Freeman sat and watched, a nonparticipant, a spectator witnessing a disaster of his own creation.
The big explosion set off a chain reaction. Twisted pipes and fragmented walls marked spots where the buildings closest to the motor pool had stood. Flames covered the ground and the overturned vehicles.
Petrie appeared, surrounded by bodyguards. Freeman had hoped he’d run to the motor pool, into his line of fire, but the gangster didn’t cooperate. He seemed content to let the motor pool burn. He let his men run ahead and stayed behind, surrounded by his bodyguards. An army of men with guns and fire extinguishers swarmed at the edge of the fire, but Petrie did not approach it.
He’d made the mistake Freeman had angled for. Since the explosion was at the motor pool, Petrie expected Freeman to be on that side of the camp, somewhere hiding behind the flames and the devastation. Had Freeman approached from the east, from behind the motor pool, he would never have seen Petrie emerge from his dorm. But Freeman had hidden on a ridge overlooking the southwestern end of the camp. There, he only saw a glimpse of Petrie as he emerged from the dorms. As Petrie shuffled away from the motor pool, however, he moved into Freeman’s sights.
Dressed like a man shaken out of his bed, letting his safari shirt hang open as he buttoned his pants, Petrie searched the street for a saboteur. His brown hair was messy, his whiskers had grown halfway to a beard. Freeman was about to shoot, but then he saw something that caused him to pause. An old jeep rolled into the camp dragging a trailer. On the trailer sat his modified Bandit, his ride.
Freeman put the plane out of his mind and fired his rifle. The bullet struck Petrie’s right temple, flattened, and took the cheekbone with it as it exited on the other side of his head. The force of the bullet caused most of his skull to splinter so that everything above his grimacing upper lip splashed like thick soup against the wall.
Ray Freeman didn’t bother confirming the kill. He threw his pack over his back and carried the rifle in his right hand. Without looking back, he trotted up the ridge.
• • •
The question was not “if”; it was “when.”
They would come for him. Petrie’s army would come first. When they failed, Nailor’s soldiers would follow. Petrie’s men would come on foot, the attack on the motor pool had seen to that. They would hike up roads and walk blindly into caves because they were gangsters, not soldiers, and they knew nothing about mountain warfare and insurgency tactics. Mountain warfare favored small units that moved quickly and used concealment. In the mountains, snipers could take out entire platoons, and grenadiers could cancel companies . . . as long as the fighting stayed on the ground.
Petrie’s men didn’t worry Freeman. They would come with guns and rockets, unable to defend themselves. Freeman would hit them from far ridges and withdraw, attack and withdraw. He would hit them from the higher ground, and when he did not have the high-ground advantage, he would wait. Unprepared and undisciplined, the gangsters would fire blindly when they should duck. They were unused to dealing with snipers.
Freeman wanted to call in the Marines in Mazatlán. For the third time since he’d pulled the trigger on Petrie, he tried to reach Watson. When no one answered, he knew he would need to dig in for the long haul.
It was late at night. Wearing his goggles, Freeman could see clearly.
The mountains in the near west were taller and partially overgrown with scattered trees, tall grass, and cactus. He’d be able to hide from Petrie’s men on those ridges. Jungles would offer better cover and cities more protection, but a man could hide indefinitely in the mountains, depending on his foe. When the Unifieds arrived, they’d come with gunships. They would scan the mountains for heat signatures and search the caves with metal detectors.
Freeman covered ground as quickly as he could. He ran down one slope, entering the elbow between two steep rises. The moon showed above him. A few wisps of cloud floated in the sky. For Freeman, this was familiar territory—running from a larger force while preparing to kill their scouts. He’d introduced Watson to these tactics on Mars.
He wanted to stop and try the call again, but he knew no one would answer. Where was Watson?
He came to a steep climb and turned west, tracing the slope upward, farther into the mountains. He entered a dry patch with no trees or grass, just a few cactuses.
Freeman saw the bird before he heard it. Too large to be a star, too bright to be the moon, a searchlight stabbed through the darkness. The gunship floated through the darkness as smoothly as a train crossing a track. Freeman saw it and knew things had gone from bad to worse.
Not wanting to be caught in the open, he sprinted to the nearest ridge and hoped he’d find a cave.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-NINE
Location: Mazatlán, New Olympian Territories
Date: July 27, 2519
I knew who I was and where I was and what I was doing there. What I didn’t know was how I had gotten there, but I had a good notion about who had brought me and what condition I had been in when I arrived.
The doctor said, “We prolonged your coma to help you recover more quickly.”
I asked, “Didn’t it also make me easier to guard?”
The doctor was a young man, not even in his thirties. But he had an old man’s face, wrinkles, pale skin, and all. He was skinny, too. In short, he was a New Olympian who had not entirely recovered from his time on Mars.
He gave me a good-humored smile, and said, “I kept you unconscious to help you heal. If your girlfriend had ulterior motives, you’ll need to take that up with her.”
I sat up on the bed. The movement made my head spin. I looked down at my right arm and saw twin tubes running into it.
“Blood?” I asked.
The doctor stood. He said, “No, no, no. Not blood. That’s saline. We needed it to keep you hydrated.
“The air is dry here, and you weren’t in a position to drink for yourself.”
I squeezed my right hand into a fist, felt the needles dig into veins, and liked the feeling. “Am I a prisoner?” I asked.
The doctor laughed, and said, “Oh, Lord no. You can walk out of here right now if you can stand without fainting.”
“You think I’ll faint?” I asked. I pulled the sheet off my legs and swung my feet over the edge of the bed. My temples throbbed, and I felt bile rising up in my throat. Whether or not I fainted, I would puke if I tried to stand—and then I might fall.
“You might want to disconnect those tubes from your arm before you stand up. You’ll save yourself a few stitches,” the doctor said, the humor showing in his face. “If you prefer, I can find you a wheelchair.”
“I can just walk out?” I asked.
“You will get farther if you wheel yourself out.”
That calmed me down. I asked, “How long have I been here?”
“Should I send for your wheelchair?”
I put up my hands in surrender, and said, “I can be reasonable.”
The doctor said, “Eleven days. Do you remember what happened?”
I looked down at my gut. The doctor must have dressed me recently, the bandages around my waist were gleaming white and perfect. “I was shot,” I said.
Finding humor where only a doctor might, he said, “Your feet needed more stitches than the gunshot wound. Next time you step out of the shower, I suggest you keep an eye out for broken glass.”
I prodded the area where I had been shot, and asked, “In the stomach?”
“Well below the stomach. The bullet went through your smaller intestines, but it wasn’t the bullet that would have killed you. No, you almost died from an infection.
“We’ve cleaned the wounds, fixed up the damage, strained the bacteria from your blood, and pretty much set you right. Considering you almost died, I’d say you’re pretty healthy.”
I didn’t feel very healthy. I felt weak and dizzy. When I told the doctor how I felt, he said, “That, my friend, has more to do with the cure than the diseas
e. We got the bacteria out of your system, but there’s still a lot of medicine in your blood.
“Like I said before, if you want to leave, be sure to take a wheelchair.”
Feeling like I had no alternative, I lowered myself back onto my pillow and fell asleep.
• • •
The building might even have been a hospital eons ago. It was very old, with stucco walls and heavy arches. I suspected it once had something to do with treating patients, a hospital, maybe an asylum, maybe a rehab center. The walls were white and bare. The windows overlooked an overgrown garden and a backdrop of taller buildings. The floor was white.
I wasn’t in a room; it was more like a ward, a long and loaf-shaped room with a rounded ceiling and a floor the size of a basketball court.
I seemed to be the only patient but not the only person. There were guards outside my room. They didn’t have guns, not that I could see. They didn’t enter my room; they waited outside by the door. I got the feeling they had come to protect me. The only time I got a good look at them was between shifts, when new men would arrive.
They weren’t clones, and they didn’t dress like soldiers.
The day after I woke up, Brandon Pugh came to visit me. I knew him, but not well. Had it not been for him, I would have died in my hotel room, but I suspected he was the one who let the clone commandos in to kill me.
I played dumb. I asked, “Are you the person I should thank for this?”
He smiled. He had small eyes and a prominent jaw. He was heavy and strong, and tall . . . easily six feet and five inches. He said, “I arranged for the facilities, but you had better thank Kasara for bringing you here. I think she would have attacked those clones if you didn’t kill them first.”
“Where is Kasara?” I asked.
“She’s safe.”
“Where am I?”
“You’re safe, too,” he said.
“What about the summit?” I asked.
Pugh picked up a chair and moved it beside my bed. He said, “It didn’t happen.”
“Because of this?” I said, looking at my surroundings.
“Assassinations make people nervous,” Pugh explained.
“They also draw attention,” I said. “This place should be lousy with EME Marines.”
Before answering me, Pugh paused to think about what he should say. He finally said, “The local police are looking for you. They’ve searched the beaches and the camp. Mazatlán is a big, empty city. Hiding one guy in a big, empty city doesn’t take brains or effort. You find an empty building in an empty neighborhood, and there you are.
“The best-kept secrets are the ones that nobody knows. When nobody knows, nobody blabs.”
I asked, “What about the doctor?”
“On permanent call until you leave. You may have noticed how eager he is to discharge you. He doesn’t go home until you walk out.”
“He has a family, doesn’t he?” I asked.
“I suspect he does.”
“And they haven’t reported him missing?”
“As far as they know, he died. That’s what the police reported. Poor man was beaten to death on the beach.”
“By three Marines,” I guessed.
“As a matter of fact. His family is in for a happy surprise.”
“So who died?”
“Doesn’t matter,” said Pugh. “One of mine. He ran into an accident the day you disappeared.”
“No one came looking for me?” I sat up. The drugs had mostly worn off. I still felt weak—eleven days in a coma wreaks havoc on your muscles and equilibrium. Blood still rushed to my head when I sat up, but I didn’t feel sick this time.
Pugh watched. He didn’t reach out to steady me though concern showed in his eyes. For him, I was an investment. “Two people came looking for you. They met with the police, had a brief look around town, and decided the police had it under control. That’s what they told the police.
“One of them left. The other one beat one of my guys to death. You know that stiff they found on the beach? One of your pals did that.”
“Ray Freeman,” I said.
“Yeah. Big guy . . . not especially pleasant.”
“Where is he?” I asked.
“Now that is an interesting question,” said Pugh. “Freeman found me his first night here. He stole into camp and identified me as a man in the know.”
I interrupted him. “But he only killed one of your men?”
“One dead, one still recovering.”
“You got off light,” I said. “Did you tell him about Kasara?” I asked, not caring much either way.
“He figured that out on his own. Smart guy.” Pugh paused again. He no longer smiled. Now he fidgeted and looked uncomfortable.
“You had a deal with the clones who came to kill me,” I said. “I bet Ray figured that out.”
“Something like that,” he admitted. “My guys got them to the hotel. I let them into your room.”
“Was Kasara in on it?” I asked.
“No, sir. No, sir, not that girl. I had her convinced they were your guys right up until she heard the shower door shatter. She tried to run in when she heard the gunshot. Then you were down and they were dead and she was screaming at me to help you.”
“And you changed sides,” I said.
“Yeah . . . maybe. I guess I changed sides; maybe, it depends on whether or not you’re willing to work with me.” He didn’t meet my gaze as he said that. He stared down at the floor.
“Let’s see . . . you made a pact to get me killed. You stashed me in a hospital and kidnapped a doctor to take care of me. You lied to the police so you could hide me. I’m going to go out on a limb and guess that you’re a criminal.”
“A businessman,” said Pugh.
“Girls, guns, and gambling?” I asked. “Are those your enterprises of choice?”
Pugh said nothing.
“Where is Freeman?” I asked.
“Interesting story,” said Pugh.
“Where is he?” I swung my legs from the bed. A little push, and I would be standing. I had no doubt that I had the strength to stand. I also had enough strength to fight, assuming I was fighting a child or maybe a newborn kitten. For the first time since I woke up, I felt the stirrings of a combat reflex. The will was there, but so was the atrophy in my muscles.
Pugh said, “He went to run an errand for me.”
“Who did you want him to kill?”
“A criminal, a man not unlike myself.”
“Only more powerful than you . . . you wanted him to kill the competition,” I said. I wanted to say that Freeman wouldn’t do that, that he didn’t get involved in domestic disputes. He would, though. He’d made a fortune dabbling in the Unified Authority’s disputes.
By this time I was standing. I hadn’t exactly sprung to my feet, but I was up.
“You and I have a mutual enemy, Harris, a guy named Ryan Petrie,” Pugh said, sounding scared and defensive. “He made a pact with the Unifieds. That was why I gave you to the clones; I was looking for an ally.”
I didn’t care about Pugh’s selling me out; I had already dealt with it. So I was his price, I thought. Freeman accepted a job as a favor for me.
“He left a couple of days ago. We haven’t seen him since.”
CHAPTER
THIRTY
Pugh might not have been forthright when I asked about Freeman, but he rose to the occasion when I asked about getting home. He had a couple of lackeys drive me out to the airport at the edge of town, where I found 460 Marines and six transports.
My Marines had built a twenty-foot fence surrounding the airfield. Six Marines in combat armor met our sedan as we approached the gate. They pointed M27s at our windows and told us to get out.
As I climbed out of the car, I looked through the fence and saw three Jackals—particularly agile jeeps with armored turrets and stealth technology for confusing radars and missiles. The Marines manning those turrets had their guns trained on us. Somethin
g had happened while I was away.
One of the guards pointed his M27 at the guy next to me, and asked, “What business do you have here?”
I asked, “What’s your name and rank, Marine?”
He answered out of reflex. “Shek, Arthur, Corporal, sir.” The “sir” didn’t necessarily mean that he recognized me.
I said, “Corporal Arthur Shek . . . good to meet you. Who is in charge of this operation?”
He said, “Colonel Ritz.”
“Colonel Ritz,” I said. Ritz and I were old friends. I promoted him to colonel. “Okay, Corporal Shek, why don’t you place a call to Colonel Ritz and tell him that Lieutenant General Wayson Harris is here to see him.”
Shek was wearing armor, Marine armor; that meant he had an interLink connection. The interLink was a local communications network that connected Marines in combat armor. As the man in charge, Ritz wouldn’t only have an interLink connection, he’d have a commandLink that would enable him to look through his men’s visors and listen in on their conversation.
Now that I had identified myself, I had no doubt that Ritz was watching me at that very moment.
Shek said, “Colonel Ritz would like to speak with you.”
“That’s convenient. I would like to speak with him,” I said.
“Sir, you are cleared. He wants the car to return to town immediately.”
“You okay with that?” I asked my driver.
The men shrugged and climbed back in their car. Without a handshake or a good-bye, they drove off without me.
It was a warm day and a particularly bright one. My mouth was dry. Four of the sentries fell in around me as I passed through the gate. I stopped to watch the car back up. It rumbled onto the road and sped away.
Until Ritz or another senior officer cleared me, these clones wouldn’t see me as a superior officer. At this point, I was simply an intruder.
They all wore the dark green camouflaged armor of the Marines. The armor was very light, a full suit weighing about ten pounds. It wasn’t bulletproof or shrapnel-proof, but I couldn’t punch through it. It offered that much protection. Its chief virtue was that it was light, and it didn’t slow your movement. Heat waves rose up on the runway ahead of us, making it look like a puddle had settled on the tarmac, but that wasn’t possible. Six transports sat on the runway.
The Clone Assassin Page 17