Rogue-ARC (29 page)

She climbed past my shoulder, too, as I tried to gauge pursuit. They were faster, and gaining. The park came up quickly. Sign, signal on the dash . . .

“Turning,” I said. “Get ready to deploy right.”

I swung into the turn, she swung into me, tires protested, I nailed it as we straightened, and braked hard to turn again into a parking area. All three cars turned in after us and the fourth one was visible a ways back. I spun and barreled back as they dodged, and I could see guns now, though they hadn’t fired and didn’t try to wreck. Interesting. Was it possible they weren’t hostile? Except they had guns out.

Then one of them did fire, and perforated a window. Silver yelped. She was just straightening out, and had the shotgun.

I gripped the yoke and drove down an access road that ended in bollards. I leaned into the brakes, unlatched the door, said, “Gun!” and leaned more.

She passed over the gun, I reached a stop, let momentum throw the door open, and tumbled out fast, tucked around the comforting feel of large gauge firepower. I rolled into some brush and confirmed I heard her door, too. Good.

I heard their cars screeching to a stop, the tire compound melting instead of grabbing. That took effort, given the modern materials coming out now.

The park was pretty generic, really. Lots of Earth grass cut short, some stone walls and a couple of cairns. Those were carved from local lava, as was most stone here. There were some walkways through the trees, like the one where I’d slammed to a stop. A couple of pavilions for parties and meetings, a restroom block and a utility shed rounded things out. In the misty distance I saw a children’s digging pit and some kind of climbing toy with slides and things.

I cleared the brush and stood, to see a lot of thugs coming toward me, lightly armed with pistols and bars. Sixteen, at a gestaltic take.

I love operating in a society where few people are armed. The psychological effect of a weapon on the rabbits is quite gratifying. Back home, it barely would have caused a raised eyebrow. Here, however . . .

I whipped it out from under my coat and jacked a round.

They recognized the threat and scattered. That wasn’t entirely the best outcome, but it did mean, unless they were very professional, their attack wouldn’t be coordinated.

I reviewed where each had run, chose a direction, and took back off into the growth. Two had chosen the footpaths over this way, and I was between those.

One of them heard me and took a shot. That was excellent, because he got nowhere near me. I heard the
crackzing!
of the round about four meters ahead, saw a very faint but definite muzzle flash, and heard his buddy to my right curse. They were perhaps five meters each way. I fired left first, figuring the one on the receiving end would need a moment to recover. Then I fired at the other. I heard him yelp, so that was a wound.

The other one fired again, at the
Whamf!
Sound from my gun. I can’t describe it better than that. A bang, but softened at the edges and lowered 40dB. I’d moved as I shot, so he missed, and I fired again and didn’t.

I slid another shell in the breech to conserve the magazine, looped around to the man I thought I’d injured to find him clutching a leg. He tried to stand, I kicked him in the head and kept running.

The woods were my friend, but the goons did have numbers and could set ambushes. I decided to relocate to the service building. I crossed the path, bounded twice in the woods, then out onto the grass and forward through the open.

I wiped out as I hit the parking lot. It was ringed by a “decorative” chain fence about thirty centimeters high. I ran into it at a sprint, which made my shin scream. I stumbled and rolled, and that’s when I did the rest of it. I tried to land weapon-butt first and roll, but missed the timing and landed on my little finger. Let me say that again: I put close to 100 kilos down on one little finger, second knuckle, at a dead run.

I thought I’d pass out from the pain. Not only was it certainly broken, I skinned it to the bone and then some. Then my head slammed down, as I’d not tucked enough. I lost skin and hair and jarred my neck. The pain between those three was so great that I saw spots, blotches and streaks, and just managed to divert a heave from becoming vomit which I would have aspirated. I Boosted, swallowed, clenched my teeth, went into recovery breathing, and let the tears flow as I keened as quietly as I could. I staggered two steps and threw myself alongside what looked like one of a pair of public restrooms to catch some breaths and deal with shock, sitting with my tortured skull gingerly resting on the bricks. My ribs started hurting, too, from the strain and tumble.

I realized I was in light, not shadow, and moved sideways quickly. When you do something stupid, it’s time to stop and regroup, only I couldn’t. I heard steps, knew one of the thugs was approaching, and stood ready. As he came around the corner, I shoved the muzzle up under his ribs to increase the suppression, and fired a shot straight through his inferior vena cava, liver, lungs and spine. There was a
WHUMP!
, his exhale, and a thud as he hit the ground. I scooped up his pistol and jammed it into the other pocket. My finger was on fire, aching and throbbing, and had gotten dinged again as I shot. I ignored it, turned, and ran around the building, hearing his buddy approach.

I cleared the building with my back to the wall, saw one guy disappear between the buildings. He gasped, swore, and knelt to check his buddy. I came around behind him and fired a load right up his ass, balls and spine. He squealed slightly and dropped. I dodged around him and then cleared the other building, low and slow. As I snuck around the corner, I saw two more of them bringing up the rear, then a third behind them, as they spread out to look for me.

I reloaded gingerly, using only two fingers. Carefully then, I eased the muzzle past the corner, shot number five, and waited. The sound had echoed between the buildings and the concrete walk, and that combined with the previous victim dropping caused their attention to be diverted toward him. Not being chivalrous, I shot two more in the back post haste, and departed the field at a low run.

Shots cracked past, a couple of them frighteningly close, but I was alive and they had seven down of sixteen.

As I ran, I reloaded with the fresh magazine. The depleted one went into a pocket, and I reached in to slide five more shells into it with my good hand. The damaged hand could support the weapon and would have to fire while my left did most of the heavy and fine work.

Silver whispered in my earbuds, “Approaching,” and I took a moment to figure out she meant herself. I saw a hand wave behind the gate cairn, and I angled that way. I low-pitched a pistol, dodged the other way and took cover.

She didn’t hesitate, but scooped it up, glanced it over, raised it plane over the stones and shot. She got one, who staggered and snarled and tumbled to his ass. Then she winged another, as I got one in the face, pointshooting as I stood.

This caused them to reassess, and they seemed to have some training. They pulled into a group while unloading suppressing fire.

I wondered how long it would be before the cops showed up. We were rather remote, but someone had to have heard by now.

Silver sprawled prone and low around the rock, fired twice more, and another one dropped. I think she got him in the leg, but he didn’t like it. Dirt kicked up around her, and she flinched, then I stopped watching as I whipped around and fired two more quick shots.

It really hadn’t taken long. I’d killed five and wounded three, she’d killed at least one and wounded two. That left five functional, and they’d retreated in a group into one of the cars. They ripped out throwing gravel and I let them go.

There were five wiggling wounded here, though, and they varied from critical and alive to barely scratched. It wasn’t over yet.

Once again, my training proved useful. Some of the most ridiculous exercises have real world applications.

My survival course was much like that the pilots and combat rescue teams got, with one difference. I had to survive, and I had to keep four of them quiet for ten days. They’d get recovered as soon as they could signal a search party. My task was to stop them from doing so, keep control of them, and keep them alive, then get us all out together. I’d been given a uniform stripped of fasteners, and my wits and viciousness.

This would be easier. I didn’t particularly care about this round of clowns, nor did I need them alive. I grabbed the one with the shot thigh, wrapped a sleeve over his mouth, and dragged as he twitched and tried to scream, in muffled gurgling squeaks.

I whacked him in the skull, grabbed a cable tie from my pocket to attach him to a corner of the railing on the forest side, and went for the others.

The second one’s guts were peppered with 6.5mm shot. He moaned rather than screamed, and I dragged him to his buddy, but placed him an entire railing length away.

The third one had a shattered ankle, and after two kicks and a whimper, he passed out and wet himself in a muffled trickle. Yeah, I bet it hurt. Well, so did the remains of my finger, so prong him.

Number Four was near dead. Five had been stunned and was upright and scared but decided to put up a fight when I got close. I let the fist hit me, rolled aside and caught his elbow, hooked his wrist in my elbow and bent. It didn’t shatter, but it did throw him to the ground. I kicked him hard in the kidney, balls and anus, then in the solar plexus as he thrashed and twitched over. Then I just grabbed the back of his jacket and dragged.

Four of the five were mostly conscious, all wounded, and mentally stunned from the fight. They’d started with 16:1 odds and now I had the upper hand.

Number Four was pretty well gone, but he still might save a couple of his buddies.

I looked at his hemorrhaged, concussed eyes and asked, “Who hired you?”

I gave him a three count, as he tried to track and follow me, then reached down and punched the knife into his throat. He gurgled, his legs frog-kicked, and he died in a spilling pool of blood.

Number Five was not the boss, and had put up a crappy fight. I walked over to him and repeated the same question in the same dispassionate monotone. “Who hired you?”

“I don’t know! I really don’t know!”

“Who does?”

“Him! Krensky knows!” He wiggled his hands and pointed with his chin.

“Thank you,” I said, and sliced his throat out with a swift flick. He gurgled and sighed and gargled and strained, then died.

“Krensky, I don’t need to kill you all. I do need the information. It’s all up to you.”

He couldn’t talk fast enough.

His voice was animated and high as he said, “Dark haired goz, mid thirties, very fit. Roll of cash, some bullion.”

“Where?”

“Inn Seven, north side, room twenty-three.”

“When?”

“Monday.” Today was Thursday. That was pretty fast.

“How much?”

“Five thousand each.”

Eighty thousand to do me in. I was flattered. That might be ten percent of what he had left.

“Instructions?”

“He said where you were staying. Called when you were on the road.”

“Instructions?” I repeated.

“Uh, hold you for him, kill you if we couldn’t. Said to shoot first and bandage later.”

Good to see he still respected my abilities, and kept his ego out of his wits. Yes, broken or dead was the only way he’d get me.

“When did you last talk to him? With that phone?” I indicated the flat unit static-stuck to his belt.

“Yes, take it. About three hours ago.”

It was good he could be reasonable. It also wasn’t going to save him, because I couldn’t have him blabbing to Randall, nor to the cops. I also wanted to dissuade any competitors from taking the job. I reached down and took the phone.

Then I stood, hacked, stepped over, hacked, stepped and hacked again. The last one almost got a scream out before I reached him, and he did a most amusing dance considering his hands were lashed at ground level.

That done, I detached the sheath from my coat, slide the knife in, I gingerly reached into my pocket with three fingers, drew out a bag and dropped the sheathed knife into it. I made my way back to the car with a couple of staggers. Silver had the trunk open, and I tossed the knife into the disposal bag. She’d scavenged several pistols and a rifle as well.

“You drive,” I said, and made my way to the passenger seat. I collapsed in a heap on a polymer tarp she’d thoughtfully laid out. Once down, I reached for the touchpad and reclined.

She tidied up, climbed in, and we pulled out.

As she turned onto the road, she said, “That’s quite a pool of gore for a good guy.” Her voice was flat, but I caught the moral jab in it.

What brought that on? “Hey, they tried to kill me first, for no ethics other than money, so prong you.”

“And you were as cold and heartless as they.”

“I’m chasing a killer.” It had to be reaction stress from the fight. She’d done well, but it was her first firefight. Well-prepared, but it’s always a shock.

She said, “They were chasing a killer.”

I had to stop and integrate that.

The rules said I was the good guy. So why did I keep doing the same things as the bad guys?

The thought physically hurt my brain, and triggered an explosion of anger.

I wanted to hit something, smash something, but she was right, and that made it worse, and it was irrelevant dogshit to our mission, and her job wasn’t to psychoanalyze me, nor teach philosophy, “it’s to build the goddam tools I need and provide technical support and overview, is that clear?”

“Yes, sir,” she said, with an icy lack of emotion.

I wasn’t sure when I’d switched from thoughts to vocalizing, either.

This was not going to help me sleep.

“You’re shaking,” she said.

“I was just shot at. You’re shaking, too.”

“Yes.”

Well, I was glad we agreed on that.

She added in a hurried shout, “I’m shaking because you’re scaring me.” She gripped the controls rather tightly.

“I couldn’t leave them alive.”