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 shipping 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 shipping 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.

She's beautiful, he thought. The woman was tall and slender, with dark wavy hair. Good curves, too, shown off nicely by her street leathers. She moved with confidence and grace, a hint of controlled power. Like a martial artist, Falcon noted. He wished he could see her face better, but the light wasn't good enough. There was the hint of an olive complexion and high cheekbones, but he couldn't be sure.

But what did it matter anyway? he thought with a twinge of sadness and guilt. Won't be much left of her face after Van's put a bullet through it. In his mind's eye he saw the sniper carefully aligning his scope's crosshairs with the woman's head.

The Amerindian leader stepped forward, stopping ten meters away from her. Benbo followed a step behind and to the right, his heavy armor making him look grotesque in comparison to the slender woman.

"I'm Knife-Edge." Falcon heard the words from two sources-from Slick's radio, and an instant later directly from the killing zone. The minuscule time lag added a dreamlike element to the scene.

The woman nodded. "Sly," she said, introducing herself. "I got word you wanted to talk."

"We got word you've got something we're interested in," Knife-Edge countered. "We made a run against Yamatetsu Corporation, but we got hosed. Somebody else got the pay data. Buzz on the street says that's you. Have you got it?"

The woman shrugged. Falcon thought he could see a smile. "My biz," she stated.

Knife-Edge nodded in acknowledgement. "Your biz," he concurred. "We don't want it. We just want to make sure it's disposed of properly. The drek's really going to come down if it gets loose, you know that."

Sly was silent for a moment, apparently considering the Amerindian's words. "Maybe," she admitted finally. "How do you plan to dispose of it?"

"Uh-uh." Knife-Edge shook his head. "First I've got to know if I'm talking to the right person. Have you got the paydata or haven't you?"

Next to him, Falcon felt Slick tense, saw him shift his grip on the AK. He could imagine Van taking aim, tightening his finger on the trigger.

Sly drew breath to answer.

And then all fragging h.e.l.l broke loose.

Something slammed into Benbo's chest, lanced through the armor as if it didn't exist. Blew out most of the Amerind samurai's back. Benbo spun, arms flailing, head flopping loosely now that most of his spine was missing. For a terrible moment, Falcon could see right through the man's chest-a gaping hole, with little flames licking around the ragged edges. The samurai flopped to the ground in a messy heap. Magic! Falcon thought. What else could it be?

"Holy fragging drek!" That was Sly, the female runner. She flung herself back and to the side, rolling toward the cover offered by a cargo container.

Knife-Edge snarled. A pistol had appeared in his hand, apparently out of thin air. He raised it, leveled it at Sly.

Something punched through his stomach, low and on the left side, spinning him wildly and flinging him from his feet. Whatever it was slammed into the container behind him, blowing a hole the size of a man's fist in the thick metal. What the frag was that!

Falcon heard a vicious spit from above and to his right. Van with his sniper rifle was getting into the act. The bullet spanged off the container beside Sly. She rolled again, trying to bring up the weapon that was suddenly in her hand. But before she could bring it to bear, the sniper's second round grazed her arm, and the pistol flew from her grip.

Then automatic fire spattered and clanged against the catwalk where Van had his nest, striking blue and white sparks from the metal. Falcon heard a scream, saw the sniper rifle fall from the crane to crash out of sight among the containers.

The previously silent pier was suddenly alive with gunfire and m.u.f.fled explosions. A spray of tracers, yellow dashes of light, arced wildly into the sky. Falcon couldn't see any possible target. Possibly the gunner had been hit, and his dying reflex had squeezed off the burst as he fell. In the chaos, it was impossible to count how many distinct firefights were actually going down, but there certainly seemed to be more shooters than the five Scuzboys and the two razorguys they'd seen arrive with Sly.

Falcon looked down into the killing zone again. It was empty except for what was left of Benbo. He knew Sly's wound hadn't been mortal, and it looked like Knife-Edge had survived whatever had cored him front-to-back. But what the h.e.l.l was that thing?

He heard a growl beside and behind him. He turned.

It was Slick, of course, his face ugly with rage. "You fragging sold us out!" he snarled."You're gonna die, pudlicker!" He started to bring his a.s.sault rifle up, slowly, as if to draw out his enjoyment.

Too slowly. With a panicked yell, Falcon dragged the Fichetti from his pocket.

As soon as he saw the pistol emerge, Slick tried to snap the rifle onto line. But he was still too late. Falcon saw the Amerind's eyes widen as the Fichetti's laser painted his forehead. And then his face simply disintegrated as the ganger pulled the trigger again and again.

Nausea knotted Falcon's stomach, threatened to make him spew. He turned his face away from the smashed ruins of Slick's head.

Bullets slammed into the container from somewhere, ringing it like a gong. Apparently even the relatively quiet shots from his pistol had attracted unwanted attention.

He started to roll toward the north side of the container, the side away from the killing zone, then hesitated, glancing down at the pistol. The Fichetti was a convenient weapon, and it had already saved his life twice. But it was like a peashooter next to the thing- magic, rifle, artillery, whatever it was-that had blown a hole right through the heavily armored Benbo. He needed more firepower.

He rolled back, tugged the AK-97 from Slick's nerveless fingers. Even coming that close to the corpse turned his stomach. But he needed the weapon. He checked that the safety was off and that there was a round in the chamber. That was just about as far as his knowledge of automatic weapons extended. Fortunately the AK was a recent model, with a digital ammunition counter just below the rear sight. It read twenty-two, which looked good to Falcon. He stuffed the Fichetti back into his pocket, slipped the AK's sling over his head and right arm, and crawled to the north edge of the container.

There was a ladder on this side, too. The barrel of the a.s.sault rifle clanged against the container halfway down, and Falcon braced himself for some kind of impact. But n.o.body shot at him. When he was less than two meters from the ground, he jumped.

Forgetting, of course, about his bad ankle. He howled with agony as he hit, keeping his feet only with difficulty. m.u.f.fling his curses, he unslung the AK and looked around him.

The lane between the containers was dark. And-thank the spirits and totems-empty. He paused for a moment. What the frag do I do now? he asked himself.

A long burst of autofire, punctuated by a scream of mortal agony, answered the question for him. Just get myself the frag out of here! He looked around again, getting his bearings. Okay, he thought, the crane's to the west, so the way out is that way. He started off in a limping run. Reached an "intersection" where two lanes met, hung a hard right.

And skidded to a stop. The female runner-Sly-was a couple of meters ahead of him. As he rounded the corner, she'd dropped into a combat crouch. In her hands was the weapon she'd dropped in the killing ground-a brutal hogleg of a revolver. She held it steady in both hands, aiming it directly at Falcon's heart.

13.

0356 hours, November 14, 2053 Another Amerind, Sly thought. Part of the same gang? He had to be. Smaller than the others, but armed with a fragging AK-97. Sly started to squeeze the trigger. The laser sighting dot touched the center of the man's chest.

He didn't try to bring the a.s.sault rifle to bear. Instead he held it in his left hand, pistoned both arms out to the sides. "No!" he gasped. She tightened down on the trigger. Another couple of grams and the trigger would break, sending a bullet slamming into his heart.

And that was when she realized just what she was seeing. He's a kid, she thought in astonishment. Big for his age, but no older than sixteen, maybe seventeen. Old enough to carry an AK, old enough to kill her. . . .

But he wasn't trying to kill her. She held her fire, emotions warring within her. The trigger was just a hair short of breaking. There was no way she'd fail to get the shot off before he could bring the AK onto line.

"No . . More of a moan this time.

She couldn't grease him, not like this. "Drop it!" she screamed. "Drop it now!"

He dropped it. The a.s.sault rifle crashed to the ground. In his eyes she saw terror, confusion, a whole suite of other emotions.

Not a pro, then. And what did that mean? The Amerinds who'd faced her at the meet-the unarmored one and his back-up-were cool, controlled. Pros, definitely pros. The sniper up on the crane, him too. He almost got her before someone else took him out. All pros, all experienced runners. Why would they have this greenie kid along with them on a run? If he was with them at all . . .

Frag it, what was she supposed to do now? What do you do with prisoners in a firefight? d.a.m.n it, this had never happened to her before. When the lead started to fly, you flatlined the bad guys and got the frag out. Anybody you didn't know to be a friend was a target, plain and simple.

But she couldn't bring herself to geek this kid. Not like this, not in what currently served for cold blood. If he made a move for another weapon, she could do it in an instant, no worries, no second thoughts, no guilt. But not now.

And she couldn't just leave him behind. He could have any number of holdouts, ready to put a slug into her skull the instant she turned away from him. Frag it!