The excursion chamber of the Detton-Mouré security complex was small, its Nav-Rod a poor cousin to the monstrous specimen held in Blink Station Alpha. The twelve operatives emerged back into real space in one huge surge that left the air behind them rippling and warping from the distortion of space-time.

Darien kept his carbine tucked close to his body as he reappeared, occupying as small a space as possible out of habit. They'd all heard the horror stories of operatives travelling in close proximity leaving a stray limb here or there with disastrous results. He wasn't sure how true some of the tales were, but long ago had decided it wasn't worth putting it to the test.

He looked left and right to make sure everyone had arrived safely. Sure enough, eleven other heavily armed young men and women stood, some gazing at their new surroundings, others like Idas immediately checking their weapons. He hoped all of them would be up to the task ahead. It was rare that Blink teams were deployed with the express purpose of combat. He re-checked the bandoleer of his carbine, and then looked up as the door to the chamber ground open.

A portly individual in the dark blue uniform of the local law enforcement stumped into the room and immediately Darien could see the nervousness on the man's face. Beads of sweat ran down his cheeks and his eyes were wide. Did he know just how dangerous their quarry actually was? Darien doubted it.

After a brief exchange with the security officer they set off through the station's halls, winding their way up toward the hanger at the tip of the complex. The building didn't seem to have stairs, just a series of winding, circular ramps that opened off to room after room of indeterminate purpose. As they climbed higher, however, he could hear the low rumble of engines and the clamour of voices shouting over them.

They reached their destination – a heavy circular blast door leading into the hanger. Their guide punched in a code and with a hiss of gears the whole thing rolled aside. Darien winced as a wave of heat and exhaust fumes washed over them from within. The acrid smell of burnt fuel cells stung his nostrils and he coughed once, blinking against the sudden assault on his senses. He could hear the others behind him having similar reactions. Clearing his throat, he straightened up and led them inside.

The main hanger of Detton-Mouré's security force felt like standing inside an enormous furnace. All around them the cylindrical chamber was a mess of roaring voices, repair stations, running men and women, and the thunder of engines, all of it adding to the cloying, searing heat. In the ceiling above them circular ports irised open to allow passage of gunships and troop carriers, their engines blazing against the planet's hot, humid air.

It didn't take long for Darien to pick out their flight of ships from amongst the bustle. Bulkier than the gunships of the local security, the ten Wyverns squatted on the far rim of the room, each one a ten-meter long instrument of warfare. The shovel-shaped cockpit was flanked by two heavily armoured wings and disc-like elevation turbines. A twin-linked booster engine the size of a fridge jutted from the rear, humming with power. These variants had been stripped of their heavier ordinance in favour of speed, but they still sported nose-mounted rotating assault cannons that he knew would be packed to the gunnels with armour-piercing rounds.

Technically they held a crew of six; hybrids of fighter and dropship with space for a pilot, gunner and four passengers in the rear compartment. Men weaved in and around them as the operatives approached, making final flight checks of the exterior parts. A lanky, clean-shaven young man detached himself from the jumble as they approached, clad in the deep midnight blue of the Colonial Navy.

"Flight Lieutenant Olsen," he said crisply, throwing them a salute. "You from Blink?"

"That's us."

"Five minutes till dust off," Olsen told them, jerking a thumb over his shoulder towards the line of gunships.

"Have you been briefed?" Darien asked.

The man shrugged. "I know enough."

"We'll need to land well outside the target zone – if we tip this guy off to our presence too soon he'll be gone before we can lay a finger on him. Once we're on the ground I need your flight to stay on station, out of visual range. We'll move in, make contact, and then I want your ships to come in and sit right on top of us. Nothing else gets airborne."

Olsen smiled wickedly. "We can do that."

"And one more thing."

"I'm listening."

"I want my own eyes in the sky," Darien declared, gesturing to one of the empty gunships. "I'm sending two of my people with you."

Lieutenant Olsen gave him a dubious look. "Are your people qualified to fly Wyverns?"

"My people are trained to fly anything. Check the dossiers if you don't believe me." Then he turned, knowing exactly who he wanted overhead too. "Amber, want to run us some air cover?"

He saw her eyes light up at the suggestion, her body visibly relaxing. He knew she was no coward, but he didn't blame her for not wanting to confront Tannis Brock head on.

"I'll need a gunner," she said, looking around at the others.

"Brannigan, you're up," Taggs cut in, grinning. "You'll no' find a better shot."

"Wanna bet?" Idas rumbled.

Darien shook his head with a smile. "Settle down, pal. You're sticking with me. Brannigan?"

"Count me in." The young operative nodded and moved to stand next to Amber. He noted she'd made some significant progress since their last meeting in at least one regard. Clutched in her hands was a long barrelled lance-rifle, a heavier variant on the standard Blink armaments. Not only that, but this model had a high powered mag-scope fixed to it. Her combat scores had been exemplary in training, and it looked like Taggs hadn't wasted any time in rushing her through the advanced weapons training programme.

"Link with the gunship squadron," Darien told them. "If I had to guess, I'd say Brock will definitely have that shuttle of theirs ready and waiting to make an escape. If they manage to get that thing airborne and up to speed we'll never catch them. We'll try and snag him before it goes that far, but if we don't..."

"We'll be ready," Amber said.

Darien looked back to Olsen. The flight lieutenant didn't seem enamoured by the prospect of handing over one of his gunships to a teenager, but, to his credit, he swallowed his misgivings and nodded his agreement. Evidently he knew enough about Blink to take them at their word.

He pointed to one of the ships. "Alright, kid, take number eight. The rest of you pick a bird and load up. We are just about ready to get this little manhunt underway."

They didn't need to be told twice. Whatever apprehension they may have held about going up against a trained killer, once the Blink operatives were on a mission they stuck to it. They paired off, two operatives per gunship. With Niamh by his side he stepped aboard Lieutenant Olsen's craft as its engines rumbled into life. Beneath him the plates vibrated with power.

"You secure back there?" Olsen called.

Darien grabbed the nearest overhead handle and, after checking to see that Niamh had done the same called, "We're all set!"

"Lift off in t-minus ten..." As Olsen began his countdown the heavy doors of the passenger compartment slammed shut, separating Darien from the outside world with six inches of armour plating. As the count finished he caught Niamh's eye and gave her a thin smile. The roar of the engines swelled and the vibrations of the decking reverberated through his bones.

"Lift off!"

Darien felt his stomach lurch as their gunship shot into the air, propelled vertically by the elevator turbines toward the irising ceiling doors. Like flicking a switch they burst out of the hanger and into the blazing glare of Detton-Mouré's sky. Even with the gunships thick passenger doors closed the light forced its way in through the small rectangular view ports.

Clinging tightly to the handle overhead to keep himself steady, he edged over to one of the ports and looked out. The capital settlement opened out beneath them in a low, squat forest of pale metal, its streets wild and twisting as they followed the contours of the land. Tropical jungle encroached on the city from all sides in a blaze of green, gold and brown, held at bay by regular destructive forays by the local authorities. He didn't really want to think about the kind of vicious wildlife that inhabited those regions.

Instead he turned his gaze forward as the gunships piled on speed, tearing low and fast over the rooftops, too fast for him to really make out the people on the streets below. They blurred together before even his sharp eyes form an image of them. These in-atmosphere vehicles had minimal inertial dampeners – he could feel every lurch and turn the pilot made. He glanced at Niamh who had moved up alongside him, her jaw tight and her face a mask of cold determination.

"You good?" he asked.

"I just want to nail this guy," she told him, checking the sight of her carbine. "We catch him and we could put an end to all of this in one go."

He nodded. "That's what we're here for."

Niamh took a deep breath, and then she leaned over and kissed him. Darien felt a small jolt of surprise, but he didn't pull away. There were no cameras, no-one watching. If she wanted to kiss him, this was the best time to do it.

When she pulled away she had a satisfied smile on her face. "I could get used to this, you know."

He gave her a light tap under the chin with his free hand. "Focus."

The flight to their drop point was a short one. The ferocious speed of the Wyvern let them cover a huge swathe of the city in less than ten minutes, and Darien saw the change as structures started rising up around them. Industrial plants reached into the sky, their exteriors gleaming like burnished silver. Some of them at least. Before long they crossed into an area where some of the enormous cylindrical stacks were dark and uninhabited. Even the vibrant light of Detton-Mouré's sun couldn't hide that.

"Drop in thirty seconds!" Olsen shouted from the cockpit.

Darien shook himself, loosening his shoulders and checking the strap on his carbine was secure. This was it. His stomach turned again when the Wyvern's forward motion came to an abrupt halt and then they dropped like a stone. Just as Darien was beginning to think the elevators had simply failed, the turbines kicked in again, stopping them just a few meters off the ground. Hydraulics hissed and the passenger doors slid apart, revealing the iron-clad streets of Detton-Mouré.

"Everybody off," Niamh said, grinning. Without waiting for his reaction she hopped out of the gunship, hitting the ground and rolling to her feet. Darien gave her a withering look and followed her out.

When he straightened up and looked around he saw the other gunships depositing their cargos, and a moment later both squads gathered around him expectantly as he pulled up the map of their target location.

"Thanks for the ride, Lieutenant," he said into his comm. "Hold your flight on station – I'll signal when we're in position."

"Copy that, Operative," Olsen replied. "Good hunting."

"And you. Darien out." He turned to his troops, to the gathering of young expectant faces trusting him to lead them in and out of this assault on one of the most dangerous men in the galaxy. He shoved the apprehension to the back of his mind. It was far too late for doubts.

"Alright, our target is set up in this abandoned aero-plant," he began, his voice firm. "Thermal imaging from the local law enforcement shows four people inside the building on the fourth level. Now, it's a safe bet all entrances will be covered – these people are professionals." He indicated the third level. "We'll split up. Blink to level three of the complex and move in from both of the main rampways. We move quick and quiet – nobody pulls a trigger unless we are fired upon first. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir," the operatives replied in unison.

"If we're lucky we can box them in, call in the gunships for cover and leave them nowhere to run. We might just get through this with out any shooting."

"And if we don't?" Taggs asked.

"Then watch each other's backs and do what you have to do. Whatever happens, this bastard isn't getting off this planet." He stared hard at the other operatives. "Taggs, take Vandal in from the north entrance. We'll take the south.."

"Gotcha." Taggs turned, beckoning his team to follow. "A'right folks, let's go be heroes."

Darien watched them go for a moment then looked to his own team. They were ready – he didn't need to ask. Idas had his jackhammer resting nonchalantly across one shoulder, and the burly operative made an extravagant sweeping gesture with his free hand in the direction of the abandoned factory.

"After you."

He smirked and motioned them with a jerk of his head. Then he set off at a jog through the wending, winding street paths. The sidewalks were paved with something that looked more like iron than concrete and in this quiet section of the city there were no other people to keep them company. No mag-cars hummed past; no conversations floated on the air. The buildings were well constructed, not succumbing to wear and tear, which gave the whole scene an eerie feel. Everything looked new, as though this part of the city had simply had its people snatched away in the middle of a normal day.

It took half a dozen twists and turns before their target building loomed into sight. It was shorter than some of the more modern monoliths that filled the main factory districts of the capital, but still big in its own right. An obsidian cylinder, it squatted moodily in the middle of the district, its lights dimmed with inactivity. But inside Darien knew things weren't as they appeared.

He stayed in the shadows of the surrounding structures as they moved, the light patter of their booted feet echoing softly from the walls. He could see the main entrance of the factory – an immense semi-circular slab of metal that barred their way – but they would not be battering down the front door. With the others close on his heels, Darien skirted the edges of the building, not approaching it until the main door was out of his eye line. If Brock was as formidable as they were told, he wagered there would be surveillance on all the major entry points.

Instead he found a window slit that looked into the main lobby. They gathered around it, and Uther moved up beside him, peering inside. On the face of it the place looked deserted. A reception desk long since gutted of its computers filled the far wall, and scattered pieces of furniture littered the open space between.

But there was something else.

"Look there," the lanky operative said. Darien followed his comrade's pointing finger and quickly picked out a small stud of metal tucked beneath one of the abandoned desks. A tiny red dot glared out from its centre. As he swept his eyes over the room he spotted half a dozen others amongst the debris, and he suspected there were many more that he couldn't see at all.

"Motion trackers," Uther continued. "Looks like the bottom level is full of them. As soon as someone opens a door they'll know we're here."

"Just as well we don't need to use doors," Darien replied with a wry smile. He glanced at the others. "Are we ready?"

Niamh nodded. "Just give the word."

He exhaled a slow breath and closed his eyes. "Alright, Blink on my mark. Three..." He visualised the dimensions of the building in his mind's eye, every space quantified to the millimetre. He placed himself into that space – willed himself to be there. "Two..." The tingle started as his body began the process, a kind of fizzing on his skin. "One..." The sense of absence, of not quite existing at all swept over him like a numbing shower. "Blink."

Then he was there, three stories up. He opened his eyes to find a wide abandoned space littered with disused equipment, broken up by rings of supporting pillars the colour of soot. In the base of his neck he felt the twinge as the others followed him, each of them arriving within a second of each other. After a quick glance behind him to make sure everyone had come through safely, he hefted his carbine and started toward the door leading up the final rampway to the fourth level where, if their intelligence held, they would find Tannis Brock waiting for them.

"Lieutenant Olsen, do you read me?" he said quietly as he moved.

"Loud and clear, operative."

"We're ready. Bring in the blockade."

"En route," Olsen replied. "E.T.A. two minutes."

Darien nodded then changed the comm channel. "Taggs, are your people in place?"

"Aye, in position."

"Then let's do this."

He slipped through the doorway with Idas and Niamh moving side by side behind him. Hekket and Uther followed a couple of metres behind as a rearguard. While Darien hardly expected to be blindsided, he wasn't about to underestimate their fugitive. He moved silently up the bending rampway, keeping close to the wall and aiming his carbine straight ahead. It wasn't long before the doorway hove into view. The huge ramps were designed for the wheeling of heavy machinery and as a result the doorways didn't actually have doors. The rectangular aperture gaped open uninvitingly.

Slithering up to the right hand side entrance, Darien tucked himself up against it far as he could, keeping out of sight. The others piled in behind him as he craned forward just enough to see inside.

A small shudder of relief swept through him when he peered into the room and saw four men, just as their briefing had described. They were gathered around a console of some kind, but he couldn't see what was on the screen, blocked by the body of one of the men. He couldn't tell which of them was Tannis Brock, but at this point it didn't really matter. He could hear them speaking in hushed tones and every now and again an angry outburst would rise above the others. Whatever they were doing, they seemed fully absorbed in the task at hand.

Far across the room at the opposite entrance he saw Taggs peeking out. Vandal were in position. Taking a deep breath he turned to his squad mates and motioned them inside. Then he crouched low and slithered out into the room, his carbine raised. Like wraiths the five operatives drifted apart, he and Niamh moving to the right while Idas, Hekket and Uther went left. He glanced across the room and saw Taggs' squad making their entry, like a group of dark spectres, soundlessly taking up their positions to surround their quarry.

He stopped behind one of the huge obsidian pillars maybe thirty yards away from the four men. To his right Niamh hunkered down behind a long, squat conveyor, its mechanisms dormant. Darien took a moment to try and calm the thundering beat of his heart as the prospect of what they were facing came clawing back at his mind. He made one last fleeting check of the room to make sure all his operatives were in position. Then it was time to finish the job.

Feeling his stomach knot, he forced himself to move out from behind the pillar with his carbine levelled. He swallowed hard.

"Tannis Brock!" he shouted, his voice echoing through the disused factory.

One of the men twisted around to face him in a flash and Darien felt his whole body tense up at the sight of their target, his face exactly as the dossier had shown. The other men loading the crawler stopped in their tracks. Brock's dark eyes flickered left and right, instantly marking the positions of the ten armed operatives that were making themselves just visible enough to confirm their presence. Carbine barrels glinted in the light, each one trained on the group of kidnappers. The three subordinates looked stunned, but Brock narrowed his eyes. Darien knew the man was looking for a way out.

"You're surrounded," he continued. As if to accent his remark the unmistakable rumble of the gunship engines sounded as Olsen's flight arrived to take up their positions outside the factory. "There are gunships in the air and a security cordon around this whole district. You've got nowhere to go, Ghost. Drop any weapons you're carrying and surrender peacefully; you won't be harmed."

Tannis Brock didn't even hesitate.

Before anyone could react he ripped a gun free from his heavy coat. Levelling the bulky weapon in one hand, the assassin's face twisted with anger as he squeezed the trigger. A torrent of bullets sprayed from the fat muzzle and Darien jerked back behind the obsidian pillar. He heard the crunching impacts as the rounds bit chunks out of his cover before Brock swung his weapon in a broad arc. Niamh ducked down beside him, swearing under her breath.

There was no precision, no aim. Brock simply pulled the trigger and clung on, sending a storm of solid-state rounds in all directions. All around the room Darien saw operatives popping down into cover behind support pillars and pieces of old machinery and a flash of confusion shot through him. This didn't seem like the shooting of a trained assassin. Unless...

He leaned back out of cover with his carbine levelled and his eyes widened with shock. As Brock finished the wild sweep of gunfire his free hand pulled a small, spherical object from his coat pocket. In a single fluid motion he stopped firing, letting the gun drop to his side, and tossed the device towards the operatives.

"EVERYONE GET DOWN!" Darien screamed at the top of his lungs.

He hurled himself at Niamh and tackled her to the ground behind the conveyor. Seconds later the object exploded and a searing wave of fire ripped through the entire upper level.