Sabercat (Tommy Reilly Chronicles Book 1)

by T. L. Knighton

  "That's a shame," Hatcher said, speaking around a hunk of meat. "I was hoping we'd have more opportunity to chat. Especially since you and I both know you're not here to talk about me and the Clans."

  Tommy swallowed the bite he'd been chewing before speaking. "Oh?"

  Hatcher smiled without any joy. It was like staring at a wolf viewing you as a meal. "Word on Earth is that you're on the outs with the Reilly Clan. I even heard something about a price on your head. Off the official market, mind you, but the price is still there. You don't speak for any Clan, even your own. So what do you want?"

  This wasn't what Tommy expected. After all, communications could be iffy between Earth and the colony worlds. Yeah quancoms existed, and could allow instantaneous communications, but they were expensive and a lot of places didn't use them for that reason. Especially for minor functionaries like Tommy had taken Hatcher to be. His was probably one of the few sailing the black, and Wyatt having one was surprising. Was this man closer to being part of the Clans than he thought?

  Still, his bad boy days had given Tommy one useful skill for a time like this. He could think on his feet.

  "Honestly?" he asked, a simple stall. It was only good for a few seconds, but that would be all he needed.

  Hatcher nodded.

  "I had something planned. I was going to try and trick you into releasing that gold so I could take the load. It was sweet deal with a nice rate that would have kept me in the black for months at the least, but now…"

  "Now?" Hatcher asked, looking smug.

  Tommy shrugged and said, "I picked up a legit load, so I don't need to fool around with Wyatt's gold anymore."

  "My gold," Hatcher said indignantly.

  "You said you wanted honesty from me, the least you could do is offer the same in return," Tommy fired back. "That's Max Wyatt's gold. For some reason, you don't want it off-world, and that's fine. I don't care. It's not my concern now. But let's not pretend it's anything other than what it is, okay?"

  The older man smiled. "Fair enough."

  He took a swig of the liquor, then asked, "But what if you hadn't been able to talk me into it? Then what?"

  Tommy took a sip himself. "Oh, then we'd have stolen it."

  Hatcher's guffaw seemed incongruous with the setting, but it seemed genuine.

  Through the laughter, Tommy sat with only the slightest hint of a grin playing at the corners of his mouth.

  As the other man's mirth subsided, he asked, "And just how do you think you'd pull that one off? It's a secured warehouse. They're called that for a very good reason, after all."

  "Nothing is impenetrable."

  "Please," Hatcher pleaded, "tell me just how you were going to pull this off? If nothing else, it'll help me secure the warehouse better."

  Tommy seemed to consider for a moment, then said, "Sure, why not? Here's what I would have done…"

  ** ** **

  Nikita Simonov checked his watch. It was almost time. For weeks he'd been working in this place, feeding information back to Igor who was transmitting it to others wherever. Nikita didn't need to know, and he didn't care. All he needed to know was what to do and when.

  The "when" was now.

  "Hey, Nikita? You okay?" one of the warehouse workers asked.

  Nikita shook his head. "Nyet. Stomach," was all he said. People didn't ask about stomach difficulty. They were afraid you'd answer and they'd learn things about the person's digestive system they never wanted to know.

  Sure enough, the other man nodded his sympathy and returned to work as Nikita made his way into the locker room.

  The Russian checked the space thoroughly before going to his own locker.

  For weeks, he'd been bringing in a large duffle bag and stowing it away. Whenever anyone asked, he told them about a junkie sister who was notorious for selling his stuff to a quick fix, so he always felt like he needed to hold onto a fair number of clothing changes, otherwise he might not have them when he needed them.

  For some idiotic reason, this explanation worked. Most of them came from Hatcher City where drug use was far more common, so perhaps they could empathize a bit. Who knows. He was just glad it did, since this plan depended on it.

  He opened the bag to reveal a small tank with a regulator and hose attached, as well as a micro rebreather.

  Quickly, he pulled the tank and mask out and closed the locker door as gently as possible, then spirited his items to the bathroom stall, locking it behind him.

  His selection of stall wasn't random, either. Almost every shift, he used this still, whether he needed to relieve himself or not, all to build up the perception that he preferred this stall for some reason. People tended to be creatures of habit, so either he needed to have no pattern of stall use—which was a hell of a lot harder than one would think—or he needed to intentionally set the pattern.

  With the door now locked, he sat the tank on the back of the commode. The design hadn't changed a whole lot through the centuries, which meant he had a nice platform behind the seat for the tank to rest on and keep it from being visible should someone look under the stall.

  The tank in its place, Nikita then ran the hose up into the vent sitting just above the toilet.

  He looked at his watch. Just a few more minutes.

  ** ** **

  Michelle's computer popped up an alert. It was time. She could have scripted this, automating the whole process, but she preferred the personal touch. This man, Hatcher, reminded her of far too many evil people in her life. She was going to enjoy doing this, and so she wanted to see it actually happen.

  A couple of keystrokes put her inside the warehouse's central computer. Inside, there were more firewalls and security layers around key protection points. She could have hacked them all as easily as some might breathe, but they weren't her target. No, her target today was relatively unsecured.

  The entire warehouse's ventilations system was computer controlled. They'd spared no expense on the system, using a Hessington 5000 system. To most people that meant nothing. In truth, it meant nothing to Michelle only a few weeks ago. She cared nothing about ventilation systems, except that the one giving her air was fully operational.

  No, all she cared about was the net. She cared about ones and zeroes, and little else.

  However, she had learned about the Hessington 5000 ventilation system because it mattered. It was a very high end system that did more than just blow cold or hot air as needed.

  The Hessington 5000 also had the ability to turn a vent into an intake, pulling air from that room and then blow it into another room or rooms. This was a good thing in laboratory environments where some rooms would be set up with scrubbers that could purify toxic air.

  The secure warehouse didn't need that, but they had a ventilation system that could do it anyway. Michelle wagered it was based around Hatcher's desire for the biggest and best, regardless of what he needed, especially since she found out that SolTech was a subsidiary of Biermann Industries, and therefore likely under his direct control.

  As interesting as that was, little of that mattered in and of itself. All that really mattered was that Michelle could make it do things, and with a few more keystrokes, it began to do exactly what she wanted. She owned the system, and that meant she was mighty.

  ** ** **

  Nikita felt the shift as air stopped blowing out of the vent above him and began pulling it. A quick look at his watch showed the switch happened right on time. A pleasure working with professionals, he thought as he opened the tank, sending the odorless and colorless gas coursing through the hose.

  He then placed the rebreather on and waited.

  After five minutes, he got up and stepped out of the stall. Slowly, carefully, he padded toward the locker room door. At first, he only cracked the door, listening carefully for any sounds at all. Nothing.

  Growing bolder, he carefully opened the door enough to peek through.

  Every person in sight had collapsed.

  Nikita
smiled to himself and returned to the bathroom stall. After all, he had to cut off the gas in another five minutes.

  ** ** **

  Cody sat in the passenger seat of the transport when his tablet pinged him. He pulled it out and looked. The message simply said, "Yahoo."

  "Okay," the engineer said to Johnny, who occupied the driver's seat. "Let's roll."

  Johnny nodded once and pushed on the throttle with his right hand, pulling back on the steering wheel with his left.

  The transport, a simple terrestrial model meant for hauling cargo within the bounds of atmo, bucked softly and responded to the controls, rising above the warehouse district. At this time of night, most of the warehouses were completely empty with the exception of a few night watchmen who were more concerned with the contents of their warehouses than what was going on a few buildings over.

  The secure warehouse was the lone anomaly, keeping a staff on hand around the clock.

  Because they were the exception, rather than the rule, that meant the chances of anyone seeing what was happening were greatly reduced.

  Cody knew that Johnny was hoping that "greatly reduced" was less than or equal to zero.

  It only took a few minutes before they were hovering above the roof of the warehouse. Without a word, Cody jumped out with a small toolbox and got to work on the large cooling unit.

  He opened the box and pulled out a power socket driver and a set of sockets for it. A quick eyeball of the bolts told him they were around twenty-two millimeters. A quick check of putting the socket on the bolt told him he'd nailed it on the first try. That's not going to happen again, he thought as he attached the driver and flipped the switch.

  The micro-motor whirred and the bolt spun quickly.

  Cody worked his way around the cooling unit until all the bolts were free, then pulled out his molecular cutter and went to work on the welds securing the unit. They'd apparently thought of this entry method and acted accordingly.

  Next, he motioned for Johnny to hover above.

  The pilot responded, pulling his transport above the cooling system and opening the newly cut doors in the bottom of his cargo hold.

  Smiling at his handiwork, Cody waited as the winch's cable was lowered. Already attached were two smaller lengths of cable, each rated to three times the estimated weight of this particular unit. The engineer ran both pieces of cable under the unit, then hooked them to the winch's hook.

  Cody flashed the younger man a thumbs up and the winch fired up, it's groan audible above the din from the transport's engines.

  Slowly, the unit rose upward, then stopped a few centimeters above the roof, then swung to the side for a dozen or so meters. As planned, Cody thought to himself as he stared down into the ventilation shaft. Its massive space may have been pretty open, but Cody hoped against hope that their inside man could accomplish this next phase.

  The concerns fled a moment later when the thin sheet metal ripped away, revealing a portly Russian man with a hooked nose and a warm smile standing atop a large step ladder. "Igor sends his regards," the man said in a thick accent.

  "Back at ya, buddy," Cody replied as he moved to unhook the winch and free the loading cables. There was a lot of work to do and not nearly enough time to do it.

  First, Cody was lowered into the warehouse itself, where he began helping move bodies. This was a heist, but a body count wasn't on the agenda. Most of these guys were working schlubs trying to put food on the table, after all.

  Then, he got out of the warehouse while Nikita pulled the crates containing the gold.

  Cody's job was to load the transport via the winch he'd installed.

  Since some of the larger deep space transports used a similar internal system to the one Cody had installed – though for less nefarious purposes – each crate contained a depression and attachment point at the top.

  The hook was lowered into the warehouse, where Nikita would attach the crate. Cody then raised it up into Johnny's transport, shifting from front to back to keep the load as even as possible, then adding another stack.

  Through it all, Cody had to be very precise, since the opening he'd cut was only slightly larger than the crates themselves. This was intentional, since the bars he would secure the door with would easily withstand the force of one crate of such a heavy metal, but two might be pushing it, and they needed all the space inside the small transport. That spot would be for the last crate, which they couldn't stack with this loading method anyway.

  "Hold for a moment," Nikita said as he positioned the last crate, then scampered off out of site.

  "Bad time for a bathroom break," Cody called down through the opening.

  It was only a moment, then the Russian returned with his bag and the used tank. Gas like this was controlled, and while it probably wasn't legally obtained, it might still lead to more problems down the road as it gave investigators a clue to tie this job to the Russians. Cody's earlier annoyance vanished, since he hadn't thought about that but this Nikita guy had.

  As the last crate passed him, he snatched the Russian’s things from the top before sending it into the transport.

  "Need a lift?" Cody asked as the transports doors closed.

  "I would appreciate it," the other man responded.

  With the doors closed and the gold inside, there wasn't any way to use the winch, but Cody had planned for this possibility. He flashed Johnny a signal.

  The young pilot then pulled the transport low over the opening to where Cody could open the back door. He then dropped down a rescue ladder designed to go from a third story window to ground level, then went around and got in the passenger seat.

  "Shotgun," he quipped to himself with a smile as he sat down.

  Within moments, the Russian was in the rearmost seat, pulling up the ladder and closing the door.

  "Now," Cody said, "Let's get the chafe out of here."

  Chapter 12

  Roscoe sat in his ersatz headquarters and watched and listened. The crew didn't talk much, so there wasn't much on that front. Unsurprising, really, considering. He'd done some checking and found that Reilly was on his third crew in as many years. Sabercat had a nasty habit of finding both pirates and other problems more than probably any other ship in the black, and that translated to hazards for the crew that Reilly couldn't afford to compensate them for.

  As a result, most bailed for safer employment. What he had on board now were people who didn't have any other options. That didn't make for a friendly, courteous environment much of the time.

  "Hey," said a female voice. It was refined, the product of quality education, but that covered most of the crew, but the distinctly American accent indicated it was Dianne Caldwell. "Did he get it?"

  "Yeah," replied a male voice, deep and husky, most likely the first officer, Harley. "It was dropped off yesterday, so we'll be loading up shortly and it should help us get by Port Control. For this leg, at least."

  "Good. Wyatt will be glad to hear it."

  That last spurred Roscoe's mind into overload. If Max Wyatt will be glad, it had to mean something was up with the gold, and that was bad for Hatcher, which meant it was bad for him.

  Roscoe looked at the subordinate running the bug receiver. "Get that transcribed so I can take it to Hatcher."

  After a moment, he added, "And make it fast. I've got a bad feeling about it."

  "Yes sir. By the way, we just got an ID on that guy Reilly met yesterday," he said, handing Roscoe a pad.

  He studied the information for a moment, then groaned. "Now I really have a bad feeling about this."

  ** ** **

  Much as it pained Tommy to say it, dinner was actually good. While it wasn't really an extravagant dish, it was at least tasty, even if it was vat grown. Hatcher's cook had some skills, to be sure, and the liquor was incredible.

  Too bad the company wasn't more pleasant.

  "Well," Hatcher said after several moments of silence following Tommy's tale of how he'd steal the gold, "that's
quite a story. Unfortunately, I've had your crew under surveillance since you hit dirt. There's no way you'd have pulled it off."

  Tommy smiled. "Good thing we picked up a legit load, then." With that, he drained the last of the Jameson.

  "Good thing," Hatcher replied. "Can I ask you one thing?"

  He nodded his consent.

  "How? How could you turn your back on wealth and privilege? I mean, do you like being poor or something? Do you hate money?"

  The question took Tommy aback for a moment, then realized to someone like Hatcher, his behavior was as bizarre as humanly possible.

  "Of course not" he finally answered. "I still like the idea of wealth and luxury as much as I ever did. What I don't like is the idea of having the whole world handed to me because of my genetic makeup."

  Tommy stared at his empty glass for a few moments before continuing, "I stood to become one of the richest, most powerful people on Earth if I wanted it, just because I was a Reilly. It's all that I had to do, and that jaggs me off.

  "My ancestors carved an empire out with their own hands. They worked their rears off, and they earned every single penny of it so their families would be better off, and we were. We were to a point where now, none of us really know how to make anything. None of us actually accomplish anything of value."

  He leaned forward, willing Hatcher to come deeper into his narrative. "I would love to be as rich as I ever was, but I want to earn it. I want to get it by the sweat of my own brow, as they used to say. I want it to be mine. Not my families, not the generous offerings of the Reilly empire, but mine."

  "I didn't turn my back on wealth, Mister Hatcher. I turned my back on hand outs. Whether it's government largess or family largess, it doesn't matter to me. It's the same thing."

  Hatcher leaned back in his chair and seemed to consider Tommy's words. "You realize that everyone takes anything handed out that they can, right?"