CORMAC MAGUIRE TURNED his nose up at the sight. The migrant processing center next to the partially complete border wall reeked of the unwashed masses congregated around him.
Stomach acid crawled up the back of his throat from them being close enough to bump against him.
Vermin. All of them. They don’t belong here.
He passed a mother and father holding their child in line, waiting to be seen. The child’s wailing made his teeth ache.
They should go back where they belong. Back where they came from. What happens next is on them.
Cormac turned away from their pleading and tired eyes. He checked the watch strapped to the underside of his left wrist. Noting the time, he stepped over a mewling infant in the dirt, just out of reach of her mother’s outstretched arms. Repulsed, he spit on the ground and elbowed his way through the crowd.
Soon enough this rabble will get what’s coming to them. Let it stand as a warning to the rest of their kind. They’re not welcome here.
National Guardsmen stood watch at the entry points of the yard. Their bored expressions highlighted a lax attitude. The sight buoyed his spirits. Across the way, he found the Homefront member assigned the task of striking the center.
He had to admit, he’d been skeptical of Cillian when he’d suggested admitting those without pure blood to the cause. But, after the subway bombing last year, he’d come around.
The mongrels are good for something. And why sacrifice a pure blood when we don’t have to?
Cormac watched his man weave deeper into the compound, swallowed by the crowd of soon-to-be dead. To his eye, the suicide vest appeared bulky beneath the man’s clothes. He scanned those around him, confident he was the only one who noticed.
His gaze settled upon the man’s right hand and the trigger concealed there. The man’s movements showed no sign of second thoughts, but Cormac was no fool. He squeezed a remote trigger for the vest in his left hand.
One way or another, Homefront will strike a blow here today.
He checked his watch again.
Four minutes until scheduled detonation.
Cormac cut a path for the gate. He flashed his proof of residence to a guard and exited the center onto a cracked sidewalk. He took a final look at the filthy crowd. Unable to see his man any longer, he turned and walked beyond the blast radius.
Thirty seconds until the appointed time, Cormac pressed the trigger. A boom echoed behind him before a cloud of smoke rose into the air. Screams carried on the wind, and it brought a cruel smile to his lips.
“For America,” he whispered over the cries of fear and anguish.
NATHAN MILLER LISTENED for sounds behind the closed door. Determined groaning, and an obvious fake moan, made his skin crawl. He pounded his fist on the door again, rattling the wood against the frame.
“Fuck off,” came the strained reply.
Nathan gripped the knob, but it wouldn’t turn.
Locked.
With his cybernetic left hand, he ripped the doorknob out of the housing. The inner knob thumped onto the carpet. He admired the piece in his hand before tossing it aside. Eighteen months living with his implants, and Nathan was still getting used to them.
However, they do provide some advantages.
Pushing the door open with his foot, he caught sight of a naked and red-faced Eli Wurth thrusting behind a disinterested woman. He could’ve done without the image.
Nathan averted his eyes. “Finish up and get dressed.”
Eli grabbed a handful of the woman’s flowing hair. Sweat dripped off his face. He gave it a hard yank and panted. “Unless you want some pointers, get lost.”
Nathan made a fist. His arm trembled at his side. “There’s been an attack. We need to go.”
“Why?” Eli’s face contorted with effort. “The victims getting any less dead?”
Nathan glared at him until Eli cursed under his breath.
He shoved the woman aside and collapsed on the edge of the bed, drawing sheets across his lower half. “Give us the room,” he said to her.
She grabbed a silk robe off the floor and slipped it over her shoulders. It hung open as she strolled past Nathan, granting him a look.
Eli asked, “What happened?”
“A migrant processing center got bombed thirty minutes ago. Report is of a lone bomber in a suicide vest—like the subway. Casualties are still coming in.”
Eli groaned. “Homefront?”
“They haven’t claimed responsibility yet, but they will.” Nathan narrowed his eyes. “This has Malachy written all over it.”
Eli tossed the covers aside, prompting Nathan to turn around while he pulled his pants on. He grumbled, “You owe me two hundred bucks.”
“What for? You finished.”
“How the hell you gonna say I finished?”
“You were back here trying for forty minutes. Trust me—you finished.”
Eli buckled his belt and threw a shirt on. “Think you’re funny? Wait until you’re almost fifty; see how long you take to salute.”
Nathan led him through the apartment. The prostitute lounged by the kitchen table, her legs and her robe open.
Eli stopped a moment and bent over her. “Gotta run, darling. Sorry ’bout this, but I’ll make it up to you.”
Her eyes glassed over. He huffed, patted her cheek, and followed Nathan out the door. In the dank hallway, Eli grumbled, “See what you did there, you upset my woman.”
He put a hand against his chest and asked, “You aren’t serious? You pay her for sex. She doesn’t give a shit about you, so long as the money is good.”
Eli brushed his hand aside. “You don’t know everything. Roxy and me got a special bond.”
“What? Venereal disease?”
Eli slugged him on the shoulder. “Smartass.”
They went outside. Smoke rose in the distance as they descended the steps to the street. Nathan walked around to the driver’s side of their cruiser.
Eli motioned to the chaotic noises around them. “Sounds like a real circus.”
Nathan slid behind the wheel and gave him a sidelong look. “Get in. We’re due in the center ring.”
THEY PASSED BODIES draped in white sheets. Blooms of deep red stained the wrapping in gruesome Rorschach blots. An infant-sized blanket covered a tiny body a few feet away. Nathan’s stomach clenched.
Eli shook his head and mouthed, “This fucker needs to be put down.”
Anguished wails of loved ones and pained sobs of the wounded provided the soundtrack to the hell they walked through. Cordite stung Nathan’s nostrils. His eyes watered. The surrounding migrants gave him expectant looks, pleading for him to do something. He tried to turn away from their beseeching, but their suffering followed him.
Eli tapped him on the shoulder. He pointed his chin toward a makeshift command center. “Over there.”
Grateful for a calm port in the suffocating tempest of grief, Nathan latched on to the suggestion and hurried after him.
Eli raised his chin to the detective on duty. “What’s the latest?”
He answered with a gruffness to his voice. “Twenty-nine confirmed dead so far. Though,” he indicated toward the rubble around the yard, “I expect the number to grow. We have one witness talking who identifies the bomber as a Mexican.”
“Consistent with Homefront’s modus operandi—using those they consider lesser to do the dirty work.”
The detective glanced at Nathan. “We’re expecting Malachy to release a statement claiming responsibility any time now.”
“That’s enough, Watkins.”
Nathan stiffened at the familiar voice. Eli smirked and Nathan turned around to face Tommy Roquefort. His old partner was, not surprisingly, unhappy to see him.
“Just what is major crimes doing here for the clean-up?” Tommy sneered at Nathan. “Come to see what you’ve wrought?”
Eli hooked his thumbs through his belt loops, hitching his pants up. “That supposed to mean something coming from you, Roquefort?”
Tommy’s expression darkened. “Look around you. Take a good fucking look. How long has it been since your unit was going to bring Malachy down? How many more people need to die before you get off your fucking ass and do it?”
Eli rumbled deep in his throat. “Watch yourself, Detective.”
Tommy stood his ground. “Do you have any leads at all? Any clue where he is or where he will strike next?” His eyes slipped to Nathan. “Any closer to that revenge you’re after?”
Eli’s hand on his shoulder stayed Nathan’s tongue.
“You’re relieved, Roquefort.” Eli said, “Major crimes will take it from here.”
Tommy ridiculed, “Guess I’ll see you at the next attack then. You know, unless you two assholes want to do some actual police work.”
Nathan strained against Eli’s grip.
“Ignore him,” Eli said, “he’s not important.”
Tommy waved at Watkins to leave. He stared at Nathan for a long moment before he said, “I hope you catch him. And I hope your partner keeps it legal enough to actually hold him.”
Eli laughed. “You think that’s gonna be a problem? The bastard responsible for this will never make it to a courtroom.”
Tommy shook his head at him. “That how you roll now, Nate? Murder for hire?”
“We get the job done,” Eli gloated.
“I’m not talking to you, shit-for-brains.”
Eli stepped to him, his hand hovering over the piece strapped to his belt.
Tommy chuckled. “Try it asshole. Just try it.”
Nathan rested a hand on Eli’s arm. He pulled him back, and turned one eye to Tommy. “You need to go.”
“This isn’t you.”
Nathan rubbed his chin with his left hand. Both parts being cybernetic, he felt nothing beyond muted pressure. “You don’t know me anymore, Roc. Do yourself a favor and keep it that way.”
Tommy frowned. “You know, Nate, I wonder if you even know yourself these days.” He waved his arms around. “Because this here—this isn’t who you are. You’re better than this, and you’re better than him.”
“Shove off,” Eli said. “I won’t tell you again.”
Tommy snorted. “You won’t have to. Don’t think I can stomach being around you any longer.” He looked to Nathan. “Either one of you.”
