The quickest air transport Harry DeWitt could get his hands on was a converted Hercules hauler with rotating jets. If anyone bothered to check, the plane carried a commercial registry, owned by Flying Lyon Inc., an Affiliate member of Midland Superior. And its flight plan, made on a weekly basis, was southbound to Panama and back. Except this time, the pilot was dialing in a new waypoint that was a slight degree off course veering eastward over the Gulf. As the air traffic controller had squawked the digression, the pilots had stayed radio silent. Eventually, they'd make an attempt to get back on the flight path. But not just yet.

Sitting in the cargo bay amid crates of machine parts and parcels destined for a Panamanian plant, the four stowaways were reflective, each in his own dark thoughts. This was Cerberus's last mission, and it wasn't for fief or country. It was personal, and to some, there was a blood score to settle.

Two hours ago before takeoff, the four had been given their last meal. When chow was over, Harry laid out the gear they would need -- neoprene wet suits, a lowly contrast to the hi-tech body armor they had worn in the Caracas drop. And no aqualung. Alex said they didn't need it. The apparatus would only serve to slow them down while adding risk of detection.

"Just drop us a mile out. We'll swim the rest," she said with no intended bravado.

"And what would you do when you get there?" Harry tested her.

"For you, retrieve the CSU. Beyond that -- it's our business."

"I'm curious," Warchild said. "What is our business? I seem to remember we each have our reason."

"Mine is survival," Rotter said. "And the best defense is offense, right?"

"Don't forget the meds," Papa said to Harry. "You can replicate it, for sure?"

"Our labs are on standby. Just need the formulation. Otherwise, we'd waste critical time with trials and errors and we'd never know if we got it right."

"There you have it," Warchild said. "Alive is better. The mission is clear -- retrieve the chip and meds so we can stay alive."

"You're one to speak about leaving someone alive." She scoffed, then hissed at him. "Lockheart is mine. He's bled me and took from me my life. So, don't think of coming between me and mine."

Warchild threw up his arms, not wanting to exert his weight against a stone wall.

"Let's talk gear," Papa said, changing topics. "How are we looking?"

"And weapons," Rotter added, relieved that he did, rubbing his palms together.

"I got just the thing, SMGs. Clean and oiled," Harry said. "They're compact, light, and guaranteed to work wet."

"How many rounds?"

"Thirty per mag," Harry said. "Best I could scrounge up in so short a time."

"Good enough." Papa nodded.

"One last thing -- I was saving this for the right moment," Harry said which got everyone's attention. "It was difficult but I managed to find it -- liquid metal. For those who prefer CQB."

"It adds twenty pounds to our body mass," Alex carped. "Makes the swim that much harder." She didn't want to say in front of them she was feeling weaker than usual, accompanied by recurring aches and shortness of breath as if ravaged by influenza.

"You prefer to be without?" Warchild said, raising a carping eyebrow.

"I'll take mine if you don't mind," Rotter said. "As a backup."

"Course I will." Alex shrugged.

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Papa sat with the doc first. "How's Bonnie?" He asked as the physician administered the injection.

"She's fine. Keep your arms up," the doc replied while pumping four hundred cubic centimeters of the metal compound into the reservoir slit under Papa's armpits. He then charged and tested the firing electrodes in Papa's biceps.

While Papa was getting his metal injection, the rest of the team made final checks to parachute backpacks, ensuring rigging, main canopies, and reserves chutes were packed correctly.

"The plane will hold altitude at thirty thousand by the time you're feet-wet," Harry reminded the group, using his palm as the plane. "You'll freefall to eight hundred feet before deploying your parachutes."

"Standard HALO insertion, got it, old man," Rotter said.

"You have fifteen minutes," Harry continued. "The Herc will hold orbit 'til then after which it will descend and hover over the helideck for pickup. If you're incapacitated or late for pickup, it's a long swim back to shore."

"Roger that," Warchild said.

"That's cutting it close, yeah?" Rotter asked with one raised brow.

"I figured you'd be needing a Submarine Scooter -- you'd cut time to target by half."

"That's decent of you," Rotter said. "I'm good to go."

"Let me check on Bonnie first," Papa said.

Alex said nothing as she stripped without care and squeezed into the wet suit. Zipped up, she stepped into the chute harness, and tighten straps against her shoulders and crotch. Without a word, she grabbed her fins and went outside.

Now sitting in the cargo hold, the ride was reminiscent of their one and only drop to Caracas, the heavy silence, the nagging expectation, her legs shaking from the combat adrenaline. But this time, it was her hands that trembled, not from any chemical boosters but from an onset of a debilitating neurological condition that had appeared only a day ago -- the first sign the death spiral was well underway.

She nurtured the rage, fantasying what she would do once she had him. Would it be quick or slow? How did Camila die? The thought of the acid bath eating that beautiful face choked her windpipe. Slow, very slow. Tears came to her eyes, not sure caused by what, the memory of a life she could have had, or that all of this was coming to an end. And after she relished the cold dish of vengeance, she would die herself . . . dig two graves, Confucius taught. Papa was a fool, she felt sorry for his family. There'd be no meds to stop the legions that were eating them alive. Truth be told, she was fine with it. And it gave her peace.

At the third hour, the copilot made his way into the cargo bay. Too loud to talk openly, he splayed his hand for the group to see -- five minutes before de-pressurization. The Cerberus four began their deep breathing regimen and stretching, filling their blood with oxygen as the copilot returned to his pressurized habitat. They latched themselves for the opening and emptied their lungs.

As the countdown expired, the aft of the Herc cracked open to a black sky, and ear-ripping noise. Alex felt the hard jerk of the decompression, trying to fling out whatever wasn't secured. The depressurization was over in a second as the subzero cold rushed in. The Herc rocked and stabilized. Warning lights flashed on the wall they were over the drop zone.

Weapons strapped tight across their chest, the four unlatched themselves from their seats and penguin-walked aft, carrying the lightweight scooter between them. Papa, the heaviest and tallest, volunteered to carry the cigar-like Diver Propulsion Vehicle hooked to his back. Ready, they stood facing a vast unfathomable inkwell without a horizon.

Green flashed on the wall panel.

Without hesitation, all four raced and flared into the blackness. With no point of reference saved for rushing air, it was difficult to tell whether they were falling or just floating. Even with enhanced eyes, Alex had to rely on her altimeter readouts embedded in the helmet HUD. Reaching terminal velocity after 12 seconds, estimated time to opening was one-three-five seconds, the digits racing down to nil.

At zero time, the ripcord popped, chute deployed, jerking her up violently. Unable to judge the distance to the water, she counted another ten seconds before hitting the chest release button, dropping her into the black water.

Rising to the surface, she tried to get her bearings and locate the others. In no time, she saw them bobbing in the calm waters not far from her position. They swam to her.

"Whew, I missed that rush," Rotter said with a wide grin, bobbing in the water.

"Give me a hand with the DPV, will ya?" Papa said, spitting water from his mouth.

Warchild swam up and freed the dive scooter from his back. "Alright, where the fuck are we, anyone?"

"Cactus One-Five, come in. This is Straydog" Alex called the Herc at thirty thousand feet.

"Straydog, One-Five, reading you loud and clear."

"One-Five, would appreciate a directional assist to target."

"Roger, you're five point three klicks, bearing O-six-five degrees. Do you have it?"

"They dropped us over three miles out," Papa mumbled.

"We'll make do, One-Five. Straydog out," Alex replied. Then to her men, "Just follow your nose, gents, it always knows."

There was a faint odor in the air only they could pick up.

"Yup, 065 is that away." Rotter was the first to detect a scent on a breeze. "I can see the damn diesel trail. That's another reason not to use fossil fuel."

"Alright, clock's ticking," Alex said.

"Twenty minutes is damn tight," Rotter grumbled.

"You just wasted five seconds talking. Let's move."

Warchild powered the DPV and throttled up while the others grabbed on and hung from his belt.