L3 was a multi-layered magma chamber not far from the peak of Mount Conrad. A hundred metres down was extremely shallow in geological terms, just a bubble in the neck of a geologic soda bottle, but magma once rushed through the veins of the chamber like a pump, and the high gas content of the magma must once have threatened Conrad with explosive decapitation.

  How the peak remained in one piece was a key research question for the CU researchers. Their deserted trenches streaked the magma chamber’s floor, and a high mezzanine reached for answers in the strata of the chamber’s walls, lined by empty scaffolding and high safety nets.

  The scurrying, ant-like figures currently on the lamplit floor of the chamber weren’t scientists, however. Hidden in the heat-stressed pits before the cage-shaft, two-dozen hooded and black-armoured men prepared for a skirmish, crossbows propped ready on the rocks. Remarkably the ambushers were uniformly on the short side, as if stamped from a XS slim-fit cookie cutter.

  Behind them another six men with the heft of defensive tackles stood apart, and three other figures in body armour and black cloaks took an elevated place at the rear of them all.

  At the centre of the trio was a tanned, thin Caucasian man, distinctive long grey hair held back from a chiselled, disdainful face. His most noteworthy feature was a long quarterstaff, of a length that nearly matched his height.

  The figure immediately to his left was a short, slim and agile man with close-cut hair and dark stubble. A Mediterranean type, but physically unexceptional, an empty dull-black sheath hung from his belt. The krisflexed in his busy hands, a dangerous fidget-toy. The man Marcus had christened Ghost appeared bored.

  The third and last of the trio of cultists was a giant, brutish and impatient features framed by a square-cut black beard, very much the storybook pirate. Blackbeard appeared to argue with Greyhair across Ghost’s head.

  The reason for the impatience, boredom and watchfulness of the three was a wall-mounted klaxon and strobe light set at the bottom of the cage hoist shaft. The klaxon was mostly muffled since, early on, one of the defensive tackles had hit it hard with a rock the size and heft of a bowling ball.

  The spinning strobe, on the other hand, flashed incessantly at the bottom of the shaft, sending strobing lights across the dark walls. The achingly slow cage had dropped multiple times already, only to stop half-way and rise back up, but the sound of the open elevator’s descent – a rattling and screeching of metal against metal – was now louder than ever.

  This would be the last time.

  “The tangos are simmering,” Eli Brown whispered, concluding his update. A throat-mike caught his soft, subvocalized voice and he was alone, as no one else had followed him down the gravity-battery chain. The feed from his shades, on the other hand, had a wide audience as the crossbowmen below readied to let loose.

  When the bottom of the cage finally emerged from the shaft, Lee’s three stiff polyurethane shields came into sight, bulky shapes huddled behind. With a cry, crossbows released with multiple thwacks and bolts thwumped home into the makeshift barriers. At the rear, Greyhair stood straighter and held out a hand, shouting out a word, portentous and commanding.

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  Eli’s view was obstructed and Sly couldn’t see who Greyhair called to, but suddenly the embedded arrows crackled. Energy flashed between the bolts in the polyurethane and bloomed into a superhot fireball, consuming the shields in red-hot flame and bitter, oily-black smoke.

  “Woah.”

  Viewing remotely, shock closed Sly’s throat. True to Lee’s word none of the quarrels had gone straight through. That hardly seems an advantage now.

  Ramirez spat his next words out.

  “Environmentalist nutjobs or not, I don’t care. On top of O’Connor’s death, I think that fireball showed continued hostile intent. Do you agree, Operations Director?”

  “I do,” said Sly, taking responsibility. “Eli, take the leaders out.”

  Breathing out in a slow hiss, Eli squeezed the trigger of the M2010. Sly couldn’t see the crisp, magnified image of the target in the crosshairs of the high-powered scope, only the view down the barrel as, in the distance, Greyhair’s skull shattered like a melon on the range. From imperious and commanding to dead in a heartbeat.

  Sly heard Eli inhale, saw him work the oiled bolt-action mechanism. Even as the first spent round ejected and fell, the dead man’s knees folded. The staff toppled and hit the ground an instant after its owner.

  “One down.”

  Eli turned to the next target. Sly vicariously levered the rifle’s mechanism and inhaled the propellant’s sharp scent. It would be sulphurous and slightly burnt, dead fireworks in July.

  The brutish, bearded man lost half his throat to the next bullet, the resulting gout of blood worthy of an expressionist water-feature. For one long moment a meaty hand grabbed at this neck, as perhaps O’Connor had clutched at his slit throat. Head lolling, Blackbeard dropped to the ground, an overstuffed puppet with cut strings.

  “Two’s down.”

  Another breath in, harsh in the microphone. Crank the smooth mechanism, track the next target as he ran. A long, slow breath out. The rifle cracked again, Ghost fell, arms extended in a sprawl.

  Then, surprising everyone, he got up and ran.

  “What the hell?”

  Cries of alarm erupted from the armed figures in the cave. Crossbowmen turned away from the cage-hoist, looking back at their falling leaders. The open cage continued to the floor, where it clanged to a stop, jolting the burning shields. One toppled, revealing the sandbags behind, and the cage started back up.

  Eyes looked in all directions except where Eli lay, hidden behind ropes and scaffolding on the mezzanine. Users of crossbows seemed ill-prepared for snipers so far away, but they had tricks of their own. The Ghost vanished before Eli could take aim again, gone in an instant, not reappearing on any camera.

  Sly analyzed the scene, fascinated. He guessed that the cloaking tech the environmentalist cultists used didn’t emit ultraviolet, only reflected UV from lamps on the shades. The glare was as if from a mirror, it wasn’t itself a light-source.

  Eli swore. Blackbeard was back on his feet, roaring and clutching his neck, thick scarlet jelly oozing between his fingers. Eli continued firing, but none of the shots found the lurching giant. Then a crossbowman yelled out commands, and in moments Blackbeard was hurried away, smaller figures surrounding him like a team of secret service agents on executive bodyguard detail.

  The cage rattled up. Seconds later, and exactly as planned, three helmeted Green Berets apparated unnoticed into the shaft, unclipping rappelling devices before ducking into cover. Behind them the second half of the fireteam dropped in, including Lieutenant Kim. The first three soldiers put down covering fire, muted by the suppressors attached to the weapons, and threw flashbangs. The salvo took down three active shooters and drove the remaining crossbowmen back.