Page 2 of Coldwire
No one answers Teryn. The Atahuan government offloaded this task to NileCorp, contracted us instead of a federal bureau to capture Nik Grant. But we’ve already attempted two capture missions and failed both times now, so maybe they’re losing patience.
“Federal only scrambles surveillance if they’re up to something,” Smith says. A snide edge colors his voice, obvious even through the comms. “I wonder what.”
Wright has been out of commission with an injury for weeks. Under normal circumstances, if Atahua’s most wanted anarchist entered Button City in that time, the task to mobilize and lead the charge that would apprehend him should have gone to another unit at the base, or to the contractor in our unit with the next highest seniority—Smith. Instead, they gave it to Teryn. Eighteen-year-old Teryn Moore, the niece of James Moore, the CEO of NileCorp.
“We won’t know until we know,” Teryn decides. Either she didn’t pick up Smith’s dig, or she chooses to ignore it. “Eirale, do you have a visual?”
“Negative,” I answer.
“Capture unit, proceed as planned. Our target is in the building.”
Teryn and I went to Nile Military Academy together, though the first time I spoke to her was after graduation, when I introduced myself in the Button City barracks. She was good enough to make valedictorian, yet I haven’t been able to match that repute to the soldier I’ve worked alongside. She’s capable, I suppose. She’s quick and she’s smart and she takes a few seconds every morning in front of the tiny mirror in the barracks to straighten the collar of her uniform and ensure that NileCorp’s logo is polished clean on her chest.
She also hesitates in the field and leads us astray during situations when we need cohesion. If we fail to close in on Nik Grant a third time, the restof us are going to have our jobs on the line. Teryn, meanwhile, will be fine. No one fires their own niece.
“Any visual inside?” Smith asks.
“Negative,” Teryn answers. “Keep every balcony secured. Once we give chase, he will have no qualms about making a leap onto the street.”
I tap my foot, its echo traveling across the stone floor of the stairwell. We don’t have enough soldiers on the perimeter. Penrose should have been situated on the skywalk too. Or we should have combined with another unit and doubled our efforts, given our previous failures.
Nik Grant first gained public infamy after he bombed a military base outside the capital. Three casualties, one a commander… but more importantly, the damage took out a whole surveillance grid. The government flailed directionless for a week trying to determine the culprit and left the District of Melnova to operate blind until their servers were fixed. The nation speculated viciously about the possibility it was Medaluo’s work. A terrorist emerging among the ethnic Medans who called Atahua home. Someone recruited on their ancestral ties to turn the cold war hot. Then an identical bombing targeted a NileCorp base, taking out a team of contractors, and in hours NileCorp had identified the perpetrator and generated a headshot for the news. It confirmed he was Atahuan, born and raised. Unlikely an agent of a foreign enemy power, but rather a domestic anarchist. NileCorp didn’t release his name initially. Their representatives refused, in fact, which led to speculation that he was a former contractor with a grudge. That was quickly put to rest when they relented with a sprinkle of biographical information: he was only seventeen years old.
Considering these recent attacks, Atahua’s Federal Bureau of Defense has entrusted our security forces to execute justice,NileCorp announced in a statement.Due to the perpetrator’s status as a minor, we feel it is best to keep his information out of public scrutiny. Please report any sightings on the NileCorp website.
In the next footage the live camera crews got of him, he wasspray-painting the rubble of his bomb site, finishing the last letter on his message—MY NAME IS NIK GRANT, LOL—before disappearing. A clear middle finger to NileCorp for wanting to conceal his identity.
With each of his subsequent attacks in the last few months, he has only grown larger than life. The news splatters headshots of Nik Grant to encourage Atahuans to report any information they have about his whereabouts, and the image continues to be no less baffling. He could have been one of my fellow cadets at the academy, slightly blond in the right light and frowning with the insolence of a class troublemaker. Atahuan media spins up one new theory after another about why he wants to destroy his own country—maybe a tragic past as an orphan, or secret parentage from an extremist group—all to avoid addressing the likely truth: he despises NileCorp, and he’s doing everything in his power to ruin the company. He’s become notorious for his slogans, all of which support absurd conspiracy theories but still spread like wildfire each time he spray-paints them over his bomb sites.NILECORPKILLSITS CRITICS; INDISPOSITION IS REAL; LOG OFF BEFORE YOU LOSE YOUR MIND.
“The secretary of defense is here,” Mint suddenly declares. “I see him. At the back, near the bar.”
“Hm,” Teryn says. She hesitates. “I suppose we leave him to his business. It probably has nothing to do with our task.”
At least Teryn is very good at tame, controlled responses. Anyone else would have asked what sort of business Chip Graham could possibly have in a dingy downcountry nightclub. NileCorp contractors know our defense secretary’s face about as well as we know President Sterling’s. In times of war, while President Sterling addresses the public, we get Chip Graham. On paper he may be in charge of the Atahuan military, but the military has so many holes in its infrastructure that the country wouldn’t feel a difference if it were dissolved tomorrow. There’s no need to funnel money into the military when NileCorp exists to plug up the holes. NileCorp salutes to Chip’s directives instead and passes the assignments down a cohesive line of corporate soldiers.
“Possible target sighting near the tables,” Teryn reports. Her tone changes, sharpening for combat.
“Ready on your signal,” Smith prompts.
A few minutes pass. My palms prickle with sweat beneath my gloves. I adjust my grip on my firearm.
“Never mind,” Teryn says eventually. “It’s a look-alike. I’ve gone through the northwest quadrant. Mint?”
“Nothing in the south so far,” Mint answers. “Everyone’s moving around too much for me to confirm if I’ve surveilled all patrons.”
That’s the problem with trying to capture a fugitive in a nightclub.
“I’m seeing some movement in the third-floor offices,” Buchanan contributes. “Any chance of it being the target?”
“Can’t be.” Smith’s answer is slightly muffled—he’s turned away from his mic, speaking to Buchanan directly. “Ward’s on the stairwell. She’ll have seen him move.”
A new layer of sweat breaks down my back. It’s certainly impossible that he got past me. There’s only one route.
“He could have climbed the exterior,” Buchanan returns.
“If he’s climbing the exterior to get away from us,” Teryn says, “he would have made a break for it rather than approach the third floor.”
“Maybe he was already situated there,” Mint says. “It’s not the first time we haven’t—”
