Busted Flush wc-19

by George R. R. Martin

  Ray had known Jamal Norwood, aka Stuntman, for only an hour, and hated him already. He was a young, good-looking African-American with fairly light skin and more Euro than Afro features. Ray approved of his clothing sense, though his suit was a little too flashy and expensive for so young an agent. It was his attitude Ray couldn’t stand.

  “I’m Billy Ray,” he’d said, strapping down next to him as the Lear was prepped for takeoff.

  “Yeah,” Norwood replied, unimpressed. “Heard all about you. They call me Stuntman, but I’ve given up that shit. No future in it. Doubling for Denzel and Will Smith and low-life ghetto rap stars making the real money while my ass—”

  “I thought you were a millionaire. Didn’t you get that much for winning that crappy show?”

  “Un-uh, Carny. After taxes and agent’s fees there was barely five hundred thousand left.”

  “Carny?” Ray asked.

  “What?” Norwood looked at him. “That’s what they call you.”

  “My code name is Carnifex.”

  Norwood shrugged. “Not what I heard. Everyone calls you Carnivore.”

  Ray looked at him blankly, finally understanding a little of what Nephi Callendar had gone through all those years. Norwood fiddled with his iPod, and fell asleep a minute after takeoff. And he snored. Loudly.

  Ray stared stonily ahead as the Lear flashed west, wanting to sleep but unable. It seemed like forever, but took only a couple of hours. Norwood woke up after they’d touched down at the private landing strip outside the Biological Isolation and Containment Center, located in the middle of nowhere in the southeast corner of New Mexico, within stone-throwing distance of the Texas border, if you could throw stones pretty far. A jeep was waiting for them with a security tech wearing BICC insignia and the Haliburton company patch. Justice doesn’t even have the guts to show up himself, an unhappy Ray thought, getting unhappier.

  Stuntman wasn’t happy, either, as he surveyed the mostly flat, mostly empty desert. He was already perspiring in the morning heat. “Any place to get breakfast around here?”

  “Just the BICC cafeteria, sir,” the tech said.

  “Swell,” Norwood grumbled. “Nothing like government-contract food.”

  Ray was hungry, too, but he wasn’t going to bellyache about it even if Stuntman was right. They climbed into the jeep and the driver sped off down an obviously recent asphalt road that led from the airstrip to the containment center. BICC consisted of a very large, very ugly, very angular concrete building set in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by a gaggle of outbuildings that looked like a motor pool, storage facilities, and barracks. These buildings were enclosed by a razor-wire fence with a central guard station manned by more Haliburton cannon fodder. As they were waved through Ray looked down the fence line to where the chain link and razor wire had been smashed outward as if by an invisible avalanche.

  Norwood noticed it as well, and looked at Ray with raised eyebrows. “You’re not dealing with fake bank robbers now,” Ray said pointedly.

  “Bring ’em on,” Stuntman said. His grin was almost convincing.

  The Haliburton stooge accompanied them into the main building. At least it was cool inside, compared to the killing desert heat. They took an elevator down a half-dozen levels, Stuntman staring at the bloodstains that still discolored the elevator’s walls and floor. For once the newcomer kept silent, and Ray didn’t feel the need to prod him.

  The guide escorted them down a hallway with industrial-quality carpet that probably cost the taxpayer a C-note a square yard. He knocked once on the door at the end of the corridor, saluted sloppily, and slouched off.

  “You know,” Ray said to Stuntman, “he probably makes six or seven times more a year than you do.”

  “Yeah,” Norwood said, “but that uniform he has to wear just sucks.”

  Good one, Ray thought, and then a voice called, “Enter.”

  The corridor leading to the director’s office had been furnished in mid-twentieth century industrial, but inside was a different story. Ray pursed his lips. The decor here was a lot more luxurious than in his own office. He made a mental note to ream out whoever had let the decorator run amuck.

  “Ah.” Pendergast, the BICC director, was sitting in an expensive ergonomic chair that matched his teakwood desk. On the other side of the desk Justice occupied an equally comfortable-looking chair flanked by two straight-backed wooden ones. “Mr. Ray. Good of you to come—”

  “Yeah, good of me to do my job,” Ray said without inflection. He looked at the young, slim, handsome Hispanic agent sitting in the comfortable chair. The last young, slim, handsome, Hispanic agent he’d had to deal with had turned out to be a fucking traitor and Ray had gutted him with a glass shard. Ray hated to generalize, but he also hated to be reminded of bad experiences. If it hadn’t been for the Angel, he would’ve cashed in a couple of times during that particular dance. She . . .

  He gritted his teeth. “Hello, Justice. Hell of a mess you’ve got here.”

  “Yes, sir,” the SCARE agent said sulkily. His handsome features were marred by a lumpy purple and yellow bruise on the right side of his jaw. Probably why he was so pissy. “It—”

  He stopped, realizing that Ray was frowning at him, and rose quickly to his feet, flushing. He stepped aside clumsily and Ray took his seat. Ray nodded at Stuntman, who took the chair to his left, while Justice sank down into the chair on his right.

  “Right,” Ray said. “Agent Norwood”—he nodded at Stuntman—“Dr. Pendergast, BICC director. Agent Echeverria, head of BICC security. Now that we’re all comfy and we all know each other, suppose you tell me what the hell happened here.”

  Pendergast and Justice looked at each other, and Justice started to explain the sequence of events as they’d been reconstructed. It took a few minutes to tell the whole story.

  “So,” Ray said when he’d finished, “let me get this straight. You’re head of security with a hundred agents under you. Granted, most are contractors, but still—you couldn’t stop a little fat kid and an ace whose power is getting pregnant from engineering a breakout out of a multibillion-dollar facility with a high-tech security system? Is that about right?”

  Stuntman broke the silence with a snicker.

  Justice reddened again. “Their breakout was well planned—and they had help.”

  Ray looked thoughtful. “Oh, that’s right. Genetrix had her three kids. How old were they? Three days? Four?”

  Stuntman’s snicker threatened to turn into a guffaw.

  “Let me see her cell,” Ray said.

  “Why—,” Pendergast began.

  “Because I want to,” he said, interrupting.

  Pendergast sighed, then stood. “All right. This way.”

  “She had more help than her current brood, sir,” Justice said as they walked down the depressingly appointed corridor to an even more depressingly appointed room block that still showed signs of the recent ferocious struggle. “There were twenty-seven escapees, including nine from the high-security wing. We recaptured most before they got half a mile away—”

  “Casualties?” Ray asked.

  “Four dead. Two security techs. One orderly. One patient.”

  “Who’s still on the loose?” Ray looked at Pendergast.

  “Well,” the director said, “as you said, Drake and Genetrix. And also Sharky, Deadhead, the Racist, Covert, the Whisperer, and the Atomic Mummy.”

  Ray nodded, looking grimmer at each name mentioned.

  “Here we are.”

  They stopped before one room in a row of rooms. Ray looked inside. Cheery. The only personal touch was the dozens of portraits of kids set on wall shelves. Some looked normal. Some looked like nightmares. Most were somewhere in between. Frowning, Ray stepped inside the tiny room and picked up a framed autographed photo. Actually, it was two photos, side by side in a frame. In one the subject was model slim and beautiful. In the other she’d ballooned to elephant size. Ray got out his cell and hit the speed dial
.

  “Ink,” he said. “Oh, fine. Just great. Listen, get ahold of that fat chick from American Hero. The one that’s on the Committee. Tell her that her number-one fan has just escaped from a federal detention center and is traveling with an extremely dangerous killer ace. If Bubbles hears from her, we need to know about it, at once. Right. See you.” He turned off his phone, and looked thoughtful. “Whatever happened to Genetrix’s last generation of kids?”

  Pendergast hesitated a moment. “Deceased,” he finally said. “Old age—”

  “Old age, hell,” Justice broke in. “Two escaped with her. I told you the one we captured wouldn’t stand up to the grilling you put her through—”

  “We had to find Drake quickly—,” Pendergast interrupted.

  “And did you?” Ray asked.

  “No,” Pendergast said quietly.

  “Interesting,” Ray said. “Not only are you incompetent fuckwits. You’re also sadistic incompetent fuckwits.” He turned to Justice. “I want your report on these interrogations ASAP.”

  “Yes, sir,” Justice said stonily.

  Life flared on Pendergast’s face with a furious blush. “No one talks to me like that!”

  “I’m not no one,” Ray said conversationally. “I’m Billy Ray. I was spilling my blood in service before you tortured your first rat in Psych 101. I’ve encountered plenty of assholes like you over the years, Doc. Let me clue you in. Chumps like you are tolerated as long as you deliver the goods. When you fuck up, the politicians higher up the food chain will throw you to the wolves to cover their asses and find another white coat to run the rats through their mazes. Count on it. I don’t know what kind of snake pit you’re running here, but this breakout was engineered by desperate people. How’d Genetrix get so desperate, Doc?”

  Pendergast’s face had taken on the hue of someone who’d bitten into bad sushi. He was about to reply, but was interrupted when his cell phone tootled. He grabbed it, held it up to his ear. “Yes,” he said, and as he listened his face became even queasier. He hung up.

  “What?” Ray asked.

  “Four dead state troopers have been found on Interstate 70 outside Alamogordo. They were pretty badly mangled. One seemed partially eaten.”

  “Sharky,” Justice said quietly as Norwood grimaced in disgust.

  Ray nodded. “Sounds like a clue to me. Where, exactly?”

  “I’ve got the map reference,” Pendergast said, noting some figures down on a notepad, which he handed to Ray. Ray accepted the pad with one hand while hitting his cell phone’s speed dial with the other. He knew that they needed to run this down fast and he knew who to contact for help. Lady Black was in charge of the team securing the blast site down in Texas, and she had a bunch of aces with her.

  “Ray,” he said.

  “Yes, Mr. Ray.”

  “Since when have I been ‘Mr. Ray’ to you, Joann?” he asked.

  “Since you got to be the Man, Mr. Ray.”

  “Let’s have this pissing contest later,” Ray said. “I’m at BICC right now, but we’re headed for Alamogordo. We’re going to need Moon. Can you spare her, and someone to bring her?”

  “Are you asking or ordering? Sir?”

  Restraining himself, Ray answered, “Asking.”

  There was a short silence. “I suppose.”

  “Fine,” he said. “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome. Sir.”

  Ray broke contact, suppressing a sigh. More shit to clean up. He never thought that he’d piss off an old comrade like Lady Black. They’d both been in SCARE a long time, and she’d wanted the directorate herself. Truth was, Ray knew she’d be a better director than him, but he wasn’t in human resources. It wasn’t his job to make everyone happy. Suddenly, he looked at Pendergast and smiled.

  “Pack your knapsack and slip into your Birkenstocks, Doc. We’re going to Alamogordo.” He turned to Justice. “Get in touch with local and state law enforcement. Give them descriptions of all escapees, but tell them they’re not to approach if they’re spotted. We don’t need any more half-eaten state troopers. Just relay any info about sightings to us.” Ray looked back at Pendergast as the director made a sputtering kind of noise. “Something wrong, Doc?”

  “Why do I have to accompany you?” Pendergast asked indignantly. “I’m not a field agent.”

  “No,” Ray said with faux patience, “but you are the foremost authority on the escapees.”

  “Yes,” Pendergast admitted reluctantly.

  “I’m going to need that expertise, Doc.” He stood quickly and stretched. Action was right down the road. He could smell it. “You got fifteen minutes to get ready.”

  Pendergast stared at him.

  “You’ve just wasted five seconds.”

  Pendergast turned, muttering.

  “I sure hope there’s someplace in Alamogordo where we can get breakfast,” Stuntman said.

  Alamogordo, a town of thirty-five thousand about fifty miles from the Texas border, was noted for two things. The first, its proximity to White Sands Missile Range, had led to its Museum of Space History. The second, its proximity to Holloman Air Force Base, had led to a string of water bed motels on its main drag, as well as the town’s ubiquitous wild card theme.

  “I don’t get it,” Stuntman said through a mouthful of honey-fruit-and-nut pancakes. It was afternoon and they’d stopped at the first roadside diner they’d seen outside Alamogordo, the Interplanetary House of Pancakes. It had a billboard flying saucer on its roof being smothered by a deluge of maple syrup from a large upended bottle. Inside, it was unrelentingly cheerful with a shiny chrome ambience and a decor that a modern, cutting-edge bistro would kill for. And it smelled like pancakes and waffles. Unsurprisingly, the three of them had ordered breakfast. “What’s with all this space stuff in the middle of cowboy country?”

  Ray shrugged. “You can’t blame the locals. Much. They’re stuck here in the middle of Nowhere, New Mexico, hemmed in by desert on one side and missile range on the other. They can’t all work for the government. They have to make a buck somehow, so they latched on to Tachyon’s landing here back in nineteen forty-five.”

  “Nineteen forty-six,” Pendergast said around a mouthful of omelet.

  “Right.” Ray stared him into silence. “Forty-six. Even if they have to dress up as Tachyon imitators and perform quickie marriages, there’s worse ways to make a living.”

  “I guess,” Stuntman said. “So that explains the tacky gift shops, the T-shirt emporiums, the Famous Alamogordo Joker Dime Museum, Dr. Tacky’s No-Tell Motel and Wedding Chapel, not to mention the tours to two competing Tachyon landing sites—”

  “Which,” Pendergast pointed out pedantically, “are both nothing more than obvious tourist traps, since Tachyon landed on the base . . .” He ran down to silence as Ray and Norwood both stared at him. “Excuse me,” he added, after a moment, “I have to go to the boys’ room.”

  He got up and slid out of the booth. Stuntman polished off his sausages and held up his coffee mug as the waitress went by with the pot.

  “Here you go, hon,” she said, filling up his cup. Ray waved her off. His kidneys were already floating, and he didn’t know how much longer they’d have to wait until Moon showed up with her handler, as Ray had texted them to meet at the diner. The waitress turned, paused, stared. “Oh, hon—you can’t bring your dog in here.”

  “She’s not a dog,” the Midnight Angel said. “She’s a government agent.”

  Ray looked over the back of the booth and their eyes met and something passed between them. Ray didn’t know what it was, but he guessed that it wasn’t good. For a moment he swore quietly to himself. Lady Black knew that he and the Angel were on the outs. She could have sent someone else to shepherd Moon. But part of him was glad that she hadn’t.

  The Midnight Angel was taller than Ray’s near six feet, and roundly, richly curved. She wore a black leather jumpsuit that was tight as the skin on the now-forgotten sausages on Ray’s plate. Her long, dark
, thick hair was bound in a braid that fell nearly to her waist and, as usual, a number of escaped strands gave her a tousled look, as if she’d just gotten out of bed.

  The waitress looked uncertain. “Couldn’t you at least put it on a leash?”

  Moon, who currently looked like a German shepherd, growled at her as the Angel said, “We’re both with the government, ma’am.”

  “Well, I guess that’s all right, then,” the waitress said.

  Stuntman turned in the booth to look over his shoulder, and dropped his fork. “Holy mother,” he said in a voice that almost didn’t carry to the approaching SCARE agents. “Is that the Midnight Angel I been hearing about?”

  Ray nodded.

  “And you broke up with her? Are you crazy, Carny?”

  Ray nodded twice more. Stuntman wasn’t exactly right—he hadn’t broken up with her—but Ray wasn’t going to open that can of worms again. Not now. He stood, slid out of the booth. “Agent Norwood,” he said, on his best behavior, “agents Angel and Moon.”

  Moon wagged her tail as Stuntman murmured hello, essentially ignoring the caniform.

  “Care to join us?” Ray smiled winningly. “I know you have a hearty appetite.”

  The Angel smiled back. Stuntman snorted coffee. Ray felt his pulse accelerate as if Butcher Dagon had just turned into his fighting form right in front of him.

  “Thanks, Billy.” Her voice had a Southern accent that felt like honey on Ray’s ears. She looked around. “Your booth’s too small for all of us. Moon, why don’t you join Billy. I’ll sit here,” she said, indicating the two-seater across the aisle.

  “I like the way she moves,” Stuntman said in a low voice as she slipped into the booth.

  You don’t know the half of it, Ray thought. He looked at Moon, who jumped up on the bench next to him. The waitress, still dubious, nevertheless took their orders. The Angel got the He-man Breakfast with a side of biscuits and gravy, and she ordered a steak, rare, for Moon.