dislodging pictures from the walls, blasting open the doors to empty rooms.
Saxon's free hand closed around a cylindrical object on his gear vest and he tugged it free with a jerk of the wrist. By feel alone, he found the
primer tab and pulled it. The weapon buzzed in response and Saxon threw it hard, diving for cover behind a damaged door.
The Type 4 Frag-k grenade clanked off the casing of the robot and bounced to the carpet beneath it; a moment later the explosive core
detonated, blasting the machine off its supports and into a smoking heap.
Bursting from cover, Saxon raced through the cloud of cordite smoke and the humming after-note of the explosion. He took down the door to
the corner suite with a kick from the heel of his tactical boot and pushed through, leading with the Hurricane.
Inside, the room was wide and devoid of angles, all soft furnishings and bowed windows. A thick layer of metallized plastic sheet—doubtless
some kind of sensor baffle—coated the window glass, bleeding out all the color and warmth of the dawn rising over Zubovskaya Square. Saxon
found the power feed for the baffle and disconnected it.
Off to one side, folding panels opened out into a range of rooms bigger than the house Saxon had grown up in; on the other side of the suite, a
second bedroom had been gutted to accommodate the racks of a compact server farm, an orchard of data monitors, and a complex virtual
keyboard.
A man in a dark jacket rushed Saxon from a doorway leading to the bathroom, the lethally compact shape of a Widowmaker shotgun in his
hands. The machine pistol in Saxon's ready grip chattered and the thug took the burst in the chest, crashing backward onto the tiles in a welter
of blood. He ejected the clip, slammed a fresh load into place, and crossed into the bedroom.
Mikhail Kontarsky, his face lit by sheer animal panic, recoiled from the keyboard console and fumbled for a nickel-plated heavy-frame
automatic pistol lying on top of one of the server pods. Saxon brought up the muzzle of the Hurricane and aimed it at Kontarsky's chest. "Don't,"
he told him.
The Russian wasn't the man he'd seen in the briefing picture anymore. That grim face and distant gaze were gone, replaced by raw terror. He
gave a brittle nod and held his hands to his chest. "Please," he began, his voice heavily accented. "You must not stop me."
Something in Saxon's peripheral vision shimmered, and he realized that beneath the panes of complex, scrolling data on the screens, there was
a recognizable shape, the ghost-image of a human face, peering out through layers of static. "He's here to kill you, Mikhail," it said. The voice
was toneless, sexless, flattened into a brittle machine-timbre that was utterly anonymous; the only thing that could be considered any kind of
identity was a data tag showing a name, Janus.
"You told me I would have more time!" Kontarsky spat, his lips trembling. He gave Saxon a pleading stare. "Please, I have to finish what I
started, or—"
Saxon took a warning step forward. "Touch that console and it will be the last thing you ever do, Minister."
"Mikhail" said the video-masked figure. "This is bigger than you. We need the data on the Killing Floor, you must complete the upload—"
Saxon sneered and put a burst of rounds through the big screen, silencing the voice. Kontarsky howled and stumbled backward. "Enough of
your pal." He grabbed the man by the collar and dragged him forward, propelling him out of the room.
"No." There were a dozen other monitors in the gutted bedroom, and screens in the main part of the suite; each one flickered into life, repeating
the image of the static-shrouded face. The word repeated over and over as each one activated. "No. Not yet."
"It's over," Saxon told him, ignoring the voice.
A flash of resentment and defiance crossed Kontarsky's face, and he struggled in Saxon's grip. "You're not here to arrest me ... You're not a
policeman! What authority do
Saxon's free hand closed around a cylindrical object on his gear vest and he tugged it free with a jerk of the wrist. By feel alone, he found the
primer tab and pulled it. The weapon buzzed in response and Saxon threw it hard, diving for cover behind a damaged door.
The Type 4 Frag-k grenade clanked off the casing of the robot and bounced to the carpet beneath it; a moment later the explosive core
detonated, blasting the machine off its supports and into a smoking heap.
Bursting from cover, Saxon raced through the cloud of cordite smoke and the humming after-note of the explosion. He took down the door to
the corner suite with a kick from the heel of his tactical boot and pushed through, leading with the Hurricane.
Inside, the room was wide and devoid of angles, all soft furnishings and bowed windows. A thick layer of metallized plastic sheet—doubtless
some kind of sensor baffle—coated the window glass, bleeding out all the color and warmth of the dawn rising over Zubovskaya Square. Saxon
found the power feed for the baffle and disconnected it.
Off to one side, folding panels opened out into a range of rooms bigger than the house Saxon had grown up in; on the other side of the suite, a
second bedroom had been gutted to accommodate the racks of a compact server farm, an orchard of data monitors, and a complex virtual
keyboard.
A man in a dark jacket rushed Saxon from a doorway leading to the bathroom, the lethally compact shape of a Widowmaker shotgun in his
hands. The machine pistol in Saxon's ready grip chattered and the thug took the burst in the chest, crashing backward onto the tiles in a welter
of blood. He ejected the clip, slammed a fresh load into place, and crossed into the bedroom.
Mikhail Kontarsky, his face lit by sheer animal panic, recoiled from the keyboard console and fumbled for a nickel-plated heavy-frame
automatic pistol lying on top of one of the server pods. Saxon brought up the muzzle of the Hurricane and aimed it at Kontarsky's chest. "Don't,"
he told him.
The Russian wasn't the man he'd seen in the briefing picture anymore. That grim face and distant gaze were gone, replaced by raw terror. He
gave a brittle nod and held his hands to his chest. "Please," he began, his voice heavily accented. "You must not stop me."
Something in Saxon's peripheral vision shimmered, and he realized that beneath the panes of complex, scrolling data on the screens, there was
a recognizable shape, the ghost-image of a human face, peering out through layers of static. "He's here to kill you, Mikhail," it said. The voice
was toneless, sexless, flattened into a brittle machine-timbre that was utterly anonymous; the only thing that could be considered any kind of
identity was a data tag showing a name, Janus.
"You told me I would have more time!" Kontarsky spat, his lips trembling. He gave Saxon a pleading stare. "Please, I have to finish what I
started, or—"
Saxon took a warning step forward. "Touch that console and it will be the last thing you ever do, Minister."
"Mikhail" said the video-masked figure. "This is bigger than you. We need the data on the Killing Floor, you must complete the upload—"
Saxon sneered and put a burst of rounds through the big screen, silencing the voice. Kontarsky howled and stumbled backward. "Enough of
your pal." He grabbed the man by the collar and dragged him forward, propelling him out of the room.
"No." There were a dozen other monitors in the gutted bedroom, and screens in the main part of the suite; each one flickered into life, repeating
the image of the static-shrouded face. The word repeated over and over as each one activated. "No. Not yet."
"It's over," Saxon told him, ignoring the voice.
A flash of resentment and defiance crossed Kontarsky's face, and he struggled in Saxon's grip. "You're not here to arrest me ... You're not a
policeman! What authority do
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