"In the initial stages of our operation here, it had been necessary to cement alliances, to… cultivate certain relationships with criminal elements that were less than satisfactory. For reasons of logistics mostly; with official means denied to us, we were forced to determine an alternative method of bringing our equipment planet-side.
One such alliance was Semion Khulov, Pakhan of the Khulov Syndicate. Russian criminal; infamous for his brutal suppression of some of the more vicious Chechen groups in the post-Koslovic underworld. Even with the Covenant's relentless persecution of the Outer Colonies, Boss Khulov remained what he'd always been - a business man, a survivor. Khulov had weathered the storm of decades of criminal infighting, the Covenant Invasion and the ensuing chaos of humanity's resurrection in the ruins of what once was. Still, after all this tumult, he remained at the top. Distasteful as he was, I respected his tenacity. He reminded me of me.
The Syndicate and its small army of bratva had a significant presence within the city of Argjend, with documented involvement in smuggling, arms dealing and narcotics. The Argjend Starport, and the surrounding shipping companies associated with it, were their primary means of bringing illicit cargo into their other territories in the Refugee Zone and the city beyond. Administrator Jennings had taken measures to curtail their operations, even to a point where a special taskforce was set up. But still they persisted; unseen, seeping beneath the surface of a once good city, like a pus-filled wound.
The old man was no fool. Yes, there were risks in accepting Black Shard's proposal. We were marked men: ONI had us in their sights, and were determined to see ARROWHEAD aborted in its infancy. To bury the sin they themselves had created. But this was a man who had built an empire on the bones of his enemies, who had evaded the UEG for decades. There was nothing illegal he hadn't a finger in; all manner of contraband: narcotics, firearms, women. There was nothing Semion Khulov hadn't bought, sold, smuggled or distributed in his sixty year reign of terror.
Lab equipment? Why, that would be easy by comparison."
- excerpt from a private record, author unknown
As the sun rose and filtered its way through the blinds of Rashid's hospital room, the crippled Spartan remained wide awake. Fatigue did not bother him: injured or not, he was still a Spartan, and enjoyed all the benefits of a post-human nervous system. He was now busy trying to find a means of reaching out to Rebecca. Her data-pad had been left behind in her would-be abductor's hideout, which meant directly pinging her com wasn't going to work. Also out were the public access terminals: for one because there were precious few of them in the 'Zone itself, and for two because any that had been installed had been savagely vandalised over the preceding months.
The drogue had tracked their progress out of the storage unit, revealing a civilian model Warthog winding its way through the warren of tight lanes and meandering alleys. It was a close-top version of the classic UNSC workhorse, but the tracking lens of the airship's data systems could read Rebecca's ident-tag through the rough of the vehicle, associating the GPS chip of the 'Hog with that of her person. He would be able to stay with them every step of the way.
Rashid pinged the Warthog itself, hoping for an on-board com-suite or Waypoint address. Nothing. Whoever had bought the 'Hog had evidently spent on only the bare bones of on-board features. Rashid realised this was probably entirely intentional on the owner's part. In a world where nothing was not tracked, chipped or carried a digital signature of some description; the less sophisticated something was, the harder it was to track. Refuge in simplicity, Rashid nodded in approval.
Which meant that Rashid's solution was going to have to be simple in return. Something basic, something visual.
Like any Spartan, he considered the tools left to him. He had an aerial view over the Refugee Zone, and some of the most sophisticated data recording and monitoring software credits could buy. Short of military grade drone units and orbital sensor sweeps, this drogue was state of the art. He also had the physicality of the drone itself; which hung in the air over the 'Zone, its display rigging now showing a looping advertisement for ChowPooch™, a locally produced pet food of dubious nutritional content.
A smile crossed Rashid's face. His fingers tapped in the commands just as soon as the idea entered his head. This would take a degree of luck, and no small amount of skill. A password here, a systems intrusion there, and he would have the solution he sought. All he had to do was crack the UNSC network.
Again.
Refuge in simplicity. Rashid's smile blossomed to an outright grin.
This was going to work.
"This is never going to work."
Rebecca's words hung in the closed cabin of the 'Hog, the only other sound the ticking purr of the idling engine. She was perched on the back seat, peeking out between Watanabe and Fenton, who sat up front. Murphy fidgeted in the back seat beside her, evidently uncomfortable in the EMT uniform he'd pulled on. It was too stiffly starched, he had complained. Watanabe silenced him with a withering scowl.
The only one without a uniform was Fenton; who still wore the ash-cooked clothes he'd on earlier. His leg was in a bad way. The biofoam had set poorly, primarily from the strain of the previous firefight. While it had sealed adequately, its texture was discoloured, and flaked to the touch. As a temporary measure it would do, but Fenton needed proper medical attention, and fast.
There remained the small matter of extricating themselves from a quarantined area.
Ahead lay a checkpoint. It was one of three facilitating vehicular traffic to Argjend City. Only right now it didn't look very forthcoming. The checkpoint was framed around a blocky concrete structure, it top laced with loops of concertina wire. It looked for all the world like an ancient pillbox, ripped from some primitive 20th century war. Around it were an array of metal police barriers and heaped sandbags. Rebecca could see why the New Cadiz refugees felt persecuted. Martial law had not been subtle. Neither were the containment protocols General Stipe had imposed six months ago.
"Is anyone else nervous?" Rebecca asked meekly, "Because I'm nervous."
"We're not exactly driving a regulation ambulance here, Murph." Fenton agreed.
It was Watanabe who responded, cold and focused as ever.
"Civilian volunteers often make do with what they have. With all the fallout from the 'Surge last year, there's all kinds of make-shift operations." Watanabe said, her hands on the wheel; her eyes never leaving the traffic ahead of her. "Seen more than a few back alley docs in my time here. It's a goddamn industry."
"We'll be fine." Murphy simply said, his eyes fixed on the swarm of police around them. She could see the spy was nervous. The muscles in his jaw were bunched, and he kept patting the pocket where his pistol was concealed in the loose folds of his overalls.
They were third in line. APD officers in full riot gear were running a sweeping broom under the cars ahead. They were impassive; armoured turtles in deep navy armour. Their faces were equally impersonal; hidden behind opaque visors that reflected the world back at itself. Many carried submachine guns, even the occasional assault rifle. Forming a corridor approaching the mouth of the checkpoint were two lines of riot police, standing behind matching barriers that separated the disenfranchised from the much put upon police. The officers stood shoulder to shoulder; impervious, unyielding. There was a palpable friction in the air, and as the sun grew hotter, tensions would likely flare in kind. Now and then the lines of police would sway, as though caught in a shunting gust of wind. Bottles tinkled and cans thudded against plastic shields. Another riot was inevitable.
Rebecca twisted about in her seat, taking it all in; petrified. This was the type of situation she read about on the news over a morning coffee. A front row seat was closer than she'd ever like.
To the left, snuggled up against the perimeter wall, was an APD Warthog; open-topped, bedecked with armour plating and mounted with a riot hose. It panned over the teeming crowds pressing in on each side of the checkpoint.
The Warthog ticked forward. Second in line now.
"Not long now and we'll be out of this hole," Murphy said, quietly unshipping his sidearm and checking the slide, slow-dragging it with a muted click. He slipped it back into his overalls. "Still, be ready to improvise."
"Speaking of which," Watanabe replied, "Is there a back story to these uniforms, Sir?"
Murphy handed forward a fake ident-card.
"You're now Fumiko, a volunteer for one of the Western District's clinics."
That got a weary guffaw out of Fenton.
"Congratulations, Fumiko. You're a living saint."
Watanabe simply gave him the finger.
"No sympathy for the injured?"
"Can't be injured if you can't breathe, Mike."
Fenton didn't get a chance to respond.
The officer in charge waved them forward. His visor had been pushed back on to the top of his bowl shaped helmet. A grizzled man, two chins and a generous nose. He had that look about him, the look of a drill sergeant. Definitely ex-Navy, though gone to seed. He sauntered over, his heavy armour lending him a John Wayne swagger.
Heavy gauntleted hands rapped on the glass. Watanabe buzzed the window down, offered an anxious smile.
"Ident-Card and registration." The officer huffed, leaning into the cab.
Watanabe produced a card smoothly. The others in the car mimicked her ridiculous smile: the very picture of model citizens. The officer swiped it against the boxy TACPAD buckled to his forearm.
"Where you headed?" he asked, studying the credentials, lips pursed.
"Western Medical. Clinic Three. Stern here took a round in the leg. Gang stray."
"He alright?" the officer eyed Fenton suspiciously. The fires from the warehouse had matted Fenton's beard to his face. His white eyes bulged out, stark white against his olive skin. He really did look like shit.
"Biofoam needs a re-patch, but he'll live. One of the stacks went up in flames in the fighting. We pulled him out."
The officer nodded, apparently satisfied. He handed the ident-card back.
"You're good citizens. Which makes you about the only good citizens I've seen all morning. Roll out. Gonna be more bodies to pull out of here by sundown."
With that the officer banged his fist on the roof of the car twice, before stepping back and waving them through. Rebecca flushed with relief. They had made it.
As they drove off, passing into the streets of the comparatively civilized Western District beyond, there was a chorus of nervous giggling filling the cabin.
None of them noticed the small tracking device affixed to the top of their car.
The officer reached up to the com unit strapped to his chest armour, toggling it.
"McBride? It's Cox. Two females, two males, one injured. Just like the orbitals said." The swarthy officer murmured, "Marker is placed. Good hunting."
Damien lost sight of Rebecca's tracks in a wide intersection, not a half klick away from the warehouse. The footsteps were jumbled, mingled with the trampling stampede of the crowds that had fled the area hours before. His VISR panned over to thermal. The intersection was awash with recent activity, but it was an indecipherable, churned mess. The sun was rising steadily, amber light creeping over the high-rises and spreading onto the shadowy streets below. Time to move, he grimaced.
Damien retreated to a perch high atop one of the more visibly crumbling stacks, his thruster jets flaring as he scrambled from one handhold to the next. At the top sat a long abandoned pigeon loft; empty but for the wind-rattled cages and occasional rustle of a drifting feather or two. Stray bullet holes had punctured the sheet metal on one side of the make-shift tower.
Morning sunlight speared through them as Damien sat himself down; the running lights on his armour the only other light source in the gloomy shade. He resembled an adult in a treehouse, such was his bulk. He waved a hand over his wrist-guard.
A holographic TACPAD sprang to life, casting a reflection against his opal-mirrored visor.
He was close to the 'Zone's perimeter. Not far from him was an interdiction checkpoint, vetting emergency services coming in and out of the area. The warehouse sat behind him to the southwest, a thick pall of roiling dark smoke rising up from where fires still burned. It would be midday before the emergency services had the situation under control.
The footsteps had been leading closer to the edge of the 'Zone. It stood to reason that Rebecca and her rescuers would try and slip away into the wider city. If they did, Damien was going to have a hell of a time finding them.
Damien switched the TACPAD off and stared out over the city. Beyond the row of stacks lay the perimeter wall separating the 'Zone from Argjend proper. The original city was comparatively monochrome to the red-rusted eccentricity of the 'Zone's favelas; the polished windows and smooth granite every bit as silver and polished as the city's name suggested. The buildings were all manner of sizes; there were smaller stone buildings, luxury abodes for those with a taste for more classical times; there were hyper-scrapers and sky-bridges. Grav-lines snaked between buildings, and early morning traffic beeped and smouldered in the rippling heat thrown up by a countless sea of cars braving the midweek grind.
Overhead, advertising drogues sailed in the air above the city; venerable and serene compared to the bustling orbital traffic filtering in and out of the Starport in the far distance. Above it all, the Carpathia hung, an ominous brush of silver in the bright blue sky.
Damien cocked his head to one side, his helmet clicking with the gesture.
One of the airships was way off course.
"What the hell?" Damien frowned, standing up. He had to half-stoop in the cramped space, such was his height.
The airship itself was nothing strange; it was small, as drogues went, its chrome hull winking a brilliant silver as it caught the early morning sun. Marketing drogues weren't unusual, not in a city of this scale. What was unusual was what the drogue was now displaying.
An angry, mongrel creature filled the wide display screens: its head a roaring lion, expelling flames; its tail a coiling serpent, its back arched, fangs glistening. Damien recognised it immediately. This was not difficult. After all, the very same creature now decorated his own armour.
And beneath its clawed feet, writ large for all to see, a com frequency.
Damien patched in immediately.
"This is Chimera One. Identify yourself." Damien said, voice neutral; one hand pressed to the side of his helmet.
There was a pause as the message was parsed through some kind of screening filter. After a moment, a familiar voice responded, laced with some degree of incredulity.
"Damien?!"
Damien stood up so quickly his helmet cracked against the ceiling. Pigeon dust sifted down all around him.
"Rash?! What the hell is going on? What the hell are you doing with an airship?!"
"Long story, boss. Time's short, so I'll explain on the way." There was a brief pause, "I'm not recognising your suit I.D. Give me access and I'll be able to interface directly."
Damien did so, tapping in the requisite permission code.
A waypoint blinked to life on Damien's HUD. He had been close. Rebecca was two blocks away.
"I'm reading a transponder signal emanating from their transport vehicle. It's new, wasn't there before."
"Which means?"
"Which means somebody is tracking them. And you're going to have to move quickly."
Damien was already moving, pulse jets flaring, his footfalls gouging entire chunks out of the slate tiles; tearing across the rooftops with blinding speed.
As crime dens went, it was remarkably opulent.
The floor was polished stone; a deep amber marble whorled with strands of white. The walls were bedecked with golden mirrors. Around him, large, thick columns rose up toward the ceiling; ornate, gaudy in the extreme. Arch covered balconies on the mezzanine looked down on him with shadowy eyes. The Russian mob was never known for its sense of subtlety. This was Pravda; expansive, luxuriant, gold-chased; one of the most prestigious establishments in all of Argjend's Central District.
It was early morning. But for the guards watching him, Elias Becker was alone.
Becker waited in the lobby of the restaurant, hands clasped behind his back. The well suited gentlemen standing either side of him wore loose fitting jackets, with uniform hooded brows and fish-eyed stares. They were large men, chosen for their size and capacity for intimidation. They eyeballed him unapologetically, oozing physical menace. For his part, Becker regarded them calmly, entirely at ease.
The maître d' was a considerably less intimidating specimen. A small man, with equally small hands that seemed perpetually clasped together; elbows flared out like coat hangers. His smile was all teeth and so very tremendously white. Becker studied him from the bottom of his nose distastefully. He hovered a full head and shoulders taller.
"Good morning, Sir," the little man beamed up at him, "I'm afraid we're not due to open for a number of hours, but would you like to make a reservation?"
"I'm here on business, not pleasure."
"I see. Well we would be delighted to cater for corporate bookings. Our availability is limited for the next two weeks-"
"How is your availability right now?" Becker cut him off sternly. The two goons watching him bristled. Nobody came in here and threw their weight around like that. Nobody.
Becker leaned closer to the little man. His eyes were the palest blue, an almost unnatural colour. He'd had gene-work done, and it showed.
"Now listen to me, and listen carefully. I have business with your master, Mr. Khulov. I understand he's here, twice a week, at this very hour. I would speak with him. Immediately."
At that the pint sized man went entirely pale, and looked over at the henchmen for guidance. Both men studiously ignored him, listening intently to their ear pieces.
"You're remarkably well informed." A new voice said.
The newcomer was a slighter man than the guards. Sharp suit, slicked backed hair, decidedly Slavic. An advisor, then. At last, progress.
"I find it my business to be." Becker extended a hand. "Elias Becker. I have pressing business with Mr. Khulov, Mr. Zolov."
At Becker's casual mention his name, Zolov could only blink.
"This way." Zolov managed, waving the man in the black coat after him.
Becker was escorted deeper into the restaurant. Beyond the main dining area, beyond the exclusive dining rooms to the rear. Becker had acquired a small train of bratva in his wake as he was led deeper and deeper into the building. Eight men shadowed him now, each as big as the first two. The scale of the venue was massive.
It was rare for Becker to make such an appearance personally. Pershing would have ordinarily attended in his stead. But Pershing was dead now, and with McBride assembling a replacement response team, Becker found himself perilously short of reliable men. He would have to commit the rest of his resources, both official and otherwise, in order to buy Arrowhead the necessary time. They were so tantalisingly close.
Becker knew how the game worked; had been winning it long enough. Soldiers cost money. This was one of the accepted constants of warfare. You had to train them, house them, feed them; then ferry them from one planet to another and nurse them or bury them when the bullets stopped flying and the men stopped dying. It was a long term investment.
The criminal world was entirely more short term. It was like leasing a car; only the cars had pulses and pulled triggers in back alleys. This was not the first time Elias Becker had ever used proxies to achieve his ends. With Arrowhead in its final stages, he believed it might just be his last.
It would be expensive, but credits were not an object Elias Becker particularly lacked. Information was a valuable commodity, and he was a master trader.
This late in the game, the stakes were high. ONI had sent a Spartan. A particularly dangerous Spartan, though Spartans by their very design tended to be. Which meant Becker needed numbers. To date he had relied on Boss Khulov for his talents at smuggling and subtlety.
Now he needed him for muscle.
Finally, Becker was led to the rear of the building, through a set of thick velvet curtains separating Khulov's private chamber from the exclusive function rooms. Here it was all lush carpet and wood panelled doors. Soundproofed, thermal-insulated; doubtless swept for bugs and other tracing software four or five times a day. Khulov was too long in the tooth not to have developed a healthy sense of paranoia. It came with the territory.
Khulov's lair was relatively understated; barren but for a series of sprawling velvet couches, set into a central well in the middle of the room. Within this central well sat an onyx holo-table, now inert. The couches were massive, capable of housing up to twenty people in a large square.
Right now they housed just one. Flanking the side of the room were another half dozen bodyguards. None of them were visibly armed, but Becker knew that with the barest hesitation each would be armed and ready to kill. That was good. So was he.
Elias Becker smiled thinly and took a seat across from the second most dangerous man in Argjend.
Semion Khulov was an immense man; sprawling and impeccably dressed in a dark grey suit. He had been a powerful man in his prime; now soft from too many years of generous living. His chin was an anvil that was steadily ceding to gravity, and his beady eyes nestled in folds of lined flesh that lent him a perpetually sour squint. There was little difference in terms of age between the two men, though Becker – straight backed, trimly kept, pale of a skin and unnervingly precise - seemed remarkably more preserved for his advanced years.
"Elias Becker!" Khulov clapped his fleshy hands together. "You are difficult man to please. Have we not done as asked? You are established now. Your cargo is secure, our business concluded."
Khulov sagged back in his chair, arms spread wide over the back of the couches. He waggled a pudgy finger disapprovingly.
"But now you make demands of me, Elias Becker. This is not so good. We had arrangements. But with these arrangements, respect."
Becker ignored his displeasure.
"I intended no slight, Boss Khulov. But I have a pressing matter that requires my immediate attention. Urgent business."
"And would this business involve the attack on the 'Zone last night?" Khulov's eyebrows knitted, head cocked to one side, "Dropships in the night, blood on the streets? This is bad business, I think. It attracts too much attention. Raises questions."
Becker, nonplussed, smoothly reached into his jacket. A dozen handguns were drawn on him in a second. He raised an eyebrow, chuckled slightly. His hand emerged from his black coat. In it was a data-chip.
Becker slid it into the centre of the table.
"What is this?" Khulov asked.
"An answer to questions raised." Becker folded his legs, his hands resting on his lap. "An advance. Ten million credits for as many men as you can give me. The best you have. For the next forty eight hours, your men are my men. There's another twenty once they've retrieved what I'm looking for."
That caused Khulov to sit up, his belly straining against his jacket. He nodded eagerly at his number two.
Zolov's hands moved so quickly the data chip was gone before Becker could even blink. Zolov slid it into the side of the holo-table.
A bank transfer washed up into the air above them. Confirmation of payment: ten million, as promised.
There was a data-file blinking in the corner of the display. Becker reached forward and tapped a button on the edge of the table. A woman's face sprang into the centre of the space. A half dozen photographs, taken over a series of weeks. Long term surveillance work, thoroughly conducted.
"This is Doctor Rebecca Pearson. Civilian contractor for the UNSC. Who she is… is inconsequential. What she carries is vital. Even as we speak, my men are tracking her location. The job is twofold: kill the girl, kill her accomplices, and bring me the data. Further instructions will follow."
"Killing a UNSC contractor?" Khulov clucked his tongue, "That will be risky."
"Are you saying you won't do it?" Becker raised an eyebrow mildly.
At that Khulov waved him down.
"I'm saying this is Argjend, Mr. Becker." Khulov's teeth split his jowls in half, his hands spreading expansively, "I'm saying I won't do it cheap."