by Troy Denning
“You’d have to kill me?” Nyeto rolled his eyes. “Oh, please.”
“Seriously,” Olivia remarked. Her eyebrows and short-cropped hair had been bleached to a pale gold, and an ashen tint had been applied to her dark skin to make her look a bit unhealthy. “We’d have to kill you. All of you.”
“Nothing personal,” Mark said. “That’s just the way it is.”
“Business is never personal,” Nyeto said. He eyed Mark’s sleeveless leather tunic and golden ear hoops with a show of disdain. “Not until some punk makes it that way.”
Mark’s eyes went cold. “Are you saying we’re there now? Because that’s fine with me.”
Instead of answering, Nyeto let his gaze drift toward the trattoria’s office, and Veta found herself hoping the gunrunner was about to do something stupid. He was not the reason she’d been forced to abandon her career in the Gao Ministry of Protection and flee her home planet under threat of death. But this man had smuggled weapons to the Keepers of the One Freedom—the same ex-Covenant extremists whom Casille had used to seize the presidency of Gao. And now the gunrunner was trying to get his hands on a clutch of nuclear warheads. As far as Veta was concerned, an ONI interrogation cell was too good for Ross Nyeto. The sooner his body vanished down a black hole, the happier she would be.
But Nyeto was too smart—or too lucky—to be goaded into a foolish mistake. He continued to gaze in the direction of the office for another instant, then frowned, and Veta turned to find Georgi Baklanov stepping into the dining room again.
“Okay, everybody out!” Baklanov’s voice boomed. “We have Spartans coming!”
A hush fell over the room, and patrons began to look toward the office door in doubt and confusion. Spartans were the elite of the elite, super-soldiers so rare that only one civilian in a hundred million had ever actually glimpsed one. To most of the Venezians in the room, the notion of a Spartan team raiding the Trattoria Georgi would sound almost inconceivable.
Baklanov’s voice grew low and urgent. “This is why I pay lookouts, people. Two Spartans just turned onto Via Notoli.”
The hush broke into a speculative murmur. Via Notoli was long and narrow and notoriously choked with traffic, so even Spartans would find it slow going. And with all of the taverns and warehouses lining the lane, it certainly seemed possible that the super-soldiers were headed somewhere else.
Still, the Trattoria Georgi was a well-known black-market hangout, and the trouble that had almost erupted earlier was unusual. A dozen patrons stood and started for the door.
When the rest of the clientele were slow to follow, Baklanov extended a hand toward his office and made a summoning motion. Two henchmen stepped through the door, both brandishing Sevine Arms 10mm machine pistols. At the same time, the bartender pulled another SAMP-10 from behind the counter.
“Let me make myself absolutely clear. You should leave now.” Baklanov’s tone was growing calmer and steadier by the second. “Anyone still here in sixty seconds, the Spartans won’t need to shoot.”
The threat worked, because the remaining patrons mobbed the exit. Veta was glad to see the Kig-Yar eavesdroppers leading the way. Even if they were not Keeper spies, they would spread the tale of the crazy human woman who had used a Crow to steal ten Havoks, and the Keeper gunrunning crew would find her. All she and her team had to do now was make the coming fight with the Spartans look convincing.
She tucked the phase pearls into her shirt pocket and motioned her team toward the kitchen.
“We’ll go out the back.”
“They’ll be expecting that.” Nyeto remained seated, calmly waiting while his companions slid out of the booth. “Those Spartans may be as dumb as canned fruit, but you can bet there’s an ONI agent calling the shots. My guess is ONI has a sniper watching every exit, and they’re just using the Spartans to flush you out.”
“Could be . . .” Veta said. Nyeto had obviously never matched wits with a Spartan or he wouldn’t be comparing them to canned fruit, but his guess was only slightly inaccurate. She began to fear she had underestimated him. “If you have a better idea, I’m listening.”
“Do we have an agreement?” Nyeto slipped out of the booth and flashed a smirk. “We both know those Spartans are after you and your nukes. So either you split your haul with me . . . or you die and lose it all.”
Veta feigned hesitation, then glanced at her team and received three wary nods. Their reluctance was for show, but they were well trained and had no trouble selling it. She turned to Nyeto.
“You have a way to get us out of here fast?” she asked. “In one piece?”
“Of course.”
“You expect me to take your word for it?” Veta asked. “No details, no deal.”
“Fair enough.” Nyeto motioned to his Jiralhanae bodyguard, then said, “We’ll make our own door.”
“You want to bust through a side wall? An exterior wall?” Veta’s clarification was for the benefit of the approaching Spartans. She had a thread-style microphone sewn in her collar, and everything it picked up was being transmitted to an encrypted comm net. “What about Mr. Baklanov?”
“Give him a phase pearl,” Nyeto said. “He won’t complain.”
“That’s enough for me to buy the whole building.”
“And what would you do with the place?” Nyeto asked. “Especially with ONI hunting you for the rest of your life?”
“Good point.”
She removed the pearl bag from her pocket and began to fumble at the closure, trying to buy time for the third Spartan—the one concealed in the service alley behind the trattoria—to change position.
Nyeto’s face tightened. “What’s the holdup?”
“The magtab is sticking.” Veta squeezed the bag open and began to sort through the pearls. “It does that sometimes.”
Nyeto waited about two seconds before reaching for his sidearm. “You’re stalling.”
Knowing that her team’s hands would already be on their M6Ps, Veta signaled them not to draw. Nyeto and his men were carrying New Tyne Armory 12mm Comets—a class of weapon ONI combat instructors mocked as “hand cannons.” The oversize pistols put the gunrunners at an enormous disadvantage in a quick-draw fight, so she had room to bluff this out.
“The Spartans are coming for us,” she said, “and you think I’m stalling?”
Veta shook her head in mock disbelief, then withdrew one of the smaller phase pearls and summoned Ash over. His hair had been dyed orange and shaved into a flaming wing above each ear, but the rest of his head was bald. He was making a point of watching Nyeto—not staring him down, just making sure the gunrunner knew that if things turned ugly, he would be the first to die.
Nyeto seemed to take the hint. Despite his suspicious expression, he motioned to his men to wait.
Veta put the phase pearl in Ash’s hand. “Give this to Mr. Baklanov, with our apologies in advance for the damage,” she said. The trattoria was nearly empty now, and Baklanov was close enough to overhear. “And hurry. We don’t have much time.”
Ash eyed Baklanov’s henchmen, then said, “We could just take them out.”
“And get stuck trading lead until the Spartans show?” Veta shook her head. “Just give him the pearl. It’ll be faster.”
Ash shrugged. “If you say so.” He handed his M6P to Veta, then pinched the phase pearl between his thumb and forefinger and started across the room. “Hey, Mr. B. I’ve got something for you.”
Veta heard a single click from the reception-dot concealed near her eardrum, and she knew the third Spartan was in position to cover the expected exit route. It wouldn’t be long before the other two arrived to flush the quarry into their trap. She turned to Ross Nyeto.
“We’d better still have a deal,” she said. “I’d hate to lose one of my phase pearls for nothing.”
Nyeto moved his hand away from his holster. “You can’t blame a man for being careful,” he said. “I have my own reasons to be nervous about Spartans.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“Maybe not, but it’ll have to do for now.” Nyeto motioned his Jiralhanae bodyguard toward the wall. “Picus—”
“Stop!” Baklanov called. “Do that, and you’re finished on Venezia.”
Nyeto motioned Picus to wait, then faced the proprietor. “Mr. Baklanov, trust me. You don’t want the Spartans to find us here.”
“Sure I do,” Baklanov said. “At least, I’d like them find your new friends.”
Veta turned to find Baklanov’s henchmen swinging their SAMP-10 machine pistols toward her side of the room. Baklanov himself was pointing an 8mm automatic—a Sevine Arms Defender—at Ash’s face. Ash was still pinching the phase pearl between his thumb and forefinger, staring down the Defender’s muzzle and looking more irritated than concerned. Mark and Olivia had drawn their M6Ps, but were keeping the muzzles pointed at the floor until they received an order to engage.
Given his reflexes and training, Ash could easily pivot aside and take Baklanov’s weapon away, and even firing from the waist, Mark and Olivia could take out the henchmen before their SAMP-10s settled on target. But then the team’s cover would be blown, and the young Ferrets had too much discipline to put their own lives ahead of the mission. It was a holdover from their SPARTAN-III training, and one Veta feared would get them killed someday.
She used a hand flick to signal WAIT, then glared at Baklanov. “Have you lost your damn mind?”
Baklanov appeared to consider the possibility for a moment, then shook his head. “Not the way I see it.” He gestured at the M6P in Veta’s hand. “You and your punks can put the popguns on the floor.”
“I don’t think so.” Veta stepped toward Baklanov. “What do you expect to happen here?”
“What’s it look like?” Baklanov thumbed back the hammer of his Defender, the unspoken threat bringing Veta to a halt. “The Spartans want you and those nukes in a bad way. I turn you over, all my problems go away.”
“Maybe because you’re already dead,” Ash said. He rolled the phase pearl into the palm of his hand, then extended it toward Baklanov. “Take it. You’ll live longer.”
Baklanov almost smiled. “I like your style, kid. But I’ll take my chances.”
“With ONI?” Veta asked. The mission planners had not foreseen Baklanov volunteering to “help” the UNSC—though maybe they should have. In the field, anything could happen. “You think those two Spartans don’t know who you are? That you’re not listed as a target of opportunity?”
Doubt filled Baklanov’s eyes, and she realized she still had a chance to keep the mission on track. The two Spartans had to sell the Ferret team’s cover story by making it look like the UNSC was desperate to recover the “stolen” Havoks. But the deception required careful timing—the Ferrets needed to escape just as the Spartans arrived, because nobody was going to believe a few lowlifes could survive a firefight with fully armored Spartans.
Veta let Baklanov’s skepticism build for a moment, then said, “Look, if you try to strike a deal with those two Spartans, you’ll end up in a body bag. The Goliath too.”
“Is that a threat?” Baklanov’s tone was tough, but the doubt was still there. “Because I’m not a guy you want to threaten.”
“I’m just telling you how it is.” Veta tipped her head toward the phase pearl in Ash’s hand. “You want to live, take the pearl and follow us out of here. You want to die, start a firefight. If we don’t kill you, the Spartans will.”
Baklanov’s gaze shifted to the glowing bead in Ash’s palm, and Veta realized she was winning him over. She let her breath out—and heard a double click from the reception-dot in her ear. Ash’s eyes widened, and she knew he’d heard it too. The Spartans were about to breach—and her team was badly out of position.
Veta gave her head a subtle rock, signaling her team to forget the plan and follow her lead. She did not relish the thought of improvising—that was usually when operatives got hurt—but Baklanov had forced her hand.
She looked toward the wall-size picture window in the front of the trattoria and spotted a pair of Jackrabbit scout cycles on Via Notoli. Spread roughly a meter apart, they were cutting across traffic toward the trattoria.
“Time’s up, Mr. Baklanov.” Veta swung her M6P toward the front window. “Now we die.”
The two Jackrabbits reached the walkway, scattering pedestrians in all directions, then accelerated hard. Their front wheels rose into the air and crashed through the trattoria’s window just above the sill. Veta opened fire on the nearest cycle, and the cockpit canopy shattered beneath two explosive rounds. She fired again, aiming for the driver’s faceplate. His shields shimmered as the round detonated, and his helmet vanished behind a fiery orange flash.
The Jackrabbit veered toward the bar and slammed into the side, causing an eruption of polished stone and dark wood. Veta glimpsed blue Mjolnir armor and knew the Spartan she’d just shot was the leader of the legendary Blue Team, Fred-104. It was what a pirate would have done, but still . . . he was a friend.
By then, Ash was wrenching the Defender out of Baklanov’s hand, and Mark and Olivia were blasting the wheels off the second Jackrabbit. A Spartan in gray Mjolnir with a half-bubble faceplate—the second member of Blue Team, Kelly-087—bailed out and rolled across the floor, reaching for her sidearm. Mark and Olivia continued to fire, enveloping her in an orange aura as their rounds detonated against her energy shield.
Baklanov stepped toward the gray-armored Spartan and held up his now-weaponless hand, motioning her to wait. Like that was going to happen. They were in the middle of a firefight, and Kelly’s hand came up holding her sidearm. Blood sprayed the wall as the M6C’s armor-piercing round exited through the back of his purple vest.
Ash returned fire using Baklanov’s Defender, but the weapon’s hollow-point ammo just disintegrated against her shields. Kelly swung the M6C toward Ash; then Baklanov’s henchmen opened fire on her with their SAMP-10s, and she had to dive into an evasive roll. Tables and chairs dissolved into splinters behind her.
Fred rose from the bar’s wreckage and sprayed the henchmen with mini-bursts from his assault rifle. The machine pistols fell from their hands and all three collapsed where they stood, each bleeding from a line of holes stitched across his torso.
The roar of the SAMP-10s had barely faded before Ross Nyeto’s men began to boom away with their Comets. Kelly’s energy shield crackled with overload static and went down, and flakes of titanium alloy began to spawl off her armor. The Spartans brought their own fire to bear almost instantly, and the first of Nyeto’s men dropped.
Then Mark staggered back, blood pouring from his shoulder. Whether he had been hit by a stray bullet or deliberately wounded to help sell the Ferret team’s cover story, Veta didn’t know—and it didn’t matter. The entire operation was a desperate ploy. The Keepers of the One Freedom had assassinated an admiral and abducted her family, and the trail was running cold. ONI’s best hope of drawing the kidnappers into the open was to dangle a bunch of stolen Havoks in their home territory and hope they took the bait.
Veta swung her M6P toward Fred and fired her last round.
His shields were already down, and the shot caught him in the middle of his chest armor. The detonation barely rocked him, but he used it as an excuse to fire his next burst high. Veta tossed the pocket pistol aside and reached down to grab a SAMP-10—then a large hand clasped her arm and drew her away. She looked over to find Ross Nyeto grasping her biceps, yelling something she could not hear above the thunder of the firefight.
Only one of Nyeto’s three men remained standing, but Picus, the Jiralhanae bodyguard, was by the corner booth, hurling himself into the plaster-finished wall. The impact sent a shiver through his entire body and rocked him back on his heels, and Veta’s heart caught for an instant. If the Brute failed to breach the wall, their escape from the Spartans would become a lot less believable—and the Keeper gunrunning crew a lot less likely to show themselves.
Picus drew back
, then threw himself at the wall again. This time, a structural panel buckled, and he disappeared into a cloud of billowing dust. Green Venezian light began to pour into the room through a three-meter hole, and Veta allowed Nyeto to pull her across the booth toward the opening.
Outside, Veta could see the wood-planked side street emptying as pedestrians raced away from the firefight. Picus was kneeling in a pile of rubble, shaking his head and gathering himself to rise.
The Jiralhanae’s head snapped sideways and sprayed blood, and he collapsed onto his flank and began to convulse. Nyeto put out a hand, signaling Veta to wait behind him, then stared at the Brute’s shuddering body as though he could not quite understand what had just happened. There were three holes in the bodyguard’s massive temple, surrounded by powder stippling and arranged in a triangle so tight it was almost a single wound.
Which meant the attack had come from close range—no more than a couple of meters away. Nyeto dropped to his haunches and duckwalked into the hole.
Veta took the chance to glance back into the trattoria and saw that Nyeto’s last man had fallen. Ash and Olivia had each retrieved a Comet and were continuing to blast away at the two Spartans, who were returning fire with their assault rifles. Mark was ignoring the blood pouring from his shoulder and using a SAMP-10 to spray the wall above Fred’s head. No one was hitting anyone, but they were all making it look damn good.
Veta caught Olivia’s attention by tossing a piece of loose plaster past her shoulder, then signaled her to collect Mark and Ash and disengage. When she turned forward again, Nyeto was still squatting, holding his Comet in both hands and cautiously leaning forward to peer outside. She drew her leg back and planted a boot in the middle of his back, stomp-kicking him out onto the walkway.
A female Spartan in copper-tinted Mjolnir armor stepped into view. Wearing a goggle-eyed ARGUS-class helmet with extra sensor boxes on the sides, she was the third member of Blue Team, Linda-058. She placed a titanium boot on Nyeto’s weapon arm, then looked up and gave a curt nod as Veta and her team clambered out onto the walkway.
