Author's Note:This chapter and the three following all tell a similar story in different ways. Some may find this redundant.
All the King's Horses
His mother had always been somewhat aloof. He could never remember her being any other way. That was just the way things were. Maybe that's just the way things had been for her when she had been younger. His stepfather, 'new dad,' tried to be warm when he was around, but such an occasion was rare. His stepsister, on the other hand, was like a beacon of light in a bland existence. She was six years his junior, and cute as a button. She smiled often and at length, only occasionally trying on a different expression, most often for effect. She pouted cutely when she did not get her way, scrunched up her face and stuck out her tongue when big brother was being self-important, but mostly giggled with the infectious, girly joy of a child of six years.
He had enjoyed being a big brother all those years ago. He didn't mind at all that there had been no blood relation between them, or that they looked absolutely nothing alike. She had a nordic face and build, with curly blond hair, rosy cheeks and sky blue eyes, like her mother. He had the dusky complexion of a boy from Milan, with the dark hair and eyes he shared with his parents.
Those few years had been the best of his childhood. When he had been sent away to boarding school — a few years later than was appropriate — he found that it was most often his sister to whom he wrote letters and made phone calls. He still was courteous to both parents, who were consistent in their praise of him and his performance at school. They told him how proud they were to have such a fine and upstanding young man for a son. But when he talked with his sister he could be a kid again.
When he had finished his schooling and entered military service letters and phone calls never stopped. In the first few days of basic training, another recruit had remarked that he, too, wished he had a kid sister to whom he was not really related, implying a relationship that would be incestuous with a 'real' sister. A few days later, the new recruit showed obvious pain when performing hard, physical exertion, but insisted that there was nothing wrong with him. He also learned to be more judicious when it came to incest jokes. Barracks justice was harsh, but fair.
All that had come to an end one day in the fall when the cute blonde girl, who had since become a teen, was gunned down with her parents outside a popular restaurant in Rome. The real target had been a senator from the northern part of Italy whose lack of condemnation for the PRF was as notorious as his tough stance on organized crime. Reportedly, a mob boss who had recently been cleared of all charges had vowed and then exacted revenge. Mama, Papa and the pretty blonde girl were just innocents caught in the crossfire. 'Collateral damage' was the term. The irony was that her big brother was just a half mile away. The horror was in how it had played out. They had been talking on the phone, brother and sister, without a care in the world. The big lieutenant was on leave talking into his cell phone with his baby sister when he heard the gunshots and screams. The scene played out in his head as he desperately hoped for a response. The connection was still active; the phone was still working, but the only sounds its owner made were moans of pain. Not knowing what else to do, he ran, calling for an ambulance along the way.
Four minutes of flat-out running can cover a lot of ground, and a running man can squeeze through places too tight for vehicles. When big brother arrived he surveyed the situation. The senator had been killed by a single shot to the head from a large-caliber rifle. Both parents had died shortly thereafter, one shot through the neck, the other from a burst to the neck. His sister was still alive, her viscera shredded by small-caliber weapons fire. The worst part was looking into her eyes. They pleaded with him for an end to the pain, but none was forthcoming. A coroner's van had arrived on the scene, but the ambulance had been delayed somehow. Useless, all he could do was hold her and scream for a doctor or medic or anyone. Big brother couldn't save you, sweetie.
She lingered for almost nineteen minutes.
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"King. I'm going shopping," he said into the headset.
"Copy that," came a woman's voice.
"Acknowledged," came a man's. "And could you pick up some creamer while you're there?"
King sighed to himself. What an ass. The phrase 'going shopping,' was his code phrase for 'in position.' Each team member had their own set of key words and phrases to avoid redundancy and further confound any opponent who was able to tap their communications. King was the only one who ever 'went shopping,' but Joker liked to tease him, nonetheless. He wished that guy had been saddled with something even more inane. Either that or a good, old-fashioned boot-to-the-head. Most people could use one. Joker could use several.
The fourth member of the team failed to acknowledge. She couldn't. She hadn't heard his report and she didn't have any way to communicate with her team, other than by playing charades in front of a camera. Trouble is, she didn't even know where the camera was in her room. She just stood there, waiting to play her role. He had to admit, she did look the part.
He was sitting in a small dark room near the top of an expensive hotel in Rome. Hunched over his laptops he could monitor just about any form of communication in the building that was not face-to-face. He could also generate white noise, selectively alter camera feeds and generate or suppress alarms. He could have the fire department, police and paramedics here in minutes or lock the entire place tighter than a Southern Baptist's... well, maybe that wasn't such a good analogy. He'd known more than a few Baptists. The point was that he owned this place now. The subtle flow of battlefield (and civilian) information was under his control. Information warfare was his duty, his job, his reason for living. Actually, he had another reason for living, but 'avenging the cutest kid sister who ever was' didn't look as good on the resumé.
Startled by a presence next to him he turned, hand on his Colt. Queen had slipped up and crouched next to him, stealthy as a cat. He frowned at her. She smiled sweetly. King was a lanky Italian man, dressed in black combat gear which included his headset, sidearm and a few other odds and ends. Fingerless gloves allowed him to operate the communications gear more effectively. Typing on a laptop keyboard in gloves sucked. Maybe that's why Queen didn't bother with shoes. The thought made him glance down at her bare feet and painted nails. She looked down, then up and smiled again.
She was a lithe creature, all muscle and supple grace. Her long red tresses had been done up in two little buns and pinned to keep stray hair out of the way. He was certain she wasn't a natural redhead, but had never broached the subject. She seemed to be too dark-skinned for a redhead, anyway. But, then again... what about them was really natural anymore, anyway?
"Joker. It's Miller time!" That meant their point man was in position. Joker didn't really do anything that he knew of, besides crack dumb jokes and kill people. He had some medical training, so technically he was the team's medic, but they healed so damn fast that team members really only had two states: alive and not alive. Despite this King had taken to calling him the point man. It had so far proven to be an apt description.
"Copy," King said. A second later, Queen echoed the sentiment.
He turned to motion to her, but she wasn't there. At least she was good at her job. Now it was time for him to do his. Their target had several thugs with him, all of whom kept in radio contact. The key here was that technology had progressed since the days of old dummy radios that just broadcast transmissions in a sphere. Each thug used a cell phone as his primary communication device with what was essentially a hands-free headset. The phones were pretty much stock so they each had their own transponder code and they periodically updated the cellular network as to the status of the phone and reception. That meant that with the several transceivers he'd seeded throughout the building earlier in the day, he could use simple triangulation to pinpoint any one thug's position. Any one thug's phone he corrected himself. If a goon had the presence of mind to pull the battery from his phone or just ditch it somewhere, he would become an unknown quantity again. Most people weren't that smart, even after having seen The Matrix half a dozen times.
Of course, the same trick could be used to pinpoint King himself, but he just had to be better than the competition. That was fine by him. He was. He glanced at the hidden camera monitoring the room where their fourth member stood, in disguise. Their target had entered. The bait was taken. "Awaiting confirmation from all team members," he said into the headset. What sounded like a simple 'wait and see' was actually King's keyphrase for 'start the mission.' He had to admit... whomever had put this team together was one hell of a strategist.
One of King's more devious tricks was selective denial of enemy communications. It was the sort of thing he had thought about often enough when he was an officer in the military, but now he'd get the chance to perfect it. He hit a key on one of the laptops. The thugs had been in intermittent contact off and on for a while, now. Guard duty was boring and they engaged in harmless banter to wile away the time. It served a second purpose, King thought to himself. If one of them failed to respond after a sufficient amount of time the others knew there was a problem. Further, overloading the entire usable RF spectrum with white noise would cause a communications blackout but would also alert the enemy that something was afoot. King's laptop was running a program designed to emit white noise at certain times. It was keyed to the transmit signal sent by one of the enemies. As soon as that guy tried to talk, everyone else heard static, but he could hear them fine. The unsuspecting sort could put it down to malfunctioning equipment. King knew better.
Right now, the guard on the elevator on the target's floor was having some equipment problem. King teased them by holding down the space bar for a bit. That suspended the jamming so partial transmissions came through from the elevator guard. He let go after a partial broadcast got through. If the timing was off he could interfere with Queen and that could be problematic. She was running silent, now, her transponder set to receive, only. He didn't know where she was, but the elevator on that side was moving up from a few floors below.
Precious seconds later came her acknowledgement of goal achieved, "My life for Aiur."
Joker chimed in, "An African or European swallow?" King thought he knew that line from a movie, not that it mattered. That did, however, mean that he was starting his diversionary tactic. In the distance came the sound of automatic weapons fire. He looked at the screen showing the hotel room. Ace was already gone, the corpse of their target sprawled on the bed in a rather ugly death. Good. A foul end to a foul man. Even so, he had to wait until his team was reassembled before pulling out.
Joker's transponder indicated he was climbing the western staircase. Queen's was off and Ace didn't have one. The elevator on the east side of the building, the one guarded by the thug Queen had dispatched, was moving down. That meant Ace was almost home. Queen should already be upstairs somewhere. That left everyone waiting on Joker. He was taking longer than anticipated. King checked the position of the west elevator, checked Joker's position, then squelched an alarm and killed outgoing phone calls from the front desk. He spoke into his headset, "Dairy aisle," then hit the button on his laptop that blacked out communications and waited. The west elevator started its descent to the parking garage. Joker hadn't resumed climbing yet, though. He shut down a laptop, pulled some cables and started cleaning up.
Ace and Queen came through the door. Ace was a little thing, a slender Japanese girl with the trademark dark hair and eyes. She was carrying the blade she'd used to dispatch their target and wearing nothing but a little blood. She blew him a kiss, retrieved her belongings and slipped into something more appropriate.
"Where is he?" Queen asked, referring to their teammate.
King glanced at a screen. "Four floors down. Go play welcoming committee," then to Ace, "Carry this for me."
Tying back her hair, she smiled mischieviously. "I'd love to handle your package."
The laptop indicated Joker was on their floor. Protocols dictated that he was not to break down the last of his equipment until he had visual confirmation, though. He waited, but not for long. The other door opened, and Joker walked in, looking full of himself.
"Yeah, baby! Nothing like a good firefight to get the blood pumping, don't you think?" Joker also had dark hair and eyes, but he was originally from Syria. You wouldn't know it to listen to him. He spoke fluent Italian without a hint of foreign accent. The ear to ear grin he wore was the sort that could be found anywhere in the world, though. He was taller and stockier than King, but was outfitted the same way, except for an empty MP5 slung over his shoulder. The clothes on his chest showed some wear and tear, but there was no blood. And he certainly sounded fine.
"Carry that," King indicated another bundle of equipment.
"What? After running up all those stairs you want me to carry your junk? And you're not even ready to go, yet! It's not like you had anything better to do, sitting up here in the dark playing World of Warcraft or whatever."
Queen snickered. King frowned. The Joker laughed. He picked up the bundle of stuff and headed for the door. King worked quickly, wrapping cords and stowing electronics. When he was done, Queen grabbed the last of his equipment and he picked up his rifle. It was time to go. King mentally patted himself on the back. Mission accomplished. Flawless execution. Even that thought made him feel no better, though.
Next: Silent Death
