A very pretty young woman dressed in a short skirt and an extremely low-cut top stretched across improbably large and firm breasts came mincing out from backstage with a bright yellow fire extinguisher. She flashed a lot of white teeth at the people on the screens, then doused the fire, gave the hole in the floor a final playful blast, gave the audience a saucy little curtsy, and pranced off.

Mr. Sunday came out from behind the lead barrier and blew a kiss at her retreating back. The woman turned, pretended to catch the kiss, and placed it daintily on her left cheek.

“The chemical compound is, as you can see, quite a corker,” said Mr. Sunday. “It is designed to burn at such a high temperature and at such an accelerated rate of speed that it leaves no traces of itself and very few of whatever is in its blast radius. The weapons, uniform, and equipment used by the PMCs are likewise prepped with chips keyed to that specific operative. That means any forensic analysis will have a hard darn time making sense of anything. And, let’s not forget, even if they are somehow able to salvage pieces of the device, nothing is traceable. The weapons, equipment, and even the clothes are all manufactured by us under controlled situations. There is no trail to follow.”

He used his clicker to bring images onto his screen and those of the people watching from their private spaces around the globe. A graphic of data streams appeared, showing heart rate, blood pressure, respiration, and other details.

“The telemetry sent by the chip is constantly monitored—and you would have access to the data feeds. You would have access to the detonation code, and the purchase price gives you the option of using that code whenever you want. Or … not. Just remember, though, it is much more cost effective to purchase a few new PMCs for new missions than to repurpose the old ones. No muss, no fuss. Like, say, walking into the middle of a crowd of political dissidents or protesters with the wrong slogans on their signs. Oh, heck, folks, you could have a couple of these lads take a tour of a statehouse or presidential palace and—poof! Suddenly, there is no opposition leader, and no one to be arrested, interrogated, or tried. Now how’s that for making a political statement? Oh, hell yes.”

His eyes swirled with color as he stepped forward, passing through a downspill of green light. For a moment, even the whites of his eyes vanished as sickly greens and toxic yellow browns eddied. Then he took another half step forward, and his eyes were normal. His smile was broad and affable. A kindly, slightly corny old uncle, or a clichéd storekeeper from some old episode of Gunsmoke or Leave It to Beaver.

“Now,” he said, “let’s see if we can get us a yummy little bidding war going on here.”

PART 2