Kasper slipped the message cylinder into his jacket pocket. Chrome casing still warm from the pneumatic tube. Around him, the factory floor hummed with pre-mission preparation. Operatives checking equipment. Onofre's voice drifting from the Target Two briefing area, explaining acceptable casualty thresholds with the detachment of someone calculating shipping costs.
Valerian stood with García at the holographic display, both studying the modified Edificio Kavanagh approach vectors Kasper had sketched. Their voices carried the careful tone of people double-checking each other's math when lives depended on getting the equations right.
Sean was somewhere near the equipment cages, probably arguing with the Sindicato specialists about load distribution and extraction protocols. His voice rose occasionally above the general noise, sharp with the kind of anger that came from accepting missions you knew might kill you.
Normal pre-operation chaos. The kind that made it easy to slip away unnoticed if you knew how.
Kasper found Rui near the communications station. The cyberlitch operative sat with his back to the wall, circuits beneath his skin pulsing with faint bioluminescence as he monitored data streams invisible to human perception. His eyes flickered between brown and copper and back again.
"Need you for something," Kasper said quietly.
Rui's eyes focused, the metallic sheen fading. "Lydia?"
"Different problem. Can you leave without Onofre noticing?"
Rui glanced across the factory floor to where Onofre stood in profile, hands moving through holographic projections with the precise gestures of a conductor leading an orchestra through a complicated passage. "Depends how long you need."
"Two hours. Maybe three."
"He'll notice eventually." Rui stood, his movements carrying the fluid precision of someone who'd learned to move through spaces designed for baseline humans. "But eventually gives us time to be useful first. What did you find?"
Kasper pulled out the message cylinder. Geometric etchings caught the light. The kind the Sindicato used for secure communications within Buenos Aires. Rui took it, his enhanced vision processing details human eyes would miss. His fingers traced the engravings like reading braille.
"Careful handwriting. Not printed. Someone took time with this." He opened the cylinder, extracting the message slip. Read it. Light rippled beneath his skin. "Coordinates in Zona Norte. Timestamp three hours before Onofre's operation window."
"Someone else tracking the convoy."
"Or someone who wants us to think they are." Rui handed back the slip. "Could be Onofre testing you. Could be ATA baiting you. Could be someone with their own agenda entirely."
"Only one way to find out."
Rui pulled out a small device, checked the readout. Lydia's vitals displayed in soft amber light. Steady. Consciousness streams: twelve active, holding pattern. Not getting worse. Not getting better.
"Two hours," Rui said. "Then we're back whether we have answers or not."
They moved toward the factory's rear exit. Not the main doors where operatives came and went with Onofre's permission, but the old loading dock that opened onto an alley lined with dumpsters and the rusted remnants of delivery equipment from when this building had been a legitimate business.
The door's hinges needed oil. They squealed softly, metal on metal. Kasper froze, but the sound didn't carry over the factory floor's ambient noise. Behind them, Onofre continued his briefing. Valerian and García continued their calculations. Sean continued his argument about weight distribution.
Normal chaos that made excellent cover.
Outside, Buenos Aires spread beneath an overcast sky that turned the afternoon light flat and gray. The air smelled like rain that hadn't fallen yet, mixing with exhaust from traffic that never quite stopped and the ever-present ozone from electrical systems that powered a city refusing to abandon its geometric aesthetic.
"We'll need transportation," Rui said.
"Not Sindicato vehicles. If Onofre's watching, he'll track those." Kasper pointed to a motorcycle chained to a lamp post three buildings down. Streamlined body with sunburst patterns etched into the fuel tank. Someone's pride and joy, maintained with the kind of care that spoke of real affection for machines designed in an era when form mattered as much as function.
"You mean stolen."
"I mean tactically appropriate."
Rui's expression suggested he had opinions about this plan, but he moved toward the motorcycle anyway. His fingers found the chain lock. Bioluminescence flickered brighter as his cyberlitch systems interfaced with the locking mechanism. Electronic tumblers that should have required a key clicked open like they'd been waiting for his touch.
"If Onofre catches us, this doesn't help our credibility," Rui said, wrapping the chain around the lamp post.
"If Onofre catches us, credibility will be the least of our problems." Kasper swung his leg over the motorcycle. The seat was worn leather that had molded itself to someone else's body over years of use. "He already knows we're investigating. Question is whether he wants us to."
Rui climbed on behind him. "That's not reassuring."
"Wasn't meant to be."
The engine caught on the first try. Brass engineering married to modern fuel injection. The sound echoed off geometric facades lining the street, drawing looks from pedestrians. Two men in tactical gear on a stolen motorcycle. Buenos Aires had seen stranger things.
Kasper pulled into traffic. Let the city's rhythm absorb them.
Twenty minutes later, the rhythm changed. Polished facades gave way to brick and rust.
Zona Norte sprawled across Buenos Aires's industrial heart like a monument to ambitions that hadn't quite died but hadn't exactly thrived either. Factories from the 1920s still operated, their angular facades decorated with sunburst motifs and zigzag patterns that had once celebrated the Machine Age. Now they just celebrated survival.
The coordinates led them to a district where the pneumatic message system's infrastructure ran through buildings like veins feeding something vast and hungry. Relay stations marked by brass plaques and decorative lettering. Tubes snaking between structures through passages that predated modern street layouts.
Kasper pulled the motorcycle into an alley that smelled like industrial lubricant and old concrete. Killed the engine. The sudden silence pressed against his enhanced hearing.
"There." Rui pointed to a building three blocks north. Four stories of brick and geometric metalwork. Windows dark except for emergency lighting that painted the interior red. A brass plaque beside the entrance read "Relay Station 17, Est. 1928" in elegant lettering that had been maintained with religious precision.
The building looked abandoned. Buildings lied.
They approached from the west, using parked delivery trucks for cover. Kasper's nanobots processed threat assessment data while his human consciousness focused on details that didn't fit. The front entrance had been used recently. Boot prints in dust that should have been disturbed by weather. Fresh scratches around the lock suggesting someone had picked it within the past few days.
"Someone's been here," Rui said, his cyberlitch vision processing details human eyes would miss. "Multiple someones. Different boot treads. Three, maybe four people."
"When?"
"Last visit maybe six hours ago. But the building's been used regularly for at least a week." Rui touched the door frame. The copper glow beneath his skin intensified. "Electromagnetic signatures suggest active systems inside. Not much, but enough to power monitoring equipment."
Kasper tested the door. Locked, but not with anything sophisticated. Simple mechanical tumbler that belonged in a museum. He could force it, but forcing left evidence.
Rui's hand found the lock. Light pulsed beneath his skin. Electronic clicking. The door swung open on hinges that had been recently oiled.
"Someone maintained this place," Rui said quietly.
They entered.
The interior smelled like ozone and old copper wiring. Emergency lighting turned everything red. Shadows pooled in corners. The main floor had been a processing center once. Pneumatic tubes ran along the ceiling like arteries feeding extinct organs. Workstations lined the walls, their brass control panels dark except for a single terminal near the back.
That terminal was active. Screen glowing with warm amber light. Data scrolling past in characters too small for baseline human vision to parse comfortably.
Kasper moved toward it while Rui covered the entrance. His augmented vision read the scrolling data. Pneumatic message logs. Routes throughout Buenos Aires. Timestamps. Sender identifications encoded in alphanumeric strings that would mean nothing without the proper decryption keys.
But one log entry stood out. Timestamp: two hours ago. Destination: Factory district, their safe house. Sender ID: a string of characters that looked random but probably wasn't.
Someone had sent them the message from this terminal.
"Kasper." Rui's voice carried warning.
Footsteps on the floor above. Multiple people moving with tactical precision. Not trying to hide. Making their presence known.
Kasper's nanobots flooded his system with combat chemicals. His hand found his weapon automatically. "How many?"
"Four. Maybe five." Rui's cyberlitch consciousness processed ambient data faster than human perception could follow. "European equipment signatures. Professional movement patterns."
"ATA cleaners."
"Or someone who wants us to think so."
The footsteps stopped. Silence that felt worse than noise. Then a voice echoed through the building's ancient acoustic architecture. Accented English. European. Probably German.
"Mr. de la Fuente. We've been waiting for you."
Kasper kept his weapon trained on the stairs while his mind raced through options. Fighting meant noise. Noise meant attention. Attention meant Onofre discovering they'd investigated independently. But running meant leaving without answers.
"Who sent the message?" he called back.
Laughter echoed down the stairwell. Multiple voices. Professional humor that came from people who enjoyed their work. "You already know. You just don't want to."
Movement on the stairs. Four figures descending with the practiced coordination of people who'd worked together long enough to predict each other's movements. They wore civilian clothes cut to hide body armor and equipment. Their faces carried the weathered competence of operators who'd survived situations that killed others.
The lead operative was a woman in her forties. Blonde hair pulled back in a tight bun. Eyes that calculated angles and threats with the automatic precision of someone whose survival had depended on reading situations faster than opponents could react. The man to her left had a knife scar running from temple to jaw. Former Stasi, if Kasper's database was accurate. The one on the right kept his hand near his sidearm, finger tapping nervous rhythm against the holster. Too young for the old intelligence wars. Probably private security before EU recruitment. The fourth hung back near the stairs, watching angles with the patience of a sniper who'd learned to wait.
"Inspector Kristine Weber. European Union Intelligence Division." She showed identification that looked legitimate. "You're investigating al-Zawahiri's network. So are we."
"Funny time for international cooperation," Kasper said.
"Funny time for American operatives to conduct unauthorized operations on sovereign soil." Weber gestured to her team. They spread out with professional efficiency, covering angles without making it obvious they were preparing for violence. "But here we are. Both investigating the same target. Both realizing he's been playing games that go deeper than anyone expected."
Kasper's enhanced hearing caught something. Movement on the roof. Subtle weight distribution. Snipers. They were never letting him leave without understanding the terms.
Rui's cyberlitch systems flared. Processing. His eyes flickered copper. "You sent the message."
"No." Weber shook her head. "But we've been monitoring pneumatic communications throughout this district for three weeks. Someone sent that message from this terminal ninety minutes ago. We arrived thirty minutes after they left. Just in time to intercept you."
"Convenient timing," Kasper said.
"Isn't it?" Weber moved to the active terminal. Her fingers danced across the brass controls with practiced familiarity. The screen changed, showing data that made Kasper's enhanced vision ache from information density. "Al-Zawahiri's network is more extensive than your organization understands."
Kasper's hand tightened on his weapon. "How extensive?"
"The three targets your team is planning to hit? They're decoys." Weber pulled up intelligence that showed Buenos Aires honeycombed with ATA infrastructure. "The server farm at Edificio Kavanagh contains backups, but the primary data is stored elsewhere. The laboratory in Barracas produces enhanced operatives, but it's not the only facility. The mobile convoy you're tracking is one of three. Al-Zawahiri has been preparing for exactly this kind of assault for forty years. He's not going to keep all his assets in locations you can discover in eight days."
Rui stepped closer to the terminal. His cyberlitch consciousness interfaced with data streams that human minds couldn't process. "There's a fourth target. Primary installation."
"Cryogenic facility." Weber zoomed in on coordinates southeast of the city center. She adjusted her watch. Precise movement. German engineering. "Al-Zawahiri's original body. Preserved in stasis since 1985 when his consciousness was first uploaded. Destroying the body fragments him permanently. Not seventy-two hours. Forever."
Kasper felt understanding settle over him. The three targets Onofre had briefed were important but not critical. Al-Zawahiri could rebuild from them. But his original body was unique. Irreplaceable. The anchor point his distributed consciousness needed to maintain coherence across decades of existence.
"Why tell us?" he asked.
"Because we could kill you right now." Weber's tone didn't change. Still professional. Still calculating. "Eliminate American competition. But we want the same thing you do. Al-Zawahiri eliminated. The European Union doesn't want his technology falling into uncontrolled hands any more than America does."
"So we're assets now. Not allies."
"Everyone's an asset to someone, Mr. de la Fuente. At least we're honest about it." Weber closed the data display. Her team shifted slightly. Ready. "We can't conduct operations on Argentine soil without creating diplomatic incidents. But we can feed you intelligence. You do the dying. We collect the technology afterward. Simple transaction."
Kasper's hand tightened on his weapon. "And if we refuse?"
"Then seventeen children die in that laboratory. Al-Zawahiri rebuilds from his backup servers. And in six months, he launches another Mirage City attack. Except this time it'll be in Munich or Prague or Amsterdam." Weber's eyes held his. "You'll refuse on principle. We'll respect that. And then we'll all watch civilians burn while pretending we had no choice."
The logic worked. The morality didn't.
"The cryogenic facility," Kasper said. "Defenses?"
"His most loyal operatives. Former Project Lazarus subjects. Enhanced children who've been conditioned to protect his body at any cost." Weber gestured to her team. They moved toward the exit. "Adults now. But they were children when al-Zawahiri started conditioning them. Some of them still remember. Some have already forgotten what they were protecting."
"Children," Rui said, his voice flat.
"Not anymore. Now they're weapons." Weber paused at the door. "The message you received? We don't know who sent it. But whoever did knows about the fourth target. Which means either Onofre is testing you, or someone inside ATA wants him dead badly enough to leak intelligence through back channels. Or..." She smiled. No warmth. Just professional appreciation for healthy skepticism. "Or we sent it ourselves to see how you'd respond. Decide carefully which truth you prefer."
She left through the front entrance. Her team followed with practiced efficiency. The snipers on the roof would be gone in thirty seconds. Professional extraction. Like they'd never been there at all.
Kasper and Rui stood in the relay station's red emergency lighting. The terminal still glowed. Data still scrolled. Somewhere in the building's ancient pneumatic infrastructure, tubes still carried messages between stations that had been routing communications since 1928.
"She's right," Rui said quietly. "About the uncertainty being worse."
"You believe her?"
"I believe she's telling us something true for reasons that benefit her agenda." Light flickered beneath Rui's skin as he processed the encounter. "Question is whether her agenda aligns with ours long enough to matter."
Kasper moved back to the terminal. Read the message logs again. Tried to find patterns in the sender identifications that would reveal who'd contacted them. But the encryption was professional. Military-grade. The kind that required resources beyond what most criminal organizations could field.
"Onofre has access to Sindicato pneumatic routes," he said.
"So does anyone who's worked with them for decades. Like al-Zawahiri, through Hayes."
"Or European intelligence, if they've been monitoring the system for three weeks."
Kasper's communication device vibrated. Not the pneumatic system this time. Digital. Routed through Sindicato channels but originating from nowhere. Ghost protocols.
He opened it.
The message inside was text only. Same careful precision as before. But different somehow. More urgent.
Relay Station 17 is compromised. ATA monitors all pneumatic communications in Zona Norte. The Europeans are using you. Onofre is testing you. And al-Zawahiri is watching all of you. Meet me. Alone. Coordinates attached. You have one hour.
New coordinates appeared. Location in the harbor district. Public space. Exposed ground under potential sniper overwatch.
Perfect place for a trap.
Perfect place for the conversation that might save them all.
No signature this time. Just coordinates and a countdown.
"A friend," Rui read over Kasper's shoulder. "Because that's not ominous at all."
"Someone with access to real-time information. They knew we were here. Knew the Europeans arrived. Knew exactly when to send this."
"Someone inside the operation. Maybe inside our team."
The implications settled cold in Kasper's chest. If someone inside their operation was leaking intelligence, every plan they made was compromised. But if that someone was trying to help, ignoring their warnings might doom the children the message mentioned.
Kasper deleted the coordinates from his device's history. Memorized them. "We need to get back before Onofre notices we're gone."
"And tell him what?"
"Nothing. Not yet." Kasper moved toward the exit. "Not until we figure out whose game we're actually playing."
They left the relay station through the front entrance. The street outside looked normal. Traffic flowing. Pedestrians walking. Life continuing with the oblivious momentum that came from not knowing what happened in buildings marked with brass plaques and elegant lettering.
The motorcycle was where they'd left it. Nobody had stolen it or called authorities about the two men in tactical gear who'd taken it for an unauthorized ride. Buenos Aires had learned long ago that sometimes not seeing was the best survival strategy.
Kasper started the engine. Rui climbed on behind him.
"If Onofre sent the messages," Rui said, "he's testing whether you'll investigate independently and report back, or investigate and keep secrets."
"If the Europeans sent them, they're trying to redirect our operation toward their interests."
"If al-Zawahiri sent them, this entire investigation is exactly what he wants."
"And if someone inside our team sent them," Kasper finished, pulling into traffic, "we have an ally who's risking everything to warn us."
The ride back took thirty minutes. Kasper spent them calculating how to tell Onofre about Weber without admitting he'd trusted unauthorized intelligence over official channels. Traffic thickened as they approached the factory district. His enhanced hearing caught sirens in the distance. Emergency services responding to something. The normal chaos of a city where violence and commerce existed in careful balance.
He never got the chance to finish those calculations.
They parked the motorcycle three blocks from the safe house. Kasper wrapped the chain around the lamp post, locking it exactly as they'd found it. Someone's pride and joy, returned with a story they'd never know about.
The factory's rear entrance was still unlocked. Still squealed softly when opened. Inside, the chaos had evolved. More operatives had arrived. Equipment distribution was in full swing. Onofre's voice carried from a different part of the factory floor, now discussing extraction protocols with Sean's team.
Valerian and García were exactly where Kasper had left them. Still studying the holographic display. Still refining approach vectors. They looked up as Kasper and Rui entered.
"Where were you?" García asked. Her jaw was tight. Shoulders rigid. But her voice carried genuine concern rather than professional suspicion.
"Checking something," Kasper said.
"Check it thoroughly?" Valerian's tactical mind processed their body language. Stress indicators. The way Rui's circuits glowed slightly brighter than normal. "Because you look like people who found answers that created more questions."
"Something like that."
García glanced across the factory floor to where Onofre stood in profile, hands moving through holographic projections. "He's been asking about you. Not obviously. But I know what questions sound like when someone's cataloging your absence for future reference."
"How long before he confronts me?"
"You're about to find out."
Onofre's briefing concluded. The operatives dispersed toward equipment stations. And Onofre turned. His eyes found Kasper with the precision of someone who'd known exactly where he'd been the entire time.
He walked toward them. Not hurried. Not aggressive. Just steady forward movement that suggested inevitability rather than anger.
Kasper's hand wasn't shaking. He made sure of that. Nanobot control. Forced steadiness. But something in his chest felt tight. Like his enhancement couldn't quite compensate for what his body knew was coming.
"Mr. de la Fuente." Onofre's voice carried its usual cultured precision. "I trust your equipment review was productive?"
"Wasn't reviewing equipment."
"No. I suspected as much." Onofre stopped three feet away. Close enough to be personal. Far enough to maintain professional distance. "Relay Station 17. Zona Norte industrial district. Encounter with European intelligence operatives. Return bearing expressions that suggest complicated discoveries."
The factory floor's ambient noise continued. Operatives preparing for missions. Equipment being distributed. Normal chaos. But Kasper felt like they were standing in a bubble where everything else faded except this conversation.
"You were tracking us," Kasper said.
"I sent the first message." Onofre's smile never reached his eyes. Never did. "Wanted to see if you'd investigate independently or report immediately. You investigated. Shows initiative. Strategic thinking. Exactly what I needed to confirm."
"And the Europeans?"
Something crossed Onofre's face. Brief. Gone in a moment. But Kasper's enhanced perception caught it.
Surprise.
Not at Kasper investigating. At something else. Something Onofre hadn't planned for.
"That was unexpected," Onofre said carefully. "I tracked you to Relay Station 17. Planned to observe from distance. Then Weber's team arrived." He paused. "They've been monitoring pneumatic communications for weeks. Intercepted my test. Turned it into their recruitment pitch."
"So you lost control of your own manipulation."
"Briefly." Onofre's voice hardened. Real anger bleeding through the professional mask. "Which is why we're having this conversation now instead of in three days when you'd completed the mission. The Europeans complicate everything. They want al-Zawahiri's technology. We want him eliminated. Those goals aligned until thirty minutes ago."
"There's a fourth target," Kasper said.
"Yes." Onofre gestured to the holographic display. "There is."
He pulled up new data. Coordinates. Facility specifications. Guard rotations. Everything the Europeans had shown them, but with additional details that spoke of intelligence gathered over weeks rather than hours.
"Cryogenic facility," Onofre continued. "Al-Zawahiri's original body. I've known about it since we began planning this operation."
García's jaw tightened. Valerian's tactical assessment shifted, recalculating trust equations. Light pulsed brighter beneath Rui's skin.
"You knew," Kasper said. "And didn't tell us."
"I wanted to see if you'd discover it independently." Onofre expanded the display. Four targets appeared. The three from his original briefing, plus the cryogenic facility. "Whether you'd investigate information that arrived through unofficial channels. How you'd handle contact with foreign intelligence operatives. You performed exactly as calculated."
"This was a test."
"Everything is a test, Mr. de la Fuente." Onofre met his eyes. "The question is whether you pass or fail by my metrics or yours."
He pulled up detailed schematics. "The fourth target is real. Destroying al-Zawahiri's original body fragments his consciousness permanently. But it's also the most heavily defended installation he possesses."
"Former Project Lazarus subjects," Rui said quietly.
"Precisely. Adults who were conditioned as children. Enhanced individuals loyal to al-Zawahiri with intensity that goes beyond rational self-interest." Onofre's voice carried clinical assessment. "Which is why I didn't include it in the original briefing. The three primary targets we can hit with available resources. The fourth requires specialized approach and acceptance of casualties most operatives find uncomfortable."
Kasper felt cold. "You mean killing the defenders."
"I mean acknowledging that some enhanced individuals have been conditioned beyond recovery." Onofre deactivated the display. "That mercy sometimes looks like eliminating threats before they can harm others. That your personal feelings about killing former victims don't change tactical reality."
He paused. Let the words settle.
"But you knew that already. You've made those calculations before. Costa del Sol taught you that sometimes the only choice is which tragedy you'll live with."
Two hundred and thirty-seven confirmed kills.
Some of them had been children once too.
"You're assigning the fourth target," Kasper said.
"To your team. Yes." Onofre checked his chronometer. Brass casing with geometric numerals. "But with modifications to the timeline. The Europeans weren't lying about al-Zawahiri detecting investigation. He's accelerating his evacuation protocols. We no longer have seventy-one hours."
"How long?"
"Forty-eight. Maybe forty-six by the time teams finish preparation." Onofre's voice never wavered. "Four targets. Three teams originally planned. But now we need four teams, operating simultaneously, with perfect coordination across a compressed timeline."
García's hand tightened on the edge of the holographic display. "You're splitting our forces further."
"I'm optimizing resource allocation for maximum effect." Onofre pulled up revised mission parameters. "Team One hits the servers. Team Two extracts the children. Team Three intercepts the convoy. Team Four eliminates the cryogenic facility and its defenders."
"Team Four is suicide," Valerian said flatly.
"Team Four is necessary." Onofre looked directly at Kasper. "Which is why I'm assigning it to you, Mr. Rulvan, and Miss Ceballos. Three enhanced operatives against al-Zawahiri's most loyal defenders. Acceptable odds for people with your capabilities."
Light blazed brighter beneath Rui's skin. "Lydia isn't ready for combat operations."
"Miss Ceballos possesses distributed consciousness capabilities that make her uniquely qualified for infiltrating the facility's security networks." Onofre's clinical assessment allowed no room for human consideration. "Her readiness is irrelevant compared to her utility. She either deploys or the mission fails and seventeen children in Target Two die while al-Zawahiri rebuilds from his preserved body."
The mathematics were sound. Again. They always were.
The ethics were monstrous.
Kasper looked at Rui. Saw the anger there. The helplessness. The same calculation playing out behind copper-flickering eyes.
His hand was shaking.
Just slightly. Just enough that Rui noticed. The bioluminescence beneath his skin flickered. Concern, not analysis.
"You okay?"
Kasper made his hand stop. Nanobot control. Forced steadiness. "I'm operational."
"That's not what I asked."
"It's the only answer that matters."
Light dimmed beneath Rui's skin. Something that might have been sadness crossed his face. "Yeah. That's what I was afraid of."
"When do we brief?" Kasper asked.
"Two hours. Individual team preparation begins immediately afterward." Onofre moved toward the next group of operatives requiring his attention. Paused. Turned back. "Mr. de la Fuente. The Europeans who contacted you are using your investigation to redirect our operation toward their interests. They want al-Zawahiri's technology. The intelligence they provided is accurate, but their agenda isn't aligned with ours."
"And your agenda?"
"Eliminating threats to regional stability I've spent decades cultivating. Maintaining order in spaces where chaos would benefit no one." Onofre's voice carried weight that went beyond this operation. "The Europeans want to study what al-Zawahiri created. I want to destroy it. Our goals align temporarily. Theirs and yours conflict fundamentally."
He held Kasper's gaze for three seconds. Then left.
Moved across the factory floor with the steady precision of someone who'd calculated every step of this operation months in advance.
Kasper looked at the holographic display. Four targets glowing in warm amber light. Forty-eight hours until execution. Three teams splitting to hit infrastructure. One team assigned what Valerian had accurately labeled suicide.
"He knew the entire time," García said quietly. "Knew you'd investigate. Knew what you'd find. Knew how you'd react."
"He's been playing chess while we've been playing checkers," Valerian agreed.
"Question is," Rui said, circuits pulsing with data streams invisible to human perception, "whether we keep playing his game or flip the board."
Kasper thought about the second message. The one that hadn't come through pneumatic tubes. The one that had arrived exactly when the Europeans left.
Someone else was playing this game.
Someone who knew too much.
Someone who might be trying to help or might be setting the perfect trap.
"We play the game," he said. "But we change the rules while we're playing."
"How?"
"Team Four's objective is eliminating the cryogenic facility. Onofre says that requires killing the defenders." Kasper looked at his reflection in the darkened display. Saw someone who'd been shaped by violence into a weapon, wondering if weapons could choose to be something else. "But what if we could turn the defenders instead? Use them against al-Zawahiri?"
"That's optimistic," Valerian said.
"That's necessary." Kasper met his eyes. "Because if we just kill everyone al-Zawahiri conditioned, we become exactly what he claims we are. Monsters who eliminate threats without considering whether those threats were victims first."
Across the factory floor, Lydia appeared at the top of the stairs. Perfect posture. Efficient movement. She caught his eye for just a second.
And somewhere in that brown-eyed gaze, the person who'd chosen pink sneakers was still fighting. Still broadcasting through seventeen different experiential streams. Still trying to decide whether being weapon or being person was a choice she could actually make.
His hand started shaking again.
Forty-eight hours.
Four targets.
Four teams.
And one chance to prove that people weren't just weapons waiting for optimal deployment.
Kasper's communication device vibrated again. Same ghost protocols. Same untraceable routing.
He opened it.
You have one hour. Harbor district. Come alone or don't come at all. The children in the cryogenic facility remember being human. I should know. I was one of them. Some of us still fight. Some have already lost. Decide quickly which category you want to fall into.
No signature.
Just coordinates and a truth that made everything more complicated.
Kasper looked at the coordinates. At Rui who'd noticed the device's vibration. At the factory floor where Onofre orchestrated preparations with mechanical precision.
Forty-eight hours until mission execution.
One hour until a meeting that might change everything or get him killed.
The mathematics said he should report this to Onofre. Get authorization. Bring backup. Follow protocols designed to keep operatives alive.
But the mathematics had been wrong before.
Sometimes survival meant trusting people you shouldn't. Making choices that looked like mistakes until they saved your life.
Sometimes revolution started with a message from someone who remembered being human.
Kasper deleted the coordinates from his device's history. Memorized them. Looked at Rui.
"I need to go somewhere. Alone."
"That's a terrible idea," Rui said.
"I know."
"If this is a trap..."
"Then you'll tell Onofre I died doing something stupid. He'll understand. I have a history."
Light pulsed brighter beneath Rui's skin. Processing. Calculating. Then he nodded once. "One hour. If you're not back, I'm telling everyone and bringing overwhelming force to extract you."
"Fair enough."
Kasper moved toward the rear exit. Nobody stopped him. Nobody questioned. Just another operative preparing for a mission in whatever way made sense to their individual psychology.
The door squealed softly as he opened it.
Outside, Buenos Aires waited.
Glowing with neon promises and lies that looked like truth in the right light.
Beautiful and brutal and indifferent to whether the people moving through its geometric streets were making choices or just executing programming installed by people like Onofre who understood that ownership was just another form of architecture.
One hour until the meeting.
Forty-eight hours until four teams deployed simultaneously.
And somewhere in the spaces between those numbers, someone who'd been a weapon was trying to warn him about something that went deeper than even Onofre's forty-year game.
The question was whether Kasper would live long enough to understand what.
And whether understanding would matter if the only choice was which tragedy to live with.
He walked into the city.
Let Buenos Aires swallow him.
Wondered if the person who came back would still be the same one who left.