Chapter 98: Necessary Weapons

Morning light slashed through the presidential palace windows, turning dust motes into floating gold. Rivera set down the casualty report, its pages dog-eared from countless readings. The brass clock on his desk—a relic from his grandfather's time—ticked with mechanical precision, counting seconds between life and death.

Outside, the same sun that illuminated the harbor district transformed Costa del Sol's art deco towers into gleaming monuments, indifferent to the suffering beneath their shadows. The distant thump of police autogyros vibrated through the palace's marble bones.

Four more families in the harbor district. Fishermen and dock workers whose only crime had been existing when the cartel's retaliation began.

The secure phone line rang, slicing through the weighted silence of his office. The brass receiver felt cold against his palm.

"Mr. President." Santos's voice rasped like a blade on stone, carrying the unmistakable roughness of a man who'd spent the night shouting orders that nobody heard. "We have the situation... contained."

Rivera caught the pause. Contained, not controlled. Never controlled.

"How many?" The words tasted bitter.

"Seventeen civilians." The answer came too precise, as if Santos had counted each body personally. "Three of them children."

Rivera's fingers found the old rosary in his pocket—the same one his grandfather had clutched during the revolution decades ago. Its wooden beads had been worn smooth by generations of desperate prayers. The smell of gunpowder and blood still clung to Santos's voice, even through the secure line.

"And our forces?"

"Four officers wounded. Two..." Santos hesitated, the static on the line filling the space between words. "Two won't make it."

Through the window, Rivera watched his city wake. Vendors setting up stalls beneath buildings with bullet-scarred facades. Children with oversized backpacks running toward schools where the windows had been reinforced against stray bullets. Life continued, always balanced on the edge of the abyss.

"I need you at the palace." Rivera kept his voice steady, though exhaustion tried to seep through. "Immediately."

Santos's footsteps echoed down the marble hallway—military rhythm, precise as a metronome. The scent of copper and cordite hung around him like cologne, and dried blood stained his tactical uniform, particularly across the right sleeve. Type AB negative, Rivera noted automatically. Elena Martinez's cousin's blood type, according to this morning's casualty list.

"Miguel." Santos greeted with the familiarity earned through decades of joint service, his consonants clipped in that northern province accent that had never quite smoothed out despite years in the capital. His enhancement ports pulsed with a muted rhythm, systems running at minimum capacity from exhaustion. The palace's art deco light fixtures cast shadows across the hollows of his face, emphasizing days without proper rest.

"Three coordinated attacks," Santos reported, the leather of his holster creaking as he shifted weight. "The cartels are sending a message."

"And I need to send a stronger one." Rivera gestured toward the screens displaying the harbor district. The tactical display cast his office in a sickly blue glow, highlighting the brass filigree of the antique desk that had served five presidents before him. "Our current measures aren't enough."

Santos nodded, but his eyes betrayed concern. The faint whir of his tactical enhancements created an almost subliminal counterpoint to the room's silence.

"Fourth Battalion is ready for full deployment."

"Military forces are hammers, old friend." Rivera manipulated the controls, enhancing images of burned buildings. The display's light caught on the family photograph beside his keyboard—Sofia smiling, unaware of the decisions her father made daily. "But some nails require a scalpel."

Santos's expression shifted subtly—that small furrowing of his brow that Rivera had learned to read through years of military campaigns and political battles.

"There's something else not in the reports," Rivera said, the taste of copper rising in his throat. Not blood, just the phantom memory of too many battles.

Santos adjusted his stance, redistributing the weight of a body too accustomed to combat to ever fully relax. The faint mechanical hum of his leg enhancement became audible—that distinctive drag-click of a Mark III system pushing past maintenance schedules.

"Ghost team." The words fell heavy between them.

Rivera watched him carefully. Ghost team had been their strongest card—elite bounty hunters trained for operations the official government couldn't acknowledge.

"We lost almost all of them." Santos extracted a data tablet from his jacket's inner pocket. The device's brass fittings gleamed dully under the office lights. "Ambush in the industrial sector. The leaked information came from inside."

Rivera took the tablet, the images too brutal even for a man who had witnessed three revolutions. The screen's glow illuminated his face as he scrolled through scenes of calculated slaughter.

"How?"

"The Director's signature." Santos pronounced the name like others would say 'devil.' The name made the rosary beads in Rivera's pocket feel suddenly heavier. "Professional work."

Rivera flicked through the images—bodies with enhancement ports surgically extracted, top-tier equipment reduced to scrap. A methodical massacre that spoke of resources and planning beyond typical cartel operations.

"Any survivors?"

"One." Santos activated a separate file. "Kasper de la Fuente. Rookie agent, fresh from the academy. Report says he escaped after the rest of the team was... processed."

The image showed a young man with eyes that had seen too much. His medical records paraded alongside his photograph—multiple contusions, fractures, severe trauma, and something that caught Rivera's attention.

"Enhancement rejection?"

Santos nodded, the movement causing the light to catch on the scar across his jawline—a souvenir from their shared past in the Counter-Intelligence Division. "They extracted all his enhancements while he was conscious. According to Chen, it's a miracle he's still alive."

The tablet displayed real-time biometric readings—elevated cortisol, neural pathway degradation, rejection indicators flashing red. The kind of readings that should have sidelined any operative.

"Chen." Rivera recognized the name. "The Association's director?"

"She's personally invested in him." Santos displayed another image—Kasper in a medical bay, fresh scars where enhancement ports once resided. Through the medical bay's window, the hazy outline of harbor cranes marked the district's boundary. "Fishermen from the harbor found him. Martinez family. The same ones who lost members last night."

A brass bell tolled in the distance—the maritime cathedral marking the hour. The sound carried haunting echoes of funeral services held too frequently.

Rivera studied the performance metrics, the psychological evaluations. Something in the young man's eyes struck a familiar chord—the same look he'd seen in his mirror after making decisions that kept him awake at night.

"His brother died in Mirage City," Santos continued, his voice dropping to match the cathedral bell's resonance. "His father's been using an exoskeleton since then. The whole family has history with the ATA."

"Not just another bounty hunter," Rivera murmured, reading between lines of clinical assessment.

"He has something personal with The Director." Santos lowered his voice further, though the room had been swept for surveillance that morning. The palace's ancient ventilation system creaked, sending a draft of cool air smelling faintly of sea salt through the room. "And according to reports, he's doing something nobody thought possible."

"What?"

"Hunting without enhancements." Santos expanded a recent activity report. "Four cartel operators eliminated last night. Two the night before. All with the same surgical precision used on his team."

The tablet showed thermal imaging of the harbor district—heat signatures marking recent violence. Among them, one pattern moved differently from the rest. More deliberate. More human.

Rivera turned toward the window, contemplating his city. The contrast between the palace's ordered elegance and the chaos beyond its walls had never felt more pronounced. The brass fixtures and art deco flourishes suddenly seemed like fragile masks over crumbling foundations—beautiful facades hiding institutional rot.

"Where is he now?"

"Association headquarters. Under medical supervision, though..." Santos paused meaningfully, his enhancement ports flickering briefly with suppressed concern. "Reports suggest he's ignoring recommendations. Continues hunting."

"A man seeking revenge," Rivera mused, watching a police autogyro sweep between buildings. "Or justice?"

"Sometimes they're the same, sir." Santos's response carried the weight of too many battles and too many compromises.

Rivera stared at the city below, his mind racing through possibilities. Each option played out before him with brutal clarity: continue with conventional forces and watch more innocents die, or embrace something darker—something that might save lives but cost him whatever remained of his soul.

The cathedral bells fell silent. In that moment of quiet, Rivera felt the full weight of his office press down upon him. The idealistic lawyer who had once fought for justice in courtrooms seemed like a stranger now, a naive ghost haunting his memories.

If he sanctioned this—if he reached out to a man clearly operating on the edge of stability—what line would he be crossing? And if he didn't, how many more Martinez families would pay the price for his principles?

"Bring him in." Rivera's order rang with finality, his decision crystallizing with glass-like clarity. "Unofficially. No records."

Santos looked at him with barely contained surprise. The mechanical whir of his leg enhancement increased slightly—a telltale sign of stress his control systems couldn't quite mask.

"Miguel, with respect—" Santos rarely used his first name, a sign of genuine concern, "—this De la Fuente is unstable at best. The medical reports suggest he's one firefight away from complete neural collapse."

"That's precisely why." Rivera stood, confronting the view of his wounded city. Morning light caught the enhancement ports of citizens below, making them glow like dying stars against the urban landscape. "Costa del Sol needs men willing to do what's necessary, regardless of personal cost."

"He could be dangerous. To himself. To us." Santos tapped his own enhancement port. "Those rejection patterns are unlike anything I've seen. What if he turns? What if—"

"Inaction is more dangerous." Rivera touched his daughter's photograph, her smile a painful reminder of innocence preserved at terrible cost. "We need weapons the cartels can't predict or buy. He might be exactly what we need."

The intercom chimed, interrupting the moment. His assistant's voice announced the international delegation's arrival—diplomats who'd never seen what happened in Costa del Sol's streets after dark.

"I have to face diplomats who've never witnessed what happens in our streets," Rivera said bitterly. The scent of expensive cologne already drifted under his door, heralding their approach. "Meanwhile, bring me a man who truly understands what's at stake."

Santos straightened, military habit reasserting itself. The polished brass buttons of his uniform caught the light as he adjusted his posture. "And if he refuses?"

Rivera looked once more at Kasper's photograph, at eyes that had faced the abyss and returned transformed.

"He won't." His voice carried the certainty of a man who recognized purpose in another. "Some men are made to shoulder darkness so others can live in light."

As Santos departed, Rivera caught a final look in his old friend's eyes—a flicker of something between respect and fear. It was a look that made Rivera wonder, just for a moment, if he was crossing a line from which there was no return.

The city waited. And somewhere amid its bloodstained streets, a man without enhancements demonstrated that human will could be the deadliest weapon of all—a weapon Rivera was now reaching for with both hands.