by John Meaney
On the other hand, this was the early hours of the morning, and they were into the less-than-salubrious district of Vulkan's Vale, otherwise known as Blood Alley. Here, police cruisers traveled in convoy or not at all.
“I don't like this,” muttered Alexa, sitting on Donal's left.
“Ralfinko knows what he's doing,” said the sergeant from the front.
“Yeah.” Donal gave a grin that lasted half a second. “We can see that. But why's the target going so fast?”
“Because he can,” said Ralfinko. “Looks like he's got diplomatic flags flying.”
“Or—”
Donal stopped as the radio squawked beneath the dashboard. The sergeant pulled the mike from its clip.
“Car oh-seven-niner. What's up?”
“Is Lieutenant Riordan with you?”
“Yeah, affirmative.”
“Could you put him on, please?”
“Er, sure.”
Donal leaned forward as the sergeant passed the mike back. The coiled cable just reached over the back of the passenger seat. Donal clicked the mike to transmit.
“Riordan.”
“Sir, Bone Listener Carryn said we needed to tell you this. There's been a break-in in the OCML.”
“What?” said the sergeant, while Ralfinko muttered, “Impossible.”
“There are four fatalities reported so far, sir, including Dr. d'Alkarny.”
“Say again?” Donal glanced at Alexa. “Did you say Wilhelmina d'Alkarny?”
“That's correct. We have possible sightings of a green van leaving the vicinity, possibly with stolen goods aboard.”
“Stolen goods? From the morgue?”
“Sir, Bone Listener Carryn says to tell you, the missing body belonged to Director Cortindo.”
“Damn it,” muttered Donal, with the mike still set to receive. He clicked to transmit. “Can you contact Commander Steele?”
“Sorry, sir, but no. We've been trying.”
Outside the window, buildings were streaming past. Then Blood Alley was dropping away as the car climbed the steep onramp to the ten-lane skyway. Donal realized that Ralfinko had floored the acceleration by the way the engine howled.
“What is it?”
“Your man from the embassy is up ahead.”
“Yeah, but—”
“And he's driving parallel to a green van.”
Donal stared at Ralfinko for a moment, then clicked the mike. “Control, do you have any more description on the green van?
From the OCML incident?”
“Negative, sir.”
“Shit.”
Alexa said, “We need to coordinate with our other cars. Can we get a roadblock across the skyway?”
The traffic was sparse, moving fast. There was one more exit ramp before they reached the two-thousand-foot-high skull intersection passing into the mouth.
“Control,” said Donal. “Stand by for all points. Listen, have you got any cars down on the flat that can block Exit Forty-seven North? We need a barrier.”
“Sir.” There was a loud crackle, then: “Done it. Two cars moving to block off.”
The freeway curved and banked, and just for a second Donal glimpsed the white-and-purple flashing beacons ahead and down below, as the cars closed off the exit at ground level.
“Nice work, Control. We have a possible match for the green van, linking up with our own suspect.”
“I'll relay that information.”
Up ahead, white-and-purple flashes showed from inside the empty right orb of the great skull. More cruisers in position. But on the route that Ralfinko was following, no obstacles were visible. The green van and the Illurian embassy limo increased their speed, drawing away from the pursuit.
Then a long, low bone-colored motorcycle swept past in the fast lane, as if the cars were standing still. Ralfinko flinched.
“What the Thanatos—”
“That's Harald,” said Alexa.
At the edge of the dock complex, a dark-finned low-slung automobile drew close to the wire fence. It was a Vixen, top of the line, and more. The vehicle seemed to shrug as it drew close to the wire.
Silvery waves passed across the fence, then faded from sight as the Vixen's door swung open. Laura stepped out onto the cracked asphalt.
“It's hexed, sis,” Laura muttered. “Can you do something about it?”
A glimmer grew in the headlights. The car rolled forward, edging closer to the fence, until its passenger side was touching the wire. More silver pulses passed along the wire, arcing downward as if tugged by gravity. Soon there was a dark area of fence directly above the Vixen: the car was diverting the hex flow along her chassis.
“The hood's safe?” Despite her skirt suit, Laura climbed up onto the hood, her high heels morphing into combat boots. “Nice one, sis.”
Laura checked the pistol holstered at the small of her back, slung her handbag diagonally over one shoulder, and leaped lightly from the hood toward the fence. She landed like a cat about to scramble up, hands and feet fastening into the wire mesh.
At the top of the fence, razor wire writhed and swirled. But as Laura neared the uppermost portion of the mesh, she was deep in concentration, preparing herself. When she reached the wire, she grabbed with both hands simultaneously. The wire bucked and thrashed, and then the section between her hands grew limp.
After a moment, Laura scrambled over the top and descended to the other side.
That's one thing I couldn't have done when I was alive.
By the time she reached ground level, the razor wire was stirring again, though feebly.
“If I don't come back—”
The Vixen flashed her headlights.
“Yes, I will be.” Laura opened her handbag and checked the larger gun inside: a Grauser .23. It was a smaller caliber than Viktor carried, but still a man-stopper. “Don't worry so much.”
She moved into shadow.
Inside the Vixen, a small furry shape stirred, then curled up into a ball. Spike closed his eyes, whiskers spreading as he slipped into sleep.
He had done all he could, passing on the message to the network and keeping watch on the man, Viktor, as he entered the compound. He had told Laura which building Viktor had entered. Everything else was up to her.
The air in the car's cabin was warm, soothing. In seconds, Spike was breathing softly, paws twitching as he dreamed of the chase, before growing relaxed once more.
But the car herself maintained a watch, tracking Laura's progress for as long as she was able, until Laura slipped among piles of shipment pallets and was lost from sight.
They'd blocked the off-ramp, so the green van and the limo were constrained to remain on the skyway. No one had thought to block the next on-ramp, even if there had been cars available, but as soon as Donal caught sight of the second big truck he knew there was a problem.
There were six of them, approaching the skyway at improbable speed, though they were hauling huge trailers. The trailers had to be empty.
“Speed up,” Donal told Ralfinko. “Get past those bastard trucks.”
A light silver rain was beginning to fall. Slippery road surfaces were not what they needed.
“I see 'em, but I can't get there,” muttered Ralfinko. “Not before—Shit.”
Already the first three trucks had pulled alongside one another in the fast lanes and were beginning to slow. Harald on his bike was just behind them, and then he was level with their tailgates.
Just as Harald started to accelerate into the gap between two trucks, they drove closer together, dangerously close, blocking Harald's bike. Harald fell back.
Two more trucks moved into position, blocking the road. The sixth was backup, and it pulled in behind one of the others as the whole formation slowed.
“Damn it.”
The sergeant was using the mike, describing the situation to Control. Alexa watched Donal pull out his Magnus and check it before reholstering. She bit her lip.
“What is it?”
said Donal.
“They're well organized.” Alexa was staring forward. “So far. What have they got in mind for up ahead?”
The sergeant put down the mike. “We got barricades across every lane beyond the skull. Once they're in, they ain't leaving.”
At that moment, Donal saw something: a shadow high in the sky.
“I don't think,” he said, “they're planning to leave by road at all.”
“You've gotta be—”
“There goes Harald,” said Alexa.
The motorbike shot forward through the narrow gap, and then Harald was clear of the trucks, accelerating in front of them. Behind the trucks, civilian cars were braking, pulling over; in front, one car was driving too slowly, while the other three drivers that Donal could see were making use of their mirrors and speeding up, drawing farther ahead of the steadily slowing trucks blocking the skyway.
A truck nudged the slow car in the rear, jolting it. The driver panicked, swerving across two lanes before regaining control and flooring the accelerator. Far ahead of him were the green van and the dark limo, with the bone-colored Phantasm motorcycle fast catching up.
Then a sequence of white flashes brightened the night, reflected as silver threads in the thickening rain.
“What the hell is Harald firing?” Donal leaned forward, trying to make out what was happening.
“Don't ask,” said Alexa. “I'm sure it's regulation issue.”
Ralfinko snorted.
“Sure,” he said. “So you got any ideas on how to get past these guys?”
The trucks were still slowing down. Civilian cars had already stopped. The sergeant looked back at Donal; both men nodded and turned to roll down their windows. Ralfinko's face grew mask-like with concentration as he drove close to the trucks' tailgates and kept the car steady.
It took a magazine full of shots from Donal and the sergeant firing in parallel to blow out the rear tire, but when it happened, it was spectacular. Ralfinko swung the car left, hard, just as the truck swerved and bounced from the neighboring truck on one side to the other, the skid setting up an oscillation.
Then Ralfinko jerked up the hand brake and slammed his heel into the brake pedal, turning the car sideways into a skidding deceleration as the colliding trucks bounced off one another. The crash became catastrophic as four of the six trucks entangled and the fifth lurched and toppled. Only the sixth managed to brake as the remainder collided, smashed, and swerved across the lanes, one going through the central barrier and into the opposing lanes.
Flame belched from a truck that was lying on its side.
The car stood still.
“Can you get through?” Donal pointed to a path through the wreckage. “That way.”
“Got ya.” Ralfinko gunned the engine.
Donal had already slammed a replacement clip into his Magnus.
More white weapons fire flashed from Harald's motorcycle up ahead, and the dark limo swerved but corrected its course. They were less than a minute from the orange-lit mouth of the great skull, and the chase was getting serious.
Donal leaned out the open window, eyes squinted against the slipstream, and stared up into the sky. Nothing. He must have imagined the—
There.
“Shit.” He pulled himself back inside the car. “It's big, maybe a pterabat.”
“What the Death have they got going on?” said the sergeant.
“I don't know,” said Donal. “But let's make sure they don't get away with it.”
The sergeant had the mike again and was telling Control to get air support organized any way they could, but things were moving fast: everyone knew there was no time left.
White fire flashed up ahead once more, and this time the dark limo screeched across the fast lane and ricocheted from the central barrier. It swerved back, and for a moment Donal thought the driver had regained control, but then the limo wobbled, Harald fired twice more, and the rear tires went.
The limo swung wide and spun as it headed for the hard shoulder and hit the balustrade.
Concrete exploded and the limo went straight through, sailing out into the air. Donal shut his eyes, trying to listen for the impact, hearing nothing amid the ongoing roar of motor and slipstream and the shocked voices of Alexa and Ralfinko.
“Impossible!”
“What kind of—”
“It was molyscarab armor,” the sergeant told them. “The limo's body. I've seen the stuff before. Goes through anything.”
Up ahead, the green van—looking black as it slid into the orange sodium-vapor light—was entering the tunnel, through the great skull's mouth.
“You're not saying the limo survived that drop?” Alexa was staring back at the gap in the balustrade.
“The bodywork might,” said the sergeant. “But the wheels 'n' axles are a different story, and the driver's probably a mite squished by—”
“This is it.” Ralfinko was pouring on the acceleration. “Crunch point coming soon.”
“Apt term,” muttered Donal, flicking the safety catch on his Magnus. Even with his finger outside the trigger guard, a sudden jolt could cause an accidental discharge.
“Here goes.”
Ralfinko brought the car swerving through a tire-burning arc across the asphalt, blue-gray smoke rising from the wheel arches, and then the car was still, diagonally placed across one lane from the green van. The van was stationary, all its doors thrown open. Up on the safety path for pedestrians, a metal emergency exit door banged shut.
Donal was first out of the car, drawing his Magnus as he ran. A hundred yards farther along the tunnel, a bulky man who had left his own car to see what was going on stopped, jerked so fast his jowls wobbled, and then ducked back behind the steering wheel and pulled his door shut.
There were stone steps a few yards away, but seconds mattered, so Donal used the hood of the parked van as a springboard, caught the iron safety rail one-handed, and vaulted over, landing crouched on the concrete walkway. The walkway was for evacuating the tunnel in case of emergencies, which meant the stairwell beyond the metal door led downward for safety and also up to the higher tunnels.
To the skyways that fed through the empty orbs of the great skull, hundreds of feet above.
Behind Donal, Ralfinko shouted, “The van's empty. Except for a yellow tandem.”
“A what?”
“A bicycle made for two. You know?”
“Shit.”
If the suspects were carrying Cortindo's body, it would slow them up. Donal kicked open the metal door, then ducked back. The auxiliary lighting inside the stairwell was dim amber, pushing back dark shadows.
There was a red alarm button on the wall. Donal slammed the butt of his Magnus against it.
“Hey!”
A shower of artificial rain poured down inside the tunnel as the sprinklers—in fact, they were high-powered nozzles—came on. Purple lights strobed. More important, the inside of the stairwell shone with magnesium-white light.
Donal ducked into the doorway and then back out.
“Which way?” called Alexa softly. “Up or down?”
Donal shook his head. They might be lying in wait with guns at the ready, but he'd caught no glimpse of gun barrels, and no one had fired. And he was ninety percent sure that he'd seen a pterabat earlier from the car. That would make one hell of an expensive diversion.
Donal pointed up.
The sergeant pointed toward the ground, and Donal nodded. Just in case, it was best if one man went that way.
Ready . . .
Donal ducked into the stairwell.
No shots fired.
Ah, Thanatos.
Gun at the ready, Donal stepped onto the first tread and began to run up.
Viktor crouched on the seventh floor of the office block he'd entered, listening to low voices coming from behind closed double doors. A brass label read Boardroom, but the soft moan from inside the room indicated this was not the usual kind of meeting.
At four o'clock
in the morning, that was a given.
To get into the building had been both more and less trouble than expected. From outside, the doors had appeared completely unguarded, with no locks and no watchers. But once he'd pulled open the outer door, things had changed.
Viktor had first spotted a small orb floating near the ceiling in one corner. Then he realized that floateyes were hovering at every choke point.
But they were one of the things that Viktor was prepared for. He pulled out his big handkerchief, inspected it—grimaced—then tied it around the lower half of his face. From inside his leather coat he produced two small gray atomizers and took a few deep breaths through the handkerchief.
Viktor had sprayed a little of the eyesleep mist into the corridor first, letting it drift along to cause inattention in the floating eyeballs. Then he stepped fully inside and sprayed straight into the first floateye.
Its nictitating membrane slipped across the glossy orb, and the eye was asleep and dreaming.
Viktor had continued to spray as he penetrated the building farther. At a glass half wall he peered into an open office space where a few tired-looking workers were bent over stacks of invoices and bills of lading, processing the legitimate transactions of Sally the Claw's business.
Reaching an inner stairwell, Viktor had climbed past a series of unlit floors, finally reaching the seventh story. Now Viktor crouched outside the door.
Another moan sounded from the boardroom.
Sushana!
He was sure of it.
Viktor checked the door. It had a long brass handle, not a knob. Good. Crossing his arms, Viktor cross-drew both Grausers from his shoulder holsters. Then, crouching, he brought his left elbow slowly down on the door handle.
It turned.
And what happened next went very fast.
Through the door, rolling diagonally over his right shoulder, Viktor came up with weapons ready.
Seven, no, eight men were already reaching for their guns. A bulkier figure stood at the far end of the room, clad in a pearl-gray suit, and the bloodied form of Sushana sat tied in a chair, her clothing torn, two of her fingers bent and twisted back at sickening angles.
