The Rippers froze. He could see that they were frightened by the shotgun’s blast. Hell, it had scared him. One looked at him and opened his hands. The Ripper smiled reassuringly. Travis would have been a lot more at ease if he hadn’t revealed rusting steel teeth. They looked very sharp.
“Where’s the girl?” Travis demanded.
“Wha’ girl, man?” said Steelteeth.
Travis pointed the shotgun right at him and worked the pump. “I’m not here to play Million Dollar Quizquest. I want the Gruber girl you kidnapped and I want her now!”
“Man, you’re mad. We didn’t kidnap no Gruber girl. Wha’ you talkin’ ’bout?”
He looked around at the others. They were smaller than Steelteeth but dressed in the same uniform of leather waistcoats, studded armbands and denim. Like Steelteeth they had all-over body tattoos depicting their internal organs and skeletons. Heavy biker helmets with glittering internal LEDs lay on the table. He wondered how they kept those ash-blonde mohicans so erect wearing helmets like that.
Travis jerked the gun in their direction.
“Up against the wall!” he roared. They backed off. “Assume the position!” They did.
“You’ll pay for this, man,” said Steelteeth. “When the Mask hears ’bout this, your life’ll be over.”
“Yeah, I’m just quivering in my little pink booties,” Travis assured him, divesting the punks of weapons and cuffing them to their chairs. He wondered how much time he had left before someone investigated the shooting. Lots probably; few people in NoGo took much interest in what didn’t concern them.
“Turn around,” said Travis. They turned to look at him, and he picked up one of the helmets in his claw. Must look like friggin’ Hamlet on the battlements, he thought.
“We can do this the easy way or we can do this the hard way,” he said gleefully, because he had always wanted to say it. “First I’ll give you a little demonstration of the hard way.”
He closed his claw, crushing the re-enforced helmet like an egg-shell. There was a horrible grinding, splintering noise as it shattered. Travis opened his fingers like a showman.
“Now that could be any one of your empty heads.” He stared at Steelteeth and dropped his gaze below waist level. “Or it could be another region of your anatomy.”
Steelteeth’s mouth was hanging open. “She’s…”
“Shut-up,” hissed another one, a small muscular man with one red, glowing artificial eye. “Mask’ll kill us if you tell. Can’t you see this guy’s an Op?”
“Mask can kill you later,” said Travis. “Or I can kill you now. Makes no odds to me. I’ll probably collect bounty on you anyway.”
Red-eye looked crestfallen. Steelteeth jerked his head in the direction of the room’s other doorway.
“Much obliged,” said Travis, strolling through the door. He barely parried the baseball bat that arced towards his face with the stock of the shotgun.
“What the…?” he said and banged his assailant just hard enough on the side of the head. She slid to the ground, blood emerging from her mouth.
“Debbie Gruber?” enquired Travis, looking around the room. It was small and smelled of stale sweat. The bed had not been made and the white sheets were stained. Posters of Marlon Brando, Sean Penn and Slik Donovan covered the walls mingling with pictures of Harley Davidsons and big Kawasakis. A full length picture of Rod Casey, this year’s hot Op, was on the door of the wardrobe, darts thrusting obscenely from its groin area.
In the streetlight that filtered in through the small window Travis could see that one wall was covered in small holograms of naked girls; all young, all posed, all with dyed blonde mohicans. Some wore nothing except a very oversize leather waistcoat with a devil’s head on the left breast. All the pictures had obviously been taken in this room.
“Debbie Gruber?” Travis asked again, checking under the bed and in the wardrobe in case she was hiding. No girl could be seen. Punks were lying to me, thought Travis. If so they’ll regret it. He turned to look at the Ripper who lay face down on the floor. A terrible suspicion overcame him. He turned the body over then slapped his face with the palm of his hand.
“Oh no,” he groaned.
In spite of the mohican and the tattooing that covered part of her body the girl on the floor was the heir to Old Man Gruber’s bio-electronics fortune.
“You’re gonna regret it, man,” said Steelteeth as Travis headed for the exit, carrying the girl under one arm. “Chick belongs to Mask-man. He’ll cut off your family prospects when he finds out you’ve taken her.”
Travis turned and looked at him. He spat out his gum so that it hit Steelteeth in the eye. Two points, thought Travis. My aim’s improving.
“Get a job,” Travis told him and hot-footed it down the stairs. Under the curious eyes of watching winos he bundled the girl into the passenger seat, cuffed her hands and strapped her in.
“You’re gonna friggin’ regret it,” he heard Steelteeth scream. I’ll bet, thought Travis.
He looked up at the winos. “It’s ok,” he told them. “She’s just into the exotic.”
The winos exchanged knowing grins and wandered off.
“Mask’ll skin you alive when he catches you,” said Debbie Gruber. “My man’ll chop off your…”
“Your man?” said Travis, looking over at her distractedly. He was watching the streets for signs of Ripper activity. NoGo slid past in a blur of neon and advertising holograms.
“Yeah, he’s the meanest grox in NoGo. You’re dead meat, whoever you are.”
“Jake Travis is the name, sanctions is the game,” he said, repeating the stupid slogan his agency made him repeat on their tacky video commercials. “I’m with Estevez and Blunt.”
“You’re an Op?” she laughed. “Cheez, fat-man, you don’t look much like Rod Casey. What happened—you swallow a rhino?”
Travis felt his face flush. He was annoyed that this slim teenager was making fun of his appearance. “Not everybody who works in privatized law-enforcement looks like some west-coast glamour boy.”
And, he added to himself, I’m a damn sight better Operative than that blonde fairy ever was.
“But you’re bald,” she said. “I’ve never seen a bald Op on the adverts. What’s the matter, lost your toupee?”
It had been burned during his last big crash. The flames had seared his scalp. He had sworn never to wear another, for any reason.
“You’re no vid-queen yourself, sweetheart,” he said. He thrust a finger at the picture of her that was pinned to the dash. “And you used to be a looker.”
“Oh, did Daddy give you that picture? He must have been really upset, it’s his favourite. Was taken on his yacht out in the harbour.”
Her face had taken on a look of venomous hatred. “How is Daddy and that rich bitch he’s taken up with?”
Travis checked the head-up display on the lower window. All systems were go except oil. Oil was running low. He could see the red icon superimposed on the building at the junction in front of them. It glowed next to where two teenagers were kicking a junkie to death.
“Mrs Gruber seemed like a nice lady to me, kid.”
“Oh she’s fooled you too, just like she’s fooled Daddy. Taken you in with all those airs and graces. Well she hasn’t fooled me. I’ll never live in the same house as her.”
Travis kept it casual at the corner, fighting down an urge to put the foot down and race towards the slip-road out of NoGo. By now the Rippers would be alerted and starting to search. Estevez had said that this car had been specially modified but he wouldn’t want to face off a whole gang of them in it. Also he reminded himself Estevez had said this would be a simple hostage rescue. He shook his head. Things had already turned sour.
He wondered if Voorman were about. He regretted the call he had placed to the agency telling them he was on his way. Calls could be traced, lines could be tapped, agencies have been known to be infiltrated by the competition.
“Hey, man,” she said.
“If you’re an Op how come you don’t drive an interceptor like Rod Casey does? How can I know that this isn’t some sleazoid kidnapping?”
“Cause Rod Casey is a friggin’ moron, sweetheart. Imagine taking an interceptor into the middle of NoGo. It’d be like driving a tank into your Daddy’s condo carpark, conspicuous to the max. You stupid? Why don’t you ask me why I don’t carry a sign saying: this man is an Op, please shoot him?”
Debbie Gruber looked peeved. “How much is my father paying you to do this, fatman? Is it worth your life?”
“Your old man’s paying a hundred thou. And you bet it’s worth it, babe. I’d rather face your boyfriends than both my ex-wives’ lawyers with six months alimony outstanding. Hell, I’ll even be able to settle my mortgage out of this deal.”
She was looking at him with a look of shocked horror on her face, as if he’d betrayed some high ideal.
“You’re not the least bit like Rod Casey at all,” she said. “You’ve no principles.”
Thank god for small mercies, thought Travis.
The first bikes caught him at the junction of Third and Bleaker, about half-way to the sliproad. They were big sleek Cobras, and they carried fairing-mounted machine guns. Some army clerk probably got rich shipping those to the black market, Travis thought.
Yup, welcome to the New American dream; big bucks for big guns. If you can buy, we’ll supply. Doesn’t matter if the money comes from narcotics, extortion or prostitution, the dealers ask no questions. Sometimes thinking about it made Travis feel ill. Is this what I fought in two covert wars for?, he asked himself.
He watched the big bikes cruise up behind the battered Civic. Keep cool, he told himself. They may not notice you. He watched them come closer on the rear monitor, keeping his hand near the weapons console. Let’s hope Estevez wired it right this time, he thought.
He cast a glance over at the Gruber girl but she was quiet. He could see the green numbers from the head-up display reflected on her face.
Not a bad-looking kid, he had to admit. Maybe the Mask would come after him. More likely he’d come for the million dollar ransom he would get after he was tired of his bit of Uptown ass. Well, we’ll see.
They were coming to some red lights. Travis was surprised that there were any still working in NoGo. Maybe they were kept operative so that the local gangs could ambush Uptowners who came downtown looking for cheap thrills. He glanced warily left and right but there was no sign of action. He returned to watching the bikes and they drew up alongside.
He could see the riders wore wired helms, linked to the weapons systems of their bikes. It was a nasty new development. Most bikes had head-up displays on the windshields of their fairings. He noticed one of the bikers work the clutch with his left hand as they rolled into place alongside him.
They were looking warily about. They were right on the border of Ripper and Skull turfs. The streetlight made them look faceless and mechanical, robot knights astride mechanized steeds. He noticed holstered auto-rifles protruding from their cowling just before Debbie started to scream and beat her hands against the window.
Damn, thought Travis, seeing them turn their heads in surprise and reach down for their rifles. The night traffic was light, there was no-one behind him. He slammed the car into reverse and drifted to the left.
“Shut the hell up. You want to get us both killed?” he snarled as the thumbed the weapons console. A pop-up turret emerged from the hood. The bikers turned, spraying the wind-shield on his side with automatic fire. He watched sparks fly as the bullets reflected from the heavy armourglass. Radio monitor told him one biker was making a call. Sending for help no doubt.
Rifle shells thundered from the reinforced bodywork. He knew that the Civic’s armour was not comparable to that of an interceptor. That it was only a matter of time before the bullets ate through and found the turret’s magazine. He hit the fire button.
Heavy-gauge slugs ripped into the back of the first bike. He hit the tires. He watched the back end of the bike collapse, then the Cobra tipped over to land on top of the rider who had been shooting. The other pulled away round the bend.
Suits me, thought Travis, braking then putting the car into first. He drove around the toppled bike, not wanting to risk his tires. They hurtled down the street. Now, he knew, pursuit would not be far behind.
He turned and shouted furiously at the girl. “Do that again and you’re dead. You’re right, my life’s worth more to me than a hundred thou.” He hoped she believed him.
“But…” she started to say.
“But nothing. I can always take your body back and tell Daddy the Rippers got you. I’ll probably get the reward.” It was a lie. No way was he going to top her but she didn’t know that. She huddled back in the corner and stared sullenly at him.
“Know something, man? I’m really looking forward to seeing what Mask does when he catches up with you.” I’ll just bet you are, sweetheart, thought Travis.
The gang caught up with them ten minutes later; four bikes and a turret-topped Renegade with a chaingun mount. Standing in the turret, like Hitler in a motorcade, was a thin woman with a chainsaw slung over her left shoulder.
“That’s Mary the Mantis,” said Debbie, looking really scared. “Warchief of the Skulls. She takes no prisoners.”
Travis put the boot to the floor. He didn’t like the look of that chaingun at all. One burst from it would turn the compact car into Swiss cheese. He could see the Mantis woman looking into the sights.
A beeper sounded from the dash.
“Accept call!” said Travis. The beeping continued.
“Accept friggin’ call,” Travis repeated, then hit the manual switch. Screw you, Estevez, he thought, you said you’d fixed that speech-reck circuit. Travis decided that he and the agency mechanic would be having a little chat if he ever got back. Didn’t matter if his Daddy was a full partner.
“Hey, man! You got some of Mask’s property. Give her to me and I’ll let you drive through.”
Debbie looked petrified now: she had her hand jammed right up against her mouth and her face was pale. Travis didn’t blame her. That flat uninflected voice was scary. It sounded as mechanical as an AI and just as remote from humanity. Travis looked over at her.
“What d’ya think, sweetheart? Should I hand you over?” Debbie shook her head very slowly.
“Last Ripper girl Mary got, she pulled the fingers off with a pair of pliers.” Her voice sounded very small.
“What’s it gonna be, man? You gonna give me the girl? Or will I give you the chaingun? Bimbette must be pretty special. Old Mask is turnin’ NoGo upside down for her.”
“I’m thinking about it,” Travis shouted into the mike. A tight bend was coming up on the right. He kept his hand over the weapons console, near the oil dispenser.
“Don’t think to long,” said the cold voice, without the slightest hint of impatience. “My trigger finger is gettin’ kinda itchy.”
“I’ve thought about it,” said Travis, pushing the lock-on button for the oil dispenser. “I’ll give her to you.”
He heard Debbie whimper and he hauled hard on the wheel, putting the boot down. With a screech of tyres, they slewed round the bend. Hope this streets like I remember it, thought Travis as they picked up speed.
He glanced into the rear screen and saw the Renegade drift round the corner, skidding on the oil as the driver frantically braked, trying to regain control. That was dumb, thought Travis. Kid’s an amateur.
Amateur or no, he saw Mantis Mary trying to bring the chaingun to bear. He flinched as he heard the eerie dragon roar of the weapon discharging a thousand rounds per minute. The intense flash of its muzzle flickered in through the screen and illuminated Debbie’s frightened face sporadically. Travis twisted the wheel. The Civic slewed to the left.
Two of the bikes had climbed onto the pavement in an attempt to avoid the oil. He saw them plough through what had been the cardboard-box homes of a few winos, then get back onto the road
. Oh oh, he thought, one of them has a rag-tube. Where do these punks get their hardware? I mean, a friggin’ rocket launcher. It never ceased to amaze Travis that some gangs had enough firepower to take over a banana republic.
Shouldn’t be surprised, he thought, throwing the car from one side of the street to another in an avoidance pattern, they’ve already taken over the good old US of A.
He was glad of the oil he was spewing all over the streets as he zig-zagged. He saw one of the bikes hit it as it jumped from kerb to road. It fell over and slid along the street, getting in the way of the two bikes who had taken the corner wide to avoid the oil. The driver had tumbled off before the other two bikes hit his Cobra. There was a screech of metal and then an explosion. The street turned into an inferno. Travis wondered what the biker had been packing. Napalm?
I should have stayed with the Company back in Nicaragua, he told himself. It was safer.
The blaze had spread across the street, igniting the carpet of oil that Travis had laid. He could see human torches emerge from the flames. He didn’t give much for their chances. He looked over at Debbie Gruber and was surprised to see a creamy smile on her face. She seemed to be enjoying watching the riders burn to death. “Fry, Skulls,” she cackled.
“You’re a real charmer,” Travis told her. She just gave him a loopy grin and turned back to watch the blaze. This kid is nutso, Travis told himself. Old Man Gruber is welcome to her. He had heard about uptown kids like her before. Getting cheap thrills from downtown ugliness. Things really did change when I was out of the country, he thought. How did it go so wrong?
At least the fire had cut them off from Mantis Mary and her merry crew. Just as well, another second and that chaingun would have chewed them right up.
He allowed himself a satisfied smile. That’ll teach the punks to mess with Jake Travis. He looked over at Debbie Gruber.
“Hey, fatman, why we slowing down?”
He looked back disbelievingly at the head-up display. He could see that the fuel marker had turned red and was a lot shorter than the surrounding columns. Speed was dropping fast.
Route 666 Anthology Page 23