Part 12 (1/2)

Modal would drop him in his tracks, she knew, just to be sure. It was the only logical thing to do, and his violet pills would guarantee that no confusing emotions got in the way.

But I'm not Modal, Sly thought.

”Hands behind your head!” she shouted, her decision made. ”Move it!”

The kid laced his fingers behind his head. There was a plea in his eyes, but he kept silent.

”Turn around,” she told him. He obeyed instantly. ”Look back and you're dead. Move your hands and you're dead. Now move.”

The kid started forward along the lane between the stacked containers. She saw that he was limping slightly, favoring his left leg. She rose from her combat crouch, her own left knee feeling like it was on fire. Great, two cripples. Club Gimp. She kept her pistol trained on him, her laser dot on the back of his neck. She started after him, keeping a good three meters back. Too far for him to be able to jump her before she could put a couple of rounds into him. When she reached the dropped AK, she crouched and scooped it up with her left hand, without letting her eyes or her laser sight waver from her prisoner. Quickly, before the kid could react, she shoved her Warhawk into her pocket, settled the AK against her hip. It had a laser sight, too. The a.s.sault rifle's targeting spot replaced her pistol's on the young Amerindian's back. With the weight of the AK in her hands, she felt confidence flooding back into her. Her knee hurt like drek, and the wound she'd taken in her left forearm from the sniper burned and dripped blood. But with the additional firepower she thought she had a better chance of getting out of this intact.

”Keep walking,” she ordered.

They reached an intersection. ”Stop!” The kid froze in his tracks, didn't look back, didn't s.h.i.+ft his hands a millimeter. She hesitated for a moment, getting her bearings. Fortunately the crane made a good landmark. ”Turn left,” she instructed, ”and move faster.”

The kid picked up his pace down the new lane. From his limp, she new that the faster gait must be hurting him severely, but he didn't make a sound. She followed, keeping the three-meter separation constant.

Multiple firefights were still going on around her. She could hear the sporadic chattering of autofire from at least four directions, but nothing sounded near enough to worry about. Not for the moment. From the sound, she figured all the firing was coming from SMGs or maybe light carbines. Her armor jacket would stop SMG rounds at any reasonable range, but what about that monster weapon, whatever it was-the thing that had gutted the Amerindian razorguy? What the frag was it? And how portable was it? Could the gunner be stalking her right now? She felt the muscles of her back and belly tighten.

”Faster,” she commanded. The kid obeyed without a word, speeding up to a shambling run. The AK's sighting dot bounced around as she matched his pace, but it never left his back.

Another intersection. If she remembered correctly, the rendezvous spot she'd arranged with Modal should be to the left. Will Modal be there? she wondered. Or is he already down? Am I alone? One way or another, worrying about it wasn't going to help. You made a plan and stuck to it, changing it only when you knew it was hosed.

”Turn left,” she snapped.

This new lane was narrower, the shadows deeper. She was moving away from the carbon arc lamps that illuminated the wharf area. The containers that made up the lane walls weren't jammed together nose-to-tail like they were closer to the cranes. That meant there were gaps between them, gaps easily big enough for a gunman to hide in. She scanned from side to side, but it was useless. The shadows were impenetrable. The first clue she'd get that a shooter was there was when the first rounds. .h.i.t. ”Faster,” she shouted.

Where the frag was Modal?

A laser dazzled her left eye. She spun, trying to bring the AK around, knowing she'd never make it. She tensed for the hammering impact as the first bullet shattered her skull.

No impact. She continued her turn, about to clamp down on the a.s.sault rifle's trigger.

”It's Modal.” The elf's voice sounded from the gap to her left. The laser painting her face died.

She released the trigger, lowered the AK's barrel to point at the ground.

Modal stepped out of the darkness. He had his Ares Predator in his left hand; a silenced Ingram SMG filled his right. ”What's this?” He gestured at the Amerindian kid with the heavy pistol.

”Prisoner,” she told him.

He scowled at that. She could tell what he thought of the idea.

”We take him with us,” Sly said forcefully, her voice brooking no argument. ”Maybe he can tell us what's gone down.”

”I can tell you that,” the elf grunted. ”It's totally fugazi, that's what it is. There were four orks on the perimeter. I took one, borrowed his radio. Now they're fighting with somebody else. One group, maybe even two. They act corp.” In his eyes were questions he obviously didn't want to voice just yet.

Sly knew she wanted answers to the same questions. ”Maybe he can tell us,” she suggested, inclining her head toward the kid. He was standing as still as if he'd been petrified, every muscle in his body rigid as they argued his fate behind his back.

Modal considered that for a moment, then nodded. ”It's your call.”

”Where's Mongoose and Snake?”

”I saw Snake go down. He's dead. Mongoose?” He shrugged.

”Then just get us the frag out of here,” she told him. ”I think the meet's adjourned.”

Sly peeled back the protective cover of the slap patch, applied it to the bullet wound in her left forearm. The patch stung for an instant, the way it always did. Then the sting faded, taking with it the sharp, throbbing pain. Thank G.o.d for slap patches, she thought, pressing on it to make sure the adhesive held. Already she could taste the familiar flavor of olives as the DMSO-dimethyl sulfoxide-in the patch absorbed into her bloodstream, bringing with it the painkillers, energizers, and antibacterial agents that would start the healing process. She hated the taste in her mouth-always had-but she'd certainly gotten used to it over the years.

They were in the shadows of the Alaskan Way viaduct, about level with University Street. The Renraku Arcology separated them from Pier 42 and the fragged-up meet. Sly knew that it shouldn't make her feel any safer, because Renraku was after her too, but it did.

She glanced at her watch. It was oh-four-twenty-only twenty minutes after the meet was supposed to have started. Busy morning, she told herself with a wry grin.

Modal was crouching in the shadows next to her. The kid-now wearing a set of plastic restraints, courtesy of the elf-huddled against a concrete pillar a couple of meters away. Modal was examining the Fichetti Security 500 he'd taken from the kid's pocket.

”Good piece for a gutterpunk,” the elf remarked to Sly. slipping the gun into his own pocket.

She knew that Modal was actually saying the boy wasn't as innocent as he looked, but decided to ignore him. For the first time since they got to the viaduct, she spoke to the kid, not about him. ”What's your name?”

”Dennis Falk,” the kid answered. ”Falcon.”

She looked at his leather jacket. No gang colors, but something about him told her he had to be a ganger. ”Who do you run with?”

”First Nation,” he mumbled.

That made sense. The First Nation was a low-level Amerind gang that claimed the dock area near the Kingdome. Was that how he'd come to be at Pier 42? Out on gang biz and he stumbled into the meet from h.e.l.l? ”What were you doing at the pier tonight?” she asked. ”And where did you get this?” She patted the a.s.sault rifle that rested across her knees.

He looked up into her face, his dark eyes steady. The terror was gone, replaced now by intelligence. He was trying to figure out just what, and how much, to tell her.

”Don't lie to me,” she said quietly. ”Remember, you don't know how much I know. And if you do lie, I might decide that Modal here is right about what to do with prisoners.” Playing along with the game, Modal bared his teeth at the kid in a feral smile.

Good cop, bad cop. It always worked. She saw the potential resistance vanish from Falcon's eyes. ”What were you doing there?” she repeated.

”I came with them,” he muttered. ”The Amerindian runners.”

Modal shot her a sharp look. So he is an enemy after all, Sly thought. She saw Modal slip his finger onto the trigger of the kid's own Fichetti.

The kid was still talking. ”I found out it was a setup. It was never a meet, it was always an ambush. But I couldn't do anything about it, they'd have geeked me.”

”Hold the phone,” Sly said, more to Modal than the kid. Looking a little disappointed, the elf lowered the Fichetti. ”Get your story straight here. What-exactly- is your connection with the Amerinds who set me up?”

Falcon launched into a weird, scattered story about meeting a wounded Amerindian shadowrunner, helping him get to a rendezvous with his chummers after a hosed run. When the runner croaked, the kid had thrown in his lot with the others to make sure that the dead runner's last wishes were carried out. Or something.

Modal caught her eye, shook his head. The story didn't sound credible. People didn't get involved in major shadowruns just because some stranger flatlined in their arms.

No, that wasn't necessarily true. Kids might. Kids whose only ideas about shadowrunning came from the trid or from simsense. She looked into Falcon's eyes again. She thought he was telling the truth.