Citadel Of Fear

“We always did.”

“And they are heading into cross fire.”

“That is correct. I already informed them.”

“Tell Jack to get airborne, message McCarter and tell him to plan B as hard as he can.”

“Copy that.”

The Able Team leader took up his weapon. “Able! Gear up! Here it comes!”

* * *

The Game Room

PYLE SAT HUNCHED in front of his massive screen. His fingers hammered his keyboard. “They’re communicating!”

“With whom?” Kun asked.

“It’s scrambled. They have to be bouncing it off a satellite.”

“How many satellites could be giving them real-time imaging and intelligence?”

“No. It’s communication. It could be being bounced from multiple—”

“That is not what I asked you.”

Pyle flinched and, nervous habit, tugged at his nose ring. “You think they’re piggy-backing?”

“Currently, somewhere on this planet,” Kun stated what to him was completely obvious, “there is a room much like this one. Inside it there are men, much like us. They are our real enemies. We are not taking advantage of poor native criminals or guerilla fighters in Africa or a ‘Stan’ country. We have encountered another genuine player. I am not sure whether they are state-sponsored, rogue or deniables. Regardless, we have a real game on hour hands.”

Pyle called up his file on all satellites and their orbits. “Checking.”

Rong sat in front of three screens swiping his fingers across them to pull up and expand images. This was the action, and absolutely the part of his job he loved. It was a cross between a strategy game and a first-person shooter, but the blood and the stakes were real. Not for him, but nevertheless it gave him a thrill as none other. Seventy-two hours ago, the first Battle of Gdansk, as Rong liked to call it, was the first battle he had ever lost since moving from online gaming to gaming with human lives in the Game Room. That loss still stung. A lot.

He watched the enhanced thermal images of Propenko and the meat shields sweeping toward the lodge in a very professional manner and felt a glimmer of foreboding. “I don’t like this Alpha, International Man of Mystery bastard, him or his Wolf Pack. I don’t like them at all.”

Kun watched his screens. He didn’t like Alpha and his Wolf Pack, either, except for the fact that he loved them. Kun loved challenges. He lit a cigarette, reached into his mini-fridge and mixed himself the single vodka martini he would allow himself until the battle was over. Kun normally didn’t care for alcohol or its effects, as it dulled his senses for the experiences he enjoyed the most, but in battle the prop was important to him. His team perked up at the sight of him mixing it.