The lead ward’s voice sounds rich and deep. “Please assume your positions.”
Kira and Niles take their place in front of the bench, receive the judge’s approval, and turn to face the start point.
The Wall splits the combat area in half from floor to ceiling. She won’t see Niles again until she’s looking at him over gunsights.
Her eyes are on the red semicircle of the start point poking out from under the Wall at midfield. She focuses on the spot, slows her breathing, and allows everything else to flow through her without giving it attention—the collective pressure from millions of eyes on vid, the vast financial implications, the life she wants, and the life she might lose. It all passes by and dissipates, leaving only her cold, deadly precision behind.
On his side of the Wall, Niles coughs and spits.
The lead ward intones, “Combatants, please advance to the start point.”
Kira proceeds along the Wall, reaches the marker, and takes her position. Even with her toes on the outer edge of the circle, only a few inches separate her from Niles. Body heat pricks through her uniform, marking his presence. His breathing slows, and their breaths synchronize. Is he doing that on purpose? Or is she doing it unconsciously, her body responding to the simple, animal existence of another, without her mind’s involvement?
For an aching moment, it’s clear the dispute that brought them to this point has nothing to do with them. Their warm bodies and beating hearts are just chess pieces in a game between their employers, soulless legal entities with intellects as vast and cool and unsympathetic as an alien intelligence, watching the outcome with envious eyes.
God, was any of this worth it? Who was it all for, anyway? Kira takes another breath. Focus, focus, focus . . .
The moment passes, and the vision goes the way of all other extraneous concerns. Kira wills her consciousness to collapse, and her awareness tightens until it includes nothing but the field in front of her, the gun on her hip, and the opponent at her back.
Chapter 15
The senior dueling arena entrance guard was named Owen Johnson, and he informed Kira that Joshua M. Reardon, windmill mechanic and the seventh opponent of her career, had arrived about five minutes earlier. Owen probably wasn’t supposed to tell her that. However, the parlor trick of catching the ejected cartridge in midair when she cleared her pistol had tweaked his interest. Reciting the Beretta tagline in the same husky voice she used in the commercial garnered the undivided attention of both Owen and the other guard on duty. Owen’s partner completed the best search of her gear bag he could manage without taking his eyes off her and then handed it back. They both wished her good luck, and she gave them a small smile, a thank-you, and a wink in return.
Claire rounded the corner at a fast walk, wearing her second’s uniform and lugging her gear bag. “Hey, Kira!”
Kira smiled and waved. “Hey.”
Claire paused, catching her breath. “Can’t stop long. I misread the notice. My match is on the other side of the building.”
Kira nodded. Claire could have had her handset read the door sign or map to her, but she seldom used the aid in public. Habits from a lifetime of concealing her dyslexia were hard to break.
When her breathing slowed, Claire continued. “A friend gave me four tickets for the Drake women’s game on Thursday; her family couldn’t make it. Chloe and Gary are in. Do you want to come?”
“Basketball?”
Claire shook her head. “I should uninvite you for asking that question.”
Kira laughed. “Give me a break, I spent my winters in drama club.” Kira adjusted her grip on her gear bag. “But sure, I’d love to come. I mean, if . . .” Kira angled her head toward the waiting room door.
Claire’s tone became more serious. “You’ll be there.” She stood back a little and squared her shoulders. “Cut ’em down and walk away.” As she spoke, she made the cutting hand gesture, ending with a thumbs-up.
Kira grinned. “Thanks.”
Claire clapped her on the shoulder and resumed her trek. When she disappeared around the bend of the long hallway, Kira turned her attention back to her match. Joshua’s cause-of-action information stated he had a flood insurance claim that may or may not be valid, while his public profile suggested he also had an overdeveloped case of righteous indignation and a wholly unjustified confidence in his skill with firearms. The clock above the waiting room door gave Kira twenty-seven minutes to convince him just how untenable his position was before they went to the field and she provided a conclusive demonstration.
The trainers hadn’t said much about the waiting room, beyond the admonition not to let the encounter degenerate into a shouting match or scuffle that would get both parties ejected from the facility. Getting canceled and assigned to another date would screw up the TKC dueling schedule, and in the hierarchy of sins a gunfighter might commit, disrupting the delicate balance between Guild-mandated personnel availability and the relentless demands of Association-assigned dueling dates was right near the top.
For Kira, time with her opponent was an opportunity. Acting was all about getting an emotional response from an audience, and at a minimum, she could render her adversary uncertain and flustered. Perhaps today would be the day she finally produced an exceptional performance that would send her opponent to the exit rather than the dueling field.
Kira set her gear bag’s strap on her shoulder and pulled her cloak over it. She adjusted her look, making her face and body hard and businesslike. Everything from her black trilby hat down to the tips of her low-heel boots served the impression of speed, organization, and lethality. Her scents were leather and maybe a little bit of sweat. No perfume. Nothing sweet.
She gripped the handles of the waiting room’s double doors. Time for the most important show of the day, for an audience of one.
The draft she produced by pulling on the doors lifted her cloak. Perfect. The garment’s crimson lining provided a dramatic backdrop for her black leather jacket and pants while also picking up the explosion of red ruffles at her throat. The hat, pulled low, obscured her face.
Joshua sat on the third chair of the left row, perfectly positioned to observe her entrance.
She strode past him, allowing only a glimpse of her face in profile. The maneuver both juxtaposed her appearance with the room’s office-bland decor and denied eye contact. Kira focused on the receptionist’s desk at the room’s back wall. She was pulling this off.
At the desk, she turned enough to put her hands in her opponent’s line of sight. She flexed her right, counting on the gesture to draw his attention, and followed up with a series of quick, fluid movements that removed her gloves and placed them in her jacket pocket. Demonstrating how quickly she could transfer her gloves from her hands to her waist should get him thinking about how fast she could move her gun in the opposite direction. She confirmed her identity with a thumbprint and, only then, turned to assess her competition.
Joshua wore a neatly pressed white shirt and plain black slacks, dressing up a little for the occasion, although his battered Cubs baseball cap didn’t seem to fit with that decision. His round face and a scraggly red beard made him look younger than his thirty-four years. He also looked uncomfortable, pinned between armrests a little too narrow for his body. A new gym bag rested on the chair next to him. Its deflated look suggested that, like Kira’s gear bag, it contained little more than a dueling tunic.
With a carefully practiced motion, Kira removed her cloak, put her bag on a chair, covered it with the cloak, and settled into the fourth seat down on the right, just a little closer to the receptionist and the changing room doors than her opponent. Back when Diana had been a gunfighter, duelists had been allowed to bring friends and family members along for support. That ended when a series of preduel brawls convinced the Association to bar everyone except combatants and staff from the waiting room. Too bad, really. Family members could be a professional’s best allies in convincing a citizen to abandon the match.
/> She pulled her handset from her belt clip and checked the time. Twenty-three minutes remained before the receptionist called them to the changing rooms. Using her handset the way a hunter uses a blind, she pretended to read as she studied Joshua.
He had his handset out, too, jabbing the screen at irregular intervals. Probably playing a game.
“I can tell you’re looking at me.” He had a high, nasal voice for such a heavy man. His eyes remained fixed on his handset.
Kira let the hand holding her device fall across her knee and spoke in a matter-of-fact tone. “I’m studying my opponent.”
He tapped the screen decisively. “Well, I’m studying you, too.”
She sustained her businesslike manner. “That makes sense. We’ll be trying to kill each other in a few minutes.” He blanched at the word kill. Good. Fear led straight to the exit door. She studied him as if he were a prop or a bit of set design she wasn’t sure about, increasing his tension with very little effort on her part.
He shifted in his seat. Was it the emotional pressure of her gaze or the physical pressure of the chair arms?
At twenty minutes till, the bolt to prevent late arrival fell into place with an audible clunk. Joshua jumped at the sound.
“That keeps people from coming in late.” She nodded toward the door. “It still works if you want to leave.” She let that assertion hang in the air. It would be best if he spoke before she said anything more.
After a minute or so, he lowered his handset and focused on her. “I’m right, you know.”
She replied only by shifting her attention to his face and tilting her head, inviting a reply. Men usually thought they were winning if they talked more, and the more he talked, the more she would know.
He rubbed the bill of his cap and continued. “You people should have paid for my house. I paid my premiums, and you owed me for that. All this fancy talk about exclusions and uncovered causes and such don’t change none of that. I don’t care what the arbitrators say.”
At last, a glimpse of his real motive. He’d be facing her bullet over a claim for about seventy-five thousand unification dollars, probably a bit more than two years of his income. In practical terms, that made no sense. His job provided decent pay and steady work. Even if he had to declare bankruptcy, at his age the loss should be survivable. The emotion driving him to risk his life was probably just righteous anger.
She gave him a slight nod and allowed some softness in her voice. Let him believe her aggressive, all-business demeanor was a mask she was letting slip. “I agree. What the arbitrators say doesn’t matter to us now.”
His face and shoulders sagged, and he sank into the chair. If he believed someone who mattered listened to him, he might see this as a practical issue rather than an emotional one. And in any practical calculation, facing her made no sense at all. “I understand why you’re angry. But you have to decide if the money is worth dying for.”
He twitched at the word dying. A faint, painful stirring rose in Kira’s chest. Pity. The emotion itself wasn’t helpful right now, though she tapped into it to make her voice gentle and inviting. “Do you want to tell me why this is so important?”
His handset slipped. He caught it before it could fall and then fumbled as he put it in his bag. He hung his head and stared at his lap. Kira let the silence drag out. He’d feel the need to fill it long before she did.
Finally, he spoke. “Why would you do this to me?” He looked up at her, his face filled with equal parts pain and accusation. “I was a good customer for nearly three years. I always paid on time. I didn’t try to cheat you. Now you say all this stuff about how the standard flood coverage wasn’t enough and that I needed the expanded flood coverage.” His look became positively mournful. “Why would you do that?”
She let her arms grow heavy and looked at the floor, her face a simulation of regret. “I can’t do anything about any of that.” Now, to make common cause and imply they had shared goals. “Today it’s just you and me with a choice to make.” She further softened her eyes and pose, showing him something she hoped looked like genuine sympathy, and watched for feedback. There might have been a slight trembling in his hands. She pressed on. “Is it worth it to us to fight this out? Or should we call it a day, go home, and live our lives?”
His shoulders stiffened and his head snapped up. “But I’m right,” he said. “I have justice and I have righteousness on my side. That counts for more than all that stuff you think you know. Your bosses are crooks, and my mama always says the righteous shall triumph in the end.”
His response sounded desperate, lashing out to defend a core belief he felt slipping away. His use of your bosses rather than you was a good sign. He wasn’t holding her responsible for his situation. Now, she needed to apply just the right pressure to shatter his brittle resolve.
He rubbed his cap again, fingering its stained brim like a worry bead or a rabbit’s foot. The battered hat suddenly made sense. She could use that.
“So, why are you wearing your lucky cap?”
His eyes widened.
She tilted her head, again inviting a response.
He pulled off the hat, gazing at it as he spoke. “I wore this hat for every game of the playoffs and the World Series when the Cubs won. It worked for me then, and I’m thinking it will work for me now.”
“So.” She left a few seconds of silence before she continued. “Justice and righteousness alone might not be enough?”
He kept staring into his cap.
Let him think on that for a while and see what it did to his confidence.
She needed one more ingredient for this stew of fear, uncertainty, and doubt. “How many people have you killed?”
He pulled the cap to his chest and stared at her. “Wh-Why no one. I ain’t never killed nobody in my whole life.”
She assumed a look of world-weariness. “I’ve killed five.” Strategic pause. “On the dueling field.”
“How do you live with yourself?”
She produced a careless shrug. “It’s my job, and I do it.”
He stared at her in open-mouthed silence for a few seconds, and then lowered his gaze back to his lap.
She’d heard him, she’d made him question the efficacy of a just cause, and she’d demonstrated that though she might be a little reluctant, killing him was all in a day’s work. Now she had to let it all simmer and see if he cracked.
Joshua raised his head and spoke in a low, almost menacing tone. “I know what you’re trying to do. You’re trying to make me quit. You’re probably just as scared as I am. You probably made up all that stuff about them people you killed. You probably never killed nobody on the field. You just make ’em quit here, don’t you? Well, let me tell you this: I ain’t scared. I’m gonna fight you, and I’m gonna kill you. What do you think about that?”
The doof hadn’t even bothered to read her profile. He didn’t have the faintest idea what he was up against. The clock gave her about three minutes to let him know.
She let softness and compassion fall away, replaced by her hard, pitiless mask. When she spoke, it was in a cold, flat voice with a faint undercurrent of amusement. The Death’s Angel voice. “Look, Joshua. There are some things we need to be clear about. Don’t think we’ve had a moment in here and made a connection. We didn’t. And don’t think the pretty girl won’t kill you. I will.”
She stood, literally looking down on him, and nodded toward the changing room doors. “When we get to the dueling field, to me, you’re nothing but a target.”
He stared at her as if she’d split her cocoon and emerged, not as a butterfly, but as a bird of prey with slashing talons.
“TKC Insurance versus Joshua M. Reardon.” The receptionist might have been announcing the next dinner party to be seated.
The randomizer assigned Kira to the left door. She passed through it, refusing to look at Joshua. Had she pulled it off, or not?
It didn’t matter. She powered through her routine. Her street cl
othes, gear bag, and handset went into the personal effects bin, replaced by her fitted dueling uniform and deliciously soft boots. When the fear came, she administered a self-hug and breathing exercise, and when it departed, she worked her way through her scene analysis. Until she left the field, she was Death’s Angel: the cold, self-possessed, implacable killer. He was no longer Joshua, fellow human with feelings and value—he was just another place to put a bullet. Icy calm welled up in Kira’s chest and spread through her body. She stepped into the scanner and let the device do its work.
Diana waited on the other side. With a flurry of hand signals, Kira confirmed her readiness and her belief Joshua might not show. Along with routine information, Diana conveyed Joshua had chosen a citizen as his second.
More proof he wasn’t ready. Without the guidance of a Guild professional, he’d make all the first-time mistakes during the match and end up in a body bag. If she’d scared him to the exit door, she’d done him a favor, no matter how dire the financial consequences.
Kira took her place beside Diana in front of the judge’s table. The opposing second, a brown-haired man dressed in slacks and a sport shirt, fidgeted on the opposite side of the centerline. He made furtive glances toward the door where Joshua should emerge. The EMTs and wards flanked the judge’s bench.
A camera tracked Kira, its soulless glass eye staring out from its perch on the perfect white wall. Just how did Association techs keep the enclosure spotless when it had to absorb stray bullets and spattered blood?
The minutes dragged. Kira scuffed at the pseudograss with her boot.
The judge mounted his bench, and everyone straightened up and focused on him. He tapped at his display. “This readout shows that Mr. Reardon has made use of the corridor door in his changing room.”
The neutral staff relaxed, but joy rose in Kira’s chest. She’d done it. She’d pushed him into a forfeit. Even Joshua’s second seemed to be breathing easier.
The final minutes ticked down, and the door to Joshua’s changing room remained shut. When the clock showed zero time remaining, the judge signaled for silence. Out of respect for the moment, Kira stopped her nearly imperceptible bouncing on the balls of her feet.
Corporate Gunslinger Page 11