Free The Blueprint (The Upgrade Book 1) by Wesley Cross Page A

operations of General Armament was located in an unassuming four-story building in East Harlem. The first floor was occupied by a perpetually empty restaurant that GA subsidized, and the top three floors were officially occupied by an Internet company. When Jeremy arrived at Brian’s office, the bald man was on the phone barking orders. He slumped in a chair waiting for his boss to get off the phone and closed his eyes, trying his hardest not to fall asleep.
    “Idiots,” Brian slammed the phone down hard, startling Sykes from his daze. “How the fuck did you end up with the Guardian’s guy?”
    “I’ve no idea. Someone must’ve sold me.” Jeremy sat up straight. “This whole situation is one giant screw up. First the hit, and now this. Did you get anything from my car?”
    “Yes.” His boss drummed his fingers on the desk. “There was a small explosive on your front wheel. Remote controlled.”
    “Son of a bitch.”
    “Tell me.” Brian got up and stared down Sykes. “How does a professional like you get into a car without checking its fucking wheels?”
    “My guys always do.”
    “Your guys, huh? How fucking convenient. So why is it that the guys who are supposed to keep you alive are dead and you’re alive and well?”
    “Where are you going with this?” Jeremy stood up as well. “I was ambushed in my own building.”
    They stood for a few moments staring each other down.
    “Alright.” His boss sat again and wiped his forehead with a paper towel, then swiveled the monitor of his computer so Jeremy could see it. “Is this the guy who held you?”
    “Yes,” said Sykes, “um, how did you—”
    “He’s been on my radar for a while. Capable guy. Listen, talk to Rasmussen, as they’re finalizing details for the raid, take a shower, and go to 412. Martin would like to debrief you.”
    “Martin himself?”
    “Yes, he has some specific questions about this Guardian’s guy. Just don’t forget the protocol.”
    Jeremy went up the stairs to the preparation room. Alfred Rasmussen was the head of the six-person team that would hit the man who was working for their competition. The hulky German was checking his teammates’ gear, making sure it was in proper order. They weren’t close friends, although after few years of working together and a couple of dozen of operations they did occasionally share a drink or two.
    “What’s up buddy? You look like shit.”
    “Thanks.” Jeremy winced as Alfred patted him on a shoulder. “Brian said you’re about to go after the Guardian’s guy?”
    “He won’t know what hit him. Anything I should know?”
    “World class. Fast. Don’t play games with him; shoot to kill.”
    “We never play games, mate
.”
    “Good luck then.”
    Jeremy limped away before Alfred had a chance to pat him again. The shower stalls were empty, and he took a long time under the hot jets of water, letting it get the kinks out of his bruised body. Finally, he turned the water off, dried himself with a large towel, and got dressed in a new set of military fatigues. Refreshed, and somewhat nervous, Jeremy walked to the fourth floor.
    He’d never seen Martin in person, nor did he know anybody else who had. Despite the fact that Martin was new to the company, there was a well-known strict protocol on how to communicate with him.
    He took a deep breath and rang the bell of Room 412. After a few seconds the lock clicked and the door opened an inch or two. He walked into a huge empty room and looked around. The floor was covered in plastic, and the only piece of furniture was a black leather chair facing the window. In the corner of the room was a small office with a simple white door and a tiny window just few inches below the ceiling. The light was on in the office.
    Clutching suddenly wet hands, Jeremy sat in the chair facing the window and his back to the little office, as prescribed by the protocol. After a few long moments the door squeaked and he heard heavy footsteps approaching.