Codename: Night Witch (36 page)

"You
look
like jackers," Sigrid said.

"Good. Because that was indeed our aim."

Sigrid crossed her arms, staring up at him. "Am I to gather you're planning on coming too?"

"The roads between here and Portillo aren't to be traveled lightly. The Consortium. The Cabal. The CTF. Even the Syndicate lays claim to that territory."

"And then there's the jackers," Jaffer said.

"Indeed," the colonel said. "I can't afford to have you fall prey to any traps along the road. Your duty lies in Portillo, Ms. Novak. Ours is to get you there alive. My soldiers and I will ride as your outriders. If there is to be trouble, we'll have it well sourced out and taken care of."

Sigrid didn't like the sound of this at all. First Jaffer, then Nuria, and now the colonel. And of course, there were Suko and Victoria. There were far too many people willing to endanger themselves on her account. Sigrid was of half a mind to leap onto the colonel's longspur and make her own way and leave them all safely behind. Of course, it wouldn't do any good. They would follow. They would always follow.

Well, if she couldn't leave them here…

With her hands behind her back, Sigrid circled the colonel and his men, as if putting them on inspection. The three soldiers responded, remaining perfectly at attention. Sigrid looked them up and down, then inspected their rides. The three longspurs were done up in much the same way as the jackers' rides she'd encountered coming out of Punta Arenas. High handlebars. Long, extended front spokes supporting the repulsor lifts. They had all the details correct, right down to the flames painted along the outboard fuel cells.

"And how exactly do you expect to deal with traps and ambushes on these?" Sigrid asked. "I don't suppose it's hard to guess your plan?"

The colonel grinned. "Simple. If we encounter a trap, we'll simply set it off. If there's an ambush, we'll draw their fire."

"You'll get yourself killed," Sigrid said.

"We are expendable, Ms. Novak. You are not."

Sigrid sniffed. "I'm afraid none of us are expendable, Colonel. But if you are to come, then I want to be perfectly clear about one thing."

"Of course."

"You haven't even heard what I'm proposing."

"You're going to tell me that you're in charge and that I am to follow your orders."

Sigrid failed miserably at hiding her surprise and her eyebrows shot up. "Well, I was. I mean, I am. This is my command, Colonel."

"Yes, Ms. Novak."

"So, you and your men are comfortable taking orders from me—knowing what I am?"

For the first time since meeting him some five days ago, Colonel Bhandari smiled.

"Ms. Novak, it is precisely because of
who
you are that we are prepared to follow. In fact, I can think of no greater honor than to serve you now."

~ - ~

Word of the mission spread quickly, and a crowd was already gathering in the street to see them off. There was an excitement in the air, something that went beyond simple curiosity. Sigrid could feel it all around her, coming at her in waves. One by one the massive transport trains rumbled to life, queuing and taking up their positions to depart. The roar of their engines shook the ground, but not so loud as to drown out the cheer that rose up from the crowd.

Colonel Bhandari's flight of longspurs swept around them to take their place at the lead, clearing a path through the dozens of people who stood cheering. They cheered louder as Victoria and Nuria climbed the ladder to Jaffer's waiting rig, but not nearly so loud as when Sigrid appeared.

Dressed in her full battle kit and with her longsword clasped in her hand, she made her way through the crowd, which parted for her like a sea of reeds. She heard their whispers of "Night Witch." Some of them even reached out to touch her as she passed. Word of her rescue of the refugees and her battle with the mercenary tanks had already spread through the trading post, although in the latest tellings of the tale, it was she who had destroyed the mercenary tanks, rather than being rescued herself.

Lady Godelieve Van de Berg, the magistrate herself, awaited her by Jaffer's rumbling cargo hauler.

"So much for slipping away unobserved," Sigrid said.

"I'm afraid there are few secrets in the Crossroads these days," the magistrate said. "You're a hero to these people."

"I haven't done anything yet, Magistrate."

"Haven't you? You are the Night Witch, Ms. Novak—or so they would believe. You are the assassin of the Council. You have slain their corporate masters and freed them from a life of servitude. They are bound to be grateful."

"Independents did those things, Magistrate. Not me. I'm afraid I was just their tool. Perhaps Harry Jones is the one they should be cheering."

"Harry Jones isn't a hero, Ms. Novak. But
you
are
."

Her? A hero? She doubted that. If there was a hero in their midst, it wasn't Sigrid, but she knew who it was.

Sigrid turned and looked back at the trading post. Only hours after the attack, most of the rubble was cleared away, and work to mend the streets and buildings had already begun. The homeless would be sheltered and fed; the Crossroads would be rebuilt and their lives restored.

"It's you," Sigrid said. "You're the hero, Magistrate. You who found these people work. You built them a home. If either of us is to be called a hero, I think we both know who that is."

"You are kind to think so, but I'm afraid the people of the Crossroads will see me as little more than another bloated bureaucrat. But you, Ms. Novak, they will always see you as something more. I'm afraid you're a hero, whether you like it or not. Good luck to you, Ms. Novak. The next time we meet—"

"Lars Koenig—"

"
And
Harry Jones."

"Yes, Magistrate. Lars Koenig
and
Harry Jones will be dead. You have my word."

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Smith & Jones

For decades he had gone by dozens of names—so many, in fact, it could be forgiven if he lost track of them himself. But Harry Jones never forgot a name. Not his. Not anyone's. It was for that reason he found himself so annoyed when Lars Koenig, the self-proclaimed marquis di Valparaíso, couldn't be bothered to keep his name straight.

"You there!" Lars said, snapping his fingers. "Smithers."

"That's
Smith
, sir," Harry Jones said, in reference to his current alias. He'd used this alias before. It was fitting that tonight he would use it again, though it would be for the last time.

Lars Koenig waved him over. Dutifully, Harry Jones obliged. He didn't do this out of any sense of subservience. He did this because this was the role he'd chosen to play: the role of a loyal and obedient servant, a role he'd played many times before to great effect.

He'd made a career of being invisible, working at the sides of people like the marquis—women and men who never gave him more than a passing glance. No one would suspect him—because they would never even notice him. They never saw him coming. The marquis might think he'd risen to the top, but Harry knew the truth, and he knew who was really pulling the strings. How many corporations had he brought to their knees this same way? He'd lost count years ago.

"Sir?" Harry said, oozing disinterest.

"Our
guests
will be arriving shortly," Lars Koenig said. "I trust you've made all the necessary arrangements?"

"Of course, sir."

"There's a lot riding on this…"

"
Smith
, sir," Harry Jones said.

"Right. Smith. I've got a lot at stake tonight. I can't afford any mistakes. Now, let's go over this
plan
of yours again. Walk me through it."

"Of course, sir."

In the grand ballroom of the Chateau di Portillo, and under the watchful eye of Lars Koenig, Harry Jones walked stiffly to the wide buffet table. It was currently under guard by several uniformed servers in their black ties and tails. They were armed with pressed white napkins, which they held draped over their forearms.

"As per your request," Harry said, "we will be serving lobster thermidor—"

"Lobster? That's your plan? Is it even real?"

Harry tried not to roll his eyes. "Of course not, sir. There hasn't been a real lobster on Earth for more than one hundred years."

"Of course. Right. Go on."

"While the lobster is artificial, we have arranged for real lamb, sir. Quite a good stock from around these parts. Lamb, along with a vast selection of sea greens. Fine wines have been shipped in from across the globe. And, as you can see, the pastry selection is beyond compare."

Lars eyed the spread with a certain skepticism. "Don't let me down, Smith. I only hired you because they said you were the best caterer in the Southern Territories. If this fails to impress, this is on your head."

Not waiting for a reply, the marquis spun on his heel and left.

Caterer.
That was what the marquis thought he was. It was tempting to grab one of those pastries and mash it into his face, but that would hardly serve his purposes. Harry only had to endure his role as servant for a few more hours. Soon, this would all be over.

"Fear not, darling," a decidedly feminine voice said at his side. "You will be done with the marquis soon enough."

Harry Jones turned to see his wife, Emily Gillings-Jones, at his side. Inwardly, he smiled. This was his victory—to have her back with him again, working side by side. She'd been gone from his side for too long. How many years had they been forced to exist apart? Too many.

Every moment he was allowed to spend with her was a gift and he knew it. But those shared moments were too few, and growing fewer still.

The cause. That was what drew her full attention. Never him.

Harry couldn't fault her for that. Their shared passion for freedom had brought them together, just as it had torn them apart. His beloved wife was nothing if not driven. And while he knew she loved him just as dearly, she loved the cause perhaps just a little bit more.

For the moment, at least, she was here with him, and all was right with the world. At least, it would be soon.

"You shouldn't call me that," Harry said. "Darling. If someone were to hear—"

"Then they would assume we were in love," she said. "And they would be right to think so, would they not?"

Harry turned to her and saw the hint of mischief in her eye. Shaking his head, he did something he had rarely done these past fifteen years. Harry Jones smiled. "Yes, my darling. They would."

"At the very least," Emily said, matching his grin, "it will give them something to titter about. Besides, these self-aggrandizing plutocrats couldn't be bothered to pay attention to the likes of us, ones so clearly below their station. See? Not one of them is taking notice. I daresay, if I were to stand next to the marquis himself, naked and shouting in his ear, he'd notice."

Perhaps to show he had nothing to worry about, she took his hand. It was a simple gesture, though it was done with great affection. And Harry had to admit, not one person turned their way. He envied his wife's confidence, her self-assuredness, and it made him love her all the more.

"Don't worry, my love," Emily said. "We have nothing to fear from these people. Whereas they have everything to fear from us."

"Perhaps."

"You still have doubts? After everything you've accomplished?"

Harry shook his head. "Not doubts. I've simply learned to be cautious."

"My poor dear. How difficult this must have been for you, alone all these years, no one to help you, no one to confide in." She gave his hand a firm, if reassuring squeeze. "But you're not alone now. I'm here."

"I know."

"You should be proud of your accomplishments. You have done well for yourself. And for us."

"Not well enough. We still haven't had any word on our
guest.
Do we even know if she's coming?"

"Don't worry about
her
," Emily said, with the kind of confidence Harry could only envy. "
She
will be here. I've seen to it personally. I've put in play a sequence of events that she will find impossible to ignore."

"If you're certain of that, then we should take our leave. It won't be safe for us to be here when she arrives."

"You still don't trust me, do you? You still fear her."

Harry turned slowly to her. He didn't want to question his wife—she was so rarely wrong—but the danger was too great. And after all this time, he couldn't bear to lose her again.

"I trust you. But Dr. Farrington warned us—"

"Farrington is a fool."

From her pocket, Emily Gillings-Jones withdrew a small cube-shaped object. A single button sat in its center. She pressed it with her thumb and a needle-thin probe snapped out. Emily regarded it, turning the powerful module over in her hand.

"You forget, husband. Ms. Novak is our
friend
. She will not harm us. I've seen to that."

"But why risk—"

"Why?"
Emily said; her hand clamped down so hard on the data-module it threatened to crush it. Seeing her rage growing, Harry had to stop himself from taking a half step back.

"After all this time, how can you even ask that? I didn't come back from the dead just to run away. I will stay and see this through, husband. I will see this war end. Personally! I've earned that right. Just as I have earned the right to see Lady Hitomi Kimura die—and by her own hand. You may leave, if that is what you wish."

Harry's years of practiced dispassion served him well in that moment. His hands remained steady, and his face stayed blank. There would be no swaying his wife, and he was wrong to have tried. And she was right. The Kimura Corporation had taken her from him—they'd almost killed her. She would stay and see this through, and he would stay by her side. She would have the closure she so desperately desired—Harry would see to that—because only then would she truly be his again.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Rolling Thunder