robert Charrette - Arthur 02 - A King Beneath the Mountain (12 page)

A shadow flickered across the floor.

Flake jumped back. "What's that!"

"Shit, Flake!" Roscoe spun and crouched. Seeing nothing untoward, he straightened up. "Will you cut it out?"

"I saw somethin'."

"What?"

"I don't know."

Flake's head jerked about as he tried to see everywhere at once. Roscoe scanned the dark more slowly and carefully.

"I don't see nothin'."

"I'm tellin' you I saw somethin'." The shadow flickered again. "There!"

Flake pointed at the floor, where the shadow had been. John shook his head. Though he hadn't seen whatever had cast the shadow, whatever it was wasn't on the floor; it had been somewhere behind the two. He knew it wasn't Faye; she didn't cast shadows.

"It's outside," Roscoe said. That was John's conclusion as well. "Somethin' flew past the streetlight."

"I ain't so sure." Flake sounded scared.

"It's just a bird or somethin'."

"Birds don't fly at night," Flake snapped.

"Ain't you never heard of owls?"

Flake thought about that for a moment. "Ain't never seen no owls 'round here."

"So it was a bat. You seen bats, ain't you?"

"A bat? I dunno. Ain't so sure it was a bat."

"Just shut up and come on." Roscoe sounded impatient.

"I'm tellin' you there's somethin' in here with us!"

Roscoe grabbed Flake's jaw and turned his face to the light. He started intently into his partner's eyes. "You drop somethin' before we came in here, Flake? Shit, man, you know better than that."

Flake yanked his head away. "I didn't take nothin'!"

"Better not have."

"I didn't!"

"Then you ain't got no cause to see things that ain't there. Now come on, we got things to do here."

Roscoe turned away and went on to the next tumble of abandoned crates. Flake gave the window a glance before following. The intruders' search took them through the storage area without offering John the chance he was waiting for. Roscoe started across the open area by the loading dock. Flake was slower, more wary. The gap between the two increased, but Flake stood between John and Roscoe, spoiling John's plan to take Roscoe first. John might have to settle for what he could get. Roscoe was across the loading area and nearly to the stairway. If he didn't stop to wait for Flake ...

Roscoe entered the stairwell.

John didn't think he'd get a better chance.

He stepped out from behind the stack of crates that had shielded him and crept forward. He held his defense stick before him, the bronze head heavy in his hand. The stick wasn't as fast as the swords he had used when fencing nor did it have a point or edge, but it did have an authoritative weight that had proved itself more than once on the street. There had been times he'd regretted that the stick was blunt, but not often. He hoped this wasn't going to be one of those times.

Flake turned when John was four meters away, warned by some premonition, certainly not by any sound John had made. The intruder's eyes went round as he saw John; he made a strangled sound, but he didn't yell. That suited John. Flake jumped away and John's first strike missed.

Seeing John extended in his lunge, Flake found some nerve and came after him. John recovered to stance with a speed that seemed to baffle Flake rather than serve as the warning it was. Flake charged forward, swinging a wide, slow roundhouse punch. John grasped his stick at both ends and sidestepped outside the blow. Using the stick as a baton, he directed Flake's punch away before shifting his grip and swinging the bronze weight down along Flake's temple. The man went down like a sack of laundry.

John could have put the blow on the top of the man's head and probably killed him, but he hadn't. There were still some questions John wanted answered. A concussed villain was a villain who might answer some of them, but a dead one wouldn't have anything at all to say; Flake didn't seem to be the sort who would be able to avoid answering questions.

A loud noise, halfway between a squeak and a shout, echoed through the building. Briefly. The sound cut off almost as soon as it began. Startled by its strangeness, John turned to look for its source. It had seemed to come from somewhere near the front entrance.

Had he been the only one to hear it?

"Behind you, John!"

Faye's warning was timely. John turned to see Roscoe rushing him, something dark and heavy-looking in the man's hand. Acting on reflex, John met him with a stop thrust, the narrow tip of the stick taking Roscoe in the solar plexus. Breath whooshed out of the intruder and he doubled over, gasping. If John had been armed with a sword, Roscoe would have been spitted.

John brought the stick down on him. There was a cracking sound and the man collapsed. John found himself holding only the weighted end of his broken slick. He hadn't thought he'd hit Roscoe very hard. John bent down to see if the man was still breathing.

He was, raggedly. That didn't seem good.

"You did what you had to do, John."

Had he? He looked around for the object that Roscoe had carried into the fight. He found himself hoping that it was something lethal. He saw the thing; it was a sap. The two men had wanted him alive. Was it right to kill one of them for that? "You think he'll be all right?"

"He's a human, John. They're not very resilient. The one at the front door wasn't."

The one at the front door wasn't what? John decided he didn't want to know. "I don't want him to die."

"He had no business being here," Faye said matter-of-factly.

"Isn't that a little extreme?"

His answer was a creaking noise that he recognized as the door to the loading dock. The woman. He'd forgotten about her. She must have heard some of the noise and come to investigate. He didn't want any more trouble. Maybe she'd see how things stood and he could bluff her off. He rose, hoping to take advantage of his height and look impressive.

"You're the only one left," he said, as she barreled out of the deep shadows near the door. "Best you just leave."

She didn't stop, but she slowed down, her rush transforming into a strangely casual stroll. She took in the sprawled bodies of her fellows without any sign of alarm. She spoke as casually as she walked.

"Looks like ya caught Roscoe and the Flake by surprise. I'm not so easy."

"Don't be so sure."

Without a pause she said, "Yer a little short."

"Huh?"

She nodded at the splintered stump of the defense stick that he still held clenched in his hand. "Ya ain't got what ya used ta have, tall, pale, and comely. It'll take a bigger tool than you've got ta impress me."

Tall, pale, and comely? He'd heard that phrase before. Could it be? He took a closer look at the figure confronting him. She was tall for a woman and broad enough in the shoulders that she filled the shoulders of the baggy milspec jacket she wore. The pants were milspec, too, but the shoes, a mismatched pair of Aeroboks™, weren't. Her face was shaded by a broad-brimmed, floppy hat that had clearly seen better days even before she'd recovered it from the trash. A stray beam from the streetlight reflected triple flashes from three tiny chrome studs on her cheek. He knew this woman; she was a zip artist from down near the Barrier. He'd heard she was a kicker.

"You're Spillway Sue."

She squinted at him, frowning. "Man's got good eyes. Zeiss?" She reached into a pocket and pulled something out. A flick of her wrist unsheathed a twenty-centimeter blade. She held the weapon with a casual confidence. "Good price for top-grade eyes."

She took a step forward, moving cautiously enough that John knew she was not as unconcerned about facing him as she pretended. He found reason to be concerned himself; her stance was very good; she was no novice knife fighter. He flipped his stick in the air and caught the splintered end. It would be more useful as a club now. It would pack a significant wallop, but would still be slower than the knife. They began to circle each other.

With a squeal of rusted metal torn free from its encrusted moorings and a rumbling thunder, one of the loading doors began to rise. Harsh light flared into the building, washing both combatants in actinic glare. John put up his free hand, trying to shield his eyes. Spillway Sue stood frozen, staring into the light like a rat caught in a flashlight beam. A rat never would have looked so put out.

A squat figure stepped into the light. Whoever it was wore a long coat that made his figure look like an animate box with a hall on top. The intruder must have been confident that they didn't have any guns; silhouetted as he was, he made an easy target. An armed target, however, as John saw when the man advanced; he held a heavy caliber pistol in his right hand. As the man stepped into the loading area, John realized that he was quite short. His voice was deep and gravelly, so much so that John suspected the man might be deliberately trying to hide his normal tones.

"I suggest that you drop your weapons and stay put."

Unfrozen, Sue spoke. "This is a private party."

"Not anymore," the man said. "Don't try to run. I have men covering the exits."

Spillway Sue made an elaborate show of looking around. "I only see one of ya. Maybe ya got everything covered and maybe ya don't. Suppose I just go check it out."

She took a step away from the man and toward the shadowy safety of the warehouse area. The gun muzzle shifted slightly in her direction.

"Suppose you don't," the gunman said.

Sue stood still. Her tongue flicked along her upper lip. John figured she was calculating the odds. Did she think she had any chance of outrunning a bullet? For his part, he stayed very still. When the man demanded they drop their weapons, he let go of what was left of his stick. The clank made by the bronze head covered whatever Sue said in response to the man's command. She gave John a hard glance and slowly opened her hand, letting her knife fall to the floor.

"My name's Wilson," the man said. "You don't know me, but we have a friend in common. Big fellow. On the street, he goes by the name of Bear."

"I don't know ya from Adam. Ain't never heard of Bear," Sue said.

"I wasn't talking to you," Wilson said.

Wilson bent down and placed something on the floor. He shoved the object with his foot, sending it sliding toward John. It was a vid reader. "There's a disk in this. Run it."

John picked it up and pressed the button. In a moment the screen lit, showing a head and shoulders shot of a bearded,

blond man. John recognized the face at once. It was Bear, all right.

"Jack, it is important that we talk," the recording said. "Go with this man."

The screen went blank.

John stared at the screen.
That's all? Two sentences!
John slammed the reader onto the floor. It shattered into a thousand shards of plastic and silicon chips.

"What's this all about?" he demanded.

"Good question, dode," Sue said.

"You shut up and stay out of this," John snapped.

"Hey, hey, it's null. So, ah, I'll be going."

"I think not," said Wilson. He shifted slightly and let the piercing light illuminate his gun. "For the moment it will be safer for everyone if you accompany us."

Sue shook her head. "I ain't going nowhere."

"What
us
you talking about, Wilson? I didn't say I was going with you," John said.

Wilson cleared his throat and shifted his weapon slightly. Light glinted from the metal. "I suggest you reconsider."

"Whatcha gonna do?" Sue asked mockingly. "Shoot us?"

Wilson gave them a tight smile. "That was suggested as the path of least resistance."

"We won't be much for conversation if we're dead." Sue didn't sound quite so confident as she had a moment before.

Wilson's smile opened up. "Who said anything about shooting you dead?"

A red dot appeared above the barrel of Wilson's gun. Another appeared on Spillway Sue's knee. Seeing that John was looking at her legs, she looked down and saw the spot. She didn't flinch away, which John thought showed real nerve, but her voice did start out a little weak when she asked her next question.

"What about Roscoe and the Flake?"

Wilson shrugged. "Since they have been so kind as to sleep through our meeting so far, I see no reason to take them along."

"Ya gonna kill 'em?"

Wilson didn't answer.

"Ya are, ain't ya? Ya already done Cholly, ain't ya?"

"Who's Cholly?"

"Ya know. Ya took Mm oat up front before ya came back here, didn't ya? Ya killed Cholly, now yer gonna do these guys. How long we got?"

Faye's earlier words about the man who had been on the front door were now explained; Wilson was the reason. John was glad that Faye hadn't been involved. Unfortunately, now
he
was facing this Wilson.

"You do seem obsessed with death, young woman," Wilson said.

"Occupational hazard," she mumbled, essentially to herself. Louder she said, "Hey, dode. What's Shorty want with ya anyway? Ya know, as far as I got interest, the two of ya can just buzz on off, eh?"