Page 30 of Trained

The mercenaries spill out of their vehicles, rifles drawn. Moving in a line, they quietly approach the van like an army platoon.

By the time I see the van’s side panel sliding down, it’s too late. Two chain guns open fire the instant their line of sight is clear.

I duck, sinking to the floor of the car. Bullets smack against the armor panels and shatterproof glass, and for a second I’m back in Saudi Arabia. Except, this time we’re not under fire from distant snipers. A tempest of hot lead shreds the mercenaries to pieces. On my tablet I see a ghastly dance, bodies jerking as gusts of red explode outward. Some of the men shoot back, but it’s like spitting at a tsunami. The chain guns roar, pouring rounds into men and vehicles, stopping only when their ammunition belts run out.

My ears ring in the short-lived silence. After a few seconds, the handful of mercenaries who took cover in time peak out and open fire on the van.

“Stop!” I shout through the tablet. “Stop! You’ll kill the girl. Get in there and bring her back!”

“Are you okay, sir?” says Nick.

He lived.

Good. I’d hate to have to train another assistant so soon.

“I’m fine,” I lie.

I have never been so fucked up.

Only three of the mercenaries are still standing. Twenty-seven dead. It’s a fucking massacre. There’s no hiding this. Fucking shit.

“We’re clear,” a survivor reports. “She’s here, unharmed. And you’re going to want to see this, sir.”

What now?

I get out and march through the carnage. I’m not squeamish, but it’s gruesome. To not step in the worst of it, I have to watch my footing — I have to see all of it. Everything smells of gunpowder and iron. I scream when one mercenary grabs my ankle despite two gaping holes in his chest. He looks up at me, a desperate plea in his eyes. If he lives another minute, it’ll be a miracle. I kick his hand away and keep going.

“There’s a live one over there,” I mutter to the men standing outside the van. “Put him out of his misery.”

“Yes, sir.”

When I get inside, I find the chain guns are sealed behind a clear enclosure several inches thick. Robotic mechanisms are built into the triggers. The guns were fired remotely.

This was a trap, and I walked right the fuck into it. Kate was the bait.

She mumbles through the tape on her mouth. They left her hogtied on the floor. Why not kill her? Did they not want to? Do they have some other use for her?

I rip the tape off her mouth.

“You’re going to tell me every single thing they said and did. Is that fucking clear?”

“Yes!”

Fuck!

I take in the rest of the van, noting the monitors, which show aerial views of our surroundings. Whoever they are, they have some serious resources. I’m still studying the readouts, looking for some clue about their identity, when the screens shut off at the same time.

There’s a camera above them — they know I’m here, in the van. It occurs to me that I could have just made a terrible mistake — a bomb hidden in this van would kill me. But, they could have taken me out back in Saudi Arabia and did not. Is that not their goal?

Is this a fucking game to them? If they really are anarchists… I would have to grudgingly respect them. If Jamison Hardt built mankind’s most powerful secret empire, and my takeover was history’s greatest heist, then my foe would be the king of all matadors — taunting a god and risking his horns.

A message appears on the screen, big white letters on a black background.

Hi Anton.

Is this a recording? Are they listening to me now?

“What should I call you?”

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