Chapter 7: Escalation

Mr. Crofton gently dabbed his mouth with a maroon cloth napkin to remove the spots of Béarnaise sauce and cleared his throat. The executive dining room was silent. Crofton sat at the head of a long table with ten chairs on either side. In front of him was a half-eaten sirloin with roasted mushrooms and steamed vegetables. There were no other place settings. At the foot of the table, Crofton's guest was seated in a large wheelchair, wrapped in a black wool blanket, and wearing a flat cap and a pair of sunglasses.

Also present was Jackson, Crofton's head of security. He stood by and watched the guest like a hawk, having escorted him to the dining room.

Crofton said, "You can leave us, Jackson."

Jackson released a quiet sigh, and nodded. "Sir." With that, he turned and marched out of the room.

"I do not appreciate the theatrics, Crofton." The voice carried the faintest hint of an accent, but one that was difficult to distinguish. The guest enunciated clearly, landing menacingly on each and every syllable.

"I'm very sorry, but Jackson insisted."

The guest snapped, "There is nothing in our arrangement that requires an in-person meeting. Explain yourself."

There was a pause. Crofton said, "I want you to know I'm disappointed with your performance."

"And what exactly is it that makes you think I care whether or not you're disappointed?"

The abruptness of the reply caught Crofton off guard. He fidgeted. "That debacle at the grand festival in Slateport has the government looking into your activities, which means, I'm sure you know, it's possible they will discover our arrangement. That, quite frankly, is unacceptable. What in the world were you thinking?"

"That action was taken with your knowledge," the guest reminded him.

"Yes, well . . . " Crofton was stumbling over his words. "I was led to believe that your hooligans were certain to succeed, as you know. They didn't. As a matter of fact, they quite spectacularly botched the whole thing!"

"I explained the risks to you."

"Irrelevant!"

And then the transformation happened. The figure in the wheelchair unfurled itself, casting aside the wool blanket, and stood upright. Standing, he was nearly six-and-a-half feet, a muscled man with a hulking physique including massive and exposed forearms. His right arm bore a tattoo depicting a grotesquely deformed bird of prey screeching in mid-flight. His face was a sloping brow, a flat nose, and a chiseled jawline. He wore his thick, black hair high and tight, and he had a fierce and bristly 'stache and a little bit of stubble around it. But by far, his most distinguishing characteristic was his left eye — it was milky and useless after a long-settled disagreement had ended with a savage fight and the tip of a knife. The wound was old and grisly, and he normally wore an eyepatch to hide it. Not today.

He was known only as "Hamza," the leader of a disparate band of marauding poachers who'd made the Hoenn Region their home for the time being.

His clothes were the rags of a battlefield irregular. On his feet he wore a pair of steel-toed combat boots with a mirror shine. Tucked inside the boots were the hems of his pants, which once belonged to a complete battle dress uniform and had since been scavenged off the body of a dead fighter in a forgotten skirmish around the world. His barrel chest was covered by a black, sleeveless shirt. But the knife was what caught his host's eye, a fixed-blade fighting knife with a cross guard and a false edge, and it fit snugly in a leather sheath that dangled on his belt.

His boots transferred his weight evenly with every step he took toward where Crofton sat at the head of the table. The leather squeaked uncomfortably.

"Only yesterday, Crofton," he said when he stood only two feet away from his host's seat, "twelve of my men were killed by special operators in the Forbidden Forest. They were there to capture a Venusaur that has lived for over fifty years in that same forest. A pokémon of such strength and vitality would have been a perfect candidate, and well worth the price you paid."

Crofton blustered. "Another fanciful scheme and another failure!"

Hamza stooped and slowly took off the sunglasses, and with his one good eye stared Crofton down, while their faces were only inches apart.

"I will not deign to have you lecture me on the dangers associated with my business. You knew when you accepted our arrangement that there was a certain likelihood of setbacks that we would be unable to control. I might ask you where was your tip about the quality of the military forces under the government's control? As far as the public is aware, the government has no units in its roster of the tier we saw in Slateport and in the Forbidden Forest. If we had known what we were up against, we might have prevailed."

"Well — "

"Ah, but I suppose that if the Devon Corporation still possessed any worthwhile government connections, then your company wouldn't be in the desperate position it currently is, would it? And you certainly wouldn't be consorting with the likes of me. Is that right?"

"I . . . I don't like your attitude, sir."

Hamza scoffed. "Enough, Crofton. Say what it is you wish to say, and stop wasting my time."

He rose and crossed his arms, and his blistering stare induced sputtering in Crofton, who coughed and swallowed the lump in his throat, mustering the courage to speak again.

"We need to come up with something," Crofton muttered. "A way to acquire fully evolved specimens for the Omega Project, one that won't attract attention from the authorities."

"We cannot simply rob pokémon trainers on the road. It's too inefficient, and the specimens we gathered were not all as strong as their evolutions suggested."

"Then figure it out!"

Hamza frowned. "You need to accept the level of risk that is inherent in our arrangement. What we are doing is criminal, and your refusal to come to terms with the truth of the matter will not change that."

"Fine! I accept it. Just make it happen."

Turning, Hamza marched across the room and stopped next to the wheelchair. "I have an idea."

"Okay."

"You will not like it, but you will approve it."

He explained it.

Crofton cringed. "That's insane. You can't be serious."

"Do you think I'm kidding?"

"What about the government? If they find out . . . "

"If they find out, then nothing will save you, but you know that already."

No wonder the Devon Corporation was floundering, Hamza thought. The sudden and untimely death of Joseph Stone had been a disaster. Without his ingenuity, the company wasn't inventing, and profits were falling. Nobody was interested in Devon's stock options. They were facing bankruptcy, and seeing Crofton, Hamza was not at all surprised. Mr. Stone's successor was an embarrassment. Maybe if Stone's son had taken over, if he'd inherited his father's creativity and engineer's mind, then they might have avoided this current predicament. But it hadn't worked out that way, and Crofton was hastily searching for a fix, something that the company could bring to market, a new development that could secure their position within the industry.

This "Omega Project" was Crofton's only hope. The details and intricacies of whatever his scientists had cooked up was of no interest to Hamza. It required fully evolved Pokémon with strong constitutions, and it was Hamza's job to provide the specimens. Crofton was paying him well. He would see to it.

But the fact remained — his disdain for Crofton was severe.

Hamza considered the circumstances as he eased into the wheelchair and once again adopted his disguise to be escorted out of the Devon Corporation's corporate headquarters in LaRousse. He put on the cap and the sunglasses and the blanket, and he thought about his own investment in the project. How many of his fighters had had their blood spilled? Six in Slateport, twelve in the Forbidden Forest. The economy of violence required a thoughtful and precise investment. He was determined to see it through, as long as Crofton would continue paying him and his men.

They sat in a verdant meadow, in the shade of a massive maple tree. The spot was complete with a sparkling stream of clear, shimmering water. A gentle breeze brought the fresh scent of springtime pastures.

They were as close to each other as they dared to get. Drew was leaning back against the trunk. May sat on his right and hugged her knees. He watched the way the wind played with her hair, while her bandana sat on the nearby ground. It occurred to him that she was naturally the prettiest girl he'd ever seen. He'd seen a lot of beautiful women in his travels, but there was something artificial about most of them. They had to work to be so attractive, but May . . . it had to come easily for her. She hardly seemed to pay her appearance any mind. It captivated him.

He wondered what she thought about his looks. His face reddened, and he was glad she was too preoccupied to notice.

They were in the middle of discussing their travel plans. Where would they go, and what would they do? They'd competed in Hoenn, Kanto, and Johto. There was the Sinnoh Region, and the Wallace Cup was an option, but Drew wasn't one for dressing up, and May had already done the Wallace Cup. Maybe they would both take a break from coordinating and focus on simply traveling, see the world. Neither of them had ever been to the Sevii Islands or the Orange Archipelago. There were a lot of places and destinations out there, wonderful sights and experiences to be had. What was stopping them? After all, they didn't have to compete in pokémon contests. What was wrong with taking a trip and journeying for the sake of it? Not everything in life had to have a competitive edge.

"Are you sure about this?" she asked him. "I'll understand if you're having second thoughts or if you don't want to go."

His glance was curious. "What do you mean? Of course I want to go. You don't think I want to travel with you?"

"Well, the first time I asked if would have dinner with me, you turned me down, and you left so quickly afterward that I barely had a chance to say goodbye. I was confused. To be honest, I was wondering last night if you only said yes the second time out of pity."

Drew closed his eyes and sighed. "That's not at all true."

She was skeptical, but left it at that and said, "Okay. I believe you." She asked herself, Then why were you so cold? Why did you reject me? You said yourself that you had feelings for me when we were kids, so why are you so distant now?

He turned to her as though listening to her thoughts and said, "May, for the first time since I found out about my parents, I'm actually happy. Spending time with you has been wonderful. Really."

"Are you going to leave all of a sudden, though?"

He took a deep breath. "If I leave, I want you to come with me."

There was an uncertainty that lingered between them, separating them, and both resented it. Its nature was a mystery. It was like standing on opposite sides of a chasm and shouting back and forth at one another. They each wanted the same thing, but bridging the gap seemed a daunting task when neither of them understood the emotions involved. It had taken five long years for such a rift to grow. Was there any guarantee that they could reach across at all?

She looked down and whispered, "I miss you, Drew."

"I'm here."

"No. You're different now, and I know why that is, but I still miss you. You used to tease me all the time, and we'd bicker a lot, but it was fun in a strange way. That's what I'm talking about."

"I'm still the same person, May."

"I know, but . . . well, it's as if that part of you is locked away."

He felt it. She was right. "Yeah."

"I want to know how to let it out. I want you to make fun of me, argue with me, make me laugh, and make me cry. You used to say things that would make me want to knock you out and things that would make me blush, and sometimes at the same time. Our relationship back then was so new and exciting, and it inspired me. I wanted to be the best coordinator possible because I thought that anything less would be a disappointment to you. You drove me crazy, and I loved it. I loved you."

"May, I . . . "

"Now I mostly feel bad for you, and that's not fair. It's not fair to either of us."

Her honesty astounded him, and he took a moment to consider everything she said. Listen to her. She's right. You're letting this thing with your parents turn you into something you're not. Who cares if they can't get it together? Are you gonna let that ruin you? Oh, May. Only someone as dense as you could be so effortlessly wise.

Drew reached out and laid his hand on her bare shoulder. Quietly, with a break in his voice, he said, "I'm scared."

His touch stirred something deep inside of her, and his words broke her heart in a way she never expected.

"Why?" She looked into his eyes. There was so much sadness there.

He said, "On one hand, I can't help feeling like I blew it with you. Five years is a long time, and we were only kids then. Who's to say that anything either of us felt would last this long? It's more than I can ask of you to expect that. Besides, you know as well as I do that I was a jerk to you back then, and maybe I never meant to hurt you, but I'm sure somewhere along the way I did. Thinking about it now makes me sick. And now, with my parents' divorce, I wonder if any relationship can ever last. I never would have guessed in a million years that they would split up, but that's exactly what's happening. I want to tell you how I feel, but I'm afraid of where it might lead because I don't ever want to put you through that."

Every word was genuine. Drew's heart did jumping jacks and backflips. His throat was dry. He expected hand tremors any second now. Never before had he been so afraid and vulnerable as he was now, bearing his soul for her, but she deserved it. She deserved to know how he felt, and how much he'd missed her.

"You can't think that way," she told him. Her voice was soft.

"Maybe you're right."

"I am right. If you go through life running away from everything that scares you, you'll never be happy." She smiled. "Sometimes being afraid is a good thing. It just means you're vulnerable."

Like I am now, they both thought.

Drew suddenly realized that his hand was still on her shoulder. She was warm and soft, and he wanted to hug her again. He wanted her embrace, longed for it, the closeness and the intimacy his parents had apparently lacked. How could it be possible? He didn't deserve it. Not one bit.

But she didn't care whether or not he deserved it because then she leaned over and grabbed him in a big hug, bigger than the one they'd shared on the monorail platform in LaRousse. And it was different this time. This wasn't a hug in greeting. It was the kind of hug shared between people who know each other in a way that few ever will. She wrapped her arms around him and pulled him close, and his arms closed around her waist, and he was close enough to nuzzle her now, close enough to breathe her scent. It wasn't perfume. It was just her, and now he was feeling lightheaded because this was more than he'd bargained for, and what should he do? This sensation was doing things to him he'd never expected. His guts were spilled and all he could do was stand there and stare like a fool, wondering what he should do or say next, but thank goodness for May, who was holding him with a tenderness that almost brought him to tears because he couldn't even remember feeling such warmth before. He latched onto her, squeezed her petite frame gently, and he swore that if he started crying he would never forgive himself.

"Come back, silly," she whispered.

The windows burst with a simultaneous crash, and Perry and Sam rose to their cover positions, sub-guns at the ready, while Mitch took point and gave the door a good yank to wrench it open. The inside was tight, restrictive, and utterly dangerous. The assaulters were limited in terms of their weapons and equipment — they had to be as light as possible. Speed and violence of action were especially vital. No shoulder weapons, no spare bits and pieces that might snag or bump. Just move, move, move, so Mitch drew his pistol and dove in. "Get down! Get down!" A target appeared on his right, and he blasted it with a double tap. Bang! Bang! He screamed, "Stay down!" Another target. Bang! Bang! Let the bodies hit the floor. Anyone else? He glides down the aisle, waving his gun left and right, looking for more targets, and he's in the zone right now, so keep it up! Then the unthinkable happens. An arm reaches out, and the hand attached to it seizes Mitch's collar and forces him down, shoving him into a seat on the bus, and Mitch is staring down the barrel of a gun.

Harvey stood over him, and the low rumble of his voice came smoothly as you like. "You're a dead man walking, son."

The exercise was over.

Mitch pulled off his hood and his respirator mask and cursed loudly.

Harvey lowered his gun and said, "Do it again."

And they did. Start over, and take it from the top. Perry and Sam mimed hitting the driver's side windows with their heavy picks and assumed their positions. Mitch went to the door with Dodger and Fox on his heels, drew down, and moved in. Front to back, clear it. Mitch shot two targets. Sam got a third.

Afterward, Mitch was sitting down, and Harvey was behind him and leaning forward. "Am I supposed to be impressed?" he growled.

Mitch grumbled and shot him a look.

Harvey scoffed. "Six seconds or less. If you can do that, you just might save someone with this routine."

Again.

They trained for hours and hours, until it was time for chow. By the end, they finally pulled it off.

Linear assaults were one of the most difficult types of tactical challenges. Every movement was precisely choreographed. The environment was downright claustrophobic. They were swift and smooth. Keep it simple, stupid. Front to back. This is decisive engagement. Mitch "killed" two targets again. Sam caught Harvey playing the part of a hostile and covered him. There would be no ambushes this time. Mitch stayed up front, thought, Keep it up. Keep moving. Come on! Halfway there. Three, two, one . . .

"Clear!"

Harvey showed him the timer. 5.48 seconds. Mission accomplished.

Mitch grinned and laughed breathlessly, and Sam and Fox saw him and started laughing. Perry and Dodger were at the windows. They joined in. High fives were passed around. Even Harvey was smiling.

"WHOOOOO!" Mitch jumped out of the bus and, with his pistol holstered, was whooping with unadulterated joy.

Sam was right behind him, grabbing him for a proud hug between bros. He barked, "Damn, we're awesome!"

The exercise had been Harvey's idea. The Slateport bus plan had been canned before the final assault, which had gone well enough, but Harvey worried about what the outcome might have been if the hostage takers were given their bus and the linear assault had taken place. Alpha Squad had been through plenty of shoot houses, but only had minimal training for assaulting linear targets like buses, planes, and trains. They were difficult at best and bloody impossible at worst. Could they have done it?

He'd wanted to find out.

One morning, Mitch and his squadmates showed up at the hanger at the Crossgate facility for a special live fire exercise, and what they found surprised them.

"You've got to be kidding," Mitch mumbled.

The bus was an enormous affair, shaped like a Whiscash and sporting the same goofy smile as the whiskers pokémon. It was an absolutely ridiculous-looking thing. The windows on either side were round like portholes. Apparently this was the type of bus most common during the week of the festival in Slateport.

Despite its appearance, the bus quickly became an object of intense hatred for the squad. All of them were almost immediately frustrated by the infernal interior.

A day's worth of hard training was enough to overcome the challenge. A six-second assault on a linear target was no small feat, and Harvey was impressed. He'd fought on numerous battlefields, with fierce warriors, and never would he have imagined that five teenagers would be able to master something that ten or more grown men often struggled with. Genetic modification or no, it was a great accomplishment. Watching them rise to the challenge and tackle it with professionalism and aggressive zeal was a privilege for Harvey. Their camaraderie was admirable. Their ability to function as a flawlessly cohesive unit was astounding. He was looking forward to seeing them in action again.

He would not need to wait long.