Gone Dark: The Stefan Mendoza Series, #2
By P R Adams
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About this ebook
Wounded. Alone. Wanted for a murder he didn't commit.
Stefan Mendoza is a broken man. The last thing he cares about now is revenge against the people who betrayed him. All he wants is peace. To hide out, he returns home to a town that seems isolated from the world collapsing around him.
But can he really escape the world of the Agency? Can anyone ever really go home again?
Strap in for Gone Dark, and get started on this unforgettable, fast-paced cyberpunk thriller.
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Titles in the series (7)
Into Twilight: The Stefan Mendoza Series, #1 Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5End State: The Stefan Mendoza Series, #3 Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsGone Dark: The Stefan Mendoza Series, #2 Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Split Image: The Stefan Mendoza Series, #4 Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsHard Burn: The Stefan Mendoza Series, #5 Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsNull Point: The Stefan Mendoza Series, #6 Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsStefan Mendoza: The Human Deception Trilogy Omnibus: The Stefan Mendoza Series, #6.5 Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratings
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Gone Dark - P R Adams
CHAPTER 1
They found me somewhere east of Denver, in the dead of a silent night. It was a freakish whiteout blizzard, the sort where the sky becomes a white mass in your headlights, and black specks are all you know of the darkness. Each time I crested a rise, there should have been a grid of sparkling towers to guide me into the city, and to the south a flickering blanket where the common folk huddled inside lesser buildings.
In the storm, the only light was my own.
I had swapped out Gillian’s car in Hays, Kansas. Maybe that had bought me time. The SUV I’d taken could have passed for a hunter’s stand on wheels—flat camouflage paint and matching crude-sewn upholstery and cargo webbing, winter tires, sports suspension. It was old and probably close to illegal for city driving, and I had no doubt the owner would find the swap inadequate. Life sucks like that sometimes.
When a scoped rifle had slid out from under the front seat, I christened the vehicle Huntergasma. Under the dome light, the rifle looked like a civil war relic, older than the SUV but better maintained: polished walnut-brown wood, even more polished barrel.
Huntergasma was more amenable to my frame—six foot, thick chest, and cybernetic limbs that felt a little long after more than a day driving Gillian’s little car. Maybe that’s why I almost didn't notice the wash of ultraviolet through the windows at first. When I did, I stuck my head out the passenger side window. Snow clung to my face, ghostly against the pale copper of my skin and black of my hair.
Despite the hyper-masculine smells of sweat and beer that permeated the cab, Gillian’s scent clung to my clothes as tenaciously as the memories of our time together—condensed now, frantic groping and thrusting. She had reduced me to an animal, and that was all that remained now. The car managed the slushy road with a hypnotizing hum intermittently shattered by the thud of snow clumps breaking free from the wheel well and undercarriage. It was just enough to drown out the voices in my head. Voices that told me I'd gone too far, taken too big a risk, kicked the wrong hornet's nest.
The ultraviolet beam swept through the snow again, brighter than my lights.
I leaned out again, and sniffed, as if my prominent nose—the pride of the Mendelsohn side of my mother’s family, despite mine being crooked—might be able to pick out something in the blizzard that my cybernetic eyes couldn’t.
The thermal outline glowed: a helicopter. A powerful one, with a fearless pilot.
Or remote-piloted.
Whichever one, the aircraft was at its limits, and the pilot knew it. It was gone as quickly as it appeared.
Which meant they had people in the area already.
On the ground.
I accelerated. Plowing through heavy, wet snow made the SUV sluggish and sloppy, but as I accelerated, the feeling became closer to hydroplaning. There was no sense of control, only a marginal connection to the road. It was more like aiming than driving. An exit notice flashed off to the right, blurry in the whiteout. I pulled a map up on the data device I’d taken from one of my caches—a hidey-hole on the West Virginia border—and spotted what might be trees, and took my foot off the accelerator. I went from feeling a loss of control to a trapped feeling.
I swung wide to turn onto the exit road, slipped into the oncoming lane, then tried to use the piled snow to drop some speed. About twenty feet down the exit road, I had everything under control again.
No worries. No one else would be out in this weather.
Just me and the Agency's assassins.
Dark shapes rose on either side of the highway: trees. I accelerated and pulled off the road, plowing through the snow until I was at the edge of the trees. It was a nice, obvious trail. I pulled the rifle out from beneath the seat, searched around until I found an empty magazine and a box of rounds. Those went into my jacket pockets as I hopped out of the SUV and headed north, staying close to the trees and minimizing my tracks. After the foul smell of the vehicle, the air was fresh and sweet. About eighty steps from the SUV, I squatted and covered myself with snow, flipping from thermographic to normal vision while watching the road.
And waited.
They arrived about an hour after the helicopter spotted me. Two cars, black against the snow, heat rolling off them as they crawled to a stop along the side of the road, about a hundred feet east of the SUV’s position. I counted three per car, glowing like miniature suns in my thermo-optics, trailing yellow waves of heat from the warm interior. They fanned out, two high-stepping through the snow to the north, two to the south, two heading for the SUV. Boots, a flash of jeans, and dark pants beneath long trench coats.
No hand signals, which meant they were connected over some sort of radio. Then again, there were no high-end optics if they hadn’t spotted me, and it didn’t seem like I was being tracked through biometric signals.
That said two things: not high-end agency operators, and almost certainly a rushed gathering. Mercenaries.
I stayed still other than the occasional shiver and watched for my opportunity.
The two approaching the SUV finally pulled out weapons: compact submachine guns. When they pulled the guns, the wind puffed out their trench coats, revealing tight shirts. Covered by body armor. They screwed something over the barrels: suppressors. Long magazines were slapped into place.
That changed things.
I brought the rifle up slowly, got another feel for it. Remington, 30.06, semiautomatic. It was the sort of gun my Uncle Martin would’ve liked. The magazine could hold twenty, but there had only been eight in the ammo box. Not a lot of margin for error. There rarely was when the Agency hired a crew to clean up a mess, and that’s exactly what this looked to be.
My first targets would need to be the pair moving north. They were almost parallel to my position and still hadn’t moved west much. Drop them, then the two approaching the SUV, then the two farther south.
Easy.
I sighted on the closest—long, pale hair floating like a halo. Smaller than the other, who seemed bulky, like a bodybuilder. Not just smaller than the bodybuilder, smallest of the six, actually. Slender, but I’d noticed a modest flare at the hips when the trench coat had whipped open.
Female. Smaller head. Tougher shot.
The rifle cracked, deafening in the silence.
She crumpled, misting a bright flare of gore over the dark snow.
Her partner dropped flat.
I spun around, but the two approaching the SUV were low, keeping the frame between us. To the south, one of the assassins had already dropped as well. The other seemed confused, weapon raised, swiveling, scanning my area.
Some sort of optics? Modifications? A device to triangulate sound?
I sighted on the lower part of the head, which widened out. Lantern-jawed, perhaps. Or comms gear. The rifle crack was followed almost immediately by him tottering, then falling sideways.
They opened fire at that point, and it was close. The guns were silenced, a whisper to the rifle’s thunder. Branches snapped, a round buried itself in the trunk of a nearby tree with a deep thump, and a bullet whistled past close enough that I could almost feel it.
I dropped deeper into the snow, burrowing a few feet to the south, listening to the snap of branches and the occasional voice raised just enough.
Maybe they hadn’t been warned. Or maybe I didn’t warrant a warning.
I rolled west, toward a tree, teeth chattering despite my effort to keep them clenched.
Danny would have rolled his eyes at my sloppy effort. He probably would have already dropped four of them.
When I had another tree between me and the bodybuilder, I searched for him.
He was a brilliant red against the blue of snow. Checking the woman. They must have worked together. That was always tough. Everyone knew you didn’t form relationships. Not that kind. It was bad news, a disaster waiting to happen. So you agreed to keep it to just sex. And the relationship followed, even though you didn’t want it to.
Bodybuilder raised his torso and brought his gun up. I had him in my sights clean. Another crack of thunder, and they were at half strength.
Once again, their bullets tore through the trees while I tried to crawl south through the snow. Something thudded into my left shoulder, and for a second, I thought I’d lost the arm. It was sluggish and weak, but I was finally able to move again.
Then the whistle of bullets and snapping of branches stopped.
Repositioning. They had to be.
Unless—
I popped my head up for a quick glance south.
A short, squat form, half hidden by a tree about sixty feet away, wearing a ski mask, brought a submachine gun up and fired.
Snow kicked up in front of me, and something hammered my right wrist and then my left bicep. Something burned like fire along my scalp.
Once again, my arm seemed to just stop working. I rolled away.
The bullets followed, and the gunman hurried toward me.
Panic. Excitement. Something. He had no reason to leave cover, to close.
He brought the gun around for a shot. I hurled the rifle at him, knocking his aim wide long enough for me to get to my feet and close. It was clumsy, but the snow equalized things.
He got off another burst—loud, the suppressor failing. The shots strafed my thighs.
And then I was on him.
I had enough control of my right arm to put a solid strike into his solar plexus.
He staggered.
I drove a knee into his gut and took him to the ground, crushing his larynx with an elbow strike.
His buddies were closing from the east, holding fire, probably unsure who was thrashing and making wet, desperate noises.
I tore his weapon from his hands and emptied the magazine at the two closing forms.
They fell.
The choking man had a nice CA-Mil Urban Enforcer 10mm pistol and another magazine for the submachine-gun—also a CA-Mil, but one I hadn’t seen before. He also had an impressive computing device hanging off his hip. I tore the device from its carrier, then examined the ski mask. It was heavier than normal, with what looked like integrated optics over the eyeholes. There was a mesh of some sort over what would have been the cheeks and ears: comms. I took the mask, then surveyed the scene, finishing off the wounded, collecting magazines for the submachine gun, and reclaiming my rifle.
The cars were rentals, sleek American hybrid electric beauties. I took the one with more of a charge and pulled back onto the highway, then reversed back to the interstate. About five minutes later, I passed a speeding sheriff’s car, lights flashing, sirens screaming. There would be frantic, confused calls, concerns about a drug deal gone wrong or something similar, and eventually calls would go out to federal agencies.
And the Agency would know I was still alive.
They’d sent a rookie team. Sloppy. Strange.
In Denver, I cut north, dumping the rental on the outskirts of Cheyenne and helping myself to another SUV that had seen better days.
When the sun came up, I was off the road, hidden in the woods, fighting off a headache. I slept fitfully through the day. My arms were having fine motor control problems. The legs looked worse—gouged and scraped beneath torn and stained pants—but the cybernetic operations seemed to be fine. It was something I just had to deal with until I could get the limbs repaired, and there was only one person I trusted to do that. The SUV had a baseball cap in it, which was good enough to hide the bloody head wound.
That evening, I cut back through Colorado, and the next morning rested outside Albuquerque. There was barely any mention of the dead. One feed mentioned law enforcement stumbling across the bodies of six known operatives for Central American drug lords. It sounded like one of the paranoid bunker types out to sell doomsday preppers magical nutrients and miracle solutions.
Another vehicle change, some clothes appropriated from a dry cleaner, and I was on my way into Arizona. I turned north, off the big interstate, at Flagstaff, passed through Vegas, and was in Utah in no time. I picked up the interstate again at Salt Lake City, and shortly before dawn, I reached Emmett, Idaho. Main Street unfurled ahead of me—cracked asphalt, dull dividing lines. The Payette River rolled by on my right, black in the occasional light. I’d spent many nights of my childhood riding down the same street. There were still storefronts I recalled—gray stone facades, family businesses—from too many trips to count. The police station and jail where my father had spent time, and the courthouse where he had finally discovered that, yes, even a hard man like him could pay for acts he thought were his right; the city’s only Chinese restaurant; the McDonald’s where I’d finally broken up with Margo before heading off to boot camp.
It was all still there, untouched, as if the place were protected by a giant force field that held back time.
The truck I’d liberated in Utah nearly died as I pulled up to the rickety gate of my mother’s farm. The chain was rusted, the lock cold to the touch but silver-white, untarnished.
I pulled the truck off to the side of the road and climbed over the gate, carrying the bundle of clothes and stash of weapons with me. With the headache blowing up like it was, straight lines were out of the question, so I meandered. The house that had been my childhood home seemed to glare at me as I passed, black windows evaluating me coldly. I paused before the front door, remembering the last time I’d slept inside, then weaved around the path to the back. To the west was the barn: shadow-filled, mostly empty except for some tools and a tractor that still wore its familiar green and yellow colors. My fishing boat was gone. Sold. A few hundred feet back from the house was a smaller place, an oversized shack. Badly in need of paint, with grimy windows and weatherworn clapboards, it was more inviting, with warmer memories.
Five paces west of the sagging front porch, a head-sized stone covered the key that would always be there for me. My little place. A gift from my mother.
It was cold inside, and the fireplace needed cleaning. Spiderwebs stretched from the woodpile to the old armchairs Clay Bolan, my mother’s father, had given me when I’d moved in. I swept cold ashes out and dumped them out back, then pulled the dry web strands away from everything, taking a moment to squeeze the dulled, deep-brown leather of the old chairs. They were high-backed, with carved wood that twenty years on retained the detailing, even on the claw feet. Those chairs held so many memories of a simpler time.
The firewood was old, but it would still burn. I opened the damper, spread kindling under the andirons, then piled wood over top and started the fire.
While the fire caught, I checked the building for any sign of forced entry, human or otherwise. I hadn’t been back since before the Seoul mission, but everything seemed intact. There was a kitchenette and dining room that shared the east end of the building with the fireplace and sitting room. The west end of the building was a bedroom and bath. Dust lay on everything, including a mattress in need of replacement. I flipped it with some effort, then pulled on musty sheets.
A chest of drawers still held shirts, jeans, and flannel pajamas from high school. The bottoms would be a little tight with the cybernetics, the tops tighter.
I headed out to the barn and collected a steel pail to hold water from a pump located halfway between the main house and shack, then filled a kettle taken from beneath the kitchen sink. The kettle hung from a crane in the fireplace, and before long, I had water boiling.
More water went into the porcelain bathtub, first to clean away the dust, then to ready a bath. The boiling water broke the chill.
While I soaked, I examined the computing device I’d taken from the ski-masked assassin. It was a nice product—deluxe. Not the sort of thing the Agency would give out to a contractor. Something private, something of his own. He must have liked his tech. Like the strange ski mask.
I powered the device on, tried to break in using some of the basic tricks I’d learned over the years from Jacinto and other Gridhounds.
Nothing. The guy had actually done a good job of securing it.
My own data device was a bit of a mess. The display had a hairline scratch, and the occasional annoying crackling noise made it sound like the device was ready to explode at any second.
There were limited local data feeds. I flipped through weather and news—basketball scores, crop and meat prices, a report on Johnny Wilson’s impending trial for assault and battery. Finally, I opened the communications app and tapped in Margo’s old universal communications ID.
A ring came over the data device, and I nearly dropped the damn thing into the water.
Eighteen years, and she still used the ID. And why not? Nothing changed here.
Hello?
Raspy, with a hint of honey and surprise. That had always been the taste of her kisses. Who is this?
N-no one.
Before I could tap the disconnect, she said, Shit. Stefan? Stefan, is that you?
I put the device back to my ear, an ear grafted onto me after my torturers had taken everything from me. Yeah. I’m sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking.
Silence.
I reached for the disconnect again.
Where’re you calling from?
It wasn’t quite disappointment in her voice, but there was something there. I can’t see location or identification.
You know how it is.
You still doing things for the military?
A whisper of awe and curiosity.
Sort of. Look, like I said, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have…
I stretched my legs out and closed my eyes, letting my head rest back against the cool rim of the tub. Margo’s face drifted into view—round, with purple-red lips and pale blue eyes, framed by wheat-colored hair. Did she still have the perky breasts and taut belly after, what, two kids? Three? Firm thighs she’d built in cross-country races throughout high school. Would her laugh still be husky and easy, her tongue so quick and assertive?
Stefan?
Yeah?
You okay? You sound like you drifted off.
Had I? It’s been a tough few days, I guess.
Silence again. Or I thought so. Then, Stefan? Are you listening?
I’m…yeah.
You sure you’re okay?
I touched my scalp where the bullet had grazed me. It burned still. The only real injury I’d suffered, the only damage done to the real me. I’ll be fine. I just need to sleep.
I disconnected and toweled off, marveling at the amount of blood that had caked in my hair, then I slid beneath the sheet and drifted off, remembering how I’d told Margo I would never forget her. She’d punched me in the stomach just before I’d gotten onto the bus to Fort Benning.
I’d deserved worse.
CHAPTER 2
We rolled around in the barn in the summer sun, laughing, kissing, exploring our young bodies, ignoring the scrape of golden straw against our naked flesh. I was a decent-looking kid, seventeen, sturdy from work on the farm. Margo was one of the gals who turned heads at school. Lots of heads. Cheerleader, cross-country runner, volleyball—not a tomboy but fit. It was the volleyball outfit that got me. Shorts a little too tight and a burgundy T-shirt she always rolled the sleeves up on. She had shapely arms and liked to wipe sweat from her brow with the bottom of her T-shirt. She caught me staring at her belly while doing that once and just smiled. We started dating that weekend.
Now we were getting more serious. Dangerously serious. Stupid kid serious.
I ran a finger down her damp chest and said, Let’s do it.
She wrinkled up the right side of her brow, the way she did when she thought I was kidding. Here? What if your parents come back?
They’re buying feed. Won’t be back for another couple hours.
Can’t we just do like we been doing?
Her scent was on my fingers. I wanted it all over me. It’s not the same. C’mon. We been dating how long?
She laid back on the hay, and her brow smoothed. Wh-what happens if I get pregnant?
I brushed a strand of straw from her face and kissed her. Then we get married. This place makes money. I could work my grandpa’s place to make more.
I’m barely eighteen, Stefan. I was thinking about taking some courses at State next semester.
So you don’t get pregnant. What matters is I want you. Forever.
She swatted my chest—light, playful. You boys say anything to get—
I’m serious. This is all I’d ever want in life. Just you and me, getting by, peaceful and easy here in Emmett, where the world outside can’t touch us.
It’s always gonna touch us.
She stroked my chest and belly. It was like electricity. Why can’t it be just a little? Half? Half or nothing.
You say that with everything. This isn’t French fries or a shake, okay? This time I want it all. I want you.
She kissed me back and nodded, then gasped. Stefan! Oh—
I was young, impatient. Just you and me. Forever.
Tears filled her blue eyes as her fingers ran over my scalp, now every bit as hot as my chest had felt from her stroke. Shit, Stefan, what did they do to you?
They took it all away, Margo. All of it.
I shivered, then realized I was looking at Margo. Today. Margo, wife of Neil Bauer, mother of his kids. Margo, thirty-six and upstanding citizen of Emmett.
Her hair was shorter and seemed a little drier, fragile. The softness in her cheeks was gone, and she had a small scar on her chin. But her lips were the same red that leaned toward purple. She wore a powder blue, quilted vest, zipped up to the neck, and beneath that a brown sweater.
I tried to sit up; she pushed me down. You’ve got a fever. Good thing, because your fire was out and it’s cold as all hell.
She was right. My hair was wet. I felt hot. I need—
I tapped my forehead—hot and tingly. Antibiotics, maybe.
More like me getting you up to Knox.
Walter Knox. The hospital in town. I can’t do that.
The right side of her brow wrinkled. Really?
No. Serious. I’ve got my own doctor.
The data device. I glanced around, suddenly anxious. Had I dropped it into the tub? I had a data device—
She held it up. This?
No. That was the assassin’s device. My older one. I managed to lock that one up.
She spun around, scanning, returning to the bathroom. Where’d all this blood come from?
At the doorway she held up the towel I’d dried with. That head wound?
I guess.
She hadn’t noticed the tears in the flesh covering my arms. I stretched for the dresser and managed to hook a finger into a flannel pajama top. It would cover the worst of the damage.
Something thudded next to me on the bed. My data device. The other one’s nicer. You making big money now?
She dropped down next to it, eyes going from the device to my chest, then my face. Military, huh? Come back home after eighteen years away, shot up and—
She ran a hand down my right arm, twisting it around. What is it?
It. She’d always been sharp. Cybernetics.
A-all of you?
The arms and legs. And eyes.
She slumped, as if that were easier to take. An explosion or something?
Or something. Hey, I’m thirsty. I pumped some water—
That drew a snort. She got up, calling over her shoulder, You can bathe in it, but you don’t want to drink that.
When she returned, she had a large bottle of water. I took it out with me when I ran to the store. You can have it.
It was cool and sweet, and I thought I could taste honey and something more on my lips. You have your kids with you?
Nah. Neil’s mother’s watching them. She loves the little devils.
Her eyes clouded, took on a faraway, hurt look. But I’ve got to get back. It’ll be dark before long, and—
Her shoulders sagged just a little.
Yeah. I understand.
She doesn’t like driving at night, that’s all. Plus Derek can be a real challenge, and he’s got school tomorrow.
Derek? He’s the…?
She smiled, letting me know my fishing expedition was a little too obvious. He’s the youngest one. A little bit of a learning disability, you could say. Real withdrawn. Sweet as sugar, though. Stella—that’s my oldest—says God touched Derek on the lips when he was born to keep all the good sealed inside. She thinks most people lose a little more of the good in them every time they open their mouths. Got that from Neil. Sure as hell seems to apply to him.
That sour look flashed across her face again. I’d seen it before. On Tae-hee’s face, when things were failing with Norimitsu. Ichi had been all that held them together for a long time. After the love died.
Youngest and oldest—how many in between?
Quick as that, the sour look was gone from Margo’s face. Cecilia. That’s it. She would’ve been the last, but we thought maybe another try would…
She shrugged.
What’s he do? Neil. Never saw him making it in pro basketball.
I got my answer about her laugh: It was still husky and warm, enough to make my spine tingle. "Mostly, he drinks. But