“I should have given you more.”
“You taught me to survive.” She stood and turned to return to the cockpit. “We’ll end this soon. One way or another.”
The tone of her voice sent chills up his spine.
John strapped on his bulletproof vest and pulled his jacket over it. The vest was a modified version of the liquid panels used in his Battlesuit, and while it would not stop a high-caliber round, it could stop a .45 ACP or smaller.
Redman and Taylor Martin were sliding into their own vests and checking their earpieces.
Deion spoke into his throat mic. “Testing, one two. Check. Can you hear me?”
“Loud and clear,” Martin said.
“Roger Dodger,” Redman said.
“John? Can you hear me?”
“You’re less than five feet away,” John said.
Deion glared at him. “That’s not what I meant.”
John sighed. “I’d feel a lot safer in the Battlesuit.”
Deion shook his head. “We can’t have you running around London in that. You’ve got to blend in.”
“I know,” John said. “I just wish we all had Battlesuits. Less chance of someone getting hurt.”
“No one is getting hurt,” Deion said. “This should be a simple mission. We observe and extract, if necessary. Remember, we need our target alive.”
“What if there is more than one?” John asked.
“Thermal imaging shows one body,” Deion said. “The flat on both sides are empty. If we encounter problems, we deal with it.”
“This the right place?” John looked out the van’s side window. “Looks kinda…”
“Shitty?” Martin asked.
“Run-down?” Redman asked.
“Like someone smooshed up the worst parts of Boston and Philadelphia and then set it on fire?” Valerie asked over their earpieces.
Deion frowned. “Thanks for the visual, Val. You’re online to observe, not offer commentary.”
“We should bring Steeljaw on the line,” Redman said, without a trace of humor. “That’d get your panties in a bunch.”
Deion sighed. “We go in, snatch them and grab anything useful, and get them back to Mildenhall to answer some questions.”
John’s chest tightened. He remembered how Deion had questioned him, and he felt sorry for the person they were about to kidnap.
Then he remembered that the person in that apartment was responsible for him killing three men in Switzerland and his sympathy vanished.
“Ready to move,” Martin said.
Redman smiled. “Let’s see if this coon can hunt.”
Martin winked at Redman. “You hillbillies say the sweetest things.”
Redman snorted. “Is it too late to get sent back to Afghanistan?”
John wanted to share in the precombat camaraderie, but he was exhausted. Redman and Martin watched him, and he finally said, “I deserve better than this.”
Deion smirked. “Don’t we all, man.”
Redman nodded, opened the van door, and stepped outside. Martin followed and John counted to three, then got out and joined them. Redman strode across the street and headed for the back of the row of apartments. “I’ll be in position in twenty seconds.”
“Copy that,” Martin said. “Ready to ring the doorbell?”
John picked up the pace. The building was a two-story brick unit with white-trimmed windows and plain wooden doors that were hidden in shadows cast by the setting sun.
According to Valerie’s drone analysis, there was a human on the second floor, surrounded by other heat signatures she identified as server racks.
“John?” Deion asked.
“Ringing the doorbell,” John said. He lunged forward, hit the sidewalk with his prosthetic, and picked up the speed necessary to hit the door with his other foot hard enough to tear the door from the hinges.
The door slammed inward, and John entered the room, drawing his M11 pistol from his hip holster. Martin rushed in behind him and moved to the right, tracking the room for threats.
“Clear,” Martin barked. “Redman?”
A crash came from the back as Redman kicked in the back door and yelled, “Clear.”
There was a single room in the front of the flat. A small television hung from one wall and a worn couch was pressed against the other. Magazines and books littered the end tables, and a black carry-on sat next to the front door.
“Heading for the second floor,” John said. He took the stairs two at a time. Martin followed with practiced ease. John took the right at the top of the stairs and saw a light peeking from the bedroom door.
“Going in,” John whispered, then kicked the door open and rushed inside.
A man in his mid twenties sat in an office chair, and the man turned to gape at him. The man’s brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail, exposing the spiderweb tattoo on his neck. A thick goatee covered his face, and his lips curled up in surprise.
John aimed his M11 at the man and yelled, “Don’t move.”
The man fell out of his chair and held up his hands. “Don’t kill me! I made a mistake. I won’t do it again!”
Martin had his own M11 pointed at the man. “Real tough guy we have here.”
“Is the room clear?” Deion asked.
John glanced around. Racks of servers lined the wall to the right. He pointed to them. “Are these yours?”
The man’s expression changed from scared to baffled. “Who are you?”
John stepped forward and placed his M11 against the man’s temple. “Let’s start over. What the fuck is your name?”
The man swallowed and started to speak, but John rapped the man’s skull with the end of his pistol.
“Ow,” the man said. “What was that for?”
“You were about to lie,” John said. “Don’t. What’s your name? Your real name.”
The man blinked. “Uh…”
Martin searched the man and yanked a brown leather wallet from the man’s pocket. “Says here his name is Patrick O’Mara, Richard Head, and John Bonham. Really? John Bonham?”
“Which is it?” John asked. “Who are we speaking to? And you better not say John fucking Bonham.”
“O’Mara,” the man said. “That’s my name. Patrick O’Mara.”
John shook his head. “You got it, Val?”
“Searching now,” Valerie said. “Richard O’Mara, age twenty-seven. Computer programmer. Runs his own consulting company specializing in network security.”
“You’re a member of the Digital Freedom Alliance,” John said.
“The what?”
John whacked the M11 against O’Mara’s forehead hard enough to leave an angry red welt. “Let’s try this again. You’re a member of the Digital Freedom Alliance.”
O’Mara’s eyes darted from John to Martin. “Yes, I’m a bloody member. Don’t hit me again, mate, or I swear—”
“What?” John asked, finally losing his patience. “You’ll sit there and cry like a little bitch? That’s not much of a threat.”
Some of the fight left O’Mara. “What do you want from me?”
“Why did you force us into a situation where I had to kill three members of Swiss intelligence?”
O’Mara rocked back in the chair. “What?”
“These servers,” John said, pointing to the rack against the wall, “have manipulated the global price of oil.”
O’Mara’s mouth dropped. “That’s…”
“You manipulated the oil market,” John said. “Maybe you had the help of Klaus Holzinger. Maybe you just set him up. You had Katrina Reinemann murdered. Was she onto it? Was Holzinger on to it? Was that what they wanted to tell us?”