Badge of the Death Game

Chapter 030

The cargo ship was registered under the Aurelia Dominion. Its owner was Ronan Vale — born on the mainland, raised abroad, and by now more or less Aurelian by habit if not entirely by temperament. His Mandarin was functional, if slightly accented.

The shipment was straightforward: a consignment of electronic cigarettes, bound for the Sunvale Republic on behalf of a wealthy Aurelian principal.

"If I'm not mistaken," D-6 said, "electronic cigarettes are illegal in Sunvale. Prohibited under import and export regulations."

Ronan nodded. "Correct. That's precisely why they came to me."

"So this is smuggling," Soren said.

"Essentially. I have a contact at Sunvale Customs Bureau — someone with a flexible interpretation of their duties. For shipments below a certain volume, the inspection process can be navigated. It costs money, of course. Their appetite is considerable." Ronan gave a rueful shake of his head.

"How much cargo, and what's your cut?"

"The total volume I couldn't tell you — they don't allow us to inspect the containers. The commission is seven hundred and fifty thousand US dollars for the run. After expenses, I clear something under a hundred thousand."

"Quite a living," Soren said pleasantly. Then his expression shifted, and something in it made Ronan's composure develop a new c***k. "So, Ronan. Let's talk business. What do you think your life is worth?"

Ronan stared at him. The bad feeling he'd had since the wheelhouse door came off its hinges intensified considerably.

________________________________________

An hour and a half had passed in the lower ship's hold. Evan had been pacing since the forty-minute mark. Howard had stopped pacing and moved on to sitting very still, which Evan found somehow worse. Cody stood near the base of the stairs with his pistol in hand, saying nothing.

"I'm going up," Evan said, his grip on the g*n slightly unsteady. "Something's wrong."

"Calm down," Howard said. "Soren isn't impulsive. We trust him."

"It's been over an hour. What if he needs help?"

Howard considered this with the patience of a man who had learned when to move and when to wait. "If Soren couldn't handle this, we wouldn't have had an hour and a half. Someone would have come down for us long before now. The quiet isn't necessarily bad news."

Evan fell silent, eyes fixed on the hatch above.

Then it swung open. Cody raised his pistol instantly, muzzle trained on the stairs. The figures that appeared were not crew members, and they were not Soren. They were two operators in full tactical kit — ballistic helmets, AR-15 carbines, tactical vests bearing the markings of the HPD. D-5 and D-2.

"Easy, kid." D-5 glanced at Cody's pistol, his own rifle drifting almost imperceptibly in that direction. "We're here to help."

"Howard," Evan said under his breath, "they're police."

"I can see that." Howard straightened. "You wouldn't happen to be associates of Soren's?"

D-5 shrugged. "Give yourself a point. No prize, though. Which one of you is Howard, which one is Evan? Soren wants you upstairs."

They crossed the deck in silence. Crew members knelt in rows, zip ties at their wrists, bodies at the margins, gunpowder still hanging in the salt air. Neither of them spoke until they reached the wheelhouse.

Soren stood as they entered. "You made it."

They both stopped. The HPD badge on his chest was impossible to miss.

"You're..." Evan pointed at it, words failing him. "You're SWAT?"

Howard, who prided himself on composure, found that composure temporarily unavailable. "Soren. You're American. You're SWAT."

He'd had theories. The vague story about trouble back home. The way Soren moved, the way he made decisions under fire. Howard had constructed a fairly detailed mental portrait of Soren as a high-level fugitive with underworld connections — had even, somewhere in the back of his mind, prepared himself for the possibility that joining up with Soren might require crossing lines he'd prefer not to cross. He had not considered this.

Soren smiled and shook his head. "That's a conversation for later. Right now, I need to show you something."

He nodded toward Ronan, who sat to one side with the expression of a man who had recently agreed to terms he found deeply unpleasant. On the table in front of him sat a thick document envelope.

"Per your terms," Ronan said, his voice carrying a pronounced note of personal suffering. "No traceable currency. Seven bearer bonds across seven different countries, total value approximately three million US dollars. Redeemable through any informal financial broker without documentation."

"Thank you, Ronan." Soren checked the contents — no tracking devices — and handed the envelope to Howard. "That's our operating capital. Once we're ashore, convert these to cash. Use your account if it's still active, Evan's if not."

Howard accepted it. The thought arrived fully formed: So Soren's a dirty cop. Somehow that's more alarming than everything else.

Delta One stepped through the door. "Helicopter's inbound."

"Copy. Thank you, sir. We wouldn't have made it without you."

"Don't mention it. Walk with me."

Outside, the night air carried salt and diesel, and the sound of rotor blades was already growing. "How did you find us?" Soren asked. "I didn't give you coordinates."

"You didn't need to." Delta One pulled off his balaclava and lit a cigarette. Without the gear, he was a broad-shouldered man in his mid-forties, heavy jaw, grey threading through a full beard — the particular stillness of someone who had spent decades making difficult decisions. It was the first time Soren had seen him without the mask. "You already knew."

Soren thought about it. He didn't argue the point.

"There's nothing more we can do for you from here," Delta One said. "Whatever comes next, that's yours to figure out. Good luck, Soren."

"I'll manage."

The SUBARU BELL 412EPX helicopter was already visible against the dark sky as Delta Team assembled on deck. D-2 reached Soren first. "You're not a natural second-in-stack. If there's a next time, I'm not running point man for you."

"Noted."

D-3 clapped him on the shoulder. "Your improvement rate is genuinely impressive."

D-5 slung an arm around D-6 and made a gesture that communicated approximately nothing printable. "Next time we're in the same time zone, I'm buying."

D-6 looked at Soren with the slightly awkward sincerity of someone who didn't say goodbye often. "Take care of yourself."

The helicopter settled onto the stern deck. Delta Team loaded in sequence, the side door slid shut, and the aircraft shrank to a pair of running lights against the black sky.

"Goodbye, Delta Team."

________________________________________

Two days later, outside Larch Bay Port, Sunvale Republic.

"Looks about the same as the port back in the Frontier," Evan said, unimpressed.

Howard stood nearby with a notebook and pocket calculator, murmuring figures to himself. Cody waited quietly with his mother a short distance away. And Ronan, accompanying them to the dock with the expression of a man fulfilling a deeply objectionable obligation, was attempting to excuse himself.

"I'll leave you here, then. I really do have somewhere to be—"

"Going to call ahead and have us intercepted, Ronan?" Soren asked. He was carrying the black equipment bag in one hand, the other resting in his jacket pocket in a way that made the fabric sit unevenly.

"I'm a legitimate businessman," Ronan said. He glanced at Soren's jacket pocket and lowered his voice. "Sunvale does permit civilian firearm ownership, but this is a public area. You might want to be more careful about that."

Across the dock, Evan's phone rang. He answered, listened, and his expression moved through three phases — relief, confusion, then frustration. "The contact — my uncle's friend. He's in Grayhaven City, says he can't get away. We have to go to him."

"Grayhaven? That's not close."

"I know." Evan glanced at Ronan. "We should have had him drop us at Grayhaven Harbor in the first place."

Ronan said nothing. The diplomatic choice.

"It's fine," Soren said. "We're asking a favor — we don't get to set the terms. Grayhaven it is." He turned to Ronan. "I'll take a card. Business has a way of creating unexpected opportunities."

Ronan produced a business card with the gracious expression of a man who had made his peace with an unpleasant situation, then made his exit. Soren watched him go. He wasn't planning a second approach — Ronan's real fear was the HPD behind Soren's badge, and that fear had a shelf life. But Ronan had connections and routes that didn't appear on official maps. Worth preserving.

Cody approached, bowing slightly. "Mr. Soren. Thank you. I won't forget what you did."

"It was nothing. Don't worry about it."

Cody pressed a folded piece of paper into his hand. "My number and address in Sunvale. If you ever need anything, I won't refuse." His tone left no room for argument.

Soren accepted it, then watched Cody and his mother disappear into the crowd. He unfolded the paper. Grayhaven City. Same destination.

Howard had already flagged down a cab. The three loaded in, and Howard settled into the front seat and opened a conversation with the driver in fluent Thai, extracting local information with practiced ease.

"Hey." Evan turned from the window. "Once we get the new IDs sorted — what's the plan? We can't just sit on three million dollars."

"Still thinking about the restaurant?" Soren said.

"With three million US? No. I'm thinking a company. Real operations." Evan paused. "What about going to the States? Sunvale is a small market — what's the upside here?"

"Now hold on." The cab driver's Mandarin was accented but entirely functional. "You can't write off Sunvale that fast. Small market, big opportunity — that's how it works."

Evan blinked. "You speak Mandarin?"

"Out here, if you don't speak a few languages, you don't make money." The driver grinned in the rearview mirror. "You gentlemen look like investors from the mainland. Interested in some development projects? Tourism sector, very promising. I know people — real people, not just talk."

Soren leaned back and looked out at the road ahead, the flat green landscape of the Sunvale Republic unrolling in the headlights.

He'd figure it out. He always did.