by Jake Elwood
Everything worked. Even the tingle in his muscles was gone. He was ready for action, just as soon as the woman made a mistake.
"So," he said to her, "what's going on?"
"Don't talk to the prisoner," said the voice from the other room. "If he talks too much, stun him."
"I don't like that guy," Jerry told the woman. She didn't answer, just tilted the stunner so the barrel pointed at his stomach.
The man's voice sounded familiar. Jerry couldn't place it, but he was sure he'd heard it before. He struggled to remember, then made himself relax. His subconscious would dredge up the memory, or not. Trying to force things wouldn't help. In the meantime he distracted himself by scanning the shelves, evaluating every box and parcel and can as a potential weapon.
The man spoke in the next room, his voice a low murmur. Then Cassie's voice, a bit too loud and tight with indignation. "You'll have to speak up. I'm half deaf from your stupid bomb."
She was alive. The knot in Jerry's stomach, the one he was being very careful not to think about, eased slightly.
"Cassandra Marx," the man said. "You are quite the pest."
"I'm just getting warmed up. Where's Lark?"
"The girl is nearby. And unharmed."
The knot loosened a tiny bit more. All three of them were still in desperate danger, but where there was life there was hope.
"We'll release her just as soon as you complete a small chore for us."
Cassie had to know she was in an impossible situation, but Jerry heard only unshakeable confidence in her voice as she said, "This will go better for you if you just let her go right now."
"You are concerned for the child," the man said. "I understand that. I have a son."
Just like that, his name popped into Jerry's head. Hiram Hearne. Jerry had never met the man, but he'd played vids from speeches and interviews during the frantic research of the last day and a half.
"My son is no longer a child," Hearne continued. "But I can assure you, my caring, my love, hasn't reduced in the slightest. My son put himself in harm's way trying to live up to my legacy. Trying to impress me. I am in part responsible for his current predicament."
Jerry grimaced as he recalled the details. In the wake of Lark's kidnapping the president of Skyland had announced that, since Jacob Hearne had become the inspiration for acts of terrorism by the Society, the wheels of justice would be sped up in an attempt to protect the innocent. The young man was now scheduled for execution within the week. The president had also vowed quite publically that the execution would go ahead no matter what. Under no circumstances, for no threat and in exchange for no hostage or hostages would the prisoner be spared.
Nothing and no one could save Jacob Hearne now.
"I had hoped to negotiate his release," Hearne continued. "You helped destroy that hope. So did Miss Carmody. So did that man O'Malley."
"Are you going to tell me what you want?" Cassie said.
"I can't save my boy," Hearne said. "I accept that. I can only ensure that his killers pay a suitable price."
Cassie didn't reply, just gave a disparaging snort.
"You are a professional, Miss Marx," Hearne continued. "Miss Talin was a professional as well, but you have deprived me of her services. Between the two of you, you and Mr. O'Malley have deprived me of quite a few of my best operatives. Even that insufferable child cost me a man. What remains, no offence, gentlemen, is amateurs. If I needed further proof of the difference between professionals and amateurs, you provided it tonight when I sent my people to collect you."
"They were pretty incompetent," Cassie admitted.
"I need a professional," Hearne continued. "Highstar is going to kill my son. You are going to kill his daughter."
Cassie didn't speak, just gave a short, dry bark of laughter, and Jerry smiled. Good for you, Cass.
"I am going to cut off pieces of Mr. O'Malley until you agree. If he dies before you accept my terms, I will start cutting up Miss Carmody."
There was a long, tense silence.
"Hally," Hearne said, "bring in Mr. O'Malley."
The sulky woman stood, her expression grim and determined. Jerry, doing his best to look defeated, sat up, drew his feet in, and prepared to rise. Hally stopped sensibly just out of reach, so he stayed in a squat and pasted a fearful expression on his face. It wasn't difficult.
She made a beckoning gesture with the barrel of the stunner. "Let's go."
Jerry shrank back.
"Oh, for—" She held the stunner close by her right hip where it was harder for him to reach and used her left hand to reach for his collar.
Amateurs, Jerry thought. Hearne has it right. He let her hand close on the collar of his shirt, waited for the first impatient tug, and then lunged at her. His left hand closed around the stunner as his right hand lanced toward her jaw, and he twisted the barrel aside.
It almost worked. Her finger squeezed the trigger even as his fist crashed into her jaw. She flopped back against the shelves and Jerry hissed as his whole left arm went numb.
Hearne didn't strike him as a man who missed many tricks. He would have heard the punch, the impact of Hally's body on shelf and floor. Jerry had seconds at the most.
He flung himself through the open doorway with no idea what he was going to do next. The room beyond was a lounge with padded seats built into one wall and an entertainment unit in the corner. Cassie sat under a window, two men standing over her with stunners. They gaped at Jerry as he charged in.
Hearne stood out of reach of Cassie's legs, his hand already drawing a compact red pistol from the holster on his hip. Jerry took in the scene in an instant, not slowing down, not missing a step. If he tackled the three of them he would fail.
The front doors were retracted, and he hurled himself through the doorway and onto a broad porch. His foot thumped once on the porch boards and then he sailed over a flight of wooden steps and landed on the sand beyond. He saw a couple of skimmers to his right. The sand extended flat for thirty meters or so and then dropped sharply away. A quick glance to both sides showed the ground dropping in a circle a few hundred meters across.
There was no time for more than a quick impression. He sprinted for the edge of the plateau, his left arm flopping uselessly and slowing him down. A stun shot sizzled past his right shoulder. The next shot hit him somewhere on his left arm. He felt it as a sudden cold rush across his chest and shoulder, and he stumbled. That saved him from the third shot, which went over his head as his chest ploughed into the sand.
In an instant he was up. He took three stumbling steps, then dove head-first over the crest of the plateau. The slope wasn't steep, but it took him out of stunner range for an instant. He crashed hard on his chest, skidded a couple of meters, then rose to his knees and right hand. He kept scrambling, forward and down, until he was sure he was invisible from the house. Men with stunners would be running across that narrow strip of sand. He only had seconds.
Forward and down he went, until his instincts told him he could stand without showing his shoulders above the top of the slope. A stun shot passed his ear close enough to make him dizzy and he dashed forward, using his right hand to hold his useless left arm tight against his side.
There was no cover on the slope. He pictured Hearne and his men running across the top of the little plateau, stopping at the top, taking aim …
Jerry dodged sideways, an instant too late. His left hip went cold and he fell, tumbling. Well, it was rapid progress, so he gave himself over to the tumble, rolling faster and faster, rocks bashing him, Devil's Weed tearing at his skin.
He rose, dizzy and disoriented, and shot a quick glance at the top of the plateau. There was no sign of Hearne. He'd be keeping an eye on Cassie. His two goons were clambering down the slope after Jerry. They took their time, he saw, careful not to stumble. Well, they could afford to be patient. There was nowhere he could go.
He retreated down the slope. The rotten egg smell hit him after about a minute. About time, he t
hought. He had his eye on a ridge of black stone just ahead and below. The idea simmering in the back of his mind wouldn't work if the air was too good.
By the time he reached the stony ridge he could no longer smell hydrogen sulfide. He was panting harder than he should, but that might just be the power of suggestion. He crouched at the top of the ridge and peered down.
He was on top of a stone wall that rose almost vertically and stretched for a dozen meters to either side. It was a five-meter drop to the next patch of weed-choked soil. Since he was still conscious, Jerry surmised that the air at his level was at least marginally breathable. At the bottom of the ridge, though, it would be enough to suffocate a man.
Timing, now, was everything. He crouched in place, breathing deeply, trying to oxygenate his blood. He ran through a meditation exercise, hoping it would slow his racing heart. With a couple of armed men clambering toward him, though, meditation was a challenge.
A dozen steps above him the nearest man made a face, then stopped, fumbled at his waist, and drew out a small oxygen mask. Jerry felt his heart sink as the man pulled the mask on. His plan – to drop into bad air and circle around while holding his breath – was going to fail. The goon could follow him.
The second gunman joined the first, and put on his own oxygen mask. They stared at Jerry for a moment, then picked their way down the slope toward him.
They can't shoot me, he realized. I'll fall down the ridge and suffocate. They need me alive. Well, that gave him something to work with. They had to come within grappling range, now.
Not that it was going to be easy. If they had any sense, one man would get close and the other would stun Jerry. The nearer man just had to grab him before his unconscious body could fall. Jerry thought it over, then stood, balancing on the very lip of the ridge.
The closest goon's eyebrows furrowed above his mask. He didn't like this development.
Jerry flexed his muscles one at a time, feeling the tingle of the stun shots fading in his arm and hip. He wasn't at full capacity yet, but he was still stronger and faster and more cunning than the average man. Would it be enough?
He would know in a moment.
One man stayed back, his feet a meter or so higher than Jerry's head, well out of range. He covered Jerry with a stunner. The other man, empty-handed, climbed down until he reached the top of the stony ridge, then came at Jerry in a rush. He would have to be quick; the oxygen masks wouldn't last long.
The stun shot, Jerry knew, would come as soon as the man reached him. He leaped toward the rushing man, catching him by surprise, and the two of them collided, chest to chest. In the corner of his eye Jerry saw the one with the stunner taking aim. Jerry threw his arms around his opponent's torso, swept the man up off his feet, and turned.
The stunner fired, the man in Jerry's arms cried out and went limp, and Jerry lost his balance, toppling backward from the ridge. He sucked in one last breath, held it, and tried to twist his body as he fell. He partially succeeded, putting the man more or less underneath him, and remembered at the last instant to jerk his arms back. The last thing he needed was to slam an elbow into the ground with the unconscious man on top of it and Jerry's own body above that.
Jerry's knees hit first, driving into the dirt, pain slamming through his legs and hips. The goon landed next, and Jerry landed on him, the impact driving the last precious puff of breathable air out of his lungs.
The world spun, he realized he was rolling, and he splayed his arms out, sliding to a stop. Fighting the urge to inhale, he rose to his feet, staggered back up to the fallen man, and dragged the stunner out of the man's belt holster.
The weapon looked undamaged. Jerry tried a quick shot against the stone ridge and wasn't surprised when the gun didn't fire. He took the man's limp right hand, wrapped it around the butt of the weapon, shoved a slack finger through the trigger guard, and sprawled on his back, the only position that let him point the stunner upward. Aiming was just about impossible with another hand wrapped around the gun, but Jerry did his best.
The other goon appeared at the top of the ridge, and Jerry jammed his own finger through the trigger guard, covering the finger that was already there. He squeezed, the stunner didn't fire, and he cursed, using his other hand to curve the man's limp fingers tighter over the butt of the weapon.
The goon above stared down at them, then made the fatal mistake of taking aim with his own stunner. It gave Jerry the second that he needed to get all those slack fingers in place and squeeze the trigger again.
Light flashed, the goon started to fall, and Jerry scrambled out of the way. Flesh smacked against flesh, and Jerry, panting helplessly, dropped to his knees beside them. Black spots swam in front of his eyes as he asphyxiated, specks that grew larger until he had to find the nearest goon's head by touch. Jerry ripped the oxygen mask from the man's face, pressed it to his own mouth, and sagged backward, staring up at the sky and just breathing.
In a minute or so he had his strength back, and he sat up. The goon on top, the one he'd stunned, had to be dead or close to it. The one underneath was struggling weakly, trying to push his companion off. Jerry watched him for a moment, wondering if he could save both men. But Lark and Cassie were somewhere up the hill, with a man who was planning to mutilate Lark, and these two planned to help him.
Jerry stood, leaned over the struggling man, and tore away his oxygen mask. Then he walked away and didn't look back.
As it turned out, his ruthlessness was necessary. By the time he walked to the end of the stony ridge and started to climb, the mask he wore was exhausted. He tossed it aside, pulled on the second mask, and climbed out of the toxic zone. Heading straight for the house was just asking for trouble, so he moved laterally and finally poked his head up over the crest a couple of hundred meters from where he'd gone down.
The front door was shut, and steel shutters now covered the windows.
Jerry stared at the house for a couple of long minutes, thinking. Cassie and Lark were there, such a short distance away, maddeningly out of reach. Hearne was in there with Hally, both of them armed. Jerry had only his bare hands.
He weighed his options, trying to tell himself there was something he could do. There wasn't. Without tools he couldn't even steal one of the vehicles. Finally, bitterly, he walked back down the hill until the house was out of sight. Then he turned and set out at a brisk walk, hiking parallel to the top of the slope. Sooner or later he had to reach a settlement of some kind. With no idea how far he had to walk, he knew it would be best to conserve his strength.
His good intentions lasted for a couple of dozen paces. Then he started to run.
Chapter 19
Cassie settled herself behind the controls of an open-topped flitter that had blood all over the seats in the back. She wanted to take a moment to think about what was happening, to weigh her options before she took off. The flitter rose automatically, though. The little strip of land with Hearne's hideout faded into the distance behind her and she could only watch, helpless.
She wanted to take control of the vehicle, swing around, and smash her way back into the house. Break Hearne's neck and find Cassie. And Jerry, if he was still there. It wouldn't work, though. Hearne would know she was coming before she finished turning the flitter around.
Her jumpsuit chafed her neck, and she hooked a finger in the collar, tugging. Immediately Hearne's voice spoke in her ear. "Leave the suit alone, Miss Marx, or Miss Carmody will regret it."
Cassie grimaced. The jumpsuit was fitted with a hodgepodge of spy gear. She'd spotted a dozen micro-cameras on her chest, stomach, and arms, broadcasting everything she did to Hearne. Lark would remain in good health only as long as Cassie continued to behave.
Hearne claimed he had Jerry as well. He'd showed her a live camera feed of Lark, though. After Jerry had charged through the room and out the front door Hearne had showed her nothing at all to prove his claim that he'd recaptured the bounty hunter. Jerry was dead, or he was at large. Cassie was almo
st certain of it.
She chose to believe he had escaped. It kept despair at bay. He was tough and fast and smart and determined, and although Cassie hated to trust anyone, she decided to put her faith in him.
She had to. The alternative was unthinkable.
"Remember. Walk away from the car as soon as it lands."
Cassie nodded irritably. The car was well-known to the cops. It was the vehicle they'd used to kidnap Lark. Cassie couldn't help smiling to herself as she thought about it. How in space had Lark managed to get herself kidnapped in Kaia Highstar's clothes? The girl was going to have an interesting story to tell, if both of them survived.
Her ears still rang, but the sound was fading. When she rubbed her palms together she could hear the rustle, faintly. She had no trouble hearing Hearne as he said, "Your package was just delivered. Everything you need will be there. You remember where to pick it up?"
"I remember. I'm a professional, aren't I?"
"You better be," Hearne told her. "Miss Carmody's life depends on it."
It was possible, Cassie reflected, that he would actually let Lark go. After all, Hearne saw himself as a hero, putting himself at risk to free all the citizens of Zemoth from the tyranny of Skyland. He didn't actually want to hurt a groundsider.
As threads of hope went it was a fragile one. It was all Cassie had, so she clung to it.
"Never mind the girl." Hearne might have been reading her mind. "Concentrate on the job. You punish the guilty, and I won't bother punishing the innocent."
Kaia Highstar, of course, was guilty of nothing, but there was no point in arguing with a fanatic. Cassie muttered, "Fine," and took his advice, closing her eyes and thinking about the task ahead of her. Fantasies of strangling Hearne kept intruding, but she made herself concentrate.
Her task was simple. She had to shoot Kaia Highstar.
It would, without doubt, be the ugliest thing she'd ever done. And it might not save Lark. But the alternative was worse. Hearne had explained it without a glimmer of emotion in those dead eyes. Plan A was Cassie. Plan B was a bomb. He'd showed her the raw materials so she knew he wasn't bluffing.