Dark Deeds

by Mike Brooks

  “If someone’s set tails on you, then this has been planned,” Rourke said, “and I’m not part of their plan. If whoever it is thinks that I’m just here talking to you naturally, then they’ll hopefully pull a rain check and plan to try again another day when there’s no unexpected variables.”

  “And if they don’t think that you’re here talking to me naturally?” Galina asked.

  Rourke grimaced. “Then they might try it anyway, because if they know they’ve been made, they’ve got to think that they won’t get another chance.”

  “So tell me,” Galina said as they kept walking, Rourke taking one-and-a-half paces for every click of the taller woman’s heels on the pavement, “why aren’t you just calling back to organise a rescue?”

  “I don’t have a comm,” Rourke said shortly, then became aware that Galina was staring at her as though she’d said she didn’t have a heart. “Well, fine, I have a comm, but I don’t have it on me.”

  “Why in the stars not?”

  Rourke tried out one or two sentences in her head, but couldn’t find a way to satisfactorily word the fact that she was technically a hostage and not actually fully trusted by anyone in Orlov’s operation. The last thing she wanted was for Galina to decide that Rourke was actually in on whatever was going on and make an ill-advised dash for it: They needed to keep everything looking normal for as long as possible.

  Something about their surroundings suddenly sprang out at Rourke, and a nasty suspicion crystallised in her stomach. Instead of answering the younger woman’s question, she nodded to where a narrow side road joined the main concourse just ahead of them. “Do you turn left here?”

  Galina frowned. “Yes, why?”

  There was a truck grumbling down the street towards them, not moving particularly fast. By Rourke’s calculations it would reach the mouth of the alley just when they did, and if she were a betting woman, which she certainly was not—she’d have put money on it coming to a halt right across the alley and blocking anyone’s view down it.

  She bent down to fiddle with her boot again, bringing them to a standstill. “That truck ahead of us. Is it slowing down?”

  “Uh . . . ,” Galina paused for a moment. “Yes.”

  “Shit!” Rourke hissed in English, taking refuge in one of her birth languages for a moment. She cast a casual glance down the street behind them as she pretended to refasten her laces. The tails were still there and had paused while they looked in a shop window. Rourke accidentally met the eyes of the man as he glanced sideways at her, and she looked away hurriedly, her heart starting to beat faster. She couldn’t stall for much longer: They were going to have to either deviate from Galina’s usual route, which would risk tipping their observers off and forcing their hand, or play this out and hope that forewarned would be sufficiently forearmed.

  An aircar buzzed by overhead, a black Takagi Sunrise with, judging by what Rourke could see from her crouch, tinted windows. She heard the sound of its engine change a little, recognised the reflection of noise caused by it entering a narrow space such as an alleyway, and a three-dimensional model of the next few seconds jumped into her head.

  The Sunrise would set down a few paces into the alley, while the truck would come to a halt across the mouth of it just as Rourke and Galina turned the corner. The Sunrise’s doors would open to disgorge three or four armed men or women while the tails would probably hurry into the alley from behind, likely drawing weapons themselves. Rourke and Galina would be either shot on the spot or, more likely, taken at gunpoint either into the Sunrise or through the side-loading door of the truck and kidnapped. Galina would then be used as leverage against Orlov, while Rourke would, in all probability, be killed as soon as clearance was received from someone important enough to make that decision.

  Going into the alley, then, was not an option. The question was whether the hostiles had a backup plan that involved shooting dead Galina and anyone with her if the plan didn’t work out once it had been set into motion.

  Rourke straightened up again. Right now, playing those odds looked to be their only chance, unattractive an option though it was. She eyed the truck, which was crawling towards the alley mouth slow enough to begin drawing attention to itself. At any moment, someone was going to realise that they weren’t playing ball.

  “Get ready to—”

  There was the thrum of a powerful engine and a blast of air brakes, and a midrange Excelsior roared to a halt next to them. The rear passenger door snapped open, and Roman’s bald head peered out at them.

  “Get in!” Orlov’s bodyguard snapped, motioning impatiently.

  Rourke moved first, pulling Galina with her and doing her best to shield the larger woman’s body with her own from the two tails, while the Excelsior’s door performed the same function from the other direction. Galina clambered into the car commendably quickly despite her dress and heels, and Rourke swung herself in after her. She’d barely dragged the door shut behind them when the Excelsior kicked off from the ground again, veering up into the sky with a roar of its engine and accompanying horn blasts from startled fellow drivers. Rourke looked up and wasn’t particularly surprised to see Boris behind the wheel.

  “Explain,” Roman said shortly, hauling her into a seat. Rourke buckled herself in and obliged, describing the behaviour of the tails and outlining the setup of the truck and Sunrise that they’d just avoided. To her relief, Roman nodded grimly as she spoke.

  “It could all be coincidence, but it doesn’t sound like it,” the bodyguard said when she’d finished. He activated his comm and waited a couple of seconds, then spoke again. “Sir, it’s Roman. I think we need to discuss the security arrangements of your, ah . . . personal friends.”

  He looked at Rourke again, weighing her with his eyes.

  “I recommend consulting the American.”

  PLACE YOUR BETS

  Jenna sipped at her glass of white wine as she leaned on the railing of the Thousand Suns gallery area and adjusted the straps of her shoulder bag. It was a snazzy black thing, designer fashion apparently, and had been chosen to compliment the figure-hugging cream dress she was wearing. Not chosen by her, mind you: She’d never had much of an interest in fashion, and none of the crew were much better. She’d simply found a suitable shop and an assistant with some time to spare, and explained her predicament: She had a fancy party to attend, where she’d be expected to hobnob with high society, and didn’t have a thing to wear.

  The assistant had been helpful, as was common with sales staff who can see a profitable transaction at the end of it. Jenna hadn’t gone for all their suggestions—the antigrav heels had looked interesting, but were strange to walk in and hideously expensive—but she’d come away with a suitably dazzling outfit and only the lingering sensation that she’d been burning money.

  Besides, it wasn’t like she was going to wear something like this every day, or would want to, but she didn’t think she’d dressed up like this since her bachelor’s graduation ball. It felt nice to wear clothes chosen specifically for how they looked instead of comfort or practicality. Of course, it had also been nice to see A’s face when she’d shown him this outfit, but she’d have enjoyed wearing it regardless.

  She glanced up at a holo-screen on the wall. The Thousand Suns was broadcasting the fight event taking place at the Two Trees Arena tonight, and every now and again she’d see a still picture of a familiar, tattooed face glaring down at her. She tried not to pay too much attention to it and keep her mind on the job, but it wasn’t easy. Apirana was supposedly going into a fixed fight, so there shouldn’t be a high risk of him getting hurt no matter what the outcome was, but that was only theoretical. He’d be going up against someone roughly his own size, and humans that big could do serious damage to each other with one wild punch. And what if A were told to lose, but the other fighter was told to beat him up as punishment for ruining their last attempt at a fixed fight?

  She tried not to think about what might happen if A were told
to lose but then got hurt. She knew very well that his gentle demeanour hid a berserker-like rage that could spill forth in moments of pain or stress. She had no concerns about him turning it on her—she’d once slapped him on the jaw when he’d been in the grip of it, and he’d still managed to control himself—but in a fight, against someone he didn’t know? He might lose control, and then only God knew what might happen. It was certainly unlikely to lead to a smooth exit for him and Drift afterwards.

  She became aware that someone was looking at her, and she glanced to her left. A man stood there, possibly a few years older than her, in a slate-blue suit that had clearly been tailored to his aesthetically pleasing figure. Most of his scalp was clean-shaved, but he had a low line of black hair that ran diagonally over his head from above his right eyebrow to the back left-hand side of his neck. He also had warm brown eyes, and cheekbones she could have practically shaved with.

  Oh my.

  She looked him up and down, trying not to be too overt about it, and gave him a small smile. “Can I help you?”

  He smiled back and spoke in Mandarin, although her comm and pad combined to translate it in her ear. “I would like to buy you a drink.”

  “That’s very kind of you,” she said, “but this is a casino.” She raised her glass slightly for emphasis. “The drinks are free.”

  “Then perhaps I can persuade you to accept the company of someone who would like to buy you a drink, if it were necessary?” He took a step closer as he spoke. Damn it, he was very attractive, but she had a job to do, and idle flirting wasn’t on the cards.

  “Sorry,” she said, trying to look vaguely apologetic. “I’m flattered. But I’m waiting for someone, and I don’t need any other company. Thank you, though.”

  He didn’t take the hint. “Oh, who are you waiting for?”

  She let her smile slip as she glanced across at the entrance hall to check for any sign of Han’s arrival. “I really don’t see how that’s any of your business. Good-bye.”

  Annoyingly, he only smiled more widely. “Oh, come on, a lovely lady like you? If you’re not waiting for someone where there’s some romance, that’s just a waste.”

  Jenna gritted her teeth, fighting the urge to punch this entitled idiot. What she really wanted to do was lay into him—verbally, at least—but that would be just as much of a distraction as flirting with him would have been. She considered complaining to the casino’s staff that he was harassing her, but that would take time and would involve her having to move from her vantage point, so she went for blatant intimidation instead.

  “I’m waiting for a friend,” she told his annoying smile, as mildly as she could. “My boyfriend is fighting at the Two Trees Arena tonight.” She gestured at one of the holo-screens where, as it happened, they were showing clips of Apirana’s demolition of his previous opponent. Given how short the fight had been, the clips covered pretty much all of it.

  “Huh, right,” her unwanted admirer snorted. “Bullshit.”

  Jenna sighed, tapped her pad a couple of times, and held it up so he could see the screen. It was a picture of her and Apirana, their arms around each other and grinning at the camera, with the imposing rings of Medusa II in the background. They’d been on a waystation with an impressive viewing window in orbit around the huge gas giant, and Jenna had decided she couldn’t resist. Jia made retching noises even while taking the picture, Jenna recalled. Of course, a few hours later they’d been ambushed and kidnapped by Sergei Orlov’s thugs.

  The man’s smile abruptly vanished, and he hastily backed away, then turned and disappeared into the steady flow of punters without another word.

  “ ‘No’ means ‘no’ the first time, dickhead,” she muttered in the general direction of his departing back, then turned to watch the main entrance again. All visitors came into the central hall first, then either chose their pursuits from those available on the main floor or scaled the grand, sweeping staircases on either side to reach the balconies where she was currently waiting, and one of the smaller, quieter (and nonoverlooked) rooms that led off them.

  Her comm crackled and disgorged Alim Muradov’s voice. +Jenna, I believe I have just seen her.+

  “Okay,” she murmured, concentrating on the comings and goings around the entrance a little more. “What’s she wearing?”

  +Black dress that sparkles, from what I saw under the coat, low shoes, and her hair is done up in a bun of some sort.+

  “Let’s see . . .” Jenna waited, sipping idly at her wine. The seconds dragged into a minute, and then towards two. She wanted to ask if the Chief had been certain, but she supposed it would take time for Han to check her coat in, change her cash into tokens, and so on. Then, just as she was starting to fret, she saw someone matching Muradov’s description. She checked around her to ensure she wasn’t being watched, then quickly brought the woman into the viewfinder of her pad and kicked up the zoom, wishing momentarily that she had a mechanical eye like Drift’s that could do this far more surreptitiously. The face that expanded into view matched the images that she’d found of Chief Han on the Spine: a severe mouth, a mole on one cheek, a blunt fringe of near-black hair that contained strands of grey.

  “That’s her,” she confirmed, blanking her pad again. She eased away from the rail she’d been leaning on and began to walk casually towards the stairs, finishing her wine as she did so. “Okay, Tweedledum and Tweedledee, you’re up.”

  +Tweedlewhat and Tweedlewho?+ Jia’s voice replied. Jenna sighed, and did her best to impersonate the Captain’s tone.

  “Does no one appreciate the classics anymore?”

  THE PAST AND THE PRESENT

  It was early afternoon in New Samara, and Tamara Rourke was doing one of her regular sweeps of the Grand House. Orlov had made it clear that Roman and Larysa should take Rourke’s security suggestions seriously ever since her intervention in the incident with Galina, and she had no intention of passing up this opportunity. So far as Rourke was concerned, any and every improvement she could make or potential hazard she could spot increased her value, and therefore her likelihood of staying alive if Drift and the rest couldn’t succeed in raising her ransom.

  Nothing seemed out of place, and she took a seat at an unused blackjack table to sip at a glass of water she’d taken from a passing robotic waiter and consider how she was going to respond to Larysa’s inevitable jibes about paranoia and obsessiveness when she returned with nothing to report. Larysa had a tendency towards good-natured mockery, Rourke had found, but seemed to take as much pleasure in being put down herself as she did in delivering put-downs. While Rourke knew well enough that it would be Sergei Orlov who would have the final say in her fate, it couldn’t hurt to foster good relationships with the other staff, and Larysa was far more overtly friendly than the somewhat reserved Roman.

  Her musings were interrupted by a flicker of movement in her peripheral vision, and she turned in time to see a tall, wiry man of probable Chinese heritage seating himself next to her. He was perhaps in his early thirties, with a thin moustache, a suit that wasn’t quite of the sort of quality she’d have expected from the Grand House’s normal clientele, and a wide smile on his face.

  “This table isn’t being used,” she told him, sizing him up. He didn’t appear obviously inebriated, in that she couldn’t smell alcohol on his breath and there was no sign of pupil dilation, but it surely wasn’t normal behaviour to sit yourself next to a complete stranger at an empty casino table and grin at them.

  “I know,” he replied, leaning a little closer. Rourke didn’t lean away in response, but was already working out where to move, where to strike, and how to disengage if he proved to be a threat.

  “Then what are you doing?”

  He grinned more widely. “I’m pretending to flirt with you, of course.”

  Rourke hesitated, caught off guard. “What do you mean?”

  “You don’t remember me, do you?” the man said quietly, and this time he spoke in English with an accent f
rom the North American planets. Rourke tried not to let her surprise register on her face, but she lowered her voice in response and played for time.

  “You’re going to have to help me out here.”

  The man winked. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.” He turned his left hand over where it rested on his leg so his palm was visible to her, although thanks to the table it would have been hidden from anyone else. A moment later an insignia flashed momentarily into view as he activated an electat. Rourke knew it intimately: An identical one was still lurking unseen beneath the flesh of her own left hand.

  It was the symbol of the GIA.

  She fixed him with a glare that could cut hull metal and tried to think about exactly what cameras she’d seen that would be covering them and from what angles. “Who the hell are you, and what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  “Like I said, you don’t remember me.” His wide grin was still there, but his tone of voice was serious: She doubted that anyone watching from a distance would see anything other than an overenthusiastic guy hitting on an uninterested woman. “Danny Wong. I took your unarmed combat training classes for a while.”

  She blinked. But that would mean . . . “At the academy?”

  “Bingo.”

  Rourke tried to keep a grimace from her face. Of all the times she could be recognised by someone from her old life, now was about the worst. “You’ve got ten seconds to tell me what you want from me before I bail. I’m retired.”

  “So I heard.” Wong nodded eagerly, as though she’d said something that was encouraging his fictional flirting. “But I saw you here a few weeks ago with your friend with the metal eye, although I didn’t get a chance to speak with you. He’s a better poker player than he lets on, isn’t he?”

  Rourke frowned. She remembered Ichabod recounting his heroic poker win at the tables here, and his description of his opponents. He’d focused mainly on the attractive women—of course—but she did recall him mentioning a Chinese man who looked out of place and dangerous. Her business partner was sometimes more perceptive than she gave him credit for: Wong was wiry rather than physically imposing, but he did have a certain tension to him that a trained observer might pick up on.