The ground floor was the main center of attraction and held the most prime real estate, hence the pulsing crowds. Mesa worked her way to the back of the market square, where stairs descended to the next floor, which was still crowded but less so. She continued her way down, and down farther still.
On the fourth subfloor, deep below the ocean, she found a smattering of people enjoying the aquatic sights. The group consisted mostly of parents out with their children. The kids had no doubt been coerced with the promise of catching a glimpse of a shark. The families huddled around the thick, heavily reinforced Dura-Plast, watching the uninterrupted displays of sea life around them.
Mesa followed the annex to the opposite end, where another set of stairs wound down to the fifth and final sublevel, which was entirely deserted.
Whatever stores had once occupied the zone were defunct, their spaces shuttered, without even a Vacancy or For Rent sign to coax would-be businesses into setting up shop. Old posters hung on the walls beside empty trash bins, and the advertisements posted around the square were long since expired.
Mesa moved to the center of the square, thinking of it more as an arena, and let her shoulder slump. The bag fell and hooked in the crook of her elbow. She lowered it the rest of way and waited, counting the seconds in her head.
Three against one, Alice said. You really think you can do this?
I’ve got you, right? That’s two on three.
And this is your whole plan? Stand here and wait?
Mesa figured the trio would split up and come at her from both sides, but it would be an uneven split. Two would come down the staircase she was facing, and the third from the stairs behind her. She was standing roughly in the center of the floor.
Handguns wouldn’t be an option, not underwater, where the risk of an errant gunshot could do who knew what, despite all the impediments between solids and liquids. Unless the guns were silenced, the shots would be loud. Somebody would notice, particularly on the sparsely populated floor above, where the constant strum of noises, overlapping voices, and sound waves would not mask it. People would hear it, and they would certainly notice the three men rushing up the stairs to get back outside.
That left the plan of attack down to fists, knives, or another kind of melee weapon, maybe a shock stick or billy club. She wasn’t planning on giving them enough time to intimidate her or coordinate an attack. Her plan boiled down to a simple concept—strike first.
Her silent count hit ten. Then twenty. When she hit thirty, she wondered if she’d been wrong. Maybe she’d been overly paranoid. Maybe the recog system had been incorrect. Or maybe she’d only been looking for what she had wanted to find. By fifty, she chided herself for being stupid but gave herself another ten-count.
She hit sixty, wondering if she should wait it out another few seconds. At seventy, she was ready to pick up her bag, telling herself to stop being foolish. Then she heard soft steps winding down the stairs.
She straightened, keeping her limbs loose but ready to strike.
A bark of laughter echoed down the stairwell, and a small cleaning crew stepped into view. They gave Mesa a cursory glance and moved on, resuming their conversation and laughter.
Idiot, she thought.
She scooped up her bag and climbed the stairs back to the central pavilion, rejoining the cramped confines of the marketplace. She looked around for the men, but they were nowhere in sight, even with the background layers of facial recog scanning for them. They were gone.
She pinged Rameez, and when he answered, she said, “Get your stuff and go to the lobby. Stick to areas where there are people. I’ll meet you soon. We’re leaving now.”
The doors of the Cavour Hotel slid open, and Mesa stepped into a wonderfully cool lobby, leaving the warmth of the Pacific behind her.
The lobby hummed with conversations, music, and the sounds of the interactive concierge displays and check-in AIs. A train of suits marched past, heading to a glass-encased conference room.
She moved through the seating areas and the cloying smells of perfume and natural flowers. When she picked up the scent of coffee, her stomach quivered in need. A PetHuman robot was expertly playing the piano, and a few stylishly dressed women were gathered around it, talking animatedly. Past the waterfall display, Rameez sat at the bar. Another PetHuman serving drinks was in the process of setting down a glass of rye on the rocks.
Rameez caught sight of Mesa and tilted the glass in her direction. The ice clinked against the tumbler.
“How much have you had to drink?” she asked. It hadn’t been that long since they’d spoken, and it seemed unlikely that he could have gotten plastered in such a short amount of time.
“My second,” he said.
“You feeling it?”
“I feel good.”
“Okay. We gotta go. You have all your stuff?”
“What’s happening?”
“The same shit that’s been happening. Now come on.” She hooked a hand around his biceps and pulled him to his feet.
He stumbled, spilling his drink across the bar, but recovered quickly.
“Mesa,” he began then shut his mouth.
She followed his line of sight in time to hear the first shocked gasp, a scream, then a cry for help. Somebody yelled, “Gun!” That was enough to quicken the panic.
Although her dress was billowy, it also clung to her curves. Hiding a gun on her body had been out of the question. She pushed Rameez against the wall, told him to get down, then hunkered next to him, unzipping her bag in the process. She dug through her clothes then her fingers found the cool grip of her pistol.
“You stay close to me,” she said.
He nodded numbly, eyes wide under the pulsing noise of semiautomatic gunfire and wretched screams.
She slid against the wall as she worked her way back to the lobby. She risked a quick glance back and saw Rameez close by, mimicking her movements.
Five gunmen were spread across the lobby, clad in black, faces masked. She assumed three of them were the men she’d seen earlier. And she wondered whether the other two had been holed up somewhere or if she’d missed them. Could there be more?
Sparks flew as a hail of bullets punched through the PetHuman, shattering the white Dura-Plast casing of its torso and skull. The synthetic crashed against the piano keys, sending up a jarring shriek of notes before it crashed to the floor. The women who had been gathered around the instrument were caught in the crossfire, bullets stitching across their chests and bellies. Martini glasses fell from lifeless hands and shattered against the marble floor. The shards twinkled brightly in the blood seeping from their bodies.
Mesa moved quickly, keeping herself hunched low. She waved at Rameez, hoping he understood that he needed to stay put while she darted behind the cover of a thickly padded leather chair.
She got a bead on one of the soldiers and took the headshot, immensely gratified that her aim was true. Before the others could react, she swiveled her aim to another and fired, catching him in the throat.
Mesa ducked quickly as the three gunmen returned fire. The chair exploded in puffs of cotton, leather, and bits of wood as the rounds ate through it. She sprang forward, leaping behind the couch, the trail of ammunition following. She fired blindly over the side, hoping it would scatter the three men and hoping she didn’t hit some unlucky soul. She hustled to the opposite end of the couch, risked a peek over the corner of the arm, and opened fire again.
She had their full attention, but none were the worse for wear. At least a dozen guests were dead, the lobby was ruined, and the stink of cordite hung in the air.
Despite the shock of the assault and the ringing in her ears, she heard the soft thump of an object landing nearby. She didn’t even look. She broke out into a straight run, moving quickly, keeping her head low and tuc
ked between raised arms. Gunfire shattered the floor around her as she moved, and a painful sear tore across her back, followed by an uncomfortable stickiness that pasted the dress to her skin.
An explosion sent her off her feet, and hot shards of pottery and furniture were blasted around her. She rolled, ungainly, across the floor then leapt over the unmanned check-in counter. Bullets chunked into the thick facing, but none punched through it.
Mesa hurried to the opposite end of the desk, still low, and put as much distance as she could between herself and where she’d landed. The last thing she needed was another grenade landing on top of her.
The men were careful not to empty their magazines simultaneously, opting to fire in rotating spurts instead. If one ran out of ammo, two others still had rounds in their magazines.
She reached for her bag, grabbing air. Shit! The bullet that had screamed across her back must have cut through the bag’s straps. Not good.
Bullets struck the wall above, sending plaster into the air and forcing her to think twice about standing to open fire on her assailants again.
A scurrying sound cut through the moment’s quiet, followed by the blast of a single shot. She heard the wet splash against the automatic doors, the quiet hydraulic shush of their sliding open, then the meaty smack of a lifeless body crashing into the Dura-Plast.
The check-in desk was a long slab that ended in a curve on either side. Tucked into this corner, Mesa weighed her options. If she moved quickly enough, she could leap the counter and proceed down the lighted arch of the Cavour’s restaurant. But she would have to be fast.
Too risky, Alice said.
Before Mesa could argue her plan any further, a man’s panicked scream preceded a brilliant spark of light and a rush of heat. Gun forward, she stood, homing in on the direction of the shout. What she saw surprised the hell out of her.
The man was on fire, his limbs flailing beneath massive flames, smoke curling off his black clothing. His feet crunched against the shards of broken glass, and he tried to drop and roll. His hip bumped into the counter, and Mesa shot him in the face point-blank, silencing him.
On the far side of the lobby, Rameez readied another Molotov cocktail. A dishrag was stuffed into the open mouth of a whisky bottle, fire dancing its way up the fuse. He took aim at one of the soldiers and threw it hard, even while the man raised his weapon and opened fire. Rameez ducked quickly behind the lip of the doorway, and the gunfire shattered the small collection of bottles he’d assembled.
While Gunman One was distracted, Mesa turned her attention to the second man. They had their sights aimed on each other and fired at nearly the same time. Mesa had the good fortune of being a hair quicker, and her aim was true. His bullets missed her by a whisper.
She jumped, rolled over the counter, and landed in a dead run. She didn’t care how loudly her shoes slapped against the marble floor. The noise was enough to draw the attention of the figure she had dubbed Gunman One, and that was all she needed.
Out of ammo but not out of options, she rushed him and raised the gun. She hammered it down against his skull as he turned toward her. She pushed his gun arm away and clubbed him again. He sagged, and the third time was the charm. Mesa felt his temple crack beneath the weight of her gun, and the life blinked out of his eyes. She hit him once more for good measure, then again, briefly reveling in the crunch of bone as she ruined his face beneath the black mask. The wail of approaching sirens drew her away from her own fury.
Rameez was tentatively staring past the edge of the bar’s entry.
“Grab my bag,” she said, motioning him toward the black lump of fabric and the splayed straps.
Darting toward the pack, he nearly slipped on the gory marble. His arms pinwheeled as he tried to rebalance himself. He caught the top loop of the bag while on the run and followed Mesa down the corridor, beyond the elevators, and down a hallway that hid the bathroom and emergency exit.
She didn’t even slow as she barreled through the door and into an alleyway. The sirens were getting closer, sending waves of sound off the surrounding buildings.
Rameez hugged Mesa’s bag to his belly.
They followed the alley away from the hotel and, not wanting to appear out of place, slowed to a more normal pace as the path bled into the heart of the commercial district.
“My God, Mesa, your back. You’re bleeding.”
“Shit!” She ducked back into the alley before she got too far out. Adrenaline had numbed the pain, and she’d forgotten about the injury. Nobody seemed to pay her much attention, and she stared down toward the opposite end of the alley. On the other side of the block, the sirens were still loud, but most of the people around her seemed unaffected. She took one of the oversized shirts from the bag and pulled it on. The fabric immediately turning sticky and bunched against the dress. The feeling was awful but better than pointing and gaping people yelling for the police or trying to help.
She stuffed the empty gun back into the bag, zipped it shut, and left him holding it. “C’mon.”
She hooked her arm through his, trying to make them appear as innocuous as possible. She could tell he was a nervous wreck, and she wasn’t faring much better, especially since she had no idea how many more of Daedalus’s agents were hunting them.
“You never took notice of anyone aside from those three?” she asked.
“I didn’t even notice all three until you pointed them out to me.”
She steered Rameez toward the edge of the floating island and took the stairs down to the docking level. As they moved to the far end of the marina, Mesa and Rameez returned the polite nods and smiles of the passing boaters.
“Have you got credits or u-currency on hand?” she asked.
Rameez was sweating profusely. He nodded curtly, constantly looking around and over his shoulders.
“Stop it. You’re way too nervous. Give me the money.”
With one hand, he dug out a fistful of chunky bronze coins and handed them over. She stepped over the seataxi’s gunwale, took the bag, then helped Rameez aboard. She gave him the bag and told him to sit, while she fed the coins into the start-up scanner and followed the voice prompts.
“Central port,” she told the boat’s AI when it asked for their destination.
The vinyl seat squeaked as she sat, and a moment later, the little yellow boat motored away from New Venice. The cruise was slow, but it gave Mesa time to study the passing boats and their occupants. For his part, Rameez seemed to be calming down a bit, even though he was still hugging the bag with a death grip.
Mesa managed to free the backpack from his arms and opened it. Keeping the gun inside and out of sight, she ejected the empty magazine and exchanged it for a full one, racking the slide to put a round in the chamber. Then she fished around for a bottle of water and took a long pull before offering Rameez a drink. He nodded and took the bottle in shaking hands.
She stretched, her back tight but pain-free. Probably used to the regular maintenance of late, the medichines had sealed up the shallow groove of the gunshot wound. Those little nano devices had been put through the wringer over the last several days.
The taxi jumped a bit on the choppy waves caused by passing boats, but it ran quietly, and the ocean spray felt good. The last time she had been on a boat, she was with Jonah. A friend had died, and they had buried him at sea, wrapped in bedsheets and chains to weigh down his corpse.
The memory was jarring, least of all because it was not her own but Alice’s. She didn’t have time for another existential crisis or to weigh and examine each memory’s origin and integrity.
Still, worry gnawed at her, leaving her shaken and unsettled. Mesa didn’t even notice the small, fast-moving boat gaining on them until it crashed against the side of their seataxi. Fiberglass hulls screamed in protest as the boats slid against one anothe
r.
A quick flash of insight told her the baddies must have had the marina under surveillance. Probably, they’d been patched into the securiweb network and had watched her and Rameez marching down the steps, arm in arm, fake smiles plastered onto their faces, unable to hide the worry in their eyes.
She counted three men: two on deck, assault rifles bearing down on her and Rameez; the third stood at the helm. Their twenty-foot-long cuddy cabin seataxi was no match for the sleek, triangular high-performance speedboat the shooters were in.
Mesa grabbed Rameez’s arm and threw him forward, pinning him to the ground against the high-walled gunwale, blind-firing as she dove for cover.
The taxi skidded over a wave, and she felt a momentary weightlessness as the craft rose. The shooters had veered sharply toward them, using the angular momentum in their favor to slam the thirty-footer into the taxi’s portside hull once more. The boat’s AI had registered the damage, and its blue emergency beacons were flashing.
Over the gunwale, Mesa saw the flash of curved silver as the speedboat clocked them again. Gunfire rang out, destroying the bow’s solar panel array. The taxi jumped another wave then crashed into the breaking surface of the Pacific, spilling water over the gunwale.
Helpless, Mesa watched as semiautomatic gunfire obliterated the nonskid flooring and punching through the fiberglass of the stern. She rose and fired, catching one of the shooters off-guard but missing, nonetheless. The chop threw off her aim, and she hoped the other shooters were having the same difficulties compensating for the rough water.
The speedboat’s pilot glanced her way, judging the distance, and spun the wheel, putting them on track for another collision. She knew she needed to time her actions exactly, while a part of her mind railed against her for being reckless.
Emergence (A DRMR Novel Book 2) Page 21
