"I want to know how it was that there was a full blown gang war in the Refugee Zone, and I wasn't informed."

"We requested the order to go in, Commissioner. Raised it over the wire. Several times. It's all here in the logs."

"Then can the logs explain the midnight Chatter call I received from Administrator Jennings, asking me to turn on the midnight news?"

"That's just it, Sir. We repeated the requests. Stayed on the edge of the 'Zone, had emergency teams on standby. Fire control, ambulance, civil protection; I made the calls myself. They went into the official channels. They just never got through."

- intercepted communication between senior APD command personnel, 2558

Damien was in free fall.

He angled his arm slightly, allowing the wind to slowly spin him around on his back. Granica V, and the sprawling metropolis of Argjend, slowly drifted into the frame of his visor.

Damien did not fall gracefully, encased as he was in thick armour plating. He did not fall like a sky diver, all serene and smiling. He fell as a tank would fall, if you picked one up and hurled it out the side of a space craft in low orbit. His armour shook from the wind resistance; the body suit auto-hardening as it adjusted to the massive g-forces being exerted.

To his feet was Orbital One, the massive space elevator servicing the city. Rushing up toward him were all manner of landing craft, dock haulers and cargo tugs. They swarmed around some of the larger trawlers, like schools of pilot fish. The larger bulk shipments would be fed up via the elevator to Argjend Station and off-loaded there, but many would make atmospheric drops directly, touching down on one of the many open hardpans at the northern Starport.

Twice Damien had to make blink-quick course corrections, slipping past gaps in the incoming ships. His suit was running dark; no running lights of any kind, his VISR dimmed to the darkest hue. They wouldn't see him until he'd made a nasty dent in the side of their hull. Damien tried his suit thrusters once or twice, making micro course corrections. They pulsed aggressively. Definitely stronger than the previous armour system. He left the re-entry pack inert for now. Activating it risked bringing the city's defence grid down on his head.

The altimeter on his HUD showed eighty thousand feet and plummeting. Descent speed had tipped Mach 1.5 at one point, before he cautiously triggered a spurt of his suit's thrusters. The Spartan had long since broken the sound barrier. His armour had locked in several places, in order to counteract the frenzied shaking. Another cautious burst of the thrusters tempered his speed slightly. Spartan or not, he wasn't going to be much use to anyone if he wound up a smouldering crater in the ground.

At forty thousand feet Damien began to trigger the inbuilt thrusters within his suit more regularly. They made little in the way of perceptive difference to the speed at which he fell. Damien would need to save the re-entry pack until the last moment. The thrusters gave him a considerable improvement in the control of his descent, however. Slowly but surely, he angled closer to his target area.

As he descended, details came into focus; resolving from a murky nothingness to defined shapes. Metal fingers, reaching up to him. The city slowly loomed up at him. The lights growing brighter. Most of the city, the nice and civilised part lay toward Damien feet. That was not his destination. He checked the altimeter again. Fifteen thousand feet.

Habitation Zone 42-AE3-T (Temporary) – the Refugee Zone. At this height it was little more than a green marker on his HUD. He aimed for it, thruster jets spitting and firing as they micro-adjusted, angling him closer toward his destination. Not much longer now.

"Perry, you there?" Damien asked conversationally.

"Reading you loud and clear, 451."

"We were discussing the re-entry speed. For triggering the system."

"Yeah. Five hundred metres. That's at full burn, provided you've triggered the jump-pack at the three previous speed demarcation points I tagged as per your recommended re-entry programme."

That set off an alarm bell in Damien's head.

"The what now?"

Damien burst through a bank of cloud cover. The city was alarmingly close now. He could see fires raging in the Refugee Zone.

"Your recommended re-entry program." Perry replied, "Eric asked me to upload it while you were getting prepped."

"Ah, yeah. Got it."

Damien hastily swiped at the holo-pad on his wrist; saw the application in question, blinking a furious red colour, livid. He'd missed it entirely. With a delicate tap, Damien opened the recommended jump coordination program.

Three points were clearly visible on his HUD. They were also a few thousand feet above him. He'd sailed past them minutes ago.

"Everything okay, 451?"

"Uh, yeah. Demarcation points. On it."

"Short bursts, remember. You don't want to draw unnecessary attention. That should give you enough of a break to trigger the last stretch at five hundred metres."

"Got it."

Damien didn't have a choice. He slammed the trigger of the re-entry pack at a thousand metres. It flared to life. Full burn, eight second duration. He slowed, to a degree. In much the same way a cannonball, or refrigerator can slow, when tied to a rocket and dropped from a plane. His stomach leapt up into his chest. The armour around his torso flexed rigid.

A bank of high-rise shanties raced up to meet him. That sinking feeling that had been growing in the pit of his stomach grew to full blown panicked realisation.

He'd miscalculated.

Damien hit the roof, shoulder first. Aluminium sheeting, hastily erected during a decidedly unseasonal rain storm over the previous summer. No longer. The Spartan went through it like an incendiary round through wet snow. He went through the next floor. Wood this time. Or at least it used to be, until it buckled inward, collapsing after him, reduced to kindling. The Mjolnir system had entirely hard-locked itself by the time he smashed through the floor below that. Some kind of internal glass-house; trellises and latticework splintered as he blasted through; bringing all manner of ivy and vegetation with him. And tiling, so much tiling.

That was when the jump pack exploded. This latest development hurled him sideways. He hit a wall next, went through it; patch brick-work, more corrugated sheeting,

By the time he'd skidded and bounced to a full stop, the Spartan found himself down at ground level. Moonlight drifted down at him, through the curving gaping tunnel he'd ripped through the building. Four storeys, descended with all the polite courtesy of a descending meteor. The walls were alight in several places, doused as they were in jet fuel from the shattered thruster pack. He was in a workshop of some kind, or what was left of it. The main work bench was flattened beneath him, as he lay in a trench-like furrow in the middle of the floor. There was bits of scorched plant matter everywhere.

"And the Chief made it look so easy in the 'vids." Damien groaned, rolling to his feet. The shield system was decidedly upset, bleating a steady reminder not to do that again.

The Spartan rolled his shoulders, testing for injuries. Bar some chipped paint on his left shoulder, and the occasional scorch mark or two, he was otherwise unharmed. He reached around to his back and went to trigger the auto-release for the jump pack. He didn't have to: the sorry broken scrap of metal fell off of its own accord. He'd been lucky, and he knew it.

The equipment situation was less fortunate. He'd lost his combat webbing somewhere in the crash. Both of his weapons were gone too. The MA5's whereabouts were nowhere to be found. The BR85 was in the room, he discovered, albeit in two neat pieces on either side of the room. Damien looked down. Even the combat knife was gone, the webbing that held it having entirely shredded.

Well then, time to improvise.

Damien opened his com, calmly surveying the carnage his impact had caused. There was nobody around. That was probably for the best.

"This is 451. I'm groundside. Proceeding to waypoint marker now."

Rebecca's rescuers made preparations as best they could.

The first thing they did was kill any of the lights left in the building.

"Close your eyes, and keep them closed." Fenton warned Rebecca. Watanabe pulled a lever. The lights, spot lamps powered by a remote generator snapped off. "Now open them, let them adjust."

Moonlight fed in from outside. That and the warm bask of the fires ravaging the 'Zone outside. Rebecca felt tremendously alone all of a sudden. Where were the fire brigades, the people supposed to be protecting the city in times like this?

"Stay away from the windows." Fenton added. "Whatever you do."

Fenton was perched on the bed, holding the only rifle they had. They had dragged the mattress to the edge of the mezzanine, giving him a commanding view of the floor below. The DMR clicked and rattled as he adjusted his grip, getting his eye in.

Murphy and Watanabe took care of the rest. A warehouse is a difficult place to defend. There were six potential points of entry open to an assault team. The skylights were an obvious one. There was very little they could do there, other than cover them with the DMR.

"Fire exits will be first." Fenton explained to her, covering the others as they worked.

Murphy was jury-rigging a breaching charge to the interior side of the doorway on the main floor, wired to some kind of remote detonator. Above the doorframe itself he taped a flashbang, tied to string that fed along the wall.

There was a single ground floor fire entrance at the north-eastern end of the building; a reinforced iron door; well-rusted and dented in places from where intruders had previously tried to kick it in. This was the door Murphy was booby trapping. Diagonally opposite was an equivalent door, which was at the foot of an enclosed stairway feeding up to accessing the viewing platform Fenton and Rebecca now occupied.

Behind them was another door, which led to an external fire escape.

"Not the main door?" Rebecca asked, nodding at the main loading bay.

"No, too much of an open area." Fenton replied quietly "They'll hit it, yeah, but the fire exits offer a way in and out at the north-eastern and south-western corners of the building, sheltered from this perch up here. That's where they'll start."

"How can you be so sure?" she whispered.

"Because it's what we'd do."

Murphy had finished taping the string, playing it out over to a series of crates that served as a makeshift bunker of sorts. He would hold position here on the main floor. He had a service pistol and two magazines. That, and the trusty combat knife. He turned and flashed the others a thumbs up, crouching low and out of sight.

"When the time comes, you're going to want to keep your eyes closed. Remember that."

Watanabe was on the opposite fire escape. She had wired a similar trap, and guarded the top of the stairs leading up to the mezzanine. It gave her good view of the rear door, and an elevated firing position from the top of the enclosed stairwell. She totted an ugly, pump-action shotgun, and the machine pistol, tucked in the back of her waistband. The pump was a gang tool, designed for close range intimidation. She adjusted her grip on it, licking the sweat from her top lip. Not long now.

They waited there in the dark; the only sound their breathing, and the racing of their beating hearts.

"Approaching target location."

Commandos slid their backs along the walls, creeping ever closer. Infra-red, night-vision, bio-thermal; their VISR systems running a full sweep of the building. The windows were dark and silent. Pershing stood back, crouching in an alley across from the main entrance to the warehouse. He would let the team leaders lead the assault. While not afraid to get his hands dirty, Pershing's role was coordination, oversight. The rest of the team moved up past him, knees bent; rifles raised as the crossed the gap, fanning out around either side of the building. Encircling it.

The warehouse was an anomaly in the 'Zone, standing apart from the rest of the buildings around it. Even its aspect was strange, facing a different direction the natural flow of the shanties and high-density stacks around it. It was part of the old Argjend, long before the 'Zone had existed. With space being at such a premium, the buildings hadn't taken long to crowd around it.

"I want rifles on the rooftops." Pershing whispered into his mic. "Anything shows their heads, drop them."

Acknowledgement lights winked to life as his order fed through the command feed.

Two troopers fast-roped down from the Pelicans above, touching down on the roof silently. They gestured to each other silently, rope gear slung over their shoulders. They carried compact sub-machine guns, better served for wire work. Below, Alpha and Bravo Team took breaching positions. Half of the Bravo inched up the skeletal staircase of the external fire-escape, stacking against the wall, not making a sound.

The other Pelican deposited a duo of snipers on one of the taller stacks overlooking the warehouse. One commando deployed a spotter scope, auto-calibrating it. His shooter counterpart settled into a firing position, lying on his belly, the barrel of the immense rifle carefully balanced on a folding bipod.

"We're in position." One of the marksmen whispered over the channel. "Eyes on the target."

"Stack up."

Another breaching team lined up before the ground floor fire-escape on the north-eastern side. The demolitions trooper was in primary assault position, his shotgun slung. Had they the time, they would have brought up riot shields to lead the clearance. The Heavy Assault Troopers stood off on opposite corners of the building, facing out toward the rest of the 'Zone beyond, providing perimeter security. The locals had fled, the gangs retreating to bury their dead and lick their wounds, but Pershing left nothing to chance. Success was within their grasp.

Pershing consulted his Tac-Pad, reviewed the disposition of his strike team.

Five men on the rear balcony; five men on either ground floor ingress point. Two men on the roof, ready to effect a fast-rope assault. Snipers in place providing over-watch, and reserve units forming a wider perimeter, in addition to the air cover provided by the Pelican dropships. Text-book. All teams were in a position to prosecute.

"All teams, execute."

Murphy lay low, one hand on the string attached to the flashbang above the door, the other on the remote detonator. His eyes had long adjusted to the darkness around him. They never left the doorway, watching the light from outside shine in.

Something stepped in front of the door. Heavy boots, well armoured. They were quiet, making only the quietest shuffle.

Murphy thumbed the detonator.

Alpha Team's breaching specialist knelt in front of the door, slapped the demo charge in place. He was still wiring it when the door exploded outward, billowing out in a gout of metal chippings and fiery smoke. The man closest to him shied back, knocked off his feet. The third man in line stepped up, shoving his stunned fellow aside and barrelling through himself. Speed in an assault was key, even when faced with opening set-backs. Discipline was key. Storm clearance demanded follow through.

True to his training, the assaulter swept into the smoky darkness, VISR set for low light. He heard a sniping sound above as he crossed through the threshold. The trooper snapped about, rifle raised, fixing on the sound. He saw the flash bang taped above the doorway; noticed the pin flying free, the string attached to it drifting through the air, almost in slow motion. The moonlight streaming in from the skylight danced off the pin, mesmerising.

Then the concussion grenade thumped with an ear-splitting flash.

The VISR suite auto-compensated as best it could, but the damage at close range was done. He was still reeling when a series of hard rounds clipped him in the breastplate, knocking him off his feet, smashing the wind out of him. One bullet tore clean through his throat, puncturing the soft neck armour. He tottered and fell back outside, clutching his neck and gurgling, legs kicking. The troopers behind him pulled him free of the line of fire, hollering an indecipherable stream of barked instructions.

"Man down! Man down!"

"Go, go, go!"

Bravo encountered similar setbacks. The upstairs door blew outward on the external catwalk. The blast smashed the breaching trooper back over the safety railing. Arms flailing, alight in several places, he thumped down onto the ground and lay still, unmoving. The smouldering door lay on top of him, smoking at the hinges.

A woman appeared on the catwalk, not even before the dust had cleared. The four troopers stacked on the staircase were bunched tightly together, stunned. Caught dead to rights. The shotgun thundered three times in quick succession; resounding, meaty reports - boom-chuck-click. The assaulters' armour was too thick, the ballistic proofing too advanced to kill them outright. But they collapsed back on top of one another, winded, the closest man bleeding in several places where the shells had chopped deep into the more exposed pieces of the armour. Watanabe vanished back inside, as quickly as she appeared. Hard rounds chased her.

Pershing blinked. They had lost the initiative. He grabbed his mic by the wire, roaring into it.

"Roof team, get in there!"

The skylights burst inwards, a cascade of tinkling glass. Armoured killers descended on zip-lines.

Murphy got on the mic.

"'Tan! Lights, now!"

Watanabe hauled the lever on the generator.

Flood lights snapped on all over the warehouse. Piercing, blinding. Fenton had kept his eyes squeezed shut since the raid began, Rebecca too.

They opened them now.

The men on the wires were coming to, finding their bearings; groggily.

Fenton snapped the rifle to bear. The DMR barked heavily. Rebecca shoved her fingers in her ears, appalled by the defending sound. Hot shell casings spun over her, scalding where they brushed her skin.

Even wounded, there was no faulting Fenton's marksmanship. The first man through took a round in the shoulder, spinning him about giddily. Fenton's second round caught him on the return spin, punched clean through the visor. He fell slack on the rope, and lay there dangling for the rest of the fight.

The remaining rappelling trooper responded in kind. Reacting as he was, caught on the back-foot, the trooper went for quantity rather than quality. His submachine gun kicked and bucked as it opened up on full-automatic. Bullets cracked in all around them, thumping into the walls, sparking off the metal of the catwalk. A stray round smashed one of the bulbs of the upstairs flood lamp, knocking it off its stand. The remaining bulb flashed directly up, casting a sinister light high along the wall. Rebecca mashed herself into the grilled walkway, willing herself to live.

Abruptly the incoming fire cut out. Rebecca and Fenton both blinked in surprise.

The man on the rope was gone. Something had yanked him back out the way he came.

Something immensely strong.

The one door the defenders were unable to cover was the opposite door to Murphy's, at the foot of the internal staircase. Watanabe was in a difficult position: she had been tasked with two doors to defend, and – determined to cover Rebecca and Fenton – had committed to the top door first. The team at ground floor level stormed in, only slightly delayed by the door trap.

They swept into the warehouse, weapons probing for targets. One charged up the stairs, took a frenzied burst of machine pistol to the face. The others had already streamed in downstairs, surging inward. They opened up on the floor lamps on the ground floor, blasting them out with efficient bursts. Darkness filled the smoke-choked warehouse once more. The hunting commandos fanned out, beam-torches springing to life on their MA5's, sweeping the darkness, probing over the splintery tops of crates and the filthy tarps.

Murphy crouched low, chest hammering, drenched in sweat. He had a kill team coming in from both sides now, no body armour, and if he even poked his head out, those torches would blind him before he could even get a shot off. The sidearm was reliable in a gang fight, but laughably ill-suited to a fight of this magnitude. Murphy swallowed: pistol in one hand, knife in the other; readying himself. Feck it, I had a good run.

There was a tremendous crash as another skylight blew in. A deep tremble shook the floor as something tremendously heavy impacted.

Murphy flinched as he heard the MA5's opened up. Then he realised the fire wasn't intended for at him at all.

Murphy could only infer what happened from his perch, nestled in his make-shift fort.

There was a meaty smack and he saw a commando come flying into view, arms wheeling as he rebounded off the wall, before falling back out of sight. Another two blurts of assault rifle fire rang out, answered by a long spurt of SMG; an angry, spit-rattle that sang off the high walls.

That too clicked empty. Then something hit the crate he was hiding behind, hard. Then everything went quiet, but for the electronic squawk-mumble of broken radios. A pall of gun-smoke wafted in the air.

Murphy didn't dare poke his head out.

"Contact! Contact!"

There was no disguising the panic over the com line.

Pershing watched from afar as the windows of the warehouse lit up; flashing with the after-reports of panicked assault rifle fire. It was reactive, frenzied shooting; inaccurate, ill-disciplined. The two heavy assault troopers on perimeter duty both turned around, craning their necks to see what was going on.

The main warehouse door shook as a trio of rounds punctured through it. Smoke curled out of them. Then silence fell on the warehouse.

The men who had initially been caught in the defender's trap had held off from entering the warehouse. One of the troopers had taken it upon himself to help the wounded men clear, leaving two of his team stacked on the doorway. The empty fire escape loomed before them, venting coils of smoke ominously. The two men looked at each other.

"Do we go in?" one asked whispered.

"Fuck that man." The second replied heatedly. "You go!"

Pershing's eyes narrowed as he surveyed the warehouse from afar.

"All teams, report."

Nothing but pitiful moans filled the airways. He saw nothing but the silent warehouse, and his wounded men, crawling away to safety.

Pershing opened his com.

"Pelican One, you see anything?"

"Nothing from top-side, Sir." The Pelican's pilot reported. "Too much heat interference coming from the shooting inside. Can't get a reading. We had residual sensor movement on the scope earlier, but couldn't track it. Some kind of meteorite. Probably a sensor glitch."

Sensor glitch my left foot, Pershing thought, his concern mounting.

"Prime cannons and target that building. Sniper teams, you have anything?"

"Nothing, Sir. All's quiet."

Pershing went cold all over.

"Breaching units, pull back. Perimeter units; rotate, form up and move in as one."

The two heavy assault troopers regrouped, advancing toward the main door of the warehouse. Supporting them were the five men Pershing had held in reserve from the initial breaching action. They approached in a staggered line, stopping just short of the warehouse entrance.

"Assault units engage."

The two assault cannons split the night sky; carving the entire front of the warehouse apart. Rounds punctured clean through brick walls on the far side, thumping through into the dirt in the clearing beyond. The main loading door consisted of two large, hinged doors; that had once yawned open on rickety, oil-starved hinges. Not any more: one door hung limply on one hinge, perforated in a thousand places. The other remained bolted in place, only the bottom half had been sawed clean off. The jagged edges glowed red hot from where the bullets had sawed it clean in two.

The warehouse beyond was pulped. The crates were all smashed up, the tarps shredded or entirely aflame. It was a hellish sight. The two assault troopers looked at each other, shrugged, then advanced.

They stepped into the ruined interior. There were arcs of blood on the walls, scattered shell casings. The hiss-rattle of the heavy assault troopers' breathing filled the air, rasping out over the crackling flames.

Some of the men lying on the ground were still alive. There were dents in their armour, their ribs had been broken and limbs savagely dislocated. But they lived. It was only the barest miracle that the second team's cannon fire hadn't shredded them too.

One of the troopers knelt down to inspect their injuries. The dents in their armour were peculiar in shape. As he ran his fingers along the impact mark, he realised what had hammered the ballistic plate into such a curious shape. They were knuckle marks.

The commando looked up at his team mates, horrified.

That's when he saw the armoured giant, crouched on the gantry above. Looming over them like some futuristic gargoyle. Quite how it had gotten up there without climbing gear or a jump pack was beyond them. The Spartan's running lights activated, the VISR surging into a bright opal blue as it seemingly announced itself.

"Above! It's above!"

Damien was already moving, thrusters flaring in the churning smoke as he clambered from gantry to ceiling joist; leaping from support strut to the next, almost too fast to follow.

Assault cannon fire chased him every step of the way, gouging ragged sheets out of the roof above, melting joists and sending sparks and tumbling scraps of metal raining through the air. A moment's pause meant death. Mjolnir or no Mjolnir, a concerted burst of one of those cannons was enough to gut a tank. Damien had no intention of being gutted. He raced ahead, revelling in the sheer speed the armour system gave him. Delighting in the thrill of battle after the longest absence.

The Spartan had encountered the kill team's victims as he approached the target zone, had witnessed their murderous handiwork first-hand. For every combatant engaged, Damien had seen a room of civilians butchered, numerous women in particular. Some of it was intentional: close range gun-fire, judging by the burn marks around the entry wounds. So much more of it had been sloppy collateral damage; a sector-wide purge. It had been systematic, indiscriminate; without hesitation or remorse. These commandos were practiced killers, professionals; unbound by conscience. They wanted Rebecca dead, and would have killed a hundred more if it meant achieving that end.

Damien would see them suffer.

The Spartan dropped amongst them, one hand snapping out and shoving the nose of one of the assault cannons to one side. It disintegrated one of the hapless troopers it now pointed at, leaving little but a pair of smoking boots behind. Damien held his grip on the barrel of the rotary cannon, twisted his wrist. The rotary mechanism shrilled in protest. Then the ammunition feed imploded, the blast sparking Damien's shields and hurling the weapon's operator away; respirator pipes hissing and flapping venting air as the assault rig came apart.

Damien spun with the momentum, the ruined cannon tearing free in his hands. He swiped it as a club, smashing another trooper clean across the room. The Spartan flung the ruined cannon at the next heavy assault trooper who pitched backward onto the ground, smashed off balance. The assault cannon split the sky for a second as he fell on his back. A descending boot severed his head from his body with explosive pressure.

The radar suite didn't lie. Three men still surrounded him.

Damien deflected an incoming rifle butt with his wrist, his return elbow snapping the man's head around so hard his helmet flew off. Two men left, either side of him. Damien slapped a rifle facing him out of the next man's hands, his other hand spinning the commando around into the path of his fellow's incoming rounds. The body shuddered and shook as Damien advanced, using it as a grisly riot shield.

The last commando's magazine clacked dry. Damien tossed the broken corpse aside, advancing with great thumping strides. The commando fumbled for a reload. He was still fumbling when Damien rocketed forward on his thruster pack, slamming into him so hard he dented the steel column behind him. The man slid to the floor, boneless.

Damien stood back. He heard a click.

The assault trooper whose cannon had malfunctioned was trying to pull himself to his feet. His rig was a mess, his armour in tatters. But he had a side-arm; had drawn it on Damien when his back was turned.

A DMR round from the mezzanine level took the commando in the back of the head. The pistol clattered to the floor.

Damien looked up, saw Rebecca and three other survivors huddled together high above. They peaked over the edge of the mezzanine, eyes wide, half petrified themselves. He nodded his thanks.

"Stay safe." The Spartan told them, "I'll find you when I'm done."

On their perch above, the sniper team watched in awestruck terror as the warehouse roof collapsed in on itself. The building was coming apart at the seams.

"Anything on scope?" the shooter ask, his own eye fixed to the scope. Both men had the visors of their helmets raised, preferring to press their naked eyes to the scopes. Such was their tradecraft.

"Nothing." The spotter replied, scanning with binoculars.

"Try infrared."

The spotter switched the filter lens, making a sweep.

"Negative, no target."

"Try low-vis."

"Negative, too much heat-wash."

"Try behind you." A third, filtered voice suggested.

Both commandos wheeled around. Damien smashed their heads together. He had pulled the blow; enough to incapacitate; to dent helmets and leave them unconscious.

A fractured skull was more than they deserved, but Damien left them bound up on the roof top, tied back to back; leaving them for the authorities to deal with.

In a shadow war like this, even mercy could have its strategic advantages.

Pershing felt sick with a feeling of déjà vu. The towering inferno that had once been their target area crackled and snapped in the night air; a vast plume of smoke rising up as the fire spread unabated. None of his men had emerged from the second assault. The bio-feed showed a wash of Status Red or Orange across the board.

He opened the com anyway.

"Sniper team, report."

Silence; rolling static. Then a voice cut in; unfamiliar, filtered.

"They're going to find out what you've done here today." an unfamiliar voice on the com said. "The crimes you've committed. I'll see to it myself."

"Who is this?" Pershing snapped, "Identify yourself!"

"The man who's aiming right at you. Nice hat."

Pershing turned to run. The sniper round hit the ground beneath his feet. It was a rifle intended for ensuring maximum lethality; designed in an era where the traditional targets were marauding aliens bedecked in mighty suits of shielded armour.

The bullet blew a small crater out of the ground. Pershing fell back on his ass. The rest of his surviving men bolted, utterly broken. Damien let them go.

Pershing glanced around frantically, looking for an exit. The two Pelicans hovered in a holding pattern overhead.

"I know what you're thinking." The voice said. "Do you strafe the entire area? Hope to get me before I get you?"

Another crater blast around Pershing's, this time to his right. He started with a yelp, despite himself.

The voice was still talking, low and threatening.

"Let's consider the timelines involved. First, you're going to have to find me. And that's going to take time. And then you're going to have to actually hit me, and I promise you that's going to take even more time. Now, here's how I see it. It only takes one second for one of these rounds to cross a thousand metres. The range finder here? It has you fixed at about five hundred. I'll let you decide which way this goes."

Pershing thought for a moment. He could feel the eyes on him, the burning intent. He swallowed.

"He'll kill me." Pershing said eventually. "He doesn't tolerate failures of this magnitude. I wouldn't either. I'm going to call off my air support now. Don't shoot."

"Go ahead. No sudden moves now."

Pershing gave the appropriate signal. The two black Pelicans swung for home, vanishing into the night sky.

"Good. Now step forward, come over to the warehouse."

Pershing slowly stood up, raised his hands over his head. Damien watched him on the scope, the crosshairs lined up at chest level. He kept his finger off the trigger.

A single report rang out. Heavy calibre; echoing and directionless against the high buildings all around. Pershing blinked once, looking down in surprise. Gawking at the gaping hole in his ruined torso. He toppled face down in the dirt.

Damien cursed, rolling out of sight. A distant shooter, unseen. They had targeted the centre mass; as any professional would. Damien stayed out of sight, bellying across the roof tops. A rifle that powerful could tear chunks out of Mjolnir, could kill a Spartan outright, if you knew what you were doing.

In the distance he could hear sirens approaching. The authorities were on their way. He couldn't be here when they arrived.

The others were already gone by the time he'd worked his way to street level and stepped into the scorched remains of the warehouse. He'd approached from the opposite side of Pershing's body, not wanting to give the mysterious shooter an easy target.

Damien was too late. Between the rising flames and the sniper fire, the ground team must have decided to take their chances on their own. Some of the commandos' weapons were missing. They were better armed now, at the very least.

"Not even a note." Damien tutted, picking up the last remaining assault cannon and mag-sealing it to his back. The operator had required hydraulic support to wield the weapon accurately. Damien knew he could do better. Besides, he got the feeling he'd need the firepower. He also took an MA5 and a generous helping of magazines, discarding the sniper rifle; too specialised for this kind of op.

"Eric, this is Damien."

The response came back scratchy, popping with static.

"-o ahead, 451."

"Rebecca and the ground team are secure, but I've lost contact. I'll track them as best I can, but could use an assist. Can you raise them on coms?"

There was a pause.

"-Negative, Spartan. We've been trying them on our secure line, but something in your area - jamming the signal. It's taking about all the com equipment we have to get a message down to your suit. You're going to have - another way to make contact-"

"Solid copy, 451 out."

Damien closed the channel, setting one hand to the side of his helmet. His VISR flipped over to low-light mode. He spied a series of track marks leading south east to where the larger stacks with the large perimeter walls encasing the zone. Soot-stained foot prints, four sets; four different soles.

"Guess we do it the hard way." Damien sighed, setting off in pursuit.

A sniper scope tracked his progress, unseen; watching as he slipped away into the streets beyond.