Two, one at each corner of the building, were targeting sensors. A closer search showed him eight, no nine, auto-guns scattered along the roof line. They’d be slaved to the sensors, probably with someone in security central with his finger on the release button.
Right now, the button had to be under the thumb of a friendly. Dumb, yes, but a good guy. When it passed to the thumb of a bad guy, things would get bad for anyone caught in the open.
“Gabby, pass this picture to the front team. Advise them to check out the roof and stand by to take down their sensors. Can you identify any cameras?”
“Not at this time, sir. I don’t think they’ve got them on. I’d say they’re going for motion detection and radar. Maybe some infrared. But no sensors active other than those two suites at the corners, sir.”
Which meant tonight would be a study in slowly developing hell.
Captain DeVar signaled his troops to settle in place and wait. Marines were good at waiting.
Abby had had enough of waiting. She tapped her computer; it woke up Cara’s phone a second time. A green blip appeared.
“She’s two blocks up, one over to the right.” And then Abby held on as Sergeant Bruce took a hard right and made the turn.
Abby would have waited for the next right.
Abby would have been wrong.
A screeching left put them on the right street. A tiny figure was walking along, head down, shoulders weighted by the whole burden of a world as only a twelve-year-old can carry it.
Bruce accelerated even as he said, “We got company.”
Four blocks up, a car did a slip-sliding turn into the street and gunned its motor. Abby squinted, tried to make out driver and passengers.
“Guns,” she said, the same second Bruce did. And her own automatic was out. She jacked up the power to maximum and flipped the magazine to deadly.
Bruce rolled her window down as she went through the drill, so all she had to do was lean out. Good thinking on his part.
There was an arm out of the passenger window of the approaching car.
Abby fired for the passenger window.
The other people noticed that they weren’t alone on the street and changed their aim from the kid to the onrushing car.
That fit Abby fine. She swept her fire right to the driver, then back to the gunner. Beneath Abby, she could feel her own car shuddering as it was hit.
Out of the corner of her eye, Abby saw Cara go down. Whether the girl was down smart or down hit would be determined later.
Beside Abby, Bruce struggled to keep control of the car, but it was fishtailing.
“They’re going to run Cara down,” Abby shouted as the other car began to swerve and slide out of control.
Abby found a firm hand on her slacks, yanking her back in the car even as the rig began a painfully long, slow swerve on a collision course for the other car.
A course that would intercept it a good five feet before the shooter could hit the girl.
Abby braced herself.
The crash wasn’t nearly as bad as Abby expected.
Yes, there was the bouncing around the inside of the car as it fell apart, and smooth things became pointy things that cut.
And her brain must have bounced off the inside of her skull at least two, maybe three, times.
Still, all in all, it beat a jab in the eye with a sharp stick.
Barely.
And it had its nice part. Bruce dragged her out of the rig firmly, but gently. Then he felt her all over for broken bones and bleeding arteries.
He could have done it so much better, feeling her up, but he was professional about it. Abby would have to schedule time to show him how to unprofessionally take advantage of a girl.
But that would have to wait for later.
Abby was dragging herself out of Bruce’s touch, and crawling on her hands and knees to Cara.
“You okay, kitten.”
“I think I got hit,” the girl whispered.
To an insistent “Where?” the girl raised an arm.
Yep, she’d been creased by a stray round, flying glass, rock, hard to tell. Abby pulled a bandage from her usual supply and stanched the bleeding while calling over her shoulder, “Sarge, you think you can get the car going?”
That was followed by a starter turning, but no sound of anything cooperating. “I think we’re afoot.”
“Advise Commander Tordon that shots have been fired, Cara has a flesh wound, and we’re afoot.”
“Yes, ma’am” came back solid Marine, followed by “Gramma Ruth says she’ll try to send us wheels but not to count on it. Kris has ordered ‘play ball,’ but so far there’s no report of ‘batter up.’”
“Play ball” did not surprise Abby. The Kris Longknife she knew would not leave a planet to drop into the hands of someone who tried to shoot old ladies and kids. But it was nice working for a boss who needed convincing that people needed killing.
“Tell Ruth that we’ll manage our own wheels, or we’ll ride the tram back.”
Bruce did, then grinned at Abby. “You gonna hot wire a rig or me?”
“Which of us will take the longer?” Abby said, tightening the bandage down around Cara’s arm. “Does that hurt?”
“Not much,” Cara said as Bruce gently helped her to her feet. “You wouldn’t boost a car, would you, Aunt Abby?”
The look of moral confusion in those young eyes bothered Abby. But not enough to consign her and hers to the tram.
“Baby ducks, we really need to get back to the embassy, and we really need to have a doc look at that cut arm.”
“Don’t call me ‘baby ducks.’ That what Gramma Ganna calls me. I have to take it from her. And I thought you were different.”
“I am, Cara, but right now I’m not sure I can afford not to boost some wheels.”
“Why don’t you ask Uncle Joe for his truck? He might lend it to you.”
“I didn’t think of that,” Abby said. And between the two of them and their blackened hearts she could probably explain to the old fellow the importance of her leaving a bruise on his skull, and hot wiring the rig.
Abby let Cara lead them to the familiar street corner, followed by Bruce as soon as he checked to make sure there were no survivors from the other car.
Uncle Joe listened quickly as Cara gave him her version of what was going on, then took Abby aside.
“I hear strange things are happening around town tonight.”
“I know that only too well. The shots just fired were us trying to keep some thugs from running Cara down, turning her into a drive-by.”
“It is disgusting when good children get mowed down by things they have nothing to do with.”
“We need to get her to medical care.”
“Take my truck,” the old storekeeper said, offering keys.
“I cannot do that,” Abby said. “It was no accident that Cara was marked for death, and I, as well as my tall friend here, are players in the things that you are hearing about. If you are seen to be taking our side, it could cost you your life.”
The old man frowned. “Then I may have to walk into a door and give myself cuts and bruises I can show off.”
“We could hit you carefully.”
“It would not be good for Cara to see you do that. No, you take the keys and go. I think Mong across the street can give me the wounds I need to show if things go as you say they could.”
And so it was that Bruce bounced his way out of Five Corners with a lot less horsepower than he gunned his way in.
48
Kris listened to the latest report from Gramma Ruth, her gut going cold, her game face sliding into place.
“Cara has a flesh wound, but she was definitely targeted for something worse, kidnapping or death,” Commander Tordon finished.
“No shots have been fired here, yet,” Kris reported.
“It looks like it’s only a matter of time,” Jack said.
“But it’s a very important matter,” Kris answ
ered back. “Let’s assume we’re only minutes away, team. Keep a lookout for guns. If you see one, shoot. Take a prisoner we can talk to if you can, but take no risks otherwise.”
The net absorbed her orders in total silence.
Kris turned to Penny. “You’re in command of this hall. Try to hold casualties to as few as possible, Marines and civilians. If you can, be close to Senator Chisel when all hell breaks loose. It would be nice if she survived the night. Good luck.”
The intel woman took the orders and best wishes with a slight roll of her eyes.
Now Kris turned to the woman Marine at her elbow. She was about Kris’s height and her dress was the same cut only black. “I’ve had it with waiting for something to happen. You ready to switch places with me.”
The woman stepped sideways and Kris passed before her, half hidden by the circle of Marines around them. Suddenly the Marine’s dress was red. Kris’s was black. The Marine was a blonde; Kris was a brunette.
Kris took Jack’s arm, and a Marine corporal stepped into place at Penny’s elbow.
For a moment, the circle seemed no different, then Jack and Kris took a step back and quickly disappeared into a room off the hall. As they did, the circle of Marines slowly moseyed down toward the central dome.
Once on their own, Kris and Jack ambled among the art, talking about how good it was to get relieved for a bit and what art they really wanted to take a look at once they got a breath of fresh air. Before too long, a pair of Marines fell in a comfortable distance behind them.
As security, even in their red and blues, they passed unnoticed, as important people talked to each other, or very important people talked, trailed by their security details.
And Kris did her numbers.
The reception line had been a real herd event, say four hundred going or receiving. Say some thousand important people around to see and be seen. Add to that three, maybe four thousand security people or waiters or whomever.
Call it maybe five thousand upstairs and downstairs.
Kris eyed the security folks. And found them strangely uncomfortable tonight. How many of them were in on this? How many of their patrons were not? How many of the owners of these security details would find out later tonight that, like Gramma Ruth, they had not bought loyalty?
Everything was wrong with this picture.
Kris’s history professor had once mentioned that civil wars were some of the bloodiest. This looked like it might set a new record if it wasn’t over in a night.
That probably was the plan.
But then, what plan survived contact with the opposition?
Kris found herself on the west balcony, overlooking the car park. Her limo stood out like a dinosaur among whales. She counted the number of Marines around them and came up with less than a third of those assigned. Good.
She glanced around the other cars. Most had only a driver with them. Some had a shotgun.
Kris turned and leaned against the marble balustrade. She looked up and remarked to Jack how lovely the stars were.
What she actually looked at were the auto-guns. She counted nine of them visible. There were likely another nine hidden, if she was any gauge of a defense. And she had defended a space station or two in her brief career. Well, defended one, attacked the other. She’d expect at least as many guns in plain sight as were hidden away as spares.
Whose side would the auto-guns be on? At the beginning? Middle? End of the firefight?
She would have some say in that. Or die trying.
Kris ambled in. Outside, in the shadows, Jack’s uniform had undergone a change. His red coat was now black; his blue pants had taken on the same color. The distantly trailing pair of Marines now looked identical to Jack. Kris took in some art, and watched some more important people ignore their security as if they weren’t there.
She leaned against the doors to the stairs. Jack said something and Kris laughed, leaning back, cracking the doors open just a bit.
Just enough for a fleet of Nelly’s nanos to get in.
Before long, she ended up on the back balcony, staring at the river. The moonlight rippled off it. A perfect moment for lovers.
But Kris chose to glance up at the roof line and see the auto-guns. Those had to be stopped from mowing down her Marines.
NELLY, HOW’S IT GOING?
THE CAMERAS IN THE STAIRWELL ARE READY TO LOOP, AND THE SCOUTS HAVE HERDED THE NANOS DOWN TO THE BOTTOM FLOOR OR BASEMENT.
“Let’s go, crew,” Kris said with a tight smile and headed indoors. To work, perchance to live.
Once in the stairwell, Kris hardly slowed down. Nelly reported the cameras in a sixty-second loop. Physical security for the upper floors consisted of a mere gate that her Marines ducked under.
Jack handed her over it very gallantly.
They had to take Nelly’s word for it that the observation nanos had been herded out of their way.
If an observant human spotted this concentration of nanos, an alarm would go off—but none did.
Neither did a guard look in on them as they climbed past the fourth floor.
On the fifth floor, there was an actually locked door keeping them from the roof level. Jack made short work of it, and they kept going.
In an area clearly intended only for working stiffs, they came to the end of their climb. Gray paint replaced the soft beige walls. Pipes were painted identifying primary colors.
At the roof level were two doors. One looked to open onto the actual roof. Kris turned the other way and led her team into a gray, shadowed corridor.
Drawing her automatic, Kris clicked it to sleepy darts.
Ahead, the first three offices were dark. Empty.
Farther down, light shown from one, its door closing even as they came in view of it.
Somewhere in the building, a single shot rang out.
It was quickly answered by weapons on full automatic.
49
Gunny Sergeant Brown heard the first shot and shouted, “Down.” His Marines obeyed in record time.
Most of the civilian drivers stood up taller to get a better look at whatever was going on. Several drivers in their armored limos actually got out so they could gawk.
One saw Gunny on the ground behind the huge limo and sneered.
His sneer lasted for about fifteen seconds as the sound of automatic weapons filled the night air.
Then the auto-guns on the roof cut loose.
Gunny did not look, but from the sound of things, the guns cycled from target to target, sending a short five-round burst into every human in range.
At least, that’s what the sneering guy’s body absorbed. Five rounds of 20-mm general purpose.
Not much of the sneer survived him taking one round to the head.
Gunny remembered why light infantry loved the earth and hugged her well.
He checked his own Marines. They were doing their earth-hugging best to stay low. As he expected, Private Haskell managed to take a fragment. In the butt, no less.
He was screaming like he’d been filleted from nap to chap. Making more racket than any of the civilians. But then, none of the civilians were making any noise at all.
Not even breathing.
Gunny laid there, not much liking that all he could do was lie there on the receiving end. He cuddled up close to the recollection that his time to dish it out would come later.
Still, under fire for the first time in his long career, he didn’t much care for this part of the battle. And knew it must be worse for the kids under his command.
“Keep it tight, Marines,” he called. “The princess is counting on us to suck this up and not do something stupid that’ll get us suddenly dead.”
The “Ooo-hah” that came back was subdued by the earth that protected them.
Grant von Schrader smiled where he stood by the bronze in the center of the rotunda. Things were going very well.
White-coated caterers had produced machine pistols right on his signal. The most observant o
f the Secret Service watching from the second floor had noticed and gotten off one shot.
He and his associates had all died within seconds of that lone resistance. The agents close to the president had gone down with him, a gallant, but in the end, useless defiance.
Several of the bodyguards that would not be turned had also gone down shooting. The stream of fire that got them usually took down their patron.
That quickly persuaded most of the powers that be that they were better off holding their hands up and having their paid protection do the same.
For a brief moment, Grant considered letting that wiser protection live through the night. Maybe hire on with his people. But they had been offered a chance to join before. Could he count on them to join later?
He put that problem off for now.
Some of the more-interesting scenes took place when bigwigs found themselves herded into the rotunda at the point of a gun wielded by their own paid security. The shock on their faces was something Grant would treasure for the rest of his life.
There was nothing quite so delicious as awareness dawning too late.
As the gunfire in the hall fell silent, the auto-guns opened up from the roof. Their power rattled the windows and made the palest among those being shoved together go even paler.
Now the only fire inside was for those who refused to accept their state. “You-can’t-do-this-to-me-I’m-Mr.-Big-of-Bigger-and-Biggest” got a round in the leg.
A half dozen of those, and even the dumbest of the Big, got appropriately small. Or maybe just quiet.
Grant surveyed his handiwork and liked what he saw.
While the fire on the ground floor was heavy, the actual number of deaths on the main floor were few. The president, agents, yes. But people seemed to accept that those were legitimate targets and, somehow, they were not.
The finely dressed saw themselves as different, people of value worth ransoming. They honestly believed their wealth would protect them even in the mouth of a gun.
Over in the front of the rotunda, two bodies were sprawled in blood, one in a soft burgundy dress, the other in a proud royal blue. Ruby and Topaz had served their purpose.
Kris Longknife Audacious Page 28
