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He says nothing after that, just smiles at me. I smile back, refusing to be the first person to speak. Only a weak man bends to an uncomfortable silence.
After more than a minute, Hamza says, “So, you have the money?”
I nod to Barrett, who holds his hands in the air and slowly retrieves a laptop from the car. He opens it, then approaches. Hamza’s men keep the guns trained.
“Just enter the account and routing numbers,” I say. “You’ll have the transfer within seconds. Can I see the missiles?”
Hamza nods to his men, ten of whom return to the SUVs. Two set up folding tables while eight carry out massive steel briefcases. They open them all at once, letting me see the hundreds of missiles. Metal tubes the length of a ballpoint pen, they look more like old-fashioned laser pointers than rockets.
“The fins deploy upon firing,” Hamza says, showing me small slits running along one of the weapons. “The thruster only has enough fuel for a thousand feet, but it can be fired from anywhere: a car, a helicopter — a shoulder-mounted launcher or a drone, even a handheld device will work. If you can get close to your target, they can be detonated like bombs. Invisible to radar due to their size, they’re supremely maneuverable, limited only by your targeting system. The onboard chip will do a suitable job, but I have a feeling you have access to better tech.”
He’s absolutely correct, though it’s not like I’m going to tell him. Between my satellites, implanted trackers and Innovative AF’s phones and tablets, we should be able to aim these missiles at a specific individual with pinpoint accuracy. No collateral damage, no warning. My enemies will die like the hand of God reached down and pinched them between his fingers.
“Excellent,” I say. “I’m satisfied. You can enter your payment details whenever you’re ready.”
“Great.” Hamza strides up to Barrett and enters his information, transmitting through the high-speed satellite uplink. After a second, the app chimes. A moment later, Hamza’s phone echoes the sound. “It’s done,” he says. “Mr. Ford, the pleasure has been mine.”
I reach out to shake his hand; he takes mine with a firm grip.
“Perhaps you’d like to join me for a night of clubbing?” he asks. “I have access to every VIP lounge in the city.”
“Another time,” I reply. Club or no, I’d rather not spend a single extra minute in this country.
“In that case, before you go, I’d like to ask you something.”
He gestures for me to follow him. I suppose we can talk. I walk with him a few steps, waving back Nick and Barrett.
Once we’re out of earshot, he says, “I have theories about you, Anton. You’ve taken over the world of tech, and now you’re acquiring weapons. I don’t think they’re for your personal protection. I believe you’re building toward something big.”
Smart man.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I say.
He laughs.
“Of course not. But, so you know, I have vast resources and global connections. I can design, procure and supply all kinds of weaponry. I employ some of the best engineers in the world. If you’re interested in partnerships, I would make a powerful ally.”
I wonder how he would feel about having an explosive implant injected inches from his heart. He makes a compelling case, though. I haven’t given much thought to adding to the Masters’ ranks; I control them all. If anything, I will be shrinking their number, not expanding it. Although, what if I were to replace them? Create a new generation of Masters — younger, innovative and loyal to me.
Of all the blustering nonsense Jamison Hardt has told his lapdogs, one thing is probably true: no one can ever exceed his accomplishments, since what he’s done cannot be topped. But what if I started from scratch? It’s an amusing idea — though, not one I’m eager to put into practice. I don’t care about grandeur, or making a mark on the world no one can best.
Besides, when I’m finished, what Jamison did with his life will no longer be possible; not for anyone.
“I look forward to working with you in the future, Hamza,” I say.
“As do I.”
We’re walking back to our lines of guards when I hear a grunt. Hamza stops. Blood pours from his neck, then a muffled gunshot cracks from afar.
I run. My men and Hamza’s draw their guns.
“It wasn’t me!” I shout, my words distorted as time slows.
Barrett’s head splits apart; he crumples. A shot rings out. I keep running.
Hamza’s men dash to take cover behind their SUVs. Two go down before they have a chance.
“Get in the car!” Nick shouts.
