shook his head. No wonder he liked him. Maybe if he handled the job he wanted him to do, he'd save him from IPTT's wrath and find him a permanent position within his office.

Catherine fidgeted and pulled at the collar of her black tactical team uniform. "Is it hot in here to you?" she asked, fanning herself with a scrap of synth-paper that had been left on the metal table by her seat.

Bannon ran a beefy hand over his forehead and came away with wetness. "Now that you mention it." As if realizing what he'd been doing, he glared at her. "What's the matter, can't take the heat?"

Catherine snorted. "Just trying to make small talk to pass the time while we wait."

"Well don't bother," Bannon said, then shook his head and swayed before grabbing the arm of his chair. "I'm not interested in hearing your thoughts, Private. In fact, I'm not interested in hearing you at all, so button it up."

She crossed her arms over her well-endowed chest. "Is that an order?"

"Yes," he snapped. "That's an order."

Sweat glistened like dew drops on the big man's skin. His short haircut was no defense against the ovenlike heat of the small room. Roark had made sure it was hotter in the room than it was outside. Heat intensified the gas's potency and now it was starting to take effect. Soon he could begin to re-program them.

"I don't feel so well," Catherine said, clutching her stomach and groaning loudly. "Maybe I should ask Roark's assistant if I can reschedule. I don't want to walk into his office and toss my lunch on his shoes."

"Women," Bannon said in disgust. "You're all the same. I still don't understand why they allow you on the tactical team."

Catherine glowered. "With all due respect, sir, you can fuck off." She turned and faced away from him, her crossed leg bobbing angrily.

"That'll go in your personnel fi—" Bannon slumped forward, his large body folding in on itself until his knuckles dragged the floor. Roark frowned as he watched the man's lips puff out like a fish. He glanced back at the woman. Normally the gas affected smaller individuals first. Other than the sweat on her brow and the dampness at her temples, Catherine seemed strangely alert.

She glanced over her shoulder and her eyes widened. "Hey, are you okay?" she asked. Bannon's only answer was a loud snore. 'Terrific," she muttered. "We come all the way down here from tactical team headquarters and you decide to take a nap. Jerk. Lieutenant, wake up." Catherine stood to go check on him and collapsed to her knees. "What the hell?" She swayed a few seconds, then tumbled onto the floor.

"That's better," Roark said. For a moment he'd been worried she wasn't going to go under. She must have a high tolerance for drugs. Roark made a mental note for next time. He shook his head and laughed. There wouldn't be— couldn't be—a next time.

If all went as planned, Lieutenant Bannon Richards and Private Catherine Meyers would be dead within a month, and all trace of his interference would die with them.

He'd considered asking for Bannon Richards's assistance, but in the end decided he couldn't trust him to not tell the tactical team commander his plans. Bannon was rigid when it came to the rules, which was one of the reasons Roark had chosen him.

Unfortunately, his need to follow the letter of the law was also the reason he needed to be drugged. Roark had decided to call in Catherine Meyers at the last second, not for her skill or experience, but because she'd make the perfect fall guy and be none the wiser.

Roark pressed a button on his desk. The influ-gas turned off and fresh air began to pump into the room. He flicked a switch that allowed him to speak over the intercom. "Wake-up, children." Now that he'd spoken, they'd listen to whatever he had to say.

The scientist who'd invented influ-gas had called it auditory synaptic bonding. Roark called it brilliant. To the outside observer, they'd be functioning normally. Only he would know the truth. One word from him and they'd do exactly what he wanted. No questions asked.

Bannon and Catherine stirred, their eyes glassy and unfocused. "I want you both to listen carefully. I have a job for you to do. I know you've heard about the new tactical team forming in Nuria. We can't allow that to happen. It will be very bad if they succeed. They'd try to eliminate the IPTT. Do you understand?"

They nodded and their expressions changed to anger.

"I want you to stop the formation of that team by any means necessary. I will notify you when to begin. You must not act until you hear the word ..." Roark thought for a minute. The word "scarlet" popped into his head and he smiled at the irony. 'The code word is scarlet. Understood?"

They swayed, then acknowledged him.

"Now I want you to stand and walk to the door."

Both soldiers hobbled to their feet. Roark rose from behind his desk and hit a button near his compunit. The door to his office opened. He walked to a nearby mirror to take in his appearance one last time before greeting his guests. His blue suit looked good against his dark hair. Only the gray at his temples hinted at his true age.

Roark straightened his striped silk tie, catching a glimpse of his mutilated hand. A hand missing three fingers courtesy of that bitch, Gina Santiago. He'd purposely avoided regeneration in order to have a reminder of her treachery.

She was about to learn the hard way that you don't mess with Roark Stonewall Montgomery. If she wanted a war, he'd give her one. He took a deep breath then walked out into the hall. It was now or never.

A panel to his right was hidden from the casual observer. Roark laid his hand on the spot above it. The panel slid open, exposing antique guns resting silently on a rack.

The International Police Tactical Team had disposed of most weapons after the war. What they didn't destroy, they kept for themselves. It was rare for anyone outside of law enforcement to have a decent weapon, much less the collection he housed here. Roark ran his hands reverently over the guns, their smooth wooden stocks satin-soft under his callused fingertips. They didn't make them like they used to.

Roark pulled out a tan custom-made laser sniper rifle before sealing the door once more. He tucked the gun in the crook of his arm and carried the weapon down the hall. He pressed his hand to a panel outside the room. A scanner read his fingerprints and the grooves in his palm. The door unlocked a second later, freeing his invited guests. The tactical team members stood in front of him staring in confusion.

Roark focused on the team member nearest him. "I need you to take this," he said, shoving the gun forward.

The soldier reached for the rifle. The weight pulled to the right and they nearly dropped the gun.

"Be careful."

"Sorry, sir. It's just heavier than I expected. Nothing like the IPTT-issued laser rifles."

"It's been custom made. I expect it back in the same condition." Roark went immediately into giving instructions. "Wait for it to charge. Look through the sight and squeeze the trigger. Then once that's done, I'd like you to approach the target and slash its throat. Do you think you can handle that?"

He received a curt nod.

"Good," Roark said. "I want you to shoot anyone found around the area of Nuria. They should be considered suspect and in collusion with the enemy. They must be eliminated. That includes any new trainees on the Nurian Tactical Team that stand out. Your first target will be waiting north of Nuria in the valley in two days' time. Is that clear?"

"Yes. sir."

Roark glanced at the second soldier. "I'd like you to gather intel on their numbers. We cannot allow Gina Santiago and Morgan Hunter to succeed in forming a new tactical team. It would be a threat to the security of all the republics if the Others were allowed to survive. Feel free to dispose of them if you get the opportunity. That's an order."

"Understood, sir," the soldier said.

"Remember the code word?" Roark asked.

They both murmured, "Scarlet."

Catherine swayed.

The drug was beginning to wear off on her.
That was fast,
Roark thought. She must have an unusually high metabolism.

He smiled and reached for her hand to shake it. The movement woke her out of the trance. Roark immediately did the same to Bannon. "I'm sorry it's taken me so long to see you. I had trouble with a package that needed to be sent out. Please come with me and we'll discuss why I called."

Both frowned and looked around in confusion.

"Is there something wrong?" Roark asked.

"No, sir," they said in unison.

"We just—" Catherine stopped. "Sorry, I guess I fell asleep."

Roark hid his smile. "I'm not surprised. I kept you waiting for a while. Sorry about the heat. I'll have Travers fix that air unit the second he returns."

Catherine ran a hand through her wet hair, sending red strands every direction. "Thank you, sir."

"Is that all?" Roark asked.

"Yes, sir," Catherine said.

"Splendid. Please follow me." Roark turned and headed down the hall without looking to see if they'd follow. A moment later they stepped into his office, none the wiser. The space was far bigger than the one they'd just left and the light pouring in through the windows caused both team members to blink rapidly.

The air in here was fresh and lightly scented with lemon. Roark inhaled deeply and watched the two team members follow suit. "Glorious day, isn't it?" he asked.

"Yes. sir." they said.

Catherine and Bannon glanced out the window. Roark looked, too. He gazed at the Republic of Missouri's vast fields and dried-up riverbeds. He looked beyond the biodome at the dead forests and gnarled bushes. Inside the dome everything was green and wondrous, much like the planet used to be before the last war. Only a portion of what they were viewing was real. The rest was artificial.

Outside was a different story. Sand took the place of fertile fields . Dust storms were as common as the radioactive sunshine, which now glowed 360 days of the year thanks to ozone depletion, the last world war, and climate change. Nothing lived for long on the outside without a steady stream of supplies and immunization against radioactive poisons. Not even the Others, and they'd been engineered to survive.

Bannon rolled his thick neck, popping the joints. The noise brought Roark out of his musings. He glanced at the two soldiers covertly, then moved behind his large desk and sat. There were two metal seats opposite him, but he didn't ask either officer to sit. He thought it best they stand until their haziness passed. Roark pressed a black button to his right and the door to his office closed with an audible hiss. "Thank you for coming on such short notice."

"Anytime, sir," Bannon said, stepping away from the window to stand at attention in front of him.

Catherine shook her head and pressed a hand to her temple. She followed behind, her movements sluggish.

"Am I keeping you awake, Private Meyers?" Roark asked.

"No, sir. Sorry, sir. I just have a bit of a headache."

Roark ignored her statement. By the time they left, they'd both have migraines. "I wanted to check to see if you'd be available for security duties. I'm thinking about doing a tour of the republics and could use a couple of experienced team members to guard my back."

"Yes, sir. Anytime you want," Bannon said. "I have to clear it first, but I don't think that would be a problem. I have a lot of time saved up."

"Good, Lieutenant."

"I'm sorry, sir," Catherine said, interrupting the men. "But I'll have to also check with the commander to see if I can get the time off. To be honest, I doubt he'll grant it. I only have seven days saved."