WEST SIDE – DETROIT – UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. When awareness returned, it wasn’t gradual or easy.

When awareness returned, it wasn’t gradual or easy.

Jensen snapped awake, as if a switch had been tripped inside his head, and his first breath of air came back with the taste of rust and damp.

He was lying on a folding cot in a wide metal compartment, which was otherwise empty except for a skeletal chair and a wireless remote camera unit fixed to the discolored wall with a blob of epoxy glue. Jensen righted himself, staring at a sealed hatchway that was the only way in or out. His new circumstances had the unpleasant ring of the familiar about them. Waking up in a cell was nothing new to Jensen, and it never boded well.

He looked around. If this was police holding, then the Detroit PD were even worse off than he thought. He was missing his weapon, the contents of his pockets, his coat and tactical gear, and there was an unpleasant buzzing sound in the air that made his teeth itch.

“Terrific.” Jensen scowled as he located the source of the sound. “This again.” Clamped around his arm was a metallic bracelet that was the twin to the one that had been fitted to him at Facility 451. It made his augs feel leaden and heavy, as if they were moving in slow motion. He tested his infolink for a carrier signal, but got nothing back but white noise.

The latches around the hatch clanked open in sequence and the door creaked open. Jensen half-expected to see Agent Thorne or Dr. Rafiq step through, but his first sight was of a different, but still familiar woman.

The operative from the roof, the one with the short blonde hair, came into the cabin followed by a big, dark-skinned guy with shoulders broad enough to fill the doorway. Jensen caught a glimpse of others moving around in the area beyond the hatch, seeing equipment and monitor screens before it was shut again.

Both of them were wearing the same matte black combat outfits he’d seen earlier. There was nothing to indicate what they were or who they worked for. All Jensen had was the name that Wilder had dropped during their confrontation.

He had nothing to lose, so he decided to throw it out there. “Tell me something. Does the Detroit Police Department know that Interpol are working on their turf?”

The big guy snorted, but said nothing, inclining his head in a way that gave the woman permission to speak. So he’s in charge and she’s the number two. Jensen filed that away for later consideration.

“You should be glad we picked you up before they did.” There was that European accent again, which chimed with the Interpol connection. “The police have a BOLO out for you in connection with that shootout across town. And then there’s the matter of a Federal alert, something to do with a situation in Alaska.”

“It’s not how it looks,” Jensen offered.

“It rarely is,” rumbled the man, and Jensen picked out a southern twang to his words. He produced a pocket secretary and set the device into playback mode. An audio file of Wilder’s faked emergency call sounded out across the compartment. “Of course, that ain’t you,” said the big man. “Our techs saw through it. But the locals wouldn’t have known any better. So you want to explain why someone left you to take the fall?”

Jensen eyed them. “Remind me of what laws it is you’re breaking by holding me here? What due process you’re ignoring? Or is that just how Task Force 29 operates?” He was fishing for a response, and it worked.

The woman stepped closer, looming over him. “You want to talk about your rights? I think you gave up any claim on legal protection when you threw in with smugglers and killers. You don’t get to run this time, Mr. Jensen. Yes, we know who you are, and we know who you’re working with.”

“Is that so?” It was a bad sign that they had his name, but he didn’t let it show. “And who is that, exactly?”

She leaned in. “Here’s what I think happened. I think you and your friends from Sarif Industries decided to make bank by putting mil-spec weapons on the underground aug market, but you didn’t reckon on them double-crossing you. Now you’re out in the cold and you’ve got nothing to show for it.”

“We know your access code was used,” said the man. “And when the DPD picked up Kellman’s body, it wasn’t hard to piece together the rest.”

Jensen gave a snort. “Except you’re looking at it all wrong. I wasn’t in on this deal. I’m trying to stop it.”

“Like a good policeman?” said the woman. She shot the other man a wary glance. “But you haven’t been that for a long time, Jensen. Funny thing… we found your police record easily enough, but your employee files from Sarif Industries are all corrupted. I wonder how that happened?”

“You know these guys?” The man held up the pocket secretary so Jensen could see it and tabbed through a series of pictures, watching him closely for any reaction. The shots were of unfamiliar faces, men in combat gear whose profile suggested they were mercenaries.

Jensen shook his head. “Never seen them before,” he replied truthfully.

That wasn’t the response that the woman wanted, and her expression soured. “Who is running this transaction?” she demanded. “Give us a name and we’ll cut you a deal. We don’t want some burnout ex-cop like you. We want the people with the money.”

The corner of his lip quirked up at the insult. “And what would you do with that name? Report in to your bosses? Or go put a bullet between someone’s eyes?”

“We’d bring them down,” said the big man, and Jensen sensed that he meant every word of it. “That’s what we do. You could say our unit has a… a broad remit.” He paused, then reached for the chair resting by the far wall, planting it backwards in front of Jensen so he could sit and look him in the eye. “I read your file. I reckon I get you well enough. Cop with a code, right? Someone with principles.” He gestured around. “Only you’re in the real world, and it don’t have much room for that kinda thing.”

A silent communication passed between the two Interpol operatives, and at length the woman stepped back, folding her arms across her chest. She continued to watch Jensen like a hawk.

“You said you were trying to stop the aug deal,” continued the man. “So are we. You tell us what you know, that may still happen.”

Jensen frowned. “And what happens to the hardware?”

“It’ll be destroyed,” said the woman. “The kind of tech your boss Sarif was tinkering with is too dangerous to leave lying around. Too many mercs, terrorists and criminals in the world want to get their hands on gear like that.”

The momentary silence that fell in the wake of her words stretched into seconds as Jensen weighed his options. Whatever happened, he was going to have to take a risk if he wanted to get out of this makeshift prison cell. One way or another, he would find out what this Task Force 29’s true motives were once they had what they wanted from him.

He nodded toward the hatch, in the direction of the activity he’d seen beyond it. “I’ll tell you this. Time’s running out to stop these people.” Jensen thought back to what Wilder had said in the apartment. This time tomorrow, the hardware is going to be somewhere over the Atlantic. “Those augs are being flown out of Detroit, and it’s going to happen in the next ten or twelve hours. If you really want to stop them from getting into the wild, then you need to be doing something about it right now.”

A low, humorless smile crossed the other man’s face. “Let me guess. You got an idea about how we can do that, right?”

Jensen nodded again. “I know who’s involved. I know their faces. You don’t. So why don’t we cut all the bullshit and start acting like professionals?”

A chuckle escaped the big man, and he glanced at the woman. “I think I like this guy.”

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