“Koupra didn’t give me specifics, but he said only one gang’s been offered it.”
“Shit.” Muerte. She must have leaned on her contacts, kept tabs on the pendejo on my ass. “Which gang?”
The Manticore lowered, once more pointing to the floor. “Kill Squad.”
“Fuck,” I growled. “Fucking fuck fuckity cuntsniffing mutants.”
I was boned. Boned, boned, fucked, boned. Whoever this guy was, he’d just reached out directly to the gang Muerte and I had pissed the hell off and offered them my head on a plate. There was no way they’d roll so far off-turf without a shitting good reason.
Both weapons returned to position, pointed at the window. Didn’t see much happening. Heard a shit-ton of commotion Greg’s way. “Swap,” I said curtly. He did. I covered the door instead, prepped to blow it the fuck up. With limited weaponry and no extra ammo. Just fucking great. “Is your badge on you?”
“No.”
I owed him more credit than I tossed him. I’d fix that later, if he survived this. “You ever face something like the Kill Squad before?”
“Don’t know.”
I gave it to him. Hard to know what the shit is until you’ve been in it before. “OK. Follow my lead and you may walk out with your ass intact.”
His laugh rasped. “Got it.”
I couldn’t risk looking back. Boots and jeers followed by bursts of gunfire came at us from both sides. I had to trust he’d hold his own. And my back. “Shoot whatever the shit comes in.”
“Christ,” he said hoarsely, and then we had no time left.
The door busted open beneath the kind of boot that could only belong to a heavy. Didn’t even stop to find out who. I had a bottleneck for as long as they tried to use the door, and I started firing before they considered blowing the walls.
Behind me, Greg hit my back, braced. I felt the recoil of his own discharging heavy pistol as more saints tried to swing into the window. Screams, blood, the whine of bullets too close for comfort – and under it, the faintest sound. A metallic clink.
I backed so hard into the detective, he stumbled. Turned into him, shoved him until he had no choice but to stagger towards the window. “Jump!”
“But–”
“Jump, asshole.” Firing back with my flesh hand, I grabbed the back of his T-shirt and practically threw him through the frame.
One.
A merc, midst of climbing up, shrieked as Greg’s flailing limbs rolled her right off the ledge. He shouted. A runner with bright red eyeliner dropped, clutching their arm, while another leapt over and caught a 12mm in the face for his trouble.
They were practically killing each other. Kill Squad grunts, then. Cannon fodder.
Two.
Leaping backwards out of the window wasn’t ideal, but the alternative sucked bad enough to risk it. I had to drop my Cougars to do it, but I twined my tech fist tightly in the back of Greg’s shirt and we fell together.
Three.
A deep, ear-rattling boom registered. The walls rocked as fire spewed out from the windows – probably tore through the floors. Casualties. Absolutely. Because saints, we’re assholes. And we get the job done.
Eventually.
The blast shoved us together into the other wall, searing my back. I felt the fabric of my shirt singe and then burn away; the CounterTech shoved into the back of my pants went white hot, branding its shape into my waist.
Only thing that saved my Valiant was its fire-retardant strap.
We both shouted as we fell ass over knees over balls down the alley gap.
36
Reckless grenades are a thing of beauty: used the way some smeghead had used that one, and I suddenly had less to worry about. But real mercs? The ones with cred and experience? They don’t run in like idiots. They wait for casualties. Either I’d wind up weakened, or competition would wind up dead – or both.
Somewhere in this mess, Dancer or one of her lieutenants would be looking for me. I needed to get Greg out of the line of fire before that happened. Preferably myself, too. I sure as necrotitties couldn’t take on the entire Squad, and wasn’t suicidal enough to try.
I hung from the ledge of an open window, fingers turning purple at the ends. Greg scrambled to get his feet on something – anything – to balance us out, my other hand wrapped around his wrist. I struggled to keep my tech fingers from overcompensating. A crushed hand would do neither of us any favors.
My meat fingers grated against the ledge. “Hurry!”
“I’m trying!”
“Get good,” I gritted out.
I hurt. My back sizzled. I had to compensate for every shrieking nerve that pulled when I moved anything below my neck, and Greg’s flailing made it worse. Pretty sure the back of my head had turned patchy, but at least I still had eyebrows.
No bullet holes yet. Small victories.
“Got it!”
My grimace might be mistaken for an encouraging smile; Greg took it that way. Ironic, given the smile he gave back looked a lot like panic.
Precariously balanced on the window ledge, he looked up, then down. His muscles strained, causing him to vibrate in my grasp. “Now what?”
I grunted. “See that narrow scaffolding?”
“No… Wait, yes.” Hard to spot. It hugged a narrow section of the wall, rusted down to the bolts. A good tug would probably detach it from its crumbling moorings. What I planned would probably break it in pieces. “Don’t tell me–”
“Grab it.” With no more instruction than that, I dropped him.
“Riko–!” At least he didn’t scream this time, though he turned real green around the edges. He flailed, smacked his hands and knees and feet and elbows and whatever else he didn’t tuck in, scraped them bloody. Awful. Really bad. He needed to condition up.
Except no way would I encourage that, I thought grimly as I wrenched my arm back up onto the ledge, easing my meat fingers. They throbbed. I heard metal clang, a shrill sound, then bolts tearing loose. The whole scaffold creaked, probably bent, and Greg’s shout cracked three octaves up. Another impact, and then silence. Nothing but the ever-present rush of a city that never fucking knows when to shut up and the murder spree up above.
As I braced my feet on the wall, I heard wearily, “You’re a bitch, you know that?”
“Are you calling me that because of my vag?”
“No,” he grunted. “I’m calling you that because I hope you go to hell.”
“You’re a bad Catholic.” I held onto the ledge, turned, bent so the soles of my feet pressed flat.
“Christian,” he muttered.
“Whatever.”
He stared at me, hanging from both hands by the makeshift bridge. His feet swayed over nothing. His fingers were flat and abraded. The fact he’d managed to keep some of his cool impressed me.
I’d never tell him. Asshole needed to go home.
“You aren’t–”
He obviously knew I was. As I pushed off from my wall, let go, I caught the other wall, skidded down that, and let go just in time to land on the collapsed scaffold. What used to be the top gouged into the brick, scored deep canyons. Greg shouted – most of which was prayer, I think, with some “Goddammit!” thrown in for extra bonus points – and swung wildly as the whole thing bent under my weight.
I crouched, held the bar under my feet for extra security, and peered between them at his panicked features. “Get a grip.”
“You are not funny!”
“I’m a goddamned riot,” I replied. I bent to grab one of his wrists with my free hand. He was too fucking heavy, and getting heavier by the second. My shoulder girdle twanged every time I had to carry him. Flinching, I jerked my chin over his shoulder. “You see that byway?”
“Holy Christ, Riko, n–!”
Yep. The amusing part of the whole thing was that he stretched out the oooooooo part of his protest all the way through the alley and into open air.
Gave it about a second before I stomped one foot
on the nearest side bar and leapt after him.
He landed first, rolled over and over, a blur of filthy blue and abraded skin. The scaffolding snapped in half under the pressure I put on it, clattered and shrieked all the way down. I landed near enough to hear him cursing every way he knew how, balanced enough on my aching feet to turn my crouch into a guided roll, easing the shock.
Everything about this pissed me off. The rapid beat of my heart, echoed in chest and ears, the dull throb in shoulder and ankles. Burns were probably my least favorite – my back screaming with every move.
And I wasn’t done. Not by a long shot.
I jumped to my feet, doing everything I could to shrug it all off. “Thanks,” I snapped. “Run. I’ll be in touch.” If I survived.
“Wait,” he wheezed.
I paused, crouched by his head, and set my CounterTech on the street beside his ear. Grimy, bloody, sweaty and half-dazed, he still managed to lift two fingers in a half wave. “You can’t take on all of them.”
I almost gagged. “How sweet,” I said dryly, and patted his stubbled cheek. “You can’t either, so go home and let it blow. And don’t,” I added as I rose painfully from my crouch, “stick your nose in this unless you want them shooting up your wife and kid.”
He blanched.
I left him prone and bruised, dealing with the imagery I’d left him and struggling to regain his equilibrium.
He’d seen Indigo, he said, but where? I should have asked. Too late now.
At the end of the byway, where it turned into another layer of dirty street, the usual crowd hadn’t dispersed. Why should they? The shootout, whatever it was, was happening above them. Maybe, at worse, a body or two might splat in the middle of a crowd, or into the street. Maybe debris.
Shit happened on the regular. Doubt anyone would care, long as it didn’t land on anybody. And had something worth pawning.
Crowds also meant cover.
“Riko!”
And cover would only work if I got there in time. Shit.
Valentine melted out of the crowd, a surprisingly effective move on his part. With broad, perfectly sculpted chest and shoulders, deeply bronzed skin, and white as ice short hair, he was not a man that looked like he could blend. The devilish goatee framing his mouth, like a fetishized desert fantasy, was black, contrasting in exotic flash. Every line of his beautiful body had been paid for – and perfection is expensive. He wore it well, used it well. Somehow, he didn’t come off as pretty.
He came off as quietly dangerous.
I’d never been so glad to see him in my life. My shoulders relaxed, just enough to let me rub my face, clear sweat from my eyes. “Fucking hell, Valentine, I thought you were Kill Squad.” I scanned the area behind him. “Is Indigo with you?”
Val shook his head, golden hoops at one ear glinting in faded daylight. Those were new.
Right. He hadn’t spoken with Digo yet. After all, he’d been freelancing for a couple weeks. And now that I looked at him, it clicked: he’d have no reason to run into me here.
It took a long time for the sun to reach this far, which also helped keep the heat at bay for a while. Felt good on my grimy skin. Cooled off the excess jitters. My grin tipped crooked. Rueful. With my Valiant strapped behind my back and my pistols all gone, all I could do was shake my head at him. “Your timing really is the worst.”
“Not really,” he said. Then he shot me.
The first round hit me in the shoulder, where the metal shape of my arm turned into flesh. It glanced away from the diamond steel, which shoved it right under my collarbone. Bone splintered, a visceral crunch I heard as well as felt. Had no time to scream, swear; nothing but leap.
I moved forward instead of back, temporarily useless arm flapping behind me as I went for his throat. Or so he thought I would. Val learned fast; I’d done this move on him before, surprising the shit out of him at the time. Expecting it now, he skipped to the side, lining up a second shot that would have put a bullet into my head.
I knew better. He and I both knew better. We’d each built solid cred, and so much of it had been built on blood.
I dropped to the asphalt and spun on one hand and one foot, lashing the other leg out. It collided not with his ankle, but his knee. The front of my shin bent inwards, pushed in with so much force that at first, he braced. Then his knee snapped to the side.
Wasn’t even close to fair.
He shot at me again. Went wild; hit my metal elbow as Val’s teeth clenched around the pain I’d inflicted. He didn’t do dampeners either.
I was so coming around on those.
The assault had already announced itself. People ran in every direction, some hitting the fringes to look up at the smoke. Brakes squealed and crumpled metal screeched as cars slammed into each other. A bicyclist went rolling ass over handlebars. Chaos as everybody got the fuck out of the way.
And there I was, bleeding from the shoulder, facing off against the one member of my old crew I’d never wanted to test in any way. I’d never even fucked him, much less fought him. Shit, we’d gone forever without arguing, either. Closest I ever got to a match was when he’d tried to block my access to Digo and I’d ridden his fine abs like a surfboard all the way in to Indigo’s feet.
I thought we’d been cool.
“You’re freelancing for Dancer?” My voice came out thick, hoarse. Pain, I told myself. Meatbaggery. I refused to be surprised anymore when somebody in Indigo’s crew tried to kill me.
“Don’t act so shocked,” he replied, that mouth quirking to one side. Not quite a smile. Not a scowl. Lines of pain bracketed each side, framed beautifully by his thin black goatee. “Some of us are serious about our cred.”
Ouch.
He braced most of his weight on his left leg, favoring that bent right. Unlike most of the mercs back there, he’d come prepped – tactical jacket, heavy pants with straps and buckles and pockets for his toys. No shirt under that jacket, which always amused me. It left that wide expanse of his chest and the narrowing definition of his abs and hip flexors bare. No tattoos. At least, not visible.
His lotus tattoo was white. Stamped on his ass, he’d said. I’d never asked to see.
One more reminder that mine had blown off. Figuratively and literally.
I eased down, hands low. The strain on my clavicle made my whole body tremble. It was already slowing, but it dragged me down.
And Val still had his gun.
My teeth bared. “You are making a mistake, Val.”
“Knew you’d say that.” He shook his head, hobbling back a step. Barrel pointed business end at me, he reached for something stowed behind his back. “I don’t understand why you’re so bitter. You know the laws of the street, maybe better than I do.” A surprising admission coming from him. “Nanjali was one thing.” He pulled out a short black tube. “Wasn’t convinced you’d pull something like that. Boss still worked with you, so I figured I’d wait and see.”
I watched him carefully. Gauged not his hands, but his eyes. Cold as stone, blank as ice. Not empty, not vapid, but precise and content. No regret there. Better yet, no pity.
“Heard some rumors,” he continued. He didn’t have to look to see what he was doing. Munitions specialists are experts with their tools. I heard a small clink.
A familiar one.
“Wasn’t worth it until one of the Squad came around.”
One.
I fought to keep from flinching. “How much is Dancer paying you?” I demanded.
“Nothing. Dancer’s not running this venture.”
Two.
That made no sense. Dancer was a hands-on leader, not a wait behind the curtain type. I narrowed my eyes at him. “Who?”
With an obvious flick of his hand, he rolled the cylinder my way. Like I’d play fetch. Like it’d be as simple as this – be shot or blown to chunks.
I was disappointed.
With a shake of my head, I turned and kicked the cylinder away. It whistled past Val’s perfect ear
, hit something I didn’t stop to see and clattered back and forth. I was already preparing to weave when I realized he hadn’t moved.
And the cylinder hadn’t exploded.
Worse, resigned amusement pulled at his features. Like he was disappointed.
Thoop! The awkward, vaguely uncomfortable sound of a monofilament net discharging. I twisted, swearing, and caught a face full of thin, tensile threads woven into a net too strong to cut. Way too fine to struggle free from.
A distraction.
I’d managed to dodge the bulk, but the thing had force. Hitting my face snapped my head back, forced my shoulders to follow. Torture ripped through me as my shoulder tore open all over again, and I hit that gutted cement like a sack of shit on a melting hot day. The burn scab ripped right the fuck off.
My voice strangled. The net spiraled as my face aborted its balanced momentum. It swung wildly, collided with the front bumper of a diagonally abandoned car and shattered out its windshield when the corner weights snapped into it. It left me staring up at city lights, roiling smoke and sparse patches of gray day.
No ads, at least.
Bright orange boots stomped into the muck by my face, splattering grime across my cheek. Fidelity bent over me. Orange cargoes and matching tactical vest was his thing. He even rocked orange hair. Because why the tits not?
“Rough day,” he said.
I sucker punched him in the face; fast right jab to the nose from prone.
He yelped, stumbled back. Val laughed somewhere out of my field of vision – a genuine sound that, as my chest choked on the list of growing hurts, caused another pang of regret. Of loss.
Bitches. Both of them.
“She punched me,” Fidelity yelled.
“You deserved it.”
I struggled to my elbow – my flesh one. Goddamn, the other hurt. Again. Always. “Hey,” I snarled, blowing dirt and slime away from my mouth. I fixed them with a glare I knew promised bloody fucking violence. “Quit yapping when you’re trying to take me down, you cuntwagons.”
Nanoshock Page 27