Freelancers: Falcon & Phoenix (13 page)

A
small shack
sits on the side of the dirt road. A steel bar rests across the road, blocking the path. Falcon glances at Phoenix. She looks worse than ever. For her sake, it would be better to break through the bar and blow past the guard shack. The humvee could handle it with no problem. For both of their sakes, it's better to stop and do things the right way. Having Freelancers come after them would be far worse than the soldiers in the Waste.

A guard steps in front of the bar with his hand held up. Falcon notes the pistols strapped to his legs and the sword slung across his back. Obeying the signal, he slows the humvee to a stop. Another guard stands on the other side of the road with a double-barreled shotgun in his hands and a long range rifle slung around his back. Even if Falcon did decide to break through the bar, that guy would probably put an end to him before he could reach the corner of the first building.

Falcon doesn't recognize either of them and only hopes they don't recognize him.

The guard with the sword signals for him to roll down his window. Falcon does as instructed. "Where are you coming from, friend?"

"Asian Empire," Falcon tells him, eager to get through this.

"You from here? You a Freelander?"

"I am."

"You know where this road goes?" The guard points back the way they came.

“Yeah.”

"So you know why we're a little cautious with you coming
this
way on
this
road."

The second guard opens his shotgun and snaps it closed for some kind of threatening emphasis.

"We ran into Marauders," Falcon says. "Had to take a shortcut." He motions toward Phoenix. "My partner got hit. She needs a medic."

Both guards look at Phoenix. The second guard approaches her and looks her over. Her skin is even more pale and her breathing is labored. He steps back and takes a look at the humvee. If the one door being nonexistent wasn't an indicator, the bullet marks riddled all over the armor, certainly, was evidence of him telling the truth.

"What do you think?" the sword guard asks the second.

"She looks bad. So does this thing." He points at the humvee.

Both guards walk to the bar and lift it up. "Get her there quick," the sword guard says as he waves them through.

Falcon hits the gas and races the truck along the road as dirt and gravel give way to concrete.

The first buildings he passes are smaller stores. People walk up and down the sidewalks, going about their day. The humvee rolls across an intersecting road, passing a few shops selling similar items as the outpost, except these shops are much larger. A truck is loaded with crates of various items.

Falcon does his best to keep his head down while scanning the area. If anyone recognizes him, they'll never make it out west. Of all of the places he's not welcome, the Freelands are actually the worst. A nation where the citizens self-govern is one where no one to give orders or halt his capture. The people here can do whatever they want. Whenever they want. Those in the race nations call it a land of lawlessness. Freelanders call it a land of freedom and opportunity. A place for progress without bureaucracy. Most people here are cordial as long as no one breaks a deal.

Contract posters are spread out on bulletin boards and electrical poles. Two very particular people exit a Freelancer Outlet. Even if the building didn't give them away, their posture and the way they dress are evidence of their occupation. Freelancers just have that look. Like they're always ready for a fight. He makes extra sure to keep his head down as he passes them.

At another intersection, Falcon watches a man climb an electrical pole. The man makes a few adjustments and a shop sign across the street lights up, [VIVE CASINO]. A few people stand under the sign, cheering and applauding at the bright lights. Others flock to it to see what the celebration is all about.

Falcon turns down the intersecting road and spots a red cross hanging over the street. "Just hang on," he tells Phoenix.

He parks the truck in front of the building and takes one last look around for recognizable or suspicious faces. The section of street is empty while everyone is on the main drag. With the coast clear, Falcon gets out of the humvee and hurries to the passenger side, being sure to keep his head down. He places his fingers on Phoenix’s wrist. Her pulse is weak. He places his ear by her mouth. Her breathing is shallow.

"Don't worry. The doc is gonna fix you up." He unfastens her seat belt and places one arm under her legs and another behind her shoulders. She doesn’t make a sound.

Falcon starts to lift her out when something metal presses against the back of his skull. The sound of a hammer being pulled back is like a bomb going off in his ears. The voice that speaks is even louder. "You know you don't belong here."

T
he steel barrel
of the gun pushes harder against him. Falcon slowly removes his hands from Phoenix and raises them up. "My..." He hesitates to say the next word. "Friend is hurt."

"That's gonna be you if you stay here much longer."

Falcon narrows his eyes. Something about the voice is familiar. He spins, knocking the gun away as his fist swings around to the head of the gunman. He stops at the last minute. "Stack?"

A grin lights the other man’s face. "Good to see you, Falcon."

"Man, I almost took your head off."

Stack's eyes drop down. Falcon follows them to see a knife pointed at his stomach. "Not quite." The black man holsters the gun and the knife into a dark gray field jacket. "What are you doing back here? Got a lot of Freelancers wanting your contract."

Falcon turns back to Phoenix and lifts her out of the humvee. A breath wheezes from her mouth as he holds her limp form. "They can get in line."

"You got trouble with another woman?"

"It's not like that." He starts to carry her toward the medic door.

Stack grabs the handle of the door and opens it. He gets a good look at Phoenix as Falcon passes through. "Is that Phoenix?"

"You guys know each other?"

"Friendly passings is all. You two a team, now?"

"We have a deal."

They stand in a small waiting room. Stack hits a bell sitting on the sill of a receptionist’s window.

A few seconds pass before a man in white appears. "Yes? How can I--Oh, no! Not you. You can’t be here.”

"Please, she needs help." Falcon turns Phoenix so the doctor can see the shape she's in.

"I don't need any trouble in my place of business. You need to leave. Now."

"Doc," Stack steps in front of Falcon. "She needs help. She's a friend. And I vouch for Falcon."

The doctor looks at the three of them.

"Isn't there some hipocritic oath?" Falcon asks with pleading eyes.

"It's Hippocratic." The doctor takes a good look at Phoenix. Her chest falls and takes too long to rise. Even when it does, it’s shallow. "This is on you." The doctor points at Stack. "Bring her in."

Stack opens a nearby door and Falcon carries Phoenix through it to meet the doctor on the other side. The doctor hurries Falcon into an operating room. "Set her there." He points to a table. Falcon does as he's told.

The doctor looks her over and sees the blood spot on her wet shirt. "Help me get her jacket off." He gently lifts Phoenix so Falcon can remove her jacket. "What happened? Did you shoot this young woman?"

"No," Falcon says. "Why would I?"

"I have no clue." He lifts her shirt. "But she has clearly been shot. I can remove the bullet but she's going to need blood."

Falcon starts to take off his jacket. "Use mine."

"Do you know your blood type?"

Falcon pauses. He hadn't thought of that. "No."

The doctor raises her shirt to clean and disinfect the wound. "Behind you is a refrigeration unit. Find a bag with Type O on it."

Falcon turns to the refrigerator and opens it.

"Type O. I cannot express the importance of that enough,” the doctor says sternly.

Falcon carefully rifles through the bags. A's, B's, AB's…

"Got it." He grabs one and carries it to the doctor.

"Hang it there.” The doctor points to a hook. Falcon does as instructed. "Now leave us."

"I'm staying--”

"Unless you are family you will follow my instructions and leave us."

Falcon wavers but decides to do as he's told. He walks out of the operating room and crosses the hallway to the waiting room.

Stack leans against a wall. "Well?"

"He says she needs blood. He's taking care of it."

"Think she'll pull through?"

Falcon nods his head. "She's strong." He turns toward the operating room. "Yeah."

Stack holds a hand out. Falcon takes it and the two shake. "Thanks for backing me up."

"Not like I had a choice."

"You're about to."

"I don't like the sound of that."

“Neither do I," Falcon says. "Make you a deal?"

"You and I got too many of those running."

"You counting?"

"Hell, yeah, I am."

Falcon smiles. "I need a few things."

Stack pushes off the wall and walks out of the medic building. Falcon takes one more glance at the door to the operating room. He doesn't want to leave but he knows the procedure is going to take time. Her just being able to move is going to take time. He follows Stack outside.

"What are you driving this thing for?" Stack looks at the humvee.

"A gift from McCord."

"Who?"

"We needed a ride out of the Waste. This one was free." Falcon opens the back door and reaches in. "You'll want to see this." He pulls out the odd gun.

"What is that thing?”

"I don't know."

"Definitely a weapon.” Stack takes the gun. "You fire it?"

"Not yet. I want to know what it does first."

“Take it back to my place. Come on.” Stack hands the gun back to Falcon and the two cross the street. "We'll go through here. Keep you out of sight." The two of them duck into an alley.

"The doc is right, though," Stack says. "You need to leave. Soon as you can."

"Soon as she's better, I will."

Stack stops at a steel door. It has no handle, window or anything that would allow someone to look inside. A combination lock rests on the brick wall.

Stack looks back at Falcon before spinning the dial. "You mind?"

Falcon turns his back. "This is the south side. What happened to your place up north?"

Stack carefully turns the dial once more until the door pops open. "I still got it. Since they opened up this casino down here, I thought it might be good to be closer to the table action." He pulls the door open. "You know. For a little extra spending money."

The two of them step inside and Stack flips up a switch. The room is lit up in fluorescent glow. Falcon shakes his head at the size of the place.

“Right.
Extra
spending money.”

"Watch your step." Stack walks past Falcon and down a short flight of stairs into the room. "My guess? It used to be a club or something in the old world. I figure it's big enough for my more prized trophies."

Falcon can't help but notice the two cars sitting in the far corner of the room. One silver. The other a deep maroon. Closer to the wall is a tarp covering something. "A little clean for this place, aren't they?"

"I always keep my girls clean. You know that." Stack smiles as he walks to a refrigerator. He opens the door and reaches in for a bottle of water which he tosses to Falcon.

“Nothing stronger?"

"How long has it been since you had even that? I could tell as soon as I saw you. You're dehydrated."

"How did you get it bottled?"

"Contracts. Don't worry about it." Stack walks to a table. Various tools sit in containers, neatly organized, on the surface. Stack takes a seat in the stool beside the table. "Let's see this thing." He reaches his hand out.

Falcon walks to the bench and lays the odd gun on the table.

Stack studies the weapon. "You say you haven't fired it?"

"Right."

Stack takes a closer look at Falcon then back at the gun. “You go for a swim with it?”

"Exactly like that." Falcon observes at the set up of the room. A couch in the middle. A bed in the corner. And four evenly spaced pillars with only remnants of a mirror finish. Falcon looks up to see half of a mirror disco ball hanging from the ceiling. "Wonder what kind of music they played in here."

Stack ignores the question as he dries off the gun. Falcon turns around, still observing the room. A short ramp leads up to a garage door. Below the ramp sits a dirty motorcycle. Falcon walks toward the bike then looks back at the cars with a puzzled expression.

"I know what you're gonna say," Stack tells him. "Me and that bike have too much history. No way I'd trade it. Not even for those lookers back there." He flicks his thumb at the shiny cars. "When did you partner up with her?" He continues looking at the gun.

"She's got my contract."

Stack pauses and looks up at Falcon. "After all this time. She's the one who got you."

“Sort of. I could have gotten away, anytime. I did on a couple of occasions."

"And?" Stack goes back to looking over the gun.

"I went back." Falcon walks to the tarp-covered object by the cars. "Not sure why."

Stack waits for Falcon to go on but the room is silent. He turns toward the cars and sees Falcon reaching for the tarp. "Hey. Don't be snooping around my place."

Falcon pulls his arm back and returns to the bench.

Stack glares at him. “So you went back and now you got a deal with her."

"She gets me west and I help along the way. That's the deal."

"You're gonna help her turn you in?"

"I want this contract business over with."

Stack sets the gun down. "So you’re just gonna go to the Ivory Republic? You know your contract doesn't say 'dead
or
alive', right?"

"That's my problem."

Stack goes back to the gun. "You plan on taking that Waste vehicle all the way? I don't even have to get close to it tell you that thing won't make it across a Native Line."

"I know. I need a car."

"Yeah, you do." Stack continues to look over the gun but stops abruptly. "Hold on."

"Stack?"

"Not one of my girls. Where's your car, anyway? Hell, where's hers?"

"We flipped it. And mine is--It doesn't matter. You gonna loan me one or not?"

"Just like a white man to take a black man's things." Stack looks back at his cars. "Fine. But I'm coming with ya'll. You're out of your damn mind if you think I'm letting you run off with one of my trophies without me."

"You're welcome along. I could use the back up." Falcon walks to a weapons rack. "Might need some of these, too."

"Of course you would,” Stack scoffs.

Falcon picks up a stick of dynamite. A lighter is attached to it just under the dangerously short fuse. "You still using these?"

"Haven't let me down yet."

"One day you're gonna blow your own hand off." Falcon walks back toward the table.

"I've never seen anything like this, before." Stack holds up the gun and aims it. "No sight. No place to load ammo. I can't even guess what these holes in the barrel are for without taking it apart."

"Be my guest. I'd rather know what it does before using it. I'm gonna go out for a while."

Stack lowers the gun. "You got a death wish?"

"I haven't been home in a long time. I need to breathe Freeland air."

Stack gets up and walks to a locker. He opens it and pulls out a long duster and a wide brimmed hat and tosses them to Falcon.

Falcon holds the duster up. “I’ll look ridiculous in this."

"Think how you'll look with bullet holes in you."

Falcon shakes his head and puts the duster on over his own jacket. It's a little big but it covers any identifiable features. The hat rests just above his eyes, providing more than enough coverage for any suspicious citizens that could recognize him. "How do I get back in?"

Stack raps his knuckles on the table. One, two. He pauses for a second then does it again. One-two, One.

"Got it." Falcon heads for the door.

"I'm keeping this if you don't make it back," Stack says as he starts to dismantle the gun.

"If I don't make it back, tell Phoenix I'm sorry." Falcon pulls the handle of the door and opens it.

Once outside, the door's pneumatic arm pulls it closed, sealing the door with a final thud, and Falcon walks back toward the small street.

Some Freelanders are already looking at the humvee and murmuring about where it came from. The Waste is mentioned a couple of times. Fortunately, no one pays any mind to Falcon as he heads for the main drag. Many Freelancers wear some combination of what he has on. Some of them might even think he's Stack, though his hands would be a dead giveaway.

Falcon walks to the intersection of the road and looks up at the casino lights. The building next to him is empty. It’s a store nobody wants or maybe the recent tenant just found a better location. He notices his reflection in the dusty window, with the large brimmed hat and long jacket.
Ridiculous.

A sound catches his attention and he turns to the electrical pole behind him. Several flyers, flapping in a breeze, are attached to the pole. Only one interests him. The one with his face and his name on it. And even more concerning, the words underneath, [PREFERRED DEAD].

Falcon grabs the flyer and rips it off the pole.