from tactical team headquarters and you decide to take a nap. Jerk. Lieutenant, wake up." Catherine stood to go check on him and collapsed to her knees. "What the hell?" She swayed a few seconds, then tumbled onto the floor.
"That's better," Roark said. For a moment he'd been worried she wasn't going to go under. She must have a high tolerance for drugs. Roark made a mental note for next time. He shook his head and laughed. There wouldn't be— couldn't be—a next time.
If all went as planned, Lieutenant Bannon Richards and Private Catherine Meyers would be dead within a month, and all trace of his interference would die with them.
He'd considered asking for Bannon Richards's assistance, but in the end decided he couldn't trust him to not tell the tactical team commander his plans. Bannon was rigid when it came to the rules, which was one of the reasons Roark had chosen him.
Unfortunately, his need to follow the letter of the law was also the reason he needed to be drugged. Roark had decided to call in Catherine Meyers at the last second, not for her skill or experience, but because she'd make the perfect fall guy and be none the wiser.
Roark pressed a button on his desk. The influ-gas turned off and fresh air began to pump into the room. He flicked a switch that allowed him to speak over the intercom. "Wake-up, children." Now that he'd spoken, they'd listen to whatever he had to say.
The scientist who'd invented influ-gas had called it auditory synaptic bonding. Roark called it brilliant. To the outside observer, they'd be functioning normally. Only he would know the truth. One word from him and they'd do exactly what he wanted. No questions asked.
Bannon and Catherine stirred, their eyes glassy and unfocused. "I want you both to listen carefully. I have a job for you to do. I know you've heard about the new tactical team forming in Nuria. We can't allow that to happen. It will be very bad if they succeed. They'd try to eliminate the IPTT. Do you understand?"
They nodded and their expressions changed to anger.
"I want you to stop the formation of that team by any means necessary. I will notify you when to begin. You must not act until you hear the word ..." Roark thought for a minute. The word "scarlet" popped into his head and he smiled at the irony. 'The code word is scarlet. Understood?"
They swayed, then acknowledged him.
"Now I want you to stand and walk to the door."
Both soldiers hobbled to their feet. Roark rose from behind his desk and hit a button near his compunit. The door to his office opened. He walked to a nearby mirror to take in his appearance one last time before greeting his guests. His blue suit looked good against his dark hair. Only the gray at his temples hinted at his true age.
Roark straightened his striped silk tie, catching a glimpse of his mutilated hand. A hand missing three fingers courtesy of that bitch, Gina Santiago. He'd purposely avoided regeneration in order to have a reminder of her treachery.
She was about to learn the hard way that you don't mess with Roark Stonewall Montgomery. If she wanted a war, he'd give her one. He took a deep breath then walked out into the hall. It was now or never.
A panel to his right was hidden from the casual observer. Roark laid his hand on the spot above it. The panel slid open, exposing antique guns resting silently on a rack.
The International Police Tactical Team had disposed of most weapons after the war. What they didn't destroy, they kept for themselves. It was rare for anyone outside of law enforcement to have a decent weapon, much less the collection he housed here. Roark ran his hands reverently over the guns, their smooth wooden stocks satin-soft under his callused fingertips. They didn't make them like they used to.
Roark pulled out a tan custom-made laser sniper rifle before sealing the door once more. He tucked the gun in the crook of his arm and carried the
"That's better," Roark said. For a moment he'd been worried she wasn't going to go under. She must have a high tolerance for drugs. Roark made a mental note for next time. He shook his head and laughed. There wouldn't be— couldn't be—a next time.
If all went as planned, Lieutenant Bannon Richards and Private Catherine Meyers would be dead within a month, and all trace of his interference would die with them.
He'd considered asking for Bannon Richards's assistance, but in the end decided he couldn't trust him to not tell the tactical team commander his plans. Bannon was rigid when it came to the rules, which was one of the reasons Roark had chosen him.
Unfortunately, his need to follow the letter of the law was also the reason he needed to be drugged. Roark had decided to call in Catherine Meyers at the last second, not for her skill or experience, but because she'd make the perfect fall guy and be none the wiser.
Roark pressed a button on his desk. The influ-gas turned off and fresh air began to pump into the room. He flicked a switch that allowed him to speak over the intercom. "Wake-up, children." Now that he'd spoken, they'd listen to whatever he had to say.
The scientist who'd invented influ-gas had called it auditory synaptic bonding. Roark called it brilliant. To the outside observer, they'd be functioning normally. Only he would know the truth. One word from him and they'd do exactly what he wanted. No questions asked.
Bannon and Catherine stirred, their eyes glassy and unfocused. "I want you both to listen carefully. I have a job for you to do. I know you've heard about the new tactical team forming in Nuria. We can't allow that to happen. It will be very bad if they succeed. They'd try to eliminate the IPTT. Do you understand?"
They nodded and their expressions changed to anger.
"I want you to stop the formation of that team by any means necessary. I will notify you when to begin. You must not act until you hear the word ..." Roark thought for a minute. The word "scarlet" popped into his head and he smiled at the irony. 'The code word is scarlet. Understood?"
They swayed, then acknowledged him.
"Now I want you to stand and walk to the door."
Both soldiers hobbled to their feet. Roark rose from behind his desk and hit a button near his compunit. The door to his office opened. He walked to a nearby mirror to take in his appearance one last time before greeting his guests. His blue suit looked good against his dark hair. Only the gray at his temples hinted at his true age.
Roark straightened his striped silk tie, catching a glimpse of his mutilated hand. A hand missing three fingers courtesy of that bitch, Gina Santiago. He'd purposely avoided regeneration in order to have a reminder of her treachery.
She was about to learn the hard way that you don't mess with Roark Stonewall Montgomery. If she wanted a war, he'd give her one. He took a deep breath then walked out into the hall. It was now or never.
A panel to his right was hidden from the casual observer. Roark laid his hand on the spot above it. The panel slid open, exposing antique guns resting silently on a rack.
The International Police Tactical Team had disposed of most weapons after the war. What they didn't destroy, they kept for themselves. It was rare for anyone outside of law enforcement to have a decent weapon, much less the collection he housed here. Roark ran his hands reverently over the guns, their smooth wooden stocks satin-soft under his callused fingertips. They didn't make them like they used to.
Roark pulled out a tan custom-made laser sniper rifle before sealing the door once more. He tucked the gun in the crook of his arm and carried the
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