The Stefan Mendoza Trilogy Boxed Set, page 63
part #1 of Stefan Mendoza Trilogy Series
The stunned guy’s armored body bought me a second before the bullets started tearing through the walls.
I dashed past the corpses in the galley, ignoring the screams from the guest cabin, and grabbed Ericka, carrying her back from the doorway. I set her on the floor as gently as I could, then reached for the R60. It was in a locked wooden box, something a thief would have to use a pry bar to get open.
I tore the lid off with my hands and tossed it against the wall.
The bottom contained the gun and two magazines, one with regular bullets, the other with armor-piercing .
I slapped the armor-piercing load into the magazine well while the gun registered my biometrics.
There was a lull in the shooting, so I checked on Ericka—still breathing.
When I popped my head out of the cabin, one of the gunmen was halfway down the stairs into the galley, maneuvering around the woman sprawled on the steps, gun trained on the guest cabin.
He noticed my movement and whipped his carbine toward me.
I fired a short burst into his chest.
His carbine fell against the steps, and he made a wet, surprised sound, then fell on top of the woman.
That left a final gunman.
I rushed out, crouched low. I pulled the two bodies off the steps. The woman was dead, probably from a ricochet or stray bullet.
If I wanted answers, I needed the last gunman alive.
The thump of helicopter rotors rolled over the open water.
Someone was coming to extract the team. Coming fast.
There were too many heat spots to guess where my target could have gone. I switched my eyes to ultraviolet. The sky was clear, the moon bright enough. I picked out the fallen bodies, the dropped weapons.
And closing, a fancy helicopter, running dark except for its own ultraviolet searchlight. The beam raced over the black water, toward the Margo .
Chewed up as it was, there was still cover in the lounge. I belly-crawled to the sofa, moving a few inches, stopping, then listening. The helicopter was quiet for as close as it was, but it still drowned out anything but the highest-pitched screams from below.
The helicopter suddenly pivoted, displaying an open side hatch.
Sniper!
I ducked below the sofa frame. The wood wouldn’t stop a high-caliber round, but the sniper would have a hard time shooting something he couldn’t see.
The rifle fired anyway, the crack distinct and terrifying .
Something thudded to the deck a few feet away from me. I risked a quick glance.
The final gunman.
But…
The helicopter pivoted its nose toward the boat and sped up again.
“Stefan Mendoza!” Loud and clear over the water. Crisp. A megaphone. A good one. “Stefan Mendoza! Please hold your fire. We have come to talk to you. We want to make you an offer.”
The voice. It was…refined. But there was an accent. A Korean accent. It was mostly in the way the “F” came out—forced, unnatural.
Memories took me—the highway outside Seoul, trying to save President Rhee, Stovall double-crossing my team, the North Korean agents and their deadly robot, the torture that took my arms and legs and so much more.
The shakes hit me. Bad.
Had they come for me, come to finish what they’d started? I’d die before enduring that again, knowing that I could never break under the torture, could never tell them whatever it was they wanted to know.
“Who do you work for?”
So much pain that my mind had nearly snapped. It should have. It would have been so much better.
I brought the R60 up, stared down the barrel.
“Stefan Mendoza! Please hear us out! My employer will pay you top rate. Just hear us out. People are trying to kill you. We will help. Please.”
Ericka. She was still alive. Could they save her? Would they?
Could I force myself to trust them? Would I?
“Who do you work for?”
I dropped the automatic pistol and stepped out from behind the sofa, hands raised.
There was no other choice.
Chapter 2
The next day was a blur: going without sleep, pacing the halls of the hospital, swilling bitter coffee so hot it burned my tongue raw. My hosts dealt with law enforcement, flew the surviving party girls home, then drove me around Quepos to close out any outstanding business concerns.
There was an outfit ready for me when I returned to the bungalow I shared with Ericka—navy blue silk jacket, pale yellow button-down, and black pants. The fit was better than anything I’d ever had.
And then there was a trip to the airport. An executive jet.
I’d been in an executive jet before. Not one like my potential employer’s. It felt decadent, like a luxury hotel suite in the sky. The suit kept me warm in the cool cabin air. Chrysanthemum mist kept the cabin fresh and humidified.
I closed my eyes, felt the world pressing in on me, felt the fatigue trying to break me, all while feeling like I should jump for joy.
Maybe it was the shock of life on the sea abruptly replaced by hours in the air. Or maybe it was the knowledge that Ericka was stable. Or it could be the Margo being a total wreck that would take months to rebuild .
Again.
Under it all, though, what stuck in my craw, was the invasion of my home. Attacking my family in our private space.
It felt like losing Margo again.
A stewardess set a drink—tequila—in front of me. Slender and fairly tall, with alabaster skin and long brown hair, she cut a nice figure in a suit like mine, only hers included a skirt.
She asked, “You are not hungry?”
Her voice was almost lost in the atonal drone of a white noise generator.
Drowning out the jets. I downed the drink and glanced down at the plate of noodles, wasabi, pickled radishes, and sushi. I’d taken a couple bites. The wasabi was real, with heat that sank into my sinuses. The meal was Japanese rather than Korean, like her compared to my host.
He reclined a few feet across from me in a seat that was big enough for two: tight fitting, long sleeve, white shirt bright against the rich, luxuriant leather. Probably in his mid- to late thirties, his head rested on his black coat, which he’d folded over the seat back. He shifted mirror shades down a broad nose and trained small, dark eyes on me as he loosened his black tie. “You do not care for the food, Mr. Mendoza?”
I pushed the plate away. “I’ve got a gallon of coffee eating my guts.”
Like that, the plate was gone in a graceful bow and pluck, and the stewardess with it, disappearing behind a heavy, blue drape that closed our cabin off from her work area.
I lifted the shade on my window and immediately regretted it. Sunlight reflected off puffy, white clouds, blinding even through the window filters.
“You are anxious.” He said it as an observation.
“It’s the suit.”
“It is tailored as best we could—”
“Not this suit, the suit. Just the idea of suits. They feel confining, like a chain on an animal. It doesn’t matter how well-tailored it is.”
“My employer has dress standards.” He shrugged, and I got a sense of his physique as the shirt moved—long, with the swell of pecs that only came with some serious work, and a flat belly that came with a strict diet. Not just an executive’s stooge, but someone dangerous who had moved up the ranks to whatever position it was that he held. He had a long, slender face with the sort of hard look I’d seen on Korean Marines years before, but with his hair spiked up like it was, he turned the look almost roguish.
I felt old in his presence. I was already missing my T-shirts and shorts.
Everyone I had dealt with, from the pilots to my host, had been Korean or Chinese. Except for the stewardess, who wore the same basic outfit I did.
It couldn’t have been coincidental.
She seemed so small and unimportant, barely visible through the drape. She was squeezed into a little, linen-covered seat between the kitchen area and the closet holding our bags.
I thought back to Tae-hee folding Ichi almost flat, knees to forehead, toes to rubber mat, as if the kid were origami. The look of pain on the little girl’s face…
I closed the shade. “You want to tell me what this is all about? Who those people were who were trying to kill me?”
“We are still investigating the people who attacked you.”
“But you knew there might be trouble. You had a sniper.”
“Some people want you dead.”
Understatement—it never went out of style. “What about the deal? You’re flying me around the world. You can’t tell me why?”
“There is only so much for me to discuss. As I have said, we fly to Seoul to speak with my employers. They will make an offer to you. You will either accept or not. Either way, you will be paid ten thousand dollars and will be returned to your home when you are ready to go.”
Scripted. Rehearsed. The whole thing sounded shady, but they had already paid for Ericka’s surgery and hospital care. It wasn’t like I could say no. Plus, Du-ri—Du-ri Shin, my host—had been nothing but courteous and professional.
“You know my background?” I asked .
“We would not have sought you out otherwise.”
“Is that why she’s Japanese?”
Du-ri didn’t even glance back at the service area. “My employer operates throughout East and Southeast Asia.”
“But everyone else is Korean or Chinese.”
“You were a hard man to locate, Mr. Mendoza.”
Deflection. As if the subject were radioactive. “Stefan, if you don’t mind. The only people who call me by my last name want to kill me, or I want to kill them.”
“Why do you live in Costa Rica?” Smooth. Refined.
“I love what it offers.”
“There are miles of coastline in your country.”
“Poisoned or private. It’s too rich for me, either way.”
“You speak as if you do not like your country.”
“I don’t recognize it anymore. Maybe I never really recognized it before.” The realization stung. I had chosen to ignore the people around me, the changes that had seized parts of their society—my society. It was too hard to ignore anymore.
“You spend most of your time on your boat?”
“I like the ocean. I like Ericka.”
“Do you know what has happened since you disappeared?”
“Vaguely. I have an annoying friend who kept me up to date for a while.”
Du-ri sat up and pulled a data device—high-end, sleek—from a pouch at the side of his seat. “You should be informed before your meeting.”
Normally, I hated what passed for news. It was mostly corporate-sponsored garbage that told the masses what to think. The data device held what seemed tailor-built for someone like me: a clear narrative of raw data and no repetition of corporate editorializing.
The end result was still depressing.
Familiar names—names from the stolen Cytek data device—were splashed across video clip after video clip. The Metacorporate Initiative had accelerated under the new Congress and president. Messaging became clear: Americans were weak and lazy and needed foreign labor to be competitive. It was good for the country and the world. But jobs were disappearing, wages were nosediving, and the only people to actually benefit all around the world were the wealthy elite.
The sort of people who could afford a plane like the one I was flying in.
My stomach gurgled. I felt like puking. To watch things collapse so fast…
I handed the device back to Du-ri.
“You are disturbed.” He set the thing back in its pouch.
“When I was rescued from Korea, I was hired to assassinate someone.”
“Senator Kelly Weaver.”
“You have done your research.”
He folded his hands over his belly. “You will find we are quite good.”
“Well, she was wrong. Her daughter was wrong. They thought that they could change the world, shake things up. Except everyone’s so bought and sold, they wouldn’t have been able to change a thing.”
“Perhaps they did not wish to. Many people speak of change but lack the conviction, especially people as wealthy as your Senator Weaver.”
“Yeah. Maybe.” But it wasn’t their fault. It was all the other people who’d been voted into power, all the failures in government that had been allowed. People chose those leaders, or they wasted their vote on pointless protests. Or they chose not to vote at all.
Like me. Same damn result as voting for the scumbags.
I staggered off to the bathroom, fought off the chills and boiling fury. During my years in the Army and the Agency, I’d always thought we were fighting the good fight, keeping the world safe. We were just establishing markets for corporations, giving access to resources, eliminating nuisances who didn’t want to play with big business. I had thought my hatred of politics made me perfect for the Agency, and it did, but not for the reasons I’d believed. The reality was it made me an unquestioning tool .
All the slaughter and chaos I’d caused—this was a world I’d helped create.
I relieved myself and cleaned up, then returned to my seat.
Du-ri watched me through slitted eyes, waiting until I stopped fidgeting to say, “The world changes quickly now, faster each day.”
“I got that sense.”
“We did not believe you are a stupid man, or we would not have recruited you.”
“Good to hear.”
That got a frown. Apparently, my host had his limits. “Things do not revolve around your country anymore, but it still wields considerable influence. The Metacorporate Initiative has transformed politics and economies around the globe. I represent one of the new powers.”
“One of these metacorporations?”
“We aspire to be one, yes. For now, there are buyouts and mergers underway—the remnants of failed chaebol , keiretsu , and Chinese businesses. But we face hurdles.”
“Such as?”
“Have you heard of SunCorps?”
I tried to recall where I’d heard the name. Chan! Chan had told me about them. “Some sort of shell company or something?”
Du-ri pursed his lips. Impressed. “Few were aware of them until the Initiative passed. Now they have become quite sizable, acquiring six major corporations and nearly twice as many lesser ones. They have negotiated with governments, establishing tax deals on the promise of bringing in jobs.”
“As if that ever works out.”
“No. They have already begun automating most jobs and using the new agreements to reduce costs.”
“The global labor market.”
He bowed his head, and his jaw muscles clenched. He didn’t look old enough to have lived through the devastation to Korea’s economy when jobs had been shipped from Seoul and Busan out to Vietnam, Laos, Cambodia, Indonesia, and Malaysia. It was still a matter of social pride, something that Tae-hee had never let go of. The government had been complicit in the dismantling of their middle class, and one of the results had been her losing a serious chance at Olympic glory as a child, turning instead into a popular search image.
I reclined my seat and thought back to my relatively sheltered life in Emmett, Idaho. We had never been caught up in the tide of boom and bust. Wealthier residents fought over land grabs, zoning, and taxes, not the next big technology or business. There were advantages to not being sophisticated. For someone like me, death was likely going to be a bullet you didn’t see coming, not the cancer or heart disease brought on by the stress of being a cubicle slave, always racing to keep up with the next big thing, always dreading the call from HR to let you know you were going to be given the chance to pursue new opportunities elsewhere.
Human capital. Replaceable. Expendable.
My fingers twitched. That was my human nerves firing off signals to the machine part of me. The replaceable and expendable part. “I’m assuming you aren’t expecting me to assassinate some business executives at a corporate HQ somewhere.”
Du-ri didn’t laugh. “Assassination would be an undesirable outcome. Executives can be replaced. The business survives.”
I arched an eyebrow. “Undesirable outcome isn’t the same as a reprehensible suggestion . That sounds like a pretty big twist on corporate espionage. When did things go from hacking computer systems and dumpster diving?”
“As you have seen, the world continues to change. The details of your mission will be discussed once we reach our destination.”
Ten thousand dollars, a luxury executive jet, a suit that had probably cost several hundred dollars, even if I was dressed the same as “the help.” Undesirable outcome was a euphemism inside the Agency, like collateral damage . The refusal to use words with meaning wasn’t disturbing. It was the idea that the nature of corporate espionage had changed so dramatically and so quickly.
Killing Cytek people should have prepared me for whatever was coming, but those had been proxies, people working for the Agency at least indirectly. Killing civilians, if that was what I was going to be asked to do…? Taking the job would have upset Ericka had she been conscious when I left. We would have to talk about it when I returned. We would have to talk about a lot.
It was a new world, one where human life had become…meaningless.
Chapter 3
We descended through gray clouds into a black sea of rippling glass and neon. Engine whine drowned out the white noise generator, and the misting system gave a final cough of chrysanthemums just before the vent flow stuttered.
In the span of a few years, large parts of Seoul had largely been rebuilt. Towers of polished steel and glass dominated the business district. Apparently, the health risks of breathing in the radioactive dust had evaporated like the ten million citizens that made up most of it. There was an obligation to show resiliency to the world, after all.
The stewardess brought me a hot towel, then returned to her seat behind the drape. I felt sorry for her, squeezed in so tight, alone. We shared a loose connection in our uniforms, something I was sure she must have noticed.
