by Nyx Smith
Maybe not.
As Shank led back through the condo toward the corridor, Piper's voice came to him over his headset.
"Time is oh-two-twenty-four," she said. "Condition Two."
That wasn't good.
Condition Two: Somebody injured. It had to be Rico or Filly, or Piper woulda called Condition Three, and that woulda been panic time because it woulda meant that Thorvin and their ride outta here wouldn't be on schedule-or might not be coming at all. Shank stole a glance back over his shoulder. Dok had caught Piper's warning, judging by the look on his face. Shank gave the old mercenary signal for double-time, pumping his fist. Almost in sync, the two of them leaned forward into a quick jog.
In the living room, Shank stopped, incredulous. Bandit was standing there looking around like a reviewer from Modern Condo. Shank cursed. "You're supposed to be watching the corridor!"
The shaman just looked at him, his face as blank as a wall. They'd gone over this part of the plan a dozen times, and Bandit still didn't get it. Shank felt a sudden surge of anger. Slotting sonovabitch. Frag it anyway. No time for jacking around. Someone was blooded-they had to move!
He hustled through the foyer to the corridor door, then immediately jerked himself back into the foyer and clear of the doorway. A female voice carried in clear and loud from outside. "Fuchi security! Throw your weapons into the corridor! Come out with your hands up!"
Shank glanced at Dok, standing right there beside him, and said, "We could be in trouble."
Dok smiled. "Glad you noticed."
* * *
It was always difficult to keep in mind what the others wanted. They designed complicated plans with ends he sometimes found obscure. Bandit ran with Rico and the others because the runs often proved interesting in various ways, but he was not used to concerning himself with others' desires. He had his own way of seeing the world. He knew that few shared his view of things. He understood that most looked at life in ways that were either flawed or illusory.
Why should he watch the corridor? He had seen it once already. There was nothing there of interest.
There was always the chance that something might occur there that might pose a danger, but he had never encountered a danger that he could not escape.
The problem, of course, was that the others lacked his ability.
Quickly now, he hurried after Shank and Dok. He heard someone shout about Fuchi security. Shank seemed uncertain, unsure of what was happening or what to do. "We could be in trouble," he said.
"Glad you noticed," Dok replied.
Bandit projected astrally, sized up the situation in the corridor, then stepped to the doorway, announcing loudly, "I surrender. Don't shoot. I'm coming out."
"Keep your hands UP!" a voice shouted.
Shank growled, but Bandit ignored that. One step more took him through the doorway and into the corridor. The two suits who had been out there before were still lying unconscious nearby. Four other suits had appeared. They were scattered about to the right of the doorway, crouching low like animals in anonymous gray skins, ready to pounce. Bandit supposed they were professionals. They certainly looked like they knew what they were doing. They all held guns. Submachine guns, in fact.
"FACE DOWN ON THE FLOOR!" one shouted.
Bandit nodded, merely to sign understanding. He also murmured words of power, the song of a spell, one of the first he had ever learned. The spell mounted and ignited the instant he finished pronouncing the final word. The suits' arms all suddenly leapt upward. The guns they held jerked free of their hands and sailed back over their shoulders. Snatched away by Raccoon's clever paw. The guns clattered to the floor some distance to the suits' rear. The suits, in that instant, seemed too astonished to do more than exclaim and look around. Bandit's second spell triggered automatically. The suits' pants jerked downward to around their ankles. Another of Raccoon's wily tricks. The guards jerked and swayed and stumbled around, now shouting in alarm, hobbled by their own pants.
Bandit turned and looked back.
Shank and Dok both opened fire from the doorway. The guards all staggered and fell.
They were just knocked unconscious.
Shank grabbed Marena Farris by the shoulders. Dok looked at him in wonder, then took a new hold around the woman's hips. Together, they ran for the elevators. The elevator doors slid open barely two steps ahead of them.
Rico and Filly were already there, guns drawn. Rico's pants leg was wet from about the middle of his thigh to almost fee knee. "Got a bleeder!" Filly announced.
Bandit got on. The elevator went up.
Dok bent to look at Rico's leg.
Time is oh-two-twenty-seven," Piper informed over Shank's headset.
Farrah Moffit heard the helicopter and had a fair idea of what was going on, but she decided to do nothing about it.
It seemed like the only sensible course. She was keenly aware of both her deficiencies and her strengths, and she was no combat specialist With only minimal training in self-defense, she lacked both the physical stamina and the instincts to meet a man or even a woman head-on in any kind of physical contest.
She had only an elementary knowledge of firearms. She would be a fool to offer anything more than the most token of passive resistance.
In the meantime, she gathered information, what little she could discern with her head hanging, her hair fallen across her face, her eyes closed, her body limp.
Her supposed rescuers had apparently disposed of the special security detail assigned to watch her, and had done so in rapid order. That made them highly dangerous. But not insuperable. She knew at least one of them was wounded. One was an ork. She'd seen him in the bedroom, along with an Anglo mala with grayish, razor-cut hair. And there was at least one female with the group.
Farrah remembered being carried at a run, presumably down the corridor from her condominium, and then the sound of the elevator doors opening. The timing seemed a little too precise to be mere coincidence.
Perhaps it wasn't sheer coincidence. Perhaps these runners had matrix support.
As the whoop-whoop-whoop from the helicopter rotors ascended in speed and volume, she wondered where these people were taking her, and then all at once the truth struck home.
She couldn't believe it.
21
Dok had the bullet out even before the chopper finished crossing the Hudson River, the wound patched and dressed by the time they set down in the blighted wastes of Sector 13. One thing Dok knew was how to be fast. Rico was thankful for that.
"The tranq should keep the edge off the pain," Dok said. "It's a local. You might need something more to get to sleep."
Rico grimaced, and nodded. The fire in his right thigh had subsided into a dull ache, kind of like a bone bruise, menacing, but nowhere near as harsh. He could live with it. He didn't have much choice. Gun in hand, he limped across the nine or ten meters from the chopper to Thorvin's van, then waited for the rest of the crew to pile in. Marena Farris was awake and walking but acting more unconscious than not. She was clean, no implanted microtransmitters, no snitches-at least none that Dok could detect The fact that they were all still alive and had made a clean break from the extraction site seemed to confirm that Farris was indeed as clean as Rico thought. Now, Dok and Filly wrapped Farris in an orange duster and together half-carried her into the van. Filly was sticking like glue to Dok. Probably a good idea.
Thorvin drove them to Sector 10 where they picked up Piper. She was good, null sheen. Then they took the long drive through the transitways up to the northern tip of the Newark plex, just across the line from the Passaic sprawl. The bolthole in Rahway had served its purpose, providing emergency backup and a chance for them to regroup. Rico did not want the place found out. Time now to change locations.
Thorvin parked the van in a dingy alley between the backsides of two sets of three-story rowhouses in Sector 20, a district called North Caldwell. Rico knew it as a working-class ghetto, home to wage slaves and the less violence-p
rone of the SINless who dominated the Newark plex. It was also the site of their new safehouse. Shank had arranged for the squat through his contacts with the ork underground. It was a shambles, and it stank, but it would serve.
They were lucky to be alive, lucky the run had gone more or less as planned, lucky to have eluded the air patrols over Manhattan, lucky that no pursuit had developed. And that wasn't all, Rico reminded himself.
He was lucky the bullet that hit his leg hadn't cracked a bone or torn any major arteries. Luck like that was rare enough to make him wonder about God, not only the Christian God, but other gods as well.
Looking forward to a few nights or weeks spent in a squalid whore of a safehouse was nothing to complain about.
Surikov was there and waiting. So were the pair of cutters on loan from Mr. Victor, assigned to stand guard. Rico paid them off and headed upstairs for a shower. He had no real interest in watching Surikov's reunion with his wife, and Shank could set the watch.
He'd barely gotten his shirt off before the bathroom door swung inward and Piper slipped inside. She didn't say nothing at first. She came right to him, slid her arms around him, and put her head to his shoulder.
He knew what this was about, and here in the confines of the bathroom, away from watchful eyes and people he had to lead, he didn't mind it at all. It was good to see she cared, good to feel it, know it. Rico's father used to say that a man without a woman was hardly a man at all. It took a woman's tenderness and caring for a man to really appreciate what being a man was all about. Without the kind of softness a woman could give, men turned into animals.
At a whisper, she said, "Are you sure you're all right?"
Despite everything, his leg, the situation, Rico smiled into her hair, giving her a kiss there. "I ain't complaining."
"You lost so much blood."
"Not that much. What happened in the matrix?"
"Too easy, jefe." Now she looked up at him, her expression worried. "The Crystal Blossom mainframe is Code Orange security, but the IC never came near me. I took complete control of the system."
"Maybe you're just good at your work."
"No one's that good. Or not many. And no one goes against Code Orange without at least tickling the IC. Not unless someone on the inside wants it to happen that way."
Serious guano. Piper wasn't popping off theories just to hear herself talk. If she said that someone must've set up the system to give her easy access, Rico felt obliged to consider the possibility. "Who would want it that way?"
"I don't know, jefe."
It didn't scan. No one had any reason to help them bust out Marena Farris. Fuchi and Maas Intertech had every reason to work against them. Both would be losers if Surikov got what he wanted. Prometheus Engineering might conceivably have reason to help, but Prometheus couldn't be involved, not yet, because Mr. Victor was only just making contact.
So, who did that leave as possible players?
One thought came to mind. "What about your contact?" Rico said. "The slag who got you the key into the Fuchi computers? Maybe he was on the inside."
Piper shook her head. "He'd have no reason to help me now. Our deal began and ended with the Fuchi cluster. The Crystal Blossom mainframe isn't a part of that cluster, jefe."
"Maybe L. Kahn did something."
"But he wouldn't help us now," Piper said softly. "Even if he had known what we would do."
Rico nodded. Pain and fatigue had him brain-fuzzed. If anything, L. Kahn would be opposed to the bust-out of Marena Farris because once Farris was free, Surikov could forget Fuchi and join any corp he wanted.
"You should sleep, amante," Piper said.
Her Spanish always came out awkward, like she had to force her tongue to work in ways it really couldn't handle, but the effort wanned him. Rico drew her head to his shoulder and kissed her, and took a breath to speak, but got no further.
From somewhere below came a sound like the thump of a silenced weapon, then a crash like a lamp being smashed, then shouts, Shank's resonant voice among them.
Piper jerked back out of the way as Rico turned and threw himself at the doorway. He grabbed up his gun in passing, not the Ares Special Service, the heavy Predator II, loaded with hard ammo. Any problem that had come to meet them here in the safe house would take hard ammo to put down.
The Predator's smartlink came on line at once. The targeting indicator whipped down the hall to the stairs as Rico darted through the bathroom doorway, dropping into a combat crouch, the heavy auto leveled in a two-handed grip. Nobody there. The problem was still one floor down.
When he reached the living room, he found Surikov sitting on the dilapidated sofa. Blood streamed down the left side of his head to his neck. Marena Farris stood squirming against the opposite wall, straining up on her toes, rasping, straining for breath. Shank had one big hand wrapped around her throat. Dok's face was red like it would pop. Thorvin and Shank together seemed to be trying to keep Dok from getting at Farris, like he wanted to kill her.
"Fragging slitch! I'LL KILL YOU!"
Filly stood at the center of the room cursing furiously and dabbing with her hand at her cheek, which showed some blood, like from a cut. She was the only one in sight with a gun in her hand.
"The slitch grabbed my piece!" she said, forced to shout to be heard over Dok's near-incoherent cursing.
Rico couldn't fragging believe' it.
Any of it.
He threw an arm around Dok's neck, dragged him back bodily, and flung him down hard, then put the muzzle of the Predator in Dok's face and shouted, "I'LL DO YOU!"
Everybody stopped dead.
And it stayed like that for a while, everybody hanging, waiting, watching. Rico had a rein on his temper, but it was a short one and they all knew it, including Dok. Rico waited till Dok's wide-eyed look of surprise and fury faded a little, then slowly straightened up.
Certain things had to be said, and they could only be said in his father's tongue. Never mind that only Shank and Dok had any understanding of Spanish that approached real fluency. The words had to come out It was that or start shooting.
He let them have it
"Fragging amateurs," he growled, once he found his way back to English. "You wanna get us all killed?
What the frag! What the frag?"
"Easy, bossman," Shank said quietly.
Rico let that pass.
It was too much, the sheer sequence of events, never mind the motivations. Never mind the how-come and the why.
Shank ran it down for him, anyway.
Apparently without warning, Marena Farris had clawed at Filly's face, then grabbed Filly's automatic, then fired it at Surikov. Farris hadn't seemed to know how to handle a pistol, so it was probably pure luck that she'd hit Surikov at all. While Shank was getting the gun away from her, Dok suddenly went off like a jet, which was the only part that made any sense.
Dok would boff anything with two legs and tits, but Filly was his special lady. The only one who really mattered. Man or woman, it made no difference-anybody who fragged with Filly was going to have to answer to Dok. Rico could respect that, but not now. In the here and now it was amateur drek and they couldn't afford it.
"Who's on watch?" he said sharply.
"I got the rear," Thorvin said, turning and walking out of the room. Rico turned and found Piper halfway down the stairs, just standing there watching, wide-eyed with shock.
"Take the front, chica."
Piper moved to the windows at the front of the room and slipped behind the heavy drapes without a moment's hesitation. Rico looked down at Dok.
"You got a patient."
Dok closed his eyes for a moment, like maybe he was holding back another fit of fury, then banged a hand to the floor before getting up and stepping over to Filly. Her little cut didn't look like a problem, nothing compared to Surikov's wound, but Rico said nothing. Going head to head with Dok over his lady would earn him nothing but trouble. You could only push people so far.
&n
bsp; "You're okay otherwise?"
"Don't baby me, dammit."
Filly was in a fine mood herself. She had reason, Rico figured. Her frag-up could've gotten somebody killed. If she'd been doing her job, Marena Farris would never have gotten her gun.
Rule Number One: Never lower your guard.
Rule Number Two: See rule one.
Rico turned to Shank. "Put her upstairs. Watch 'er."
Shank nodded. "Right."
Marena Farris said nothing. She was too busy trying to breathe. When Shank let go of her neck, she slumped toward the floor like she had noodles for bones. Shank grabbed her left upper arm, pulled her back onto her feet, and half-carried her up the stairs. Rico would get to her shortly.
First things first.
Dok was checking Surikov by then. Head wounds always bled like pigs. Rico had seen enough of them to know. The blood sometimes ran so heavy all over a person's face you couldn't tell a man from a woman. This one didn't look too bad. Dok soon confirmed his guess. "The shot glanced off," Dok said tersely. "Took some scalp with it. You'll live."
"It feels like a hammer," Surikov said at near a whisper.
"I got something for that."
"I want him awake," Rico said.
Dok hesitated, then said, "No problem."
Rico's leg was throbbing. It was probably more his own flaring of temper than anything else. Blood pressure, some drek like that. He found himself a chair and sat down facing Surikov. Dok stood up and said, "Look, boss ..."
"Don't say nothing," Rico growled. "You know the score."
"If that slitch-"
"You do what you have to do. Just remember the score comes out even in the end. And you ain't gonna get me killed."
"Dok," Filly said. "Just chill."
"I'm not gonna let-!"
"We both fragged up! Let it go!"
Dok let it go. For the moment, anyway. Rico looked at Surikov. For a slag who'd just been shot in the head, he didn't look too bad. A little pale, a little shook up, a little bloody. A few moments passed, then Surikov met his gaze.
"What's your story?" Rico said.
"Excuse me?"
"What the frag's going on?"