"The first mission is an extraction - with a twist. We're picking up an assassin in town known as Duran. He's a dangerous guy, very expensive, and very, very good at what he does. He was hired by Smith's group to take out a Congressman speaking at a hotel here in LA five days from now. Smith's sending a message to everyone that he's a real player now, that he's a better alternative to how we do things. A louder alternative. That message is bad for business, so we're nipping it in the bud right now. We set up at the hotel, we grab this guy when he shows up, we take him somewhere secure, and we find out everything he knows about Smith. Then we start taking it to him for a change.”

  - Big Man,

  5 days ago

  July 2013

  He could smell the blood in the water.

  Alone in his police cruiser, Officer Mike Miller sped down East 4th Street in Los Angeles with his lights flashing and his siren wailing. He swerved into the right lane, figuring out in his head the best route to get in front of the speeding white van running parallel about a half mile north of him on 2nd St. When the original call went out, he'd been on patrol in East Los Angeles, which meant he had zero chance of getting to the Concord hotel before all the action was over. But those snipers, the ones who allowed the vans to escape, had unknowingly given him an opportunity to get in on the bust. He was on the Santa Monica Freeway when he heard over the radio that the eastbound van was moving past Westlake, and his gut told him he could cut north on Main and intercept it. He'd been right about the direction, but a few seconds late on catching up. The van passed Main just before he could reach it, so Miller turned right on 4th and tried to keep pace, praying the van turned south.

  His radio squawked on.

  “Eastbound target just turned right on San Pedro. Repeat, he’s headed south on San Pedro.”

  Perfect. The van was coming toward him now. Miller slowed down, realizing that he was only a block or two away from where San Pedro hit 4th St. If he timed it right the van would end up right in front of him and he’d have a golden opportunity to get close and make himself part of the bust. Nearby pedestrians stopped and turned their heads, hearing Miller’s siren as well as the dozen or so others coming from the north. Miller turned his off and rolled down the window, listening for the approaching cruisers so he could gauge when to roll in after them. Surprisingly, he heard gunshots ring out instead, and the pedestrians, who’d been standing around curiously, scattered from the street, running to the safety of nearby buildings.

  He saw the van only seconds later.

  Instead of speeding by him at the San Pedro intersection, it swung left onto 4th, and he was just close enough to catch a glimpse of the driver and the passenger, both wearing tan jumpsuits, black ski-masks, and tinted, bubble-shaped goggles. The van itself was solid white, with no side or back windows, and the words LINENS BY LOPEZ painted in big, blocky blue letters on the side. The van floated to the far side of the street, running up onto the curb and smashing through a stack of newspaper dispensers before swerving back onto the road and straightening out.

  The engine roared as the van lurched down 4th street followed by at least five police cruisers, along with three black sedans and a black SUV, all with tinted windows. These were the property of Scimitar, the federal task force no one in the LAPD had heard of before today. When the tip was phoned in this morning about American-born terrorists trying to kidnap Congressman Albert Ross at the Concord Hotel, these Scimitar feds in their black suits had swarmed the city like flies on shit. They'd almost caught the terrorists at the hotel, pinning them down in two identical vans at the hotel's loading docks, before sniper fire gave the bad guys a chance to escape. So in Miller’s mind, Scimitar blew their chance, and now, through the grace of God, he had one of his own.

  Miller floored it, hoping to catch up and pull into the front of the chase, but he never had a chance. The van's driver swerved smartly around a white Volvo that had stopped in the middle of the road, but he wasn’t prepared for the silver Audi coming right at them. The van pulled hard to the left, hopped the curb and crashed right through the glass doors of the 4-story office building at the next intersection.

  The pursuing vehicles screeched to a stop in front of the building, and all of the officers and agents in front of him hopped out with their guns drawn, urgently waving people away from the scene. Glass littered the sidewalk, and concerned shouts filled the air as policemen and feds both tried to make sense of the situation. Miller stayed in his car and drove past slowly. He got a good look at the van, which had punched itself halfway through the wall of one of the ground floor office suites. Miller parked his car at the far end of the other vehicles and got out, realizing almost immediately that no one had thought to cover the back. One of the Scimitar agents seemed to be trying to take charge, ordering men around and setting up a perimeter, but they were all staying in the front, where they could keep the van in sight. Miller recognized an opportunity when he saw one. He needed a big break right about now, and if he could play a prominent role here, he could save his career. So he drew his gun, made sure no one else was watching him, and darted around to the back of the building, hoping that today would finally be his day.

  *

  Flex slowly lifted himself off the deflating driver’s side airbag and leaned back in his seat, groaning from the impact and resisting the urge to shake his head clear in case he had a concussion. He thought he’d banged it against the window during the crash but everything happened so fast that he wasn’t sure. Squealing brakes and shrill sirens filled his ears, reminding him not to dawdle. He blinked until he could focus again and took inventory of his situation before the authorities could get to him. His chest hurt, but most of his pain came from the gunshot wound in his left forearm, which burned like hell. That was good news; that meant he probably didn’t have any broken bones. He gripped his forearm tightly to control the bleeding. He was wearing a tan jumpsuit with the Lopez logo on the front, which covered the black suit he wore underneath, and the Smart Shield body armor under that. But no armor on his arms meant he'd start bleeding through in moments, and he needed to be extremely careful not to leave any DNA around.

  His face was itchy and he knew he might start breaking out in a cold sweat from shock, but he resisted the urge to take off his mask. The plan had completely gone to hell, but he still had a slim chance to get out of this mess, and letting someone see his face as he ran from the van was a sure way to make things even worse. He looked over at Tox, slumped to the side in the passenger’s seat, her head resting against the window. He couldn’t see her eyes through the tinted goggles but he was pretty sure she was out cold. Her chest rose and fell, so she was breathing at least, but she needed to get conscious in about three seconds.

  “Tox?” he said, grimacing. No answer. The interior of the van smelled like gasoline, and he cursed at his luck today. The van had a leak somewhere, which meant he couldn’t risk gunfire, but it did give him an idea on how to get out of here. He gingerly reached into the center console, trying not to leave any blood smears, and grabbed the remote trigger, putting it in one of his pockets. There were small explosives lining the interior of the van, with double-plated armor protecting those locations on the outside, just in case a stray bullet actually managed to pierce the bullet-proof walls. The inside had no protection, though, so once he activated the detonator and pulled the trigger, all evidence of them ever being in that van would be destroyed in a controlled blast. The gas leak, however, would turn that small blast into a giant fireball, which could be the diversionary tactic he needed right now. But not if Tox was still inside. He reached over and shook her. “Tox? You hear me? Wake up!”

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  He heard voices yelling from the street, and he knew Scimitar agents and police would be on top of them in seconds. If Tox didn’t wake up right now, she’d have to be left behind because he couldn’t stay in this van any longer.

  “Tox!” he yelled.

  Nothing. Flex grunted in frustration. The van had no windows except the front ones, so he couldn’t see anything behind him. He had to assume the worst, though, and there was no need for two team members to take the hit when one could do it. It sucked for Tox, but Flex had to be pragmatic. He reached over and grabbed Tox’s gun off the floorboard, then unbuckled her seatbelt. He opened the driver side door, which creaked loudly and wrapped an arm around Tox’s chest, under her arms. He gingerly climbed out, pulling her with him, and trying not to breathe in the thick cloud of dust and drywall. Pain from the gunshot wound shot up his arm, but he ignored it. His adrenaline was still high, and it would stay that way for a few more minutes. But he had to get moving. The walls of the inner suite blocked the view to the lobby on his side of the van, which meant no one could see him getting out. Fortunate, but he would need a lot more than just one lucky break if he was going to escape from an army of police, Scimitar Task Force agents and who knows what else.

  Sweat poured out of every gland on his body, but he ignored it and moved as fast as he could through the rubble. Except for an L-shaped wood desk in the corner, the reception area was empty, vacant probably. The only hallway led away to the right, then curved left, out of sight. He dragged Tox over to the first hallway he found. He left her on the floor, just around the corner, then checked her gun, making sure it was loaded before jogging down the hallway to find an exit. He’d have used his own gun, but he dropped it on the street after getting shot while returning fire. Stupid mistake, he knew, and he was damn lucky he’d been wearing gloves. He finally found a door marked Stairwell – Roof/Basement access and he kicked it open and then ran past, leaving it as a diversion. He didn't want stairs, he wanted a back door. He needed to get outside the building before anyone thought to cover the back.

  “Out of the van! Now!” He heard shouting from the lobby area. Tox was gone, surrounded by LAPD and Scimitar agents. Big Man wouldn’t be happy to hear about that, and he might even blame Flex, but that wasn’t his main worry. All he cared about right now was getting out of this building in anything except handcuffs or a body bag. That meant taking some risks. He fished the trigger back out of his pocket and held it, hoping for one last lucky break. He armed it by turning the key at the top of the trigger handle, and saw the green LED turn off and the red one turn on.

  I really hope you’re out of the blast radius, Tox. He rested his finger on the trigger. And if you’re not, I hope God forgives me. God, and Big Man.

  He squeezed his eyes shut and lowered his head, bracing himself for what he was about to do. Before he could pull the trigger, though, he heard footsteps running up the hallway in the other direction. He spun around, his gun ready, and he knew immediately that as bad as things had been, they were about to get worse.

  10 days ago…

  Bobby “Flex” Young sat outside the Federal Correctional Institution of Tucson in a rented blue sedan, impatiently tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. He’d been sitting in the parking lot for over an hour now, and he was starting to get more than just a little anxious. He didn’t know if this was a regular thing here, releasing prisoners well after their scheduled release time, and he wondered if something had gone wrong. Maybe the paperwork was screwed up, or someone higher up had changed their minds about letting this particular prisoner go free. He’d reminded himself at least a dozen times already that walking up to the prison to see what the hold-up was would be incredibly stupid. Avoiding public contact with other members of his team was part of his job, and knocking on a prison door to ask where his boss was, the man who’d just spent nine months behind bars for aggravated assault, seemed like a bad idea.

  It had been a long nine months for Flex, and he didn’t handle long waits very well. He was unfulfilled – or maybe uninspired was the better word – and tired of sitting on the sidelines for almost a year, so he found other uses for his time. He gambled, a lot, but he’d hit a patch of bad luck lately that left him with some fairly large debts. He had no intention of paying them, but he considered it embarrassing to owe money to small time sharks, so he had to stop. The rest of his time was filled by his ‘day job’ as a part-time construction worker. But even though some machinery would act up on occasion and threaten to take someone’s arm off, there was no excitement, and building office complexes wasn’t enough to give him a real sense of accomplishment. Not like his work with the team. His team did important things, for important people, and he felt proud to be part of something bigger than himself. But all the inactivity had taken its toll. He was out of shape, his wits had dulled, and he even missed some of his more obnoxious teammates. Plus, he was ready to get back to the business of saving the world from itself, since no one else was gonna do it.

  Flex was his nickname on the team because he got into bodybuilding late in his teens. He’d always been a large kid, and his uncle, who worked out at an exclusive gym in Ohio and knew a few people in that line of work, had gotten him involved in it. His potential bodybuilding career didn’t last long – he had an undiagnosed heart condition that didn’t mix well with steroids - but his bulk stayed, and he found other uses for it as a bouncer and then as a professional bodyguard. That career also ended abruptly, however, when one of his charges, a wealthy Mexican businessman, was assassinated in Mexico City. He’d been imprisoned afterwards for selling information about his boss’ schedule, even though he had bullets in his leg and abdomen from the encounter. None of the allegations were true, but that didn’t matter down there, and he honestly thought he’d spend the rest of his life falsely imprisoned in a Mexican jail. That is, until someone showed up at the jailhouse with a big wad of cash and a proposition.

  He straightened up in his seat when he finally saw Big Man walk out the side door of the prison. He was dressed in the same clothes he’d gone to jail in nine months ago - black slacks, black leather shoes, a white dress shirt unbuttoned at the top and a black sport coat. He looked the same physically, tall, thickly built with broad shoulders, short dark hair and a thin beard covering a square jaw. At first glance, you’d think Big Man was the enforcer for some high-rolling Italian mob family by the way he carried himself. And you’d almost be right. He got his start as a bruiser, one of the reasons Flex admired him, and felt a kinship with him. But Big Man was much more than that now.

  Flex stepped out of the car and nodded as Big Man approached. “Hey boss.”

  Big Man smiled, which for him was just a twitch of the lips. “Flex.” No one on the team called each other by their real name. They weren’t even supposed to know anyone’s real name, but that was hard to do when you worked with the same people for a while. “What’s shakin’?”

  “Everything okay in there? I was thinking they weren’t gonna let you out.”

  “Everything’s good. Just had to say goodbye to the homies.”

  Flex nodded, not totally buying it. He noticed a small scar on the side of Big Man’s face. That was new.

  “You got yourself some battle wounds in there?”

  “What, this?” Big Man motioned to the scar. “It’s nothing. Boys being boys. I’m fine. I feel good.” Big Man reached for the passenger door. Both men got inside. “I feel ready for something big.”

  “What’s the job?” Flex started the car up and immediately turned down the blaring car radio.

  “Let’s get the boys together, first. Then we’ll talk about it. Are they all here?”

  “Almost. Deadeye’s here. Crash is on a plane, Bubs just left Phoenix, and Sweets is waiting at his place. We’re set to meet at five-thirty, at the Convention Center.”

  “Good. We got one more coming, too.”

  “Who?”

  “An old friend. You’ll see when we get there. Now find me something to eat while we’re waiting. A pizza place. A good one, if there is such a thing around here.”

  Flex nodded as he put the car in reverse and pulled out of the parking lot. Big Man had something brewing, something from the guys up top. Even in prison Big Man was one of the Organization’s most valuable men, and they’d no doubt done something to get him out of jail early. That meant important happenings were about to go down, something they needed Big Man and his team to oversee. It would finally be a chance for Flex to put his real talents to use, after sitting on the shelf for nine months. Flex smiled as the car swung onto the highway.

  Things were finally starting to look up for him.