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  His father, as always, glares at the mention of Sulan’s name. He doesn’t approve of Gun’s softness for the Hom girl, something Gun hadn’t been able to hide.

  “You were supposed to turn the VHS girl into a spy for us, not fall in love with her,” Anderson says. “However, that doesn’t mean we can’t make use of her.”

  “Sulan—not a tool!” The GABA truncates his speech, but he plows on. “Will not—use her!”

  His father’s eyes narrow. He takes a step forward, drawing himself up to his full height. The weight of his father’s disapproval makes Gun feel two inches tall, but he doesn’t look away.

  “She’s a tool if I say she’s a tool,” Anderson replies, voice so cold it raises gooseflesh on Gun’s arms. “Don’t forget who’s in charge of this family.”

  Gun holds his ground and glares back. “You don’t hurt her.”

  Anderson throws back his head and laughs. Instead of dispelling the tension, it makes Gun grind his teeth.

  “Who says I want to hurt her?” Anderson says. “We’ll make her part of the Anderson family. She’ll be given every measure of comfort.”

  This should comfort Gun, but it doesn’t. He knows his father too well. If Sulan doesn’t conform to his father’s wishes, Anderson won’t hesitate to toss her out on the street. Or kill her.

  For now, though, he doesn’t push the subject. His father is willing to help find Sulan and bring her to safety. That’s enough, for now.

  “We haven’t been able to find the compound,” Nate says, taking a few hesitant steps into the room. “Reginald covered his tracks flawlessly. His cloaking technology is top-notch. The Dome is self-contained, meaning there’s little need for anyone to come and go.”

  “What I wouldn’t give to have Winn’s team of shield technologists,” Maia mutters.

  Anderson drums his nails on the footboard of the bed. “The Hom girl has two ways out of the Dome. She’s either going to have to contact you for help”—he jabs a finger at Gun—“or she’s going to have to break out. We need to be ready for both scenarios.” He looks Gun up and down. “How long are you going to be incapacitated?”

  Gun shrugs, mouth tightening. “Don’t know.”

  “Get Dr. Fitz up here,” Anderson orders Nate. “We need Gun up and operational as soon as possible.”

  Nate obeys without a word, darting away to get Dr. Fitz.

  Anderson turns to Maia. “Get every surveillance specialist scanning North America. Have every merc on alert. When the Homs surface, we’ll be ready with the Skeletex suits.”

  Maia follows Nate, disappearing from the room.

  “But they’re not ready yet—” Margaret begins. Anderson may have publicly unveiled Skeletex, but the suits are only in the prototype stage.

  “They’ll be ready enough,” Anderson says. “Enough to put on a good show and swing public opinion so Congress will award the defense contract to Anderson Arms. And charge Reginald with treason.” He gives Gun a tight-lipped nod. “This might be the tipping point, son. Let’s hope so. Next time, try not to get yourself killed.” Without another word, he strides from the room.

  Margaret, his mother, remains behind, disappearing from sight to rummage in Gun’s study. She returns a few minutes later, carrying his waste bin. It has several plastic water bottles inside. She tosses them onto the bed beside Gun. He doesn’t ask what they’re for. From what he knows of Dream Dust—and the amount of it dumped on him—it’ll be at least another twelve hours before he can use his legs.

  Margaret rests her hand on Gun’s shoulder. “We’ll find your girl, sweetheart,” she murmurs. “I’m looking forward to meeting her. She must be something special to have captured your attention.”

  She leaves without another word. Gun closes his eyes, relieved to be left alone.

  Your girl. He wishes he could say that of Sulan. But she’s with the merc boy. She told Gun as much. It makes him angry for botching things with her.

  It doesn’t matter. He’ll go to the end of the earth for Sulan, whether she’s his or not. All that matters is her safety.

  Somehow, he has to find her. He has to get her away from Global before they kill her, or worse.

  How had things gone so bad, so fast?

  If he was honest with himself, things had been on a downward spiral for a while. He’d been trying to hold together a house of cards in a stiff wind. He knew it had to come down sooner or later, but that hadn’t stopped him from trying to keep it upright.

  It could all be traced back to his dimple. His dimple, his father, and Gun’s investigation into Global Arms.

  3

  Family

  Six months ago . . .

  “Your dad wants to see you.”

  Gun looks up from his tablet as Nate enters his study.

  Gun kicks his feet off the desk and stands, tossing the tablet aside. It clatters on the antique teak. He glances at it, wondering if there’s damage, then dismisses it. He can always buy another. He’d been thinking of getting a newer model anyway.

  “Did my dad say what he wants?”

  Nate shakes his head. “No.”

  Gun grunts. Of course not. The great William Anderson never explains himself.

  With Nate beside him, he strides out of his office to the elevator. It glides upward to his father’s personal wing of the mansion.

  “How are you doing?” Gun asks his friend.

  Nate shrugs. “Fine.”

  He doesn’t look fine. He looks like he’s not sleeping. His face is pale, his eyes ringed by dark hollows. Nate never complains, but Gun knows he’s battled insomnia since his parents divorced six months ago.

  “I can get you some decent sleeping pills.”

  Nate shakes his head. “You know I don’t like medicine.”

  Gun knows. He nods, deciding not to push his friend.

  The elevator opens, depositing them in a hallway that oozes bright colors and eccentric shapes. William Anderson is a fan of post modernism. His collection of Andy Warhol art lines the hallways and fills every room on the floor.

  Gun finds the mash of colors garish and distracting. He prefers the calm, monochromatic colors of early twenty-first century modernism.

  The double doors to his father’s study are wide open. William Anderson stands at the window puffing on a cigar.

  He’s a big man with ropey dreadlocks that hang to his waist. He doesn’t look that different from the avatar he wears in Vex. He’s a little grayer with fine wrinkles around his eyes and mouth. A paunch has grown over what was once a washboard stomach. But these are small, subtle differences; nothing so drastically different as the avatar Reginald Winn fabricated for himself. His father prides himself on the fact that he was born with a good physique.

  “You sent for me,” Gun states, coming to stand beside his father at the window. Nate remains behind, folding himself against the wall beside the door.

  William Anderson doesn’t look at Gun right away, instead puffing on the cigar and enjoying the view from his window. It overlooks a man-made pond seeded with trout. Fat ducks paddle around, unaware one of them might be tonight’s dinner.

  His father gives his dreadlocks a flick. Those are another point of pride for him and the main reason Gun keeps his head clean shaven.

  “How are things going with the Amber girl?” Anderson turns to face him, stubbing out the cigar in a tray.

  “You mean Andrea?”

  The big man waves a dismissive hand. “Whatever her name is. The cute one with the red-gold curls. From the Thompson family.”

  “Andrea,” Gun says. “Things are progressing. She invited me for Sunday brunch on her father’s horse ranch.”

  “Good. I want her father’s assistant in my employ. He’s an impossible man to bribe. Find his weakness and exploit it.”

  “Hardon has an obsession with desert plants,” Gun replies. “Nate is building a fictional background for Mom that will intrigue him.”

  Anderson raises both eyebrows. “A fictional
background for your mother? To intrigue Hardon?”

  Gun nods. “Mom has spent the past few decades saving cactus and succulents from extinction. She has a propagation lab and seed bank. It’s a pet project, one that you tolerate with affectionate amusement.”

  Anderson guffaws at this. “Your mother is a woman of many talents. Why not add desert plants to the list? It’s not far from the truth.” He claps Gun on the shoulder. “Good work, son.”

  Gun only nods, wishing he wasn’t so good at deception. Hardon, as far as he can tell, is a decent human being. He doesn’t deserve to get screwed by Anderson Arms.

  The only silver lining to this particular mission is the fact that Andrea’s father has a legendary wine cellar. Gun sampled some impressive vintages in the short time he’s known her. At least when he’s drinking, he doesn’t have to dwell on what he’s been sent there to do.

  “You’re having doubts,” Anderson says.

  As usual, his father can read him. Gun knows better than to deny the truth.

  “It’s only that Hardon seems decent,” he says. “Turning him could get him killed.”

  Anderson studies him, dark eyes like a diamond-tipped drill. Gun stares back, refusing to flinch.

  “Let’s go for a walk.” Anderson turns away from the window, striding for the door. Nate gives Gun a sympathetic grimace, but doesn’t budge from the safety of the doorframe. Gun doesn’t blame him.

  He falls into step beside his father, shoulders stiff. He tries not to think about what’s in store for him.

  The last time his father took him on a walk, he dumped Gun on the outskirts of town and ordered him to make his own way back. With no shoes, no money, and no weapons. It had been a punishment for questioning an order.

  At least he’d been allowed to keep his clothes. No telling what’s in store for him this time.

  They ride the elevator to the ground floor, which is reserved for executive offices and conference rooms. Anderson mercenaries are stationed at every entrance. Two additional mercs patrol the floor, keeping their eyes and ears on everything.

  The mercs nod as Anderson approaches. “Good morning, Mr. Anderson,” they say in unison.

  “Morning, Tucker, Chang.” Anderson gives them both wide smiles.

  Gun doesn’t miss the way they almost return the smile, remembering to maintain a professional countenance at the last second.

  Gun and Anderson exit the building, entering the private family garden. At two-point-three acres, it bursts with fruits, vegetables, and herbs. Margaret Anderson has made it her mission to preserve heirloom plants and refine Pre-‘Fault sustainable farming practices. The family garden is a testing ground for new growing techniques.

  The family estate, which sits on a tall hill, is surrounded by a twenty-foot cinderblock wall. There are only three ways in: through the large steel gates on the north and south sides, or by one of the ornithopters parked on the roof.

  Beyond the cinderblock wall is the rest of the Anderson corporate compound. This is where the manufacturing plant is, along with the research and development lab. There are apartments for all the employees, along with schools, cafeterias, recreational areas, and a hospital. Everything needed by Anderson employees is provided to them by the company.

  Gun follows his father out the south gate of the family estate, descending into the narrower, gray streets of the compound below. The buildings here are tall, most of them fifteen to twenty stories tall. At this time of day—afternoon—the streets are quiet. The children are in school or day care, and the adults are at work. There are no idle hands in the compound.

  As Anderson moves through the compound streets, he’s greeted by the few people they do pass. He knows everyone by name and always makes it a point to say hello. Gun likewise smiles and greets everyone, but he’s never had his father’s knack for remembering names.

  Gun is surprised when Anderson leads him to the hospital. Inside, the waiting room is full of people.

  “Miranda.” Anderson smiles at the woman closest to the door, who rubs her hands over a firm, round belly. “How’s the baby?”

  “Thirty-six weeks,” Miranda replies, beaming. “Dr. Wilson says he’s going to be at least ten pounds.”

  “Nothing better than a hearty baby. My son here was twelve pounds, three ounces when he was born.” Anderson kneels beside the woman so they’re eye level. “How is everything else?” Anderson asks.

  “Everything is great. We all love Chef Hernandez.”

  Gun suppresses a flare of anger. Anderson found Chef Hernandez in a South American compound. He was the head chef for a corporate drug mogul. Anderson lured the man away with promises of a better life in America. Gun led the mercenary team that extracted Hernandez and his family under gun fire.

  At the time, Gun felt good about the assignment. The drug mogul was known to be brutal. Getting anyone out of that hot hellhole was work worth doing.

  Except that extracting the chef and his family hadn’t really been the mission. Under the distraction of the battle and unbeknownst to Gun, Anderson sent in two other units. They closed in on the compound and assassinated the drug lord. And his entire family, kids included. William Anderson was now the unofficial owner of a cocaine plant.

  Gun, when he realized how he’d been used, refused to eat any of the food prepared by Chef Hernandez.

  His punishment had been swift and severe. Anderson dropped his son into the heart of a refugee camp in Austin, Texas, and left him there to fend for himself. It had taken Gun nearly two weeks to make his way home to Arizona.

  He still refused to eat Chef Hernandez’s food.

  “The minute I tasted his food, I knew he would be a superb addition to the Anderson fold.” Anderson pats the woman’s hand and rises. “I’m glad others feel the same. I could eat his tacos every day.”

  “Um, Mr. Anderson . . .” Miranda hesitates.

  “Yes?”

  “One of the day care rooms where I work has been out of electricity for a week. I put in the repair requisition, but . . .”

  “I’ll look into it,” Anderson assures her.

  ***

  For the next several hours, Gun follows his father through the hospital while he talks with patients. Anderson spends time chatting with each person he visits, inquiring about their health, their families, and their jobs.

  During this time, Gun learns about employee discontent in the maintenance department, a water leak in the locker room of the third-floor wing of the research lab, and a shortage of romance books in the library.

  Back in their family mansion, Anderson leans back in his leather office chair, hands clasped behind his head. His desk, a garish chunk of furniture, is painted with interlocking geometric shapes of purple, red, and gold.

  “And this, son, is why you and I do what we do,” Anderson says. “The employees of this company depend on us. If we don’t feed them, house them, and take care of them, they’d all be homeless and starving. Sometimes that means we have to make hard choices and do things we find distasteful for the good of our people. That’s what it means to be an Anderson.”

  Gun is silent. What his father says is true. For most, corporate employment is the pinnacle of living. Beyond the walls of a corporate compound are refugee camps, where every day is a desperate struggle for survival.

  He can’t deny his family helps people. It’s the only redeeming quality to the dark side of their business.

  “Do you understand what I’m trying to tell you?” Anderson asks.

  Anger boils in Gun, making his chest tight. He tamps it down, knowing there’s no arguing with his father.

  “Yes, I understand. There’s purpose in all we do. We protect our company and our people.” It’s all the people they kill and hurt in the process that bother him so much.

  “Very good. Now was that so hard to say?” Anderson doesn’t wait for an answer. “I have a new assignment for you. Come.”

  Gun nudges his chair closer to the desk.

  “I w
ant an inside source at Global.”

  Gun eyes his father warily. “We already tried that. It didn’t go well.”

  This is an understatement. His father observed Claudine’s preoccupation with Gun and ordered him to date her. Gun flashed his dimples, and of course they’d done their job—too well, in his opinion. Three weeks into their fling, he caught Claudine hacking his computer in the middle of the night. When he confronted her and broke things off, she went on a prolonged drinking binge. That eventually led to her wrapping her car around a tree after he blew her off at a party more than a year later. If not for her uncle’s resources, she’d be dead.

  “A setback,” Anderson replies. “I shouldn’t have aimed so high.”

  Gun keeps his face impassive. He wouldn’t call full-body paralysis a setback.

  “Here.” Anderson pushes a tablet across the desk to Gun. “These are students in Virtual High. Look through the profiles. Pick one. Make nice. Use them or turn them, I don’t care which. I’ll expect an update in a month.”

  4

  Assignments

  Tablet in hand, Gun returns to his suite. Nate looks up from the plush leather sofa in the study, relief plain on his face.

  “Thank God,” he says. “I was worried he was going to dump you somewhere again and leave you to fend for yourself.”

  “Not this time. I did have to endure an entire day of him showing me how much people love him.” Gun plops onto the sofa and rubs a tired hand over his face. He doesn’t bother elaborating on the details. “I need to learn the name of everyone who lives in the compound. Can you make me electronic flashcards?”

  “Sure. Maia has access to the files on all the residents. Why?”

  “I’m tired of my father showing me how well he knows everyone.” Gun rolls his eyes. “He has a new job for me.” He pulls out his tablet, explaining the Global mission to Nate.

  “It’s not a bad idea,” Nate says when he’s done.

  “Yeah, if you don’t mind exploiting an innocent teenager.”

  Nate sighs, nodding. “I know, bro. Come on. I’ll help you look through the files.”