Chapter Text
“Six, confirm placement.”
“Six, copy.” Came almost immediately. On one of the dozen wall-mounted screens, Six’s body-cam, a microscopic device hidden inside the corsage pinned to his tuxedo jacket, showed he had moved into position, lingering by a long table laden down with decadent platters of food and alcoholic drinks of every kind. Despite what had to be a fantastic assortment of smells, Six did not try to partake, merely blended seamlessly with the crowd of partygoers who were clumped around the table, every one of them dressed extravagantly. Six, however, was tasked with tracking the target and paid little attention to anything else.
The ballroom was a riot of jewel and color, an opulent snapshot of the richest of the rich. Crystal chandeliers dripped from the cavernous ceiling, shimmering off swirled marble tile so perfectly polished it was like looking in a mirror. At the center, a glass skylight shaped like an inverted pyramid descended several meters, refracting dots of crystalline light. Across the floor, a live band offered beautiful pieces of classical music. Dazzling white curtains covered the walls, framing magnificent picture windows that allowed a glimpse of the surrounding cityscape without permitting it entry. The whole set-up seemed designed to gather light, throw it in the air, and let it hang.
“Six-A.” Carmichael moved on. “Confirm placement.”
“Six-A copy.” Six-A’s answer came a beat later than it should have, but well within acceptable margins. He reached the roof, emerging into crisp night air as the door swung heavily shut behind him. All around him was the Hong Kong skyline and in front of him was the skylight, a beacon of yellow-white that provided a near-perfect vantage of the ballroom below and spilled light into the black sky above. The view jiggled as he approached, shifted down to reveal an array of equipment: a precision rifle and scope, a harness, belay device, lengths and lengths of high-tensile black rope.
A pause, then, a silence heavy with the unspoken orders for some absent, unspecified third. The same unspecified third who stood at the back of the command center where Carmichael sat, glasses askew, glued to a tablet. Carmichael did not have to see it to know it was split-screen; one half containing a pair of vitals, the other a layout of the ballroom floor and its few adjacent rooms complete with every camera, every security measure, every potential threat accounted for. Should they need it. Or should they need him.
Six-B glanced up and they locked eyes. Six-B was quick to look away, but Carmichael had already seen the resentment. He was unhappy to be left out, worried about his brothers. Whatever. Carmichael didn’t give a shit. Six-B could stew all he wanted, as long as the job got done. As long as that concoction of his worked. It had no small part in the proceedings tonight.
It would. Despite an inability to compartmentalize his emotions, Six-B’s track record was nothing less than excellent. All three of the brothers were stellar in their performances.
It was just too bad that, by the end of the night, all of Sierra Six team would be out of service.
He returned his attention to the feeds.
Six-A had taken up a position on one knee at the very edge of where the skylight sloped downward, the precision rifle nestled securely against one shoulder. Unlike Six, he was not required in the ballroom and therefore wore only a pair of black cargo pants, a black T-shirt, and a black backpack that he’d already set aside. Simple, efficient. He had already put on the harness, its straps tightened around his chest, hips, and thighs. The belay device hung from his waist. Wind whipped at him, jingling the belay device, ruffling his dirty blond hair, tugging at his clothes.
He was so still, kneeling there, that the bodycam affixed to his shirt failed to register the rise and fall of his chest. He hardly seemed to breathe at all. The frame was filled with light, with the miniature figures of people dancing, drinking, laughing.
Even with bonded soft point rounds, it was likely he’d have to take two shots. One to break the glass, another to reach the target.
Extraction would have to happen fast. Security would reach him in less than two minutes. Hence the harness, and the anchor point already driven into the concrete at the far edge of the roof, its metal hook looped through with high-tensile rope and knotted expertly.
The entirety of the security force provided to the ballroom was on Carmichael’s payroll. And were not actually security guards. But neither Six nor Six-A— or Six-B, for that matter— had been apprised of that little fact.
Six continued to hover by the buffet table, maintaining line-of-sight on their target. Now he held a plate in one hand that was half-hidden by the angle of the bodycam, and half-hid that he had one hand in his pocket. On the plate was a slice of vanilla cake that had one bite taken out of it, and a silver fork.
This entire gala was a disgusting display of affluence. Of decadent overconsumption. Some small part of Carmichael was glad to burn it all to the ground. It wasn’t like he’d been invited.
“Execute.”
Six took his hand out of his pocket, let it fall to his side. His bodycam did not catch this, but several of the CCTV cameras dotting the ballroom did. A smooth, subtle movement that, to all appearances, had the viewer doubting his hand had ever been anywhere else.
Then he set his plate of mostly untouched cake on the edge of the buffet table and stepped back, his white suit allowing him a sort of camouflage against the similarly white curtains.
They’d discussed it, Suzanne and Denny, and agreed that Six did not pull off white. But for tonight it served its purpose. Anyone not looking directly at him would be inclined to skip over, to dismiss.
Meanwhile, the ballroom was beginning to fill with smoke, sparkling and, like everything else, white.
That would be Six-B’s diversion, tiny little devices the size of a grain of rice and spherical in nature, which Six had dropped to the floor upon removing his hand from his pocket. Carmichael spared him a glance and saw he was watching the mounted screens, brows furrowed, teeth worrying his lower lip. No doubt waiting to see if this worked.
His anxiety was unfounded. The smoke was a product of whatever science bullshit he did in his lab, and was therefore unlike regular smoke in ways Carmichael didn’t understand and didn’t care to understand. It rose no higher than waist height, swirling with the movements of polished dress shoes and glittering hems.
It was also flavored with champagne and, when breathed in, induced a loopy, euphoric effect not unlike how nitrous oxide worked.
The situation deteriorated rapidly from there. Guests giggled and tripped over each other. Glasses of champagne were spilled and broken, plates of food scattered. Glass shards and roasted chicken littered the floor. A violin— the band’s— squealed and the rest of the music became discordant.
Carmichael spoke. “Six, confirm line of sight.”
“Confirmed.” Even Six, an elegantly embroidered cloth napkin pressed tight over his mouth and nose, sounded lightheaded. Giddy, if one were to squint.
“Mark her now.”
“Copy.” With one hand keeping the napkin in place, Six used his other to once again reach into his pocket, this time withdrawing a laser pointer. Cheap, plain, untraceable because it could be found almost anywhere. Six had picked it up at the corner store three blocks away, ten minutes before he’d infiltrated the building.
He flicked it on. Aimed.
A bright red dot appeared on the left temple of none other than the party’s hostess, the CEO of Starlight Enterprises, among other things. A thin woman bedecked in rare gems, in gold, in wealth so obscene it made her guests look poor as church mice. Her platinum blond hair was piled high and pinned in place with more jewels that glinted and winked in the crystalline light, her skin so pale as to be translucent. She appeared delicate at first glance, frail, perhaps. But Carmichael was intimately aware of her reputation for ruthless recklessness. It extended to her businesses, her lifestyle, the secrets she bought and sold.
She had some of his. So he wanted her gone.
He wanted the Sierra Six team gone, too. Why not kill two birds with one stone?
The red dot painted itself across her temple and less than an instant later a bullet punched through the skylight and the woman collapsed into the smoke, blood spraying from the back of her head.
Carmichael cursed silently and pressed a finger to his earpiece, activating his private channel with the head of security, turning away so Six-B couldn’t read his lips and speaking as quietly as he dared. “Get to the roof, now! Secure Sierra Six-A.”
Of course he hadn’t needed two shots. He was fucking Sierra.
None of the other guests seemed phased by the violence, even as glass rained down on them from above. As blood puddled and congealed beneath their feet.
Six had already slipped from the ballroom and was heading for the stairs. Six-A was abandoning the precision rifle and making for the edge of the roof, where he would clip in and rappel down dozens of feet of sheer glass. He would descend five floors and break into the empty offices there, if the mercenary complement Carmichael ordered to intercept him didn’t finish the job, first.
Several minutes of terse quiet passed in the command room while they waited for the transition. Carmichael cast another look at Six-B, who had returned his glasses to his face and was frowning at his tablet, then frowning at the feeds. Raising a hand to touch his earpiece and speak quietly into it, then frowning at the tablet again. Every few seconds he’d glance at Carmichael out of the corner of his eye.
Finally, he took a tentative step in his direction and, fed up, Carmichael waved a hand at him. “Out with it.”
A pause. The most minute of hesitations, as if he were battling something out in his head. “Something’s wrong.” Six-B said.
Carmichael stood as he approached, feigned interest as Six-B flipped the tablet around to show him its screen. There was nothing on it that he could understand at first glance. Several extensive mathematical calculations, blinking alarms, floor plans, all adding up to something dangerously close to the truth. Carmichael’s fingers twitched at his side.
“The security response is too quick. Someone knew we were coming.” Six-B scrubbed a hand through his hair. “There are only two reasons why someone might know we are coming and not bother to stop us.”
Carmichael’s hand went to his hip. Six-B didn’t appear to notice.
“Someone within their network wanted us to kill that CEO,” he went on, “or the entire point of this assignment was to compromise the Sierra Six team.”
Carmichael’s mind flashed to Six-B’s murmured words into the earpiece. “Have you communicated this with them?”
Six-B shook his head. “No, sir. I–”
Carmichael whipped out his handgun and fired.
Bang!
Six-B dropped, his glasses and the tablet clattering. Several of the staff turned to look, the whites of their eyes glowing in the dim of the room. Most did not; they knew better.
“You were close.” Carmichael returned the weapon to its holster. Straightened the jacket of his expensive three-piece suit. Returned to his seat, sinking deep into rich-smelling leather and crossing one leg over the other. The picture of calm and controlled, despite the dead asset at his feet. “But not quite there. It was both. Have security take care of this.” He said, calm and controlled. Bored, even.
One problem taken care of.
Two remaining.
—
“Six, sitrep.” Six-A had his boots planted against glass. He bent his knees and launched himself again. His body swung into open air and he fell for a few heart-dropping moments before the rope, anchored securely to the roof and taut, brought him back to the glass. Around him were skyscrapers. Below him was the bustling city and its bustling city noises, though he couldn’t hear them; the wind wailed, rushing through his clothes and hair and threatening to steal his words from his mouth, to drown out everyone else’s. He had the volume on his earpiece turned all the way up. “Six-A to Six, sitrep.”
He didn’t actually need a sitrep. But he’d lost contact with Six-B fifteen minutes ago. He let his underlying tension cut into his voice. Tension that had nothing to do with dangling hundreds of feet in the air, legs burning from lactic-acid build-up and the effort it took to remain anchored to the slippery, sheer glass.
Shit, it was cold up there. Goosebumps rose along his bare skin and he shivered as he continued to rappel down the side of the building, covering five or ten feet with each bound.
“Six, copy.” Came the answer, terse. “En route to rendezvous position. Guided assistance unavailable.”
He hadn’t been able to raise Six-B, either. Six-A cursed, a long string of words that were snatched from his throat by the wind.
His thoughts whirled as he continued to descend. He was several minutes ahead of schedule in reaching his rendezvous with Six but Six was already there, shoving the window open and grabbing the straps of his harness to pull him inside, his knees giving out from under him as soon as his boots touched the solid floor.
Adrenaline raced like fire through his veins. He never had re-acclimated to heights after the accident.
“Something-“ he panted, but Six only shook his head, cocking it toward his chest.
The bodycam. Six’s corsage was gone. And with it, their surveillance.
“Right.” Six-A grunted. He unclipped the device from his shirt and tossed it out the window. Then, for good measure, he got rid of his earpiece, too.
(Back in the command center in Washington DC, Denny Carmichael swore out loud and threw his phone to the ground)
“I can’t reach him.” He tried again, glancing up at his older brother. Six’s nose was swollen and his face was spattered with blood. More blood streaked his white suit. Clearly he’d fought his way here.
“We’ve been set up.” Six replied. He offered Six-A a hand up, which he took, regaining his feet with a wince. “Any trouble getting down here?”
Six-A lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug. He’d dispatched the half-dozen or so security guards as quickly and cleanly as possible, leaving them piled on the roof and looted of ammo and easily stashed weapons. Hardly his MO, but the timeline for this assignment was tight and being unable to contact his brother had him dancing a razor’s edge. “They got to me fast. Like, fast, fast. And they didn’t fight like security.”
Six nodded. “Like I thought. They’re not security guards. A wet team, maybe more than one. They were supposed to take us down after we eliminated our target. If I’m right, they’ll know we’re supposed to be here, and when. We have to change and go.”
Six stripped his suit jacket off as Six-A slung his backpack from his shoulders and handed it over, then began disassembling and slipping from the harness, leaving it piled on the floor. Six dug around in the backpack until he found his black tracksuit and converse sneakers while Six-A busied himself emptying his pockets— of which there were many— of ammo and the small daggers he preferred to carry and dumping them on the large conference table sitting in the middle of the room so Six could have his pick. He also pulled his .9mm from its holster and checked it over while Six retrieved his own .9mm from the backpack. Gaining access to the ballroom had required extensive security checks and scans and going armed would’ve blown his cover. How Six-B could guarantee he’d be able to sneak his miniature biological weapons in, he had no idea and knew it would go over his head if he asked.
This process took less than five minutes. Six-A was very consciously aware of the person absent from their dance. None of his knives disappeared on him, stolen and slipped into a back pocket, no surprise prototype devices appeared in his own pockets, to remain a mystery until he chucked it or stuffed it down someone’s throat.
If Six felt the loss as acutely, he showed no sign of it.
“We’re out of time.” Six said suddenly, as a series of heavy footsteps fell out in the hallway, growing louder with each passing second. He readied his weapon, thumbing the safety off and pulling back the slide to load a round into the chamber.
“How many of the fuckers are there? You’d think we’d have gotten them all by now.”
“Can’t be many, but it doesn’t matter. We’ll finish this as we always do. Then we’ll go get B.”
“Court.” They rarely used each others’ names. Names could get them killed, and legally, the people who used to wear those names were dead. Dead and buried and rotted. “Do you think Ryland’s even alive?”
Six’s eyes hardened. His mouth pressed into a firm line. “Yes.” He said. That line softened, just a bit, tilting up into what might be, for Six, a smile. “He’s alive, Colt. And we’ll find him. We’ll find him and we’ll bring him home.”
It was Colt, not Six-A, who opened his mouth to challenge this conviction. How could you possibly know? He’d ask, and it would be Courtland who answered. Courtland who had some reason so practical, so obvious it would lay his fears, that voice in the back of his head that would not, could not, fathom B being dead.
Six snapped his gun up. Fired three times directly at the door. From behind it there was a heavy thump and an instant later the door burst inward, swinging into the adjacent wall with a bam!
Bullets whizzed past him, one coming so close to Six-A’s ear he could hear its hiss. He threw himself to the side, behind the scant shelter provided by the conference table, and palmed one of his knives as Six returned fire. He risked poking his head up to check his aim before ducking back down and huffing a soft laugh.
There were only three of them, not including the one Six got through the door. He grinned, a flash of white teeth. This would be easy.
He popped up. Threw the knife. It buried itself in the nearest guy’s face and he dropped, limbs flopping like a rag doll. His gun– some kind of automatic– went off twice more as it tumbled from his arms. Then he swung his .9mm up and put a bullet through the head of the second right as Six did the same to the remaining.
From start to finish, this took less than three minutes.
“We’ll have to catch a different ride out.” Six made a beeline for the door while Six-A took a moment to scoop up his backpack before following.
The hallway was dark. No guests– though what state they were in, Six-A could only guess– had come down to see what the ruckus was, but that good luck would only last so long. Eventually someone would find the chaos they’d left in the ballroom and call the authorities. If their asses weren’t being covered by the CIA, then that meant trouble.
“What’re you thinking?” Six-A asked, jogging to catch up as Six reached the stairway entrance and pushed the door open, the sound ringing off painted cinderblock walls.
Six grunted. “Fitzroy lives out in the suburbs. We’ll see what intel he can get us.”
They descended the stairs quickly. The flights seemed never ending. And it was dark; Six-A tread carefully to avoid tripping over his own feet. “It’s too close. And Claire lives there, too,” he pointed out. “We show up and we put her in danger.”
“I’m not taking a vote.”
“And I’m just saying.”
Six stopped dead in his tracks so suddenly Six-A nearly ran right into him. He spun. His eyes gleamed in the deep dark of the empty stairwell. Blood dribbled from one nostril. “Feel free to suggest anything better!” He snapped. “But from where I stand, Fitzroy is our best chance at getting him back. Otherwise we’re on our own.”
Six-A opened his mouth to retort but god, did Six look on edge. The way his jaw clenched and his shoulders slumped just a fraction told him Six was just as worried about Six-B as he was and now that the jittery adrenaline rush of the mission was wearing off it was finally starting to show. And he had snapped at him. He never snapped.
Six had always been the strongest of them. The most capable. But right now, to someone who knew him well– and Six-A did, he knew him extremely well– he looked like he might cry.
Six-A relented. “Yeah, sure, but we better go. I think I hear sirens, and I’d like to be out of this hellhole before the police show up.”
Six nodded. “Right.” He turned and continued down the stairs, leaving Six-A to follow.
And he did. Of course he did. He always would, even if he bitched about it the entire way down.
“Fuck me, we should’ve taken the elevator.”
Then, several flights later, “We’d have been down there ten minutes ago if we’d taken the god damned elevator.”
Again, “The cops would be halfway done reading us our rights by now.”
Until, finally, finally, Six took the bait and cracked a smile, all straight white teeth in the blacks and grays, huffing a soft chuckle that sounded more like a sigh. “We’d be down there by now if you quit yapping and hauled your slow ass.”
Six-A barked a laugh and obligingly shut the hell up.