36: Loose Ends

When Director Malleus arrived with a team of half a dozen operatives of the Talon-3 organization, the dust had since settled and the fire that had taken hold in part of the cemetery had died down to a smoulder. The burnt-out hulk of an armoured personnel carrier was at the heart of it, the ground around it blackened for several feet. Malleus, fitted in a combat vest with a pistol at his hip, followed his subordinates in as they spread out with rifles raised and eyes keenly alert. However, there was little to be concerned about out here. If there had been any hostiles present, they were either dead or gone.

There was, however, a familiar human woman slouched against the base of a tree in one corner of the overgrown cemetery. Malleus was called over to her when two of his troops found her, and he came to a stop standing only a few steps from where she was slumped. She had been wounded, yet as Malleus leaned forwards to take a closer look he sighted movement. The woman's head, lulled to one side, shifted slightly. Her eyes flicked open, yet within them was the look of one who was not entirely all there.

'She's alive,' Malleus declared, and he knelt down in front of her. He looked to the operative by his left. 'Get the first aid package.'

'Sir?' The operative sounded a little confused. Evidently, he had not come here expecting to provide any one of these people medical assistance.

'Go on,' Malleus ordered, his voice adopting a firmer tone. 'I want this one kept alive.'

The operative hurried away, allowing Malleus to properly focus upon the semi-conscious Lyssa Raine. He put a hand to her shoulder, shaking her gently. She looked to him then, eyes locking upon his own. Malleus, managing a small smile, spoke to her:

'Quite a piece of work you managed here, Raine.' He looked about the cemetery, to the dead CED mercenaries lying about and to the burning hulk of the armoured transport. And then he looked to Raine again, feeling some small sense of satisfaction that the corrupt authorities of this backwater had received some degree of just punishment.

'Don't you die on me now,' Malleus added. 'I believe there is still much use to be gained from you yet.'

It was evening in New Thebes. The city had, for the past few days, been under a curfew. Increased CED patrols saw soldiers on many street corners, along with many more security checkpoints controlling traffic on the main roads. This proved a serious inconvenience for the average citizen, even a danger for those of a less law-abiding intent. There was something tense within the air about the city, and there had been a significant uptick in violent incidents throughout. Batarians and humans, once again at each other's throats, even with the increased police presence to contend with.

For Rickard, the point where the citizens no longer felt threatened by a brutal police response was the point in which any sane individual would clear out. He had a flight waiting to leave at the city's main spaceport, although there was still some time to go before it left. He needed to finalise his affairs here before he departed, and so he sat at the desk in his office, specifically one situated on the tenth floor of an otherwise non-descript office building wherein numerous corporate entities rented space.

Director Johan Rickard, esteemed member of the inner circle of the Cerberus organization, had spent his days in this otherwise plain office attending to affairs on Anhur whilst the chaos had brewed all around him. He had sources across the planet, so he had been able to keep a close eye on all that had occurred. Now, with Venarus dead along with Taft, it seemed a good time to finally put an end to his activities on Anhur.

Dressed in a sleek and expensive tailor-made blue suit, Rickard sat behind his desk but moved somewhat hurriedly. The less time he spent on Anhur, the less chance that any of the more serious blowback would find it way towards him. He was well-informed; a man in his position had to be. He had received regular updates concerning the latest sightings of Lyssa Raine, or of her turian friend, or even of the SOTIG people such as James Booker. There was even that drell Raine had employed for a few assignments. Rickard had been hoping to receive word that Lyssa Raine was dead, for that would see the last loose end of the whole fiasco put to rest. However, he had had no such luck. If anything, it was as if Lyssa Raine had amped up her stubbornness by simply refusing to get herself killed.

Behind him, a row of windows looked down upon the surrounding neighbourhood, the government district visible off in the distance. The New Thebes skyline was well illuminated, even with the curfew in place. Rickard knew he would have little trouble making it through the curfew, for he had the necessary credentials to get through every roadblock between him and the space port.

He was gathering the last of his things now, shuffling his few odds and ends into a small black briefcase. Zipping it closed, he stood up, aware of just how quiet the office floor as a whole was. That was likely what made the faint noises he did detect all the more pronounced, and it was then Rickard froze when he heard what sounded to be someone outside the door ahead.

He had his drawer open in a flash then, hand going for the hilt of the gun within. Yet, before he could get his fingers around it, he thought he heard the cough of a suppressed weapon through the door ahead. A hole appeared in the middle of the door, followed quickly by three more. The window behind him shattered and two of those shots connected with his upper chest, one lodging itself against his collarbone whilst another tore a gash through his upper left arm. The pain and the sheer shock of the impacts themselves was enough to send Rickard stumbling backwards, a cold wind billowing in through the broken window at his back. He felt the warmth of blood streaming down his chest, and pain clouded just about every other sense he had.

The door slid open. Through it strode a man dressed in black, his head covered by a simple cloth balaclava. Rickard, steadying himself against his desk with his uninjured arm, looked to the unwelcome visitor with wide eyes.

'Who…' He could barely form the words, partly from the pain and partly from the growing shortness of breath he could feel. Had his lungs taken damage? He was beginning to find it all the more difficult to simply draw breath.

The intruder stepped towards him, a suppressed M-11 pistol aimed squarely at the Cerberus Director. This intruder reached up and lifted the balaclava away then, revealing the severe countenance of a thirty-something man with blonde hair. There was little emotion to be seen on his features. Rather, he carried the look of a man set firmly on the task at hand. He had no time for satisfaction, or to gloat. It was a face Rickard had seen before, and he spat out a name:

'Booker.' SOTIG field operative James Booker, acting Director of the Anhur unit, had found the man responsible for the attack that had seen the deaths of his team. And now Booker was here, prepared to eke out his own form of justice.

'Please…' Rickard fell over his desk then, unable to continue standing. He dragged his briefcase down with him, falling to the floor. Blood smeared across the carpet as he slowly rolled over, his unwounded arm reaching out in an effort to crawl for safety. He did not get far, as Booker stepped over to him and grabbed him by the back of the neck.

'I can pay you,' Rickard said, his voice barely more than a hoarse gasp. Booker pushed him towards the opening where the window had been previously, a cold wind rushing inside. Rickard saw the ten storey drop below, straight onto a concrete parking lot, and recoiled. Booker spun him around, keeping a hand to his neck and another around his forearm.

'No, no, no…' Rickard began. Booker looked into his eyes, speaking for the first time since his unexpected entrance:

'I am going to hunt down every single last one of your people in that organization,' Booker stated, his voice stone cold. 'I'll kill them all. Thing is, I have to start somewhere.'

Rickard went to speak again, to plead for his life, but Booker was having none of it. He pushed the wounded man over the edge, letting him go. Rickard screamed all the way down, a scream that was silenced abruptly with the distant thud of his body slamming against the concrete. Booker stood by the edge, wind ruffling his hair, eyes narrowed at the distant, prone figure of the Cerberus Director. Of course, Rickard was hardly the one in charge of that organization. There was a whole inner circle, and Booker intended to put each one of them into the ground.

He gazed over the city then, spread out as it was, a den of scum that he would be all too happy to leave behind. And then, satisfied with his job done, he turned around and departed the office. James Booker had a list, and the name at the top was one he could now confidently cross off.

'All done?' The drell's gravelly voice was laced with something chipper. Booker climbed into the idling car, turning to his alien accomplice. He passed him Rickard's briefcase, and Chas Rofan nodded with apparent eagerness as he took hold of it.

'I'm done with Anhur,' Booker stated. Ahead, the street was quiet, empty even. Chas placed the briefcase upon the backseat, before he returned his attention to the road ahead. He set the vehicle into drive and gripped the wheel before gently guiding it onto the main thoroughfare.

'That makes two of us, Agent Booker,' Chas remarked. He quirked one brow-ridge, a thoughtful look taking hold upon his smooth, grey-toned features. 'Say, is SOTIG hiring these days? Because I get the impression my prospects on Anhur are really starting to dry up.'

END

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