Lone Wolf (20 page)

I make my approach carefully, using all the tradecraft I’ve learned over the years. For example, I don’t come jandering east, straight down the street that The Promise is on, oh no. Instead, I jog over a block, and come swinging down the cross-street from the north, keep going through the intersection like I’ve got somewhere to be, all the while giving the front of the low building some solid but covert scrutiny.

No car out front. Good, as far as that goes. No suspicious figures hanging on the sidewalks either. Even better.

Now I double back to the street The Promise fronts onto. Cautiously again, of course, I move in on the other side of the street. It’s dark, and maybe one in ten steetlights actually works, so there are plenty of shadows, particularly in the vacant lots and gutted buildings. I’ve got the moves and I’m on top of my game. I’m a ghost in the night.

I’m almost directly across from The Promise when I see him. Sprawled on the sidewalk, back propped up against the ferrocrete wall of the flophouse is a bagged-out gutterpunk elf. Looks like he was dragged through a hedge backward while trying to drink a distillery. I didn’t see him when making my first pass down the cross-street because The Promise has a slightly recessed front door under the remnants of what used to be a kind of portico. He’s wearing what must have been decent clothing once but has since suffered years of drek and abuse. His face matches his clothes.

It’s strange about elves, that something setting them apart form all the other metatypes. Not anything as obvious as their oh-so-precious pointy little ears. No, it’s more profound than that, an atmosphere or aura they carry around with them. When it’s an ork or a human sprawled in the gutter, it’s just plain squalid. But when its one of those rare down-and-outer elves, it’s like seeing some great and noble tragedy.

But enough of the fragging sociology. Time to move in.

I’m fortunate in one sense—the streetlight right outside The Promise and the two nearest me on my side of the street are dead. The lights inside the flophouse lobby cast a pool of illumination—which could be why the bagged-out elf chose that spot to crash—but the street itself and the sidewalk in front of me are dark. I can see that the Plexiglas lobby doors are shut, which means anyone watching from outside would have to look from a brightly lit environment into a dark one. Even with enhanced optics, about all they’re going to see is their own reflection in the Plexiglas door.

I take a good deep breath, and start to cross the street. Not directly in front of The Promise; I’m not that frizz-headed. No, I’m further down the block, again moving with the air of someone whose destination is far from the rundown flophouse.

The bagged-out elf stirs. His head comes up slowly like he’s just emerging from a major drunk. He turns his head slightly, and the light from the lobby glints off his eyes.

It’s in the eyes, always in the eyes, the way the pros study what’s going on around them. Not just a steadiness of the gaze, but more like the eyes are the front end of a sophisticated and task-designated data analysis machine. Once you’ve seen it you’ll know what I mean. You’ll never mistake it and you’ll never forget it.

I reach the sidewalk on the same side of the street as The Promise, and I turn right, away from the flophouse. I want to run, I want to jink left and right to make myself a tougher target in case a laser spot is already painting the back of my neck. But instead I keep to the same steady stride. When I reach the intersection—a fragging eternity later, every moment of which I’m expecting the smashing impact of a round to the head—I turn left. The moment I'm around the corner. I flatten myself against the wall of the building and I let the trembling in my hands run its course.

I've found the first member of the team lying in wait for me.

An elf. Does that mean anything? The Tir connection resurfacing, maybe? Or is it just good tactics and asset selection? After all, this is Tarislar . . .

Okay, I know something. I know somebody had a tap on Finnigan’s line, traced the call to the cel phone built into the pocket secretary, and sent a team to respond. (Bag or ice? What are their orders? Take me alive or geek on sight? After the two previous attempts on my life, I’ve got to assume they want to color me dead.) Fast response time, which means either extensive assets or just my bad luck that a team happened to be in the area. It’s not more than five minutes since I got off the horn with Finnigan. and I don’t think the call itself lasted much more than three. Eight minutes from the time I made the connection. Estimate a minute, maybe
two, to lock onto the cel phone and refine the locater signal
enough to pick out a specific building. Another minute, maybe, to contact a mobile team. (You don’t jack with the cellular network from portable gear, let me tell you.) That gives the team five fragging minutes, maybe six, to roll and reach The Promise. Tight, tight timing, but still probably not enough to figure out that I’m not in room 2LR at the moment.

But what does it mean that they’ve got a watcher out front? Especially since there’s no vehicle on the street and no signs of a ruckus from inside the building. Neither of the other attempts to scag me have been what you’d call subtle: first a Cutters hit team and then a fragging missile from ambush. The equivalent response now would be to locate the room I’m in, then pump grenades in through the window. But they’re not doing that. So what does that tell me?

Not a frag of a lot, other than maybe—just maybe—the mission this time is bag, not ice, after all. Best not to count on that, though.

Without really deciding to do it consciously, I’m looping back toward the back of the building. Room 2LR is at the rear, on the left as you’re coming up the stairs. If there’s any activity inside, I might just be able to see and hear what’s going on through the window, particularly if it involves firearms or explosives. I start to make my way down the narrow, drek-filled alley that runs behind The Promise.

It’s dark, but not pitch-black. The skies of Seattle always seem to glow with this sick and sullen light. Sure, it’s just the clouds and the drek in the air reflecting back the lights of downtown, but sometimes it looks like the air’s glowing on its own, like it’s radioactive or something. It’s dark enough to give me cover, but there’s still enough light to keep me from running into dumpsters or tripping over rats. Of course that’s a mixed blessing. Cover for me also means cover for others, and while I’m depending on meat eyes. I’ve got to assume the hostiles have cyber enhancements that turn night into fragging day.

The Promise is about halfway up the block. The other buildings on both sides of the alley are similar to the flophouse, low—no more than the three floors—and pretty drek-kicked. Unlike some of the other gutted buildings I’ve passed, all are more or less intact, dark and probably filled with squatters. The original identities and purposes of the buildings have been lost to decay, except for one across the alley from The Promise and nearer the end of the block. What’s left of a sign over the rear door reads: Fi nes Que t. For a few seconds I try to puzzle it out, then the meaning hits me: Fitness Quest, it’s the only thing that fits.

Then I shake my head. Frag, what the subconscious won’t do to distract the conscious mind from something it doesn’t want to do—to the point of playing New Wheel of fragging Fortune with building signs. Give me a fragging break. I ghost my way past Fi nes Que t, deeper into the darkness of the alley, away from the partially lit street behind me.

Apart from the small shaded light over the flop’s back alley door, the place is dark. No lights on in 2LR . . .

Or in any window, for that matter Before the thought really has time to penetrate, I've flattened and frozen myself against the wall of the building across the alley from Fi nes Que t. I glance down at my watch. Not quite 2045, according to the faint green display. I know The Promise is full, or close to it. How likely is it that everybody dossed down here has gone out on the town or toddled off to bed before nine at night? Not likely. By all odds there should be at least one light on somewhere, right?

I feel cold all over. Whoever the hostiles are, they’ve secured the whole fragging building—and it’s still not much more than twelve minutes—fifteen at the outside—since I placed the call to Finnigan. Frag, that’s fast. The Star might be able to do it with a couple of FRT squads, and the same for any corp security force worthy of the name. But quietly? So quietly the only indication is one watcher out front and no lights in the windows? Not a chance, priyatel.

Who the frag
are
these guys?

Movement. I’m pressed even harder back against the wall, and the wire has my H & K clear of its holster even before I consciously realize it.

Suddenly I see a figure step into the small cone of light cast from over the back door. Tall, thin—an elf? No obvious weapons, hands in the pockets of a long, dark duster-style coat. Armored, natch.

I watch to see what he’s doing, but the slag just keeps standing there directly under the light.

Facing directly toward me. As if he knows I’m here.

Quick as drek through a rat, I drop into a crouch behind what was once a bar fridge before enterprising souls stole
the compressor and the door and other assorted odds and
sods. It’s lousy hard cover—anything with a decent propellant charge is going to punch right on through—but as soft-cover concealment it’s the best I’ve got at the moment. I hunker down and wait for the drek to hit the pot.

Nothing comes punching through the fridge, or through my body. I shift, stick my head out for an instant at about knee-level. Then pull it back and review what I saw in that momentary glimpse.

The figure’s still there, hasn’t moved a millimeter that I can see. No heat of any kind. He’s just standing there under the light, like he’s on stage and it’s a spotlight. Like he wants to be seen. Like he wants me to look at him. And keep looking at him . . .

I snap my head around so fast I feel a muscle pull in my neck. The wire brings my H & K around onto the same line.

And I’m looking over my sights at two figures in the mouth of the alley. Tall, slender—again I can’t tell for sure whether they’re elves, but it’s a good fragging bet. Moving forward slowly. With them silhouetted against the lights of the road, I can’t see for sure whether they’ve got their weapons drawn, but it’s another good bet. There’s something about the way they move—slow, steady, six or seven meters apart so the same burst can’t take them both—that just screams pro. Pros from what source? Not the Cutters— there’s none of the ganger’s swaggering machismo in their moves. The Star? Lightbringer? TIC? Or someone else— IrreleCorp, maybe?

The wire wants to cack them both, hose down the area. Burn the clip that’s in the H & K, slap in another and do it again. But that would be stupid, suicidal. If they’re pros, I’ve got to assume they’re aiso armored. It’s too far and too dark and too uncertain for a guaranteed, clean head-shot, which would be the only sure way to take them down. Even if I could cut through their armor, one of them would be returning fire and running for cover while I was geeking the other one. Not to mention Mr. Spotlight behind me, doing the same thing.

No, the Gunfight at the fragging O.K. Corral isn’t the way to go here. I duck down lower and scope out my options.

Not a long process—there aren’t many. Behind me is a
wall It has a door in it to my right—a heavy metal fire door of some kind—which might or might not be locked. To get to the door, I’ve got to move toward the two pros moving slowly down the alley, then expose myself for a few seconds while opening the door. Just a tick or two, but it’s more than enough to take a few hundred grams of steel-jacketed lead. And that’s if the door’s not locked .. . Pass, thanks.

About a dozen meters to my left is a narrow passageway that connects The Promise and the building next to it. Duck through that and I’m out on the main street again—and straight into the fire pattern of the elf watcher outside the lobby. If I could even make it that far. There’s not a drop of cover between me and that passage, and I’d have to move directly toward Mr. Spotlight to get there. No matter what you see on the trid, running into the bad guys’ guns rather than across their line of fire isn’t a tactically defensible option. Pass.

Almost directly across the alley from me is another one of those narrow passageways, this one running between Fi nes Que t and the building next to it. That’s probably my best bet, but it’s sure as frag not a good one. To make it I’ve got to break from behind the fridge, cross the alley—fast, there’s no cover, and I’m the line of fire of all three ops—and keep a-going. When I get to the street—one block south of The Promise, so there shouldn’t be watchers there—then I decide what’s next. The advantage of this option is that I’d be moving fast, at right angles to all three lines of sight. That means a tracking shot, the hardest kind, even for somebody heavily cybered up. (Again, don’t let the trid tell you any different.)

I could better my odds if I had a way to distract these slags for a few instants, but fragged if I know how. Sure, if this were trid, I’d find something lying close to hand that I could turn into a diversion. A rock in a tin can, maybe, or a soykaf filter and some bleach I could make into a fragging hand grenade. Or I could just yell something like, “Look! It’s Comet Swift-Tuttle!” And in the confusion stroll across the fragging alley.

Null! This is reality, priyatel. No rocks, no tin cans, not even a soykaf filter.

So I’m up on my feet before I can talk myself out of it, head down and legs driving like a sprinter exploding out of the blocks. Wildly overbalanced forward, ready to go down face-first if my legs don’t keep up or if a foot catches on anything. Vision tunneled down, so all I can see is the dark rectangle that’s the passageway across the alley. I give it everything I've got, every joule of energy in my body. Any moment expecting to be blown out of my boots by three bursts of autofire.