Assassin on Centauri B (Nick Walker, U.F. Marshal Book 7)

by John Bowers

  “I like to travel. See the galaxy.”

  “Really. You found out about Trimmer Springs from all the travel brochures, is that it?”

  “No. But I’ve ordered clothing from Suzanne’s, and I wanted to visit the shop in person.”

  He looked at the ID again, certain it was a fake. But it was a very good fake. He couldn’t detect any errors in its design. He handed it back, along with the starpass.

  “Okay, Jane…let me put this very clearly. I want you out of town and I want you out today. There’s a maglev leaving for Lucaston in forty-five minutes, and you’re going to be on it.”

  “But why? I just got here!”

  “And you’re just leaving. I don’t ever want to see you in this town again. I’m giving you one hour, then I’m going to arrest you.”

  “On what charge? Eating ice cream is a felony?”

  “Suspicious activity.”

  “Like what? I haven’t done anything!”

  “You approached a twelve year-old boy in the park on Saturday—”

  “I did not!”

  “Easy enough to check. I haul you in, bring in the boy, and let him identify you. Do you want to take that chance?”

  She glared at him with burning eyes. She said nothing.

  “At the very least, I can run your prints and DNA. I’m certain you’re probably wanted somewhere. Even if you’re not, I can add you to the Suspicious Persons database, so everywhere you go, cops will stop and question you.”

  He was bluffing. There was no such thing as a “suspicious persons database”, but she apparently bought it. He was only sorry she wasn’t carrying a gun, which would have justified an immediate arrest.

  She clenched her jaw and slammed her ID items back into the purse, which she closed and set on the table.

  “Can I at least finish my ice cream?”

  “No. I’m going to escort you to the train station. You can pick up some ice cream in Lucaston.”

  He took a step back from the table.

  “Let’s go.”

  Chapter 21

  Government Annex – Periscope Harbor, Beta Centauri

  Polina Stepanova was seated at her desk in the MGB wing of Government Annex. As it was technically her day off, she didn’t have to be there, but since her husband’s death she had little in the way of a personal life. She loved her work, hated organized crime, and was dedicated to removing it from her planet—or at least making its life as difficult as possible. And as long as Nick Russo (she didn’t know his real name) was in Periscope Harbor, she wanted to be available.

  She was studying a holo-display on her computer when a knock came at her door and she looked up. To her surprise, the man who stepped inside was Boris Nikolaev, the top man in MGB. He regarded her with a neutral expression as he stared down at her.

  “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

  “Da. What’s up?”

  Nikolaev was about forty and rather good looking, but she didn’t like him and they both knew it. The feeling was mutual.

  “What are you working on?”

  “Looking at possible suspects for the Asia Town bombing.”

  He nodded, his expression suggesting he didn’t really care.

  “Do you know a man named Nick Russo?”

  Polina’s blood chilled, but she was a pro. Squinting in concentration, she shook her head slowly as if searching her brain for a match to the name.

  “No, I don’t think so. Who is he?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

  “Is he a local? The name doesn’t sound Rukranian.”

  “It isn’t. He showed up about a week ago claiming to be a fugitive from the Federation. I’m trying to track him back and verify his story.”

  “You might try the Federation database. If he’s on the run, there should be a record of it.”

  “I’ve done that, and his story checks out. But Ivan Federov thinks the records might have been planted, or at least altered.”

  Polina leaned back, feeling her fingers tingle. This wasn’t good news at all. Not for Nick, not for her.

  “Why do you think I can help you?”

  Nikolaev stared at her a moment, then turned and closed her door. He pulled out a straight-backed chair and sat down facing her.

  “My contacts on the street say this man arrived at the airport last Tuesday, on the thirty-first. According to rumor, he was on a criminal-watch list and was arrested at the airport, but made his escape with the help of a local woman.” His eyes bored into hers, unblinking. “This morning, we questioned airport personnel and learned a couple of interesting things.”

  Polina stared back at him, waiting. Her heart was barely beating.

  “The first thing we learned was that Russo was not on any watch list, but his name did pop up when his starpass was scanned.”

  “That’s interesting.”

  “Very. The other thing we learned was that the security detail who took him into custody were bribed to allow his ‘escape’.”

  Polina managed to look confused.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I think you do.” Nikolaev pinched a button on his collar and the door opened, admitting two uniformed officers. “Sergeant Stepanova, place your weapon on the desk and stand up. You are under arrest.”

  ***

  It was approaching noon and the casino was beginning to fill up. Nick strolled across the casino floor with his hands in his pockets. The noise level was fairly constant—the ringing of jackpots and the hubbub of conversation punctuated by laughter and occasional shouts of joy mixed with groans of despair. All in a day’s work for a casino.

  Nick walked past several card tables, a couple of craps tables, several rows of coin slots; here and there, standing like sentinels, grim-faced Bratva soldiers stood watch, ready to quash any disturbance before it could escalate. A couple of them, spotting his tattooed scalp, nodded to him. He nodded back. They were all packing, he knew, even though he couldn’t always spot the weapon. Only a fool would cause trouble in a place like this.

  But fools were born every minute.

  As he passed an expensive coin slot—one that required fifty russos per handle-pull—he heard a feminine scream and turned to look. He wasn’t terribly surprised to see the Sirian woman, Mistress Turner, and her friend. The coin machine was flashing like a machine gun as it vomited money into the metal basket. A loud bell was clanging insanely as the women jumped up and down, squealing like a pair of groupies, hugging and pounding each other on the back.

  Nick diverted a few feet and stopped next to them, a curious grin on his face. Mistress Turner spotted him and threw her arms around his neck as if they were old friends. Giggling like a maniac, she kissed him on the cheek.

  Nick managed to disengage himself and smiled at her.

  “How much did you win?”

  “Five thousand russos! Can you believe it?”

  “I can’t, but the evidence is right in front of me.” He nodded at the coin basket. “How much is that in real money?”

  Her expression went blank. “Real money?”

  “You know—sirios.”

  “Oh!” She cackled again. “I think it’s almost six thousand, but I’m not sure about the exchange rate.”

  “Well, that’s a hell of a jackpot. Congratulations.”

  “Thank yew!” She smacked him on the cheek again, her cheap Sirian perfume almost choking him.

  She took a step back and looked him up and down.

  “Yew know, I saw yew earlier with Ko-zel, but I never did get yewr name.”

  “My name is Nick. Nick Russo.”

  She shoved her hand forward.

  “Well, I am mighty proud to meet yew, Nick Russo! Hair yew?”

  “I’m just fine. And obviously, you are too.” Nick turned and flagged one of the grim looking soldiers. “Can you bring us a money bag so Mistress Turner can collect her winnings? It’s too much for her purse or pockets.”

  With a nod,
the soldier strode away. Nick turned back to the ladies.

  “And who is your friend?”

  “Oh! I’m sorry! This is Wanda! Wanda Turner, my sister-in-law.”

  Nick nodded at the second woman, who blushed when he kissed her hand.

  “I declare, you BCs are so polite! It is a pleasure to meet yew.”

  The soldier returned with a small canvas bag and Nick helped Mistress Turner scoop the coins into it.

  “I’m a little surprised you’re playing the bandits,” Nick said. “I figured a fine Confederate lady like yourself might be more at home playing Blackjack.”

  “Blackjack! Yew mean Twenny-One?” She pressed a hand against her chest. “Yew know, I do love that game, but when I get to sixteen or seventeen, I never can decide whether to take another card or stand pat. I always seem to do the wrong thing, and my husband—have you met Sam? He told me to stick to the slot machines, otherwise I would lose too much money.”

  “Well, I’m sure he has your best interest at heart.”

  “Oh, I know. He always—”

  Nick heard smashing glass and a few scattered screams from the main entrance of the casino. He wheeled around just in time to see a black, box-like object spinning through the air toward him, end over end; it looked like a satchel or gym bag. For one naked moment his mind flashed back to Alpha Centauri twelve years earlier…and he knew exactly what it was. He threw an arm around each of the women and flung them to the floor behind a bank of slot machines, landing almost on top of them. They had barely hit when the object flashed and a searing heat blasted across the casino floor, a white wall of fire that consumed everything within thirty yards of the main entrance.

  The women tried to scream, but oxygen was suddenly in short supply. Nick felt the air sucked out of his lungs and buried his face in the floor until the plasma passed over them. Around him in every direction, people withered and fell, some turning to ash, as if a nuclear blast had razed the room. Fortunately, the row of slot machines protected Nick and the women, and after five or ten seconds he raised his head, feeling heat as from a blast furnace scorching his face.

  Even before the blast died away, flames were raging, burning carpets, felt-covered tables, and people. For long seconds Nick thought they would be roasted, but from a dozen directions in the overhead, fire-suppression gas fogged the room, killing the flames and dissipating the heat. The gas had an evil, chemical smell; it was choking, but only lasted about twenty seconds, followed by a raging wind that blew the gas out the front of the building and replaced it with high-pressure oxygen. Nick and the other survivors began to breathe again, though their dilemma was far from over.

  Nick checked the Turner women and found them terrified, but conscious. He slapped each one gently on the cheek.

  “Stay right here, okay? Do not get up yet! I’ll be back for you.”

  His head pounded from the gas, his face stung from first-degree burns, but his attention was on one thing—who the hell had done this, and where were they now? He stumbled to his feet and drew both pistols, then began winding his way toward the entrance, stepping over and around clumps of what might once have been customers. The fire was out, very little smoke remained, but the casino floor was a wasteland. He saw one or two others, Bratva soldiers, also moving forward with drawn weapons—and heard gunfire almost at once.

  Then he saw them, ten or twelve men in protective gear, each carrying grenades and an assault rifle, plowing through the broken façade from the parking lot. They wore armor, military style helmets, and self-contained breathing apparatus, including oxygen tanks. They entered the casino in a staggered line, spreading out.

  From the back of the main floor, the area farthest from the entrance, he still heard screams; anyone in the bar or food court was probably far enough from the blast to survive, but there would likely be casualties. As the guns opened up, the screams escalated to shrieks of terror. Closer to the front, Nick saw one Bratva soldier returning fire, but two invaders opened up and swept him with automatic weapons…he went down.

  Nick dived under what was left of a craps table and flattened out, sweeping the area in front of him for targets. He saw three men approaching fairly close together, just their legs from the waist down. He was pretty sure his pistols would not penetrate their armor, but the legs were exposed above the boots, and he opened fire. With four quick rounds, he took out three kneecaps, and the invaders fell screaming. He took a quick look left and right, saw no one in immediate view, and belly crawled forward until he was under another table. From here he spotted two more men, one to his left and the other to his right. Automatic fire was deafening as the intruders sprayed the casino floor, and Nick’s own shots were drowned out as he took out a fourth kneecap, then twisted left and shot a fifth man in the oxygen tank; the explosion sprayed fragments in every direction and converted the intruder into jellied pulp.

  Emboldened by a sudden reduction in the invasion force, other Bratva men exposed themselves long enough to pump bullets back at them, and Nick saw two more intruders drop. He heard a shout and suddenly the remaining intruders began a hasty retreat. One man dropped to his knee to cover his companions’ escape, but three Bratva soldiers caught him in a crossfire and his faceplate shattered. He fell over like a stump and didn’t move again.

  Nick risked getting to his feet, his eyes swinging right and left for threats, but now the only enemy he saw was in full retreat toward the parking lot, just three or four men. Nick popped his clips and reloaded, then picked up the partials and shoved them into a pocket. He approached two of the men he had kneecapped, moving slowly like an infantryman checking an enemy foxhole; both men were twisting around in pain, their weapons lying a few feet away. Nick pulled off their helmets and gazed at their pain-wracked faces, their terrified blue eyes, and debated what to do with them. Back home in the Federation, wearing a U.F. Marshal badge, the proper course of action would be to E-cuff them, make sure they were completely unarmed, and read them their rights.

  But this wasn’t the Federation.

  Marshal Walker…I’m not looking for a diplomat. What I need right now is a gunslinger.

  Nick considered taking at least one of them alive for interrogation. Before he could decide, another Bratva soldier walked up and shot each man through the center of the forehead. He looked at Nick with a haunted expression. Nick clapped him on the shoulder and nodded.

  “Good job.”

  The other man nodded.

  Chapter 22

  Nick hadn’t seen so many bodies in one place since the war. From the main entrance of the casino, the devastation extended thirty or forty yards into the building; everything flammable had been consumed, everything metal was molten and twisted. Bodies were unrecognizable, hundreds of clumps of ash with, here and there, protruding bones and skulls. Anyone who had been on their feet inside the blast radius was dead, those farther away were burned and, in many cases, dying.

  The devastation extended into the parking lot. Looking in that direction, Nick saw eight or ten blazing vehicles with bodies in or around them; a few survivors were trying to crawl away as a handful of uninjured tried to help them. In every direction, he heard screams.

  It was overwhelming.

  What to do now? Where to start?

  Numb with disbelief, shaking with adrenaline, he remembered the Turner women and his promise to return to them. They might be Sirians—and he hated Sirians—but in this case they were innocent. He stumbled back through the holocaust toward the slot machines and found the women where he had left them. They were sitting up now, their clothing tattered, their hair singed, clinging to each other.

  Sobbing.

  Nick knelt beside them.

  “Are you okay?”

  They both babbled at once, tears sliding down their cheeks, mixing with ash to form muddy rivulets. Both reached for him as if he were a savior, their fingers clawing at his windbreaker. He put an arm around each of them and held them a moment.

  “It’s okay,” h
e said. “It’s over. We drove them back.”

  Neither woman was coherent enough to ask who had been driven back. They were reduced to hysteria and it took nearly a minute to calm them down.

  “Come on, let me get you out of here. I have to go help others.”

  He managed to get them on their feet and led them, stumbling, toward the ladies’ room, which was deep inside the building where the plasma hadn’t reached. Two or three other ladies were already there, one screaming in pain. Nick pushed his charges up against a row of sinks and helped them regain their balance.

  “Wash yourselves up,” he suggested. “Help is on the way, and you’ll be safe here until it arrives.”

  He had no idea if help was on the way or not, but surely someone must have reported the attack. He backed toward the door.

  “Stay here,” he repeated, and headed back for the casino floor.

  As he emerged from the hallway to the restrooms, he saw four or five men in white shirts and ties; one of them was Kozel Petreykin.

  “Russo! What the fuck happened!”

  “Where were you?”

  “In the control room upstairs. We saw the whole thing.”

  “Tell me you called for help.”

  “Of course we did. Are you all right?”

  Nick nodded, still shaking, and drew a deep breath.

  “I heard the window crash and looked around in time to see a satchel charge headed my way. I took cover behind a row of slots.”

  “Where is Nicola?”

  Shit! He had forgotten about her.

  “I dunno. I left her in the bar just before it happened.”

  “Good. Looks like the bar and the food courts didn’t get hit.” Kozel frowned. “How do you know it was a satchel charge?”

  Nick shook his head, feeling suddenly weak. He didn’t have the energy to make up a lie, so he improvised.

  “Before I went to work for the Fitz-Kennedy family, I joined the Star Marines. I did a tour on Alpha Centauri during the revolution.”

  Kozel nodded, satisfied.