revealed key information about himself, or
at least laid out some false trail; that meant there was a good chance Namir never intended to let Saxon live.
"I wonder, would you let me make an observation?" Namir went on. He asked the question with all the certainty of a man who knew he would
not be refused.
Saxon watched him carefully. "Feel free."
"You're wasting your potential here. Belltower offers a good career for men like us, I don't dispute that. But the chance to really accomplish
something? To make a difference, to bring order to a chaotic world? Belltower can't do that."
A chill ran through the soldier's veins. "You're trying to recruit me?"
Namir studied him. "I read the after-action report on the failure of Operation Rainbird. You survived against very long odds, Mr. Saxon. I am
quite impressed." He stubbed out the cigarette. "I could use someone with your skill set. I find myself a man down after a recent incident, and
you make a good candidate. Interested?"
"Maybe if you told me who the hell you are."
"I told you, the name would not—"
"Try me."
Namir gave a shrug. "I am field commander of a non-aligned special operations unit known as the Tyrants. We are an elite, independent, self
financing group dedicated to maintaining global stability through covert means."
"A rogue cell?" Saxon frowned. Like any other, the spec ops community had its own share of urban legends, and in his time he'd heard stories of
so-called rogues, operators who had dropped off the grid and gone into business for themselves; but the idea had always seemed a little too far
off the beam to be truthful. Saxon had never believed anyone could run alone out there in the thick for too long, not without backup. "Tyrants ...
That name doesn't exactly have the ring of righteousness to it."
"I beg to differ," said the other man. "The true meaning of the word stems from the Greek turannos. It was only later the name gathered its
negative connotations ... In its original form, the term describes those who take power by their own means, instead of being awarded it through
birthright or elective. That is what we do, Mr. Saxon. We take power from those who abuse it. We restore the balance."
"Out of the goodness of your heart?"
"Belltower's failures cost you the lives of the men and women in your unit," Namir said, his tone becoming grave. "Are you really ready to go
back to them, knowing that? Be honest with me, Mr. Saxon. Are you ever going to trust your employers again?"
Saxon closed his eyes, and for a second he saw the ghosts. "I have a responsibility. I signed a contract..."
"One that is near to ending." Namir made a dismissive gesture. "We can deal with that. If only a piece of paper is stopping you, believe me, I
can make that go away." When Saxon didn't answer, he got up and straightened his fatigue jacket. "This offer won't come again," he said. "And
if you decide to go looking for us after the fact, I warn you ... there will be consequences."
Saxon looked down at his hands, one scarred flesh, the other scratched steel. Everything Namir had said about trust, about Belltower—all of it
was as if he had plucked the thoughts straight from his mind. Each day that had passed here, each day he sat surrounded by his ghosts, every
passing hour was eroding something deep inside him, and in its place it left only a cold hollow. That, and a slow-burning, directionless desire to
claim a blood cost back from the people who had murdered Kano, Duarte, and the others.
"We can give you what you need, Ben," said Namir. "The Tyrants help their own."
When Saxon said the next words, they seemed to come from a very great distance. "I'm in."
CHAPTER THREE
Pier 86—New York City—United States of America
Kelso pulled the black microfleece hoodie tighter over her head, grimacing into the cold wind sweeping in from the Hudson River, her nerves
ringing like struck chimes. She moved like she had purpose, ignoring
at least laid out some false trail; that meant there was a good chance Namir never intended to let Saxon live.
"I wonder, would you let me make an observation?" Namir went on. He asked the question with all the certainty of a man who knew he would
not be refused.
Saxon watched him carefully. "Feel free."
"You're wasting your potential here. Belltower offers a good career for men like us, I don't dispute that. But the chance to really accomplish
something? To make a difference, to bring order to a chaotic world? Belltower can't do that."
A chill ran through the soldier's veins. "You're trying to recruit me?"
Namir studied him. "I read the after-action report on the failure of Operation Rainbird. You survived against very long odds, Mr. Saxon. I am
quite impressed." He stubbed out the cigarette. "I could use someone with your skill set. I find myself a man down after a recent incident, and
you make a good candidate. Interested?"
"Maybe if you told me who the hell you are."
"I told you, the name would not—"
"Try me."
Namir gave a shrug. "I am field commander of a non-aligned special operations unit known as the Tyrants. We are an elite, independent, self
financing group dedicated to maintaining global stability through covert means."
"A rogue cell?" Saxon frowned. Like any other, the spec ops community had its own share of urban legends, and in his time he'd heard stories of
so-called rogues, operators who had dropped off the grid and gone into business for themselves; but the idea had always seemed a little too far
off the beam to be truthful. Saxon had never believed anyone could run alone out there in the thick for too long, not without backup. "Tyrants ...
That name doesn't exactly have the ring of righteousness to it."
"I beg to differ," said the other man. "The true meaning of the word stems from the Greek turannos. It was only later the name gathered its
negative connotations ... In its original form, the term describes those who take power by their own means, instead of being awarded it through
birthright or elective. That is what we do, Mr. Saxon. We take power from those who abuse it. We restore the balance."
"Out of the goodness of your heart?"
"Belltower's failures cost you the lives of the men and women in your unit," Namir said, his tone becoming grave. "Are you really ready to go
back to them, knowing that? Be honest with me, Mr. Saxon. Are you ever going to trust your employers again?"
Saxon closed his eyes, and for a second he saw the ghosts. "I have a responsibility. I signed a contract..."
"One that is near to ending." Namir made a dismissive gesture. "We can deal with that. If only a piece of paper is stopping you, believe me, I
can make that go away." When Saxon didn't answer, he got up and straightened his fatigue jacket. "This offer won't come again," he said. "And
if you decide to go looking for us after the fact, I warn you ... there will be consequences."
Saxon looked down at his hands, one scarred flesh, the other scratched steel. Everything Namir had said about trust, about Belltower—all of it
was as if he had plucked the thoughts straight from his mind. Each day that had passed here, each day he sat surrounded by his ghosts, every
passing hour was eroding something deep inside him, and in its place it left only a cold hollow. That, and a slow-burning, directionless desire to
claim a blood cost back from the people who had murdered Kano, Duarte, and the others.
"We can give you what you need, Ben," said Namir. "The Tyrants help their own."
When Saxon said the next words, they seemed to come from a very great distance. "I'm in."
CHAPTER THREE
Pier 86—New York City—United States of America
Kelso pulled the black microfleece hoodie tighter over her head, grimacing into the cold wind sweeping in from the Hudson River, her nerves
ringing like struck chimes. She moved like she had purpose, ignoring
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