Enemy One (Epic Book 5) (98 page)

Halfway down the slope, Logan began fiddling one-handedly with his helmet comm while holding Esther with the other. As soon as the frequency he was looking for was set, he began shouting into his mic.

From just behind him, Natalie asked, “What are you doing?”

Pausing mid-comm, he shouted back to her, “Calling in a favor!”

“A favor? From
who
?”

“Kenji,” said Logan into his comm, “this is Logan Marshall! Remember when I told you one day I’d need help? Today is that bloody day!”

Natalie held her hands out to maintain her balance as she moved downhill. “You know people in
Atami
?” she asked, referencing the city they were approaching.

“I know people who know people in Atami!”

“Since when?”

Bullets zinged past Logan’s head as he re-gripped the wildly flailing Esther. “There’s a lot you don’t know, Nattie!”

*
      
*
      
*

Tasman Sea

South Pacific Ocean

THE SUPERWOLF’S ENGINES screamed as the sleek Advanced Tactical Fighter cut through the cloud tops, moonlight reflecting off its silver wings as it weaved back and forth across the night sky. For the past sixty minutes, Tiffany had been playing a game of cat-and-mouse with two mixed squadrons of Superwolves and Vindicators—one from
Nagoya
and the other from the newly-christened base in
Sydney
. Despite her best efforts to stay out of missile range, it was impossible to completely avoid the almost two dozen aircraft that were after her. Just the same, Tiffany’s game had been a defensive one in which full throttle was employed as often as possible. So far, it had kept her alive despite some frighteningly close near misses with her adversaries’ javelin missiles.

As per mission parameters, Tiffany had maintained full radio silence with the ground ops team in Japan throughout her flight, though the EDEN radio on board her Superwolf had allowed her to eavesdrop on—and occasionally taunt—the pilots who were pursuing her. Diving through the clouds toward the ocean far below, Tiffany once again queued them up. “C’mon, boys, you’ve gotta give me something better than that! I’m about to fall asleep over here!”

Her hazel eyes on the radio, the blond pilot raised a brow when she saw the aircrafts nearest her break off their pursuit. Her bewilderment only intensified when the others in the two respective squadrons mimicked them. “Uhh,” she said over the mic, “what, is this getting boring for you guys, too?” As every actively pursuing aircraft about-faced to leave, Tiffany muttered confusedly off-comm, “Seriously, guys, what the hell?”

Suddenly, approaching at Mach-4 from the north, a new, lone Superwolf made its entrance. Keeping her eyes on the display, it was plain to see that the solitary fighter was on a direct intercept course with her, while all the others were leaving. “O-kay,” she said curiously, queuing up the oncoming Superwolf. “Feelin’ brave, buster?”

The channel crackled, and the voice of the approaching pilot came through. It was a voice as crisp and clear as it was utterly unconcerned. It was one the Valley Girl—and all pilots—knew well. “Hello, Tiffany.” The blonde’s eyes widened behind her flight helmet as a chill struck her spine. “I am Sin.”

Tiffany looked frantically at the radar screen, honing in on the identification marker above the Superwolf, truly paying attention to it for the first time. Recognition was instant. Lifting her head to stare at the expanse before her, she held her breath.

Sin. A call sign that struck fear even into the hearts of those privileged—and superior—enough to fly alongside him. It was a reference to supreme arrogance. The kind of arrogance needed to defy God with reckless abandon. To reject a freely-given blessing. To slay the albatross.

Mariner.

“Oh, veck,” Tiffany whispered. Swallowing hard, the blonde cleared her throat and shakily replied, “I’m, uhh…I’m Sapphire.”

“No. You’re not.”

Tiffany’s hands were shaking. A lump formed in her throat as she gripped the joystick tighter. Her palms moistened.

“Call signs are earned,” Mariner said. “You have earned nothing. You’re just a girl in a plane.”

Jon Mariner was the squadron leader of the
Flying Apparatus
. The Vector Squad of the sky. And he was their Klaus Faerber. The Flying Apparatus didn’t just annihilate Bakma Couriers—they embarrassed them. They made complex maneuvers look pedestrian. They anticipated like they were telepathic. Jon Mariner was the number one pilot in the world—and numbers two through twenty were under his authority.

Tiffany had a natural gift for flying. She made flying an “art,” as her Academy instructors put it. But against Mariner, she’d be lucky if she lasted a minute.

Tiffany tried to push the throttle, but it was already pressed to the wall. “Okay, look, I—”

“I order you to surrender your aircraft to the nearest EDEN facility.”

A bead of sweat rolled down the blonde’s forehead. Her heart was thumping to the point where it was getting hard to breathe. “I’m sorry, I…I’m not going to do that.” She felt like she was about to pass out.

The faintest of pauses occurred before Mariner replied. “I was hoping you wouldn’t.” A second later, the connection closed. The speed of Mariner’s Superwolf increased from Mach-4 to Mach-5.

There was nothing Tiffany could do to escape him. Even if she dramatically altered her trajectory, Mariner was coming in too fast, at too aggressive an angle, to outrun. In seconds, she would be in missile range. Angling the joystick down hard, she sent the Superwolf on a screaming dive toward the ocean.

She had to get low. It was her only chance. She could outsmart his missiles that way—use evasive maneuvers to send them plowing into the waters below. Eyeing the radar again, she watched as Mariner drew within javelin striking distance. But no javelins were fired.

Leveling off just above the water, Tiffany hit the afterburners. Mariner, directly behind her, did the same. Entering firing range for short-range trident missiles, the elite pilot once again did not fire. He was coming in with his guns.

Climb!
With missiles apparently not part of Mariner’s plan, it was the first thing that came to Tiffany’s mind. If she could draw him into a vertical scissor, or a climb that ended with an Immelmann, or a reverse, or
something
else that she could think of while her mind raced in a panic, then maybe she had a chance to outmaneuver him. Perhaps he’d be overconfident, or underestimate her ability. Perhaps a roach would crawl across his cockpit window. All of it made the chance worth taking. Holding her breath, Tiffany pulled back hard on the stick as her Superwolf curled skyward. “Come on, come on!” she screamed, looking back for Mariner to pursue. But he didn’t. Mariner’s Superwolf just went streaking past her, making no effort whatsoever to go vertical. Shocked at his lack of aggression, Tiffany’s mind blanked as to what she should do next. She had so many options. She had
all
of her options. Why would he…?

Mariner’s Superwolf rotated sideways, curling into a hard vertical turn, condensation streaking off the fighter’s wingtips. He was coming around to attack. But why now? Why let her achieve enough distance to pick and choose her counter? She could go offensive, defensive, she could try to maintain some sort of stalemate or once again draw him into something. Desperately trying to figure Mariner out, her hand froze on the stick. There were so many options to think about. Against a pilot as elite as Mariner, which one was
right
?

Right then, as Mariner drew within range and opened fire, the horrible truth revealed itself to Tiffany. Mariner wasn’t being elite with his attack run. He was being incredibly, incredibly simple. As Tiffany desperately tried to turn out of her climb and bullets struck the left wing of her aircraft, she realized the mistake he’d forced her to make. It was the most basic mistake in the book.

Overthinking.

She’d been terrified. Her voice was trembling all during their brief exchange of one-sided confidence. Mariner knew she was afraid of him….so he didn’t even try. He just let her panic and defeat herself. All the while that she’d been thinking, Mariner had been
doing
.

And now Tiffany was done.

A spray of bullets lit up her fuselage as Mariner streaked past her. Seconds from dying in a fiery explosion, Tiffany took the only option she had left. She hit eject. The canopy popped open, and Tiffany was rocketed into the sky, spinning like a top until her parachute activated, at which point physics took over. Jolted into a natural falling position, Tiffany grabbed the sides of the parachute ropes as they burst open and the glide down began. Looking behind her, she watched as the fiery wreck that had just been her aircraft plummeted toward the ocean surface.

Rearing back her head, the Valley Girl screamed at the top of her lungs. She could have had him. She could have
had
him! Had she faced him head on, had she not sounded like she was coming apart at the seams, then maybe, just maybe, their fight could have been fair. But there was nothing fair about destroying herself. It felt like being cheated. It felt wrong.

Like a sin.

Tiffany plunged into the water. Wrestling out of her harness, then out of her gear, she grabbed hold of the floaters that were built into the ejection seat. With a free hand, she pulled off her helmet. With ocean waves lapping past her, she watched as the bright spotlight of a Superwolf appeared, illuminating her as she drifted helplessly in the twilight, a fallen feather in the waves. Mariner’s Superwolf just sat there, hovering above the ocean surface like a predator staring down its prey. She wished he’d just shoot her, but knew he wouldn’t. She was too valuable. It would only be a matter of time until an EDEN transport would be there to retrieve her.

As she expected, the wait did not take long. Barely ten minutes after she’d hit the water, a Vulture from
Sydney
arrived, its rear bay door opening to allow a diver to leap out and secure her. Reeled out of the water like a fish, Tiffany Feathers was taken into custody.

*
      
*
      
*

Atami, Japan

At the same time

ATAMI WAS AGLOW, the pulsing red and blue lights of law enforcement cut through by streaks of orange gunfire from within the city limits. As the drenched and battle-torn outlaws came out of the sloping forest, they found Atami at war with itself, the police who would have otherwise been there to capture them forced to draw their attention somewhere else—to the various cars, vans, and SUVs that had pulled up to skidding halts to open fire on them. These reinforcements were not Nightmen. They were not outlaw sympathizers. They were outlaws, themselves.

Yakuza. The Japanese underworld, rising from the depths of one of their largest founding cities to do what organized crime syndicates did best: subvert the law. As the survivors of the ground ops team scrambled for cover, they found it in a pair of black SUVs that bashed through gates and police barricades to meet them. As the vehicles’ doors opened, the Japanese men within beckoned the escapees inward. No one questioned why the Yakuza were there or how Logan Marshall knew them. They simply piled into the pair of vehicles, the doors slamming shut behind them as the SUVs tore off into the night city.

Back at the Vector drop site, Judge Leonid Torokin listened as the other half of their operation—the one taking place on the other side of the planet—came to its successful conclusion. He listened as thousands of miles away, the order to drop the bombs was issued. With that order, the last bastion of hope for the Nightman sect—their hidden facility at Chernobyl—had been reduced to a pile of smoldering rubble.

The Nightmen had officially been stomped out.

Despite his strong urge to, Torokin never once looked back at Scott in the troop bay of their V2, nor did he spare a glance to Todd Kenner, the uninvited guest of Klaus Faerber who’d somehow managed to be the one to capture the outlaw leader. Whether it’d been Todd or Klaus’s idea to involve the ex-Vector didn’t matter. Todd had just apprehended the most wanted man in the world, and if for no other reason than to be thanked, he’d be taking the flight back to EDEN Command with them. The black sheep had forced his way back in.

But at least the day was won, even if a remnant of the outlaw presence had managed to escape into Atami. The head of the snake had been cut off. All that was left was for the body to die.

Hands clasped behind his back, Torokin waited to hear back from the Vectors on the mission. Lisa, apparently, was still holding her stationary position near the train, though he was sure she’d make her way back to them as things wound down. Turning his gaze southward, Torokin’s eyes widened as he caught sight of the first set of returnees. In the middle of them, helmetless, weary, and mud-covered, was Marty Breaux. The Cajun’s chaos rifle was propped against his shoulder, and his eyes were downcast. He looked anything but like a soldier returning from victory. Had Torokin missed something while listening to the bombing of Chernobyl?

And where was his nephew?

Slowly, Marty’s head lifted, his green eyes making contact with Torokin’s at long last. Angling his head curiously, the judge posed the question without saying a word. Why was Sasha not coming behind them?

As Torokin’s question had come silently, so did Marty’s answer. Stopping his approach, the Cajun simply stood beneath the rain, water trailing down his face as he stared at the judge. Like the torn-open soldier didn’t know how to proceed.

But he didn’t need to proceed at all.

The proud look of victory on Torokin’s face faded, until all that remained was but a hollow reflection. His lips parting, the judge felt his heart stop.

All across the Izu Peninsula, the impact of the night was felt. It was felt in Atami, where the men and women of the Atami Police Department were fighting for their lives, blindsided by an underground that—for some reason—chose that night to rise to the surface. It was felt inside two black SUVs, where the numb participants in what was supposed to be a final search for truth were staring dead-eyed and silent as they were driven to a place unknown. It was felt in the forest, where a judge sat with his face in his hands, the hands of his comrades bringing no comfort as they stayed on his shoulders. It was felt by the train, where a strange radio silence had prompted an investigation and the discovery of an abandoned helmet once belonging to a sniper from Essex. It was felt in far to the south, at
Sydney
, where a young pilot was being thrust into a holding cell, a victim of her own failing. But more than anywhere else, it was felt in the rear troop bay of a V2, where the most wanted man in the world sat despondent, his wrist handcuffed to a metal bar as he listened to the world unravel around him, powerless to stop it.