Deus Ex: Black Light (25 page)

“Do I get a weapon?” Jensen held up the arm with the inhibitor bracelet. “And what about this?”

Jarreau smiled. “I’m not stupid, Jensen. Consider yourself an observer, not a participant.” He walked off toward the gathered team.

The steel index finger of Vande’s right hand prodded Jensen squarely in the chest and she lowered her voice so only he could hear her. “He’s taken a shine to you. That’s a rare failing on his part, one that I don’t share.”

“And yet you seem so warm and friendly.” Jensen’s deadpan reply didn’t land.

“You get in the way out there, do something I don’t like, look at me funny… I’ll make you regret it. All I care about is getting that tech off the grid. You don’t matter to me, clear?” Vande stalked away before he could offer a reply.

Magnet’s gold eye shields glittered in the dimness of the vast hangar, and he ran his flesh-and-blood hand over his shorn scalp, sweating a little despite the cool of the night. He stalked past the rest of his boys, all of them alert, a lot of them chemically so, every man with a shottie or an assault rifle. This was the last step of the job he’d got the Motor City Bangers involved in, and the gang’s top dog wasn’t about to let it come apart at the end. This had become a personal thing, and his boys needed to see him bring it home.

They’d already lost good soldiers to this shit, some dead and some in jail. Cali’s arrest was the one that cut him the most; his little cousin, the one he’d looked out for all this time, the bastard had rolled the moment five-oh threw him in a cell. Magnet was all kinds of angry with him, with goddamn Wilder and that other asshole who’d been messing with the plan. It was getting in the way of what he wanted, which was the cold hard cash that red-headed witch was promising.

The past year had been a bonanza for the MCBs, starting with the end of their arch rivals in Derelict Row and growing by the month as they took control of more and more of the unpatrolled precincts of the city. But Magnet was smart enough to know that they were in danger of getting spread too thin. He needed money to solidify his hold on the outer wards of Detroit, money for guns and new recruits… and this deal would provide it, as long as all those motherfuckers kept their distance.

“Yo, Mag.” Mano, a lanky Hispanic banger from Mexicantown, came toward him, cradling a vintage AK-74. “It’s time, boss. I think I seen ’em coming.”

“Oh yeah?” Magnet followed him back to the hangar’s massive doors, which sat open just wide enough for a man to fit through.

He paused on the threshold, glancing back into the dim interior. In the middle of the open space, an irregularly shaped cargo container sat on an electric jack, waiting to be picked up. Inside, the unit was packed with almost the entire haul of gear the MCBs had stolen from the Sarif Industries sites around the city – minus a few choice pieces taken by Wilder and a couple of Magnet’s lieutenants. The gang leader just saw it as dollar signs. The sooner he was shot of the hot augs, the better.

Stepping out into the night air, his nose wrinkled at the ever-present stink of jet fuel, and Magnet followed Mano’s raised arm to where the other man was pointing. There, out over the top of the distant North Terminal complex, was a cluster of indicator lights dropping toward the far runway. A black shape like a manta ray moved against the low cloud. He sneered at it.

“That them?” asked Mano.

Magnet didn’t answer, turning back into the hangar. “Eyes up,” he shouted. “Get these doors open. We be done with this shit soon, boys.”

* * *

The Task Force VTOL landed firmly on the helipad across from the de-icing pans where the big airliners were sprayed down in the winter months. The hatches on the side dropped open and Jensen was the last out, letting Jarreau’s people deploy in quick, careful order.

He glanced around, taking in the territory. It was a smart move on the part of the smugglers, making the trade in the middle of an active civilian airport. They were bound to be watching the terminal buildings by remote for any sign of an increased police presence, and the fact that there were four active runways operating out of the area meant that aerial drones and flyers like the VTOL couldn’t loiter without being spotted.

The Task Force aircraft had got past that hurdle by using some kind of electroactive pigment on the fuselage, which shifted the VTOL’s usual matte black coloration to the nondescript yellow and white livery of an XNG Shipping transport. Parked out on the edge of the airport apron, they were down as close as they dared get to the hangar where the MCBs were congregating.

“Move out,” hissed Jarreau, and the squad broke into two groups, each slipping across the runway in the pools of darkness between the landing lights. Jensen kept in step with the team he’d been reluctantly assigned to. Leading from the front, Vande made a habit of checking to make sure he was still following them every minute or so.

Vande’s group gathered in the shadow of some parked service vehicles, surveying the hangar from the western approach. There were no lookouts Jensen could see, but every entrance to that side of the building was padlocked shut.

“We go loud on the doors, that’s two, maybe four seconds we lose,” said one of the other operatives. “Not good.”

Vande nodded, unhappy with the evaluation. “We’ll have to cryo the locks before we breach.” She picked out two of the team and pointed toward the doors. Jensen watched them scuttle across and set to work with small liquid nitrogen aerosols on the door mechanisms.

“Copy,” Vande said quietly, reacting to something unheard that Jarreau had transmitted over her infolink. As well as forcing Jensen to wear the inhibitor and denying him a gun, the Task Force had also cut him out of the communications loop.

“Hey.” The operative who had spoken before nudged Jensen with his elbow and placed a lowlight scope in his hand. “By the main doors. See them?”

Jensen raised the monocular to his eye and saw two figures standing outside the hangar. He glimpsed a flash of gold-plated teeth and eyes like bright coins. “Yeah, I got it. One on the left, that’s Magnet, leader of the MCBs. If he’s here, he’s brought his troops.”

Vande cocked her head. “One, this is Two. Observer confirms, Target Bravo is on site.” She listened to something, then nodded to herself. “Roger that. Go on your signal.”

The sound of engines reached Jensen’s ears and he glanced up the runway. A large, smooth-sided form was rolling toward the hangar, strobing lights spilling from its flanks. Slowly, the hangar doors began to roll open.

* * *

The ‘manta ray’ Magnet had glimpsed earlier was more like some kind of whale when seen close up. The hull of the cargo jet was a blended shape, the thick wings tapering out of a bloated body that sprouted tail fins and a pair of massive ducted engines, which continued to spin and idle as the craft pivoted and backed halfway into the hangar.

He couldn’t see a cockpit. The front of the plane was flat and featureless except for all kinds of chunky antennae that gave it a whiskered look. But someone had to be in there, he reckoned. This load was too important to be left to machines to handle.

There was a clatter of metal on metal, and spindly latches along the belly of the cargo plane snapped open and unfolded. With a low whine of hydraulics, an entire mid-section of the jet detached and sagged on to a vacant jack rig with a dull boom. The robot jack rolled it away, and Magnet saw that the disconnected unit was exactly the same dimensions as the waiting container his boys had filled.

He couldn’t resist taking a look inside the plane, and Magnet swaggered across the hangar to peer into the opened fuselage. Three mercs armed with flechette rifles and cold gazes stared back out at him, their guns at the ready. One of them saw the gang leader and hoisted his rifle with a shit-eating grin. “Well, howdy,” he offered. “Who the hell might you be?”

“Could ask you the same, man,” Magnet sniffed. “You working for her too, huh?”

The merc shook his head. “Nah. We’re more like… independent contractors, you feel me?”

“Sheppard,” said one of the other men. “We here to load up or we here to chat? Come on, man, tick-tock.”

“Fair point,” said the merc, and looked back toward Magnet. “You got something for us, bro?”

“Whatever,” said the ganger, and he stepped away, throwing a loose wave at his men. One of them hit a switch, and the self-seeking jack shifted the full container into the space vacated by the old one.

* * *

Jensen used the monocular to sweep the area, but there was no sign of any other faces he recognized. He’d expected Don Wilder to be here for the close out, but the ex-security guard was conspicuous by his absence. That made him a loose end that would need to be tied off – if Jensen got the opportunity. It was equally likely that someone else had already done that job for him.

He still wasn’t a hundred percent sold on Jarreau’s story about Task Force 29 and what they were here for, but for now their goals aligned and that was all Jensen could be certain of.

Vande spoke quietly, relaying new orders. “Surveillance confirms we have detected a positive voice trace for Target Alpha. Repeat, Target Alpha is on site. This is a green light.”

Bravo was Magnet, listed by Interpol as a second-tier objective and a ‘warrant of opportunity,’ but Alpha was the mercenary smuggler known as Sheppard, a prime scalp that Jarreau’s unit were itching to take. Jensen felt the tension crackle in the air as the two teams stiffened like runners on the starting blocks.

Vande looked at the operative who had spoken earlier. “You. Hold here, watch him.” She pointed at Jensen. “He doesn’t move from this spot, copy?”

“Copy,” said the other man.

“I can help,” Jensen told her.

“I don’t care.” Vande made a striking motion with the blade of her hand, and as one the rest of her team burst into motion, loping toward the hangar. He watched them vanish inside.

A few seconds later, Jensen heard the chug of a suppressed weapon – and then from out of nowhere came the metallic screaming of a heavy-caliber autocannon, the vicious thudding crack of anti-material rounds blasting everything in sight.

He saw the sudden flash of ragged holes appearing in the thin walls of the hangar building as wildfire bullets sliced through them and hummed through the air around them. Jensen dove to the asphalt behind the wheel well of a runway tug, but his guardian wasn’t quick enough. Heavy rounds designed to tear open armored vehicles cut into the luckless operative in gouts of bright blood, and he crashed to the ground.

Inside the hangar, all hell was breaking loose, and above the noise the shriek of engines rose high as the cargo plane began to roll back out on to the runway.

Vande followed the point man through the door into the hangar, kicking away the brittle, super-chilled fragments of the lock mechanism where they lay shattered on the ground. The team filed silently into the gloomy interior, directing left and right with jerks of the head and swift, sharp hand gestures.

She had her twinned semi-automatics out and at the ready, the long suppressors attached, the muzzles doubling the length of the silver pistols. Slipping behind a stack of oil drums, Vande chanced a quick look out across the hangar proper.

Clamps along the center of the idling jet were in the process of grasping a cargo module, drawing it up and into place beneath the fuselage. In a few moments, the aircraft would be ready to depart, and she guessed that Sheppard’s pilot would be unlikely to wait around for permission from air traffic control if the shooting started. She looked over her shoulder and nodded at the woman coming up behind her. “Lund,” she whispered, “prep the charge.”

“Copy.” Lund was a muscular Texan woman with bright eyes and an auburn buzz cut, and her primary role was as the squad’s anti-vehicle specialist. She carried a powerful mine template in her backpack with an overcharged EMP unit that had enough jolt to shut down a main battle tank. The plan was to get her close enough to knock out the cargo plane’s electronics before it could escape.

But even as Lund set the charge’s mechanism, Vande had the creeping, sixth-sense feeling that something was wrong. Long, hard-won field experience and raw gut instinct went a long way, and both were gnawing at her.

Despite surveillance getting a positive detection of Sheppard’s voiceprint inside the hangar, she saw no sign of the mercenary or any of his crew outside the aircraft. There were only the Detroit gangers, who milled around, on edge with their fingers on their triggers.

“
Go, go, go
!” Jarreau’s voice whispered in her ear and Vande launched forward as he spoke the last word, seeing other figures in black emerging from behind cover on the far side of the jet, moving to surround the criminals.

The gang members reacted with shock and fury, bringing up their guns as one.

“Police! Drop your weapons!” Vande shouted, instantly aiming at the first two targets in front of her. She let the aiming enhancer in her cyberoptics kick in, allowing it to lock on to both threats at the same time with no loss of accuracy.

The MCB ganger to her right turned an auto-shotgun her way, his finger tightening on the trigger. “Ah, go fu—”

Vande cut him off mid-speech with a single round that went through his left eye and blew out the back of his skull.

“Guns down or you die!” She heard Jarreau bellow the command to anyone who didn’t take Vande’s demonstration to heart, but his voice was drowned out as the cargo jet’s engines began to rev up.

Lund broke cover and sprinted for the flank of the big aircraft, dragging the EMP with her; she never got there.

A hatch behind the blunt nose of the jet clanked open and a ring of black gun muzzles emerged – a multi-barreled autocannon, already whining as it spun up to firing speed.

With a deep, tearing sound like sustained thunder, the cannon opened up on Lund and savagely cut her down. Brilliant streaks of crimson tracer lanced across the hangar’s interior, shredding anything in their path, blasting through the building’s sheet metal walls as if they were paper. The gun’s automatic tracking didn’t differentiate between Task Force members or MCBs – if it was moving, it was a target.