“No,” Falcon corrected quietly. “Just a zip gun. I guess that doesn’t count.”
“You got that,” Nightwalker agreed. “Zip guns are for street punks.” Before Falcon could bridle at the remark, the runner extended his hand. “Give it here.” Falcon looked at him in surprise and with a twinge of suspicion. “Why?”
Nightwalker sighed. “I just want to check it out,” he said patiently. “Make sure you weren't ripped off. What’d you pay for it?” When Falcon told him, the big Amerind shook his head. “Premium price,” he announced, “but don’t sweat it. You didn’t have time to shop around. Learn from it, though, and remember next time.”
The ganger nodded, and handed over the pistol. I knew the scuz gouged me, he thought.
Without breaking stride, without even seeming to look at the gun, Nightwalker field-stripped the weapon. Worked the action, examined the chamber, checked the barrel for obstructions. “Mint, or close to it,” he remarked, reassembling the piece. “Fired just enough to work the parts in. You got a good deal after all, chummer.” He checked the load, his big hands dwarfing the magazine. Then he slammed the clip back into place. “Ever fire that zip gun of yours?” Falcon shook his head. “Ever fire anything?” Another shake of the head, this time more hesitantly.
“Don’t sweat it,” Nightwalker told him smoothly. “The best run’s the one where you come back with no ammo spent.” He handed the Fichetti back to Falcon, stuck his hands into his pockets. He stopped, and leaned casually against the alley wall. “I want you to try it now.”
“Huh?” Real intelligent, Falcon, he chided himself, real frosty thing to say. But the runner’s suggestion had taken him by surprise. “Here?”
“Why not?” Nightwalker shrugged. “Better to get used to it now than when the drek hit the fan, right?”
“What about the noise?”
“We’re in a fragging alley in downtown fragging Seattle,” Nightwalker said wearily. “You think anyone’s going to come a-running if you cap off one lousy little round? Do it.”
Falcon looked into the older man’s face. His eyes were serious, but his lips were quirked in a half-grin. Does he think I haven’t got the balls to do it? the ganger wondered. He shrugged, trying to emulate Nightwalker’s cool manner. “Yeah, why not? What’s my target?”
Nightwalker pointed with a thick forefinger at a dumpster a dozen meters further down the alley. “That’ll do,” he said drily.
Another fragging dumpster. It looked like it was gonna be one of those nights. Falcon didn’t comment out loud, just raised the pistol and steadied it in what he thought was the proper two-hand posture. He settled his finger on the trigger—at the last moment remembering to flip the safety off—and applied pressure. The laser lit, painting the dark blue dumpster with a red dot. The aiming spot trembled, then steadied as he tightened his grip on the butt. He took a deep breath, held it. Pulled the trigger. The gun barrel jerked to the left.
But it didn’t fire. No report, no kick, just a sharp metallic clack.
Before he could move, Nightwalker’s hand flicked out, apparently from nowhere, and grabbed the gun, holding it totally steady in its new position. “Hey!” Falcon shouted.
“You missed, chummer,” Nightwalker told him flatly, still holding the gun immobile. “Look where the target point is.”
Falcon looked. The laser spot quivered on the building a meter up and at least a meter over from the dumpster.
“See that?” Nightwalker stressed. “You anticipated the recoil, you took the gun off-line when you tensed up. See?” He released the gun.
“It didn’t fire,” Falcon said accusingly.
Nightwalker just chuckled. Reached into his pocket and grabbed something, then held his hand out toward the ganger. Ten caseless rounds rolled around in his big palm.
He’d palmed them when checking the gun. Falcon realized. “Why?” he snapped.
“Two lessons in one,” Nightwalker said, his voice serious now and his smile gone. “One, nobody thinks they anticipate the recoil, but they won’t stop until they realize they’re doing it. This was the best way of showing you. And two, never—fragging never—believe anyone who tells you, or even implies, a gun is loaded or unloaded. Check for yourself, always. You hear me?”
Falcon nodded slowly, watching the Amerindian runner with new respect. He’d obviously done this drek before. “Thanks,” he said quietly.
“Null perspiration. All greenies make the same mistakes.” Nightwalker slapped Falcon firmly on the shoulder, robbing the words of any offense. He handed over the loose rounds. “Reload your weapon, and let’s roll.”
Falcon followed the big man, trying to slip the slightly greasy-feeling caseless rounds into the magazine by touch. There’s more to the shadows than I thought, he mused, a realization that was distinctly unsettling.
* * *
It was well after oh-three hundred hours by the time they reached the corner of Eighth and Westlake. Denny Way was two blocks north, Denny Park, where the meet would go down, another block west.
The Amerindian wasn’t complaining, but Falcon could tell that Nightwalker was in bad shape. The big man’s breathing was rapid and shallow, and the brittle gleam of fever was back in his eyes. He was slowing down again, nowhere near as much as right after the encounter with the Disassemblers, but still noticeably. He kept his left arm tight against his ribs, apparently applying pressure to the wound to slow the bleeding. The gray cloth dressing on his upper right arm was already completely dark, saturated with blood. The stimpatch and the metas were keeping him going, but for how long? Falcon couldn't help but wonder.
“Can we take a break here?” the young ganger asked, careful not to meet the runner’s gaze. “I need a breather.”
If Nightwalker knew he was lying—and why—he made no comment. The runner just leaned back against the building and closed his eyes. “I’m getting too old for this drek,” he sighed. “I should have come into the light a long time ago.”
Falcon didn't recognize the idiom, but assumed it meant retiring from the shadows. He watched as his companion forced himself to take deeper breaths, saw the man’s mouth tighten with pain.
They rested for a few minutes. Then Nightwalker pushed himself away from the wall, passed a hand over his face. He needs more rest, Falcon thought, more time. But it was the Nightwalker’s operation, Nightwalker’s call. He walked close alongside the Amerindian as they started off again, always ready to offer a supporting shoulder if necessary. But apparently the proximity of their goal had given the runner more energy. His pace was still slow, but he didn’t show the same tendency to stumble.
“What is this meet, anyway?” Falcon asked.
“Regrouping,” Nightwalker replied. “Meet up, then bug out. Over the wall, out of the sprawl. We’ve got a safehouse set up in the Salish-Shidhe lands, somewhere I can hang and where I can mend.”
Falcon nodded. “Anything I should watch out for?”
That earned him a sharp look.
“What do you mean?”
The ganger shrugged.
“You said I needed heat,” he reminded the runner. “Like, you don’t really trust the others.”
Nightwalker gave him a tired smile. “Yeah, well ...”
He thought for a moment. “I guess I don’t really expect trouble. Just be cautious. Stay close to me when we get there,” he added firmly. “Let the others know you’re with me.”
Falcon nodded, feeling a sudden chill, realizing that if he didn't, the others might geek him on sight.
Denny Park was about five blocks from Seattle Center. As they approached, Falcon could see the lights of the Space Needle reaching up into the sky. Though nowhere near as tall as the corporate sky rakers of downtown, its slender, graceful construction made it look taller.
The park itself was an oasis of green in the ferrocrete desert of the sprawl. It was about two city blocks in size, enough space for a couple of little copses of trees, some greensward, and even a fish pond.
The landscaping had been part of the spate of urban renewal that had swept the city a few years back. Obviously designed by someone who didn't know the ugly realities of the sprawl, the intention had apparently been to create a place for kids to play, lovers to stroll, all that kind of drek. But it wasn't the kids and lovers who moved into the park. It was the squatters, the gangers, the drug and chip dealers, the chippies, the street apes, and the gutterpunks. And that fragging fish pond—within months, Seattle’s hard rain had made the water so acidic that all the fish kicked off. These days Falcon would have feared dipping even a finger into the pond, afraid all he’d pull back would be bone.
They approached from the east, along Denny Way, which was mostly deserted at this time of night. Bikes rumbled by in groups, but the go-gangers seemed to have too much on their minds to hassle a couple of pedestrians. As they stepped off the pitted sidewalk onto the muddy greensward, Falcon kept close to Nightwalker, so close that his left shoulder brushed the Amerindian’s right biceps, evoking a grunt of pain. Quickly, he backed off a step, but tried—by his body language, by just thinking as hard as he fragging could—to communicate the fact that they were together.
There were no lights in the park. (Once there had been, but playful locals had quickly shot them all out, and the city engineers hadn’t bothered to replace them after the fifth or sixth time.) They weren’t really necessary. The lights of the nearby buildings illuminated the area enough for Falcon to see that the greensward was empty. The nearest copse of trees was directly ahead of them, about thirty meters away, beside the acidic fish pond. Two meters into the park, Nightwalker stopped and waited.
Falcon looked around him. We’re really exposed, he thought. Right out in the open. That’s dumb. . . .
But it wasn’t dumb, he realized after a moment. Sure, there wasn’t any immediate cover other than a couple of parked cars on Denny Way behind them, but neither were there any hiding places for enemies nearby, nor any way someone could sneak up on them unobserved. Falcon stuck a hand into his jacket pocket, felt the reassuring weight of the Fichetti pistol.
For more than a minute, there was no movement. Nightwalker stood beside him, apparently relaxed. But no, even though his body was still, the runner’s eyes were flicking around ceaselessly, looking for anything out of the ordinary.
And then the figure emerged from the copse next to the pond. Another Amerindian, Falcon thought, or so the man’s straight black hair might suggest. He wore the same dark clothes as Nightwalker. Another of the runners?
“Cat-Dancing,” Nightwalker murmured under his breath, apparently naming the figure.
It is one of his comrades, Falcon thought, some of his tension leaking away. Nightwalker took a step forward, and the ganger followed him.
Cat-Dancing raised his right hand, made a beckoning gesture. His left hand was at waist-height, and it moved, too, making a quick brushing gesture in front of the man’s belly.
Nightwalker stiffened as if from a taser hit. “Setup!” he barked at Falcon. “Break!” Simultaneously, he threw himself aside, turned and bolted for the street.
Falcon was frozen. Just for a moment, but long enough to see a flash of fire from within the copse, to see Cat-Dancing’s skull burst under the impact of a bullet. Then the darkness of the copse lit up with muzzle-flashes—three, four, more. Bullets whip-cracked around the ganger, slammed into the ground around him, kicking up divots. With a yell of fear, he turned and ran, out of the park, back onto Denny Way.
Where was Nightwalker? The Amerindian was just gone.
Falcon reached the street, sprinted for the nearest car, a decrepit-looking Ford. A bullet slammed into the vehicle, punching a hole the size of a man’s thumb in the door. Another shot blew out the passenger-side window. Something plucked at the shoulder of his jacket, something else buzzed past his ear. Falcon threw himself forward, into the shelter of the Ford, trying to tuck his shoulder under him for a landing roll. Not quite making it, he landed heavily enough to knock most of the air out of his lungs. He lay on the road for a moment, partially stunned, hearing bullets thudding into the car’s bodywork. A round passed through the car, shattered the driver-side window, showering him with fragments of glass.
His lungs were working again in a second, forcing air through his throat, suddenly tight and dry. He forced himself to a crouch, careful to keep his head below the level of the car’s body. Pulling out his Fichetti, he looked around wildly for Nightwalker.
The big runner squatted in the cover of another car, a dozen meters away. He had a gun in hand, a big automatic, but he wasn’t firing it. The sparks from high-velocity bullets striking off the car’s coachwork told the ganger why. Even through his fear, he could see from the line of Nightwalker’s body that he was in agony. Another bullet wound? No, the runner had moved so fast it was doubtful he’d been hit. But having to run and then dive for cover had probably reopened his wounds.
Another volley of shots hammered into Falcon’s car. A tire exploded with a loud concussion, and the Ford started to settle at the rear.
Taking a deep breath, he risked a look, popping his head up quickly. Red light flared in his eyes. A laser! Instantly he dropped again, and not a microsecond too soon. A bullet roared over his head, so close he could feel the wind of its passage. His stomach knotted with fear, and he was wracked with nausea. Oh, spirits and totems . . .
He heard barked orders, but they were too far away for him to make out the words. More bullets pounded the car. Two more windows blew out, another tire. They were taking the car apart!
Why aren’t they! advancing? The thought was cold as ice, horrifying. Maybe they are . . .
He had to look. He couldn’t stand the not knowing. Besides, if he didn’t look, he’d only know what the gunman was up to when he eventually came around the car to paint the street with Falcon’s brains. He raised his head again. Not over the hood of the car this time, but looking through the shot-out driver-side window.
Another laser spot, this time on the doorpost next to his head. Before he had time to react, three bullets slammed into the post, each within a hair-breadth of the ruby dot. Fragging drek! He dropped down again, panting, but not before he’d capped off two shots—blindly, wildly—in the general direction of the copse.
Nightwalker was firing too, his big pistol roaring, and with more effect than Falcon’s pop-gun. A high-pitched shriek of agony rang out from the park as the runner scored. Then Nightwalker was also forced to drop as a continuous fusillade of shots almost took the car apart at the seams.
Falcon watched as the runner rolled, poking his head and shoulders around the rear of the car for another shot, then dropping back to avoid the answering bullets, then popping up somewhere else to let loose another couple of rounds. Even wounded, the runner was faster than any human being had a right to be.
Encouraged by the big man’s example, Falcon raised his head again.
Just in time. There was a dark shape racing toward him, the red beam of a laser lancing through the darkness, probing for him. Only twenty meters away. The attacker would be on him in seconds.
Screaming in terror—and in a sudden, blazing rage— Falcon brought up his own gun, squeezing the trigger again and again. Dazzled by his own muzzle flash, he couldn’t see the charging figure anymore. But it didn’t matter. He fired blindly toward where he guessed the figure would be. Kept firing until the gun clicked empty. Desperately searched his pockets for the second clip. Realized, with numbing horror, that it must have fallen out when he’d ducked for cover.
But he popped up again anyway, squeezing the trigger to activate the laser. Remembering the chilling terror he’d felt when the red beams had flashed near him, he hoped, beyond hope, that his own sighting laser would make the attacker freeze long enough for Nightwalker to finish him.
But it wasn’t necessary. The man was down, sprawled boneless on the sidewalk, obviously dead, no more than three meters from Falcon’s car. So close . . . Falcon’s stomach knotted again; he wanted to
wretch. But with an Olympian effort he forced himself to keep control.
There were no more muzzle plumes from the treeline. For the second time. Falcon heard a shouted order. But now he made out the words. “Pull back!”
One last shot from the copse, a last futile gesture. The bullet plowed harmlessly into the car that sheltered Nightwalker. Then there was silence.
No, not quite. In the distance Falcon heard sirens, Lone Star patrols coming to check out the firefight. They had to get out of here, now. He looked over at Nightwalker.
The big runner was still crouching behind the car. His head and arms hung limply, and he looked unutterably tired. Falcon wanted to run to him, but fear rooted him to the spot. What if it was just a ruse? What if the others were waiting for them to break cover?
He had to go to Nightwalker. The Amerindian needed help. And runners helped each other when they could.
Wasn’t Falcon a shadowrunner now? At least, in some small degree? He’d been in a firefight. He’d made his first kill. . . .
And it was that thought, that reminder of what he’d done, that broke the thin veneer of his control. The muscles of his stomach wrenched, twisted. He bent forward and emptied his guts onto the ground. Vomited again and again, until there was nothing left to bring up but dark bile.
After an unmeasurable time he felt a gentle hand on his shoulder. He looked up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
It was Nightwalker, looking down at him. The Amerind’s face was etched and tired, pale. His eyes were shadowed with pain and exhaustion . . . and maybe something more.
“We gotta go, chummer,” the big man mumbled, barely enunciating the words. “Let’s roll.”
* * *
“Who were they?”
Nightwalker didn't answer, seeming to consider the question. Or maybe he’s just drifted off again, Falcon thought with a chill.
They were sitting in the loading bay of a derelict store, somewhere along Denny Way, half a dozen blocks from the park.
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