The local runner emerged into the killing zone, then stopped and coolly surveyed the area. Falcon stared, unabashed.
She's beautiful, he thought. The woman was tall and slender, with dark wavy hair. Good curves, too, shown off nicely by her street leathers. She moved with confidence and grace, a hint of controlled power. Like a martial artist, Falcon noted. He wished he could see her face better, but the light wasn’t good enough. There was the hint of an olive complexion and high cheekbones, but he couldn’t be sure.
But what did it matter anyway? he thought with a twinge of sadness and guilt. Won’t be much left of her face after Van’s put a bullet through it. In his mind’s eye he saw the sniper carefully aligning his scope’s crosshairs with the woman’s head.
The Amerindian leader stepped forward, stopping ten meters away from her. Benbo followed a step behind and to the right, his heavy armor making him look grotesque in comparison to the slender woman.
“I’m Knife-Edge.” Falcon heard the words from two sources—from Slick’s radio, and an instant later directly from the killing zone. The minuscule time lag added a dreamlike element to the scene.
The woman nodded. “Sly,” she said, introducing herself. “I got word you wanted to talk.”
“We got word you’ve got something we’re interested in,” Knife-Edge countered. “We made a run against Yamatetsu Corporation, but we got hosed. Somebody else got the pay data. Buzz on the street says that’s you. Have you got it?”
The woman shrugged. Falcon thought he could see a smile. “My biz,” she stated.
Knife-Edge nodded in acknowledgement. “Your biz,” he concurred. “We don’t want it. We just want to make sure it’s disposed of properly. The drek’s really going to come down if it gets loose, you know that.”
Sly was silent for a moment, apparently considering the Amerindian’s words. “Maybe,” she admitted finally. “How do you plan to dispose of it?”
“Uh-uh.” Knife-Edge shook his head. “First I’ve got to know if I’m talking to the right person. Have you got the paydata or haven’t you?”
Next to him, Falcon felt Slick tense, saw him shift his grip on the AK. He could imagine Van taking aim, tightening his finger on the trigger.
Sly drew breath to answer.
And then all fragging hell broke loose.
Something slammed into Benbo’s chest, lanced through the armor as if it didn’t exist. Blew out most of the Amerind samurai’s back. Benbo spun, arms flailing, head flopping loosely now that most of his spine was missing. For a terrible moment, Falcon could see right through the man’s chest—a gaping hole, with little flames licking around the ragged edges. The samurai flopped to the ground in a messy heap. Magic! Falcon thought. What else could it be?
“Holy fragging drek!” That was Sly, the female runner. She flung herself back and to the side, rolling toward the cover offered by a cargo container.
Knife-Edge snarled. A pistol had appeared in his hand, apparently out of thin air. He raised it, leveled it at Sly.
Something punched through his stomach, low and on the left side, spinning him wildly and flinging him from his feet. Whatever it was slammed into the container behind him, blowing a hole the size of a man’s fist in the thick metal. What the frag was that!
Falcon heard a vicious spit from above and to his right. Van with his sniper rifle was getting into the act. The bullet spanged off the container beside Sly. She rolled again, trying to bring up the weapon that was suddenly in her hand. But before she could bring it to bear, the sniper’s second round grazed her arm, and the pistol flew from her grip.
Then automatic fire spattered and clanged against the catwalk where Van had his nest, striking blue and white sparks from the metal. Falcon heard a scream, saw the sniper rifle fall from the crane to crash out of sight among the containers.
The previously silent pier was suddenly alive with gunfire and muffled explosions. A spray of tracers, yellow dashes of light, arced wildly into the sky. Falcon couldn’t see any possible target. Possibly the gunner had been hit, and his dying reflex had squeezed off the burst as he fell. In the chaos, it was impossible to count how many distinct firefights were actually going down, but there certainly seemed to be more shooters than the five Scuzboys and the two razorguys they’d seen arrive with Sly.
Falcon looked down into the killing zone again. It was empty except for what was left of Benbo. He knew Sly’s wound hadn’t been mortal, and it looked like Knife-Edge had survived whatever had cored him front-to-back. But what the hell was that thing?
He heard a growl beside and behind him. He turned.
It was Slick, of course, his face ugly with rage. “You fragging sold us out!” he snarled.”You’re gonna die, pudlicker!” He started to bring his assault rifle up, slowly, as if to draw out his enjoyment.
Too slowly. With a panicked yell, Falcon dragged the Fichetti from his pocket.
As soon as he saw the pistol emerge, Slick tried to snap the rifle onto line. But he was still too late. Falcon saw the Amerind’s eyes widen as the Fichetti’s laser painted his forehead. And then his face simply disintegrated as the ganger pulled the trigger again and again.
Nausea knotted Falcon’s stomach, threatened to make him spew. He turned his face away from the smashed ruins of Slick’s head.
Bullets slammed into the container from somewhere, ringing it like a gong. Apparently even the relatively quiet shots from his pistol had attracted unwanted attention.
He started to roll toward the north side of the container, the side away from the killing zone, then hesitated, glancing down at the pistol. The Fichetti was a convenient weapon, and it had already saved his life twice. But it was like a peashooter next to the thing— magic, rifle, artillery, whatever it was—that had blown a hole right through the heavily armored Benbo. He needed more firepower.
He rolled back, tugged the AK-97 from Slick’s nerveless fingers. Even coming that close to the corpse turned his stomach. But he needed the weapon. He checked that the safety was off and that there was a round in the chamber. That was just about as far as his knowledge of automatic weapons extended. Fortunately the AK was a recent model, with a digital ammunition counter just below the rear sight. It read twenty-two, which looked good to Falcon. He stuffed the Fichetti back into his pocket, slipped the AK’s sling over his head and right arm, and crawled to the north edge of the container.
There was a ladder on this side, too. The barrel of the assault rifle clanged against the container halfway down, and Falcon braced himself for some kind of impact. But nobody shot at him. When he was less than two meters from the ground, he jumped.
Forgetting, of course, about his bad ankle. He howled with agony as he hit, keeping his feet only with difficulty. Muffling his curses, he unslung the AK and looked around him.
The lane between the containers was dark. And—thank the spirits and totems—empty. He paused for a moment. What the frag do I do now? he asked himself.
A long burst of autofire, punctuated by a scream of mortal agony, answered the question for him. Just get myself the frag out of here! He looked around again, getting his bearings. Okay, he thought, the crane’s to the west, so the way out is that way. He started off in a limping run. Reached an “intersection” where two lanes met, hung a hard right.
And skidded to a stop. The female runner—Sly—was a couple of meters ahead of him. As he rounded the corner, she’d dropped into a combat crouch. In her hands was the weapon she’d dropped in the killing ground—a brutal hogleg of a revolver. She held it steady in both hands, aiming it directly at Falcon’s heart.
13
0356 hours, November 14, 2053
Another Amerind, Sly thought. Part of the same gang? He had to be. Smaller than the others, but armed with a fragging AK-97. Sly started to squeeze the trigger. The laser sighting dot touched the center of the man’s chest.
He didn’t try to bring the assault rifle to bear. Instead he held it in his left hand, pistoned both arms out to the
sides. “No!” he gasped. She tightened down on the trigger. Another couple of grams and the trigger would break, sending a bullet slamming into his heart.
And that was when she realized just what she was seeing. He’s a kid, she thought in astonishment. Big for his age, but no older than sixteen, maybe seventeen. Old enough to carry an AK, old enough to kill her. . . .
But he wasn’t trying to kill her. She held her fire, emotions warring within her. The trigger was just a hair short of breaking. There was no way she’d fail to get the shot off before he could bring the AK onto line.
“No . . More of a moan this time.
She couldn’t grease him, not like this. “Drop it!” she screamed. “Drop it now!”
He dropped it. The assault rifle crashed to the ground. In his eyes she saw terror, confusion, a whole suite of other emotions.
Not a pro, then. And what did that mean? The Amerinds who’d faced her at the meet—the unarmored one and his back-up—were cool, controlled. Pros, definitely pros. The sniper up on the crane, him too. He almost got her before someone else took him out. All pros, all experienced runners. Why would they have this greenie kid along with them on a run? If he was with them at all . . .
Frag it, what was she supposed to do now? What do you do with prisoners in a firefight? Damn it, this had never happened to her before. When the lead started to fly, you flatlined the bad guys and got the frag out. Anybody you didn’t know to be a friend was a target, plain and simple.
But she couldn’t bring herself to geek this kid. Not like this, not in what currently served for cold blood. If he made a move for another weapon, she could do it in an instant, no worries, no second thoughts, no guilt. But not now.
And she couldn’t just leave him behind. He could have any number of holdouts, ready to put a slug into her skull the instant she turned away from him. Frag it!
Modal would drop him in his tracks, she knew, just to be sure. It was the only logical thing to do, and his violet pills would guarantee that no confusing emotions got in the way.
But I’m not Modal, Sly thought.
“Hands behind your head!” she shouted, her decision made. “Move it!”
The kid laced his fingers behind his head. There was a plea in his eyes, but he kept silent.
“Turn around,” she told him. He obeyed instantly. “Look back and you’re dead. Move your hands and you're dead. Now move."
The kid started forward along the lane between the stacked containers. She saw that he was limping slightly, favoring his left leg. She rose from her combat crouch, her own left knee feeling like it was on fire. Great, two cripples. Club Gimp. She kept her pistol trained on him, her laser dot on the back of his neck. She started after him, keeping a good three meters back. Too far for him to be able to jump her before she could put a couple of rounds into him. When she reached the dropped AK, she crouched and scooped it up with her left hand, without letting her eyes or her laser sight waver from her prisoner. Quickly, before the kid could react, she shoved her Warhawk into her pocket, settled the AK against her hip. It had a laser sight, too. The assault rifle’s targeting spot replaced her pistol’s on the young Amerindian’s back. With the weight of the AK in her hands, she felt confidence flooding back into her. Her knee hurt like drek, and the wound she’d taken in her left forearm from the sniper burned and dripped blood. But with the additional firepower she thought she had a better chance of getting out of this intact.
“Keep walking,” she ordered.
They reached an intersection. “Stop!” The kid froze in his tracks, didn’t look back, didn’t shift his hands a millimeter. She hesitated for a moment, getting her bearings. Fortunately the crane made a good landmark. “Turn left,” she instructed, “and move faster.”
The kid picked up his pace down the new lane. From his limp, she new that the faster gait must be hurting him severely, but he didn’t make a sound. She followed, keeping the three-meter separation constant.
Multiple firefights were still going on around her. She could hear the sporadic chattering of autofire from at least four directions, but nothing sounded near enough to worry about. Not for the moment. From the sound, she figured all the firing was coming from SMGs or maybe light carbines. Her armor jacket would stop SMG rounds at any reasonable range, but what about that monster weapon, whatever it was-the thing that had gutted the Amerindian razorguy? What the frag was it? And how portable was it? Could the gunner be stalking her right now? She felt the muscles of her back and belly tighten.
“Faster,” she commanded. The kid obeyed without a word, speeding up to a shambling run. The AK’s sighting dot bounced around as she matched his pace, but it never left his back.
Another intersection. If she remembered correctly, the rendezvous spot she’d arranged with Modal should be to the left. Will Modal be there? she wondered. Or is he already down? Am I alone? One way or another, worrying about it wasn’t going to help. You made a plan and stuck to it, changing it only when you knew it was hosed.
“Turn left,” she snapped.
This new lane was narrower, the shadows deeper. She was moving away from the carbon arc lamps that illuminated the wharf area. The containers that made up the lane walls weren’t jammed together nose-to-tail like they were closer to the cranes. That meant there were gaps between them, gaps easily big enough for a gunman to hide in. She scanned from side to side, but it was useless. The shadows were impenetrable. The first clue she'd get that a shooter was there was when the first rounds hit. “Faster,” she shouted.
Where the frag was Modal?
A laser dazzled her left eye. She spun, trying to bring the AK around, knowing she’d never make it. She tensed for the hammering impact as the first bullet shattered her skull.
No impact. She continued her turn, about to clamp down on the assault rifle's trigger.
“It's Modal.” The elf’s voice sounded from the gap to her left. The laser painting her face died.
She released the trigger, lowered the AK’s barrel to point at the ground.
Modal stepped out of the darkness. He had his Ares Predator in his left hand; a silenced Ingram SMG filled his right. “What’s this?” He gestured at the Amerindian kid with the heavy pistol.
“Prisoner,” she told him.
He scowled at that. She could tell what he thought of the idea.
“We take him with us,” Sly said forcefully, her voice brooking no argument. “Maybe he can tell us what’s gone down.”
“I can tell you that,” the elf grunted. “It’s totally fugazi, that’s what it is. There were four orks on the perimeter. I took one, borrowed his radio. Now they’re fighting with somebody else. One group, maybe even two. They act corp.” In his eyes were questions he obviously didn't want to voice just yet.
Sly knew she wanted answers to the same questions. “Maybe he can tell us,” she suggested, inclining her head toward the kid. He was standing as still as if he’d been petrified, every muscle in his body rigid as they argued his fate behind his back.
Modal considered that for a moment, then nodded. “It’s your call.”
“Where’s Mongoose and Snake?”
“I saw Snake go down. He’s dead. Mongoose?” He shrugged.
“Then just get us the frag out of here,” she told him. “I think the meet’s adjourned.”
* * *
Sly peeled back the protective cover of the slap patch, applied it to the bullet wound in her left forearm. The patch stung for an instant, the way it always did. Then the sting faded, taking with it the sharp, throbbing pain. Thank god for slap patches, she thought, pressing on it to make sure the adhesive held. Already she could taste the familiar flavor of olives as the DMSO—dimethyl sulfoxide—in the patch absorbed into her bloodstream, bringing with it the painkillers, energizers, and antibacterial agents that would start the healing process. She hated the taste in her mouth—always had—but she’d certainly gotten used to it over the years.
They were in the shadows of the Alaska
n Way viaduct, about level with University Street. The Renraku Arcology separated them from Pier 42 and the fragged-up meet. Sly knew that it shouldn’t make her feel any safer, because Renraku was after her too, but it did.
She glanced at her watch. It was oh-four-twenty—only twenty minutes after the meet was supposed to have started. Busy morning, she told herself with a wry grin.
Modal was crouching in the shadows next to her. The kid—now wearing a set of plastic restraints, courtesy of the elf—huddled against a concrete pillar a couple of meters away. Modal was examining the Fichetti Security 500 he’d taken from the kid’s pocket.
“Good piece for a gutterpunk,” the elf remarked to Sly. slipping the gun into his own pocket.
She knew that Modal was actually saying the boy wasn’t as innocent as he looked, but decided to ignore him. For the first time since they got to the viaduct, she spoke to the kid, not about him. “What’s your name?”
“Dennis Falk,” the kid answered. “Falcon.”
She looked at his leather jacket. No gang colors, but something about him told her he had to be a ganger. “Who do you run with?”
“First Nation,” he mumbled.
That made sense. The First Nation was a low-level Amerind gang that claimed the dock area near the Kingdome. Was that how he’d come to be at Pier 42? Out on gang biz and he stumbled into the meet from hell? “What were you doing at the pier tonight?” she asked. “And where did you get this?” She patted the assault rifle that rested across her knees.
He looked up into her face, his dark eyes steady. The terror was gone, replaced now by intelligence. He was trying to figure out just what, and how much, to tell her.
“Don’t lie to me,” she said quietly. “Remember, you don’t know how much I know. And if you do lie, I might decide that Modal here is right about what to do with prisoners.” Playing along with the game, Modal bared his teeth at the kid in a feral smile.
Shadowplay Page 15