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Authors: James Swallow
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small-scale, low-threat gigs. Still, the Tyrants paid well, and they had good funding, that was clear—although he'd learned
straightaway that asking questions about that side of things was off-limits. Namir had made that very plain.
He'd seen some of the other Tyrant operatives here and there over the past couple of months, usually just in passing—but this was the first
time they'd all been gathered together for a mission. Saxon felt an itchy tingle of anticipation in the palm of his gun hand. The gloves were going
to come off when they got to Moscow—he could sense it.
They emerged in the open common area on the aircraft's upper deck. A gleaming steel galley ranged along one wall, and there were chairs and
monitors facing it. Barrett pawed through a food locker like a hungry bear and Saxon glanced away, finding another member of the team
engrossed in maintenance on a heavy cyberhand.
The German was the other new guy in the Tyrants, although he'd been in a while before Saxon's arrival. Beneath a dark jacket he had the
spare, rippled physique of a bodybuilder, a thick neck and natural eyes that still seemed somehow lifeless. A black watch cap was pulled down
over his hair. He didn't show many augmentations aside from the hand, but Saxon had seen him moving and was willing to bet the legs were metal. The guy was the youngest of them, somewhere in his twenties.
"You're Saxon," he said. His accent was deep and resonant. "We have not formally met." He nodded at the dismantled mechanism at the end of
his arm. "Forgive me if I do not shake your hand. I am Gunther Hermann."
"I know." Namir had mentioned Hermann in passing; from what Saxon had learned, the younger man had been part of Germany's GSG-9
police counter-terror unit until the Tyrants had recruited him. Something in the way that Namir had glossed over that fact made Saxon wonder
about the reasons for Hermann's departure from the Bundespolizei.
Hermann put down his tools and took a careful drink from a can of orange soda. "You are the replacement for Wexler, then?"
"I guess so." There had been little said about the operator whose boots Saxon was filling. He hadn't wanted to push the issue. People died in this
line of work as a matter of course.
"He was slow," offered Barrett. "Got himself killed 'cause of it."
He decided to venture the question, caution be damned. "What happened?"
"Now, why do you need to know that?" Saxon looked up as a third man entered the common area from the forward compartment. His lips
thinned. In any group there was always a place where the dynamic created friction, and it was right here, between Ben Saxon and Scott
Hardesty, the team's dedicated sniper.
Hardesty was rangy and tall, so much so that he seemed in danger of scuffing the top of his bald scalp on the ceiling. Saxon never saw him
wearing anything other than a combat overall, sometimes with a gear vest or equipment belt. He was long and thin, like the spindly extreme
range rifles he carried on-mission, and augmented across all his limbs. His eyes were high-specification optics of a kind Saxon had never seen
before.
At first Saxon had found it difficult to adjust from being a team leader, as he had been with Strike Six, to being a line operator once again—and
Hardesty seemed determined to make it harder by being as big a pain in the arse as he possibly could. The man had taken a strong dislike to
him, but the reason why wasn't clear.
"Just making conversation," he demurred.
"Joe Wexler was good," Hardesty insisted. "I could trust him. I don't know you. So I don't trust you."
Saxon moved to the cooler and took a bottle of water. "Trust this; Namir didn't invite me in because of my sparkling personality."
"Dead weight gets cut loose very fast around here," said Hardesty, pushing past as he made his way down the compartment. "Keep that in
mind, limey."
As the aft door closed behind him, Saxon shrugged. "Friendly fella."
"Wexler was
straightaway that asking questions about that side of things was off-limits. Namir had made that very plain.
He'd seen some of the other Tyrant operatives here and there over the past couple of months, usually just in passing—but this was the first
time they'd all been gathered together for a mission. Saxon felt an itchy tingle of anticipation in the palm of his gun hand. The gloves were going
to come off when they got to Moscow—he could sense it.
They emerged in the open common area on the aircraft's upper deck. A gleaming steel galley ranged along one wall, and there were chairs and
monitors facing it. Barrett pawed through a food locker like a hungry bear and Saxon glanced away, finding another member of the team
engrossed in maintenance on a heavy cyberhand.
The German was the other new guy in the Tyrants, although he'd been in a while before Saxon's arrival. Beneath a dark jacket he had the
spare, rippled physique of a bodybuilder, a thick neck and natural eyes that still seemed somehow lifeless. A black watch cap was pulled down
over his hair. He didn't show many augmentations aside from the hand, but Saxon had seen him moving and was willing to bet the legs were metal. The guy was the youngest of them, somewhere in his twenties.
"You're Saxon," he said. His accent was deep and resonant. "We have not formally met." He nodded at the dismantled mechanism at the end of
his arm. "Forgive me if I do not shake your hand. I am Gunther Hermann."
"I know." Namir had mentioned Hermann in passing; from what Saxon had learned, the younger man had been part of Germany's GSG-9
police counter-terror unit until the Tyrants had recruited him. Something in the way that Namir had glossed over that fact made Saxon wonder
about the reasons for Hermann's departure from the Bundespolizei.
Hermann put down his tools and took a careful drink from a can of orange soda. "You are the replacement for Wexler, then?"
"I guess so." There had been little said about the operator whose boots Saxon was filling. He hadn't wanted to push the issue. People died in this
line of work as a matter of course.
"He was slow," offered Barrett. "Got himself killed 'cause of it."
He decided to venture the question, caution be damned. "What happened?"
"Now, why do you need to know that?" Saxon looked up as a third man entered the common area from the forward compartment. His lips
thinned. In any group there was always a place where the dynamic created friction, and it was right here, between Ben Saxon and Scott
Hardesty, the team's dedicated sniper.
Hardesty was rangy and tall, so much so that he seemed in danger of scuffing the top of his bald scalp on the ceiling. Saxon never saw him
wearing anything other than a combat overall, sometimes with a gear vest or equipment belt. He was long and thin, like the spindly extreme
range rifles he carried on-mission, and augmented across all his limbs. His eyes were high-specification optics of a kind Saxon had never seen
before.
At first Saxon had found it difficult to adjust from being a team leader, as he had been with Strike Six, to being a line operator once again—and
Hardesty seemed determined to make it harder by being as big a pain in the arse as he possibly could. The man had taken a strong dislike to
him, but the reason why wasn't clear.
"Just making conversation," he demurred.
"Joe Wexler was good," Hardesty insisted. "I could trust him. I don't know you. So I don't trust you."
Saxon moved to the cooler and took a bottle of water. "Trust this; Namir didn't invite me in because of my sparkling personality."
"Dead weight gets cut loose very fast around here," said Hardesty, pushing past as he made his way down the compartment. "Keep that in
mind, limey."
As the aft door closed behind him, Saxon shrugged. "Friendly fella."
"Wexler was
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