HUNG OUT.

MARGARET WEIS.

& DON PERRIN.

No bird soars too high, if he soars with his own wings.

a"William Blake, "Proverbs of h.e.l.l"

CHAPTER 1.

The use of a trick or stratagem permits the intended victim to make his own mistakes.

Carl von Clausewitz, On War.

The buzzing was annoying, seriously annoying. Annoying because the buzz was letting Jafar el Amadi know there was something he should do and he didn't want to do it. He wished the buzz would stop, and it did for a moment; then, just as he was starting to drift back to sleep, the buzz began again.

His wife, stretched out in the bed beside him, gave him a punch in the back. "It's the phone," she said drowsily. "Answer the phone."

Amadi woke up, peered bleary-eyed at the phone on the nightstand beside his bed.

"What time's it?" his wife mumbled.

Amadi rubbed his eyes, brought the clock into focus. "Two in the morning."

The buzzing continued, insistent.

"It's probably a wrong number," he said.

"Uh-huh." His wife pulled the blanket over her head, rolled away from him. "Tell them you're retired."

Amadi lifted the phone. "Yeah?"

"I'm calling about that order you placed, sir," said a female voice at the other end.

"Do you know what time it is?" Amadi snapped. "It's two o'clock in the morning!"

"Sorry, sir. I just thought you'd want to know, sir, that the item you requested has been located."

"What item? What the h.e.l.l are we talking about? Is this some G.o.ddam vidalog company? Because if it isa""

"I have the order here, sir. Your authorization: Delta 750-6711-9."

Good G.o.d! It was the Bureau.

"Oh." Amadi was now very awake. That was his authorization code, but what the h.e.l.l were they talking about? "What's it in regard to?"

"Body parts for a cyborg, sir. Would you like to go ahead and place your order, sir?"

"I need more detailsa"color and size and all that."

"Very good, sir. I'll give you a number to call for customer service. Ask for order number 7/66/807/9. Sorry I woke you, sir, but this was marked 'urgent.'"

The other end clicked. The connection was broken.

Amadi sat and frowned at the warm green glow of the clock for another moment, then he slid his feet into his bedroom slippers and eased himself out of bed. His wife was used to late-night phone calls, used to him roaming about the house at all hours, used to him leaving in the middle of the night. Of course, that had been before he had retired, when he had still been with the Bureau.

It had been years since he'd received a late-night phone call, probably one reason it had taken him such a long time to respond. In the old days, he would have been wide awake at the first buzz. But at age seventy, he'd come to relish his warm bed and a good night's sleep.

Giving his wife a customary rea.s.suring pat on the shouldera"a pat she probably didn't feel because she'd gone back to sleep alreadya"Amadi grabbed his robe, threw it on. Yawning, he left the bedroom, visited the John, then went downstairs. The dog, lying with his back pressed up against the front door, opened one eye, thumped his tail against the floor, and raised his head to see if he was needed.

"Go back to sleep, Charlie," Amadi said, moving through the hallway, heading to the kitchen.

The dog obeyed gladly. He was an old dog and he, too, appreciated his rest.

In the kitchen, Amadi brewed coffee, freshly ground, made the old-fashioned way in a drip pot; none of that muddy water the replicator turned out. He mulled over the cyborg matter as the coffee brewed. The risk was immense, but he had already considered and discounted all his other options. He cut himself a piece of pound cakea"gone were the days when he could drink six cups of coffee on an empty stomacha"then carried cake, a cup, and the coffeepot down another flight of stairs to the rec room. Behind the vid, mounted on the wall, was a sensor device.

Amadi considered briefly attempting to juggle cake, cup, and pot in one hand while he activated the sensor, but rejected the idea. His wife may have been patient with late-night phone calls and her husband vanishing for weeks at a time on some secret a.s.signment, but she took a dim view of coffee stains on the rug. Amadi placed his breakfast on an end table, pa.s.sed his hand twice over the sensor device, which was no more than a tiny hole in the wall.

A door disguised to look like part of the oak paneling slid aside. Amadi retrieved his breakfast, making a mental note to himself to bring the cup and coffeepot out of the room when he was finished. His wife would be extremely irritated if one of her best china cups went missing, as it had upon one occasion, only to turn up two weeks later with a fine growth of mold on what was left of the coffee.

The door slid shut behind Amadi.

The room was small, soundproofed, fireproofed. It contained a desk, a chair, a computer. Seating himself in front of the computer, Amadi gave it his pa.s.sword. Once he and the Bureau were linked and each had admitted that they knew the other, he went through more security procedures. At last, the Bureau conceded that he had the right to be where he was and to acquire the information he needed. He gave the "order" number, which he hada"from habita" committed to memory as the agent rattled it off. He munched cake while he waited, drank his coffee, and yawned.

A woman's face appeared on the screen. He didn't know her, but that wasn't unusual. He'd been retired for ten years. He knew few people in the Bureau anymore.

She was human, mid-twenties, lean and mean, with skin the golden color of olive oil, short-cut black hair, high cheekbones, an upturned nose, full lips. Adjectives came to Amadi's mind: new, pert, hungry.

The voice belonging to the face was the same voice that had spoken to him on the phone. She was seated at a desk in an office cubicle, probably her own cubicle, for there were pictures stuck to the fabric wall behind her. Family pictures. Mother and father. Three young men standing together grinning at the cam with wide smiles. Probably brothers. A white fluffy cat.

"Agent Rizzoli, sir. Petronella Rizzoli."

"Rizzoli." Amadi nodded, swallowed pound cake. "What do you have for me?"

"We've located former agent Tambam ... Tampambulos, sir," she replied, stumbling over the name.

"Good work, Rizzoli. He's not an easy person to track down. You have the warrant? Is all in order?"

"A few local problems, sir."

Amadi frowned, displeased. "The reason I lured him to that planet was because the locals promised there would be no trouble. Where's he staying?"

"Where you said he would stay. He's at the home of his ex-wife, Marjorie Tambamp ... Tampa"d.a.m.n that's a h.e.l.l of a name to p.r.o.nounce. And any rate, that's where he is, sir. At her home."

"Excellent. That's where I was hoping he'd go."

"We could never have removed him from Olefsky's world," Rizzoli agreed. "Not without a fight."

"And they don't have the death penalty on Solgart," Amadi added. "So what's he doing with his time in his ex-wife's house?"

"We intercepted several calls made to various parts of the galaxy. They were all encrypted, unbreakable, but we believe that he's a.s.sembling the Mag Force 7 team. He's also been in contact with the Royal Navy, one of the lord admiral's adjutants, a Commander Tusca."

"Probably doing a job for them."

"Will that present a problem, sir? When we arrest him?"

"The Navy won't like it, that's for d.a.m.n sure, but they'll drop him like a hot rock if we threaten to go public with the facts. Especially when they hear the charge. How does the warrant read?"

"Murder, sir. First degree. The murder of his former partner, Dalin Rowan."

Amadi closed his eyes. He wished he hadn't eaten the pound cake.

"He is a murderer, after all," Rizzoli continued. "And while the Navy may hire murderers with impunity, they don't want it broadcast on the six o'clock news."

"Is the Navy keeping an eye on him?"

"No, sir."

"Are you sure about that?"

"Yes, sir. It's a quiet neighborhood, sir. Our agents have him under surveillance, of course. We could spot one of their agents easily."

"And I'll bet that Tampambulos has spotted you," Amadi observed. "He was a good agent, you know. One of the best."

"I doubt it, sir." Rizzoli was confident. "We've never even been near the house. All visual surveillance has been carried out by our system of satellites. We're monitoring everything going in and out of that house from a base twenty-five kilometers away. We pick up every signal, every phone call. And if a mouse crawls underneath the garage door, we see it on the satellite report.

"The new orbital spectral a.n.a.lysis system allows us to 'see' to a resolution of one centimeter, even through solid objects, such as the roof. We could tell you if former Agent Tampambulous has a problem with irregularity, sir. Which he doesn't. Every morning at around 0830, after he has his coffee, he takes the morning paper into the John anda""

"Spare me the details," said Amadi. "I get the picture and, frankly, I wish I hadn't." He had seen Xris when they'd first brought him to the hospital, seen what was left of him.

"If you want my advice, Rizzoli, you'll arrest him now, this minute. Don't wait until his friends show up. They're a dangerous bunch."

"We'd like to, sir, but there's a problem with the warrant."

Amadi had forgotten. He was going to have to start doubling up on his old-age hormone injection shots. "Local police force giving you grief?"

"No, sir. They're eager to cooperate. The chief wants to see her name on GNN. It's the legal system. We can't arrest him on a Crown warrant alone; we have to have a local warrant as well."

Amadi dumped the remaining pound cake in the trash. "They want to review the case, I suppose."

"Yes, sir. We've provided them with all the files, but they're taking their own sweet time over it. The chief is putting pressure on the prosecutor, though. She told us to expect the warrant by Monday."

"And when the h.e.l.l is that? I'm half a universe away, you know."

"Sorry, sir. Twenty-four hours, sir."

"Twenty-four hours. Time enough for his whole blasted personal army to show up. Well, it can't be helped."

"We plan to go in at about 0400, sir, when everyone's asleep. We'll use the standard flash-banga""

"No, absolutely not!" Amadi said firmly. "These people are trained mercenaries. They're armed and they're experts. What do you think they're going to do if they wake up to find they're under attack? Especially if you surprise them!"

"Well, sir, what do you suggest?"

"It's a suburban neighborhood," said Amadi. "Upper middle cla.s.s. Kids playing in the front yard next door. Tampambulous won't want to endanger innocent civilians. He's not the type of person to start gunning down toddlers. Go to the front door, ring the bell, hand him the warrant. He'll come along peacefully. I guarantee it. I want him alive, Rizzoli. Alive. He's no good to me dead."

What was her first name? Amadi wondered. Petro-something. He'd forgotten that, too. d.a.m.n odd first name.

"Yes, sir." Rizzoli was all business, cool and professional. "Don't worry, sir. We're taking extra care on this one. He killed one of our own. We want to see him in the disrupter."

"Keep me posted." Amadi ended the meeting. .

He finished off the entire pot of coffee, then sent a memo to a man he knew wella"Andrew Robison. Formerly Amadi's boss in charge of the Hung investigation, Robison was now head of Internal Affairs for the Bureau.

Robison was investigating Amadi, an interesting development and one that Amadi wasn't supposed to know about.

The memo to Robison was headed, Tampambulos. Warrant issued. Arrest imminent.

"There," Amadi muttered to himself. "That should make the son of a b.i.t.c.h happy."

CHAPTER 2.

athere is something about him, which even treachery cannot trust.

Public Advertiser, 22 June 1771, "Junius"

"So the message he sent me is accurate? Are you certain?"

"Yes, sir. I'm certain." Petronella smiled. "He a.s.signed the grunt work to me: issuing the warrant, arguing with the locals, all of that."

Head of Internal Affairs Andrew Robison frowned at the electronic notepad he held in his hand, a pad that held all the details of a murder case. After almost ten years, there'd finally been an arrest.