Hidden Demon: Altered Demons, #1

Chapter 1

T

okyo had come and gone often for Dee Johnson in her career. Army Delta force in 2034 mustered at Torii Station before heading to Taiwan to squelch a pro-China uprising inside their military. Protection missions for dignitaries in Southeast Asia had followed, propelling her to the US Secret Service. Yet she stuck out on these streets no matter what she had accomplished or how regularly she visited. A tactical, athletic soul whose umber skin hid the beginnings of wrinkles. Her piercing eyes flamed as topaz through cropped brown hair, curled tight like Spanish moss. Though the pedestrians in Japan seldom made eye contact, she knew they still saw her.

Plate-glass windows adorned with grilled meat photos reminded her of home. Barbeque and beer. The only two admirable ventures from her little Louisiana hometown were also abundant halfway around the world. She might have considered the land of the rising sun a suitable retirement spot someday. The city fit her with a mix of modern sensibilities that remained light on tradition. Anything felt possible, but she knew dreams and truth often misaligned. A tiny bank account limited her choices and while cordial, formal interactions reflected tinges of latent hostility.

Proving the reality of her assessment, she recalled a prior encounter with a group of Harajuku girls—adults dressed as anime characters crossed with runway models, all sporting their own unique styles. Gossiping and giggling on a street corner served as their entertainment, boldly mocking waves of humanity weary from a lingering day of toil. Still, their sense of freedom had intrigued her. She had opened her car window and gestured toward one a couple days before. They wore pink hair, pigtails, and a blue skirt with a white anchor. The petty fashionista had answered her advances by flashing a middle finger. Initial thoughts of giving that sailor girl a lesson in discipline pleased Dee. It had been a while. Had her allure passed? Maybe exhaustion simply prevented her from having fun?

A pothole in the road snapped her from the stupor. The mission today meant riding in a windowless box on wheels. Inside the armored van, American and Japanese commandos sat four on each side, occupying the metal benches. Black weapons and green gear littered the walls except for the night vision goggles protruding from their heads and Armalite rifles filling their hands.

Dee gripped hers, drumming the muzzle guard to stay awake. The artificial light of the armored car interior cast harsh shadows while illuminating the commandos on her protection detail. Yet with her eyes locked on the vehicle deck, she might as well have been alone. The resonant drone of the tires on the pavement could have offered such solace if not for the smell of seven guys assailing her nose. One idiot had doubled down, applying too much cheap cologne. The guy at the end of the bench seat, she guessed. A fledgling commando trying to impress her. She presumed he had not read her file as closely as she had scrutinized his. Her role of Senior Agent in Charge had not made remembering the names of her four Japanese colleagues any easier to a jetlagged mind.

Wildcat. Halfway. Do you copy? Director Sean Butler queried through her earpiece. His own alias matched the harshness of a sixty-year-old who would rather die at his post than retire.

Copy that, Saber, five by five, she said, touching her ear.

He served as the eye in the sky. By the time she had joined the Secret Service, he had managed protection missions for decades. To imagine her future, she only needed Butler as a cautionary tale. A man she presumed rarely saw his wife and kids—or maybe he did not have any. She had not asked, and he had not shared. How much longer could she keep her edge as a member of the Counter Assault Team—the CAT as everyone called it? Every year she lingered, they demanded more of her and returned less, fueling a twisted inflation where her life was currency.

Her concentration broke as her eyes landed on peanut shells bouncing off a pair of poorly shined combat boots. As they littered the deck, Dee lifted her head to see the one person whose name she remembered well. After reviewing the personnel files, he had stood out. Forty-five years old—a decade her senior—Ko Hashimoto proved hard to miss. In his youth, he had won a medal for judo in the Tokyo Olympics. A minor hero in his country even two decades later, he had recently gained a position as a personal protector of the Japanese Emperor. He carried a sword because he could. None would argue the point with such a mountain of a man.

One squad member leaned in toward Dee.

Little sword, one of her agents said. She had done some work with him in Taiwan. Vulgar jokes remained part of the Tommy Jackson repertoire.

We're too old for frat humor, Jackson.

I know. So, why are you smiling?

Dee smirked while eyeballing Ko munching nuts.

A commando on that team blurted out in Japanese, Maybe she likes nuts, too.

Yes, after cut off the tree, she barked in broken Japanese.

The brazen soldier reclined backward, scrunching his nose as he looked away. But Ko grinned. He continued his peanut feast, eyes fixed on Dee as hers narrowed with intensity. Veiled insults from male colleagues were common regardless of language or locale. Occasional contempt supplemented her repertoire, too, but only if she played the first note. Her wrist twisted as she checked the time on her tactical watch.

Her thoughts pivoted to what she could not see. Tokyo Station Square, Wadakura Park, all the places she had recently researched to set the convoy routes. This place never sleeps. It was like Tokyo had a plan to keep them moving so nothing dreadful happened—as if idleness tempted hidden demons to wake. The perpetual flow of businesspeople in black suits entered and exited the train stop as dutiful guardsmen against such drowsy inclinations. Business militias, sworn to protect. Dee could relate. Soldiers could always pick their brothers and sisters from the raucous horde.

She had arrived with the advance teams to prepare for the presidential trip to Tokyo. Collaborating with the local police department, they had mapped a path for the motorcade. It would carry the outgoing American President Freeman and the incoming Japanese Emperor Sakai to the Imperial Palace grounds for a grand reception.

The planned course would take the convoy through tricky zones, especially for night travel. Still, few alternatives presented themselves. All the best paths traveled through Wadakura Square. Tokyo Station Road proved to be a security nightmare. Crowds bustled under evening lights, illuminating the business district surrounding the historic train complex. She and Butler had discussed threat protection and awareness. The substantial capabilities of the presidential motorcade required augmentation as usual. Tokyo being safer compared to other international locales, they had agreed to a minimal complement of snipers on key buildings alongside the route. Partner agents secured the lobbies of those structures. The Director patrolling above in the helicopter completed the extra layers of force projection required. But if these failed, JASDF stayed on hot standby for air support, as did three Marine One helicopters staged at Yokota along with two F35B Lightning fighters tasked from Iwakuni.

***

Vision obscured by a one-way screen, unknown eyes turned to the sirens and flashing lights screaming by on Tokyo Station Road. A human inside the furry teddy bear outfit dealt with a child on the sidewalk. The little girl beamed, snatching the piece of candy offered by the costumed character. Her thankful family departed, waving and laughing as it sauntered away. The glass and steel doors of a nearby office building met their furry paw as it pushed through into the lobby interior. Stepping with haste past artificial waterfalls along a path of granite, bright light illuminated confident steps. Two agents in brown dress suits emerged from the main elevator bank. As they approached with raised palms, the entertainer halted.

You can't be here, one of them said.

A moment passed as the unknown person evaluated them. As a furry paw flicked, curved knives popped out. The first agent took a rapid slice to the throat, dropping to the ground. His neck spurted blood as his hands clutched the gash. The second agent brushed back his suit coat, reaching for a pistol. The furry friend turned enemy sliced across his arm, sending the screaming man to one knee. As he snatched a secondary gun from his ankle holster, the costumed assassin pounced, impaling his chest with both claws. His bewilderment faded with his life force.

As the foe rose, their knives dripped with blood from battle. Removing the fake paws as they proceeded toward the elevators, an outstretched, gloved finger pressed the up button. The doors closed. The attacker shed its costume as the metal box climbed. A full body catsuit embraced a nimble human form covered in combat gear and adorned by a shiny helmet encircling their face. On their chest plate, an embedded red button occupied a spot next to a silver toggle switch with the word 'armed' printed near it. They touched their ear, monitoring Director Butler as his voice entered their earpiece.

Wildcat, seventy-five percent.

The convoy transporting POTUS and the Emperor drew near to Wadakura Square.

The newly informed human enemy stacked the furry costume in the elevator's corner, extracting a pistol and suppressor from the pile. They activated their red dot sight before deftly screwing the silencer onto the twenty-two-caliber handgun. As the elevator reached the roof, they burst through the door. Headshots to both snipers ended them. Standing on the building edge near the bodies, the enemy gazed at the motorcade making the turn by Wadakura Fountain Park. They waited a moment before flipping the silver switch on their chest. A loud electrical hum buzzed with ultrasonic frequencies as their hand found the nearby red button.

Smash!

An energy wave rippled outward. Lights sizzled and popped as darkness advanced, saturating full city blocks across Tokyo. Ten sections turned black. The engine pitch emanating from the helicopter above altered as the rotor slowed.

Grabbing a dead sniper's rifle, the attacker laid prone over the still warm body as they reached into a thigh bag. A huge night vision scope in hand, they swapped out the firearm optics. Scanning the tumbling copter through the viewfinder, Butler glared back at them. Washed in a viridian hue, the sniper watched as the doomed craft spiraled to street level.

People on Tokyo Station Road scattered and screamed as it twirled toward them, plunging from the sky until skids hit the pavement hard. As the aircraft bounced, the fuselage flexed, broken glass scattering. It lurched sideways, the rotor blades carving the ground as asphalt and carbon fiber scraps hurled outward. A fire ignited within the cracked machine.

The sniper acquired Butler in their scope. He struggled in his stuck harness. The enemy's finger moved to their trigger. The Director snatched a Ka-Bar knife from his thigh sheath. Slicing the restraint, he jumped from the burning copter, twisting his ankle. Limping away, he squatted behind a concrete barrier as a fireball burst into the blackness of night. Flaming debris flew as a percussion wave spread.

Turning their head from the radiance, the enemy focused on the stopped motorcade. Bright green images swept through the sniper scope's field of view, targeting sights clear despite the dark streets.

***

A red glow illuminated the tactical vehicle's interior as flood lights activated. Dee placed her hand to ear as she looked toward the floor, speaking calmly, Saber. Saber, do you copy? Why are we stopped? No response.

Boom!

The percussion wave from the copter explosion rumbled and shook the armored van.

Dee snapped her head up and screamed.

Cyclone!

The eight commandos flipped down their night vision goggles. Ko tapped his power button.

No eyes, no eyes!

All tossed the headgear to the side before Dee threw open the rear door and jumped into the blackness of Tokyo Station Road. Gun raised, she aimed into the opaque murkiness. Her fully armed squad followed, carrying automatic rifles, shoulder launched missiles, and mini-guns. The streets had grown quiet except for distant screams and electrical sparks punctuating the silence.

Give me a target! Anyone? Dee yelled.

Breathing hard as she surveyed the area, her hectic scans returned nothing through the shroud. The top of the buildings obscured and windows too dim to see, teammates responded in kind.

Got nada, no target.

Too dark.

No joy.

Dee motioned a hand toward the presidential limo near the front.

Circle the stagecoach!

She squinted through the gloom as Ko twisted his analog watch bezel to one minute.

Transponders down. Overwatch inbound! He said.

The counter assault team rushed past other motorcade vehicles, holding out one arm as they felt their way through the dark. A technician from the electronic defense van cracked their door open as Dee passed.

Agent! I've seen nothing like this. We couldn't stop it.

Dee paused as the squad advanced.

Isn't our tech hardened?

Yes, but not from… whatever this is.

Stay in the vehicle and get my comms back. CAT has the ball, Dee ordered.

She broadcasted as she moved toward her squad.

Cyclone. Cyclone Tanto. Does anyone copy?

None responded as she rejoined the crew by the limo, their guns focused outward.

Damn it, Ko. I can't get a signal. Where's Overwatch?

Ko looked at his wristwatch.

Thirty seconds.

In the distance, Dee heard panting akin to an injured animal, grunting as it ambled toward them. She squinted in vain through the murky area. It got closer to the team. Closer to the presidential limo. She turned, raising her weapon and aiming into the blackness.

Hold your fire. It's me. Just me.

A winded Director Butler limped into view, his face bleeding from fresh cuts.

We lost the helo, he said, blotting blood from his eyes with his shirtsleeve. With transponders out, Marine One will be inbound. Move the assets.

Dee leaned in, whispering intently.

We can't, Sir. No eyes and comms are out.

No choice, agent, that's an order.

Dee and Butler locked eyes. She clenched her jaw as she considered whether to follow orders that breached protocol.

Ko, where the hell is Overwatch?!

He pointed to the sky before he spoke.

Look there.

A constellation of white sprinkled the night as thirty lights moved together as one. One broke pattern from the squadron of micro-drones and descended, hovering in front of Ko. It supplied him with a control device covered in Kanji lettering before returning to the swarm. He tapped the bezel, activating the FLIR cameras on the drones. Infrared heat signatures filled multiple video boxes on his screen. He scanned them. The CAT team. Prone snipers. The downed chopper. Marine One and two decoys approached from the distance. He looked at Dee and Butler.

I'll cover you.

She opened the bulky metal door. President Freeman turned his head toward her, moonlight barely reflecting from his cool sepia skinned face.

Mr. President, time to go home.

She reached out her hand. As she helped him stand from the limo, Ko mumbled something.

Dee glanced at him, still squinting at his Overwatch screen. He snapped his head toward them.

Wait! No!

They locked eyes. The moment in time creeped as a thousand thoughts raced through her mind. Ko, openmouthed. His fear visceral as he screamed incoherently. He reached his hand out to them in vain.

Dee felt a searing pain