The Elder leaned forward, eyes gleaming with interest. "Shenron? What does this dragon do?"
"According to the legends," John said carefully, "Shenron grants wishes."
The Elder blinked. "Wishes? Like... Aladdin's lamp?"
"Essentially, yes."
The Elder stood abruptly, excitement breaking through his usual composure. His mind immediately went to the two Dragon Balls John carried. If gathering seven granted wishes, then,
Thwip. Thwip. Thwip. Thwip.
Bullets tore through the air. The guards surrounding the pavilion dropped like puppets with cut strings, neat holes appearing in their foreheads before they even registered the attack.
John moved instantly. His concealed pistol was in his hand, pressed against the Elder's temple, before the bodies finished falling.
The gunfire brought more guards pouring from the surrounding tents. They didn't make it three steps. The Fraternity's marksmen cut them down with surgical precision, headshots from impossible distances, multiple targets dropping simultaneously.
Wesley activated his inherited ability. The world slowed to a crawl around him as bullet time kicked in. His dual pistols sang, and the rounds curved through the air, finding targets behind cover, around corners, threading through gaps that shouldn't exist. His eyes scanned constantly, making sure none of his people took hits.
Fox moved with equal lethality, each shot a kill. No wasted ammunition. No mercy.
The Elder's forces didn't stand a chance. They wore no body armor, why would they, hidden in the desert for decades? They had no training comparable to the Fraternity's centuries of accumulated knowledge. And they faced opponents who could bend bullets around obstacles.
A few lucky shots rang out from the defenders. They struck League operatives center mass and ricocheted harmlessly off the Continental-style armor beneath their robes. One or two camels weren't so fortunate, collapsing with pained cries.
Within two minutes, the resistance ended. Bodies littered the sand.
Smith vaulted from his camel mid-charge and sprinted toward the central pavilion, covering the distance with inhuman speed. His scouter had tracked every guard, every weapon. None remained standing.
He entered the pavilion and swept the scene with professional assessment. All the Elder's men were down. Not a single League casualty.
"John," Smith said with a slight smile, "I told you we'd arrive in time. All you had to do was lead us here."
John kept his gun steady against the Elder's head but spoke nervously. "I used the Dragon Ball information to buy time. Figured he'd want to hear more details. Did I... did I compromise the mission?"
"Not at all." Smith approached the Elder, studying the man who'd hidden in the desert for decades. "You're one of the twelve seats of the High Table, I presume?"
Outside, the last sporadic gunshots fell silent. Then even the screams stopped. Total victory.
The Elder's expression remained calm despite his situation. "It seems the Fraternity has decided to break our peace accord."
"Accord?" Smith's voice was cold, amused. "You seem to have forgotten what the Fraternity actually is. What we do. What we've always done."
The Elder fell silent, understanding dawning in his eyes.
Wesley and Fox entered with the rest of the strike team, thirty-two operatives, not one injured. They spread out in a defensive perimeter.
Smith gestured toward the desert. "Take us to your real headquarters."
The Elder's eyes narrowed. "This is, "
"Don't insult my intelligence. This?" Smith gestured at the tents. "This is a meeting place. Neutral ground for conducting business. Your actual fortress is elsewhere." He smiled without warmth. "Now you're going to show us where."
The Elder calculated rapidly. If he died here in the sand, the High Table might not learn what happened for days. But if he led them to the fortress, there was a chance he could turn the tables, warn his people, activate defenses, maybe survive.
And if he died in the fortress, at least the High Table would know the Fraternity had declared war.
"Very well. If you're so eager to see my home, I'll accommodate you."
Smith raised an eyebrow at the ready compliance but didn't object. "Lead the way, then."
The Elder stood slowly and walked through the carnage without looking at the bodies of his guards. Internally, he counted the Fraternity's numbers. Thirty-four operatives. His fortress had three times that many defenders, proper fortifications, weapons caches.
He still had a chance.
He said nothing about the Dragon Balls or wishes. Clearly, this was all some elaborate fabrication designed to keep him talking while the Fraternity closed in. The magic lamp story was too ridiculous to believe.
"It's a considerable distance. Follow me."
John picked up the Three-Star Dragon Ball from where it had fallen, tucked it into his jacket pocket alongside the Two-Star, and fell into formation without comment.
The Elder mounted a camel and began leading the column deeper into the desert.
Fox maneuvered her camel alongside Smith's. They'd lost several animals in the firefight, forcing some operatives to double up.
She leaned close and spoke quietly. "When do we signal the other teams?"
Smith checked his scouter. No new energy signatures appeared on the horizon. They were still far from the fortress. "Once we locate the headquarters, we use the satellite phone. All three strikes go simultaneously."
The strategy was sound: hit the High Table in three locations at once. Paris, Italy, and Morocco. By the time the Elders realized what was happening and tried to warn each other, it would be too late for reinforcements.