by Steve Rzasa
“Yeah, man. No doubt.” I ignored the twist in my gut. The lies were getting harder. Not to keep track of, I mean. That’s easy. But harder to stomach. Like eating junk food all the time. Roll with it and keep the guy happy until you get your hands on the Sozh Uqasod.
“I never wanted to do it. Never trusted them.” Santoro thumped his fist on the hood. Might as well have been a gunshot, as quiet as it was out here. He took a few steps toward me. I didn’t budge. But I did measure him up for an estimate of how fast I could disable him without breaking any important bones.
Nil shifted, too, but I missed his exact movements. Somehow he stayed in shadow but got closer to us two humans. Something blue blinked in his hand—the lower right—and disappeared.
Santoro stuck out his hand. I didn’t flinch. What, you think after all these years I didn’t know a handshake when one’s coming? Please. It’s more exciting than the first fireworks on the Fourth of July.
We shook. Man, were his palms slick with sweat. All I could do to not wipe my fingers off on my pants and grimace. Grinned instead. “Great. Let’s set up a meet, okay? Us three and your partner. Tonight.”
“Right now?” Santoro rubbed at his hair. “I dunno. Didn’t tell him I was coming up here. And he’s more inclined for us to lay low, follow the orders from them. Our employers.”
“We could follow you down the mountain. Wait somewhere until you give us the high sign.” C’mon, c’mon. The hook’s out. Bite.
“Okay. Well, let me talk to him.”
“Right.” He didn’t take me up on it. “So like I said, we’ll follow you down.”
“No way. He rides with me, the Ghiqasu.”
What? Split us up? That’s not cool. You never split with the guy who’s got your back on a deal like this. You do, then you can’t watch his and he can’t watch you. Stories get mixed up and . . .
Wait a sec. Nil and I had each other’s backs? Huh.
To my surprise Nil said, “I agree. You may consider it a sign of our agreement, Mr. Santoro. Foss, you may follow us back to wherever Mr. Santoro proposes a meet.”
Don’t say a word. Not until you know what those words are. No sense in mumbling a bunch of ums or likes. Smooth. I scratched at my chin like I was thoughtfully considering the arrangement. What I was really doing was running down my comprehensive list of swear words. Took a while.
Santoro, though, had relaxed. The tension piled up around him was gone.
That clinched it. “All right. I can be okay with that. But don’t pull anything on us, Santoro. It’s not worth the trouble.”
He chuckled. “Hey, my second tour was with Ghiqasu Groundpounders on Movequbor Six. No way I’d ever mess with one, even down here.”
Whatever a Ghiqasu soldier looked like, I didn’t care to know. Santoro nodded. “I think we can do bus—”
The flash of bluish-green light was bright enough to make the high beams from the pickup look like cheap candles. A punch of air slapped me in the chest. I got thrown back against a tree and wrenched my shoulder. Found myself sitting square on my backside, dirt and pine needles shoved up the waist of my pants.
A sound like tires squealing rang in my ears. But it was too high pitched, too electronic. Not tires.
“Foss!” Nil hissed. Couldn’t see him. Huge globs in my vision. No matter how I blinked they wouldn’t get lost. “Stay down!”
Feet scrabbled off to my right. I rubbed at my eyes until I could finally focus.
Santoro lay on the ground. He was crumpled up like he’d decided on a nap. Could’ve been sleeping, too, if it wasn’t for the crater dead center on his chest, big enough for me to stick my shoe in. Smoke or steam poured out, carried away on the evening breeze. The hole was dark and wet with blood. The air stank of burnt meat and—what was that?
Another flash. I flattened out. The front of the pickup shattered, ripped wide open. I caught a glimpse of glittering chrome and scorched hood before the headlights winked out. There came that screech again. Someone was shooting at us.
I know, I got a flair for the obvious.
“Plasma striker.” Nil’s breath smelled of meat. My heart about punched through my ribs. He was right next to me. “High-energy particle weapon with explosive yield and limited range.”
“Wait. You mean like a phaser?” I didn’t know whether to wet myself or whoop to celebrate the awesomeness.
“Here. Take this.” Nil pressed something small made of metal and hot into my hand. “It is a three-shot striker. Auto-adjusting aim. Calibrated for body heat of most sentient beings.”
“You want me to shoot someone with a phaser?”
“For once listen and do not exercise your pervasive need for commentary!” Nil’s growl shook my arm as he grasped it with his lower right hand. “Crouch low and follow me as we move. Now.”
We scuttled like crabs into the dark. I hesitated near Santoro. Not that I could see well enough with the afterglow from the blasts in my eyes, but I could smell the body. This must be what Nil felt like. “What about him?”
Nil took one sharp sniff. “Dead. Such blast trauma is not survivable.”
Another blast ripped by. I saw it better this time: a double pulse. Blue-green streak with a second broader blast that struck the same spot a bare instant later. This one was so close the concussion knocked me to my knees. The sound shrieked down after it. A slender pine tree splintered in a flash of fire. The smell of sweet sap filled the air.
We bolted down the hill, feet scrabbling on rocks. We were making too much noise for me to tell if anyone was after us. Tree branches slapped at my arms. Pine needles scratched my face.
And someone was shooting at us with an alien version of a phaser.
All in all, a great evening.
Another double blast shrieked over our heads. Something cracked like thunder and then creaked like a door on rusty hinges. A tree slammed into the ground ten feet away. More branches hit me on the arm and my head.
So what was I thinking about? Dying. The very dead Santoro. Ally.
And a boy named Kyle. My son.
With that, it was easy to go from afraid to angry to downright furious.
I skidded to a stop and turned back the way we’d come. That phaser-striker gun Nil had given me couldn’t be too complicated. There was a raised level under my finger. The thing was awkward in my grip, but hey, it was made for a four-armed alien with three fingers. I raised it up.
There was a shadow. A silhouette in the middle of the blobs left over from the blasts’ glare.
I pulled the trigger.
There was next to no recoil. Didn’t even feel like I had a .38 in my hand. The blast was the same blue-green but smaller. The screech was terrible.
But A) I didn’t drop the gun, B) I didn’t blow up and C) I fired a ray gun.
That in itself was fantastic. But I also didn’t hit anything. Because a return shot hit the ground right in front of me and sent me belly-down on the dirt. A rock as big as a dinner plate smashed and bruised my chest.
“Foss!” Nil was there—no, wait, he was off to my left. And above me. Sounded like high above.
I couldn’t answer. Wind was knocked out of me. My gun. Striker. Whatever. I lifted it and squeezed the trigger. Nothing happened. A light flickered orange.
Really? It had to recharge? That could explain why the other guy didn’t shoot but one shot at time.
Footsteps. They came down the hill toward me. Boots or shoes crunched pine needles. I could hear another weapon humming.
Get up and move—
A blast lanced down from the sky. It hit the ground between me and the approaching shadowy person. A second followed, same angle. The boots scrambled away, took off running.
I got onto my knees, lifted my striker, and squeezed the trigger again. Again. Again. Recharge!
It fired. Blew a tree wide open. Nothing left but a burning stump and smoking pinecones. They popped, like when you throw them into a campfire. Pretty sure I didn’t hit anything else.
Man. I needed to get back to the firing range with Isaac. If he could have seen me he’d have laughed himself silly after making sure I wasn’t wounded. Friends are great like that.
More footsteps. Nil sounded like he was scraping his way down a tree. Which, after I staggered up off my knees, I saw he was. Swung down from two big branches twenty feet over my head using his upper arms. The lower ones each held a striker in the hands. Bigger models, fancier looking than the one he loaned me.
I stared dumbly at the gun in my hand. Where did he stash these things? In his armpits?
“Are you hurt?” He was right up close to me now, nose taking deep whiffs in and out.
“My pride. Also my chest.” I handed him the striker. “Nice phaser.”
He took it. Sirens wailed far off in the distance. “You called the cops, Nil? What about low profile!”
“I did not call authorities,” he rumbled. “But we have a greater obstacle to surmount.”
“Well that’s great.”
“Our attacker.”
Whom I missed, repeatedly. And wanted badly to smash face first into a wall right now. “Yeah. Did you get a good whiff?”
“No, Foss. I did not get a whiff. I could not find his scent. Not even when he came at you.”
I stared at Nil.
Nil nodded slowly. “I cannot tell you if he was human or not.”
Jordan Santoro was dead. I couldn’t believe it.
Mosier Gulch was crawling with cops. Someone had heard the weapons fire, even this far outside of town. Turned out we were only a mile or two up the road from the McMansions tacked on to the hills of the Big Horn Mountains. Those qwaddo strikers were just as loud at that distance as they were up close.
Speaking of strikers, Nil’s portable arsenal had conveniently vanished. Dude’s pouches were as bottomless as Mary Poppins’ carpet bag.
Blue and red flashing lights cast bizarre silhouettes, a strobing effect that reminded me of the trippier nightclubs on Landsdowne Street by Fenway Park. Six deputies from the Johnson County Sheriff ’s department had everything cordoned off—Santoro’s body, his truck, and the area we showed them with blaster-scorched trees. I saw one deputy get out those little yellow number signs, you know, the kind they use to mark the locations of bullet brass after a shootout. Took him a second to realize there was no brass.
Nil was busy talking to the sheriff himself, and I spent the next half hour answering annoying questions from his boys and trading texts with Rutherford. Couldn’t tell if he was mad or not. Loya called, though, and he was.
“Neither you nor Prime Nil are hurt? That’s a small miracle,” he groused. “I thought the incident on the highway would be the last I heard publicly of your efforts. You do understand this was supposed to be a quiet case.”
“Yeah, and I also understand it was supposed to be the kind of case where I A) didn’t get run off the road and B) didn’t get shot at by alien phasers,” I snapped back. “Makes it difficult to keep to my usual routine when people are actively seeking my death, Loya.”
“Agent Loya.”
“Whatever.”
“No, Mr. Fortel, it’s anything but ‘whatever.’ HQ is not pleased, nor am I. Have you made any progress on contacting Fisk?”
“Jordan Santoro was my progress. Obviously someone didn’t want him making the deal, or even talking about it. That’s up to you guys to track down. I’m gonna get Fisk to hand over the Sozh Uqasod, relax.”
Loya sipped noisily at something. Probably that chai tea he worshiped. “Do what you have to and keep us in the loop. And don’t take any unnecessary risks.”
“Listen up, Loya: I’m used to taking risks, but not beyond what a few good jabs to another man’s throat can’t fix. This whole thing’s been a mess from the get-go. If you guys really want things done low key, you’ve got to keep the crazies off my back long enough for me to get it done.”
“We can’t expose ourselves as having an interest in your job, Fortel, that’s the whole point. Washington is staying hands-off on this, besides threatening us all with pink slips. They have the Jinn breathing down their necks. We’re doing what we can. But you’re on your own in terms of materiel and manpower.” He hung up.
“What a pal,” I muttered. The downside of working with the feds was that they were always more than willing to foul up your work. Need more money? Backup? Forget it. Unsolicited advice? Obnoxious instructions? All yours.
The phone went off again. Loya? Come on, I’d had girlfriends who were less clingy. Hang on, though—this one was from Isaac. “Yo.”
“Yo yourself. Gear up: Carpenter’s on his way to pay you a visit.”
“I’m sorry, I must have dropped that call. Because it sounded like you said your boss, the agent-in-charge of FBI Boston, was coming to Wyoming to watch this investigation over my shoulder.”
“You get the gold star. Hopped the next agency jet out. Personal oversight, the man says.”
“Awesome. That’s awesome.” I pulled the phone away and mouthed some very bad words. “Thanks for the heads up.”
“You’re welcome. You guys really got blasted at by a qwaddo striker?”
“Yep. Burn marks on trees and everything.”
“Man. You’re okay, right?”
“That’s sweet, you remembered.”
“Hey, no flowers coming your way.”
“Nice.”
“You got to use a striker?”
For a guy worried about operational secrecy, Loya had a big mouth. “Oh, yeah. Every geek’s fondest wish.”
Isaac sighed. “We got a tech overview at the agency on those weapons. But no hands-on training.”
“Sucks to be you.”
“Shut up. Hey, you keep your head down, man. Good luck and Godspeed.”
“Thanks.”
I tapped the phone against my chin. So the FBI was sending Moff Tarkin out to regulate, huh? Figures. Loya probably had Carpenter listening in on our call. Like it was my fault Santoro got mowed down by a striker. Don’t get me wrong, I felt terrible the guy was dead. But now it was my butt that was in serious trouble.
Nil and the sheriff came back my way. He was a burly, broad-shouldered guy with a gray moustache that drooped on either side of his mouth. He had on the same gray uniform shirt and black pants as the rest, with a black “Johnson County Sheriff ’s Department” cap on his head. Apparently their tech budget here was up to par because he was jotting notes on the bright blue screen of a tablet. Thought about asking him for a spare cap for Isaac but determined that to be in poor taste. I mean, with the dead guy and all.
“Well, ah, your partner here’s been real helpful with the details. Real helpful.” The sheriff adjusted his glasses. “You didn’t know the victim, correct?”
“No, sir, not personally.”
“And you met here—”
Here we go with the repeating things eighty million times to law enforcement. Didn’t they know my stories got easier to follow every time I told them? Of course, this one was mostly true. “He wanted a private locale. Knew of some foreign artwork we’d like to buy, through a licensed dealer.”
“Of course.” The sheriff glanced at Nil. What I wouldn’t give for a poker face like a qwaddo’s. “That’s what your friend said. Everything checks out on your backgrounds all right. We talked to DEXA right off, and they confirmed your business.”
I just nodded. “Good to know.”
“We’re used to dealing with DEXA where our, ah, visitors are concerned.” He closed the lid on his tablet, still looking at Nil. “Not abnormal. With all the Ghiqasu in our neck of the woods, they’re always stepping in to smooth things over.”
“Even murders?”
“Even those.” He seemed resigned to the fact. But he gave me a peculiar stare. “Not bar fights, though. We can handle those when they get out of hand.”
Roger that.
“We’re searching the area for any indicators of the shooter. May have some prints, based on the d
irection of the weapons fire and burns on the trees, but haven’t spotted anything yet.”
“We appreciate your efforts, Sheriff,” Nil said.
“Bet you do. You boys stick close to town for a while and make the most of your, ah, art buying.”
He walked off to where his deputies were shining their flashlights up the hill at something. I edged closer to Nil. “So what do you think? Any luck?”
“No.” He sniffed the air, a long inhale that widened his nostrils big enough for me to stick my hand in. Not that I’d try it. “I detect only faint traces of our attacker. Teases of smell, but I cannot determine a species. Only a presence.”
Not good. His snout was the thing that helped us home in on the Sozh. Only way we could prove Fisk had it floating around inside his body. If he was having the qwaddo equivalent of allergies, we had bigger problems than nosy feds. “I don’t get this. Why kill Santoro? He didn’t have the Sozh on him. I’m assuming you’d have told me otherwise.”
Nil nodded. “Santoro carried its scent, but only enough to indicate he was within proximity to the sculpture recently. That has not faded.”
“Okay, I believe you.”
“I smell you are being truthful.”
“Lucky me.” I rubbed at my chin. Santoro’s body was hoisted by stretcher into an ambulance. Watching that shroud disappear behind the doors raised my blood pressure even more than the attack. I wasn’t used to people getting killed in this line of work, and Santoro had seemed like a good man. Troubled, yeah, but also with qualms about his crime.
We could have peeled out of there and left the body. But I didn’t do that. Couldn’t. Especially not to a guy who was willing to put his neck on the line to help someone else in a fight.
Somebody had to know Santoro was here. “I’ll check with Rutherford, see if those guys who tried to run us off the road or the ones in the bar had anything to do with Santoro.”
“What do you smell, Foss?”
“Nothing yet. But come on, these two attacks? Our quiet assignment is less than quiet. And not near as secret as everybody hopes.”
“Santoro does not smell of the men from the interstate. He also laid hands upon the men in the bar, and this transferred their scent to him. That much I can detect.”
