Ping.
Matt raised his head as the ding of the elevator chimed out from underneath his music. His brow furrowed. That was odd. Will was off with Wally on some private retreat, Giselle hadn’t called for him to re-open the balcony, and Jane was on another continent. Was she home early? Had she teed up with Will? That other teleporter, what was his name, Enrique? Was he imagining things? Had the Legion sent someone else?
Matt set his cookies aside and strode frowning over to the security panel next to the front door. He pushed the touchscreen buttons controlling the external cameras, and sure enough the elevator light was on – the lift moving. Matt leaned close, peering at the screen.
Then his heart stopped as the elevator doors opened, and from their depths emerged two, then four, then a dozen heavily armed soldiers.
*
Giselle Pixus whistled as she strode through the streets of Guangzhou marketplace, idly throwing and catching a small Hello Kitty purse full of freshly exchanged yuan. The morning sun was bright and the sky blue and clear, the air around her suffused with the scent of fresh herbs and the cries of stallholders calling to suppliers or shouting instructions at family members and staff across the cobblestone streets. Giselle meandered with a discerning customer’s gaze, thoroughly out of place in her sleek dolphin grey activewear yet unwavering in her confidence as she strolled from storefront to storefront, peering curiously at the produce being arrayed inside. Matt had requested pork buns and broccoli stir‑fried in garlic, but that still gave her, oh, about twelve thousand calories to work with. A thin, hexagon-pattern navy backpack sat flat against her shoulders, currently crinkled and deflated but able to be smoothed aerodynamic and rigid with a button press to keep shape and stability on the run home.
As was always the case whenever she stepped out from Matt duty, Giselle felt a small twinge of guilt, as if her foray into the outside world was shirking some responsibility. But she was being ridiculous. She’d been gone, what, a few minutes? At Matt’s insistence too. She pulled her phone – a Kinetic™ Tempest K10 – from her pocket and glanced briefly at the screen, which showed no new messages. See? He was fine. The apartment was secure.
There was nothing to worry about.
*
“Giselle,” Matt whispered frantically into the phone, “Giselle!”
He quick-dialled the number again and again the call failed to go through. Matt’s eyes flicked to the reception in the upper right corner. No signal. No signal? How was there no signal?! This place had signal out the wazoo, it should never-
As if on cue, the music coming from the wireless speaker in the kitchen fizzled and died.
Crap, Matt thought.
They had a scrambler. Whether superhuman or man-made, some sort of device or ability to block electromagnetic-
Crap.
Matt turned back to the security screen and the secure camera feed. Outside, black-clad soldiers continued assembling. One girl had gone back down in the lift, causing another ding, another light to go on above the doorway inside the apartment. The elevator doors re‑opened and a second group of armed assailants stepped out.
Crap, crap, crap.
The attacking force was both men and women, some wearing black helmets, some just balaclavas. They weren’t armoured in any kind of uniform but a motley array of tactical vests and cargo pants, though predominantly black in colour. Every one of them Matt could see either carried a gun or had one holstered. Even through the fishbowl lens of the camera, that was impossible to miss.
His chest tight, his breathing shallow, Matt’s shaking fingers quietly pressed the button to relay sound.
“-breaching charges-”
“-is that every-”
“-why can’t we just cut-?”
“-don’t know if it’s-”
They army of attackers massed before his door, and Matt’s heart hammered in his chest.
Stall. He needed to stall.
Panic flared across his brain, but before the fear could go anywhere Matt furiously corralled it, instead forcing his fingers to flick rapidly through the audio files on his phone, looking for-
There.
Matt raised his phone to the intercom panel, pushed the microphone button, and pressed ‘Play’.
“Attention dead men,” Jane’s voice rang out from the pre-recorded message, “You are trespassing on private property. You have exactly one chance – one – to turn your sorry asses round and go the hell away before I come out there and annihilate you. This is not a courtesy to you, this is a courtesy to me. We just repainted these walls.”
Outside, the gathering army froze. Frantic heads turned to each other, exchanging glances, wide‑eyed. Matt saw a few take off their helmets, pull up their balaclavas to better look at one another, revealing generally white, worried faces. A few powers flickered and faded.
“-is that-?”
“-I thought you said she was-”
“-supposed to be-”
“-we can’t-”
“Quiet.” A harsh bark, a woman’s voice. “Faces down.” There was a muttering, a shuffling as those who had removed their balaclavas struggled to pull them back into position. One of the soldiers, the closest to the door, removed her own helmet to reveal a freckled, mid-forties woman with a shock of short hair bleached blonde. She peered around cautiously, eyes tracking over every inch of the cramped landing, the reinforced door, until her gaze found the camera. Her eyes narrowed.
Matt scrolled furiously to the second recording.
“You think this is a game?” Jane’s voice snarled from the phone, “You think I’m gonna go easy on you? This is my home. You take one more step forward, and your families will be burying you in doggy bags.”
The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
Again, the soldiers on the outside flinched. Several in the centre exchanged glances, and a few at the back shook their heads.
“Screw this dude-”
“I was promised-”
“Suici-”
“Shut up,” the lead woman hissed. She had wild, sunken eyes and a scar cleft into her left upper lip. She inched closer to the door, getting as close as she could without touching – then she leaned back her head and drew a long, deep sniff.
“I don’t smell her,” she muttered. Suddenly, the woman spun back to face her comrades.
“It’s him. It’s only him. Our info’s good. Go, quickly, get the door.”
Inside, Matt’s face paled and he frantically flipped through his phone until he reached one of Azleena’s custom programs. Load, damn you. LOAD.
Outside, there was more murmuring. The woman in front continued to glare, and slowly the faces and postures of those behind her began to harden, the eyes of his attackers turning once more towards the door.
Come on come on come- yes! The program opened. Matt’s trembling fingers pressed onto the big red round button to record.
“Your info is not good,” he snapped – but it was not his voice that came out of the phone’s speakers but Jane’s. A custom voice modulator. “Your info is dog-crap. You want to sniff something, Marine-wife Barbie doll? How about you take a real deep breath when I rip off that peroxide-soaked head of yours and shove it four feet up your salon-bleached ass?”
Crap. Not so intricate. Jane mainly just threatened and swore at people. Matt leaned back to the phone voice modulator and added in a bunch of curse words for good measure.
“I am a hundred percent serious,” he continued, “You idiots think you’re the first group to find this apartment? You’re actually the third. You know where the first two are? Some vacant-ass patch of the Pacific Ocean, their spines about a hundred miles from their assholes, probably wishing they listened, and with none of you other morons ever knowing their names.”
Come on Giselle, he urged mentally, come on.
On the camera screen in front of him, Matt saw his words take effect. The blonde lady flinched, her eyes wild like someone had spat in her frappuccino – behind her, he saw several other attackers shake their heads, retreating a few steps back from the door.
“Screw this man,” said one, a shorter (what sounded like a) man carrying some sort of hunting rifle, “She’s here. We gotta run, we gotta-”
“Nobody’s running!” someone else snapped, but a second later the first guy’s sentiment was echoed by another.
“I’m out, I’m not killing myself, I’ve got kids-”
“Don’t! Move!” hissed the blonde woman, but it was too late – someone pressed the button to the elevator, and when a second later the lift opened three people crammed themselves and their weapons inside. Ignoring their comrades’ howls of protests, they frantically hit ‘door close’ and a few moments later had disappeared. The elevator dinged going down. Back in the apartment, Matt’s heart skipped a beat.
“Wow,” he continued, drawling in Jane’s dulcet tones, “Guess there goes half your collective braincells. Well, I spy with my little eye three less dead men out there then I did two seconds ago. Should we have one last go at getting out of here without your children being orphans, or do I really have to get intestines on my favourite pyjamas?”
The hall outside fell into frozen silence. Matt’s eyes burned into the screen so hard it felt like they were going to explode. A bead of sweat dripped down his forehead.
“Can someone check DawnWatch?” a tall, lanky figure in a balaclava and black skateboard helmet murmured.
Someone shuffled beside him. “My phone’s not working.”
“Idiot, we’re jamming the-”
“I thought that was just him!”
“How could it be just him?”
The hall descended into argument, a few of the attackers holstering their guns to access phones or gesture at their companions. A few pushed at those with who they were arguing, and to Matt’s excitement for a moment it almost looked like a full-on fist‑fight was about to break out right in front of his door.
Yet at the forefront of the assault the blonde scar-lipped woman remained silent. As the noise behind her rose, her eyes narrowed.
“Too much talk,” she whispered. And then to Matt’s horror, she looked up, directly into the camera – directly into his soul.
“Shut up,” she commanded, and despite the rabble her words seemed to carry. The bickering died down. The black-clad woman took a single step, tilting her head; then turned back to her companions.
“There’s been too much talk,” she said, “She’s not here, otherwise she’d have come out by now. It’s a trick, he’s trying to stall us. Get the charges, now; get us inside.”
The muttering faded, the mob exchanged glances – but a moment later there was a flurry of nodding, and suddenly the attackers were moving with renewed purpose, shuffling some of their number closer to the door. Matt felt bile building in his throat. That had him bought less time than he’d hoped.
Second hurdle.
“Stop.” He returned the phone to his pocket and faced the intercom screen square on, his finger on the microphone. His own voice rang out, unadulterated. On the screen in front of him, the attacking army paused. Two dozen pairs of eyes turned to stare up at the camera. “Stop.”
There was a brief, breathless silence. Then:
“Matt Callaghan.”
“One and the same.”
“You should open this door.”
“I’m not going to do that.” He paused. “Jane’s on her way.”
Even through the screen, the blonde woman’s eyes glinted like shards of obsidian in firelight. “I doubt it. You’re a liar.”
“This time I’m not.”
“I’m sorry kid. This isn’t personal.”
“Feels pretty personal.” He paused again. “You should turn around and leave.”
The woman sneered. “We’re not going to do that.”
“Well,” Matt said, “Then you should know, there’s an anti-personnel mine embedded above the doorframe, ready to go off the second someone touches it.”
The conversation slid to a shuddering halt. Outside, despite them wearing masks, Matt thought he saw several faces pale.
The blonde-woman flinched, but after a few seconds managed to recover.
“Lies.”
“You sure about that?”
“Yes. You’re a liar Matt Callaghan. No good will come of you.”
“I don’t always lie,” Matt replied conversationally, leaning one arm over the intercom, “I didn’t lie to Klaus Heydrich.”
“Yes you did.”
“What did I tell him?”
A pause.
“What did I tell Klaus Heydrich? Come on, don’t play games with me, you all saw the interview.”
“If you take my blood, you’ll lose.”
“Wasn’t lying to him then. Wasn’t lying to you now. There is a high-yield, outward-facing Claymore pointing directly at each and every one of you, and the second anything happens to that door it’ll blow apart every one of you racist hicks.”
The blonde lady scowled. “We’re not racist.”
“Oh so what, I personally wronged you?”
“Human isn’t a race.”
“Human’s literally the original race you idiot, what were you home-schooled by a cat?”
“We don’t have time for this,” a stocky man behind the blonde leader interjected, “He’s bluffing, break down the goddamn door!”
“I’m not bluffing.”
“Does anyone have x-ray-”
“Is Lady Dawn actually-”
“I’m warning you-”
“Just breach it, go!”
Suddenly, one of the masked attackers pushed forward. He shoved the blonde lady aside, raised an arm which turned to bright jagged stone, and with a roar slammed his bare fist into the door.
There was an immediate crack, an electric howl as the man’s body hurtled back into his companions. Most managed to yelp and dive out of the way, but a few were not so lucky. The terramorph’s body slammed into the far wall, pulverising two other black-clad figures. The crushed men lay gurgling, twitching in a pile of blood and broken limbs beneath four hundred pounds of flesh-turned-rock.
Matt pressed the intercom.
“Oh yeah,” he said mildly, “It’s also electrified.”
A moment of horror passed as the attackers processed. Then-
“EMP-”
“It won’t open-”
“That’s it!” cried another man, turning back to face the door, ecstatic, “That’s all of his defences, go now, go now!”
“Don’t,” Matt warned, voice raising in alarm, “I’m serious, don’t touch it.” He took a step back, the microphone staying on. “I’m serious, I’m not joking about the Claymore.”
Outside, the attackers swarmed, oblivious to his warnings. Matt took another step back from the screen, looking on in horror as hands moved to satchels, as blocks of plasticine-like explosive telekinetically floated out and onto the edges of the door.
“You’re killing yourselves!” he cried.
“Don’t listen to him!”
“This is suicide!”
“Blow it! Blow it!”
Matt turned and ran. He vaulted over the marble island to the other side of the kitchen and huddled down in a ball, back pressed against the benchtop, clutching his ears with his hands.
Outside, someone pressed the detonator.
BOOM