Cypher (The Dragon's Bidding Book 2)

by Christina Westcott

  “Come on, Sweet Paws. Let’s start back at the buffet table.”

  “No eating, Jumper. This is work,” the pale, spotted cat reminded him.

  “Calicos.” Fitz felt sure the last remark, delivered with wearied exasperation, was for her mind alone.

  She stretched up to whisper in Kiernan’s ear. “Jumper says he’s here. I’m going after him.”

  The admiral gave no outward appearance of concern, but she felt his body tighten. His public smile never faltered as he cautioned her, “Just remember, this isn’t the man you love. From all you’ve told me, this is a stone-cold killer. Take him down quickly. Don’t hesitate. And don’t take any unnecessary risks.”

  “Hey, Maks, this is me. When have I ever taken chances?”

  Kiernan snorted. “When all hell breaks loose, I’ll watch out for her.” He jerked his head toward Ransahov, who still swaggered around, illuminated in the spotlight, whipping her audience into a frenzy.

  Fitz raced off the dais, Bartonelli at her heels. They plunged into the crowd, intent on locating the Gold Dragons contingent. She found them at the edge of the throng, separated from the masses by an open space, as if the citizens of Striefbourne City didn’t want to sully themselves by associating with common mercenaries. Doc Ski had shed her hospital whites and donned a GD dress uniform. A glass of champagne in one hand, she was engaged in an animated discussion with Fen Donkenny.

  “You didn’t tell me Wolf uses disguises,” Fitz said.

  The two mercenaries exchanged a startled glance. “We assumed he’d mentioned it to you,” said Ski.

  “Well, he didn’t, and Jumper says he’s here. He can smell him.” For as much as she loved the man, Fitz had only known Wolf for a matter of a few months, and keeping secrets was second nature to him. What else did she not know that could get them all in trouble? “What kind of disguises does he use?”

  Donkenny scratched his chin. “I remember that contract we took in the Landers Federation where he snatched a corporate executive right out of a cocktail party. That put an end to the conflict real quick.”

  Bartonelli snickered. “Yeah, the one where he got all gussied up like…” Her eyes widened. “Oh, shit, like an expensive hooker.”

  A spike of adrenaline shot through Fitz, igniting her combat systems and filling her with a jittery energy. “Cinnamon Hot. Admiral Pettigrew’s escort.” She elaborated when the two mercenaries gaped at her. “Tall, silver outfit, long black hair. Built like a sex-bot.”

  “That sounds like it could be him,” Donkenny said.

  Fitz started to thought-click her comm, but remembered the assassin’s ability to monitor all the frequencies. “Sergeant, find Lieutenant Pike. He should be in the surveillance office. Have him instigate a Level One alert, but quietly. I don’t want to tip off our target.”

  Fitz opened her beaded bag, checking that she could grab the tiny Cauldfield pistol easily. “I wish this damn purse could hold the slug thrower.”

  Donkenny stepped close to her and reached under his cape, withdrawing an Acton Mk IV from a holster at his back. Using his body to shield his action, he slipped it into her bag. “I’ve served with Wolf too many years not to come prepared.”

  The weight of a real weapon against her waist reassured her. “We need to get eyes on Ms. Hot to make sure it’s him. It would be unfortunate if we shot an innocent hooker.”

  “Those two words don’t seem to go together,” Ski remarked.

  “Colonel Donkenny, you take the left side of the room; I’ll check this side. If you see her…him, don’t try to take him alone. Imagine you’re trying to take down Wolf, but enhanced and without his scruples. One ping on your comm to let me know you’re still looking. Ping me three times if you spot him, and I’ll home in on you.

  “Doctor, you stay back, but not too far. I’m not giving him time to do anything. I’m putting him on the ground before he can pull a weapon. I’ll try to stun him, but because of the symbiont, he won’t stay down long enough for me to pull his spike. Lethal force may be necessary so that his wounds overwhelm the symbiont’s ability to heal them and put him into a coma. I’ll need you to get him to medical and bring him out of it. I guess we’re lucky he’s in disguise, so the public won’t know we’re blowing away their new Triumvir.”

  Fitz plunged into the swarm of celebrants, her hand resting on the clasp of her purse, ready to pull the weapon and fire in a single augmented motion. As she searched for silver, she picked out the color everywhere, a silver jacket, dress, or cape, but not the tall buxom form of the assassin. She found it easier to think of him that way: as just another killer she had to take down. If she allowed herself to think of her target as the man she loved, she might freeze when it came time to pull the trigger—if only for a second. But a second would be all he’d need. She hadn’t been a Lazzinair long enough to get over the fear of taking a slug in the gut.

  Where were the cats? What good were they as advance scouts if you couldn’t stay in touch with them. There had to be a better way to contact Jumper. She’d hoped his bond with Faydra would provide the link she needed, but she’d heard nothing from the pair.

  The single ping on her comm advised her that Donkenny’s luck had been no better than hers. She replied with one hit.

  At the rear of the hall, the crowd thinned to knots of people clustered together trying to converse over the babble of speechmaking and cheering. A few stragglers made a run on the buffet tables, intent on getting first pickings before the ceremonies ended and the stampede toward the food began.

  A series of explosions echoed through the hall. Fitz dropped into a crouch, hand diving into her bag to grip the pistol, but then she remembered the fireworks display that signaled the climax of the Emperor’s sermon. Ari strutted in the glow of the spotlight, red hair gleaming.

  Fitz cursed. The damn fool had taken off her helmet. She might as well paint a target between her eyes that said shoot me here.

  The Emperor’s voice rolled over the assembled crowd, extolling her new vision of the Empire, promising prosperity, wealth, and all those bright tomorrows that only politicians seemed able to glimpse. And her audience followed her every stepped of the way to that future. Fitz tuned out the propaganda and returned to the hunt.

  “Boss Lady, the buffet table to the right of the west entrance.” Then the cat’s presence disappeared from her mind before she could order him to get clear.

  She veered toward the exit, halting behind a group of business types arguing the virtues of the newest model aircar. As she pretended to listen to their chatter, she scanned around. No silver, but she did spot a fat man in admiral’s whites.

  Pettigrew stood not far from the exit, shifting his weight from foot to foot, crossing his arms over his chest, then uncrossing them. He looked to his right, then away. His nervousness exposed his part in the plan. When he glanced to the side this time, she followed his gaze.

  Silver stood at the buffet table, selecting pastries to fill a plate as he chatted with a man whose gaze seemed incapable of rising higher than the bosom in front of him.

  Fitz needed to be closer to make a positive identification. Between the table and the wall, a walkway allowed servants to replenish the rapidly disappearing food. Guards at parade rest held station at intervals along the wall. As she slipped behind the table, she tapped the breastplate of the first soldier and hand signed: Alert. Silence. She picked up a plate and eased along, appearing to study the offered fare, until she closed to within two meters of the tall figure.

  The silver jump suit bore a high beaded collar, hiding the laryngeal prominence. The shoulders were too wide for a woman, not that any man would notice with such an ample pair of breasts staring him in the face. The hips were too narrow, the waist not curvy enough and, where the metallic fabric clung to the arms and thighs, muscle bulged. Fitz had no doubt that a male body hid beneath that outfit, but was it Wolf—or rather, the man who had stolen his body?

  Feigning interest in a tray of chocolate
truffles farther down the line, Fitz eased closer. The man held his head down, a fall of midnight hair covering half of his face. From what she could see of it, makeup had been skillfully applied to alter the appearance of his bone structure, but that couldn’t fool her facial recognition program.

  Fitz reached for a truffle, but slender silver-tipped fingers grasped the confection first. Her head snapped up and found eyes as dark brown as the chocolate studying her. Red lips smiled at her above a cleft chin so familiar. Her tongue knew the shape of that dimple, even in the dark. Overlaying an image of Wolf on the face before her, her inhead display flashed a message: match confirmed. It hadn’t been necessary. She knew.

  Fitz pinged her comm three times.

  Lacking the sophisticated tracking equipment she had inside her head, Donkenny wouldn’t be able to locate her immediately. For now, she was on her own. Her combat systems analyzed her target and shunted all the information onto her inhead.

  The bulge in the bag over his shoulder no doubt represented a pistol, likely a Cauldfield, since it didn’t register on scans. Almost certainly that outfit hid body armor, requiring the kill setting on the Acton to punch through it. The smaller pistol in her bag wouldn’t do it without chancing a head shot. And she wondered if a Lazzinair could survive that. Thank Hansue for Donkenny’s paranoia.

  All this flashed through her brain in the time it took the assassin’s red lips to pull back into a smile. “You look particularly stunning tonight, Gray Eyes.” He set the plate down and backed away, moving with the stiff posture of a predator who’s discovered an interloper in his territory.

  Reality slowed as Fitz plunged into hyperkinesia. She pulled the Acton, thumbed the setting all the way up as it cleared her bag.

  The assassin reached Pettigrew, the admiral handing him a dark object. A needler. Package delivered, the fat officer hurried toward the exit.

  Damn! How had he smuggled that in here? Can’t worry about that now.

  She grabbed the edge of the table, hurled it out of her way. People screamed and scattered, not sure what was happening.

  The silver figure pulled a pistol from his bag. A Cauldfield, as she’d expected, except this one had an extra power pack jury-rigged to it. He swung around and pumped two shots into Pettigrew before the fat admiral made it to the door.

  Tidying up loose ends.

  Fitz reached through cyberspace and tripped all the alerts. A window opened in her inhead, displaying the scene on the dais. Ari stilled and looked around. Kiernan charged toward her. The Henge erupted into a chaos of strobing lights, wailing alarms, and screaming, shoving people. Her tactical display showed Fen Donkenny fighting his way out of the crowd, weapon already in hand. Braylin Pike, backed up by Bartonelli, led a contingent of guardsmen through the East entrance. The net drew tight around their prey.

  The assassin spun. At first Fitz thought he looked for a way through their cordon, but he kept spinning, faster and faster. Like an ice skater, his momentum built, moving into the hyperkinetic range.

  Fitz recognized this one; a killing maneuver only an augie could perform.

  Broadcasting to every comm in range, she screamed, “Kill Spiral! Take cover!”

  Fitz dived behind the overturned table, but not before she noticed his arms rise, slowing his spin enough that she could see a weapon in each hand. The assassin’s pistol for general murder and pandemonium; the needler to kill Lazzinairs.

  As he spun, he opened fire with both pistols.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Fitz ducked behind her cover as a storm of black needles clattered around her and bolts of energy glanced off the table’s metal legs, showering her with molten droplets. The barrage could only last for seconds, but felt like it stretched on for hours. Even with the additional power pack, he would exhaust the weapons’ charge quickly, and no augie could maintain the demands of a Kill Spiral for long. With the volume of fire he poured into the assembled crowd, it was enough time to slaughter dozens.

  Her inhead displayed the scene on the dais, now clotted with white-armored Praetorians. Terrified politicos tried to force their way out of the killing field. Nowhere could she catch a glimpse of coppery red hair or imperial purple. She could only hope Maks been quick enough.

  Fitz paged through the feeds from the hall’s monitors, looking for one that displayed the assassin. There. She concentrated on the shaft of spinning silver, struggling to filter out the chaos of screams and the pulsing alarms. Definitely slowing. He wouldn’t be able to hold the Spiral for much longer. When he came out of the spin he’d be disoriented, vulnerable, but only for a second. In that second, she had to be ready.

  The weapons fire chopped off. Fitz snaked her head around the edge of the table as the assassin lurched to a stop, briefly off balance. The now useless pistols clattered to the floor. He stared at his hands, a look of horror flickered across his face, then he turned and plunged into the terrified crowd. The mass of bodies engulfed the silver form, pulling him along toward the exit.

  Fitz cursed in frustration, her voice lost in the panicked tumult as she shoved people aside. Pike and Bartonelli pushed out of the crush, fighting toward her.

  “Locate those pistols he dropped, but be careful with the needler.” Fitz shot a pointed look at Bartonelli. “Make sure Ari is safe and get her the hell out of here. I’m going after the shooter. No chatter on the comm you don’t want the target to hear.” She pushed her way into the crowd before the sergeant could argue.

  The mass of people bore her through the lobby and out into the courtyard, where the crowd surged to the exits of the dome and bottlenecked. She pulled down an image of the shooter from one of the surveillance cameras and transmitted it to all team leaders in case he tried to slip out through the main exit in the confusion.

  Colonel Donkenny appeared at her elbow, nodding his head at the mob around the exits. “Is that the only way out of here?”

  Fitz gestured toward the botanical gardens encircling Star Henge. “There’s a loading entrance at the back, but I made sure it was sealed for tonight. I don’t think he can make it out that way.”

  Donkenny licked his lips. “I’d be happier knowing how much of Wolf’s experience this guy can access.”

  “We have to assume that anything Wolf knows, our shooter knows. Why leave the original personality unless you needed his knowledge? If they just wanted an augmented body, that would be easy to acquire. No. They needed his skills.”

  “I was afraid of that. So, we have to plan like we’re fighting Wolf.” The mercenary hissed as he studied the confusion at the exits. “He’d have had plenty of other shots to assassinate Ransahov if that’s all he had in mind. This was a statement, but he’d never take the chance of going into an operation like this without a way out. Most people would be concentrating on the exits, expecting him to slip out in the confusion. He’s got another way planned.”

  Donkenny had fought beside her partner for a quarter century, and he thought Wolf would take the back door. That felt right to her, but if she was wrong and he charged the main exit, a lot of people could get killed—maybe even Wolf. As far as she knew, even a Lazzinair wasn’t immune to a headshot. What if it was a suicide mission? Tritico would have no qualms about sending Wolf to his death as long as he could accomplish his goal of bringing down Ari and her government.

  “There’s a way into the gardens over here.” She led Donkenny around the side of the Henge. The ornate wrought iron gates had been torn off their hinges, and the two guards she’d posted lay scattered on the ground. She knelt beside one of the bodies.

  “This one’s alive, but his pistol’s missing.”

  Donkenny checked the other man. “Same here.”

  The shooter had headed straight here. The main entrance had never been in the cards. By now he’d have quite a lead on them. In the raked sand of the garden’s path, she could follow his tracks—widely spaced and dug in deep with hyperkinetic speed.

  “Where’s this other entrance?” Donkenny asked.<
br />
  “All the way at the back, behind the fountain.”

  “Is there another way into the garden on the other side of the building?”

  Fitz nodded as she tucked the panels of her dress up into her belt. Modesty be damned. She pointed. “The path circles around the Henge and exits at that gate, but it’s locked and guarded. You’ll have to convince them to let you through.”

  “I can be very persuasive when necessary.” The merc pulled his pistol from his shoulder holster and checked the charge. “Then we can pin him between us.”

  Fitz grasped his forearm before he turned away. “Fen, are you going to be able to shoot him?”

  She noticed the heavy sigh before he answered. “I guess I have to, don’t I? Sure as hell didn’t think, when I was invited to this soiree, I would end up hunting down my best friend.”

  “Just put him on the ground and keep him there. Don’t get close. Yell for me and I’ll pull his spike.”

  He nodded before dashing away, cape billowing behind him.

  Fitz slipped around the ruined gate, bringing up her night vision with a thermal scan running in a window at the corner of her inhead. A small shadow flowed across the path toward her. She whirled, weapon trained.

  “Whoa, Boss Lady. It’s only me.”

  Jumper was alone, and with all the bolts flying around inside the Henge…

  “Where’s Faydra?”

  “She’s with Mama Dragon. Told me to pass on that Ari is safe.”

  Relief flooded through Fitz. “And Maks?”

  “Got grazed on the butt by a bolt from that Cauldfield, but he’s okay. Just be taking his meals standing up for a while.”

  She gave silent thanks that it hadn’t been the needler; she wanted to keep Maks as a friend for a long, long time.

  The tracks they followed abruptly disappeared, and broken vegetation showed where the shooter had veered from the path and plunged into the tangle of undergrowth.