Authors: G. T. Almasi
Enhanced Optics: External Lenses
External lenses provide a flexible optics platform to which the user can add, upgrade, or remove optical effects as needed. When not in use, the lenses retract to a recess carved in the agent’s brow bone and are detectable only on very close inspection. While these lenses are in use, they are clearly visible as shallow domes over the eye sockets (hence their common nickname, bug eyes). This high visibility restricts their suitability for undercover operations, but they are a natural fit for assignments where an obvious security presence is desired.
Paris in the daytime is brighter and prettier, but it’s also much noisier. Trick and I sit in cute wicker cane chairs at a sidewalk café on Boulevard Montparnasse. Our red-and-white-striped tablecloth flutters in the wind from the trucks, cars, and scooters roaring up and down the street. The incessant din reverberates against the fronts of the handsome eight-story buildings that line the boulevard. The buildings’ ground floors are occupied by colorful cafés, paneled tobacco shops, and chic little clothing stores. Above the commercial spaces are row after row of tall two-panel windows looking out at the neighborhood. I watch as a white-robed woman on the fourth floor across the street pulls her window open and peeks up at the sky to see what the weather is doing. Inside her apartment I see a fancy chandelier on the ceiling. On her wall I glimpse the top half of a large painting with a man in a green hat.
The sun shines down on the bustling street and illuminates why people love this city so much. It’s as though the whole town were designed by one superbly tasteful person. It’s amazingly pleasant to just sit here, sip delicious coffee, and watch the stylish French and German people glide by. What’s not so pleasant is the pounding in my skull.
“Fuck me, that traffic is loud,” I gripe.
Trick is reading a newspaper,
Le Monde
. Without looking up, he asks, “How’s your head?”
“Killing me.”
“You drank too much on the flight.”
I glower at him, but his nose is still in the paper. “And whose fault is that?”
He looks up. “It sure as hell isn’t mine.”
“You’re supposed to keep an eye on me.”
“Jesus, Alix. I’m not your mother.”
“Thank God for that,” I groan. A truck horn blasts. My skull switches from punched by gorilla to stomped by elephant. I could make my headache go away, but the Med-Techs tell me not to use my painkillers unless I really need them. They’re worried I’ll get hooked. I said I thought they were nonaddictive, and they blathered on about the difference between physical and psychological addictions. I tuned out most of it. What do I know about biology?
I’m still thinking about Overkaine when Trick puts his paper down and taps my arm. He nods toward a man approaching our table. The man is six feet tall, is well dressed, and has dark hair that’s gone white at the temples. His skin color makes him look like a really tan European or a somewhat pale Middle Easterner. He’s a bit older, about fiftysomething.
Mr. White Temple sits down, doesn’t introduce himself, and lights up the stinkiest goddamn cigarette I’ve ever smelled. He’s polite enough to move the cigarette below the table and blow his smoke off to the side after I make a face that delicately says:
That piece of shit smells like a dead mongoose
.
Trick inquires, “Herr Badr?”
The man nods. “M’sieur Badr.”
“Nice to meet you, m’sieur. I’m Solomon, and this is Scarlet.”
“Is very good to meet you, M’sieur Solomon.” He nods toward me and says, “And you, Mademoiselle Scarlet.” Imad Badr looks us over. He’s in good shape for an older dude. He keeps his beard trimmed very short, which emphasizes the angularity of his face.
“If you will forgive me for saying so, you are bose quite young.” He cocks one eyebrow up and takes another
drag on his stinky stick. His cigarette’s dead rodent stench includes a hint of rotted citrus and makes my headache worse.
Maybe smoking isn’t so cool, after all
.
Patrick responds, “Yes, sir. We’re junior agents doing some research. We’re hoping you can help us find someone.”
Badr looks at his watch. “And who would sat be?”
“Winter.”
Badr’s eyes flick from his watch to Trick’s face. “Ahh, more Americans searching for se enigmatic Winter.” He shifts in his seat. “Perhaps it would be best if you told me what you know already so your valuable time is not taken with sese sings.”
His accent, while not too strong, is really weird. Its foundation is the Arabic and German speech patterns he grew up with in the Middle East. The English he layers over this has a strange formality that takes me a minute to place. I finally figure out that it’s because he doesn’t speak English like an American. He speaks it like an Englishman.
Patrick tells Badr that we know Winter runs the Blades of Persia and he’s rumored to be working to reclaim the Middle East from the Germans and the Russians. My partner says nothing about my dad, Lonely Rashid, or how many times we’ve gotten ambushed by Winter’s goon squads.
“It is interesting to me,” Badr comments, “how one man can be so differently perceived. My friends in se West fear Winter as some kind of terrorist mastermind, while se people of se Middle East hail him as a peace-loving humanitarian.”
An idea springs into my mind. If I had to explain my train of thought, it would be something like this: terrorist mastermind + peace-loving humanitarian = shadowy scholarship fund. Naturally, I don’t consciously process this. I just blurt, “Is that because of his Darius Covenant?”
Badr’s eyes narrow slightly. “Yes.” The end of his cigarette glows red as he takes a drag.
Winter runs the Darius Covenant
.
I try to comm “Score!” to Trick, but he’s already comming this intelligence bombshell to his boss back in Washington.
Badr launches a big cloud of smoke over our heads. It hovers there like a miniature storm cloud. He continues, “Perhaps
les Amis
have finally found agents who do sere homework.” Badr tells us that Darius has sent a steady stream of Middle Eastern students to U.S. colleges to learn about the wealth floating under their countries. He declares, “
Here
is se reason Winter is regarded as he is both in se West and se Middle East.” He looks at his watch again. “But you are bright people. I’m sure you see se hypocrisy in demonizing someone who simply aspires to a fairer world.” He finishes his cigarette and stabs the butt into the ashtray on the table.
He’s about to continue when someone’s shriek is cut off with a loud thump. My natural adrenaline triggers a quick Madrenaline boost, so I’ve got plenty of time to spot a big Mercedes sedan as it plows up the sidewalk, straight at our table. Fast people dodge out of the way, and the not-so-fast people go under the tires. The total sluggards fly over the top. I don’t have time to admire this beef fountain since the car is really cruising. Badr has great reflexes and whirls out of the way. I wrap my arms around Trick and jump us over the car as it bashes through our table.
We land right where the table used to be. I slam myself into psycho killer mode and race after the car. A flood of Madrenaline gushes into my bloodstream, and I burst up to thirty-five miles per hour. I yank out Li’l Bertha. It’s a good bet this deathmobile is armored, so she loads up her big Explosive ammo. Crashing into so much stuff has slowed the car down, and I see my chance. I leap at the Mercedes and land on the trunk.
My rebuilt right hand crushes a grip into the trunk’s lid while my left hand tries to aim Li’l Bertha. Even her gyroscopes can’t counteract all the swerves. I fire a few rounds at the driver, but he steers so wildly that I can’t draw a bead on him. The car rips through a small park and up an embankment. He floors it across a flat little plaza and aims for a flight of steps down to a big fountain across from the Eiffel Tower. I hang on for dear life when the car flies off the top of the stairs, tips forward with its trunk pointing at the sky, and bounces down the steps on its grille. Jesus, this maniac is a really lousy driver!
The car begins to flip over onto its roof. I let go and jump over the skidding two-ton wreck to be. I tumble down the steps to keep away from this giant Alix squisher until it finally crunches into a wall at the bottom of the stairs.
There are people all over the place, so I don’t have a clear shot at Lousy Driver as he climbs out the far-side window and runs off toward the tower. I jump over the car and punch my way through the crowd.
I’ve got to nail this fucker!
He’s fast, though, and is already across the street by the time I’ve extracted myself from the rubberneckers.
The killer is wearing khaki pants and a stylish blue blazer, so it’s easy to spot him among all the terribly dressed tourists. He dashes into the nearest leg of the tower and begins to run up the stairs. I look up as I run under the Eiffel Tower. This is one tall fucking … whatever it is. I hyperventilate to pump more oxygen into my blood, then charge up the stairs.
I’d try shooting him, but he’s too fast. In fact, I can barely keep up with him. My best chance is that he seems a lot older than me. I think I can outlast him. He must have Mods. No normal person can take so many steps at a time.
I comm my progress to Trick. “Hostile has ascended the east leg of the Eiffel Tower. We’re past the first tier.”
“Go get him, Scarlet!” Trick comms in. It’s like cowboys and Indians. I let out a war whoop and pound up the stairway. The tower’s second tier comes and goes. We enter the upper tower. I can’t imagine where this blockhead thinks he’s going. The last time I checked, this thing
does
have a top. It’s not like it goes straight up to heaven.
I’m only a dozen steps behind Lousy Driver as we near the summit. I’m so close, I can hear him gasp for breath in time with his steps. I’m drenched in sweat, and my Eyes-Up display shows my pulse at 240 beats per minute. In the few minutes since our café table got smashed into kindling I must have burned a zillion calories.
Lousy Driver reaches the top with me hot on his heels. All the sightseers turn and gawk as we barge out of the stairway like we’ve been belched out of hell. My opponent runs along the observation deck with Le View on the left and Le Gift Shop on the right. Past the shop, he screeches to a halt in front of a narrow metal door marked
seulement employé
. It’s a service closet or something. He rips the door open, tears his blazer off, then reaches into the closet and hauls out a big backpack.
I’m glad comming doesn’t take any breath. “Trick, our hostile’s got a bag. I think he’s going for a weapon.”
I expect the jackass to turn and face me, but he doesn’t. He runs the other way and pulls the backpack on. I bolt after him. He fiddles with the straps of his pack and accelerates straight for the edge of the deck. Finally it dawns on me what he’s up to. He gathers his body like a spring and jumps over the safety fence into thin air.
“Trick, he’s got a parachute!”
“Let him go. We’ll catch him when he lands.”
But before I can process what Patrick says, I leap over the fence and hurl myself into the cool Paris morning. I’m so hopped up on speed I have time to flash a V for victory sign to some camera-firing tourists on my way over the fence. They’ll have a great time with that snapshot back home: “Here’s a picture of us at lunch. Oh,
and here’s a picture of a crazy French girl who chased her boyfriend right off the top of the Eiffel Tower.”
We are
really
high. For some reason it feels higher than when I’ve jumped out of airplanes. The enemy operative arches his back to control his speed, but I do not. I dive-bomb straight at him. He’s about to pull his parachute release when I catch him from behind.
I shriek
“Gotcha!”
as I wrap my legs around his waist and claw my way underneath his body so that I’m in front of him. My left hand pulls the D-shaped handle on the front of his skydiving rig. His chute bursts out of the pack while I grab his shoulder straps. The canopy pops open, and we decelerate from 130 miles per hour to less than 20 in only two seconds. My legs slip off Lousy Driver’s waist, and my hands lose their grip on his straps. I stab the fingers of my right hand in behind his collarbone to hang on. The agent lets out a monster scream. I swing my legs back around my ride’s waist as his blood flows around my fingers.
The poor slob can’t knock me off him because he’s so exhausted from the run up the tower. He’s also in shock. Nobody expects someone to reach right into his body and manhandle his skeleton.
Since the two of us are using the same parachute, we sail down quickly, headed for a small park. He still hollers in pain, but with less oomph, like he’s about to pass out. Before we land, I hoist myself up so he’ll take all the impact with his legs. There’s a chorus of crunches and snaps as his legs turn into calcium kindling. I land on top of him while the chute settles around us like a bed-sheet. I slither out from under it. Trick runs up while I souse my bloodstream with Kalmers to bring my pulse down: 240 beats per minute is dangerous, even for me.
“Oh, Jeez, Scarlet, is he dead?”
“No, he’s passed out. But you’d better make like a medic. I kinda tore him open.”
“Crap,” Patrick mutters as he opens up his bag of tricks. “He’s probably gonna bleed to death.”
“Hey!” I yell at him. “How about a ‘Good job’? I just apprehended a modified competitor in mid-fucking-air!”
Trick pulls bandages out of his bag. After a moment he grins. “That really was terrific.” He looks up at me. “Great job, Hot Stuff.”
“That’s better,” I say. “Let’s get out of here.”
Patrick looks around, “I’ve got a ride on the way.” An ambulance barrels up the street and turns into the park. Two burly guys jump out, pick up the unconscious hit man, and stuff him into the back of the ambulance. Trick and I hop in with him. There’s a Med-Tech in the back. She nods at the two of us as she straps my victim to a gurney. The burlies return to the front of the ambulance, turn the vehicle around, and roar back down the street. This all happens very quickly. By the time the local cops arrive, we’ve disappeared into the Left Bank’s warren of side streets.