“Turn it off,” I said. “We’ll fry the fuckers on their way out.”
Deluski understood. He was already moving, heading back toward the staircase, his legs high-stepping through the water. I was right behind him, doing a sloppy imitation, bumbling and stumbling, my stride a splashy sort of scramble.
The water shallowed nearer to the stairs, my gait taking on a semblance of normalcy. Deluski used the flashlight to help me pick a spot behind a cask that had a good line of sight.
“You set?” he asked.
“Yeah. Don’t shoot until I do.”
“Got it.” He splashed away, light jouncing for a minute then extinguishing when he found his spot.
My feet and ankles were still in the grip of cold water, an aching numbness taking hold. Wet pants chilled my legs. A water-splashed shirt clung to goose-bumped flesh. Focus. I held my piece tight in my left, my eyes searching for a break, any break in the pitch black dark. They’d come this way. They had to.
Mota and Panama. I’d passed on my chances to kill each of them. Kripsen and Lumbela had paid the price for my stupidity, the ultimate price. My once-fearsome crew was now reduced to one.
I clenched my jaw to keep my teeth from chattering, wiggled my unfeeling toes. Mota had been asleep when I had him in my sights. Asleep. All I’d had to do was squeeze the trigger. But I was weak. Soft. Felt sorry for the piece of offworld ass spooning alongside him.
And Panama? I’d left him beaten and bruised but all too alive. Fuck.
I tried to take satisfaction from the fact that Panama’s YOP partner didn’t show on the vid. I’d clocked that bastard over the head good. That SOB probably still wasn’t seeing straight.
I let my piece hang by my side. Didn’t want a tired arm. I’d have plenty of time to take aim as they approached. The sound of dripping water pinged hollowly off the walls. I ignored the fly buzzing around my head. Focus.
Neckties. Panama gave my boys fucking neckties, the calling card of the jungle warlords. I couldn’t wait to fry the fuck out of him. Mota too. Despite the chilled bones in my shoes, this time there’d be no cold feet.
Yepala was General Z’s territory. The general was famous for employing an army of children. Decades of war had taken its toll on the adult population so now he drafted children.
But what was the connection between Mota and General Z? I remembered the picture: Mota, Froelich, and Wu standing around a pile of cash. Opium money? It was possible.
But would General Z order the murder of two Koba police? That was a risky move for the warlord. A move as ballsy as that could provoke a nasty backlash from the Lagartan army.
So perhaps Mota and Panama weren’t conspiring with the warlord at all. Yepala was on the edge of the general’s territory, a place where nonopium trade and commerce were freely permitted. Those two SOBs could be operating an independent business inside the general’s territory.
I saw a light ahead, and I put thoughts of drugs and warlords out of my mind. The light blinked in and out as they passed behind one obstruction or another. Then it split into two lights.
Mota and Panama.
Panama and Mota.
I raised my piece, my heart quickening its pace. They were mine. Darkness was my shield. I was invisible, a ghost with a gun.
Mota and Panama. Panama and Mota. They made slow, sloshing progress. My finger was on the trigger, waiting, anticipating.
Ready.
A phone rang. One of theirs. “Who the hell is that?” asked Panama, his voice distant but audible.
“It’s him again,” said Mota. “It must be important. Hello?”
Not yet, I told myself. Be patient. Let them get nice and close. Close enough that I couldn’t miss, even with the left. No need to rush it. They couldn’t see me. Couldn’t see Deluski.
Not yet.
Their lights went out. Their silhouettes disappeared. The sound of splashing water.
What the fuck?
I resisted the urge to open fire. Couldn’t give away my position. I had to stay between them and the door. As long as I did, the upper hand was mine. Only one way out of here.
Water dripped. The fly buzzed. My breath pumped in and out. Otherwise, quiet. Total, absolute quiet.
The phone call. Whoever the bastard was he had tipped them off. Ambush up ahead. But who? How?
The air came alive with red fire. My eyes went blind, bright light overwhelming me. An oven blast struck my cheek, eyelashes curling, skin burning. I dropped down, taking cover behind the cask, my body in a crouch, my ass dipped in the water, face pressed into the wood.
I could feel the cask shake as lase-fire ripped into it. Smoldering wood chips rained on my head, and smoke filled my nostrils. I looked left, my vision fuzzy and blurred. Through the haze, I could see return fire coming from Deluski’s position, the beam terminating in a confusing red-black smear.
How did they know where I was? Fucking heat sensors. Had to be.
A chunk of wood bounced off my shoulder. My cover wouldn’t last much longer.
Fall back to the stairs. Cement and rock would hold better than rotten wood. I sank into the cold water, stretched my legs out so my torso went all the way in. Good luck finding my heat signature now. I took a second to locate the staircase in the deep-red glow of lase-fire, then I sucked in a breath and dropped in my head. Underwater, I scrambled for the stairs, doing a swim-crawl. Water exploded around me. Microcurrents struck me like punches, wild surf tinted bloodred with lase-fire.
Hot water scalded my face, my ankles, my gun hand. I turned back, paddling, crawling, lunging. My head struck something hard. I came up and sucked air as I tapped around with my weapon, the sound of hollow wood answering back. Another cask. I pulled myself upright, my back leaning against my new cover.
Bastards saw me. Even when I went underwater. Shit.
Lase-fire erupted from the staircase, momentarily silhouetting Deluski’s crouched form. He’d managed to fall back unhurt. All their fire was focused on me.
It was me they could see. Not Deluski. How?
From behind, I heard splashing. They were closing. Deluski searched with his flashlight and took some potshots, but the splashes came closer.
I couldn’t stay here. But I was farther away from the stairs than I’d been on my first try—no chance in hell I’d make it. Deluski’s position was more and more vulnerable with our enemies’ every wet step forward.
I had to move.
“Run!” I yelled at Deluski. I didn’t stick around for a response. I took off in the opposite direction. I held the trigger down, squeezing off a long burn and chased the light. Stinging with exertion, my legs fought the water, my knees kicking up spray that flash-fried in the lase-beam.
The lift. Its shaft ran up to the surface. There had to be a service ladder or staircase nearby. Had to be.
The water deepened, now up to my thighs. I dropped in and swam. A beam sizzled by. I dove deep, my stomach scraping the floor as I stroked forward through the black water, my lungs on fire, my eyes seeking the lift. Flashes of red light penetrated the dark, but couldn’t penetrate deep water.
I came up for a puff of air, the back of my head catching a steamy spray, scalp on fire. I went back down, cold water extinguishing, soothing. I hit something with my stump, pain ricocheting up and down my arm. I came up for another puff, afraid to surface for more than a sip.
Air. I needed more air.
I steered left, edging closer to toppled shelving. I picked my way into a gap alongside a cask, splinters digging, my weight centering underneath me. I stood upright and sucked air, my piece taking aim.
Fire came at me, two beams tearing at the cask. Couldn’t fool those fuckers for a second. I aimed at the beams’ source and returned fire. Their beams went dark. I jerked the beam around, attacking the black with a fiery scribble.
I heard splashes. Couldn’t see shit. I fired off another burst. “Stay back, motherfuckers!”
The splashes stopped. I kept up the fire, stalli
ng for time. I needed oxygen before the next big push.
The sound of sloshing, swooshing strides started back up. They were on the move again, and they were close. Too close. I needed more time. More air. But I had to go. I burned off a burst in the direction of the lift, red light illuminating a door to the right of the lift entrance. A stairwell. Had to be.
Better fucking be.
Not far. I could do it in one breath. I could. I filled my lungs full and dove under. I made frantic frog strokes, my stomach skimming over the floor, bubbles blowing out my mouth, red light blinking in and out. The door. It was all about the door.
I hit the wall and peered up, the door handle briefly blinking into existence as a burst of lase-fire tore into the door. I stayed crouched below the surface and dropped my piece to free up my only hand.
Desperate for air, I made a quick snatch, my hand darting out of the water to grab the door handle. I yanked down and pulled at the door, but it wouldn’t budge. Fuck. My fingers stung with searing heat—another flash of lase-fire setting water to a boil.
Ignoring the pain, I tried a push instead of a pull, and the door swung open. I slipped inside, remembering to reach back for my piece before pushing the door closed. I stood and sucked air, foul, fetid air that tasted sweet as hell.
I opened fire, a cloud of steam bursting out of my weapon. Red fire lit the small space. Stairs. I started up, then stopped and turned back to fry the door handle. I hit it with a sustained burn, the rusted metal quickly taking on a red glow.
I waited for the door handle to turn, waited for the fried-flesh scream that would accompany it, a vicious smile on my face. It didn’t turn. But they must’ve arrived by now. Yet the door handle didn’t turn. I took my finger off the trigger, and I heard the sound of water splashing against the door. Fuckers were throwing water at it, trying to cool it off.
How did they know?
A fly buzzed my ear. You’re still with me, are you?
Oh shit. The fly.
I swiped at the little fuck, then sizzled off a burn, but couldn’t hit the bob-and-weave bastard. I’d been bugged.
I hustled up the stairs, my lase-pistol lighting the way. I made it up three flights before hearing the door open below. I kept going upward, water squeezing over the lips of my shoes. I was spent. Aching-chest, toasted-muscle, ready-to-vomit spent.
But I kept going. Up and up and up.
I heard them clomping and grunting. Mota and Panama. Panama and Mota.
I kept firing my pistol at the ground, the red glow illuminating the stairs. I hit the next landing, turned around and started up another flight. Flight after flight, I kept moving, refusing to quit. Fuck Mota. Step, step, step. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
I burst out a door into open space. I was inside the A-frame, the large, barge-sized inlet lying before me. I ran for the water, the inlet’s mouth sitting to my right, the river just a few meters away, lights twinkling on the far shore. The fence was my last obstacle, a chain-link job that stretched across the inlet’s mouth to keep out boats.
I heard the door crash open behind me, but I was already airborne, the lase-pistol flying from my fingers, my body aiming for the water. I splashed in and kicked downward. The fence wouldn’t go down to the bottom, I was sure of it. This was Lagarto. We did everything on the cheap.
I kicked down, pressure in my ears. I grabbed the fence with my good hand and pulled myself deeper. I ducked under, metal scraping my back, the current grabbing hold.
I stroked upward, and popped up to the surface for just a second before going back under, a beam missing high and wide.
Free. Fucking free.
sixteen
APRIL 24–25, 2789
I SWALLOWED river water, mud-flavored muck sliding down my throat. I fought to stay afloat while a stitch shanked me between the ribs. My arms and legs begged me to give in. I vomited again. Small fish came for the free food and surrounded me in a flip-flop frenzy.
The riverbank was visible, a dark shadow that underlined the burned-out, blacked-out port of Villa Nueva. The grim sky of the Big Sleep hovered overhead like a giant hand primed to push me under.
The current was slow but persistent. Unrelenting. My adrenaline tank was empty. My swim stroke was dangerously labored. The river told me to quit. She whispered in my ear, told me she could take away my pain.
You can’t have me. You spit me out, remember?
She got mean. Told me I was a curse, a blight on this world. She told me my touch was the kiss of death. Kripsen and Lumbela. Froelich and Wu. Wu’s wife and daughters. All dead.
Even Niki, she said. Your wife killed herself to get away from you. Give in. Do everybody a favor.
Bitch had a point. But I couldn’t afford the luxury of death. I had responsibilities. I had to set things right with Maggie. I had to avenge my crew, Wu’s little girls.
I choked down another unintentional gulp of river water and swung my stubborn left arm over again to slap the water with an open palm. I took yet another knife at the water with my half-arm. One after the other, stroke after stroke, my eyes always on the shore.
My feet made contact with the bottom, my shoes finding traction in the silt. The cramp in my side kept me hunched as I waded through floating garbage. I trudged forward, my body rising out of the water. I picked my way into jungle brush, solid ground now underfoot. The stitch in my side started to unthread and the defeated river could only shout insults at my back.
I emerged from a thicket onto an empty street at least a dozen blocks downriver from the Cellars. I spat bile. My spent body felt ready to collapse.
A buzzing sound grazed my ear. Damn fly was a persistent bugger. It must’ve operated off a combination of motion sensors, heat sensors, DNA sensors, and whatever other kind of sensors would keep it on my ass.
Mota and Panama could still see me. They would come for me. They would.
I swung a tired arm at the fly, but it was far too fast and agile to be swatted away.
An idea lit inside my mind. I ran. The fly followed.
Streetlights flickered into life, the hum of restored electricity sounding all around me. Windows lit and neon glowed. Now that the blackout had ended, heads poked out of doors, faces searching for signs of trouble. They watched me run, their strange stares a perplexed mix of curiosity and fear.
I checked over my shoulder. Nobody followed. Nobody but this damn fly.
A toenail scraped uncomfortably in my soggy shoe. My thighs stung as they chafed in wet pants, and my lungs heaved in and out, in and out.
I’d been bugged. How? When? I forced my weary mind to go back in time. Fucking concentrate.
Mota’s girlfriend. The fly had been with me since she tossed me that wink outside the gay bar. Offworld skank bitch whore.
I checked over my shoulder again. Still clear.
People came out of their homes. Neighbors milled about and shopkeepers checked for damage. I spied the Punta de Rio up ahead, the same restaurant where Maggie and I had eaten. Despite the late hour, their clientele was just now filing out the door. They must’ve stayed inside for the duration of the blackout. Safer to ride it out inside.
I raced to the entrance. Legs exhausted, my ungainly steps clapped against the pavement. People moved out of my way, alarm in their eyes.
I rushed inside and dodged a waiter who tried to tell me they were closed. I weaved past empty tables with burning candles and tips waiting for pickup. Busboys yelled at me, told me to stop, but I charged through their demands, my eyes tunneled on the back office. I burst through the door, startling the manager, and scanned the shelves: canned goods and holo-time sheets. There it was.
I paid no heed to the agitated protests and grasped the handheld bug zapper I’d seen the waitress use a few nights earlier. Where are you, you little bastard?
Spectators went silent in their confusion, the manager, the busboys, all of them wondering what the fuck was wrong with me. My eyes caught on a black dot buzzing in zigs and zags. I powered up the zappe
r and swept the racquet-like end toward the dancing dot. Electricity popped in a blue flash. The racquet jumped from my grasp and a starburst of smoking, spiraling cinders drifted down.
* * *
I was back on the street, hoofing as fast as stiff legs would allow. The bridge wasn’t far. A car came around the corner. I ducked behind a stoop and peeked through a cluster of vine leaves. The car crept by: a panama hat rode in the passenger seat.
The car rolled toward the restaurant. Mota and Panama were going to check on my last-known location.
I gave it a few before coming out. I’d picked up a hitchhiker from the vines, felt it crawling and brushed the bug from my hair. My scalp screamed in protest, like I had a wicked sunburn under my hair, sun in the form of lase-fire and steamed water. A second burn stung my cheek, and my half-arm screamed too, ghost pain gripping me like a too real, invisible fist.
Fucking hell of a night.
Deluski and I were too slow. The image of Kripsen and Lumbela showed bright in my mind, the necktied bastards sticking their tongues out at me. I could see Wu’s little girls, innocent young things who would never again know joy or love.
Mota, Panama, and that psycho lizard-man. They’d all left their mark on me.
I’d brandish the scars like banners, lift them high as I carried them into battle. I was on a mission.
Numb legs carried me onto the bridge. I looked down at the river, streetlights illuminating an eddy, silent water spinning, meandering, wandering. Me, I was walking in a straight line.
“I didn’t quit!” I called to her.
She didn’t answer.
* * *
I wouldn’t be intimidated. This was still my turf. It was important to be seen. I strode right up the middle of the alley. My sore feet clomped with purpose, half expecting to be fried apart.
I trod past a group of hookers on a smoke break, all girl talk and garter belts. I looked over their heads, saw that Chicho’s office light was on. Good. I wouldn’t have to wake up that stiff. I was short on cash. And short on time. Mota and Panama would eventually come here looking for me.
I tried to take Chicho’s stairs quickly and almost fell, my tired legs having to be coaxed along. I stepped through the door, a shiver of relief rippling up my spine. I’d made it in alive.
KOP Killer Page 14