"We don't go into the 'Zone, not in a standard patrol car. Nobody does."
"And why is that?"
"You've seen the footage, I don't need to tell you what they did the last time a unit found itself isolated in 'Zoner territory. What they did to their faces. Christ, I still picture it, even just talkin' about it."
"So when do you go in?"
"A Code 4210; requires consent from both the Administrator and the Commissioner both. Armoured assault vans, hard tops, automatic weapons. You roll deep, or not at all."
"Does that seem heavy handed to you?"
"Heavy handed? Heh, listen Lady: you don't bring a police unit to the 'Zone, man. You bring a goddam army. Because one thing's for sure: if you don't bring an army to them… they sure as hell bring an army to you."
- excerpt from interview with the Argjend Times, March 3rd, 2558
Patience was the mark of a great operator. Patience and discipline.
It came with the territory. Elias Becker had performed many roles in his long and storied career, learned many disciplines. He had been, in various forms, disguises and identities; an analyst, a scientist, a soldier. He had conducted test after test as part of the Arrowhead project, watching time and time again as test subjects washed out; the candidates failing to show the tangible results his superiors so fiercely craved. Eventually his patience had paid off. And they had called him a monster, decried his success. His superiors be damned, he did what was asked of him. Did what was necessary, what would be necessary in the years ahead.
Becker stood on a catwalk overlooking the entire city. Traxus Towers were one of the largest and most prominent super 'scrapers within Victory Plaza. Twin edifices of silver chased with bronze. The observation deck extending between the towers was without equal.
Becker closed his eyes. Another memory, this time acting as a sniper on the frozen tundra of Caspian Nova. An entire week waiting for his target to arrive, stuck as he had been up on an icy perch. No spotter, no support; no company of any kind but his own mind. The waiting, that had taken discipline. To sit and wait, his eye unmoving from the scope for hours at a time. And then the crack of the rifle shot, red blood on white snow. Another mission accomplished.
Different disciplines, wildly different situations, but the same two traits, time and time again.
Right now his patience served him in particular. Loose ends were a risk he could not, would not tolerate. His agents and proxies were everywhere, entrenched within every facet of Granican society. He had set the ground work for years, biding his time. Patience and discipline.
A throat cleared itself behind him. Becker opened his eyes. It was Pershing, his most trusted lieutenant. Compact, no-nonsense. He was not the tallest of his men, nor the strongest. But he was the most diligent, the most efficient. He would have a bright future as a field operative.
"Report."
"We have a lead on that hacker that's been threatening us, Anansi. Our observers reported he made contact with Rebecca Pearson in one of the western markets. A direct approach, unusually bold by his standards. We lost Anasi, but one of our contractor teams took the liberty of intercepting Dr. Pearson at her home."
"Was this sanctioned?" Becker asked sharply.
"No, Sir." Pershing shook his head, "Our contractor acted independently. Ordinarily I would have dealt with their recklessness directly, but they've reported that the doctor was in possession of sensitive information."
"Anansi's ace in the hole?"
"Unknown, Sir. But we can't rule out the possibility."
"Very well. Retrieve the data. See what your people can extract from Dr. Pearson. I want this hacker found."
"And if the APD intervenes when she's reported missing?"
"They won't. I'll see to that. Keep me advised of any developments."
"Sir. Yes Sir." Pershing snapped a salute and marched toward the elevator.
Alone once more, Becker sighed. Another loose end, soon to be tied up.
Absently, he fished a hand into his pocket and produced a single data-chip. It glinted in the afternoon sunlight. The sight of it brought a smile to his face.
It was almost time for the next step.
By the time Rebecca came to, her worst fears were realised. They had taken her to the 'Zone.
The building they hurried through was just another squalid living space in the heart of one of the low-rise warrens. Room after room of countless families, squatters, no-hopers and junkies. They all fled, like darkness from a light switch, as the men marched through, dragging their captive with them. Nobody messed with them. Anybody Rebecca made eye contact with averted their gaze. They had seen this too many times before.
There were no Good Samaritans or heroes in the 'Zone. Only survivors.
A door slammed open. Rebecca was half dropped, half thrown onto a filthy mattress in a dark corner. She crawled into a ball, quaking with terror. Her head still thumped from the chemicals they had used to knock her out.
Her abductors were gangers. Rough-hewn street-muscle. Cyrillic tattoos proclaimed allegiance to the Argjend Assembly. Words like "Zone" and "Love" were inked on their knuckles, and they all wore the ragged uniform of the 'Zone: dark hoodies, and baggy grey or black overalls, mixed with the occasional leather jacket or looted UNSC combat webbing here and there. More than a few of them looked as though they were combat veterans; particularly one of the smaller member of the crew; a small Asian woman, whose compact muscle and hard-as-nails demeanour belied her size.
Rebecca knew the story well, had seen it too many times as a psychological profiler for the UNSC. Former service personnel, who had found the post-war too much of an adjustment beyond the walls of a barracks or confines of a fox hole. Unable to function as part of society, they became outcasts. Turned to this feral existence instead.
The men paced up and down, leering at her. Like tigers in a cage. Many started lounging in chairs, smoking and drinking.
The room was a cesspit. A series of stolen cargo pallets formed a crude central table. Atop it, machine pistols and snub-nosed firearms – civilian and military issue alike. The floor was littered with torn MRE wrappers and discarded tin cans from aid packages. Beer bottles and drug injectors too. The men and women around her were well fed, in stark contrast to some of the miserable wretches they had passed outside. They had status, power.
Yet there was shouting. All manner of languages, none of them Rebecca could identify – Slavic, of some description. Some Japanese and some French too. The group was having a heated disagreement. Evidently they had found her credentials, realised her background. It had them rattled. That gave her hope. A group this disorganised, could be caught off balance. They could be dangerously unpredictable too.
"Everyone shut up." a sour voice said simply.
Evidently they all spoke English and followed orders. Everybody stopped dead in their tracks.
The newcomer was a more senior member of the pack. He stood a head taller than the rest of the goons. In his hands was the dented package. He was no hood rat either. While not a uniform, his clothing had a more militaristic appearance to it: service boots, well-polished. He had the hooded eyes of Koslovic hard-liner, and the shaven scalp to match. A single tear drop tattoo decorated the flesh beneath his left eye. An enforcer then, and senior.
The man set a chair on the ground before Rebecca. He sat in it. He glowered at her for a moment, then tossed her the package.
"The man who gave this to you. Where is he?" he asked Rebecca. Definitely Russian.
It took Rebecca a moment to find her voice, managing only a nervous squawk. She found it again when he kicked a discarded can of food at her, snarling.
"I… I don't know!" Rebecca shook her head, "I never got a good look at his face. He had a tattoo. On his arm."
"He is Anansi. The Spider. You think this is information? This we know. Who he is, what he looks like? His face, his age. You will tell us. Or we will make you tell us."
"If I knew I'd tell you!"
"She lies." The Russian spat. He turned to his companion, "Irvine. Boil the kettle."
The quiet man who had entered the room with the Russian nodded. He was a scruffy man, with a scraggly beard and bored, detached demeanour.
Atop one of the pallets was a portable convention block taken from a UNSC Marine Field Survival Kit. Rebecca only recognised it because she'd seen them time and time again, from her own time in evac shelters during the war. The heating block that formed a central part of the kit was a featureless slab of metal; that used convection to heat everything from ready-cooked meals to thermos.
Or, in this case, an antique kettle. A dented, tired old thing; the type you'd find on a dusty shelf in any old curio shop. It sloshed heavily as Irvine set it down. He keyed the activation stud on the side of the block heater. Slowly, the top surface of the block glowed an angry amber.
The kettle started gurgling.
"Now I will ask again." The Koslovic was right in her face now, stinking her breath making her gag, "Where is the Spider?"
"I don't know!" Rebecca cried.
"You think this is a joke?" there was a worrying desperation in the Russian's voice, "That we will not hurt you because you are a woman?"
Tufts of curling steam were beginning to rise from the neck of the kettle. A low wheezing filled the air, building steadily.
"I've already told you what I know!" Rebecca shrieked at him, "I don't know why he chose me, I don't know the Spider!"
The kettle was whistling now, more insistent. The Russian slapped her across the face. Hard. Fire exploded across her cheek.
"Lying bitch! Tell us where he is!"
Rebecca was gibbering incoherently by this point.
The kettle shrieked, at fever pitch. The Russian turned and gave a nod to Irvine.
"Do it."
Irvine nodded once, without emotion.
Then smashed the boiling kettle into the Russian's face.
The men around him roared in outrage, exploding out their chairs. Just as matter of fact, Irvine had produced a service pistol, emptying it into the next man closest to him. Suddenly there were guns in everybody's hands. Rebecca shrieked and jammed her fingers in her ears. Gunfire split the air, deafening in the confined space. Six bodies hit the floor.
Rebecca opened her eyes. Gun smoke threaded the air. There was shell-casings all over the floor, blood all over the walls.
Only Irvine and the Asian woman remained standing. The small woman panned her machine pistol over the fallen bodies, as crisp and professional as any UNSC fireteam Rebecca had ever seen.
The two exchanged a nod, unscathed.
"Clear." The woman reported, moving to police some of the discarded guns. She worked smoothly, ejecting spent magazines from some of the fallen gangsters; shoving the spare ones in her many pockets. She checked pulses as she went, utterly nonplussed by the carnage they had caused.
The fallen Russian made a gurgling sound as he stirred. Stubborn as a mule and twice as tough, the man still lived. He lay face down, his flesh a scarred, smouldering ruin. Irvine calmly stood over him and pumped two rounds into the base of the man's skull. The Russian stopped moving.
"Always hated that prick." Irvine said to himself.
Then he was on a com-bead. Subtle, high-end stuff. Rebecca hadn't even noticed it until the man put his hand to his ear.
"Murph, this is Fenton. We have her, but we're balls deep in 'Zoner territory. Going to need an extract."
In the distance, she could hear gongs and drums being hammered by all manner of sticks, hands and crowbars. The Argjend Assembly's very own dinner bell. The entire 'Zone was waking up. And when it did, it was going to come straight down on their heads.
Then bearded man turned and looked at Rebecca. Irvine was an entirely new person now: focused, calculating, professional. He offered her a hand, ignoring the clattering of drums that rent the air all around them.
"I'm Michael Fenton. This is Specialist Watanabe. Naval Intelligence. We're your extraction. And we're leaving. Now."