Page 28 of Sins of Arrogance (Syndicate Sins #1)

MICK

Lasers crisscross the reinforced tunnel, disappearing and reactivating in a precisely timed progression as I pass through.

They're reacting to the DNA specific biometric chip implanted in my bicep.

If anyone attempts to travel the tunnel – without me or one of my three lieutenants assigned to this project – walls will drop at each end, sealing them in with a nonlethal disabling gas, piped in through a duct system completely separate from the rest of the bunker's fresh air supply.

Even Hex doesn't enter or leave the lab unescorted.

After pressing my eye to the retinal scanner, I place my encrypted phone against the digital panel and it reads the passcode only good for the next ten seconds.

Only then does the bank vault worthy, steel door swing inward on silent hinges. It allows me one-point-eight seconds to pass through before automatically closing again.

The NSA would have a lot fewer leaks if they had security this tight, but they don't have my guys working for them.

The whisper gun prototype rests on the long steel table in front of me.

Matte black and sleek, it looks unassuming. From looks alone, it could be mistaken for just another semi-automatic pistol.

But the firing mechanism inside the gun is powered by electromagnetic propulsion, requiring no gunpowder.

Which means it has no barrel flare, no sound and no forensics. The idea is to bring military grade rail guns into personal weaponry. If anyone can make that happen, it's Hex.

There have been some misstarts, but unlike the man who first showed me the weapons tech concept, she's been smart enough not to run tests holding the weapon in her own hand. That's what robotic arms with superheat resilience are for.

Hex claims this weapon is safe for use in the field.

According to the test videos and heat metric measured by the robotic arm, she's right.

Hex comes to stand beside me, giving the gun a look most people reserve for their lovers. "You ready to watch the first test with a human subject?"

"I'm ready to fire it myself."

The brilliant Columbian-American's eyes go wide behind her safety glasses. "I thought we'd start with a lab tech."

She’s smart not to risk her own hands, but the fact she was willing to use someone else’s says more about her than she'd admit. There’s a ruthlessness under the sarcasm. I admire that.

But I don’t waver. "Either it’s ready, or it’s not."

Hex rolls her eyes. "It’s ready. I tested it with the robotic arm enough times to make a statistician blush." She flicks a finger toward the casing. "The graphene composite lining in the barrel needed an extra two micrometers."

The scarcity and cost of the product materials dictates minimizing the hardest to source components. Keeping the weight of the gun down is important too.

But the ultimate issue here is effectiveness. Too much cooling of the barrel and there's not enough force behind the bullet.

It has to do with the energy exchange. I don't care about the why though, only the result.

"We also had to tweak the phase-change gel layer in the grip, but we’ve got it dialed in now," Hex says. "You can fire up to seven rounds without compromising the structural integrity of the gun."

"How long before you can reload the clip and shoot again?" I ask.

She doesn’t flinch. "Three-point-seven hours."

So, basically four. Not bad, but not a weapon for long firefights. This is for stealth targets and precision hits. Not the battlefield.

"Is there an indicator on the weapon to let the user know when it is ready for reloading and use?" I ask.

Hex points to a black strip along the back of the barrel. "Color shift display. Each shot will nudge the pigment. After seven, or if you overheat it early, it’ll turn deep purple."

"Like a mood ring?"

She winces at my simplified analogy, but nods. "A similar concept, yes. The gun should not be fired again until the section of the casing has turned entirely black once again."

"What happens if the shooter ignores those instructions and tries to reload anyway?" As soldiers in the midst of a firefight are going to do.

"The materials swell microscopically from heat," she says. "Enough to lock the magazine release. Won’t budge until the internal temp drops below the threshold. We designed it to protect the user, even if they’re not smart enough to protect themselves."

I nod. "Good."

She lifts one shoulder. "Even if it overheats, the grip’s layered with that phase-shifting gel. Worst case scenario? The firing mechanism fuses long before enough heat transfers to burn your hand."

I pick the gun up. Light. Cool. Deadly.

"Nice to know it won’t explode until after I’ve used it properly."

Hex grins. "You break it, you buy it. Oh, wait, you already did."

I almost laugh. Almost.

I knew we got the right woman for the job.

Whisper guns will change the playing field – not just for us, but for the entire global arms trade specializing in stealth weapons.

We'll dominate until the other arms dealers catch up. And their chances aren't good for doing that anytime soon. They don't have Hex working for them.

Back-engineering will only take another weapons designer so far. Even figuring out the adjustments have to happen at a micrometer level will be a hurdle because it's so far out of current weaponry science for personal weapons.

"Okay, let's do this." I pull back the slide and lock a bullet in the chamber.

A soft click followed by three low beeps comes through my earpiece before I can fire.

Adrenaline spiking, I clear the chamber before handing the gun to Hex to finish unloading. "Report."

"Sensor trip. Sector 3G. External approach tunnel. No authorized traffic."

The FEDs have not found the Bunker in over a hundred years. The last breach by another syndicate was over thirty years ago. According to Brogan, everyone involved was eliminated.

Does someone know about the whisper guns?

"How many?" I'm already moving toward the lab door.

"Sensors log three bodies."

Not an invasion level force then. A stealth mission by players that don't know about the security upgrades to the Bunker?

Or someone sent to blow it up?

My thoughts lock and load, firing in rapid succession. The external approach tunnels are our weakest link. Brogan insists we keep them though.

Shaughnessy soldiers are trained to seek refuge in them when necessary. But we no longer rely on them being hidden as the primary deterrent to incursion.

The access tunnels got a security upgrade with the rest of the facility before we moved the whisper gun project in.

It's conceivable a rival discovered the access point to 3G watching one of our soldiers.

It's a best case scenario. 3G used to house the dormitories and stash rooms.

Sleeping quarters have been moved to a more secure section in the MNOPs and the old ones now look like they're a forgotten bomb shelter.

The stash rooms are used to store innocuous things covered in layers of dust and grime that would lead infiltrators to believe they've stumbled on a basement that hasn't been used in years.

We're at too critical a stage of development for the whisper guns to rely on misdirection though. "Lock down 3G through 3L. Feed nonlethal into the vents. I want them coughing up their own insides before they get a look at anything useful."

I don’t wait for acknowledgment. I’m already moving.

Footsteps silent against the resin-reinforced concrete, I make my way down a parallel access corridor. The walls here are reinforced with smart steel paneling, and biometric sensors scan me, resetting alerts as I pass.

This part of the facility was built two generations ago when Brogan's grandfather needed somewhere to stash bodies and secrets. Before the upgrades it was a bleedin' warren of forgotten rooms, timber reinforced tunnels, and old bones.

The feckin' smell of decomposing bodies had soaked into the dirt walls.

Fresh, clean concrete is a huge improvement. The graveyard is filled in and has been sealed off, the remaining bones dissolved in a chemical bath.

Approaching the access point to a connecting tunnel between me and our intruders, I pull up the security feed on my smartwatch.

Three masked intruders. Tactical gear. American boots. Military posture. Whoever they are, they bypassed the security code on the entrance and didn't trigger a warning until their body weights were detected on the new pressure sensitive flooring in the tunnel.

With a tap on my smartwatch, I trigger the overhead flash-disorientation lights and ear-piercing alarm.

Hands going up reflexively to cover their ears, they stagger.

I smile and cut all the lights and then the sound.

Unworried they'll recover quickly enough to access their own portable illumination, I slide on night vision glasses. Their pupils will be in reactive mode for at least another forty-five seconds.

Wherever they thought they were, they walked into hell. And I am an diabhal , it's king.

And if I'm the king of this hell, the interrogation facility is my throne room.

We didn't get rid of the old interrogation rooms. We just replaced the rusted hooks and blood-soaked drains with surgical-grade steel and reinforced soundproofing.

Clinical. Efficient. Easy to clean.

Each one is rigged with remote monitoring and biometric locks – accessible only to me or the people I trust to break someone without killing them too soon.

The last man I worked over pissed himself when I whispered my name in his ear. Reputation is everything.

Especially when it’s true.

The one before that bit through his tongue to avoid answering a second question. It didn't save him, but it did save his fingers for a while.

So, he could write the answers I wanted.

I reach the branch corridor just as the first intruder, still coughing stumbles into the laser net and gets lit up like a bug in a zapper – nonlethal, but he won’t be walking straight for a week. If he lives that long.

Chances are not good.

The other two fall back and try to turn but between the gas they inhaled and the disorientation lights, they have the grace of drunken seals.

Another tap on my smartwatch and the laser net disappears.

Then I wait.

I catch the first man as he rounds the corner, arm raised, pistol swinging toward the motion-activated light. Too slow.

I grab his arm and twist. The crack of bone is unmistakable. Clean. Satisfying.

He screams – but I’ve already got him on his knees. A knee to his face and a blow to the back of the head and he's out for the count.

The second man approaches the same corner with more caution, his weapon raised. I put a bullet in his foot as it slides into view. There's a scream and a thud.

Rounding the corner, I kick the gun out of his hand and away from his body. I leave him for my men who should arrive in four…three…two…

"Got him boss."

I'm already sprinting after the third man but raise my fist in acknowledgement.

He's stumble-running back toward the way they came in a fruitless quest to get away.

He has no chance.

The access point is now behind a four-inch-thick steel wall.

I kick him in the back of the knee. His knee gives, but tougher than his cohorts, he doesn't go down. He pivots toward me, gun raised. It's wavering though, his grip unsteady.

He gets a shot off. I don't even flinch. It misses by a mile. He shoots again as I leap forward. Damn, that one was close enough for me to feel the air displacement as it passed by my head.

Grabbing him by the front of his vest, I allow our combined momentum to slam him into the wall hard enough to bounce his head off the concrete. Blood splatters. Not enough.

But it'll do for now.

"Who sent yiz?" I snarl, pressing my forearm against his throat.

He tries to speak. I ease the pressure. Just enough.

"Fuck you," he chokes out.

Well, now. Things just got interesting.

I smile. It's not kind. "You're not my type. Unless you're talking about me fucking you up."

"Do your worst," he snarls.

"You don't know what you're asking for, boyo." Conor comes up on my left. "The boss is deadly savage."

"I didn't expect to find a knitting circle down here." There's sarcasm, but no fear in my captive's voice.

"What did yiz expect to find?" I demand. "And who told you about this place?"

The man just glares at me.

We'll find out if this is bravado, or if he's got a drop of Irish blood running somewhere in his ancestry, when I get him to my throne room.

I slam his head against the wall again, stunning him enough to make getting the zip-ties around his wrists easier. Despite the gas, the flash bang and one already hard knock to his noggin' he's still fighting.

I'd be impressed if he wasn't on the wrong feckin' side.

The itch to force this man and his boyos to tell me what they know settles at the base of my neck.

They're going to learn what it means to dance with the devil.

"Get the other two stabilized for interrogation. They're no good to me bleeding out."

"You got it boss," Conor says. "And this one?"

"We'll be in Interrogation Room 1. Bring the others in to watch once they're stable."

My captive tries to run twice and overpower me once on the way to interrogation. Not sure why I don't just kill him. I've got two more men to question, both of whom showed themselves to be less well trained.

But feck if I'm not reluctantly impressed. It won't stop me from killing him when the time comes, but damned if I don't want to test his mettle some first.