As soon as Nakamura cracked the door, he heaved in a flashbang.
There was a sharp, crystalline chime, then the grenade detonated with a muffled crack, like the blast had been smothered underwater.
Reynolds felt the air change. Pressure. Wrongness.
A fragment of memory bobbed to the surface of his mind. Something similar. He couldn't quite pin it, but he had a hunch.
He gestured sharply at Nakamura. Keep throwing.
Nakamura hurled both fragmentation grenades through the door. Two more chimes, two more dampened whumps. He followed with the smoke grenades and remaining flashbangs.
The detonations sounded less muffled.
Whatever effect the Wraiths had generated, it was spent.
Nakamura waited a beat after the final flash, then gestured to Washington. He yanked the door open and he and Washington pushed through into the room.
Something felt off. Reynolds couldn't place it at first. The sound was wrong. Then it clicked: dress shoes instead of combat boots. Everyone was still in their day to day outfits. The sound of their footsteps was different. He shook his head. He was tense if he was latching onto details like that. Focus.
Martinez and Dawson went through next, followed by Jenkins and Henderson, then Kowalski and Brooks.
Time to move. Reynolds gestured towards the doorway, and he and Sullivan swept through, just as a flash of purple light through the smoke felled Kowalski. Kowlaski screamed and fell to the floor.
Reynolds barely remembered what happened after that. He remembered scenes, but no connecting tissue, like a stop-motion of violence.
Submachine gun cracking. Smoke. Targets half-visible. Subsonics snapping, cordite burning his throat, the SMG kicking.
Then Nakamura was throwing his last flashbang at a Wraith with a shield. The flash blinded it. Nakamura and Dawson cut it down.
The smoke vanished with a gesture from a Wraith,and Jenkins and Henderson were suddenly exposed. Another Wraith gestured, and in a flash of lightning, both men fell dead.
The Spectre clicked. Fouling. Shit.
A Wraith charged, roaring. Washington tackled it.
Another one. Right behind. Coming at Reynolds.
He threw the jammed SMG at its head. Drew his Colt Mustang. Fired. Center mass. The Wraith kept coming.
Reynolds backpedaled. Reloaded. Four rounds center mass.
It dropped.
Then it was over.
Reynolds stood in the smoke, ears ringing, breathing hard. The room reeked of cordite and ozone. Piles of ash where the Wraiths had been. Four bodies from the assault team. Kowalski in the doorway. Jenkins and Henderson slumped against the wall. Sullivan on the floor, killed by a Wraith's tongue in the final seconds of the engagement.
His heart was still racing, breath coming too fast.
He'd need a heavier holdout if he kept this up. The .380 was fine for daily carry, but against Wraiths it left something to be desired. The thought floated through his head unbidden, and he shook his head to clear it.
Movement near the far wall caught his eye. The contractor, stirred slightly.
Quince Davis was still alive. Reynolds processed that. He'd given the kid long odds when he decided to use him as bait. Survivors meant complications, but they also meant opportunities.
Although if "Quince Davis" was the man's real name, Reynolds would eat his significantly tattered suit jacket.
The younger man stared into the distance, battered but still breathing. As Reynolds approached, he pushed himself up on his elbows, gritting his teeth.
"Used..me as bait"
Reynolds shrugged, holstering his holdout pistol.
"It worked. We lured out and killed the Wraith infiltrators."
A transient flash of anger flickered across Quince's face, but it was gone as quickly as it appeared.
"Three... Wraiths... in the basement," Quince gritted out through clenched teeth. "Dogs. Ritual."
Secondary ritual component, with three hostiles. Reynolds filed it and spun toward Washington.
"Washington. Secure the floor, then radio security and tell them to check the sub-basement. Tell them to expect three hostiles."
Washington borrowed a radio, keying it and speaking quietly and urgently into it.
Reynolds looked back at Quince.
"I'll handle explaining this to the C-suite. You should focus on not dying."
Reynolds grabbed a radio that was proffered by Nakamura.
"This is Reynolds, Special Acquisitions. Erikson, I know you're on this channel."
A pause, then a gruff voice. "This is Erikson. What the hell is going on up there? People on the 19th were reporting all sorts of strange noises."
"Floor twenty is secure. Hostiles have been neutralized." Reynolds kept his voice level, professional. "Your principals are safe. The board meeting can proceed."
Another pause. "Mr. Carlson wants confirmation. Is the floor actually secure or are you feeding me a line?"
"The floor is secure. You want to come up and see for yourself?"
"Stand by."
Reynolds looked around the room while he waited. The smoke was clearing but the stink remained. Cordite, ozone, and something Reynolds couldn't quite put his finger on. Mitchell was checking Henderson's pulse. Nakamura was reloading mechanically. Washington stood by the door, Spectre still up, watching the hallway.
The radio crackled. "Reynolds, Hendricks. Three VIPs are coming up with a security detail. Mr. Carlson, Mr. Tanaka, and the DARPA deputy director for strategic technology. They want answers."
Reynolds closed his eyes briefly. Of course they do.
"Understood. Send up a medic too. We've got wounded."
"Copy. ETA five minutes."
Reynolds looked over at Davis, still slumped where the Wraiths had left him. The contractor was conscious but looked like hell. Reynolds walked over, and crouched down next to him.
"You still with us?"
Davis managed a weak nod. "Think so."
"I'll make sure you get medical attention." Reynolds paused. "I'll cover it. The bills. Consider it part of the contract."
Davis was a nobody, but nobodies could still talk. A bitter freelancer complaining about being used as bait would make future recruitment harder. Reynolds had picked him precisely because he didn't care if the man lived or died. Now that he'd survived, it was easier to buy his silence than deal with a grudge.
Reynolds ran the numbers on the alternative. One round, dump the body, problem solved. Except the authorities would be crawling over this floor within hours as soon as they learned about the attempted Wraith infiltration. Too many ways for that to go wrong.
The radio crackled. "Reynolds, security team approaching with medic. Three men."
"Clear to approach," Reynolds said into the radio.
Five seconds later, the door opened. A medic came through first, two standard DRC security officers behind him carrying M16A1 rifles. Reynolds caught himself noticing the uniforms, the new purple base layer under the body armor instead of the old orange ballistic vest over green BDUs. Too bright for his taste.
He shook his head to clear it. Focus.
"Davis." Reynolds pointed to the contractor slumped against the wall. "The walking wounded can wait."
The medic changed course immediately.
Four minutes later, the radio crackled again. "Reynolds, advance security at your door. Four men."
"Come ahead," Washington called out.
More footsteps in the hallway. The advance security team swept in, four more DRC guards with rifles, methodically checking corners that had already been cleared, examining the ash piles with visible unease. One of them keyed his radio.
"Floor secure. Bodies confirmed. Multiple... ash piles. Recommend VIP approach."
A pause, then more footsteps. The principals.
Ivor Carlson entered first. The CEO was 5'11" with light brown hair with hints of grey at the temples. Carlson wore one of his signature suits. The suit had a bold checkered pattern, double-breasted. The jacket was topped off with a red tie and a white dress shirt.Carlson had his pipe in hand, and thick black-rimmed glasses perched on his nose. Every inch the respectable corporate executive. But there was something tight around his mouth, a slight tension in his shoulders.
Behind him came Robert Tanaka, the COO. Compact at 5'8", with severe black hair streaked with gray. Rigid posture, gold-rimmed glasses, Brooks Brothers suit pressed to knife-edge perfection. The man moved like he had a steel rod for a spine. His jaw was set in a way that suggested he'd lost an argument recently.
And finally, a woman Reynolds vaguely recognized. Raven Darkhölme, DARPA's deputy director for strategic technology. Mid-forties, maybe 5'6". Brown hair in a practical bob, reading glasses on a chain, beige pantsuit. The kind of person you could work with for five years and not remember her face. She looked to be the picture of serenity.
Reynolds picked up on the dynamic immediately. Carlson and Tanaka had tried to keep her downstairs. She'd insisted on coming. And when a senior DARPA official who you're trying to butter up insists on seeing something...
Tanaka's eyes swept the room, taking in the bodies, the blood, the ash, the holes in the walls. His expression didn't change, but something tightened around his mouth. When his gaze landed on Reynolds, it was arctic.
Of course he's here. Wouldn't miss a chance to watch me squirm.
Carlson tapped his pipe against his palm. The gesture was unhurried, almost contemplative. The room fell silent.
"Mr. Reynolds." Carlson's voice was measured, pleasant even. "Perhaps you could explain what happened here."
Reynolds kept his voice professional. "At approximately 14:30, our surveillance tools indicated that people of interest were gathering on this floor. I suspected that they would target the board meeting. I assembled a response team from vetted personnel and neutralized the threat."
Tanaka spoke before Carlson could respond. "You assembled an assault team. Inside our corporate headquarters. Without authorization from operations or security." His voice was perfectly level, perfectly controlled. "You then conducted a breach and clear on the twentieth floor. On top of that, you were running some sort of analysis on the card swipe system. "Person of Intrest?" "
"The threat was immediate. Intelligence indicated Wraith infiltrators were gathering—"
"Wraith infiltrators." Tanaka's voice didn't rise. Each word was precisely enunciated, perfectly controlled rage. "When, exactly, Mr. Reynolds, would you see fit to inform peopleabout that?"
Reynolds kept his voice level. "Wraiths are shapeshifters. I couldn't risk-"
"You couldn't risk?" Tanaka took a step forward. "You discovered hostile alien infiltrators in our company and your solution was to tell no one? Not operations. Not security?"
"I told the people I could verify weren't compromised-"
"Your veteran buddies." Tanaka's tone was withering. "How convenient. And how did you verify them, exactly?"
"We had a working prototype scanner-"
"A prototype." Tanaka's jaw tightened. "Let me understand this clearly. You discovered that our Wraith detection program had been compromised. That Wraiths had infiltrated our company at an unknown level. That our scanners were sabotaged. And instead of reporting this critical intelligence failure to anyone, you abused our badge system,assembled a private kill team and conducted an unauthorized assault."
Reynolds met his gaze. "They were shapeshifters. Normal channels were compromised-"
"So you trusted no one." Tanaka drew himself up. "Do you have any idea what you've-"
Carlson's pipe tapped sharply against the much abused conference room table. Once.
"Mr. Tanaka raises valid procedural concerns." Carlson paused, letting the silence stretch. "However, the results speak for themselves. Hostile infiltrators eliminated from our company, and from the American defense apparatus."
He turned to Reynolds.
"Your initiative is commendable, Mr. Reynolds. Next time, however, I expect you to coordinate through proper channels. The C-suite should be informed before you conduct a breach and clear in our own building. Are we clear?"
"Crystal, sir."
Tanaka's jaw tightened, but he said nothing. Reynolds understood the subtext perfectly: Carlson was protecting him, but barely. The COO wanted his head, and only Darkhölme's presence was keeping Carlson from tearing a strip off him in private.
Deputy Director Darkhölme had been silent throughout, observing with that aggressively unremarkable presence she cultivated.
Carlson's pipe tapped twice. He turned to Darkhölme.
"Deputy Director, I assure you this is not standard operating procedure—"
"Oh, I'm quite sure it isn't." She adjusted her glasses, glancing around the room placidly. "Quite sure."
Tanaka's expression suggested he had many things he wanted to add, none of them suitable for the ears of a government official. Then his eyes narrowed slightly, as if an idea had occurred to him.
"Mr. Carlson," Tanaka said, his voice perfectly professional. "Given that Mr. Reynolds initiated this operation, perhaps he should be the one to coordinate with the law enforcement agencies who will inevitably have questions. It would provide operational continuity."
Carlson's pipe tapped once against his palm. A slight smile played at the corner of his mouth. "An excellent suggestion, Mr. Tanaka. Mr. Reynolds, you'll serve as primary liaison for the investigation. Handle the interagency coordination, brief whoever needs briefing, manage the scene documentation."
Reynolds barely kept the groan internal.
"Understood, sir."
Tanaka's eyes promised Reynolds that this conversation was far from over, but there was a glimmer of satisfaction there now.
Carlson cleared his throat and gestured expansively toward the door with his pipe. "Well then. Shall we return to the conference room? I believe we have a meeting to conduct. The rest of the C-suite is getting rather restless by now, I'm sure."
"Indeed, Mr. Carlson. My curiosity is thoroughly satisfied." Darkhölme removed her reading glasses, letting them hang from their chain. "Though I imagine this will generate some consternation in Washington."
Two guards moved to the door first, checking the hallway. Darkhölme followed, Carlson went next, then Tanaka with his two. The remaining duo of guards remained in the rear, one closing the conference room door behind him.
Reynolds allowed himself a moment to rub his temples.
What a mess.
The medic turned to him. "Sir, he's stabilized. But he needs more help than I can give him. He's mildly concussed and has five cracked ribs."
Reynolds nodded. "Washington, get him to Dr. Simmons. Make sure he gets home safe."
Dr. Simmons was his go-to doctor for sensitive matters. A general surgeon who'd quit her practice over something Reynolds had never bothered to learn about. She asked no questions and kept her mouth shut.
Washington nodded.
Quince looked up, confused. "Why... not... hospital?"
"Because hospitals mean police reports, and police reports mean questions." Reynolds kept his voice matter-of-fact.
Reynolds needed to play for time. Quince had mentioned three Wraiths in the basement conducting some kind of ritual. Long odds there was anything useful left behind, but worth a look before the powers that be showed up and pocketed everything. He also needed to sanitize the conference room. The corpses stayed, but the black-market submachine guns needed to disappear.
Washington turned to the men and pointed at Mitchell and Henderson.
"You two, get a stretcher up here. We're moving him to the service elevator."
A few minutes later, after Davis was secured on the stretcher, Mitchell, Henderson and Washington carried him to the elevator. The conference room door closed shut again.
Reynolds turned back to the battle-scarred conference room and got to work.