Rising Storm t2-2

by S. M. Stirling

  Dieter lowered his sunglasses and looked at him over the top. "I thought maybe you could get into a good position yourself and hold a gun on their guy."

  "Now you're talkin'," John said with a grin, visibly relieved.

  The Terminator pulled behind a stand of shrubby growth and stopped the pickup.

  Maria, her eyes streaming from the stench as much as from fear, pulled her hands away from her face and looked around.

  "This isn't it," she said. "It's about a mile that way." Her voice was high-pitched and shaking. The man beside her turned his head to look at her and nodded once.

  Deep inside the black of his sunglasses she thought she saw a glint of red light and she sobbed convulsively.

  It glanced at the crude map the woman had drawn, then briefly accessed a military satellite and confirmed its accuracy. The gully was considerably less than a mile away, but humans were notoriously inaccurate.

  The Terminator got out of the truck.

  Maria whimpered and cowered in her seat. She wanted to throw open the door and run, but feared that he might shoot her, and that fear paralyzed her. In her mind she saw Mike lying on the cracked tarmac of the parking lot. She thought he was dead, but she couldn't be sure, and her impulse had been to give him a chance by luring this man away. But now she was here, alone. Oh God, what am I going to do?

  She jumped with a gasp and turned toward the sound when he opened the toolbox in the back of the truck. "Oh, no," she whispered, her mouth dry and her throat tight with tears.

  This was it, the end. He was going to kill her. Maria fully expected him to slam the lid on the toolbox and stand there with a rifle in his hands. Instead, the truck rocked as he jumped down and footsteps crunched around to her side of the car.

  She didn't turn, but sat panting and light-headed, her mind filling with headlines about innocent middle-aged women murdered for no reason and left in the desert for the coyotes to eat.

  It opened the door and grasped the woman's clothing, pulling her stumbling from her seat. Then it shoved her toward the back of the truck. "Get up," it said.

  Maria scrambled to obey, lifting her leg as high as she could and grabbing the frame with clumsy fingers. She was simply too short and too frightened to manage it and began to sob frantically. "I can't," she said at last, hanging her head. "I just can't."

  The Terminator confirmed her analysis. It picked her up under the arms, lifting her as if she were a five-year-old, and deposited her, kneeling, on the truck bed.

  Then it followed her up. It moved to the toolbox. "Get in," it said.

  Marie froze, staring up at him, then glancing at the large silver box he wanted her to enter. "No," she whispered. "Please, no. If you let me go I promise not to tell anyone, I swear! Please let me go, please."

  It relayed a quick report to Alissa, then asked tor permission to terminate this human.

  Alissa relayed his position and the position of the gully to the team in the Blackhawk, then considered its request.

  *No,* she said at last. *Perhaps afterward, but not now. She might prove useful.

  Lock her up and get into position, the others are on their way.*

  "Get in," it said to Maria.

  Maria saw the long silver box as a coffin, but decided that being alive in a coffin was better than being dead in a ditch, so she reluctantly put her foot over the edge, then knelt, looking appealingly up at the strange and horrible man. As she leaned forward he slammed the lid, whacking her painfully on her head and back.

  At her cry of pain he said, "Keep quiet and live."

  She knelt silently for a few minutes, panting in terror. He didn't move and she pictured him standing there, waiting for her to give him an excuse to kill her. It seemed as though the air was already almost gone; she wanted to beat on the lid and beg to be let out. But then he'd kill her.

  Biting her lip, she told herself that she was imagining that she was smothering.

  Then she heard him thread a lock through the staple and snap it shut.

  Maria couldn't help it; she began to weep in earnest, pleading with him, even as she felt him leap down from the truck, making the bed shake, and heard his footsteps move away.

  "Don't leave me!" she screamed.

  Instantly the truck rocked as the Terminator climbed back onto it. It struck the lid with something and she felt the metal give, the sudden inward bump digging into her back.

  "Be quiet!" it said.

  Maria held her breath and after a moment the man went away. She squirmed around so as to be as comfortable as possible. She didn't think she was ever going to see her family again.

  Letting out her breath in a sob, she began to pray.

  The two Sector agents looked at each other. There was absolutely nothing in von Rossbach's files to indicate that he would do this sort of thing. Why he would kidnap and brutalize a fat, middle-aged woman, they couldn't imagine, yet they'd seen it with their own eyes. Agent McGill checked in with the project pilot, asking how to proceed.

  "When you're certain no one else is nearby or watching, let the poor woman out.

  Then bring her here for debriefing."

  "Roger that," McGill said. He went back to scanning the area.

  Dieter pulled into the gully just before seven-thirty, parking next to the gunrunner's pickup. He almost laughed at the relieved expressions on the faces of Bridges and Hardy. Then, instinctively, he wondered why they were so relieved.

  Maybe they were just desperate for cash, but then again, maybe John was correct and they were planning something dirty. Though why they would before the money came into it was beyond him.

  "Where ya'll been, buddy," Waylon asked with a grin. "Thought you was gonna be here at seven."

  Dieter took off his sunglasses and looked at him in surprise. "You said seven-thirty." He lifted his hands and shrugged. "It's seven-thirty."

  "Told ja," Luke said, and nudged his partner.

  Waylon glared at him, then turned to Dieter with a smile. "Anyways, you're here.

  C'mon see what we've got." He led von Rossbach over to the trunk of his car, lifted up a false bottom, and unzipped a protective covering. "Dust gets into everything here if you're not careful," Waylon said with a smile. "You're welcome to try out any of these you like."

  Dieter was impressed at the change in Waylon, from good ol' boy to professional salesman, as well as relieved. That folksy charm got old fast. He was also impressed by the variety and quality of the goods offered, even though he'd known that Doc wouldn't steer him wrong. Still, some of this stuff was brand-

  new and barely available to legitimate buyers.

  Reaching into the trunk, he picked up a Barrett and worked the action; putting it to his shoulder, he checked the sight. Not light, but easy enough to use, and with enough punch to put down a Terminator. He noted several pieces that he wanted to purchase and started to ask about prices.

  "I believe I've found von Rossbach's backup," the Sector agent reported. "A skinny guy with a CAR-15 aimed at the meeting place. Bridges and Hardy's backup is still in hiding."

  "Roger that," the project pilot said. "Hold your position. We'll just stand by and wait for Mr. Bridges to make his move. When he does, make certain von Rossbach's friend doesn't interfere."

  "Roger that," the agent said. "Out."

  The project pilot felt a spurt of excitement at the report. It had to be John Connor out there. At least he hoped it was—the reward for bringing him in would be immediate and very tangible. He smiled. Life was good.

  He and his team had been in the area since noon. They'd checked out the gully and planted microphones in several spots as well as a couple of video cameras.

  There'd be ample documentation of this bust. And since there were seven agents to manage it, the recordings should make good theater.

  Idly he wondered why von Rossbach had changed clothes and vehicles. The woman's report of his terrible smell might explain the former, if not why he smelled so bad. But the change of vehicles? Admitt
edly, having a panic-stricken

  woman hidden in the toolbox might explain that, even if it didn't explain why she was there in the first place.

  The waitress had told them that von Rossbach claimed he couldn't find the meeting place and she offered to draw him a map, then the way he looked and smelled caused her to panic. The cook had come rushing to her aid and von Rossbach had thrown him through the window.

  The project pilot could believe that; the former agent was both huge and muscular as well as specially trained. They'd sent paramedics to the diner and the cook was in pretty bad shape.

  Scary.

  The strange thing was he'd kidnapped the woman because he needed her to show him to the meeting place. But if that was true, then how had he managed to conceal a car and a change of clothes nearby? And why?

  Maybe von Rossbach had just plain gone nuts; his behavior this evening was certainly crazy. Suddenly the Austrian's abrupt departure from the Sector seemed to put him under a cloud. Maybe he hadn't left so much as been asked to leave.

  The project pilot shook his head. They'd find out when they had the man in custody.

  If the problem was a mental breakdown, well, the Sector took care of their own.

  But if von Rossbach had gone rogue, well… again, the Sector took care of their own.

  The T-101 watched the humans milling around in the gully, chattering and

  fondling weapons. Unfortunately John Connor wasn't among them. But when they captured von Rossbach they would find out where he was hiding quickly enough.

  It checked on the rest of its team. The other Terminators had landed five miles away in another, wider gully and were now running toward this place at approximately twenty miles an hour. By the time they arrived it should be dark enough to hide their presence.

  For now it marked time and watched the humans it would kill.

  "Now this one here's my favorite," Waylon said, picking up an Austrian Steyr assault rifle, a futuristic-looking bull-pup design with the magazine behind the pistol grip and a built-in optical sight.

  Dieter glanced at the light weapon and dismissed it.

  "I prefer something with a little more stopping power," he said. Knowing that Bridges would, too, if the gunrunner had seen what the weapons would be used against. He leaned over and reached for a Carl Gustav recoilless rifle.

  "Something more like this." He hefted the weapon; it went over your shoulder, with grip and stock beneath the launching tube, and the shell would take out a light tank or armored car quite easily. Not bad on Terminators, either.

  "Oh, I find this one has enough stopping power," Waylon said cheerfully as he chambered a bullet. He pressed the gun to the back of the Austrian's head.

  "Especially from this distance."

  Dieter froze, then slowly turned his head to give the gunrunner a narrow-eyed stare. "What is this?" he asked, his voice deadly quiet.

  "This is a bust, asshole!" Luke said. Laughing, he pulled out a pair of handcuffs.

  "Just put your hands behind your back real smooth like," Waylon said, "so's my buddy can lock you up. Don't try no funny stuff. Hey, Luis!" he shouted.

  Above them Luis stood, his rifle to his shoulder, his teeth glinting white in the gathering gloom as he grinned. "Shit, Waylon!" he said gleefully. "You got the bastard!"

  "Told ya," Waylon said smugly.

  Luke approached von Rossbach cautiously and snapped a cuff on one of the big wrists; the band was almost too small and Hardy had to squeeze it shut.

  Dieter winced as the metal pinched his flesh. His mind was working frantically.

  John wouldn't shoot while the gun was to his head—at least he hoped not—or Bridges would probably squeeze the trigger reflexively and blow his head off.

  On the other hand, John had never shot a man before. He might not be able to do it.

  My God! he suddenly thought. Did Doc set me up:' It was possible, perhaps even likely. Dieter felt a profound sense of betrayal. "Why are you doing this?" he asked, his voice calm.

  "Because you are worth a ton of money, buddy," Luke said, clipping on the other cuff.

  "We saw you on TV last night and we just had to hava you." Waylon laughed, lowering the gun. Then he looked at von Rossbach more seriously. "Besides, I don't hold with cop killin'. Figured it'd be worth more to me to turn you in than to sell you guns. Man in my Business never knows when he's gonna need a favor, and arrestin' you is gonna buy me a hell of a lot of favors." He grinned and suddenly shouted, "Yeee-haw!"

  Shoot him, John! Dieter thought viciously. Holmes hadn't betrayed him; he'd just been snookered by bad luck and hillbilly greed. Shoot him!

  I knew it! John thought, he cradled the rifle into his shoulder and waited for the right moment.

  "Don't move," a voice said from behind him.

  John stiffened, then slowly began to turn his head.

  "Don't turn around," the voice said, sounding bored. "Turning around is moving.

  Don't move until I tell you to move. Don't do anything unless I tell you to. We don't want to make any mistakes here."

  Somehow John didn't think the voice went with good 'ol boys incorporated down in the gully, so he obediently froze. Behind him he heard furtive movement.

  More than one person.

  "We have taken the remote shooter prisoner," the voice said.

  Maybe. John thought.

  "Okay, slowly now, put the rifle down at arm's length in front of you, then push yourself away from it."

  Moving slowly, John complied, gently laying the rifle down; then putting his palms against the ground, he shoved himself backward.

  "Again," the voice demanded.

  John complied, then waited.

  "Okay, stand up slowly, hands up, then turn around."

  He rose and turned to find himself confronting two men dressed in black, their faces darkened; they wore night-vision goggles with the works turned up on their foreheads until it was dark enough for them to be useful, which should be any moment now. Both held FN-90 submachine guns on him and watched him warily. Commandos of some type, obviously, and just as obviously not connected with Bridges and Hardy, hick gunrunners. Maybe they were some kind of special police unit; the FN-90 was new, with a hot armor-piercing round.

  "Hello," John said. "Who are you?"

  "We're the guys who ask the questions, kid. You're the guy who answers them and does what he's told. Now that we know who everybody is, put your hands on your head, fingers locked."

  The man paused and for the first time John noticed the earpiece and microphone, though he'd surmised they must have them. You didn't announce to the guy standing next to you that you'd taken a prisoner.

  "Yes, sir," the man said to the air. "C'mon," he said to John, "we're moving in."

  John glanced over his shoulder and saw nothing had changed down in the gully.

  Dieter was still in handcuffs, the gunrunners were still slapping each other on the back.

  "Just keep your hands on top of your head and walk," the talker said. "On our way," he said into the microphone.

  "Put your hands up, gentlemen," a calm male voice said from out of the growing darkness.

  Luis instinctively brought his rifle up and stared toward the place from which the warning had come.

  "No, no, no, you don't want to do that," the voice said. "Look down."

  Luis cautiously looked at his chest and saw a red dot centered over his heart.

  Luke and Waylon immediately raised their hands and Luis dropped the gun as if it was suddenly red-hot.

  "Thank you very much," the voice said.

  Footsteps sounded, coming in from every direction, and the gunrunners and von Rossbach looked around to spot the spokesman.

  "Don't look so worried, Dieter," the voice said. "We know you're in restraints."

  "Sully!" von Rossbach said in tones of disbelief.

  A compact individual with graying dark hair walked down into the gully. "Yep,"

  he agreed, wearing a tiny smile. />
  "Last time I saw you, you were with—"

  Sully interrupted him. "I was undercover."

  They looked at each other for a moment and Dieter shook his head slightly, trying not to grin. "Then I guess it's a good thing I let you go."

  "Yeah," Sully said sarcastically. "Straight down. Thanks." Looking around as his team disarmed the prisoners. "You can put your hands down now, gentlemen."

  "Who the hell are you?" Waylon demanded. He glanced from von Rossbach to the black-clad man. "This guy is my prisoner. You have no right to take him from me. Those are my handcuffs on him and the reward is mine!"

  "It certainly is, Mr. Bridges," Sully agreed. "You might say we're just saving you a few steps so that you can start celebrating that much sooner."

  "Oh, yeah," Luke said, his eyes moving nervously over the silent men holding guns on him. "I don't see no money around here. How do we know we can trust you?"

  Sully looked at Dieter, a cynical smile curving one corner of his mouth. "You'd think he had a choice, wouldn't you?"

  Then he turned back toward the gunrunners; he slipped his hand under his vest, reached into his breast pocket, and extracted a check, which he held out to them.

  Waylon and Luke glanced uncertainly at each other. Sully tilted his head and shook the check at them teasingly.

  "You don't want it?" he asked. "Hey, I'll be glad to put it back in the kitty.

  There's never enough money around for fighting crime, y'know."

  Waylon reached out and grabbed the check. Unfolded it as Luke glanced from Sully to the check and back again. Amused, Sully reached out as though he was going to snatch it back. Bridges clutched it to his chest and as one the two gunrunners took a step back, wearing identically offended expressions.

  Sully laughed and then turned serious. "Y'know, boys, there are some who'd say I didn't need to give you anything at all since you're out here committing a crime."

  "What crime?" Waylon demanded indignantly. "We're apprehending a felon.

  We're licensed."

  Sully went to the open trunk of Waylon's car and picked up an Israeli-made antitank launcher. "Why… what's this?" he asked in mock surprise. "Is this even on the market yet?," He looked into the trunk. "And all of these other weapons…