Part 11 (1/2)

12.

0315 hours, November 14, 2053.

It was cold down on the docks. Falcon zipped his leather jacket shut, turned up the collar. Wished he could have afforded a fleece-collared coat like the ones the Scuzboys sported.

The orks seemed warm enough-or if they weren't, they were too proud to b.i.t.c.h about it. As for Knife-Edge and the other runners, they had to be toasty-warm in those insulated jumpsuits. Besides, the bulky body armor they wore on top would keep the chill out. The night wind gusted again from Elliot Bay, bringing with it the tang of salt overlaid with the reek of oil and a dozen chemical contaminants. Falcon crossed his arms over his chest and tried to stop his teeth from chattering.

Getting into the Hyundai pier area had been routine.

Like all the Seattle docks the Pier 42 section was surrounded by a high fence topped with three strands of cutwire. Private security guards patrolled the perimeter, but it was so long and the security presence diminished so much by corporate cost-cutting, that the odds were very low of actually meeting the sec patrol.

The Scuzboys had handled the fence. One of the orks had scanned it with some kind of hand-held sensor, confirmed it wasn't electrified and that the alarm would sound only if the wires were actually cut. Another had scrambled up the fence, to sling a flexible blanket of woven Kevlar fibers over the strands of cutwire. Then the rest of them were able to clamber over the fence, and drop safely inside the compound.

To Falcon's surprise the Hyundai compound wasn't full of cars. Got to be the dock workers' strike, he figured. Huge areas were completely empty, deserted parking lots under the carbon arc lights. Down by the pier itself, and around the periphery, huge s.h.i.+pping containers were stacked in long rows. They had to be at least ten meters long by four wide and maybe three high. For a moment, Falcon wondered what was in them. Not cars, he decided. Probably spare parts or something.

Slick jabbed the ganger's shoulder with a knuckle, pointed toward Knife-Edge, who was already leading the group toward the water. The runner was using the stacked containers as cover from any security guards who happened to be wandering around the area. Rubbing his shoulder, Falcon followed.

The section called Pier Forty-two was actually two piers, extending almost due west. They were newer than the areas of the docks further north, less decrepit and drek-kicked. Falcon a.s.sumed they must have been destroyed when this portion of Elliot Bay caught fire three years ago-ah, the wonders of water pollution-and had recently been rebuilt. On each pier was a mobile gantry crane, huge red-painted structures that Falcon thought looked big enough to lift a small building.

Knife-Edge stopped in an open area between two rows of containers. He looked around, apparently estimating distances and sight-angles. After a moment he nodded. ”This is it. Ground zero.” He grinned nastily.

Falcon made his own inspection, had to admit that it was a good place for a meet. Or for an ambush. The open area was roughly square, maybe fifteen meters on a side, and could be reached by following one of four ”lanes” between stacked containers. (For a moment, he wondered how the local runner would know where, in the entire Hyundai compound, the meet would take place. But Knife-Edge would have that figured, wouldn't he? Maybe he'd send out the Scuzboys to leave markers- symbols scratched on s.h.i.+pping containers, perhaps- identifying the specific location.) Knife-Edge pointed up at the gantry crane looming over the open area. ”How's that for the G.o.d spot?”

Van considered it, cradling his sniper rifle like a baby in his arms. Then he nodded. ”I'll take the catwalk there,” he stated, indicating an accessway about halfway up the crane's structure. ”It gives me cover plus a three-sixty degree field of view.” He squinted his eyes, estimating distance. ”About sixty meters to ground zero, give or take.” He smiled. ”From that range, you tell me which eyebrow hair you want me to hit.”

Knife-Edge slapped him on the shoulder. ”Set up an open perimeter, but stay hidden,” he told the orks. ”Anybody who wants to come in, let 'em. But watch them close. If I squawk three times”-he held up his microtransceiver, pressed a b.u.t.ton, causing a m.u.f.fled electronic buzz from everyone else's radio-”take down any back-up you've got spotted. Understand?”

The Scuzboy leader nodded. ”Null persp,” he drawled. ”Me and da boys done this before.” He gestured to his chummers, barked something unintelligible in what Falcon a.s.sumed to be some kind of gangspeak.

As the orks dispersed into the night, Knife-Edge pointed to a container on the south side of the open area.

”Benbo and I will hang up top,” he said. ”When the trogs report the local's arrived, we'll make the meet.”

He patted the microtransceiver, which was now clipped to his belt. ”I'll keep a channel open so you can all hear what's going down.”

”What about me? And him?” Slick demanded, glaring at Falcon.

”Up there.” The leader pointed to another container on the north side of ”ground zero.” The killing zone, Falcon thought uncomfortably. ”Belly down on top of the container, and just hang. When the drek comes down, you'll know what to do. Slick.”

The Amerindian chuckled, a sound that chilled Falcon to the bone. ”Yeah, I'll know what to do.” He prodded Falcon in the shoulder again. ”You heard the man. Let's move.” He adjusted the sling on his a.s.sault rifle and headed for the spot Knife-Edge had indicated.

As he climbed the ladder welded to the outside of the container, Falcon saw that the orks had already disappeared, presumably setting up a loose perimeter around the area. Van was clambering up the ladder leading to his sniper nest, while Benbo and Knife-Edge were checking the area one last time before taking their own positions.

Falcon didn't like what was going down. He was convinced that if Nightwalker were here, the runner would insist on a fair meet rather than this ambush. But Nightwalker can get away with that drek, he told himself. I can't. Raising any kind of objection would be the quickest way of getting himself killed.

With a sigh, he swung himself onto the top of the container, took up his position next to Slick. He stuck his hand in his pocket, felt the rea.s.suring heft of his Fichetti. (To his surprise, the Amerindian runners hadn't asked about a weapon, and he sure as frag wasn't going to volunteer the information.) The metal container was cold, leeching from his body what little heat remained. He arranged himself into the least uncomfortable position and settled down to wait.

He didn't have to wait long. It was oh-three-forty according to his watch when he heard Slick's radio crackle. ”Dey're here,” an ork voice whispered. ”Da scag an' two back-up. Cornin' from da east.”

”Two?” Knife-Edge's voice over the radio sounded skeptical. ”That's all?”

”Dat's all we seen,” the ork confirmed.

”n.o.body could have leaked through?”

The Scuzboy snarled wordlessly. ”We know our biz, Mr. fragging Tribal.”

”Check the perimeter,” Knife-Edge insisted.

The ork was silent for a moment, and Falcon thought he was going to refuse. But then he growled, ”Okay, youse guys, sound off. Position one?”

”Yeah.”

”Two?”

”Check.”

”T'ree?” Silence. ”T'ree?” the ork demanded again. Beside Falcon, Slick moved nervously, flicked the safety off on his AK-97.

”Position t'ree?” There was real tension in the Scuzboy's voice now.

”Three here.” The reply was a disgusted whisper. ”Fraggin' radio's futzin' up on me.”

Falcon heard the ork leader snort. ”Position four?”

”Check,” the final ork answered.

”Perimeter confirmed,” the Scuzboy boss concluded. ”And dere's still just da two back-up. Razorboys, botha dem. Still coming from da nort'. Hold it.” There was silence for a moment, then the ork spoke again. ”Okay, we got da scag coming on alone. Da razorguys is splitting up ta cover.”

”Can they spot your boys?” Knife-Edge asked.

The ork laughed harshly. ”If dey do, it's gonna be da last t'ing dey ever see.”

”I got a sighting.” The voice was Van's. ”The subject's about thirty meters out, coming slowly.”

”Armed?” demanded Knife-Edge.

”Nothing heavy,” the sniper said. ”Personal weapon only.” He hesitated. ”I can take the shot now . .

”Maybe the paydata's hidden somewhere,” Knife-Edge told him. ”I'll give you the signal. Okay, chummers,” the runner's voice came a little louder. ”Show time. I'll keep an open channel.”

Falcon saw two dark figures drop from the top of a container across the open s.p.a.ce. Knife-Edge, who seemed to have removed his plated vest, and the heavily armored Benbo. Neither had any obvious weapons, though Falcon was sure they had holdouts of some kind hidden somewhere on their persons. Not that they really needed them, with Van the sniper and with Slick ready to rock and roll with his AK a.s.sault rifle. Edge and Benbo positioned themselves near the southwest corner of the open area, facing the ”lane” down which the local runner would be coming, but well out of Slick's line of fire.

The local runner emerged into the killing zone, then stopped and coolly surveyed the area. Falcon stared, unabashed.