"He can. I can access some funds too. I drew a new card at the bank."
"Alex, that card is bound to be tagged," Elke said.
"That card is tagged," he agreed. "Which is why I had my wife authorize a new one in the name of my backup ID, which I picked up at the Citizens' Building. I drew from her account, and I drew cash so as not to register any businesses they may catch."
"Backup ID?" Aramis asked.
"None of your business, kid," Jason grinned.
"You didn't call your family, did you?" Aramis asked.
That was a sore point, but a legitimate question.
"As far as anyone knows, no," he replied. "We have signals set up for just such an emergency. Specifically, my first transaction was in an exact amount that tells her I'm alive and being discreet. So my family knows, but no overt contact was made." That was likely a good thing, as painful as it was. He was sure she'd be as ready to kill as he was, and that would have to wait.
CHAPTER 30
The plan, as always, started out well enough.
"Two blocks, everyone stand ready," Alex said from the passenger seat. He felt really odd about doing a combat escort mission through the streets of a modern, prosperous city with no visible threats. Nevertheless, they had no idea what they were facing, and needed to be ready. Alex assumed all their preparation was overkill, and a few pointed pistols would acquire what they needed, or at least earn enough curiosity to get some support.
He was also ready to use as much nonlethal force as necessary. If really necessary, they had two carbines, and Elke had a new shotgun and some explosives. She'd been joyous at finding the same model available, promised favors she couldn't be serious about to purchase it, and had taken it to bed with her to cuddle all night like a teddy bear. She might really need some therapy when this was over.
Traffic was smooth. The streets were broad and well laid out in this city that had been designed from day one to be a national capital. That was advantageous. Alex reflected that if every city was like this, his business would be much easier. Of course, it would also be less profitable. Not that it was profitable at present, but he still had hopes.
"We're blocked," Bart said. Alex looked to their left for the upcoming turn.
"Shit."
The ABCNN gate was closed, locked, and had guards posted. Behind them, the building stood as a long rectangular prism fitted against a large, low dome that held the studios and gear.
"Someone knows we're coming," Jason said.
"How?" Aramis shouted.
"What do we do?" Bart asked.
"We should abort and escape," Bishwanath said. "I am not worth this."
"Shut up, Bal. Shut up, Aramis. We need a solution fast." Alex burst into sweat, pulse hammering.
"What do I do?" Bart asked again. "I have seconds only."
"Ram it," Elke said.
"Concur," Jason agreed.
"No time to reschedule. Blow the gate," Alex said, stomach churning. They were all going to die. "Aramis, you'll take the vehicle for your position."
"Got it."
"Yes, sir," Bart said.
Bart drove almost past the gate before he suddenly swung across traffic and nailed the throttle. The Goliaphant used two very small turbines that, with lots of tweaks, spooled up quickly. He used one hand to lock the waste gate manually then powered in the start fluid in a steady flow. The vehicle was traveling close to a hundred kilometers per hour when it hit the gate.
The bars burst, followed by the car's tires as the antientry spikes in the road deployed. Both guards dove aside but turned stunners on the vehicle as it passed. Most of the effect was grounded by the Goliaphant's cage, but Alex felt a tingle at least.
"Straight for the door!" he shouted.
"Ja," Bart replied. They bounced jarringly over a curb, threw dirt out of a flower bed, smacked a glancing blow off a tree, and bumped back down onto paved surface, shedding bits of tire and throwing sparks from the scandium alloy rims.
Bart drove right through the entrance, window plastic shattering and flying in a cloud.
"An antique drive-in theater!" Aramis shouted.
"Move!" Alex shouted and kicked the door.
Six people in suits jumped out feet first and advanced as a block. Aramis, still partially disabled, stayed back with the vehicle. His job was to be a distraction.
Alex led the rest. They needed to get further inside fast. They wore typical Earth-style suits. They carried large bags. No one watching by camera or from a security box should trigger on any of it. Once inside, they were just suits in a studio, the ultimate in camouflage.
"Spread out slightly," Alex muttered, glancing toward Jason and grinning, as if holding a normal conversation. It wouldn't do to look like a pack of goons. He pushed open the door to the main office hallway, which was directly in line with the actual studios at the rear. Those were the doors ahead, at the far end. It was working!
"So, there we were, and I had to wonder what the heck he was talking about, I mean . . ." the meaningless fake conversation was easy. Just pick some event and start jabbering. Thirty meters to the door. Keep walking. So far, so good. Once through that door, they would use persuasion or guns to make people listen to Bal on camera, with ships recording it at light-speed before they jumped system and spread the word.
Jason's reply to his conversation, however, threw a wrench in the works.
"That can't be . . ."
Alex looked toward the door casually and let his gaze linger. Oh, shit. "It is."
One of the rent-a-cops at the door was familiar. He was a Recon sergeant from Celadon.
And the supervisor behind him was another one.
"Aw, shit," Jason muttered.
"Cover Bal, Bart, go," Alex said.
The man didn't have to be told twice. He and Shaman were both off at a sprint, literal cannon fodder to attempt to ground any stun charges thrown Bal's way.
"We'll abort if we have to. Going through hard," Alex decided aloud. "Elke, would you be a dear?"
Her only reply was to flick her hands forward, which was followed by cracks and poppling sounds behind the two running mercs that escalated with each move until serious bangs were shaking the air and side doors.
And Bart pulled out a carbine.
"Goddamit, no!" Alex said, as Shaman followed Bart's lead.
The two Recon troops were reaching for their own weapons, but jerked when hit, their armor going hard. Then they started moving again, stiffly, as it started to relax.
And the two contractors shot again and again as the others ran up behind in a hurry.
"Gun," Bart demanded, holding out a hand. Elke shifted just enough, the cacophony of explosions slackening as she drew her pistol and flipped it over. Jason pulled his out and tossed it to Shaman.
Balls out, Alex decided, sighing but also relieved. Shooting he understood. He put a burst toward the nearest local guard, who was rapidly moving and would certainly be calling for backup. The burst was toward, not at. He couldn't kill the man. Legality aside, the guy had been decent.
Then they were through, as Bart and Shaman kept the two soldiers pinned in place, able to make only slow, jerky movements as their knee-to-neck armor seized up with every impact. Of course, the practical limit on that was ammo. While they were partially immobilized, Elke and Jason were able to get close enough to stun them with batons, and then Shaman whipped out an injector. In the moment before he passed by, Alex could see a very disgusted look frozen on one soldier's face.
Smooth. Very smooth. Nothing could go this smooth without a serious problem just waiting to crash down on them. Just how big a force was inside? Would it be wise to abort? But it was obvious their cover was blown . . . how thoroughly?
No, if this message were to work, it was now or not at all.
The Recon squad, assuming it was one squad, was twelve. Two were down. Likely, each entrance would have a couple inside behind the locals, so they would either be arriving in pairs or waiting to attac
k en masse. The longer it took for a response, the bigger and more effective that response would be. Nor was there any way to intercept it. This had to go fast. The main doors had to be guarded, so going through them would create a brief disturbance ended by stunners, on a show famous for such events. They'd put the team down and fix it in the mix.
"Jason, keep me warned on threats. Escalate if you have to, but we're still trying to pull this off. Bal, down this hall."
Elke and Bart came past at a sprint. Elke had doffed her jacket and looked very female in a suit shirt, even with body armor underneath. Her bag was empty on the floor and she carried her shotgun slung right, demo bag left. Bart had ditched his and the tie, and he was wearing his bag on his back now. That made sense. With cover blown, there was less reason not to look military. Behind them were more explosions, seconds apart, designed to slow any pursuit; professionals would quickly deduce they weren't a serious threat. And the prohibition against bullets, Alex remembered, was one way. They were the armed intruders.
Gas started billowing. It was normal tear gas with a smoke screen, not a nasty incapacitance agent. Still, they'd expected a few civilian guards with minimal gear, not a couple of squads of professionals. Everyone was on to them.
Elke turned to the left and blew a locked door open with a shotgun blast straight through the bolt. Bart and Shaman took up position as Jason and Alex urged Bal through with Alex leading. He went cross-eyed looking for threats, but this was a detour and thus should be less well defended. Of course, they had to get back en route . . .
Bart kicked in another door which revealed an office of some sort. Two occupants, male and female. He stunned them both and then swung around to use a wrecking bar from his bag to shatter the polymer panel that was the opposite wall so he could kick through it. It splintered and left jagged edges to be avoided.
Luckily, no one had been in the hallway behind it.
"Up the stairs," Bart said and led the way up and to the right.
"Dammit, no, we need to stay . . ." Too late. The only thing worse than going the wrong way would be to split up, so Alex followed. This was not getting any easier. They were truly fucked. Oh, well, at least if they pushed for trial here, they could serve out sentences doing labor on a frontier world instead of in a UN jail in France.
There were definite sounds of pursuit behind them now. Though the level of shouting seemed to indicate local hires, not military professionals. Jason seemed to have been correct. No respectable Grainnean veteran took a security job that didn't allow him to be armed. The response was slow and not very coordinated, so far. That would change with Weilhung's unit in the mix.
Bal was just about being carried. While not in bad shape for his age, he was worn a bit ragged from the ordeal of the last few weeks, and not nearly in the shape of the younger troops. His feet banged over steps, but he never quite tripped. Bart and Elke lugged him, with Jason switching off as they were needed for specialty tasks.
Then they were up, with people pouring out of executive offices to see what the disturbance was. It was getting crowded, even though anyone with any brains should be running away.
There was some hesitation about the armed intruders, but locals were used to armed guards in suits and weren't instinctively flinching. The Earthies were following that cultural lead. If the locals weren't scared, there wasn't a problem, was there?
The sounds of pursuit increased, and there was a tinge of tear gas to the air, drifting up. The good news was that that reaction served to create more panic behind. But this crowd was parting out of courtesy, not from fear.
Jason shouted, "Folks, this is a fire drill. Please vacate the building. This is a fire drill."
One intern type in a suit with his hair cut in a skunk mohawk and his forehead tattooed in knotwork gave a typical sarcastic, you-want-me-to-do-what? look.
"Fire drill? Right," he said.
Elke tossed something at his feet that whoofed into a ball of burning liquid and spread into a half-meter circle on the carpet, almost engulfing his feet.
"Fire drill," she repeated, with a quirky smile and raised eyebrow.
Then the crowd ran.
"You!" Jason shouted, grabbing one of the people fleeing past him. "Grab a fire extinguisher and deal with it!"
The team kept moving down the hall into some kind of storage area. Bart dodged to one side and grabbed a power cord attached to a portable wall-sized monitor. Following his lead, Shaman found a cargo strap looped around a pallet of office supplies and cut the latch loose with his knife.
"Right!" Jason shouted and pointed.
Somewhere along the line, Bart had found a printed directory. He held it in one hand and his reader in the other and splitting his attention three ways. He obviously didn't see the stunner-armed guard ahead who was sizing up the group and deciding what action to take.
Alex zapped him and he stumbled, but tried to recover. He zapped again and put the man down. Bart jumped far too lightly for a man of his size over the still form, as if he'd known all along that someone would take care of the problem for him . . . and maybe he had. They'd been through so much shit that they were almost gestaltic.
Then a burst of real small-arms fire caused everyone to duck and dive.
That would be the rest of the squad, Alex thought. What now? They were split between both sides of the hallway with no hard cover, though side rooms would make excellent concealment for a few seconds . . .
"This way," he said, grabbed a gibbering Bal and reached for a door handle. Shaman was still with them, and Jason. So they had the native guide. That left the firepower under Elke, and . . .
Another burst came far too close.
. . . and Bart had a map and seemed to know what he was looking for.
"Go, Elke. We'll catch up shortly."
"Roger," she agreed. The two of them faded back through a door on their side.
Alex, Jason, Bal, and Shaman went through the door, which led into some sort of utility room. Jason grabbed a large spike and a hammer off a bench, jammed the spike into the door at an angle, setting it with one tap and then beating it twice.
"Ceiling," he suggested, vaulting onto the bench and helping Bal up. He punched out two panels and slid them aside carefully.
"Concrete ceiling," he added. This must still be the front side of the building, not the main working area. "Shit. Hold on . . ." He scanned around, grabbed a torch, and shone it in circles, then said, "Hatch, over that way. Bal, give me your hand."
Alex helped Bal ascend into the twilight of the utility space, then began easing himself up on his hands. Not too soon, either. There was beating at the door. In a moment, that turned to hinges being shot off and a wall being gutted. Shaman barely made it, grunting with the effort as Alex heaved him up.
But he was up, and slid the panels back carefully, trying not to disturb too much dust. He was already sticky with insulation and dirt clinging to the sweat coating him.
Below Jason heard, "Concrete ceiling, it's safe to shoot."
"Soon as I figure out where."
So there were at least two troops down there, and now was a good time for an incapacitance grenade. He backed carefully along a steel girder while drawing one from his ruck. Right side pocket, and only one more after this.
A bullet wanged off the girder a meter ahead of him. He didn't hear the rest of the burst, but did see the holes. Now was the time. He popped the pin, counted, "One," punched his hand through a soft tile and counted, "Two," and let it go.
Then he shimmied back as fast as he could, not worried about damaging wires or cables or if anyone saw him.
The pop! of the grenade was followed by loud cursing and scrabbling noises. Apparently their opponents had not expected them to use gas in the studio and had neglected to bring the appropriate gear. So it was likely that two more were out of commission, bringing the effectives down to no more than eight.
Assuming it was only one squad, and not counting any local security who would reinforce
them.
Elke's voice came over his headset. "We're going to meet at Location Three in five minutes."
He tried to remember Location Three. That was the control room above the studio catwalks. From there, it was straight down into the main studio, Number Two . . . which was the one they needed.
* * *
Aramis skittered feet first over the seat and into the front of the vehicle. The engine was still running, and he slammed the transmission into reverse while nailing the throttle. First, he wanted outside where he had room to maneuver, and public visibility so he couldn't be convicted for anything he didn't do. Although, what he was going to do was plenty.
Better to Beg Forgiveness-ARC Page 48
