Mass Effect: The Complete Novels 4-Book Bundle (91 page)

Kahlee had met Von and knew the volus to be a financial whiz who had helped Anderson before. “Which means that the Biotic Alliance could have hired Camala Exports to get Lem, Sallus, and Nick off the station,” she said. “But how likely is that?”

“Not very,” Anderson admitted. “But C-Sec is working on everything else so it’s worth a try.”

A group of rough-looking types scattered as Tark plowed through them and led his clients down a sloping ramp. A great deal of the Citadel had been reworked
over thousands of years to keep it functional and to meet the needs of the millions who lived there.

But the lower they went the more Anderson was reminded of the station’s true origins. The Reapers were responsible for the basic structure of it, including the invulnerable hull and the massive machinery that enabled it to open and close. But the hallways, ramps, and other structures that surrounded Anderson were the work of the various races that had chosen to occupy the Citadel.

The threesome were directly beneath one of the Citadel’s major spaceports by that time, in an area that was thick with manufacturers, warehouses, and shippers. Spacers, business types, and all manner of dockworkers, technicians, and vendors were forced to make way as Tark took a right and led the humans down a gloomy passageway. A glowing sign could be seen at the other end. It read, “CAMALA EXPO TS.”

Two batarians were slouched against opposite walls. They came to attention as Tark approached them and one issued a challenge. He was armed with a length of decorated steel pipe. “That’s far enough, big boy … Who are you looking for?”

“
We’re
looking for your boss,” Anderson said as he stepped forward. “Tell him that a potential customer is here to see him.”

The batarian blinked all four eyes at once. “What’s your name?”

“Ray Narkin.” There was a
real
Ray Narkin. A shady type who had been in trouble with C-Sec on numerous occasions but had never been convicted of anything serious enough to get him shipped to a prison planet. If Banca took the trouble to go online
he’d see a list of Narkin’s crimes right next to a picture of Anderson. It was a simple hack that was likely to go unnoticed unless Narkin objected and put it right.

“Wait here,” the batarian said. “I’ll see if Mr. Banca has time to see you.”

“You do that,” Anderson said casually. “But don’t take too long. We don’t have all day.”

Tark and the second batarian spent the next three minutes trying to stare each other down, Anderson pretended to send messages via his omni-tool, and Kahlee took the opportunity to examine her makeup in a small hand mirror. Then the door slid open and the first batarian motioned for them to enter. “The boss will see you now … But the krogan stays outside.”

Anderson shrugged. “Okay, no problem. Wait here Tark. We’ll be out in half an hour or so.”

Tark uttered a grunt of acknowledgment and remained behind as the humans entered a large but dingy office. There were three desks but only one of them showed any signs of recent use. It was located at the back of the room where a batarian was lit by the spill of light from a recessed fixture above. As they approached Anderson saw that Banca had a black patch over one of his four eyes. The rest regarded him with what looked like brooding suspicion. “Mr. Banca, I presume? My name is Narkin. Ray Narkin. And this is my assistant Lora Cole. Thank you for taking time to see us.”

Banca made no attempt to rise. His head was tilted to the right, a sure sign of disrespect, and only one hand was visible. When the other appeared it was
holding a semiautomatic pistol. The bore looked like the inside of a subway tunnel. “Sit down.”

Banca flicked the gun barrel toward two mismatched guest chairs. And being unarmed, there was nothing Anderson and Kahlee could do but obey. “You aren’t Ray Narkin,” Banca growled. “He weighs well over three hundred pounds and the Torcs popped him yesterday. And they’d like to pop me too because we were bringing red sand in from Omega and selling it for less than they could. So tell me who you
really
are, and do it quickly, or I’ll ship your dead bodies to a pet food factory on Hebat.”

Kai Leng was in a good mood. The trip to the Citadel had gone smoothly, the apartment he had rented more than met his needs, and the people he’d been ordered to watch weren’t home. He knew because he’d been across the way having tea in a stand-up kiosk when the garishly dressed couple left the building.

It was tempting to follow them, but Leng had a great deal of experience where such matters were concerned, and knew that the real priority lay elsewhere. So he finished the tea, paid the bill, and limped across the broad tree-lined pedway. His arrival was timed to coincide with that of a local resident. She entered the proper key code and Leng followed her inside.

It was a simple matter to ride the elevator up to the proper floor and take a quick look around. The hallway was empty. Leng hurried over to unit 306, where he rested the cane against the wall and activated the military-grade omni-tool on his left arm. A golden
glow splashed the door as Leng ran a program that could get him through all but the most sophisticated of computer-controlled locks. The task took 5.6 seconds from start to finish. Leng heard a click, turned the handle, and entered the apartment.

The concierge, which had been fooled into believing that Anderson had entered, gave its usual greeting. “Welcome home. All systems are functioning properly. Two voice mails, sixteen text messages, and a holo are waiting.”

Leng paused to savor his surroundings. He knew Anderson and Kahlee the way a predator knows its prey. They were amateurs insofar as he was concerned, and the battle on the Grissom Academy space station was proof of that. Anderson could have killed him that day.
Should
have killed him. But shot him in the legs instead. The wound in his left calf had healed fairly well, but the muscles in his right thigh were badly torn, and the prognosis wasn’t good. Fortunately, his doctors were hard at work on a solution, one they claimed would make him better than new, even though he figured they were exaggerating.

But for the moment it was necessary to make do and that’s where the cane came in. Leng could walk without the stick if necessary, but he still had a tendency to favor his right leg, and it was nice to have something to lean on from time to time.

So there was a score to settle. A need to even things up. And Leng knew that his chance would come. Not now, while he was under orders to watch the couple, but later, when it was time to leave for his next assignment. The only question was whether to kill them
clean, or kneecap them and leave them to crawl around the floor the way he’d been forced to do.

The thought brought a grim smile to Leng’s face as he took a long, slow look around. He was equipped with twelve wireless bugs, each of which had enough power to broadcast a signal for two weeks. And they were so small that only an electronic sweep would reveal their presence.

Would Anderson and Kahlee conduct such a sweep? It was possible. Anderson was employed by the Council and could call on their resources. But chances were they wouldn’t think to look unless given some reason to do so. And Leng would do everything in his power to avoid that.

Working with the speed and certainty of the experienced operative that he was, Leng placed the pickups in locations that, when taken together, would provide complete coverage of everything that took place in the apartment. Then, having placed a wireless tap under the comm console, he was done. Or should have been done. But Leng was something of an adrenaline junkie and enjoyed being where he was.

That’s why he checked the cupboards, located some cereal, and had breakfast before putting everything back exactly as it had been. It was
his
apartment now, meaning a place where everything that happened would be known to him, and to Cerberus. The thought pleased him and Leng was still smiling as he left.

Anderson felt stupid. The assumption that Nankin and Banca didn’t know each other had proven wrong. Not only that, but it appeared that a gang called the Red Torcs were out to get both of them and had succeeded
where Nankin was concerned. All he could do was come clean. “Okay, so I’m not Ray Nankin.”

“But you
are
with the Torcs.” Banca tilted the pistol up and a red dot wobbled across Anderson’s forehead.

“No! We heard that you smuggle people off the Citadel from time to time. And we’re looking for three people who might have been clients.”

Banca opened his mouth to speak but was interrupted as a ceiling-mounted grill fell free and crashed onto one of the empty desks. A cloud of dust filled the air as Banca’s pistol swiveled slightly and fired. Anderson turned in time to see a scrawny human collapse. The man wasn’t wearing armor, the air duct had been too small for that, so the projectile went through him and hit the bulkhead beyond.

The first guard, the one with the section of iron pipe, ran over to look up into the duct and paid a steep price for his stupidity as someone shot him from above. The pipe made a clattering noise as it fell from a nerveless hand and rolled away.

The Torc in the shaft wasn’t about to drop down into the room. Not after what happened to his buddy. But anyone who walked under the vent would catch a round.

There was a commotion out front as the door hissed open allowing Tark and the surviving guard to back into the office. They were fighting off waves of skin suit–clad humans, each of whom wore a red torc around his or her neck.

Banca stood, and was preparing to fire, when Kahlee threw a heavy desk clock at him. The batarian blocked it. But while he was doing so Anderson came
over the desk at him. They collapsed in a tangle of arms and legs.

Kahlee went for the loose pistol, snatched it off the floor, and turned back toward the door. It appeared as though Tark had exhausted his stunner, or lost it in the fighting, because he was swinging his baton. There was a thump as it came into contact with a head and a Torc went down. “Close the door!” Kahlee ordered, “and lock it.”

The batarian managed to do so, and was about to turn, when the krogan clubbed him as well. “Good work,” Kahlee said. “Come back but stay clear of that vent. David could use a hand.”

But the ex-navy officer didn’t need a hand. Banca was not only down but unconscious. “He hit his head on the floor,” Anderson explained matter-of-factly. “Four or five times.”

“Pick him up,” Kahlee ordered as Tark arrived. “Let’s get out of here.”

The krogan threw Banca over a shoulder as Kahlee went over to check the back door. A quick peek through a peephole revealed that the hallway was empty of Torcs. That was a surprise. Surely the gang’s leaders were smart enough to cover the back entrance? But having met such fierce resistance it was possible that the drug runners had left. In any case, it was a way out and Kahlee was happy to take advantage of it. So she opened the door, motioned Tark through, and followed him out.

That was when she saw Lieutenant Varma. The C-Sec officer was standing a few meters away just outside the view from the peephole. Two heavily
armed turians flanked her with their weapons aimed at Tark. “Put the batarian down,” Varma ordered.

Tark obeyed but not in the way that Varma had intended. Rather than lower Banca to the ground he simply let go. There was a thump as the body hit. “Ooops … I lost my grip.”

Varma was not amused. “Put your face to the wall with your hands on top of your head.”

Tark obeyed. “I’m a licensed security officer.”

“We know who you are,” Varma said as she turned her attention to the other two. “Admiral Anderson … Miss Sanders … You have some explaining to do.”

Anderson grinned sheepishly. “Yeah, I guess we do. How did you find us?”

Varma smiled grimly. “We have a lot of cameras, remember? And we had the Torcs under surveillance. You were fortunate. They killed a man named Narkin yesterday. We have video of them ejecting the body from an emergency lock.”

Banca groaned and sat up. “Where am I?”

“In a whole lot of trouble,” Varma replied. “Cuff him.”

“There’s a very real possibility that he smuggled Nick off the Citadel,” Kahlee said.

“We’ll know soon,” Varma promised. “In the meantime I would appreciate it if you would surrender that pistol. You’re going to jail.”

Gillian was frustrated. Having been given the
Glory of Khar’shan
by the grateful quarians, she and a crew of freed slaves had flown the ship to the Citadel, only to be placed in what amounted to quarantine. The problem being that the vessel was registered to a batarian company that wanted it back. That raised issues of law having to do with jurisdiction, intragalactic slavery, and piracy.

And because of that the ship might have been stuck in legal limbo for months, if not years, had it not been for the fact that one of the newly freed slaves was a turian who’d been captured off the planet Palaven. He was a senior member of the turian Corps of Engineers, and thanks to his relationship with a highranking official, the
Khar’shan
was allowed to dock after only one day of legal haggling.

Hendel was pleased, as was McCann, not to mention the turian himself. But Gillian had no patience for anything that kept her from pursuing her new goal in life—which was to find the person responsible for her father’s death and punish him. So she was still
annoyed as the crew trooped off the ship to be processed through customs and released into the space station beyond.

The turian official was met by a gaggle of VIPs and swarmed by an army of reporters, but the rest of the crew were left to their own devices. And that was when McCann attempted to slip away.

Although he had every right to leave, McCann was an admitted member of Cerberus and the only link that Gillian had to that organization. So as the ex-slave pushed his way through the crowd of reporters, clearly intent on leaving the area as quickly as possible, the biotic gave him a gentle “shove.” It was similar to a “throw” except less powerful and more focused.