Raymond gazed longingly across the dusty plains at the towering mountain range in the distance. Mirages played with his perception as the first rays of the sun stroked the dry desert floor. He could just make out the snow-capped peaks in the early morning light stretching from one corner of the horizon to the other. The mountains seemed to float above the desert. He wished he was climbing one of those peaks. For Raymond, mountain climbing was therapy, his only thought was about the next step, the best route to the top, himself and only himself.

His mind was usually congested with plots, plans, processes, and decisions to make. Being on his own at the mercy of the elements was always a thrilling experience. A rock-slide, an avalanche, a sudden storm could mean instant death. He liked to climb by himself, it was the closest thing he had to spirituality. When he was alone on the mountain he felt the nature as an unpredictable energy, a tangible thing, an autistic animal with wild mood swings. Compassion and malevolence in equal measure.

Raymond had climbed all around the world, throughout Europe and Asia but never in South America. The Andes had some amazing peaks. The mountain range was the backbone of the continent, a jagged line of broken pinnacles, treacherous precipices, and towering peaks. The longest continental mountain range in the world stretching over seven thousand kilometres through seven different countries. The gnarly spine of a sleeping behemoth. Raymond hoped he could find time to lose himself in the alpine wilder-lands while he was here in Chile.

The distant peaks were just turning pink as the first anaemic rays of sunlight hit them. Raymond sighed and walked slowly to the car. It was time to head back to the chicken farm. His associates were waiting, and they remained silent as he got in and they drove into the sunrise. They stopped the dirty old four-wheel drive at the verge of a low ridge. They all got out and walked to the top of the ridge without conversation. Below them on a dusty plain was a collection of massive flat sheds that made up the Oportuno Polo chicken farm. It was just before six am and there was a steady stream of workers making their way on foot towards the farm. Raymond and his companions lay down, got the binoculars out and waited.

They could faintly hear the distressed cacophony of hundreds of thousands of clucking chickens. The owner of the farm, Mr. Hector Valdez had a terrible record on workers’ rights. He employed well over a thousand people at this mega farm, one of twelve he owned and paid them a pittance. He also had a terrible record on animal welfare. Chickens stuffed into tiny cages, force-fed growth hormones, fully grown and ready for slaughter within weeks. The conditions inside the chicken farm were appalling. The chicken shit was only cleaned out when it was overflowing and dumped in a landfill next to the farm. Dead chickens were left to rot in a pit. The heat during the day was intense and there were flies everywhere.

Hector Valdez was currently lying on a mound of chicken shit, handcuffed and feet tied together. He was secured at the bottom of the lower rack of cages in the biggest shed. They had kidnapped him as he was leaving an expensive restaurant. Paid off the call girl he was with and took him to his farm. It was easy enough to break in as security was non-existent. They force-fed him the hormone ridden chicken feed for a couple of hours then left him there, cable tied to the bottom of the dripping cages. That was Saturday night and the Monday morning shift was about to start. Valdez had been there about thirty hours. They didn’t bother gagging him as no one would hear him over the pandemonium of chickens. He could scream as much as he wanted although he would soon find out it would be safer to keep his mouth closed than risk swallowing mouthfuls of toxic chickenshit.

They had a long debate over the best course of action with Valdez. They didn’t want to kill him, just teach him a lesson. They told Valdez if things didn’t improve for both the workers and the chickens at his farms then they would be back to teach him an even harsher lesson. Raymond had his doubts as to whether this would make Valdez change his ways. Valdez was rich and arrogant. An overbearing bully who was used to getting his own way. Raymond was hopeful the lesson may have been learned, as an ambulance appeared over the hill

“He might be dead, drowned in chicken shit. What a way to go.” Raymond grimaced at the thought.

They all looked through their binoculars as the medics pushed the gurney out through the crowd of workers. There was no sheet over him, but Valdez was not moving. It was hard to tell if he was alive or dead as he was covered from head to toe in the purulent yellow excrement.

Raymond and his three associates lay in the dirt as the sun rose. They didn’t know each other well, only having met to organise the job on Valdez. They would soon go their separate ways.

“What next?” said the man next to Raymond.

“There’s no shortage of targets,” said Raymond. “Polluters, corrupt business people and human rights abusers, they have to prioritize.”

“I hope they don’t send me undercover again,” the man said. “I hate pretending to be one of those wankers.”

“You must get some satisfaction when you finish a mission? Like now,” said Raymond nodding at the scene in front of them.

“Yeah, it feels good to teach the likes of Valdez a lesson, but do we actually make any difference?”

“It’s hard to tell because we are anonymous, but you see the news about other eco-terrorist attacks. I like to think people’s attitudes are changing but there will always be greedy bastards who need re-education, there will always be a need for Black Robin, it’s a war man. A war to save the planet and we are soldiers on the front line.” said Raymond.

“What made you this motivated?”

Raymond glared at the man next to him. “Both my parents,” he whispered. “Killed by BPI.”

“No fucking way.”

“Mum got run over by a BPI truck back home in the Netherlands, they got away with it because she wasn’t wearing a helmet. And my Dad died of lung cancer, he was exposed to pesticides over the years growing flowers. The cancer was bad, the only cure was a complete lung replacement which is possible, they can 3D print new lungs at BPI private hospitals. But it was too expensive. Dad was dead before I had saved a hundred bucks.”

“BPI are a bunch of bastards, I would love to have a crack at them.”

“You and me both,” said Raymond.

His console chimed alerting him he had been booked on a flight to San Francisco that night. He sighed, no time for mountain climbing. No time for therapy.

They watched as the ambulance in the distance drove off and the workers made their way into the factory. Production would continue.

“Hopefully things improve for them. C’mon time to go,” he said.

Raymond did not enjoy cities anymore. Too busy, too dirty, too many self-obsessed people going nowhere in a hurry. Scuttling around the concrete feet of their towering monuments to excess. But San Francisco was one city he enjoyed more than most.

It was a typically beautiful San Franciscan day when his flight touched down from Santiago. Deep blue skies; still and calm with the ubiquitous sea fog roiling around the harbour. Raymond made his way across the embarcadero to the waterfront restaurant where he was meeting his Black Robin contact. He took a table and waited. These face to face meetings were rare; almost all communication with Black Robin was done via console. He had only ever experienced four meetings in the past with a different contact each time.

This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

He scanned the restaurant and his eyes settled on a beautifully aloof and frosty looking woman sitting with her back to him at the bar. She was gorgeous with shortcut blond hair and a figure-hugging power suit. He could see her eyes reflected from the inside of her sunglasses. Unblinking reflections danced across her ethereal lenses. She looked serious; she had to be his contact. Raymond was rising from his seat to approach her, feeling more enthusiastic about his new assignment when a firm hand on his shoulder pushed him down again.

“Mr. Raymond Teklenberg I presume? Going somewhere young man?”

A hairy red face was abruptly inches from Raymond's nose. He could smell the alcohol on the man's breath and he could see the burst blood vessels up close. He sat down opposite, unbuttoned his waistcoat, boorishly burped and clasped his fat fingers together across his corpulent belly.

“Drink!” he said. It wasn’t a question.

Raymond looked him up and down again then across to the bar at the blond woman, sighed and said, “yes I think I’d better.”

“Ha-ha, good man! Never trust someone who can’t trust himself with a beer although I think a bottle of Napa valleys' finest Cabernet Sauvignon will suffice today. Waiter!” the man bellowed.

He said his name was John and he had a faint Scottish accent but that was the only information he volunteered about himself. He was over six feet high and looked close to six feet wide. He had a shock of greying red hair and a disturbingly filthy moustache. Raymond assessed him with undisguised distaste.

“Food! We must eat as well; I hear the Dungeness crab here is excellent.”

“If it’s real crab, it’ll be expensive. There’s not many left in the wild out there.” Raymond looked out to sea.

“Ah yes, animals taste much better when they are almost extinct.” John looked at Raymond's shocked expression. “Joking, lighten up Raymond, it takes all sorts to save a planet. Have a drink and try to enjoy yourself. It might be the last time you can relax for a long time.”

John ordered the supposedly wild crab and it did cost a small fortune. Raymond had the printed beef which was excellent. It was difficult to understand John’s attempts at conversation with crab legs sticking out of his mouth. Eventually, when he had wrestled and sucked every morsel of crab flesh from the carapace, he wiped his face and drained his glass.

“Ok Raymond down to business. How do you feel about the company named Benevolent Progress Inc., In particular, Lago Santos and the band of half-human thugs they call the Masama.”

Raymond looked impassively back. “John, if that’s your real name, I assume you’ve done your homework on me and already know the answer to your question.”

John had an intense look about him. The half-drunk mad professor covered in crab juice had gone. The look in his eyes conveyed a gravity Raymond hadn’t noticed before.

“John is my real name, common enough and I do know how you feel about BPI. This meeting is for me to ascertain whether you have matured since the last time you entangled with them and to decide if you are capable of taking them on again.”

Raymond smiled at the thought, he had fond memories of the time he spent in San Francisco after his father’s death.

Raymond partied hard when he first arrived, drinking away the grief. He would get drunk and high every night and started hanging out with some young environmental activists. Fuelled by alcohol and amphetamines, they liked talking nonsense and hatching wild plans. He told them what happened to his parents; how he felt BPI was responsible for their deaths and they hatched a mad plan.

One dark night Raymond and his comrades silently rowed a boat under the wharves where a massive BPI vessel was berthed. They had climbing gear and a lot of luminescent white paint. It took them all night, but they painted the word 'MURDERERS' in five-meter high lettering down the side of the ship. The following evening, they met their friends among the tourists and mingling locals at pier thirty-nine as the BPI factory ship was due to leave. It was an impressive statement and got a lot of attention on all the news channels. Most San Franciscans had no love for BPI and the anonymous ship painters were instant heroes. Raymond basked in the glory but never revealed who was responsible for the graffiti artwork which became world famous overnight.

BPI did not react at all. They did not grant any interviews on the subject and remained silent on the accusatory word painted on their ship. They did not even bother to paint over it. When the ship returned to San Francisco months later, 'MURDERERS' was still there on the side. Faded but still readable. It seemed as if BPI did not care at all, even wearing the label proudly like a badge. Raymond then realized it would take something much bigger to hurt a company that size.

“Our benefactors are concerned at how big BPI has become.” John leaned across the table and stared intently at Raymond. “Because most of their industry takes place on their factory ships out in the middle of the ocean, they don’t fall under the jurisdiction of any one nation. They are so big they are effectively above the law; they monopolize global manufacturing and medical supplies, legal and illegal drugs, and they can charge whatever they want for their products because they have eliminated the competition and there is nothing to stop them growing even bigger. This is bad enough, but the fact Lago Santos appears to be solely motivated by greed and power makes it even worse. His obvious disregard for the environment and humans, in general, make his company a major threat to our fragile planet.”

“John, I know all this. The entire world knows all this, what do you want me to do about it?” Raymond sat back and quaffed his wine.

“I want you to go undercover and infiltrate BPI. Work your way up the hierarchy and earn the trust of those who make the decisions. Then I want you to leak intelligence. Give us information on their operations that we may sabotage them better. Get close to Santos. Close enough that if required, one day you may need to kill him.”

Raymond sat in stunned silence, shook his head, opened his mouth, and closed it again. “Ok, I’m your man.”

“It's not quite that simple.” John continued. “You will undergo intensive training. You will have to become a different person; the type of person BPI could trust. The type of person you would loathe. You will need to go undercover for a long time, possibly years. Gain their trust and learn their secrets with the ultimate goal of getting close enough to the decision makers to do some damage.”

Later that day Raymond was sitting on a bench, bathed in sunshine, surrounded by teeming masses of people. After the meeting with John, he had walked to Market Street from Fisherman’s Wharf. He needed to think. Market was bustling as ever. Business people dressed in sharp matte suits with designer haircuts. Looking important, sharp edges, attitudes, and augmentations with ethereal lenses sparkling behind their wraparound shades.

Raymond saw an advert on the side of a building for the new hex triplet lenses, now being produced with built-in collision alerts after many users had been run over while walking the streets. So immersed in their virtual worlds they had become oblivious to what was happening in the real world. Their simulated domains had become more important than interacting with real people. As Raymond pondered his future he watched the flow of people. Self-centred and vacuous, wherever some people look, they only see themselves.

Ethereal lenses had created a whole new category of psychological problems, it was a total immersion experience. Users became so addicted to living in their virtual worlds they found it difficult to interact with real humans. Reality didn't seem real anymore. Long-term use of ethereal lenses caused psychological problems and extreme myopia. Raymond noticed almost all the business people he saw had a BPI brand logo somewhere on their person. The power-dressed corporate slaves were in total contrast to all the homeless people and beggars that staggered around in various states of desperation and inebriation.

It was impossible to tell their age or gender, or how they had arrived at this hopeless point in their lives. For some reason, they didn't hassle Raymond, although he did not look as if he had any money. Unkempt, short dread-locked hair and an old flannel shirt, he looked in a worse state than half of these beggars he thought with a smile. Anyway, there were plenty of naive and gullible tourists for them to target. He watched an old man stagger and fall to the pavement. Raymond instinctively ran to his aid. He lifted the limp, stinking, weightless body to a seat and made sure he was still breathing.

Raymond thought about his commitment to John. It would mean giving up his current life. Deep immersion in a new identity. Some facial alterations would be required. His body art would be lasered off and replaced with something more appropriate. John had explained that to begin he would be inserted onto a BPI factory ship as an engineer. An alias would be created. This was a big decision, life-changing. Raymond would have to give up everything. His friends and family, his identity. Possibly forever. He would have to become someone he would normally detest and pretend to be enamoured by people he would usually despise. It could be dangerous, even fatal. If he ever let his image slip or betrayed even the smallest facet of his true self to his employers, he would surely end up tortured to death. Raymond did not have to think long. Of course, he would do it. If he was successful, undermining BPI and possibly even killing Lago Santos would be the greatest service to the planet and its people. He messaged confirmation to John and sat people watching. He felt different already. He was now a man with a deadly purpose.