Imre gestured with his head for Makeda to talk with him. He led her to the corner where he planned to have her. “Will she stay on task?”
They both looked over to see Kraken taking MissTree through the door marked Private.
“Probably.” Makeda gestured to her intended spot. “What am I aiming with, and won’t it be a bit obvious?”
Imre tapped on the wall twice. A small DJ setup slid out of the obfuscated panel. It had a table and chair with the corner of the wall acting as a barrier. “Obvious, yes, but less obvious than before. When he says something, I’ll tell him you’re an observer. And you will be. We’re going to record the meeting through you and through other cameras we have around here.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Why?”
He shrugged. “Blackmail or proof, I suppose. Let’s see what comes of the meet. But you need to let Bob back in.”
Makeda frowned, looking at the small wooden wall she would “observe” from behind. “The last time I did that, I went blind.”
“You got better. Now that we know he knows about you and is gunning for you, we’ll be a lot more protective.” Imre glanced upward. “Won’t we, Bobishere2?”
“Yes. I’m sorry. I didn’t watch my back channel. I will now. Promise. Your brain is safe with me.” Bob sounded contrite and determined. “We really need this.”
Makeda didn’t want to do it. Part of her wanted to call TechnoGalen in, but she’d agreed that Imre was in charge here. Also, keeping him out of the limelight was the best way to keep him safe. He’d probably yell at her when she told him about this, but if she survived, she’d take the scolding.
“All right.” Makeda waited for the request, then let Bobishere2 into her eyes with limited permissions. “What if he just hands over the nuyen, and you hand over the codes, and he walks away?”
“Do you really think that’ll happen?” Imre frowned. “This won’t work if he does.”
Makeda shrugged. “I don’t think he’s going to try to murder you straight out. The codes are too important. I do think all bets are off once he has them.”
Imre mimicked her shrug. “We’ll play it by ear. If he doesn’t try to murder me, I’ll think of something else to clear our names.”
“Reckless man.”
He grinned at her. “Yep. Reckless and impulsive walk hand-in-hand in the shadows.”
The two of them turned as Fatima approached. She offered Makeda an Ares Predator VI heavy pistol. “I figure this will work well with that Colt you carry.”
“You mean the pistol I stole from Imre?” Makeda accepted the weapon and checked it. Full magazine. Smooth mechanism.
“You’ve kept it with you. I figured you liked it.” Imre touched his own weapons: pistols, garrote, and sword. “Besides, you earned it, and I have more.” He looked to the air. “Bob? Give a comm check.”
“You got it, Boss. Everyone comm in.”
One by one they all comm’d in the check.
“Places everyone. They’ll show anytime. Dark comms unless absolutely necessary.”
Fifteen minutes later, Bobishere2 broke the silence. “We’ve got movement. Two trucks. Looks like one Afzalat and one not. The Afzalat truck is taking the back road. I think they’re backup. They’ve got five, and their lieutenant, LongJack, is with them. I can also see Matchstick. He’s their local demolitions guy. The other truck parked right behind your van.”
Makeda sat in the DJ spot with the Predator at the ready. She wished she had TechnoGalen in her head. The waiting made her antsy. Galen knew it and would keep up a running stream of chatter, on and off topic, to keep her focused.
“Schmidt and five bogies are out of the truck. Headed for the door.”
The double doors opened, and Herr Schmidt stood there, flanked by his bodyguards. All of them armed and armored, with the exception of the Johnson himself. But, as every runner knew, looks were deceiving.
Schmidt nodded to Fatima before looking at the rest of the room. “I understand I’m early. I didn’t know what the traffic would be like in Morocco. Surprisingly smooth. Civilized, even.”
He addressed his comments in English to Imre, who sat at a table in the middle of the room with Saladin and Kraken on either side of him. Without invitation, Herr Schmidt strode in, leaving two of his men at the door with Fatima. Two walked with him, one shifted toward Makeda.
“Ah. No. Stay away from her.” Imre’s voice was a whip crack of command.
Schmidt sat at the table with Imre. He gestured the guard to the other side of the room with his head. “My apologies. I didn’t know she was there.”
They both smiled knives in the back at the lie.
Imre kept his eyes locked to the blond man. “She’s none of your concern. We’re here to do business, you and I. Yes?”
“Yes. You have my…” Schmidt searched for the word he wanted. He settled on, “…files?”
Imre nodded. “Yes. You have the nuyen?”
Schmidt pulled a matte-black certified credstick with ivory bands from his pocket. “Yes.”
Imre pulled a datachip from his pocket. By tacit agreement, they handed each other the items at the same time. Imre looked at the credstick display and nodded. The credstick disappeared into his pocket.
Schmidt did the same with the datachip. “I trust this has my files, and I won’t be disappointed later?” He tapped his breast pocket.
“Yes. We’re done?”
“Yes. I believe we are.” He put his hands on the table as if to push himself up.
Imre held up a finger. “What about you setting me up to look like a possible terrorist?”
Herr Schmidt paused, his muscles still tense from the aborted motion.
Makeda scowled. Now that Imre had handed over the codes, he had no leverage. Nothing to convince Herr Schmidt to do anything to stop what he’d already started. What was he doing? What did he expect Schmidt to do now?
“Ah. That. It will be cleared up soon.” Schmidt stood and turned as if to go. He looked at Makeda. “Though, now that you bring it up, one more thing. I want Makeda.” He turned back to the table and sat down across from Imre once more.
Oh hell no. Makeda shifted from the ready position to a firing one, putting Schmidt in her sights. All of Schmidt’s bodyguards straightened and tensed.
Bob’s voice sounded over the comms. “Unknown drone in the air.” Imre stood in a slow motion, pulling his worn duster back to reveal his sword, his implied threat clear: He would fight to protect her. He private-comm’d Makeda.
He said aloud, “You can’t have her. That was not part of this deal.”
Schmidt glanced at Imre before he gave Makeda a contemptuous sneer. “Oh, I don’t want to keep her. I want you to kill her.”
“You already set her up to look like a terrorist.”
Schmidt pursed his lips. “And won’t you be the hero, killing such a wanted criminal?”
“No. Get out.” Imre shook his head. “Our dealings are done.”
“Drone incoming, and it’s got something strapped to it.” Bob sounded a bit more alarmed. “Gonna get control of it.”
Schmidt pulled another certified credstick from his pocket. This one had platinum bands. “You don’t understand. I’m going to pay you for the service. You will be a hero, and 200,000 nuyen richer.”
“I don’t murder people in cold blood.”
“But you do kill people.” Schmidt waved the credstick and looked around. “The price for me to clear your name is for someone in this room to take this contract and make sure she’s dead.”
“Frag you.” Makeda cocked the Predator. “You’ve got your files. You set me up for your fall. Get out.”
“Yes, well, I…”
* * *
“Incoming!”
Bob’s shout was the only warning they had before the world exploded in sound, heat, and flying debris.
Makeda blinked her eyes open, h
er ears still ringing from the explosion. Half of the front wall of the building was crumpled in on itself. Fatima was already in a firefight with one of Schmidt’s goons. Makeda sat up, pushing rock off her. Still at the table in the center of the room, Imre stood with his sword drawn. He was covered with rock dust. Herr Schmidt stood in a fluid motion despite the debris that had hit him in the back—a telltale sign of augmentation. Makeda fired three times, hitting Schmidt in the chest. All three shots tinged like bullets hitting iron.
Unphased, Schmidt moved with augmented speed toward her. At the same time, he pulled on his belt buckle. In the blink of an eye, he had a sword in his hand. “Manchmal muss man die Drecksarbeit eben selber machen.” The smug bastard spoke in German. Sometimes, you must do the dirty work yourself. An anticipatory smile filled his face.
A memory sword, Makeda thought in wonder. Then her own enhanced reflexes were keeping him from cutting her in two.
Imre moved into the fight, blocking Schmidt’s sword with his own. While the two blades flashed almost faster than Makeda could see, she backpedaled out of the way, firing and missing. When she hit, the room heard the telltale metallic crash of the bullet ricocheting again.
The more Makeda dodged out of the way, the more Schmidt closed in on her with Imre working to keep him at bay. She threw chairs and tables at Schmidt in-between shots. He batted them out of the way.
Around them, Saladin, Fatima, and Kraken fought Schmidt’s bodyguards in a hail of bullets, blades, and returned fire. One of them screamed as an octopus manifested and attached itself to the man’s face.
Makeda got partial cover behind the corner of the bar and focused her aim. Schmidt saw her do so and charged. He took two more shots to the upper chest—both ricocheting—before he brought his sword down, removing her firing hand at the forearm, finger still pulling the trigger. Makeda screamed as blood spurted from her severed limb.
Still, Schmidt didn’t back off. She kicked him, hard, in the knee. It was like kicking a wooden post. He sliced her leg above the knee almost clean through. Makeda fell back as Imre bowled Schmidt— who seemed more like machine than man—over.
Makeda, bleeding more than she ever had in her life, was trapped behind the bar with Imre and Schmidt attacking each other. A wave of dizziness and nausea washed over her. She was going to pass out. She couldn’t let that happen. She fumbled one-handed for the injector Kraken gave her, then realized that it wouldn’t keep her alive. Not with the amount of blood she was losing.
With the two men right there, Makeda snarled and made a decision. Flipping the injector over, she wound up the painkiller as far as it would go. Then she dragged herself into the sword fight. Without a word or pithy quip, she reared up and stabbed Schmidt in the lower back, driving it as deep as she could. If she was going to die, she was going to take him with her.
Schmidt yelled and back-fisted her in the face, breaking her nose. Makeda let the darkness take her where it would. It was all she could do.
26
Makeda woke slow. When she realized she was alive, awake, and in a bed, her adrenaline kicked in. She sat up, groping for a weapon she didn’t have. She turned on her comms as she looked around the unfamiliar—but also all too familiar—hospital room. “Galen? Saladin?”
“Here. You’re safe. Stand down. Widgets do wobble.”
TechnoGalen. She blinked a couple of times, focusing on his words and the passphrase. It was good to hear his voice, though this waking up from unconsciousness was getting old. “You sure?”
“I’m sure. Promise.”
Makeda relaxed a tiny bit. She looked at her right arm. It was wrapped up. It felt like she could feel her fingertips, but she couldn’t tell if the arm was hers or not. She grimaced at the memory of Schmidt severing her hand from her body. She had to know—was that her hand, her fingertips, she felt?
“Where am I?”
“Safe.” He paused as she mentally threw a digital rubber duck at him. “Fine. You’re in the main Rabat hospital, in a private room under the best medical care we can afford. No, you are not under arrest, though we do have a rotating watch on your room. I’ve let everyone know you’re awake.” Makeda considered this. The hospital room was nice and cleaner than some she’d been in. There were no bars on the windows. She thought about doing a news search, then decided she’d rather know if she was whole or not. She picked at the bandage around her forearm, trying to get the medical tape to peel up.
Imre and Saladin came in as she struggled with the bandage. She looked at Saladin. “Give me a knife.”
Imre made a “stop” gesture. “Hey, leave that alone. You paid a lot for that.”
“I did?” Makeda looked at Saladin.
“Herr Schmidt did.” He took a seat on the far side of the room and pulled out a datapad, leaving Imre at her side as he pointedly did not give her the knife she’d demanded.
She felt her leg where it had almost been severed. It was bandaged, too. “Mine or cyber?”
“Yours. Cyber limbs would’ve been cheaper, but he refused.” Imre threw Saladin an inscrutable look.
She gave a sigh of relief. “That’s because he knows me. I’ve already given up so much of myself for my reflexes. I need my own flesh.” Makeda looked Imre in the eye. “To feel right. To feel like me. I know you understand.”
He nodded. “I do.”
Silence descended. Makeda broke it after a count of thirty. She hated being the least knowledgeable person in the room. She hated having to drag the information out of people just as much. “So, you survived.”
“Yes. You helped.”
“What happened?”
“I’ll have Bob show you. She caught it all with the spy drones I had her put around the place.” He tilted his head. “Bob?”
“I’m here. Makeda, will you let me send you the feed?”
Saladin looked up as Bobishere2 comm’d. Makeda glanced at him. He gave her a thumbs up.
“Yes.” Makeda closed her eyes, accepting the connection to Bobishere2. The feed started at the point where Imre held up a finger and asked, “What about you setting me up to look like a possible terrorist?” From the footage, it is clear that Herr Schmidt was in charge and had set her and Imre up to take the blame for the train wreck and the murder of the Saeder-Krupp employees. It would be enough to clear her name—if she could get the right people to look at it.
Also, it was terrible to watch herself be maimed. Almost as bad as having it done to her. Makeda focused in on what happened next. It was so quick, she almost missed it.
* * *
Makeda popped up from behind the bar to stab Schmidt in the back with Kraken’s injector. He back-fisted her in the face, and she disappeared from sight. Schmidt groped for the injector that had already fallen from his back and blocked another sword strike from Imre.
Schmidt tottered away from the bar, his legs awkward. He punched Imre, pushing him back and shouted, “Schnell!” But all of his men were engaged or down. Imre shoulder-slammed Schmidt, knocking him back. At the same time, a knife appeared in Schmidt’s hand, slashing open Imre’s neck. Imre stumbled back, grasping at his throat.
Schmidt followed this with a lunge, but his body refused to do as he commanded. Instead of piercing Imre, he lurched to the side, sword flailing. Imre slashed twice, slicing open Schmidt’s stomach on the upswing and decapitating him on the downswing. For a moment, the world froze, then Herr Schmidt toppled to the floor.
* * *
The feed cut off. “Wow.” Makeda opened her eyes and looked at Imre’s throat. It looked fine and unmarred.
Imre nodded. “Yeah. After that, it was just mop up duty, and MissTree saving your life and mine. But that was the important bit. The one that should help us both.”
“Yeah. So, now what? Who do we call?”
“I’ve been working on it. I convinced a local fixer to get me—us—a meeting with a highly placed government official here in Rabat. Convenient that it’s the capital of the country.”
&nbs
p; Makeda furrowed her brow. “Working on it? How long have I been out?”
Saladin answered instead of Imre. “Five days. On my recommendation. You needed the rest and the healing. You couldn’t do anything from your bed while your limbs reattached themselves.” He stood up and walked over. “We woke you as soon as Imre had news.”
She eyed him. “Just because you have a point doesn’t mean I’m not mad at you.”
He nodded. “As expected. I did for you what you did for me back in Fleming.”
Makeda opened then closed her mouth. She glanced at his cyber arms and nodded. “Touché.”
“In any case,” Imre interrupted, “think of a new name. If all goes well, we’ll both have new SINs and clean slates by the end of tomorrow.”
“If it doesn’t?”
Imre hesitated, his face going neutral. “We’ll be in custody or dead.”
Makeda felt human again. Dressed like a visiting dilettante in slacks, a loose silk top, and fashionable hat, she rode with Imre in a taxi. She pinged Imre over a private comm. “When is the meet?”
“In about ten minutes.”
She gave him a startled look. “I’m not armed or armored.”
“Neither am I.” He glanced at her. “I wasn’t kidding. If this doesn’t work out, we’re in custody or dead. Unarmed ups our survival rate.”
“What in God’s name makes you think that?”
“I’m pretty sure the person we’re meeting finds it more valuable to capture us as live terrorists than dead ones.”
She poked his leg. “We talked about this. No secrets.”
Imre looked up. “Thank you.” He made a quick transfer to pay the driver, with a generous tip on top. “You were unconscious. Please, trust me. I do know what I’m doing.”
Trust was a hard thing in the shadows. Harder than surviving. Either you lived or you died once. You could be stabbed in the back a thousand times and still come back for more. Trust the wrong person, and you could learn that there were worse things than being dead.
Makeda Red Page 23