Chapter 75: Wolves Among Sheep
Section 1: The Price of Faith
The morning air hit Kasper like a wall of wet cement, carrying the metallic tang of enhancement coolant from street-level processors. Through the Golden Triangle's corporate canyons, mirrored walls reflected the dawn heat like crucibles, turning the space between buildings into a shimming maze of light and shadow.
"Pulse check." Montero's voice carried the precision of old combat protocols, barely audible above the whine of overtaxed cooling systems embedded in the district's architecture.
"Overwatch established." Salvaterra's whisper came from somewhere above, his position masked by ghost protocols. His enhanced hearing picked up the subtle rhythms of the city's awakening – transport drones cutting through humid air, black market tech dealers setting up morning stalls, the hiss of pressure valves releasing built-up heat from underground server farms. "Three cartel teams on surrounding rooftops. Amateur hour – they're breaking weapon discipline every thirty seconds. Can hear their enhancement cores cycling too hot for the climate."
Through his enhanced vision, Kasper tracked the snipers' positions. Their heartbeats pulsed across his neural feed like drumbeats of approaching death, each one carrying the distinctive harmonic signature of black market combat stims.
"Tech perimeter mapped." Quiroga's fingers danced through invisible interfaces with the precise tremor of someone fighting stim-withdrawal through muscle memory. Neural patches dotted her neck like chrome scales, old ones graying at the edges where her sweat had corroded the connections. "Local security's running a double-layer grid. Association architecture underneath cartel protocols." She scratched absently at the track marks on her arms, the movement carrying years of learned anxiety. "Someone's playing both sides."
Montero's ancient combat enhancements hummed to life, the sound carrying a different pitch than modern hardware – deeper, more resonant, like old church bells compared to synthetic chimes. His scarred fingers moved through practiced equipment checks, each motion matching combat rhythms encoded decades ago. "Salvaterra, buyer's odds?"
A pause filled only by the city's broken pulse – cooling systems fighting a losing battle against tropical heat, street vendors' enhancement cores whining like dying animals, the constant background thrum of too much technology packed into too little space.
"They're too rigid," Salvaterra finally answered, his rifle making microscopic adjustments that only enhanced hearing could track. "Trying too hard to look casual. These aren't cartel regulars – they're waiting for something specific."
"Agreed." Montero's fingers tapped an old war rhythm against his thigh, the pattern matching ancient combat protocols that hadn't been standard for twenty years. "Quiroga?"
"Data patterns support it." Her hands shook as she applied a fresh neural patch, the old one already graying from overuse. The adhesive made a wet sound as it bonded with her sweat-slick skin. "Too much quantum encryption for a standard morning. They're burning resources to hide something big."
Through his fractured vision, Kasper watched the target's SUV convoy snake between buildings that reached toward a sky turned mother-of-pearl by pollution and processing heat. His adaptation package screamed warnings as sweat soaked through his shirt, the cheap tropical modifications failing faster than expected.
*Alert: Climate compatibility at 31%
Secondary: Systemic rejection imminent
Tertiary: Immediate medical intervention recommended*
"You're bleeding again." Quiroga's enhanced eyes tracked the crimson line trickling from his nose, the movement carrying the precise focus of someone used to watching systems fail. She pulled a sterilized cloth from her kit – the same kind she'd used two days ago when his first adaptation seizure hit. The fabric felt cool against his skin, a stark contrast to the morning's crushing heat. "Those new protocols are burning you out."
"I'll manage." He accepted the cloth with a nod of thanks. They'd developed this rhythm during the stakeout – her monitoring his degrading systems, him pretending not to notice when she doubled her stim doses to keep her hands steady enough for the precise work.
"Like you managed in the favela?" Montero's tone carried dry amusement beneath the professional facade. "Quiroga had to restart your heart. Twice."
"Three times," Salvaterra corrected from his perch. His prayer beads clicked against carbon fiber with mechanical precision. "I counted the prayers."
"That's because you're the only one who still believes they work." Quiroga's joke carried the easy familiarity of a team ritual, her hands steadying slightly as Salvaterra's quiet laugh came through the feed. The sound echoed oddly through enhancement harmonics, turning simple mirth into something almost musical.
Through his enhanced vision, Kasper tracked the biochemical signatures of pharmacy kids weaving between suits and security. Their bodies glowed with compound cocktails worth more than their lives, each one a walking testament to the cartels' grip on the city. One girl, couldn't be more than twelve, carried enough synthesized opioids in her system to buy a small house. Her bare feet made no sound on the heated pavement, already practiced in the art of invisible suffering.
"They're starting younger." Quiroga's whisper carried the weight of personal tragedy, her own enhanced vision mapping the same patterns of exploitation. "Like my sister when the cartels took her." Her fingers traced unconscious patterns through data streams – the same diagnostic sequences she'd tried to use when they'd found her sister's enhanced corpse.
Montero's combat harmonics shifted – the subtle change only detectable to those who knew him well enough to read the frequencies of carefully controlled rage. "We're here to stop that. One piece at time."
A message from Valerian burned across Kasper's feed: "SENSITIVE: Montero accessed Sarah's file. Questions incoming. Monitor team. Containment protocols authorized. -V"
His hand went to the rosary beads. The metal felt warm now, like Sarah's blood had felt that night against his skin.
The morning air hit Kasper like a wall of wet cement, carrying the metallic tang of enhancement coolant from street-level processors. Through the Golden Triangle's corporate canyons, mirrored walls reflected the dawn heat like crucibles, turning the space between buildings into a shimming maze of light and shadow.
"Pulse check." Montero's voice carried the precision of old combat protocols, barely audible above the whine of overtaxed cooling systems embedded in the district's architecture.
"Overwatch established." Salvaterra's whisper came from somewhere above, his position masked by ghost protocols. His enhanced hearing picked up the subtle rhythms of the city's awakening – transport drones cutting through humid air, black market tech dealers setting up morning stalls, the hiss of pressure valves releasing built-up heat from underground server farms. "Three cartel teams on surrounding rooftops. Amateur hour – they're breaking weapon discipline every thirty seconds. Can hear their enhancement cores cycling too hot for the climate."
Through his enhanced vision, Kasper tracked the snipers' positions. Their heartbeats pulsed across his neural feed like drumbeats of approaching death, each one carrying the distinctive harmonic signature of black market combat stims.
"Tech perimeter mapped." Quiroga's fingers danced through invisible interfaces with the precise tremor of someone fighting stim-withdrawal through muscle memory. Neural patches dotted her neck like chrome scales, old ones graying at the edges where her sweat had corroded the connections. "Local security's running a double-layer grid. Association architecture underneath cartel protocols." She scratched absently at the track marks on her arms, the movement carrying years of learned anxiety. "Someone's playing both sides."
Montero's ancient combat enhancements hummed to life, the sound carrying a different pitch than modern hardware – deeper, more resonant, like old church bells compared to synthetic chimes. His scarred fingers moved through practiced equipment checks, each motion matching combat rhythms encoded decades ago. "Salvaterra, buyer's odds?"
A pause filled only by the city's broken pulse – cooling systems fighting a losing battle against tropical heat, street vendors' enhancement cores whining like dying animals, the constant background thrum of too much technology packed into too little space.
"They're too rigid," Salvaterra finally answered, his rifle making microscopic adjustments that only enhanced hearing could track. "Trying too hard to look casual. These aren't cartel regulars – they're waiting for something specific."
"Agreed." Montero's fingers tapped an old war rhythm against his thigh, the pattern matching ancient combat protocols that hadn't been standard for twenty years. "Quiroga?"
"Data patterns support it." Her hands shook as she applied a fresh neural patch, the old one already graying from overuse. The adhesive made a wet sound as it bonded with her sweat-slick skin. "Too much quantum encryption for a standard morning. They're burning resources to hide something big."
Through his fractured vision, Kasper watched the target's SUV convoy snake between buildings that reached toward a sky turned mother-of-pearl by pollution and processing heat. His adaptation package screamed warnings as sweat soaked through his shirt, the cheap tropical modifications failing faster than expected.
*Alert: Climate compatibility at 31%
Secondary: Systemic rejection imminent
Tertiary: Immediate medical intervention recommended*
"You're bleeding again." Quiroga's enhanced eyes tracked the crimson line trickling from his nose, the movement carrying the precise focus of someone used to watching systems fail. She pulled a sterilized cloth from her kit – the same kind she'd used two days ago when his first adaptation seizure hit. The fabric felt cool against his skin, a stark contrast to the morning's crushing heat. "Those new protocols are burning you out."
"I'll manage." He accepted the cloth with a nod of thanks. They'd developed this rhythm during the stakeout – her monitoring his degrading systems, him pretending not to notice when she doubled her stim doses to keep her hands steady enough for the precise work.
"Like you managed in the favela?" Montero's tone carried dry amusement beneath the professional facade. "Quiroga had to restart your heart. Twice."
"Three times," Salvaterra corrected from his perch. His prayer beads clicked against carbon fiber with mechanical precision. "I counted the prayers."
"That's because you're the only one who still believes they work." Quiroga's joke carried the easy familiarity of a team ritual, her hands steadying slightly as Salvaterra's quiet laugh came through the feed. The sound echoed oddly through enhancement harmonics, turning simple mirth into something almost musical.
Through his enhanced vision, Kasper tracked the biochemical signatures of pharmacy kids weaving between suits and security. Their bodies glowed with compound cocktails worth more than their lives, each one a walking testament to the cartels' grip on the city. One girl, couldn't be more than twelve, carried enough synthesized opioids in her system to buy a small house. Her bare feet made no sound on the heated pavement, already practiced in the art of invisible suffering.
"They're starting younger." Quiroga's whisper carried the weight of personal tragedy, her own enhanced vision mapping the same patterns of exploitation. "Like my sister when the cartels took her." Her fingers traced unconscious patterns through data streams – the same diagnostic sequences she'd tried to use when they'd found her sister's enhanced corpse.
Montero's combat harmonics shifted – the subtle change only detectable to those who knew him well enough to read the frequencies of carefully controlled rage. "We're here to stop that. One piece at time."
A message from Valerian burned across Kasper's feed: "SENSITIVE: Montero accessed Sarah's file. Questions incoming. Monitor team. Containment protocols authorized. -V"
His hand went to the rosary beads. The metal felt warm now, like Sarah's blood had felt that night against his skin.
### Section 2: The Devil's Mathematics
The city's broken rhythms shifted as morning traffic thickened – enhancement cores fighting tropical heat, street-level coolant processors spraying artificial mist that tasted of metal and desperation. Through the corporate canyons, data streams painted the air with quantum-encrypted whispers of profit and power.
"Target convoy approaching." Salvaterra's voice carried the measured calm of a man who'd made peace with killing. His rifle made minute adjustments, the carbon fiber whispering against his prayer beads. "Northwest entrance. Private elevator access." His enhanced hearing picked up layers of mechanical detail. "Lead driver's enhancement signature is military-grade. Recent installation – can still smell the antiseptic under his sweat."
"Eight shooters visible," Quiroga confirmed, her screens filling with biometric data that reflected off her dilated pupils. Her fingers moved through interfaces with the jerky precision of someone pushing past stim tolerance, neural patches pulsing with dying light. "Ghost protocols, but sloppy implementation. They're leaving harmonic traces like amateur hour."
"Twelve," Kasper corrected, forcing the words past the copper taste of blood pooling at the back of his throat. His experimental enhancement suite picked up the subharmonics of hidden backup teams, the data burning through his failing adaptation package. "Four on the roof. Two in the lobby. Six with the primary team."
"Show me." Montero's command carried the weight of experience, his old combat protocols humming at a frequency that made nearby windows vibrate.
Kasper pushed the detection data through their tactical link, the effort sending fresh rivulets of blood down his throat. They'd practiced this during the stakeout – his experimental systems providing targeting data, Salvaterra confirming positions, Quiroga analyzing enhancement signatures while Montero built the tactical response. The sequence had become almost ritualistic, each team member's role as precisely calibrated as their hardware.
"Confirmed." Salvaterra's rifle clicked with microscopic adjustments, the sound carrying through his enhanced hearing like mechanical prayer. "Got eyes on the roof team. Same hardware we saw in the favela last week. Same frequency patterns. Same manufacturer marks."
"That hardware's Association-grade." Montero's old combat protocols sang with dangerous harmonics that made local enhancement cores stutter. "Care to explain how cartel soldiers got our tech?"
A message from Maria flashed: "Team's asking questions. Stick to the script. Remember Sarah. Remember what's at stake."
Kasper wiped blood from his nose with deliberate slowness, letting them see the price of experimental tech. The movement sent fresh warnings screaming across his neural feed as adaptation protocols failed one by one. "Association R&D. Classified." His tone carried enough truth to sell the lie.
"Funny thing about classified." Montero's voice dropped to a battlefield whisper as his ancient hardware sang to life, the sound carrying decades of controlled violence. "Sarah Blackwood had similar protocols before she died. Very similar. And Valparaiso's still burning."
"Contact," Salvaterra cut in, his enhanced hearing picking up the subtle shift in security patterns. "VIP exit. Jakob Chen plus security detail. Deployment matches cartel executive protection schemes."
Through quantum-encrypted channels, cartel data streams painted the air with invisible commerce: stock trades, weapons shipments, and endless ledgers tracking the price of human modification. Each transaction carried its own frequency, turning the morning air into a symphony of corruption that only enhanced senses could decode.
Quiroga's fingers danced through invisible interfaces, her movements growing more erratic as the stims fought with her system. Neural patches littered the ground around her like shed snake skin, each one marking another step toward burnout. "Got building schematics, but... shit." She blinked rapidly, pupils dilating until her eyes looked more machine than human. "These security protocols... they're Association architecture. Not stolen. Not copied. Original."
"What?" Montero's enhancement harmonics spiked with controlled rage, the frequency making nearby tech falter.
"Someone high up sold them our codes." Her hands shook as she applied another neural patch, the adhesive making a wet sound against her sweat-slick neck. "We're walking into our own security grid. These are core protocols – the kind that cost more than money to acquire."
Kasper's nanobot network burned with recognition, sending fresh waves of pain through his failing systems. Sarah's files had hinted at Association corruption, but this... this was institutional rot that went deeper than even her betrayal had suggested.
A priority alert screamed across his feed: facial recognition hit on one of Chen's guards. The data stream carried an image from Sarah's laboratory – the same man standing over a child's enhanced corpse, surgical tools still bloody. The memory crashed through his defenses with terrible clarity:
*"They're just vessels," Sarah had said, her hands covered in a child's blood. "Empty until we fill them with something better than faith."*
### Section 3: Wolves at Prayer
The morning heat pressed down like a physical weight as Kasper's adaptation package entered terminal decline. Each breath tasted of copper and burnt circuitry, his enhanced senses picking up the subtle sounds of his own systems failing.
"Your enhancement core's redlining." Quiroga's analysis cut through the tactical feed, her voice carrying professional concern beneath stim-induced tension. "That adaptation package is burning through resources faster than predicted. I can see the degradation patterns from here."
"How long?" Montero's question hummed with harmonic undertones that only decades of combat experience could produce.
"Twenty minutes. Maybe less." Her hands moved through diagnostic interfaces with desperate precision, neural patches pulsing with dying light. "Same degradation pattern we saw in the favela. I can try another bypass, but—"
"No time." Kasper forced his system to stabilize, but blood kept trickling from his nose, each drop carrying traces of burnt nanobots. "Change of plans. Chen's not the primary target."
"The hell he's not." Montero's combat protocols sang with barely contained violence, the sound making nearby windows resonate. "Orders are clear. We're not here to freestyle."
"Look at your guard's face." Kasper pushed the recognition data through their tactical link, the effort sending fresh warnings screaming across his neural feed. "Subject 23. Sarah Blackwood's case."
"Confirmed match." Quiroga's voice carried bitter recognition as her fingers flew through data streams. Her hands had finally steadied, professional focus overriding chemical need. "Enhancement signatures align with the laboratory data. It's him. Same surgical patterns. Same hardware configurations."
Salvaterra's prayer beads clicked against his rifle in a rhythm that matched his target's heartbeat. "The child trafficking ring?" His enhanced hearing picked up the subtle change in Montero's breathing – the microsecond hitch that betrayed recognition. "The one that earned her the posthumous honors?"
"He's bigger than Chen." Kasper's adaptation warnings faded beneath cold purpose as his targeting systems outlined kill zones with mathematical precision. "Direct connection to ATA's enhancement program. The kind that turns children into pharmacy slaves."
"Running deeper scan." Quiroga's screens filled with data streams that reflected off her chrome-dilated pupils. Her fingers moved with surgical precision now, professional determination burning through stim jitters. "These biometric patterns... they match the dead kids from Blackwood's bust. Same surgical signatures. Same enhancement architecture."
She glanced at Montero, the movement carrying years of accumulated pain. "Same hardware they used on my sister. I'd recognize those patterns anywhere."
"Association protocols say we stick to Chen." Montero's words carried the weight of command, but his old combat harmonics betrayed uncertainty. His fingers tapped that ancient war rhythm faster now, each impact sending tiny vibrations through the tactical net. "Anything else compromises the mission."
Through his enhanced vision, Kasper watched Chen's convoy disappear into the building's private garage, their vehicles leaving trails of heat signatures that his failing systems rendered as bloody handprints. The guard's enhancement signature pulsed with familiar harmonics – the same ones that had haunted Sarah's laboratory.
"Running tactical projection." Salvaterra's voice carried deadly focus as his rifle made microscopic adjustments. "I can take the primary target clean. Secondary containment will be messy. Lot of enhancement cores in the blast radius."
"Full building schematics uploaded." Quiroga's fingers flew through interfaces with renewed precision. "I can lock down their security grid. Ten seconds max before backup systems engage. After that, it's going to get loud."
"Team." Montero's command cut through the feed like a blade. "Call it. By the numbers."
"Send it." Quiroga's response came instantly, her voice carrying the kind of certainty that only personal vengeance could produce. "Those kids deserve better than spreadsheets."
"Agreed." Salvaterra's rifle hummed to life with a sound like chapel bells. "Sometimes God works through scoped optics."
Montero's ancient combat protocols sang with deadly promise. "New target protocol. But this better not be another Valparaiso." His words carried the weight of command and the promise of consequences. "We find out you're lying, I'll put you down myself."
Kasper's hand went to the scar on his neck, where Sarah's last kiss still burned like betrayal. "No," he lied, tasting blood and burnt nanobots. "Nothing like Valparaiso."
A message from Valerian flashed: "Team compromised. Eliminate all witnesses. No survivors. -V"
Through the corporate canyon's mirrored walls, where morning heat turned glass into funeral pyres, three snipers adjusted their aim. Three heartbeats pulsed across his neural feed, each one carrying its own frequency of approaching death.
Three different ways to die.
Or three witnesses to eliminate.
His nanobot network sang with deadly certainty as his adaptation package began its final collapse. He had maybe twenty minutes before system failure. Twenty minutes to either save his team or kill them.
"Status check," Montero commanded one final time, his voice carrying two decades of battlefield faith.
"Overwatch ready." Salvaterra's response carried the precision of a man who'd made killing into prayer.
"Tech control established." Quiroga's fingers danced through final preparations, her movements precise despite the cost.
Kasper's targeting system outlined kill zones with mathematical precision as blood trickled down his throat. "Moving to execute."
The hunt was about to become a massacre.