The Last Good Man

Hired Guns

True stands, arms crossed, one shoulder against the glass. It’s cool in the office but her cheeks are flushed with fear, shock. In her mind she’s in that forest, surrounded by the green-tinted dark and the endless imprisoning trunks of sapling trees.

It takes her a few seconds to register that Shaw has stopped speaking. When she does, her gaze shifts from the abstract, fixing on him. He is still in the corner where he’s taken a defensive position, but it’s as if the program he’s running on has paused. He’s motionless, mesmerized, his attention fixed on something she can’t see, something playing out on the screen of his AR visor.

“What do you have?” she asks him.

He lifts his head to look at her through the glittering lens. “You figured out who’s following you?”

“No.”

That hard half-smile. “Looks like we get a chance to find out.”

She reaches into the front pocket of her jacket, sees him tense up, and hesitates. “Easy,” she urges, and slowly pulls out her MARC. She toggles the power back on, then uses her fingernail to hold down a tiny recessed button. A purple ready light comes on. “Give me a link in.” She holds the visor out to him. “I want to see what you see.”

He scowls behind the screen of his own AR visor, then shrugs. “Stand by.” He uses his data glove to scroll through menus she can’t see. Then, taking his visor off, he holds it close to hers until both devices flash, indicating identities have been exchanged and a link established.

When she puts on the MARC, she sees a livestream. It’s an aerial view of the warehouse district taken from a low angle. Their location is noted by a tag, while a caption identifies the source of the video as a high-altitude UAV manufactured by Shin-Farrell. The surrounding streets are empty except for an SUV rounding a corner three blocks away.

Shaw is wearing his lens again, studying the display. All vehicles capable of autonomous navigation have identifying transponders. He says, “The ID links up with a local PMC. Hired guns. Gotta be.”

True is impressed. “You’ve got a link into the city’s database?”

“Support your local cops,” he says softly. “Background report says they’re a new operation. That makes them a pair of amateurs, desperate for business. They were told to follow you, but they probably don’t know who you are. For sure, they got no clue who they’re gonna find.”

The lethal certainty in that statement sends a shiver through her. She finds herself trying to talk him down. “Come on. They might not find us at all. The way they’re driving, it’s like they think they’ve got the right neighborhood, but they don’t know the exact address.”

“You’re a nice lady, True.”

The truck stops in the middle of a street. A window goes down, two devices take flight. Tags pop up on the video, labeling the objects as Sibolt surveillance drones.

Shaw snorts in contempt. “That didn’t work so well the first time, gentlemen. And around here you don’t get a second chance.”

Fear rises in True’s throat, but not fear for herself. She needs to defuse this situation before someone gets hurt. Right action demands it. “Hey, it’s just surveillance. No need to start a war.” Gentle words, feigned confidence, as she moves toward the door. “It’s not like they tried to hurt me before. I’m going to talk to them, ask who hired them. If we keep it civil, maybe we can help each other out.”

Better to take the risk herself than to let Shaw take action.

His eyebrows rise above the frame of his visor, and then his scarred mouth wrenches up on one side. “Hold on. If you want to play it that way, you’re welcome to it. But don’t go unarmed.” He palms the lock on the safe. “Take a pistol, at least. Insurance.”

Inside the safe is a small collection of firearms. He takes out a pistol, hands it to her. “Nine millimeter, homemade, unmarked.”

Printed downstairs, no doubt. It’s lightweight with a short barrel, easy to stash in a pocket. She checks the load. She would probably be safer if she went unarmed, but she slides the pistol into her jacket pocket anyway.

“Let’s do a voice link,” he says. He kills her video feed, leaving her with a clear field of view. Then he puts through a new link. She accepts it. “Comm check.”

“Comm check affirmed,” she says. She grabs her pack. Shaw is resting hip-cocked on the desk, entranced by his display. “Hey,” she says.

“Yeah?” He doesn’t look up.

“Don’t disappear, okay? I need to hear the rest of that story.”

That quirk of his lips as he meets her gaze. “Ma’am, I am not the one you need to worry about. Let’s make sure you get back, okay?”

“You gonna stick with me, then?”

“Hell, yeah. You’re under my wing now, True, and I am your fucking guidance counselor.”

Just like that. Adopted.

Her eyes close in relief. She breathes out through pursed lips, bleeding off tension. “Okay, then.”

For now, at least, they are on the same side.

“When you get downstairs,” he adds, “wait by the door. I’ll let you know when you can egress without the Sibolts watching.”

It’s a brief wait but time enough for True to reflect on what she’s seen of Shaw. She realizes now she had thought to find a broken, unstable man, but what she found is more frightening. If asked to describe him, she would use words like calm, logical, rational. A man in complete control of himself. He is also the mercenary Miles encountered in the desert, who supervised the execution of innocent men—she doesn’t doubt it—because alongside Shaw Walker’s calm demeanor is a sense of lethal purpose. It’s there, evident in his nature, clear as a cobra’s hiss.

Her thoughts turn again to his setup, to Variant Forces. This warehouse is part of his operation. No doubt he has other such places. His Arkinsons are housed somewhere. He has to have staff to help administer things. He has to have soldiers under contract.

Where are they? Do they know where he is?

He doesn’t want them to know his business.

Trust no one. That, he said, was the secret to setting up a pirate PMC.

Shaw speaks through comms. “You’re clear to exit. Turn right and proceed quickly past this building and the next one.”

“Roger that.”

Despite the unknowns, and despite his history, his lethality, they are operating in tandem tonight. The agreement has been made, and she can go forth or she can go home.

She’s not ready to go home, so she steps outside.

Her slim pack hangs low on her back. Her right hand is tucked into her pocket, fingers resting lightly around the pistol’s grip. There are no streetlights and no lights seeping from the nearby buildings, but the moon is bright and through her MARC she can see every detail of the empty street. She can hear a steady low hum of printers. Or maybe she feels it as a faint vibration rising up from the ground. From a few streets away comes the static of tire noise.

She follows Shaw’s instructions, walking quickly, staying close to the building. A narrow alley divides it from the next building in the complex. She trots across the open space and keeps going.

“At the end of the warehouse, turn right,” Shaw says. “Okay, you see the angled driveway to your left? Take it. You’ve got twelve seconds to make it to the other end. Go.”

She sprints the length of the alley, holding tight to the pistol so it doesn’t bounce against her gut. She can see that the alley spills into a wider street ahead. Short of the end, she pulls up. Shaw says, “Good job. They’re a block over, but their Sibolt just found you. So they should roll in shortly. If you’re still into it, go say hello.”

She takes a deep breath, squares her shoulders, and moves ahead until she has a clear view of the cross street. She doesn’t move away from the alley. She wants the option to retreat if it comes to that.

She hears the static crackle of the truck’s racing tires, then it screeches into sight around the corner, headlights off. Her hand is still in her pocket as she tries to strike a nonchalant pose. No worries here. I’m just a harmless little girl. She came out to meet them because she believes their assignment was to watch her, not to kill her. She hopes she’s right, but her chest is tight and she’s sweating under her arms all the same.

The truck is a four-door SUV, desert brown, tinted glass. She can’t see inside. It brakes hard, stopping ten meters away. The front doors open. Two men get out. They step clear. Neither wears an AR visor, relying on moonlight. The driver is an older man, straight-backed, strong-featured, both hair and beard neatly trimmed and shot through with gray. He appears calm and self-assured—in contrast to a partner who is younger, bulkier, more heavily bearded, at least three inches shorter, and who walks with a bully’s strut.

It’s immediately clear she’s misjudged the situation, because both men are carrying assault rifles. They haven’t aimed their weapons at her. Not yet. But her working theory, that they are not here to kill her, seems a bit strained at this point.

They yell at her in Arabic, telling her to put her hands in the air.

Shaw sounds amused when he asks, “You gonna do it?”

Nope.

Her heart races; she keeps her shaking hands hidden in her pockets. Inappropriate time, but nevertheless she thinks of Alex and how pissed off he’s going to be if she gets herself killed even before he has a chance to file for divorce. That would not be fair. Still, she is not going to surrender. Gray and the bully need to know that, first thing.

Her guess is that they both speak some English and if she’s wrong, well, maybe they have access to a translation program. The bully, at least, is wearing an earpiece that looks a lot like a TINSL. So, in a voice carefully modulated to sound strong but nonbelligerent, she asks, “Who hired you? I want a name.”

The bully doesn’t take well to her defiance. A flush darkens his face where it’s visible above his beard and he yells at her again, this time in English, “Hands in the air! Now.”

Her chest tightens, even as she thinks, A man should be able to control his temper.

Gray appears to share this sentiment. He speaks in an undertone, harsh words for his partner. But it’s another sound that draws True’s attention. A distant, waspish buzzing. She wants to make sure her assailants notice it too, so she lets her gaze drift up into the hazy night sky. She doesn’t see anything. She doesn’t expect to. But when she looks again at the two soldiers, the dynamic has changed. Gray has realized they’re in trouble. He gestures at his partner to move back to the truck and the bully complies. Even he has recognized that this encounter is escalating.

They don’t move fast enough.

The waspish buzz ramps up, a dopplered assault of sound as a dark meteorite impacts the hood of the truck, smashing through it into the engine block where it explodes in a confined burst of brilliant light and a harsh concussion that True feels in her chest.

The two soldiers throw themselves clear, diving for the ground. True ducks back into the alley, using the moment to get the pistol out of her pocket. With the weapon secured in a two-handed grip, she peeks out again.

The two men are face down on the street. The engine block of their truck is shattered. “Damn it, Shaw,” she whispers. “I came here to circumvent a war, not start one.”

“So get on it, ma’am. Best you exert some authority while they’re still down on the ground.”

Yeah. Good advice. Already the two are looking up, looking around, reassessing the situation. She decides to clarify things.

She steps out of the alley. Determined to remain polite, she keeps the pistol pointed at the asphalt—although it’s a section of asphalt right in front of the bully’s nose. In a soft voice made gruff by the dryness of her throat, she warns them, “Stay on the ground or the next kamikaze targets you.”

Anyway, she hopes Shaw has another projectile or two in reserve.

When she hears his low amused grunt, she decides this was a good bet.

Both men still have a hand on their assault rifles, but they don’t try to pick them up and they don’t try to get up. True suspects the faint sound of a buzzing wasp is encouraging their cooperation. She says, “I don’t want to see you hurt. And I’m sure you don’t want to hurt me, right?”

“We don’t want to hurt you, ma’am,” Gray says in accented English.

The bully says nothing. The look on his face doesn’t support his partner’s words, but True decides not to comment on that. Instead she tells them, “I’m the nervous type. I get jumpy. So take your hands off your weapons, okay? I’ve got just a couple of questions and then we can go our separate ways.”

“We are not here to hurt you, ma’am,” Gray repeats as he slides his hand off his assault rifle. He orders his partner to do the same, but the bully only glares at True, a look that promises a very unpleasant future should she lose control of this encounter. The wasp buzz grows louder. She watches his face as he processes that fact. After a few seconds, he takes his hand off the weapon.

“Make sure they don’t touch those guns again,” Shaw warns her.

“That’s the plan,” she whispers.

“Sure. I just want you to understand. It would be bad.”

The way he says it, it’s as if there is an inevitability to the situation, but she doesn’t question him. There isn’t time. A new note is playing against the quiet of the night: a faint, faraway siren. Maybe it has nothing to do with the explosion that destroyed the engine block but she doesn’t want to wait around to find out, doesn’t want to stay any longer than it takes to ask the questions she came to ask.

“What I want to know,” she tells them, “is who hired you to follow me. And what were you supposed to do when you caught up?”

To her surprise, the bully volunteers an answer. “We work for your business partner,” he says in lilting, contemptuous English. “The one you are here to betray.”

Lincoln? She doesn’t believe it. Lincoln would not hire uncredentialed thugs. “Damn it, I want a name. What is the name?”

“Chinese name,” Gray says nervously. “Li.”

“Li what?”

The bully says, “Li Guiying.”

True is so surprised, her mind blanks of everything but that name. Li Guiying. The roboticist. Tamara’s colleague. What does Li Guiying have to do with anything?

“That name mean something to you?” Shaw asks.

She doesn’t answer. She questions the thugs instead. “What did Li Guiying want you to do?”

“Follow you,” Gray says. “Find out who you are working with. Tag him. That’s all. Not hurt anybody.”

“Then why the guns?”

Even as she asks the question, she notices the bully’s hand moving again to his weapon. “Don’t touch it,” she tells him, but her warning is smothered by the sharp buzz of a descending wasp.

This time she gets a clear glimpse of the device as it drops. Its fuselage is a flattened, aerodynamic diamond shape, around six inches long and less than three across at its widest point, covered in a dark photovoltaic skin. Its wings are surfaced in PV too. They’re long and narrow, mounted on ball joints. Each supports a single rotor. A tiny third rotor sparkles in a vertical mount on the shark-fin tail. Four jointed legs flex to cushion the mech’s abrupt landing as it smacks down against the back of the bully’s neck. At the same time, the wings sweep back and up. There, revealed on the dorsal surface of the nearest wing, visible for a fraction of a second, a familiar emblem. It’s too small, too far away to see in detail, but True knows it anyway. There is one just like it at home, displayed alongside Diego’s formal army portrait. Dark star fields flanking a bright sun, angled lightning bolts splitting the sections.

The bully rolls to grab his gun. The mech’s legs must have hooked into his collar or his flesh because it doesn’t dislodge. It holds on. As his fingers touch steel, it explodes.

True squeezes her eyes shut against the blast, spinning into the alley, hunkering down against the wall. “Tell me you didn’t just do that,” she says in a furious whisper.

“I didn’t,” Shaw assures her. “The swarm is autonomous. It’s been assigned to protect you and that’s what it’s doing.”

Every word calm. Utterly rational. A man in control.

It’s True whose breathing has gone ragged, whose hands shake.

She looks up from where she’s crouched to see the bully’s headless corpse feeding an oozing pool of blood. Gray is a couple of meters away, still on the ground, his blood-spattered face staring in shock at the corpse.

She flinches as a third explosion—more distant—booms out of the night sky, echoing off the buildings. “The swarm just took out a surveillance drone,” Shaw tells her. “Probably police.”

She retreats down the alley at a run.