Castling (4 page)

Bunch of softies!

“This compounds the couple he butchered on a first offence and the busload of women and children for his second stay.”

Gil flexed
anxiously at the mention of the bus. Rook studied his unease. Eyes tightened. Jaw set. Thick fingers closed about their armrests, threatening to rip them free. His neck tensed, looking not entirely unlike a tree trunk.

The Boss continued, striding
to-and-fro, hands clasped at the small of her back,

“Ron reliably informs me we don’t know where he is, we have no idea what he’s got cooking and
, for all we can tell, he could have a small army of resources at his disposal... Good to see those hundreds of thousands we spent on intelligence equipment paying for themselves!”

A ripple of laughter peel
ed through them, dry charisma an obvious antidote to the gravity of civilian loss.

“We’ve worked plenty of jobs before this, but we’ve been waiting on something with
a higher profile to announce ourselves.

This
is the sod that got the jump on Cracker, folks. Let that sink in. He’s also bested the likes of Claymore, that big Russian girl with the eye-patch, and even our Gilgamesh.”

“Is that so?” Hatch interrupted, matted hair flopping as he turned to sneer
judgement across the table.

“He dropped a crane on me!” Gil thundered defensively, unused to defeat, less so ha
ving it paraded in front of him.

Walking around, the Boss placed a calming hand on Gil’s titanic shoulder,

“Easy, you’re not on trial. This one’s plenty sly, kids, and he’s more than a little robust! Fact is, it took half the continent’s metas to rope this scrawny prick last time.

He’s sharp, he’s dangerous and
far
too many people are scared witless of him.

So this time
,
we’re
taking a crack at it!”

The Boss allowed a moment for this most basic of information to
permeate. Evidently, her squad felt vital data was best digested with a side of incessant questioning. She closed her eyes, pinching the bridge of her nose for strength.

Ron looked to his team,
subtle glances and facial tics conveying queries. Their concerns were mainly sub-vocal, subliminal and pitched at frequencies attuned to cochlear implants.

True to form, Team Leap proved
less discreet.

“I certainly wouldn’t lament the chance to redeem myself.” Gil mumbled, leaning back, folding vast arms across
a barrelled chest.

“You had your chance tubby,” Hatch growled, banging a
scarred fist on the table, “Time to give the rest of us a shot. See if we can’t come up with something smarter than
Duh, hit him real hard!
”

Once t
he pride and joy of the meta-human community, Gil’s brown eyes darkened. Praying he’d be spared the indignity of trying (and failing) to deflect Gilgamesh’s warpath, Rook was relieved when Molly, reaching across TG, grabbed a fist-load of Hatch’s collar.

“You!
Shut your fat mouth shut until told otherwise.”

Released, Hatch straightened the bunched fabric of his uniform, scowling at the sniggering forms across the table.

“Although I feel kind of dirty for even suggesting it, Hatch might be right.” TG sighed. Tilting forward, she refilled her water. Her bright round eyes caught Rook staring. A grin crept into her cheeks, before she quickly returned focus to her Boss and Captain, “Maybe our best move is just a pile-on. Take no chances.”

The Boss gripped the
table corners in long, bony fingers. Everyone seemed wise enough to stop gabbing.

“Rook’s going to do him.”

This time, a stunned silence accompanied their digestion.

I am
?...

Ten pairs of eyes fixed
upon his still healing face, Rook ensured he didn’t flinch, didn’t blink, didn’t betray so much as the slightest hint of apprehension. Or excitement. Instead his features retained their casual indifference, as if he’s just been asked to flick over the kettle, not go toe to toe with one of the most dangerous men in living memory.

Stunned by the
implied significance, Team Look chattered away inaudibly. Extrasensory communications, infrared data and unsettling astral projections bounced back and forth.

Elsewhere, Breaker returned to his chewing, boredo
m conquering him once more.

Leaning back, Molly shot Rook
a curious glance. Her features crinkled, devoid of their usual lure, replaced instead with...
Is that concern?

Gil, TG and Hatch all exchanged
shots of confusion, chased with outrage and sprinkled with a hint of doubt. But the Boss had said her piece, and they had sufficient sense to bite their tongues.

Or at least, Gil and TG did.

“Boss, seriously?! That’s moronic. You’ be better off sending Ron... You’ve got to be takin’ the piss right?” Hatch veritably spat across the table.

A
nother silence befell the conference room, though to Rook, it felt sinister, not stunned.

As
Hatch’s captain, Molly rose from her chair without comment. Her countenance collected, she stepped past TG, closing the distance toward her insolent subordinate. A Stanley knife was in her hand.

Hatch screamed.

Molly stopped, still three feet away, watching as he clutched his left wrist. His watch sizzled, its casing white hot. The dishevelled man grunted, drooling, sweat dripping from his brow as he struggled with its clasp. The stink of burning hair, melting nail and scalding flesh wafted through the room.

Molly spared
her Boss a cursory glance. Her cornea pulsed with a phosphoric hue.

As the searing wristwatch dropped
onto the chrome beneath, Hatch buried his burning limb under an armpit. His teeth ground with the pain. The viral strain in his blood got to work, healing.

“Consider this a mercy on my part, Hatchet,” the Boss’ gentle voice warned,
the glow fading from her gaze, “I’d wager my Lieutenant had a somewhat more severe reprimand in store. So next time, just do as Molly asks, and let the grown-ups talk.”

Molly
stood slack jawed. Mercifully, she was in good company.

She had planned to p
lace the blade
at
his neck. But only to scare the hairy blighter. At most, nick him a little. Molly had
not
planned to inflict third degree burns while the entire organisation looked on in horror. Yet with a single cross glance, the Boss had reaffirmed Molly’s authority.

And her own.

Rook re-evaluated his earlier position. This disparate group of talented, strong-willed individuals never stood a chance.

“If I may...” Ron enquired to the supremely composed woman at the table’s head, no inflection in his tone, “Recent evidence suggests Rook might actually prove Lancet’s physical equal. Some preliminary analysis of the blood and serum extracted earlier is complete.” Ron traced further gestures on the table. Graphics illuminated at its centre.

“
Those were military grade augmentations. The kind developed to fist-fight tanks. Nothing on Gilgamesh’s level, but still, Rook should
not
be standing. Or breathing. Or circulating blood.

The fact
he insists on doing so suggests the data he provided, regarding his
condition
, was grossly, deliberately inaccurate. As the one charged with precisely gauging our individual limits, I would like to publically express my gratitude to Rook for giving me yet more work to do.

Honestly, thank you.
I had no real interest in sleeping tonight. I actually find the tedium of daily rest quite inconvenient.

And congratulations on coming to the realisation that
those forms I made you sign were solely for your own amusement. It always makes the science a lot easier when “Meh! A little tough, maybe...” is scrawled into the Nature of Augmentation field.”

Ron’s transition from informative sincerity to seething sarcasm was
flawless.

“I’m sorry for surviving, Ron...?” Rook ventured
, smiling, shrugging his folded arms.

“You’re sorry? I’m the one who has to fill
all this in again” the red haired lieutenant complained summoning forth Rook’s assessment form, incorrectly entered two weeks prior.

“Fighting
’s more than just taking punishment.” Gil assured his friend, resting a hand on Ron’s shoulder. And the bulk of his upper torso. “Besides,
which
military’s grade, eh? Some of them just aren’t that reliable!” he added, winking in TG’s direction. She pouted, shaking a gloved fist in feigned offence.

The rumble of hearty debate reared once more.

Half the table brainstormed, deciphering the best
means of uncovering Lancet’s whereabouts: transaction trails, surveillance hacks, coerced informants, astral breadcrumbs. But Team Look’s quiet musings were drowned out by the heated quarrelling of Gil, Hatch and TG.

“Just because he bloodied some noses, including his own, I might add...”

“Well, there’s obviously something to him, but...”

“Naturally!
The Boss wouldn’t have picked him otherwise. Yet still...”

Rook was impressed
by the sudden proficiency at walking on eggshells. They each took special care not to blatantly accuse their leader of misjudgement. Again.

No-one in th
e organisation was actually stupid.

Molly’s
worried stare soon caught his eye. Hands squeezed together, the look of concern painting her face was flattering, and not altogether unwarranted.

I am still a little rusty...
Rook mused, playing fast and loose with the definition of the term
little.
And
rusty.

Unable to
offer consolation, Rook simply shrugged. He figured the gesture ambiguous enough to save him some face in the event of either victory or defeat.

Breaker stood.

Naturally, something died as a result. In this instance, it was the conversation.

“You thought this through
?” Breaker rasped, staring down, the silver of his beard glistening in the artificial light, “Give me the nod and Lancet dies: In the time and manner of your choosing...”

Rook stared
up at the man. Two metres of cold confidence, musculature bulged as steel cables beneath taught grey skin, only the slightest weathering of which could be found about the eyes, the cheeks. These were the sole hints as to his age. Far less vague was his design. It was in the name...

“W
hen have you known me
not
to think things through?” The Boss whispered back, the only person in the room, if not the planet, not intimidated by the man, “You butchering him benefits us not one jot. Lancet has to live.”

The B
oss stood then, announcing loudly,

“Rook is
not
going to kill him.”

I’m not?

“Rook is going to petrify him.”

I am?

Turning, the Boss angled herself so Rook was incorporated into her view of the team she’d assembled not six months previously,

“I
t’s up to you how you get this done. But we need this bugger broken. I don’t care if it’s poison or brainwashing, if you use a kitchen knife or the heel of your boot. Whatever.

But we need this villain
scared. We need him terrified. Not just of you, but of us. Of what we might do to him, tomorrow morning or far off in the future or just whenever we feel like it. Lancet has to
break
.

Oh, and we need him to tell his friends...”

*

“Ron, you busy?”

Rook
slunk into the lieutenant’s cluttered workspace. Three workbenches, six desktops, one whiteboard and a dozen instruments whose utility he couldn’t fathom given an hour (and a search engine) bordered an impressive, wall-consuming glass interface. Rook would fervidly contest the likelihood six people could work together in such cramped confines, was he not staring directly at them.

Team Look worked in quiet unison, dil
igence and efficiency, doubtless facilitated by Ron’s short range ESP and Sabrina’s motivating pheromones.

“A
lways busy, Rook. Was that not obvious?”

Rook chuckled, pulling
the door behind him as he squeezed inside.

“Painfully apparent
... Ron, are you too busy to help me catch this Lancet chap?”

The cla
ck of keys and scrape of mice halted.  They each turned to him individually, peering over monitors, pulling out ear-buds, swivelling in their seats. Ron spoke on their behalf,