Alan Dean Foster (3 page)

Tuggle sighed, shook his head, and replaced the radio mike on its hook as the dispatcher sputtered acknowledgment back at them.

The old buildings looming over Alvarado had been built a long time ago, before the heyday of the two-car family arrived in Los Angeles. The detectives were grateful for that. It meant there were few garages, which meant little in the way of off-street parking, which meant plenty of cover as they dodged behind the lines of battered Toyotas and Buicks in their stealthy advance toward the brightly lit convenience store.

Two minutes later they were near enough to see the interior through the dirty plate glass and burglar bars. Porter's minimart was unimpressive, the shelves sloppily

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stocked, with none of the neatness familiar from Circle K's or 7-Elevens.

The ceiling lights hung from naked chains, the harsh fluorescents illuminating dirt and dust.

They could also clearly see the aged alien proprietor. He was standing behind the counter conversing animatedly with one of the two aliens who'd just entered. He stopped talking when the taller Newcomer reached into his coat and withdrew a blunt, combat-grade pump-action shotgun and aimed it at his chest. Raincoat extracted a similar weapon from the depths of his black slicker and whirled to confront the deserted doorway. It was hard to make out the Newcomer expressions at a distance and through the glass, but Sykes thought Raincoat looked nervous. The one facing down the proprietor was relaxed and all business.

"Christ, you see what they're carrying?"

"Yeah." Tuggle's expression had gone grim. "Backup better get here quick.

Don't do anything stupid. Or brave."

"Who, me? You got your vest?"

Tuggle winced as he was reminded of his bulletproof che st protector. "Of course. Nice and safe according to regulation, tight next to the spare in the trunk."

"Yeah, that's comforting, ain't it? Mine too."

They were both tense because of the unexpected heavy firepower the two aliens had produced. Combat shotguns hardly seemed required for holding up mom-and-pop groceries. Maybe the thieves were insecure.

The larger alien was gesturing sharply with the powerful weapon. Though they couldn't hear anything out in the street, they could see the Newcomer's lips working rapidly, could see the tenor that came into the old proprietor's eyes. He started filling a brown paper sack with cash from the register.

Tuggle nodded tensely. "Back of the room, rear right." Flicking his eyes past the pantomime being played out before them, Sykes saw that the proprietor's wife was standing frozen-faced near a back portal. Out front, Raincoat was hopping from foot to foot to relieve the tension. No human being would have moved in quite that fashion, could have managed quite so perfect a succession of cross-steps without preplanning. The emotions, if not the dance steps,

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were the same. It only served to remind the two detectives crouched across the street that none of the people inside the grocery were human.

The proprietor continued shoveling money into the bag. It was taking a long time because his hands were shaking and he kept dropping bills. This only made his tormentor angrier, which in turn made the old fellow more nervous still.

Raincoat wasn't the only participant in the nighttime drama who was getting antsy. Tuggle nodded at a car parked near the market.

"Watch the driver. I'm going for a better angle on the door. "

Sykes glanced down the street, back at his partner. "Thought you wanted to wait for a backup?"

"They'll be here in a minute. Got to make a move now. The driver. "

Sykes turned back to the street, leveling his pistol. "I got him. Don't get pinned going in."

His partner nodded curtly, then took off like a scared crab, running crosswise across the intersection. Sykes waited until his partner was under cover once more before returning his attention to the store.

The larger alien was grabbing up the sack of cash and shoving it into his coat pocket. Bills tumbled to the floor. The thief ignored them. Sykes frowned at that but had no time to work it out. The hair on his neck stiffened as it began. He felt like a man watching a slow-motion strip-tease, unable to react, unable to interact. It was insane. It made no sense.

Madness.

Without any warning of any kind, the robber whipped the shotgun up and fired. At close range the twelve-gauge shell opened up the old proprietor's chest like a demolition charge, slamming him backward into shelves crammed with cans and packaged goods. He never had a chance. And there was no reason for it, no reason at all.

As if to compound the craziness, as the oldster slid to the floor the thief leaned over the counter and pumped another round into the crumpled body.

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" Aw, shit. " Sykes was rising from his crouch.

Tuggle had almost made it across the street when the first shot was fired. He dropped instinctively, then raised his head for a clear look.

As he did so a horn blared and both men looked in surprise down the street.

Sedan, late model. The horn howled a second time, a disembodied voice fleeing the pavement. Sykes barely had time to see that the human driver was starting his engine before all hell broke loose.

Reacting to the horn's shriek, the two aliens inside the market turned in time to spot Tuggle crouched out on the asphalt. They opened fire instantly, blasting through the plate glass. One shellburst struck pavement. Another hit a civilian car rolling through the intersection, perforating its radiator and bringing it to a halt nearby. The terrified alien driver had the good sense to stay inside and out of sight.

Tuggle rose and made a dash for the cover of a nearby lamppost. As he did so, the human driver of the getaway vehicle emerged to level a machine pistol in the direction of the fleeing detective. Sykes immediately turned his attention to this new threat, hoping the two aliens would elect to stay under cover inside the minimart. As the driver fired at him, Sykes was forced to duck down behind the car that was providing his own cover. The rapid-fire machine pistol raked the metal and safety glass above his head.

A moving van came trundling down the street, its driver unaware of the battle raging intermittently before him. The getaway driver grinned and came around in front of his car, a new clip punched into the belly of his pistol. What he failed to see was that as he advanced under cover of the slow-moving van, Sykes was already racing around its front. The driver of the van barely had time enough to look shocked as Sykes burst in front of him, leveled his revolver, and put the getaway driver on his back.

Now the aliens had no driver and it was Sykes who was using their vehicle for protection. There was a potential hostage present in the person of the proprietor's wife, but they chose to ignore her. Sykes stayed low, occasionally rising long enough to get off a couple of shots in the store's

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direction, ducking back down when an answering shotgun burst howled inside.

And where the hell, he wondered frantically, was their damn freaking backup?

With only the thin lamppost for cover, Tuggle was much worse off. Seeing this, the aliens were concentrating their fire in his direction and ignoring Sykes's wild shots.

Sykes leaned around the front of the sedan. "Tug, get outta there! "

Tuggle heard him and nodded, leaned left, and immediately drew back as twelve-gauge shot rattled off the post. "I can't! Do you mind?"

"I'll cover you! Get outta there!"

"Well, if you're gonna insist."

Sykes made a face in his partner's direction, then rose and rapid-fired an entire clip in the store's direction. It was enough to make both robbers temporarily dive for cover. Seizing the opportunity, Tuggle scrambled out from behind the lamppost and ran like hell for the nearest real cover, which happened to be the radiator-pierced car stalled nearby.

Throwing himself onto the hood and rolling down the other side, he got his feet under him before slowly rising for a look through the glass.

His attention was distracted by the car's occupant. The elderly alien driver was still inside, lying flat on the front seat and breathing hard.

He eyed Tuggle desperately.

"Can I get out now?"

"Come on, move it!"

He all but dragged the oldster out of the seat, watched as the Newcomer scrambled for safety around the nearest comer. His legs were moving fast enough to belie his real age.

"You okay?" Sykes's voice, concerned.

"Yeah! We having fun yet?"

Sykes didn't reply to that one. After checking his pistol, Tuggle rose and took careful aim at the store. The aliens were taking their time reloading, but it was hard to pick them out inside among the shelves and counters. His individual blasts in their direction drew heavy return fire. For

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some reason the shotguns' echoes lingered longer in the night air than they had earlier.

Glass shattered above his head as the car windows were blown out. That didn't bother him. What widened his eyes was a shuddering in the body of the vehicle he sat crouched behind. Metal ripped and smoked off to his right. That last shot had gone right through the whole car. Through the car. As he stared dumbfoundedly at the ragged hole, a second blast tore through the thick sheet metal barely inches from his shoulder.

Panicked, he scuttled toward the front of the car, blasts and exit holes following him in neat, orderly succession, until only the fender remained.

Nowhere left to go except to the next car. Not too far away up the street.

Ten feet. A lousy ten feet. No time left to think, either. He rose and ran.

Two steps from the second car the next blast hit him in the side, knocking him to his right, his arms flailing wildly at the air like those of a rag doll dropped from a speeding car. A second blast caught him in the chest as he was spun around by the first, but it didn't hurt him. He couldn't be hurt any further. The first shot had cut through his spine. He was dead before he struck the asphalt.

Sykes saw it happen and could only stare. Tuggle had been his partner for nine years. Tuggle had been his friend for nine years. And Tug was down hard in the street.

The big alien loosed one, two, three additional shots in the direction of the motionless detective. One blast caught the prone body and tumbled it over like a loose stone. Then he grabbed at his buddy and threw him toward the rear of the market. As he did so the shotgun fell from Raincoat's fingers. Neither paused to recover the dropped weapon as they searched wildly for the store's rear exit.

Sykes could have charged in then, might have had a good shot at them.

Instead he was racing across the street. He slowed as he approached Bill Tuggle's body. There was no need to check for a pulse, no need to tum it over for closer inspection. The three powerful blasts had reduced the body of his partner to something unrecognizable.

One minute he'd been nearby, exchanging sotw gags, 21

alive and warm and wise-cracking across the pavement. Now he was gone. It wasn't always necessary to check for the heartbeat of a gunshot victim.

Sykes had been on the street a long time. He didn't check. Nobody had ever looked deader than Bill Tuggle looked right then.

"Aw shit, Tug, Jesus! Goddamnit!"

Sometimes all you can do is stare and curse. Not all cops pray in the conventional sense, but most do something similar. Sykes's lips didn't move, but anyone could see what he was feeling in his eyes. Words and images rushed through his dazed brain, all jumbled up together like one of Edie's stews, and his lousy mind wasn't equal to the task of sorting them out. He couldn't make sense of any of it.

Then his expression changed, his gaze came alive with something else. It spilled over into his entire being and took possession of him. By rights he ought to have stayed where he was. Sirens were wailing against the night.

Their backup on its way, too late, too far away. By rights he had no business leaving the scene to pursue, one against two. Crazy, insane, madness. Why not sweep him up in it also? What did anything matter, with Tug a limp pile of meat in the middle of a Slagtown street?

He took off toward the store, eyes wild, rage giving wings to his feet.

The store was deserted, the proprietor's wife having fled. He nearly fell twice, slipping and sliding on broken glass, heedless of sharp-edged shelving and the possibility of catching a surprise shell. The rear door stood ajar. He plunged through just in time to catch a glimpse of the two tall aliens rounding the comer at the far end of the service alley. He felt as though he were flying along, his feet hardly touching the ground, the years seeming to fall away from his muscles as he built up speed in pursuit. He wasn't worried. Not yet. It was difficult for Newcomer fugitives to find places to hide. The department learned that early on.

Size wasn't always an advantage to a mugger or pursesnatcher. They made nice, big, fat targets. The gun in his hand was light as a feather.

By the time he rounded the comer they'd vanished. The 22

street ahead was open and uncluttered, well-lit by bright overheads. The shops were closed, the storefronts mute and dim. Despite the absence of parked cars there were plenty of shadows and hiding places. He advanced more slowly now.

Cops who'd survived years on the street didn't have the sixth sense, but they had something else: caution developed through fear.

It was a small noise, insignificant. Anyone else would have paid it no heed. Sykes immediately turned toward it, toward the base of a high, overbearing billboard mutely advertising beer clenched in an alien fist.

The tall alien had given himself a difficult angle for the shotgun. Without thinking, Sykes dove to his left.

What was brutally effective at close range was hard to aim with distance.

The blast blew apart the top of the crate the detective flopped behind, but not the part he'd chosen to use as cover. Still intact, he scrambled on his belly, cursing the inventors of all shotguns, moving deeper into the pile of empty crates like some hyperkinetic centipede high on speed.