Page 3 of Fire for Effect

Chapter 1

A Smiley Face

Griff

One year ago

Kemet Ungoverned Spaces

“Are you some kind of contractor? Are you even American?” The Navy SEAL glanced at us with leery eyes.

I said nothing. Neither did Agent Sierra, my work partner, or Agent Oscar, our supervisor. All three of us carried our weapons at the low ready, faces covered. Mirrored glasses concealed our eyes.

“I’m Royce Matthews,” The SEAL said, extending a gloved hand to me and my team.

We stood silent and did not reciprocate, letting his hand hover between us, unacknowledged before Matthews awkwardly dropped his it to his side.

We were not to speak, interact, or do anything else at this point, but to stand and observe this prisoner exchange, recording details for future use.

“Are all you Cerberus guys mute or something?” Matthews was a wordy bastard.

He had a creatine puff to his face and was built like an ox.

There was also some guy in an Army Military Police, MP, uniform which was out of fucking place. What the hell was he for? Back up? Were the SEALs taking him out on a field trip or something?

“Are one of you guys the Ghost?” Matthews kept pushing his luck. “What about you, baby? You the Ghost?”

He was talking to Agent Sierra, and I could feel her internally battling with the desire to punch him in the throat.

People the black ops community were obsessed with the Ghost. The undercover guy who apparently was saving the world, one clandestine op at a time. Alone, behind enemy lines. The guy was a legend that no one knew. We knew, for a fact, he was not a Cerberus agent. My money was on CIA.

“Come on, baby, tell me… what’s your type?” Matthews wasn’t going to give up. He flexed his biceps, a little. I barely refrained from laughing.

I could feel Sierra roll her eyes. It was practically audible.

“What do you guys think about this whole thing?” Matthews glanced between us, hoping one of us would crack.

We were like those guards with the big hats at Buckingham Palace. Everyone knows that Cerberus agents don’t talk. We show up, wearing our little ninja suits, with our three headed dog patch. We come, do the work, then leave. We don’t exchange names, shake hands, or make conversation.

“This is total bullshit,” The MP, Sergeant Carlin, chimed in.

Emboldened by the agreement, Matthews turned back to us, and asked again, “You gotta think that this is bullshit too, right?”

Trading a Kemet National Front (KNF) Operative for a Marine who went AWOL from his duties working with the United Nations because he decided to go walkabout in the desert like Lawrence of Arabia was not, in fact, a person I felt worthy of a hostage exchange. The KNF terrorist cut off the heads of western soldiers, doctors and teachers. The guy was scum and didn’t deserve to see the light of day.

But that wasn’t the point. President Lau was sending a message that American citizenship meant something. That no American life would be taken for granted – no matter how unworthy.

At the height of the Roman Empire, a citizen could walk anywhere and know he was safe, because to attack a Roman was to declare war on the Empire. At least that’s what the myths said. I wasn’t sure if that was true though.

Maybe I’d ask the human Encyclopedia, Taz Guerro. I left the team one year after we had our little… night… to take this gig with Cerberus. We’d managed to remake our friendship. Everything was fine, as long as we never acknowledged that night.

I pretended I had blacked out and didn’t remember a thing.

Having her as a friend – even a shit talking one – was better than not having her at all.

We were friends.

Very good friends.

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