Nanoshock

by K C Alexander

  We both turned toward the sound in unison, just in time to see two motorcycles and a souped-up racer shimmering in the heat still rolling off the streets. Couldn’t tell much about the bikes, but the racer’s colors screamed Kill Squad.

  Only one reason for them to be this far out.

  I whipped half around, seizing the open-mouthed Muerte by her low-cut collar. “You gritshitting motherfu–”

  “Tranquillo, Riko!” She threw her hands up on either side, chin up, eyes firmly on me in what I assumed was an effort at wide-eyed sincerity. “I had nothing to do with this.”

  I snarled in her face. “Bullshit!”

  Muerte apparently remembered enough to tell my everyday asskicking urge from bloody red rage. I was not feeling everyday right now.

  She didn’t move. Didn’t so much as blink. “Think about it,” she said slowly, calmly. “I need you, remember? I need Koupra.”

  “So you say.”

  The engines roared, rolling up on us fast. I spared them a quick glance – less than sixty seconds. Fuck, they were fast.

  “Believe me,” she said urgently. “I knew nothing about this, which means you need to get to cover now.”

  I didn’t have much choice. And there wasn’t much by way of cover – a few dilapidated cars that wouldn’t stand up to anything heavier than a 6mm and sharp corners leading to twisted back alleys and ratruns. I’d have to take what I could get, and figure out who to kill once I did.

  The first whoops and whistles reached us just as we both launched into action. Muerte ran behind me, close on my tail. I ducked behind the nearest car, rusted sides dented and flaking. Snatching one of my Cougars from the harness, I braced my arms on the roof of the car and waited. Finger on the trigger.

  One little twitch, and the 11mm would take a smeghead down; we filed off our trigger guards as a rule.

  Muerte didn’t cover. She stood by the back bumper, arms crossed, staring down the encroaching riders. Much to my surprise, they stopped at a reasonable distance – though they made damn sure to skid in circles, wheels screeching. Classic Squad. Showy in every way.

  Weapons out, they waited on their idling bikes in silence. We waited, too.

  When the sunroof opened wide, I braced. My first shot would set the tone of this whole thing, and I did not want Dancer on my ass if I could help it. I could hold my own better than I ever could as a teenager, but the Squad boss had gotten deadly refined with age. And a fuck-ton nastier.

  “Muerte.” A drawl. Not one I recognized, either. An emaciated man with the complexion of a Kongtown native leaned out of the gap, forearms loosely crossed on the car roof. He wore the same colors of the paint job – neon blue and crackling yellow, cut with black tags. His features, practically gray in the hollows of his yellow-brown skin, leered at her. Instinct told me that was his version of a smile. Not much flesh to dimple, but an affable sort of rictus.

  She wiggled one hand at him. “Rictor.” Rictus. Rictor. Of fucking course. “You’re about two blocks off turf, brodel. What’s going down?”

  “She is.” A nod at me. The bikers laughed. Didn’t know one, couldn’t see the other under her helmet. Gangs like the Squad see a high turnover – bodies rather than exits. I numbered among the few Dancer’d let go. Rictor waved his hand, dismissive to the side. “You wanna step out of the way or we gonna have to fight for the kill?”

  I bared my teeth. “What the shit are you talking about?”

  His sunken gaze turned to me. I heard weapons primed, clips set. One biker gunned the engine for no reason except it made his dick feel bigger. Muscled build, like a greaser gone to steroids, and his blue hair spiked up in a mohawk. The leer on his face wasn’t a smile. He eyed me like fresh meat and that pissed me off. More jackwagons who hadn’t earned the right. More disrespect.

  I’d get one shot to launch this thing.

  He’d be the first.

  Rictor raised his voice. “Ai ai, the infamous Riko. You know the older Squad still mention you?”

  “Yay.” I sneered at him, full twisted lips and a gun barrel. “If you want revenge, you’re about ten years too late.”

  He snickered, which prompted the others to laugh again. Fucking meatpuppets. Muerte shook her head. The exasperated look she gave me told me to shut up.

  I was getting real tired of that too.

  “No,” he said, still laughing. “No, no.” Another wave from his bony hand. Thick black rings covered each finger, chained at the joints. “Not revenge, the old bitch cut you loose fair and square. They swear you earned it.” He appraised me, or what little he could see of me over the car’s hood. “High praise, coming from the ladyboss.”

  I shrugged. “Don’t ever let her hear you call her that.”

  He grinned, all uneven teeth in skin and bones. “I’ll make sure to send your regards after we put you down.”

  I stared at him. Hard. “You’re trespassing. You want me that bad?”

  “It’s nothing personal,” he replied, lifting hairless eyebrows. “Your ass is up for grabs, and we’re going to take advantage of it.”

  Ah. Shit. I’d prefer it to be personal. “What’s your cut?”

  “The glory of throwing your corpse at the Mecca.”

  Muerte coughed. “Idiot,” she muttered.

  I ignored her. “Let’s think about this. Best case, you win, and then Shiva’s saints carve you and your pussy posse up into teeny, tiny little pieces.”

  He looked down at his thrumming vehicle. Two more people in there, I’d bet. Then at the bikers with Dakon Insurgents in open view. Nice assault rifles, just hybridized enough to cross over with submachine gun rankings. Chewed out rounds at well over a thousand per minute.

  They’d come loaded.

  Again, a careless shrug. “That faggot won’t push the Squad.”

  I laughed. Loudly. Mocking. “Aww, did somebody get bounced?” His lips tightened down to nothing. I wanted to rub my forehead, couldn’t take my eyes off them. “Fuckholes, please. You’re kidding me.”

  As if he had all the time in the world, Rictor lazily beckoned Muerte away. Again. Like he topped her in the ranks. “Step aside, nene. We’re going to seize major cred today.”

  The mohawk waved, front wheel popping up. Showy bastard. “C’mon, baby, let’s have some fun with this cyberbitch!”

  “We’re doing this now?” Muerte demanded. “Are you kidding me?” She took two steps toward the Squad.

  Rage swamped me. Jammed ugly fingers down my throat and squeezed my lungs until they burned. Rage and – I swallowed hard – blame. Hers. Mine. She’d turned on me. Right at Lucky’s doorstep, no less, where he’d witness every credburn the Squad dished out.

  Betrayal by an established runner, a hunt called down by a gang run by a longtime ally…

  So it’d all come true. Only this time, I put it together. “You cuntstain,” I growled. “You’re the source, aren’t you?”

  She didn’t look at me.

  23

  I kept her in my peripheral. One shot, right? But who? If she turned on me, I’d have to drop her first. If she didn’t, if she waited too long, I’d drop Rectum over there.

  Then her.

  Mohawk would have to wait.

  “Hurry that ass,” Rictor said sharply. “We gotta make some tread!”

  She stared at him.

  I stared at Rictor of the Bad Teeth.

  We all kept each other in our sights, periphery to periphery. My finger tightened. Legs braced. At least I’d gotten a recharge.

  Muerte turned to me. “Sorry, Riqa,” she rasped quietly. “We knew this was coming.”

  “Only because you tricked me,” I snarled, just low enough to carry her way. Up on his vehicular throne, Rectal looked bored, thin smile fading. I shot him a grim little smile of my own.

  “Come on, bebe. I told you there was shit on your ass.”

  “Didn’t know it smelled like you,” I said tightly. I flicked a hard look at her.

  She winked at me,
glittering red dimples sparkling.

  Winked.

  The nanosteel balls on that bitch.

  I had one decision to make and I had a nanosecond to make it. Leaps of faith weren’t my thing. A merc doesn’t eat on faith, and I had nothing else to go on. No gangland saint turns on her crowd for shits and funsies; whatever Indigo could give her, Muerte would be committing suicide by Kill Squad, which meant she’d obey. Couldn’t possibly be worth keeping my ass in her black book.

  My target snapped to her just as she grabbed a firearm from the small of her back. I lived, breathed, shit my role on this street; I was damn comfortable as a splatter specialist, but Muerte juggled her roles with fucking finesse. She whipped her weapon out so fast, I blinked and missed it.

  We were suddenly barrel to barrel, eye to eye, as I glared down the sights at the asshole of a fixer I’d let snow me.

  One problem, though. I packed a Cougar, and 11mm caseless rounds were nothing to sneeze at. But Muerte carried a TaberTek 42 Mini, one of the smallest submachine guns out there. Easily holstered, it boasted 12mm rounds and easily switched from selective fire to full auto. It was the weapon of blackops and wetworks everywhere.

  Sweat dripped down my back. Rolled down my temple. My heart slammed so fast, I struggled to slow my breath down. I was not ready for this. Was not prepped to go toe to toe with Muerte and her backup shitgoons.

  My own ex-Squad. Guess I should have been prepped for this much, too.

  I braced, taking three steps back from the car – Muerte in my line of sight and her crew still in my radius. Rictor held up both hands like he’d taken the fall on a carnival ride, rictus stretching ear to ear. “Whoa, whoa, little dead girl, don’t go taking my kill!”

  Muerte ignored him. I snarled without taking my eyes off her. “Eat my dick.”

  “Gonna try,” he drawled.

  Mohawk over there made tasty smacking sounds with his lips. “Muerte, darlin’, you come back here.”

  She smiled. Shitfucking smiled. Like that wink wasn’t bad enough.

  Muscles tensed in her arm, twitched at her gun hand. I couldn’t wait to find out why; rule number one: survive.

  I shot first. The moment she so much as blinked, I pulled that trigger and stomped on any goddamn shitshred of remorse that I had to do it. Fuck that. This was the way of the street.

  We’d played.

  We’d all lost.

  I’d be damned if I lost more than them.

  Except she cunting sidestepped. Like she knew I’d take the shot. My aim missed her heart and hit her left shoulder instead, just as that sleek Mini of hers whipped back around to Mohawk and fired. Batabatbat! The echoes raced along the deserted street, rebounded up into the dark.

  Three neat holes appeared across his forehead.

  He froze. Blood dribbled down the bridge of his nose. It mimicked the crimson flow seeping down the back of Muerte’s shiny jacket, but slower. Thicker.

  She swore. Loudly, fast. Less imaginative than me, but harsher as she leapt for cover behind the rinkydink car.

  I was wrong. So wrong. Gritting my teeth, I abruptly reset my aim and fired two rounds at Rictor. He ducked behind his reinforced shielding as Mohawk fell backwards off his bike. The greaser’s souped up machine fell over, engine ticking and one wheel spinning.

  Muerte’s back hit the car siding, rattled it. “Sangano,” she growled at me, rust on ground glass. It wheezed. “You fucking shot me!”

  “Warn a bitch,” I yelled as assault rifles and heavy pistols peppered the air. “I could have killed you!”

  Muerte laughed, pained and angry and high on whatever decision she’d just made. Selling out your crew wasn’t a great one. Bullets rocked the car frame, shook it bumper to bumper. Heavy ammo carved grooves in the softened asphalt on either side of us. “You missed,” she said with irritating cheer. She tapped the car over her shoulder, gun barrel clinking grating emphasis. “Guess I’ll need Koupra now more than ever.”

  “Making like you’ll shoot me is not the way to prove your sincerity!” I rocked up, forearms braced, and squeezed off a few more rounds. Engines roared – the remaining bike growled the loudest; too heavy. Practically rattled. I didn’t know much about mechanics, but I knew an overclocked joyride when I heard one. That thing would tear itself to pieces.

  Not before she tried to run me down though. Which was stupid, but made it easy to guess the plan.

  “Watch the car ramp,” I added tightly. “I got this.”

  “I’ll sit here and lick my wounds.” A lie. As the engine got closer, vibrating the road, she dropped to the ground and lay down a thick spread of cover fire between street and the chassis we hid behind.

  I say cover fire because ultimately, Muerte’s aim was better than mine and she knew up to date Kill Squad particulars. One bullet tore into dead Mohawk’s idling motorcycle, bounced around like a ping pong ball on sulfline.

  The word fire was too short for how pretty that thing went up.

  Rictor’s car brakes shrieked. The vehicle spun wildly, avoiding the ball of fire and smoke as the frenetic mass of death rolled across the road. Short-lived, but it left black tar in its wake.

  I jogged back a few steps, saw the second rider rolling in a dead straight line. Fast and hard. Helmeted, so she wasn’t entirely stupid. Just dumb enough to pop a wheelie, spikes in the hubcap glinting, and use the lower hood of the car like a jump ramp.

  She meant to jump us, force us to the ground, land and flank us from the other side. Probably shoot at us either from above or below with the short barrel assault shotgun she yanked loose from the strap on her thigh. Ballsy.

  Not smart, though. I’d called that one. I was already on the move before her front tire hit the chassis.

  Dimly, I heard Muerte screaming bloody murder – probably at me. Or at the fact the car crumpled beneath the combined weight of motorcycle, rider, and me. No idea if it pinned her. Would deal with that later. As the heavy bike jumped, I pushed off the windshield. It shattered beneath my boot, exploded in a spray of glass as I extended all fifty pounds of a nanofactory diamond steel clothesline – and about a thousand pounds of added force because I am that fucking good and this bricklicker’s flash was nothing but chumheaded ego.

  Her neck broke on impact; my arm-to-optics registered it the moment the rider’s body tore off the back of the bike. She flipped twice. The machine spiraled midair, I landed on the other side of the car in a mind-bendingly painful crouch and the rider’s body hit what passed for a sidewalk farther up the way. The sound of it, meaty and thick, somehow cut through everything else. Followed by the ragged crunch of metal scraping along the asphalt and tearing up layers of the stuff.

  All within seconds.

  Bullets stopped. Or maybe the searing scream in my head drowned it all out. That. Pissing. Hurt.

  I panted heavily, flesh hand braced on the sticky ground and metal arm fisted beside my knee. I didn’t dare shake it out. Couldn’t hug it to my stomach to keep the shitting metal from straining my shoulder any more than it was. Not with that car on the other side of the two Squad gangers staring me down, and the fate of my next few moments hanging in the balance.

  I refused to let that bonefucker see any weakness. I was going to be in enough trouble with Dancer’s Squad already.

  Slowly, Muerte eased out from behind the car. I saw her shadow as she stood, dusting off her legs. “He’ll run,” she said matter-of-factly. Like it was just another day. “Ass Wrecker over there doesn’t like any odds that aren’t rigged in his favor.”

  I stood with effort. My knees didn’t wobble; score one for me. But I was tired. So damn tired. Metal arm hanging loosely by my side, flesh hand clenched, I watched the tinted windows of the Kill Squad vehicle for what seemed like forever.

  Muerte stepped into line beside me. “In three…”

  The engine revved up.

  “…two…”

  I scowled as the streetlights rolled up the windshield, throwing back a mirrored shine.r />
  Muerte raised both middle fingers over her head. “…One.” Smartass.

  The car jerked. Backed into reverse, then spun out and peeled away.

  A little more of my weight sank back onto my heels. I shot her a look that I meant to be disgusted but probably just came across as what the tits. “That,” I forced out, “was the dumbest shitting thing I have ever–”

  She slapped a filthy, tar-sticky hand over my mouth, hard enough that my cheeks stung. Her fingers dug into the hollows beneath my cheekbones. “You,” she cut in, ragged steel, “shot me.”

  I bit her palm. Sank vicious teeth into flesh and tar.

  “Shit!” Muerte snatched her hand back, minus a patch of hardened asphalt and the chunk of meat between my teeth. I spat it out as she clenched her hand. “You are a crazy, crazy bitch,” she hissed.

  “Like you aren’t.” I wiped my mouth with the back of my flesh hand, likely smearing her blood instead of wiping it off. Grimly, I turned my back on the crackling remains of Muerte’s life.

  Not my problem. She’d made the call. What she decided to do from here was up to her.

  As for me, I could now count on the Kill Squad on my ass every step of the way. Dancer would show next. I was too fucking skilled a merc for her to risk any more peons, and now I’d all but challenged her to do it.

  The real question here, I thought grimly, was if Lucky would take their side. Cred was cred. Turning me in, skinned or otherwise, could be good for business. Unless I took down the Kill Squad singlehandedly, I wouldn’t come out of this smelling pretty.

  Another hurt, deep underneath the rest. A whisper that told me all those years counted for nothing.

  I clenched my teeth, bent to pick up my gun, reloaded it because obviously my day wasn’t going to get any shinier, and refocused. All I could do was try. Projection protocols repair, and – I winced, every step jarring ridged flesh at my left shoulder – maybe a dose of something to keep that shit locked down.

  If he let me.

  If he even saw me.