"This situation smells like crap... I'd even say it's a full-blown stench."
With their hands on the safeties of their weapons, dozens of men dressed in body armor and armed to the teeth exchanged tense glances in the middle of a dim hall cluttered with shipping containers.
Despite receiving very handsome bonuses on time, the death of The Walrus, followed by a change in leadership and the sale of the boss's body, didn't sit well with many of the mercenaries. Even though less than a week had passed since the bald cyborg's demise, an internal schism was actively tearing the Syndicate apart.
The squads of Vagon, Baton, and Kiwi... in other words, the oldest and most experienced units, whose commanders were personally selected by the head of the criminal group—were expressing dissatisfaction with the actions of Crossbones, who had taken charge. They openly spoke out against the former freak, trying to push the much more familiar and understandable Pers into the leadership position.
However, Rumlow also had a fair share of supporters. He had bought their loyalty by announcing the staggering sum received for the cyborg's corpse, and they weren't keen on the idea of other mercenaries dismantling the Syndicate's already fragile hierarchy.
Essentially, the entire mercenary group had split into two opposing camps. The only ones staying out of it were Taskmaster, Cable, and Khan. Masters didn't care who paid for his instructor services; the assassin cyborg from the future was loyal only to the deceased Walrus; and the commander of the ninja-sorcerers had only recently gained his freedom and, not knowing the internal dynamics, couldn't figure out which side was more profitable to take.
"If you have a grievance with me..." Measuring the forward-stepping Kiwi with a look far from friendly, Brock, clad in a heavy exoskeleton, suggestively stroked the handle of the six-barreled minigun lying at his feet. "You can say it to my face. No need to plot behind my back."
"Whatever you say, uncle..." Unfazed, the young Syndicate mercenary pulled a cylindrical grenade marked with a radiation hazard symbol from his belt. Grinning at the sight of the suddenly tensed thugs, he began tossing it in his hand. "Look how interesting this is: First, you leave our boss alone with a mentally unstable mutant. Then, you 'fail' to stop her, and that little brat manages to run to the armory and back. And after The Walrus kicks the bucket, you take the big chair, immediately selling both the little psycho and your dead friend for a massive profit. What did the Chief used to say? Once is an accident, twice is a coincidence, three times—it's time to look for the rat in your ranks?"
"I can understand the griping about my leadership, but accusing me of killing Misha..." On the next toss of the nuke-grenade, Brock, with speed unexpected for his bulk, whipped a pistol with a laser sight from his holster. With a precise shot, he knocked Kiwi's grenade out of the air and leveled the barrel directly at the face of the young mercenary, who failed to react in time. "That's a bridge too far, kid. You've overstepped."
Seeing the situation escalate sharply, mercenaries from both camps quickly raised their weapons, aiming at each other. The trio of neutrals hurried to find the nearest cover to avoid catching a stray bullet. There were enough guns in the hands of these bickering killers that a shootout in the main hall of the Syndicate's underground base promised a literal bloodbath.
However, understanding what was at stake, none of the sell-sword thugs rushed to fire the first shot. Before anyone could pull a trigger, a soft but distinct male snort echoed through the air.
"And these are the best mercenaries in New York..."
Upon hearing the familiar voice, some of the thugs, without ceasing to aim at their "political opponents," shifted their eyes toward a tall silhouette leaning against one of the containers. Recognizing the speaker, some lowered their weapons immediately, others began to pray fervently, and the most impressionable even started crossing themselves.
"It seems to me our discipline has started to slip." Casting a cold look like that of a veteran vivisector over the crowd, a pale and battered but very much alive Walrus patted the pockets of the dark trench coat draped over his shoulders. He pulled out a half-empty pack of cigarettes and flicked a cheap lighter a few times. "What's the occasion for the party meeting? And why wasn't I invited?"
"Chief?!" At the sight of the resurrected boss, Kiwi, who had pulled out a second "nuclear surprise," lost his fighting spirit instantly. He stared at the bald cyborg with disbelief. "You were deader than dead! I personally helped that slanted-eyed sorcerer gather the mince-meat scattered all over the room! How... how are you..."
"Kicked out of Hell for bad behavior."
Limping on a leg wrapped in bloodstained bandages, the tall cyborg walked through the crowd of parting mercenaries straight to the young man. He snatched the explosive from his hand and delivered a sharp kick to the groin of the boy, who doubled over in pain.
"Ugh..."
"I won't remind you about safety regulations when handling high-yield explosives. I'll put it simply... If I see this 'Holy Grenade' at our main base one more time, you'll curse the day I pulled you out of the asylum. For now, you lose half your bonuses for the next two months. Understood?"
"Perfectly, boss!" the young mercenary squeezed out, struggling to stand and catch his breath. "It won't happen again!"
"For the sake of your own skin, I hope so." Surveying the stunned thugs, the head of the Syndicate tucked the "nuclear surprise" into his coat pocket and asked businesslike, "You have a lot of free time, I see? The show's over; back to work. Squad commanders, Brock, and Cable—to my office. The rest of you, check your gear and prepare for a combat sortie. We have a big contract waiting..."
By the Holy Dollar, those idiots nearly shot each other.
In fairness, the "old-timers" of the Syndicate did have reasons to distrust Rumlow. For all of Brock's positive qualities, the man is extremely hot-headed, fairly underhanded, and always looking out for number one. If we... or rather, the local Walrus, hadn't been his best friend, Crossbones definitely had the brains to pull off a backstab like that.
Damn... it looks like the era of "free-wheeling" in the Syndicate is over. I'll have to restructure the group.
The organizational scheme from the time of the Exclusion Zone proved itself in Chernobyl, but what's good for a small band of elite specialists in deadly conditions doesn't quite fit the realities of a world full of people in spandex. The scale is much larger; individual group tactics simply aren't enough. To keep the Syndicate from being swallowed by the locals, we need a rigid structure with a clearly defined hierarchy and command system.
Simply put, I need to turn money-hungry loners into a proper army...
"Walrus, I have two pieces of news for you. Which do you want first?"
"The first one." Emerging from my thoughts and exhaling two streams of gray smoke through my nose, I turn to Cable. He has removed the adamantium-plated panels and is busily tinkering with a skeletal bionic frame that looks like a Terminator's arm.
"It seems even death couldn't rob you of your wit..." Stepping aside, the gray-haired cyborg wiped his oil-stained hands with a clean rag. "That's good, because the sonic disintegrator has to go."
"I thought you were a super-mega tech wizard... Can't you handle a primitive iron paw?" Although Klaw is a magician with a wrench and a pressure tank, he can't hold a candle to Cable when it comes to hardware. After all, my brother-in-injury came from the future, and some of his gadgets look like literal magic even compared to the local high-tech.
"The bionics are no problem to fix, but as for how to work with this..." Using tweezers, Cable picked up a small, soot-covered plate of Vibranium. "I only understand it approximately. If you give me a couple of weeks to figure out the disintegrator's design, I can try to restore it, but for now, the gun has to go—this toy could explode at any second. The fact it hasn't already is a miracle."
"Sh*t... Pers, pull up Willis's contacts. The Syndicate is going to be doing some serious fighting soon, and having sonic cannons as an ace up our sleeve wouldn't hurt." Surveying the fighters gathered in the office, I take another drag and snuff the butt out on a nearby tool table. "Now, to pressing matters... You have no idea how much I want to give you all a life-altering beating right now. Stirring up Turmoil while the boss is away! But today the stars are on your side—we have a fat contract promising a massive payout, and I need you at full combat readiness. So, the execution is postponed indefinitely."
"New job? I was starting to think the date with Ofa didn't go as planned..." Seated on an ammo crate and sipping a beer, Rumlow pointed suggestively at the blood-stained bandages covering my long-suffering body.
"We came to an agreement... and without any intimacy, I might add."
But certainly not without problems.
Knowing Viper is a professional spy and a vengeful b*tch, I didn't rush straight to the Syndicate's central base in New York. I took precautions. Specifically, I went to one of our safehouses, waited for my skull augmentics to reboot, and scanned myself for bugs... only to realize Sarkissian suffers from an acute, advanced form of paranoia. I found four tracking devices, and I had to do some serious knife-work to cut them out.
At least she didn't insert an anal probe while I was playing dead!
"Basically, here's the deal: With the support of Viper and her people, we're going to rob a Federal Reserve Bank train carrying literal tons of gold." Seeing the squad commanders perk up, I quickly dampen their enthusiasm. "It won't be guarded by the usual meat-bags or even local freaks, but by Stark Industries combat bots. Basically, mini Iron Men, anywhere from ten to a hundred of them. And guess what else? It would be great to capture a couple of those machines relatively intact. We'll patch them up, change the firmware, install our own software, and voila—the Syndicate gets its own Terminators. Just don't risk too much for the sake of the metal. Consider them a bonus objective; if you pull it off, you get an indulgence for the infighting and a nice cash bonus."
Yes, Walrus hadn't given up on the idea of his own army of iron soldiers. It's simply too powerful an asset in any military engagement to pass up... especially in a world of latex-clad heroes. This isn't the Imperium; the fanatics here are mostly obsessed with the X-Gene, not cogs and shafts, and plenty of people have combat bots. So why shouldn't the Syndicate have a few?
I'm not talking about a full replacement of humans with machines—the main problem with metal heads is their "brains." Compared to the veteran mercenaries of the Syndicate, robots are too stupid. But they would make perfect expendable assets for high-risk breaches: durable, reliable, and not particularly valuable.
Even with the cost of electronic components, a bot is much easier to replace than finding another experienced, morally flexible fighter who has the skills and the willingness to kill for money without questions.
"The idea is sound, but if you want to invest seriously in droids, find proper technicians and smart programmers. I may be a cyborg, but I can't replace an entire department of specialists alone." Realizing which way the wind was blowing, Cable immediately distanced himself from the "honor" of voluntarily taking on that headache. "Also, it wouldn't hurt to find a few cybernetics specialists so we can give combat augmentics to fighters in case of serious injury."
Right, tell me another one... actually, I'm all for it, both in flesh and with my bionic paw. Both Brock, Pers, and I know plenty of guys who left the "big game" due to disability. For a chance to get back in the fight, they'd be loyal to the group until the grave. But "white-coats," especially in such a rare specialty, aren't exactly like drunks on a Friday night—you don't just find them on the street.
"Can we discuss your unhealthy obsession with metal gadgets another time?" Having finished his beer, Crossbones expertly tossed the empty bottle into the trash and cracked his neck. "Misha, are you serious about robbing the feds' gold reserves? To hell with the combat bots—what do we do with the gold afterward? They'll eat us alive for that. They'll grab us by the balls the moment we try to sell it, and then it's 'hello, cold ground.' And I have my doubts that the demons of Hell will be as loyal to us as they are to you..."
Heh. Out of everyone gathered, the idea of milking the United States didn't please exactly three people: Pers, Vagon, and Brock. Unlike the others, these guys were quick to realize the consequences of such audacity toward the state, especially a superpower. I didn't miscalculate with my leads.
"That's true, but you're ignoring two small details that are as subtle as the Taj Mahal under your window. First, the big shots already have us on their radar. They haven't started squashing us only because we aren't particularly dangerous yet, and they have plenty of other problems right now. But as soon as things settle, they're coming for us. By then, the Syndicate needs to not only have sharp teeth but also friends in high places. Selling the gold will give us that opportunity."
"And the second?" the former Hydra assassin asked, not particularly surprised.
"There will be seven trains total, but we're only borrowing one because we have to transport the gold on Quinjets, and neither we nor Viper have many. The US authorities simply won't have the capacity to throw everything into finding 'unknown robbers.' " Pulling out a new cigarette, I grip it between the fingers of my "bare" bionic hand and flick the lighter again. "To get the train moving, we... or rather, I... will quietly infiltrate the base of the revived Weapon X program. I'll download dirt on the big shots overseeing it, stage a breakout for the prisoners, and anonymously leak the info to Magneto. Given the old Jew's harsh nature and the masses being pushed to the limit, this will trigger a riot. While the freaks of New York are busy in a massive brawl, we'll intercept the cargo. If we're lucky, no one will know who made the gold disappear, and the Syndicate will be richer than some countries."
"And if not?"
"Then it's been a pleasure working with you."
After the risks were laid out, silence reigned in the "unscheduled maintenance" room for a moment. But no significant protest appeared on the faces of the squad commanders, which was hardly surprising. The mercenary profession implies you're always walking with death; here, there was a massive payoff for the risk.
"In that case, here's how we proceed. Pers—get your snipers and have them head to the armory for the heavy hitters. According to Viper, standard NATO rifle rounds don't do much against Stark's 'dolls,' so have them break out the anti-tank calibers."
With a short nod, the former Marine left the room without a word. I turned to the next group.
"Vagon and Baton—you have general-purpose fighters who will be in the first wave and take the initial heat. Gear them up to the max. You can even pull the backup exoskeletons from the Syndicate's stash. Consider it a bonus and a gift from your kind boss..."
"The Chief is on fire!"
"We'll do it."
The joyful thug and the former serviceman left our cozy group. I turned my attention to Kiwi, who, judging by his tense posture, was bracing for a lecture.
"Relax, kid. I only hand out beatings when they're earned. Now, I need you to push your boys—you have the honor of providing cover in case any 'freaks' decide to crash our party." The amateur pyromaniac's eyes literally began to glow. I might regret this, but... "Yes. You can take whatever your heart desires for this job. Even a portable nuclear unit."
"Boss! We... I..." It's amazing how little it takes to make some people happy.
"And one more thing. Have them get that flying bike you 'liberated' from S.H.I.E.L.D. into working order. I'll need it today." I don't like using untested tech in dangerous ops, but I don't see another way. To reach the base of Stryker's ideological followers, I need mobility. But with the tension, the streets are patrolled by reinforced squads of law enforcement searching everyone. The only stealth tech we have is that hovering crap and the Quinjets, which still need to be prepped for the flight. "Now, Cable..."
"Cable," the mutant cyborg corrected me as usual, receiving only a crooked grin in response.
"Doesn't matter. There's zero info on the new Weapon X base, but Kimura will definitely be there, along with a ton of armed-to-the-teeth soldiers, automated defenses, and likely some bio-weapons. You're good with gadgets, and I've got some room in my prosthesis. Anything to replace the sonic disintegrator?"
"Engaging such an opponent head-on is a losing game. Since the task requires stealth..." Pensively scratching his cheek, the cyborg surveyed the bionic "bones" again, mentally weighing options. "I can offer the Nova optical cloaking system. It won't save you from sensors, but in the visual spectrum, it gives absolute invisibility within a one-and-a-half-meter radius. Plus, the principle is similar to your eye implant; theoretically, it can be connected to the artifact in your chest for almost unlimited runtime. There's even room for retractable claws with a built-in taser..."
"Hmm... Hey, does this 'Predator kit' happen to come with a metal mask and a shoulder-mounted plasma caster?"