The Omega Sanction by Andrew Scorah (urban books to read TXT) 📖

“Gunther.”

The big man stepped outside, returning with another tech.

“Please, don’t do this, you can’t expect to get away, right now the might of the United States Armed Forces are probably descending on this place, they’ll kill every last one of you.”

Koenig nodded to Gunther. Holding the tech with one large ham fist, he jammed a thumb into the techs eye. The man screamed, and struggled futilely as Gunther ripped out his eye ball.

He threw the tech on the floor. The man writhed, crying out in agony.

Gunther knelt over the man, placed his huge hands around the mans skinny neck, and slowly squeezed the life out of him. All this was done with a look akin to sexual pleasure.

Koenig’s face showed no emotion though, except for slight amusement. Fairfax had a glimpse of the kind of dispassionate and callous efficiency that had characterised the German administrators of the horrendous concentration and death camps of the Second World War. To Koenig, the murder of one of Fairfax's staff was of no consequence. It was simply a tool to get what he wanted. He knew he was in the presence of sheer calculating and unremitting evil.

Fairfax knew he had no choice. He could not see any more of his staff hurt. All he could do was hope the cavalry arrived sooner rather than later.

“Stop it, stop it, alright I’ll do it, just don’t hurt anymore of my staff.”

Koenig patted his cheek.

“Good man,” he looked at the two men holding Fairfax.

“Take him to the cages for now, the counter attack will come soon, once we deal with that we can guide in Hoffman and the Xerum 525. Tell Eisenburg to fire up the Shiva Star Plasma Array.”

Vegas. Two thumps through the 747 and Bane was on the ground at McCarran International, an airport, like Miami's, that crackled with illicit activity; you could feel it. He watched through the window as the 747 taxied to the terminal and passed engineering shops filled with propeller planes that looked like they should have been scrapped decades ago; old classics running freight operations now, with radial engines that dripped oil on the ramp and coughed clouds of smoke, their tired but sturdy airframes lined with irregular rows of rivets and bumps.

He raised his eyes and took in the view. Vegas, sprawled there just beyond the perimeter fence under an upturned bowl of blue sky, half a dozen giant new hotels since he'd been here last, half a dozen more going up amidst a thicket of cranes. He loved and loathed this city with equal measure.

Once again he quickly passed through airport red tape, and was soon outside looking for a cab.

Down on the Strip, with the sun setting on this city of broken dreams, he took in the glare of the lights, like a handful of cheap jewelry, from the back of the cab. Half listening to the driver's lament over the mob's exodus and its replacement by corporate America. The slipping sun played over the tops of the mountains that bordered the southern end of the Nellis Air Force Range, a closed-off piece of government land the size of Switzerland where the Air Force tested its latest military hardware and ran air warfare exercises, and the driver's voice still filling his head about the days when people in the city had lived and died by a set of rules everyone understood.

The cab pulled into what was formerly the Sahara, now renamed the SLS Las Vegas Hotel & Casino, a hotel that exuded the Vegas of Sinatra, Martin and the mob; the mid-'50s, when it had opened. It had been face-lifted so many times, it seemed like the demolition teams would be here at any moment, but through half-closed eyes you could still see how it once had been, which gave it a strange kind of charm. The Sahara suited him just fine.

Its pile-'em-in, rack-'em and stack-'em ethos, ideal for gamblers passing through. The Sahara was the last remaining vintage "Rat Pack" casino-hotel, hopefully he would not be there long anyway.

After he was ensconced in his room on the fourth floor, he grabbed a quick shower then called Sir Alec back at Millbank.

“Adam, what in hell have you been up to? You left leaving parts of London looking like Beirut.”

“I’m sorry sir, I knew I should have stayed at the scene, waited for the police. I was next on their hit list, and I think we have a mole, it’s the only way they could know where the Xerum is and who was involved in the op. I need to get in touch with Omega but I have no way of contacting them.”

“I’ve come to the same conclusion, don’t worry I’m handling that personally. Where are you now, I will contact them for you.”

“I’m in the Sahara, room 264.”

“Okay, Adam, sit tight. I’ll get back to you, let you know what is happening.”

Bane put down the phone, and crossed the room to look out at The Strip, twinkling lights even in the day. Bane always found Vegas false and tacky. He had last been here with Julia, his former girlfriend, she had called it Blackpool in the desert. Bane was surprised at himself. He had not thought of her for over a year. At the time he thought she was the one, but in the end she could not cope with his job, the hours he kept. He realised Vegas had been the beginning of the end for them.

He pushed the thoughts away, never one for morose reflection, he put it down to the loneliness of his situation, he felt cut off from everything he knew; and it had happened so fast. He lay on the bed, deciding sleep was the best thing.

"How is my little twinky,” the big Russian lifted Trotsky off his feet in a bone crushing bear hug.

“Ger off me you big lug, ” he struggled to no avail, his eyes, as always drawn to the dent in Cyclops forehead. Vladimir Avdeyev was a member of the spetsialnogo naznacheniya, or Spetsnaz, attached to the Ministry of Internal Affairs, the directorate responsible for the internal security of Russia. The dent was a gift from a Moscow gangster who thought it would be a good idea to shoot him in the face. Luckily for Vladimir, the gun had been old so the bullet had lost some of its power, it had followed the curvature of his skull, exiting just behind his ear. Because of the scar the team had given him the code name Cyclops.

Morgan stepped out of the bunk room, into the hubs kitchen area, and rolled his eyes. Sometimes he thought he was working with a couple of school kids not trained military men.

“Put him down Cyc, you don’t know where he's been.”

Cyclops laughed, dropping Trotsky into a chair he plonked himself down into the one next to him.

“Hello, Morgan, why did you send out recall message? I was onto some good leads about scientist people.”

He spoke almost perfect English, but to Morgan he always sounded like a bad villain in a Bond movie. He flicked on the coffee machine before sitting across the table from them.

“We’ve found them, Area 51s been taken over by a hostile force, the scientists are under their control, we’ve been monitoring the situation for the military, they’ve got the area closed down, and are going to attack...” he looked at his watch, “In one hour.”

“I know, I saw the road blocks, they never saw me though, I was a ghost. Do we get to play?”

“Not this time, SEAL and Delta are handling this one, any news on Bane while I was sleeping?”

Trotsky was tucking into a bowl of serial. Between mouthfuls he said. “Yeah, he’s in the Sahara, you want him brought in, I had Kukri and Hypo hang fire at the airport in case.”

“Yeah, send them. I’m gonna check on the attack force, they should be moving into place now.”

Bane awoke with a start. He had been dreaming of being back in London, in the car as the missile slowly approached. Try as he might he could not get the door open. Then, he was burning, he could actually feel his flesh melting, could hear Conda, and Gladius’s screams.

He checked his watch, nine AM. Reaching over for his mobile, he saw he had missed no calls, strange, Bane thought Sir Alec would have got back to him by now.

Getting out of bed he padded to the bathroom and emptied his bladder before crossing to the sink. He looked at his face in the mirror. His eyes looked haunted. He turned on the tap, and rinsed his face with cold water.

He was just towelling his face dry, when a knock sounded at his hotel door.

At last, he thought, this must be Omega.

Pushing away the final vestiges of the dream, he quickly pulled on his jeans before answering the door. Checking the spy hole first, he saw two men in suits, both with short black hair and unsmiling faces.

“Who is it? ” He called out.

“We’re from Omega. Mr Bane, here to take you to the base,” the voice replied from the other side of the door.

There was something about the mans voice that prickled the hairs at the back of Bane’s neck. A slight German tinge to it.

“Are you ready to go, sir? We’re on a tight schedule.”

“Let me get changed, did Colonel Parker send you? ” He said,deliberately lying about Omega’s commanding officer.

A pause.

“That’s correct, sir, Colonel Parker’s waiting to greet you personally.”

How the hell did they know where to find him, he’d been so careful. Understanding settled over him. With it came anger. He had been careful. The only one who knew where he was, was... Sir Alec. No it couldn't be, it didn't make sense. Sir Alec was incorruptible, or was that the image he liked to portray.

One thing was sure of, he had never seen this coming. He needed time to think. He quickly shucked on his t-shirt and boots. The men outside banged on the door again.

“Hold on two minutes. I’ll be there,” he called out.

Bane crossed to the window, sliding it aside he stepped out on the balcony, and looked over the side. It was a long way to the ground, with no hand holds. He looked across to the adjacent balcony. It was too far away to jump, but the wall in between had a small ledge he could stand on and there was hand holds too.

He heard a loud thump from the door. They were trying to gain entry, leaving Bane no choice. He climbed over the balcony wall to the ledge. The sound of the door crashing open came to him as he began to make his way across. His hands were beginning to shake, and his heart beat fast. Diamond beads of perspiration speckled his face. Knowing he only had seconds before they discovered him, he tried to increase his speed. His foot slipped. For a second Bane thought he was going to fall. His right hand lost its hold, and his other foot lost its purchase. The only thing stopping the long plunge to his death was the fingers of his left hand. Now he was in trouble. Looking below he could see people like ants. He felt his hand slipping

A strong hand gripped his right arm. He looked around to see the grinning face of an Oriental man.

“Most people leave the hotel by the main entrance.”

Seemingly without effort he hauled Bane back onto his balcony.

Dr Connelly clung onto the ladder as if her life depended on it. She thought she would be all right, but the darkness, the smell of grease from the cables and the fear of what was going on all around them had taken its toll.

“Billy, I can’t go any further.”

“You have to, Doc, come on a little further, then we can rest, there’s a ledge we can sit on.”

Even though they were whispering, the sound of their voices seemed to carry. They had