Lesser Gods (25 page)

I checked the GPS navigator, watching as I neared the coordinates I’d entered into it. Just a few miles farther and I should be near Huntington’s lair. The catch was that until I had a chance to search the neighborhood, I had no way of locating the exact apartment Huntington was operating from. And somehow I suspected most of the tenants wouldn’t take too kindly to a house-to-house search.

But I had a plan.

It had a good chance of working provided I could get close to his hideout, which wasn’t a sure-fire thing. I slowed at the barricade of old cars ahead of me, then hit the accelerator. “You are about to impact,” the on-board car computer told me.

“Override collision avoidance,” I ordered, hoping the gov car permitted this.

It did.

The car continued forward at full throttle and I aimed carefully at the lighter tail end of the vehicles blocking my path, putting into practice a technique taught to me by an old drug runner I’d once met in jail.

I smashed into the cars and metal grated along the side of the limo as the two junkers simultaneously bounced away from my path. I held the pedal down and the grinding of metal continued as two vehicles rotated out of my way.

Would-be carjackers manning the barricade scurried for cover like cockroaches from a bright light.

I wasn’t out of the woods yet, however.

As my car hurtled down a street lit only by the single remaining headlight on the limo, a gang along the road opened fire. Most of the lighter pistol and rifle bullets thumped into the car, trapped in the bullet-proof Kevlar of the body. But that wasn’t true about the .50-caliber projectiles that followed the initial barrage. These cut through the armor of the car, leaving a thought-provoking string of holes in the windshield just to the right of my head. Another salvo hit the engine, causing it to sputter.

The car skidded along on two wheels as I whipped the wheel into a turn, guiding the vehicle down a side street so I’d be out of the line of fire. Unfortunately I didn’t quite make it out of sight in time; a third burst rattled through the aft section of the limo. A couple of minutes later, the car’s computer piped up, “You are running low on fuel.”

“We had a full tank just a half hour ago.”

“The fuel tank appears to be leaking. Head for the nearest Ford repair shop immediately. Be sure to buy genuine Ford parts.”

Finding a neighborhood Mr. Goodwrench to service my stolen vehicle in the middle of the night in a cutthroat section of town seemed like iffy advice. The engine started to sputter; I checked the navigator. I was only about three blocks from my target area.

I slowed, easing the car to the curb. Stepping from the car, I eyed the gang of homeless kids across the street. Street children are tough for me to deal with because I always feel too self-conscious to kill them, even if that’s exactly what they have planned for me or anyone else who has the misfortune to run into them.

The car gave me an out. Before the street rats could ready their attack, I tossed the car keys toward them. “It’s all yours.”

I then turned and hightailed away from the vehicle, gaining distance as the munchkins fought over the parts they were stripping from the car. By the time I was down the block, they started firing, apparently unaware of the leaking gasoline around them. There were angry shouts, threats, and bullets for a few seconds, then there was an explosion followed by ominous quiet.

I glanced down the street and saw only blackened corpses where once the juvenile delinquents had slouched. I felt a twinge of guilt, but told myself it wasn’t my fault that the little hellions had blown themselves up. They were old enough to know right from wrong. I’d grown up on the street, and at their age, I never would have shot at an escaping victim who’d left something behind for me to plunder.

Before I could ponder the morality of the situation any further, a voice purred in the darkness alongside me, “How ‘bout a good time, handsome?”

I slowed to a stop and peered into the shadows to see a syntha-prost whose beautiful face was briefly lit by a match that brought her cigarette to life. She held the match a moment, its lingering flame causing the snakes grafted into her scalp to thrash around her Medusa face. She blew out the flame in a way that made me remember I was of the male persuasion. “A real good time?”

I considered her wriggling crown and found my voice. “Thanks but I’m in a hurry.”

“I’ve got some boyfriends if that’s more to your liking.”

I realized something wasn’t right. She was too persistent. “Gotta go.” I saw a flicker of movement above me and I leaped backward, barely avoiding the bars that fell downward, nearly trapping me in the room-sized area where I’d been a moment before.

“Now that wasn’t very nice,” I said, getting to my feet and shaking my finger at the woman. “Not much repeat business, I bet.”

The syntha-prost leaped forward, throwing herself against the bars, slashing at me with the stiletto she’d had hidden. The sharp blade hissed past my face as I retreated.

I’d drawn my pistol reflexively, and now had it trained on her. “Two days ago I would have killed you and not thought twice about it,” I said.

“Not man enough?”

“Lady, do you want to die?” I asked. Why someone would insult a guy with a gun was beyond me.

I aimed, she screamed, and I squeezed the trigger.

However, my target was not her, but the motorized winch above her. “No more victims tonight,” I said. No winch, no wenching.

Her cursing filled the night. The wrath of a Gorgon scorned. I turned away and clicked the skate wheels out of my boots, wheeling down the street while watching the ground to be sure I didn’t trip over any of the bones that littered my path.

A city block can make all the difference. Within a few minutes, I was dodging through mobs of laughing people in an area that was better lit. Here and there were knots of vendors, musicians, and drug dealers selling synthetic passion.

People crowded the sidewalks and spilled into the narrow side streets. Had it not been for the crackle of distant gunfire from time to time, and the occasional body putrefying on the curb, I might have felt almost at home in this neighborhood.

I skated around a nearly naked woman wearing a tall headdress composed of tin cans and a g-string comprised of very little, then skirted a Congo line of recombs, dressed like devils, dancing and singing as they entered a building whose sign proclaimed,

Live Girls, Girls, Girls!!!

… in flashing LEDs. This was followed by…

Live Boys, Boys, Boys!!!

…and finally by…

Love, Love, Love!!!

The latter apparently aimed at those romantics who thought they might buy affection at such establishments.

With the morbid curiosity that one might exhibit in watching a train wreck, I glanced into the open door as I whizzed past — hey, I’m only human — and ogled women, women, women, and found the men, men, men pretty pudgy. All the naked bodies were smeared with oil, writhing snakes in their mouths, as they cavorted on a long mirrored stage that apparently was the closest one could come to the “love” being promised by the sign.

Turning back from the memorable sight that I wished I’d never seen, I got a good a quick look at a live giant, giant, giant! Blocking my path was a three-hundred pound elephant of a man.

He perhaps thought I was attacking him.

Or maybe he just fancied skater shish kabobs. Regardless, I found myself headed straight for a blade more sword than pocketknife, materializing from under his jacket, its point aimed precisely at my left nostril.

Somehow I managed to weave and dodge and avoid the blade, but in the process I tumbled and then slid along the rough sidewalk on hands, knees, and face in an imperfect five-point landing. My knees were protected by my body armor. But my hands and face weren’t and I got to my feet with serious abrasions that were already smarting.

“What’re ya tryin’ ta pull, buddy?” the man asked, blade held at his ample belt-buckle level, about even with my eyes.

“Sorry. Wasn’t watching where I was going. Got distracted by the gals in the sideshow.”

His beady red eyes narrowed. “Well, maybe this will teach you a lesson.”

I already knew the lesson.

So the blade passed through the air where my head had been a moment before. Discretion being the better part of valor when fighting giants, at that point I normally would have backpedaled on my skates and hightailed it out of Dodge. Only that wasn’t possible because of the crowd that was pressing up behind me, busy placing bets with hundred-to-one odds on who would survive the contest.

I’ll let you guess whether I was the one or hundred side of the betting equation.

He made another lunge that I barely dodged. I found myself not scared, but angry. And my elephantine foe was mad, too, unhappy that I had had the gall to move my face out of the way of his sword, thereby making him look bad in front of his friends.

He prepared for another lunge. I countered by drawing my government-issued Beretta from under my jacket. “Never bring a knife to a gun fight,” I warned, remembering Alice’s advice. The odds being placed on the winner of the fight instantly shifted, with many who had placed bets now crying foul at my unexpected change in fortune.

My single burst of fire sent three bullets toward the monster. The projectiles neatly stitched Mr. Elephant’s front, knocking him to the ground with a trumpeting of pain — but no blood.

“Lucky you have the new titanium body armor,” I said as he writhed on the ground at my feet, rubbing his chest. I kicked the short sword away from him. Knowing that he’d recover in a few minutes and that he’d threaten more unpleasantness if I hung around (since I didn’t feel right about putting a burst into his fat head). So I turned, waving the gun in warning to anyone else who might be foolishly tempted to tangle with me.

Everyone backed away, in part because I was armed and in part because some recognized the weapon as government-issue. That meant I was either an agent or, more likely, someone who had killed an agent and therefore living on borrowed time.

The sea of people parted as I boogied through that channel at top speed, before anyone started having second thoughts about letting me go. In less than thirty seconds I hit top speed and kept going down the block, rounding the corner before slowing and looking back. I was relieved to see that no one was following me and that there were far fewer people on the side street ahead of me.

I slowed to a stop, taking a deep breath and offering a prayer of thanksgiving that I’d managed to remain in one piece thus far.

Now to get down to business.

I regretted not having a device with GPS access since a good map would have made finding Huntington’s lair a snap. But I knew I was just about at the house and obviously in the right neighborhood. I started down the street, looking upward toward the rooftops of the moth-eaten, two-story shops and homes around me. Would I find what I was looking for?

Three minutes later, I spotted what I’d been searching for. An ancient dish antenna half hidden behind wicked-looking ribbon wire, in turn attached to a high voltage line and emblazoned with warning decals so no one would be tempted to try to steal it.

If I’d been Huntington, that dish would be just the type of antique technology I’d be using to hide my home base. The equipment was so old, it was retro. Few people know how to modify such a system so it can tap into the various game nets. That meant it would be ignored by most government agencies and anti-piracy groups. It was the perfect system if you didn’t want to attract attention.

I was certain I’d hit pay dirt.