I let him precede me from the apartment and locked it. As we worked our way down to the basement garage, Stealth paused on the second-story landing and stared at the door to 2D. “You’ve got strange neighbors, Wolf. . .”
I shrugged. “The Blavatskys have hired a tutor.”
Stealth’s eyes grew wide. “They have tutors for that stuff?”
I waved him forward. “Get your mind out of the gutter. I think it has something to do with the new math.”
Stealth remained silent until we reached the basement and stripped the cover off my Fenris’ body. The sleek vehicle lacked the sharp angles and lines of a Porsche Mako or a Ford Astarte, but it still looked as though it were moving at Mach 1 while standing still. The flat black finish absorbed the garage’s meager light and flashed none of it back. The Fenris might as well have been built out of shadow, so well did the radarbane coating Raven had given it prevent the reflection of electromagnetic radiation.
I unlocked it and climbed into the driver’s side as Stealth folded himself up and dropped into the passenger seat. I slid the MP-9 into the door holster on my side. Stealth laid his Kalashnikov gently in the area behind our seats and produced an ugly little Ceska Black Scorpion machine pistol to use if we ran into early resistance.
I reached over to punch in the ignition commands, but Stealth wrapped his metal hand around my right wrist before I could do so. I looked over at him and frowned. “You should have gone when we were upstairs . . .”
That got to even him and his fierce expression lightened for all of a nanosecond. “We might run into some difficulty before we get there.” His eyes shut for a second, then popped open again. “There, I’m geared up for anything now. Don’t you think you better do your stuff?”
I hesitated. Kid Stealth, being an amalgam of all the best technology money could buy, prepared himself for combat by opening circuits and running diagnostic programs mated with his brain. In literally the blink of an eye he went from being an abnormally vigilant and quick-reacting individual to someone who could move faster and accomplish more in a single heartbeat than even most other augmented people. He was that good—probably the best—and going from idle to overdrive was nothing but a change of perceptions for him.
Me, well, I’m not augmented in a mechanistic way. Growing up in the Seattle sprawl of gray canyons and trash-strewn alleys, I never had the resources for even the most basic of modifications. In a day and age when almost any street tough has razor-claws that pop from under his fingernails on command, or an eye that can see in the dark, I was left to what the gods, in their perversity, had given me at birth. In a world where ManThe-Tool-Maker took great delight in making himself into Man-The-Tool, I was consigned to the slender side of natural selection known as extinction.
I had nothing.
Then I’d discovered the magic.
Actually, the magic discovered me. From the time of puberty, in which the monster inside me festered and grew, to the day I met Richard Raven and gained control over it, my life was indescribably interesting. Street toughs learned quickly that he who assaulted me during daylight hours would end up a bloody smear along an alley at night. Those who lived—the majority, in fact—gave me wide berth, which made life a bit easier; but the blank times of which I remembered nothing made it a living hell.
I gave Stealth a hard stare. “I don’t like driving jazzed.”
Stealth shrugged philosophically. “You might not get the chance later.”
Reluctantly I nodded in agreement. I settled myself comfortably into the seat and let my head drop back against the headrest. The fingers of my right hand drifted up and unconsciously caressed the silver amulet at my throat. Drawing in a deep breath—and savoring what I feared would be the last of the new car scent from my Fenris—I cleared my mind and started the journey within.
Six years ago a series of savage murders had most of Seattle’s citizens cowering in fear. They had been tagged the Full Moon Slashings by the NewsNet pundits, and the fact that I couldn’t remember where I’d been during the killings had preyed on me. Actually, waking up bathed in blood is what had scared me the most, and it was about that time I heard that the elven High Prince had sent some of his heavy-hitters into town to clean up the problem.
Fortunately Raven found me before the elven Paladins did. He taught me that the beast within me was not always the enemy, but it was a gift from what I thought of as the Wolf spirit. He talked me through one of the changes I undergo when the spirit becomes overwhelming, and he taught me how to control it. He also prevented the Paladins from murdering me while I learned how to master my inner self, then the two of us, to the Paladins’ dismay, brought the Slasher down by our lonesome.
Deep inside myself I stepped through the black curtain sheltering the Wolf spirit from everything else that I am. As black as the Fenris, the spirit let a low growl rumble from his throat. Bloody highlights flashed across his glossy coat, then evaporated like scarlet fog. “You come to me at the behest of the Murder Machine?”
I smiled, which increased the growl slightly. “Yes, Old One. Kid Stealth sends his love.”
The old wolf lifted his head as if sniffing the air. “Had you let me take control of the situation, that machine would never have gotten your friends.”
Ice water gurgled through my guts, but I turned my anger and fear back on the Old One. “No, Stealth might not have gotten them, but I might well have done his job for him.”
The Old One shrugged. “I am, you are, we are a predator. Prey is ours to take, and our skills are to be employed in its taking.”
“Then lend me those skills, Old One. Stealth promises plenty of good hunting.”
The wolf dropped its lower jaw in a lupine grin. “Strike swiftly, Longtooth. I will make your strike sure and deadly.”
I opened my eyes and instantly my magically enhanced senses reported to me a world to which I had been oblivious only moments earlier. From Stealth I smelled machine coolant, cordite, and anxious anticipation without a hint of fear. As the Fenris’ engine roared to life, my head filled with chemical scents, and the desire to be out under the open skies almost overwhelmed me. Slipping the vehicle into gear, I drove it out into a nighttime that, while dark, held few secrets from me.
The arc-light glare of the Fenris’ headlights burned the hopeless expressions on the faces of the street people into black masks of despair. Some shrank back from the harsh light as if it were a laser vaporizing them, while others shuffled forward zombie-like and raised grubby hands in mute pleas for some kindness. Their hands fell slowly when the afterimage of the vehicle faded from their sight.
A tiny knot of razorboys from the local ork gang called the Bloody Screamers scattered as if I’d launched a grenade into their midst. I fought the Old One’s attempt to drive the Fenris straight through them. As soon as we sped past, the gillettes slithered from the shadows and taunted us with the insane yelps and howls that were the gang’s trademark. Stealth glanced at the steering wheel and then the closed sunroof, but I shook my head. “Not worth the time it would take to mop up the blood.”
Speeding through the streets, I interpreted Stealth’s occasional grunts or nods and steered accordingly on a course he had chosen. I knew where The Rock was, but Stealth had picked out a route that would both be safe and would let us determine whether anyone was following us. Finally he told me to stop the car and I found myself parking in the shadow of the old Kitchner Fish Cannery—a property that abutted The Rock’s fenced-in territory on the north side.
I turned the car’s dome light off before either one of us opened the doors. As we alighted, we left the car doors open. Just as we didn’t need the light to announce our arrival, we decided we could do without the sound of the doors slamming shut. Stealth’s feet made less noise on the gravel outside the car than mine did, but I slid the MP-9 from the door holster more quietly than he pulled his Kalashnikov from behind the Fenris’ seats.
Off to the south I could see the pink glow of The Rock?
??s night lights. I figured the distance we’d have to cover at something just under a kilometer, and that began to worry me. Stealth can hit targets at twice that range with ease, and I half began to imagine him up in the cannery giving me all the covering fire I could handle while I went in alone. I turned to confront him with this startling new conclusion, but he held up his left hand to forestall anything I might say.
He seemed to be listening to something in the distance, then he spoke. “Copy that, Outrider One—our backtrail was clear. Bring it in. Let’s do it, my friends.”
I instantly knew he was using his headware to stay in contact with confederates who’d been watching our approach, but before I could draw any conclusion about who they might be, a door in the cannery slid open and a weak, yellow light silhouetted a dozen figures of various sizes and shapes. Almost instantly, above the fish smell, I caught the scent of one or two orks, and the hackles rose on the back of my neck. Who . . . what?
Then it hit me and I turned to Kid Stealth without trying to hide my anger. “You didn’t tell me you’d brought the Redwings in on this . .
Stealth’s head came up and he unconsciously let himself rise to his full 2.3 meters of height. “I need you, Wolf, to bring this off. I also need them. Bury the hatchet. The enemy of my enemy . . .”
. . is still not anyone I’d want marrying my sister,” I finished for him. Stealth had developed a habit of doing anything he could to annoy La Plante after they’d parted company. One of those things was to rescue other La Plante loyalists who had somehow run afoul of the chrome-fisted Capone. Bloody-handed butchers and petty criminals alike, Stealth pulled them out of whatever terminal situation they found themselves in and had formed them into a band who called themselves the Redwings—a not-too-distant allusion to Raven’s crew.
I’d not liked them from the start because we’d tangled over their excessive use of violence in certain situations. While Raven left it up to Stealth to keep them in line, and Stealth freely offered their assistance whenever we needed some added talent, I preferred selecting my own gillettes from the over-abundant supply lurking in the Seattle sprawl.
I spat the sour taste out of my mouth. “Well, I’ll have no trouble with target acquisition.”
Stealth smiled in a most grimly amused manner. “I also got you some back-up. I hired Morrissey and Jackson—they’re on the inside and will take this section of the warning grid down for us.”
I frowned. “Morrissey and Jackson?”
Stealth settled back down on his spurred haunches. “The two street samurai you used to rescue Moira Alianha. You know, the two who called us in on the Nat Vat thing?”
I laughed aloud, letting some of my tension go. “You mean Zig and Zag.” I nodded with satisfaction. “Good. They shoot straight and fast.”
“Glad you approve. When your two boys take the fence out, we go in hot.” Stealth pointed off toward the seashore. “La Plante tends to concentrate his guards on the wet side because he expects me to bob up out of the water and come at him from that direction. We’ll go in at the other end and just start ripping things up.”
I tossed Stealth a quick nod and he signaled the Redwings to move forward. The light from inside the cannery went out, and the men deployed themselves with quiet efficiency. I followed behind Stealth and hunkered down when he did as we approached the twelve-meter-tall cyclone fence topped with thick coils of razor-wire.
Two figures silhouetted themselves against The Rock’s glow as they sauntered toward our position. Stealth moved his head back and forth a couple of times, then allowed himself a grim smile. “A bit late, but it’s them.” He moved forward and I joined him at the fence.
Zig, a solidly built razorboy sporting a longcoat and an AK-97, gave me a nod of recognition. “Sorry we took so long, chummers. The VIP yacht arrived late at the docks—only about an hour ago. Assignments got scrambled. It looks like something is going down very shortly—the yacht’s owner and La Plante wandered off for a heated chat.”
Zag—bigger than his Caucasian partner and wearing an orange and black gang jacket with the Halloweener insignia torn off—fished a remote control device from his pocket. He pointed it at the section of fence and hit a button. “There, it’s down. I hope this thing is reporting back normally the way you said it would. If not, we’ll have more trouble than we need in about two minutes.” Stealth answered eloquently by reaching out with his right foot and clawing away some of the fence. In a half-dozen passes—unaccompanied by warning sirens or the shouts of guards—he opened a hole large enough for us to drive the whole cannery through. I crossed over first and took up a forward position with Zig and Zag as the Redwings followed. “Zig, tell me more about this yacht.”
He shrugged. “Don’t know that much about ships. I make it thirty meters long at least and capable of transoceanic travel. The crew are wee little brown guys who find things like razor claws and the like to be amusing. I suspect they’re like you—they rely on magic instead of chrome. All of them carry nasty-looking daggers, but they’re not strangers to guns.”
I turned to his partner and gave the black man a gentle elbow in the ribs. “Yacht have a name?”
Zag shrugged. The red light in his right eye flickered as he tried to remember if he’d seen any name on the ship’s hull. “Nothing I saw, but it did have some funny writing where I would have expected the name to be. And in one of the cabins, there were no pictures, only geometric designs.”
I frowned. Funny writing and geometric designs meant only one thing to me: Moslems. Growing up, I’d known a family that ran a restaurant down on the strip. They claimed their people had come to Seattle before the Awakening from a place called Syria and they used geometric designs and Arabic for decorations on the menus. I knew that country was some place on the other side of the planet, and I knew Islam was widespread enough to make the ship’s point of origin any place from Spain to Indonesia. Even with that wealth of information, however, I couldn’t puzzle out what someone from so far away would want with Etienne La Plante.
Stealth crouched down behind me. “Heard the questions and answers. What do you think?”
I swallowed hard. “I think someone has gone to an incredible expense to get something from La Plante. If we assume that something was Moira Alianha, we can explain the visitor’s anger. La Plante probably would have apprised his client of the problem only shortly before the visit, so the fact that they’re talking means La Plante must have offered something as a substitute.”
“Logical.” Stealth gritted his teeth. “Conclusion?”
I shook my head. “Finding out who the client is would probably be good. If La Plante has offered a substitute for Moira, it might be another individual, in which case I can see a rescue as being in order.”
Stealth nodded and called one of the Redwings over. “Grimes, you and the boys will go in as planned. Start at the east end of the complex and work west, but stay away from the docks. Go for lots of pyrotechnics and don’t start blasting civilians.”
Grimes looked a bit crestfallen at the last parameter of his mission, but he accepted it. Stealth turned back to Zig, Zag, and me as Grimes slunk away. “We’ll go in by the docks and recon the area. We’ll see what we can see, then, if needed, make our moves when the party begins at our backs.”
The Redwings took off and headed away from the ocean. Stealth stalked forward and took on the role of point man for our detachment. We crested the rise leading toward The Rock, giving me my first view of the resort. Even in the dark, the long building with five stepped levels did look interesting. I found it very easy to mentally impose bright banners on the balconies and put bathers around the pool. At the same time I deleted the barbed wire strung around the perimeter and the razor-wire awnings above the balconies.
Off to my right, toward the ocean, I saw the massive clubhouse and marina area. From in between a couple of boathouses I caught a glimpse of the yacht riding the ocean’s gentle swells. The ship’s design and flying forecastle made me
think of a shark cruising through shallow water—it had a real air of menace about it.
The Old One’s voice echoed up from deep inside. “There lairs a foe who could challenge even your Raven.”
Great! Homicidal maniacs to the east of me and sociopathic grunges[14] straight ahead and now there’s another player who could challenge Dr. Raven. I looked over at Stealth. “Anytime you want to tell me this is all a dream and wake me up, go ahead.”
Stealth raised an eyebrow. “What?”
I shivered. “Nothing, just let’s be careful. Something isn’t right about that ship or the person it brought with it.”
Zig and Zag both did a quick double-check of their combat systems, but Stealth just took my warning in stride. “Let’s find out if you’re right.” He set off down the slope at a quick pace, and his bobbing gait almost succeeded in making him look funny. I say almost because just as I thought of the phrase “bunny-hop” to describe how he moved, stray light glinted from the sickle-claws—ruining an accurate analogy.
I dashed after him, and the two razorboys followed quickly. Though we could not keep up with his pace, Stealth waited at important junctions until we caught up, then headed off to secure the next point along our path. Twice, we found dead guards with thin stilettos buried in their throats. Neither of them had managed to get off a shot, but with their silenced weapons it would have hardly mattered.
Stealth finally stopped behind the nearest of the two boathouses. The windows of the building were completely blocked with packing crates—telling me that La Plante used them for storage. Between the first building and the second I saw a scattering of other crates, or parts thereof, and got a clear view of the boat Zig had described earlier.
Stealth pulled me down and cupped his hands over my ear. “I mark seven crewmen on the ship. Cross-correlation of their conversation pegs their language as Malay with a heavy Arabic influence. And you’re right—there’s something strange about that ship. It’s all lit up, but I can’t hear any engines.”