Tin Man Dark excerpt 1.1

      I posted again over at The Great Slim Down. This time it's something I'm requesting help with if you know your way about the kitchen.
      What follows is an excerpt from Tin Man Dark. It's the very beginning of this strange, dark story. It's unedited and raw. Be aware of that and forgiving. I hope you enjoy it anyway.

Excerpt from Tin Man Dark

Chapter One: Wave Rising

      I used to have a name. Or at least another name. One that my parents gave me. I can't remember it now. The Wave whitecoats said they would make us into new men. They didn't tell us that in doing so, we'd lose what we were.
      There were at least four Waves. The Zombies, the Berserkers, the Beyonds, and the Tin Men. I'm Tin Man Dark. My code name. We all have them. Seven, Rebarr, Zone, Day and Vipe. We were Wave Team 7. WT7.
      We all volunteered for this. I don't hold with complaining how things worked out. The whitecoats only did to us what we said they could do. Rebarr tends to forget that when she's drinking. Not that she really cares. None of us do.
      Is this making sense? Everything jumbles in my head now. Flashes of the Waves, all the people I killed, all the people who tried to kill me, the team, Alana, Corelan. Everything mixes. Parts of what was intertwine with what is and what might be. But this needs to make sense. You need to understand.
      Let's start here.
      Monaco. Constitutional monarchy and city-state. Situated along the French Riviera between the Mediterranean Sea and France. One of the five European microstates. Playground of the ultra-rich and the uber-powerful. People so far removed from the day-to-day lives of average citzens that they might as well be aliens. Also, the current home of Francisco D'Argente.
      D'Argente was rich. Bill Gates rich. Money had ceased to mean anything to him. He owned a yacht that once belonged to Onasis. His 22,000 square foot villa held painting by Picasso and Van Gogh. His Italian shoes alone cost more than my yearly salary. But he gave money to charity, too. A lot of money. He endowed scholarships in medicine, engineering, and the arts, particularly theater and ballet. The D'Argente Foundation For A Better World gave millions to starvation victims in struggling Third World countries. His money had saved a lot of lives. It wasn't going to save his.
      His villa had more security per foot than the Pentagon. High stone wall with spikes and pressure plates on the top. Razor-wire second fence. Infra-red and low-lux cameras fixed and scanning. More armed guards than you could shake a shotgun at. Guard dogs that could take down a bear. A private beach covered with sensors and fenced by lasers. Two years ago, a crack team of mercs stormed the villa. They planned to kill D'Argente. He had angered the head of an African nation for selling arms to guerrillas. None of the mercs made it within 100 feet of the villa.
      In fact, D'Argente, who was entertaining several guests, wasn't even told about the attempt until later that evening, after most of his guests had left. He left his current lover entertaining an U.S. senator and walked down to the basement accompanied by Laero Sone, his head of security. There in a hidden, soundproofed room, D'Argente tortured to death the three mercs that had survived the initial assault. He used a butcher knife, a shockprod, and acid. After the last merc had died, He went upstairs, changed clothes and then accompanied his friends to a casino. He gambled all night, losing a half million while his villa was cleaned and the bodies taken abroad his yacht to be frozen for later disposal far out to sea. Two weeks later, that African leader boarded a private jet that exploded on takeoff. There were no survivors.
      That was the third attack on D'Argente in five years. None of the others had even come that close to him. Barring the use of a smart bomb, he was untouchable. It would take an army to end him. That's why I was naked when I washed up on his private beach.
      "Réveillez-vous! Réveillez-vous!" The guard poked my bare back with the end of his rifle. I briefly considered jumping up and twisting his head off, but instead, I rolled over and groaned.
      "Que faites-vous ici?" he demanded, his heavily accented French being just about as bad as mine. I decided to put him out of his language misery.
      "I don't … speak French," I said. "I'm American."
      "What are you doing here?" he asked again. Two other guards joined him. One held the leash on a black dog that kept up a constant growl.
      "I was swimming," I said. "The current … caught me. Help me …" I closed my eyes and triggered the chempack. My body went limp. According to the whitecoats, I should look like I fainted. If I were lucky, I wouldn't open my eyes in the basement room.

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