Lone Wolf (21 page)
No impacts, and I’m across, into the narrow passageway between the buildings. No shouts of surprise or alarm from behind me, just the sound of running footsteps. (Pros, like I said. Pros don’t have to yell, “There he goes!”)
I slow down for an instant, expecting to find the passageway filled with drek and maybe squatters. But for a wonder it’s empty, a clear sprinting lane for me, leading toward the light of another street. I pour it on again.
And an instant later put on the brakes. I see someone, a figure stepping into the mouth of the passageway, another tall form silhouetted against the light. Ahead of me.
I’m dead.
I skid to a stop. Up comes the H & K, but I don’t fire. Same as in the alley, I might be able to cack the scag in front of me, but no guarantees. And doing it will only slow me down enough for the other three to come up behind me. I’m trapped. Unless . . .
Solid wall to the left. Windows, but four meters off the ground. To the right ...
A door. Heavy, metal. No doorknob. I fling myself at it, slamming into it with all my weight, feeling something give in my shoulder. For a wonder, the door bursts open, and I go sprawling headlong into Fi nes Que t. As I skid on the concrete, the door hits the wall and swings back, closing almost all the way.
Where I am is a narrow hallway, black as a fragging ork’s heart. Waiting for me outside are armed street ops, with one or two soon to be inside. My situation’s only marginally better than it was a couple of moments ago unless I can do something to even up the odds a little. That has to wait, though, until I can get further away from that door.
I force myself to my feet and shuffle off down the hallway. It’s so dark I can’t see squat ahead of me anyway, so I glance back. The H & K’s status lights are like little red fireflies in the blackness. First slag through the door eats thirty-two rounds of nine-mil.
And presumably the pros outside have guessed that would
be the outcome, because the door doesn’t open and no silhouettes appear in the doorway.
That’s when I find the end of the hallway, by running into it. Another door. I take my attention off the door behind me long enough to find the knob on this one, then fling it open and duck through in a combat crouch.
Another fragging hallway, this one running left-right.. That’s what I guess from the ambiance and the echoes, at least. My bowels feel like they’re filled with ice water, and my skin’s prickling so hard it feels like I’m wearing a fragging Velcro undershirt. I still can’t see, but to anyone with thermographic vision, I’m one big glowing target. Frag if I can remember if that includes elves, but if it does, not much I can do about it right now.
Which way? For a moment my sense of direction spins like a tumbled gyro. Then it straightens up. The door I barged through was closer to the front of the building than to the alley, and it was to my right. That means the street’s to my left now, and that’s the way I want to go.
But then comes a sound from my left. A click—a door, I think, I hope, and not the charging lever of an SMG or the slide of an auto-pistol—and the soft scuff of cautious footsteps. Decision made for me, yet again. I turn right, probing the darkness ahead with the muzzle of my H & K and my left hand, moving as fast and as silently as I can.
My left fingers touch something—another fragging door, feels like. Yes, there’s the doorknob. I’ve got a real drekky feeling about this, but now’s definitely not the time to analyze it.
I’m torn. I hate doors in this kind of situation. I hated them in the Academy when we trained in house-to-house ops. I hate them even more now. They block sound, they block light. For all I know, on the other side of the door is a fragging firing squad of elves, with xenon spots slung under the barrels of their SMGs, just waiting for me to open it.
Another sound from behind me, back toward the front of the building. Another click, and this one does sound like a weapon being cocked. I look back over my shoulder. Nothing, just blackness—no lights, no target, no options. With my left hand I grab the doorknob, turn it and push. Simultaneously I drop into the lowest crouch—eyes narrowed to slits so I (theoretically) won’t be dazzled if the lights are on through the door.
More darkness. Not another hallway, though. It feels like
a room, possibly a big one. I don’t want to, but I duck into
it, still in a tight crouch. Behind me I close the door as softly as I can with my left hand. My gaze and my H & K track back and forth across the darkness, each as useless as the other without light. I open my eyes as wide as they’ll go.
And then there
is
light. A silent concussion of it, so sudden and so bright it’s like fingernails jabbed into my eyes. I hear myseif gasp as I flinch back. Both hands come up reflexively before I can stop them, and I rap myself in the forehead with the clip of my H & K. The pain in my eyes is so bad I want to whimper. I slump back against the door, sliding to the floor. Nothing I can do, nothing at all. Just wait for the bullet to take away the pain in my eyes. Even with my eyelids shut and hands over them, the light’s so bright I can still see it.
Then the light dims. Not to darkness, but it might as well be, compared to the preceding harsh wash of light. My eyes still feel like they’ve got needles in them, and they’re pouring tears. But I know I’ve got to open them. Tentatively, I take my hands away from my face and open my eyes a slit.
The light level’s way down, probably lower than normal ambient light in an office, but I still can’t see squat because of the big floaty blue afterimages. I close my eyes again, rub at them hard with my left fist. The wire badly wants to hose everything down—fire blindly and just get the party started—but I don’t let it go.
I try to open my eyes once more, and this time I can see a little better. Everything’s still blurry and the pain’s just as bad. But I can see I was right: I’m in a big room, probably a gym. Nothing but bare concrete walls, floor, and ceiling now.
Except for the anomaly that’s in the geometric center of the room. A table. A plain, desk-sized, macroplast table. And sitting behind it is a corp-style woman. Long blonde hair pulled back behind pointed ears, suit of severe cut. Instinctively, the wire tracks the H & K in on her, but I don’t fire. She’s sitting there quietly, watching me. Empty hands flat down on the tabletop in front of her. No heat, no bodyguards. Just the three of us—me, her, and the H & K. Jam, priyatei. This lady’s got big brass ones.
Feeling like a half-fragged fool, I lower my gun, thumb
on the safety. Then I push myself to my feet.
At last my hostess speaks. “Mr Larson,” she says, her voice like silk. “I think it’s high time we had a little talk.”
I look around slowly, trying to keep chili, struggling to get myself under control. It’s tough—too many shocks in too short a time. The watcher in front of The Promise, the three men in the alley, the race through the blacked-out building. And now this. My mind’s spinning, like I’ve taken a snap to the head in an escrima sparring session.
So focus on my surroundings, on reality, until everything shakes out and comes back to normal. The table and the woman are right in the middle of the room. There’s only one door—the one behind me—and no windows. Light comes from half a dozen collapsible fixtures around the room, big bulbs, diffusers, and reflectors aimed at the door and at me. No wonder I was blinded at first—it’s like being the focus of six spotlights. The intensity on all the bulbs is turned down low now, with enough illumination to see clearly, but tolerable to my traumatized eyes.
I glance again at the woman. Hands flat on the table, unmoving. No obvious heat. She’s almost certainly packing, but the wire reassures me I could splatter her long before she could pull anything. Yet she was able to adjust the intensity of the room’s light even without obvious controls. Has to be concealed tech, probably including an internal radio or cel phone link. Either that or magic. Otherwise how could she and her goons outside have orchestrated this setup?
Yeah, that’s right—and it fragging picks me to admit it—a setup. I was manipulated and channeled and played like a sap and made to dance like a fragging puppet. Every move and countermove, every option, already plotted out beforehand. This woman—or whoever she represents—knew I was coming, and guessed all too fragging accurately how I’d react to various stimuli. The whole thing was choreographed to get me into this room, coming face to face with this elf biff across this table. I hate being predictable.
Still, I’m here now. My bowels still feel like water and my head like it’s got big targets painted on it, maybe an X-ring between my eyes and another at the base of my skull. But if this elf biff here wanted me dead, she could have arranged that early on in the gavotte, without going to all this trouble.
So I take a couple of steps forward, the H & K still in my right hand, but hanging at my side. I try to focus the last shreds of my confidence into my movements and my expression as I approach. I watch her eyes. Green, cold and hard as volcanic glass. Her face shows no expression, and her body language tells me even less. I stop about three meters away from the table and go, “Well?”
She doesn't answer immediately, just looks me up and down. I try to guess her age, but she could be anywhere between twenty and two hundred.
At last she says, “We should get a few matters clear up front, Mr. Larson.” Her voice is smooth, detached. “You have a weapon, I don’t. But my people are outside and I assure you that they are definitely armed. You kill me, they kill you. You hurt me, they kill you. You do anything but listen to me, they kill you. Do you understand?”
I don’t even dignify that with an answer—it’s not like it’s the theory of fragging relativity or anything. I just wait her out.
“So,” she says after a few more seconds of inspecting me, “I could, quite truthfully, say I regret the nature of this meeting, but you wouldn’t believe me. Just let’s say it’s necessary.”
“To who?” I ask.
"To both of us,” she shoots back, “and again I’m speaking the truth.” She pauses once more. When she speaks again, her voice is quieter, more speculative. “You’re in an interesting position, Mr. Larson. Through no fault of your own, you’re in the middle of something bigger than your experience and training have prepared you for.”
“No drek,” I say sarcastically. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
For the first time she smiles (almost), a minuscule upward
quirking of her lips. “As a matter of fact,” she says dryly, “that’s the purpose of this whole meeting, Mr. Larson."
"Yeah, right,” I sneer. “What corp owns you anyway, lady? Lightbringer? Or Telestrian Industries Corporation? Or maybe even Lone Star? Which?”
Her smile fades. “If you’re trying to impress me with how much you know, don’t waste your time,” she snaps, her silky voice now lined with steel. “If your want to live through this, keep your mouth shut and listen. If you don’t want to listen, you’re free to leave—right now, no strings—and I’ll gladly place side bets on who will get you first.” She fixes me with a gaze like twin lasers. “Are you going to listen, or do I write this off as a bad investment of time and effort?”
I shrug. “My time’s cheap at the moment. I’m all ears.”
She nods. “I’m authorized to confirm to you that there is a link between a corporate executive called Timothy Telestrian and the Cutters gang.”
“What kind of link?”
“I’m
not
authorized to tell you that,” she says flatly. “But I strongly suggest you find out what it is, and why it’s important. And then take whatever action you see fit.”
“You don’t know, then,” I say just as flatly.
“We know.”
“Then why the frag should I bother?” I let my frustration out, and I can hear the harsh edge to my voice. “Frag you and the hog you rode in on, lady,” I spit out, then start to turn away
“Then you’re dead, Larson.” She says it quietly, without emotion—and it’s all the more of a stopper for that.
But I can’t let her see how she’s scored. Slowly I turn back, and let my lips twist in a smile. “So now the threats begin?”
“Call it a promise,” she counters.
“Whatever. Same thing—I play your game or you cack me, right?”
“Wrong!” And her voice is like the crack of a whip. High corp or maybe military background—someone who’s used to giving orders and having them obeyed right fragging now.
“Oh?” I give her my most annoying grin.