This was not going to help me sleep.
“You’re shaking,” she said.
“I was just shot at. You’re shaking, too.”
“Yes.”
Well, I was glad we agreed on that.
She added in a hurried shout, “I’m shaking because you’re scaring me.” She gripped the controls rather tightly.
“I couldn’t leave them alive.”
Calmly now, she said, “I know. It’s not that.”
“Too dispassionate for you?”
“Dispassionate? You’ve got a fucking erection.” She nodded at my crotch.
Yeah, I did.
Damn.
Thrill of the hunt, pleasure at surviving, massive endorphin dumps.
“When?”
“About the time you had them secured and started asking questions.”
“It could be coincidental with ending the shooting.”
“It could,” she said. She didn’t believe it.
I wasn’t sure. However, the more intense things got, the more I did enjoy them.
Sadistic tendencies? Maybe.
I was supposed to be the good guy. I think the only thing that told me that was I had national sponsorship.
That wasn’t a definition I liked.
CHAPTER 18
She drove well enough, and I directed her through several turns at random to dissuade pursuit. I hated that we’d used our own vehicle. Sooner or later that would haunt us. However, the evening score should dissuade most thugs. That they’d had sixteen shot and hacked to death spoke well for me against him. Silver’s complaints aside, and she was right about several things, I’d done what was necessary. Also, he’d be the first suspect, not me.
I wondered if he was scared yet.
Back at the house, I stripped, and all my clothes went into a burn bag. I wiped off with bleach, the wipes went into the bag, and I showered, my ruined finger screaming in the flow. Then I wiped the weapons down, washed them, wiped them again, and showered again. After that, Silver peeled, we dumped her clothes, she showered, washed guns, showered again. We got the burn bags into another one, then wiped down one more time before getting dressed. I wanted the minimum possible evidence against us if questioned. I managed to focus on work and pain and ignore her naked and wet body. It didn’t help that she was shivery after her first kill. She distracted herself by making discreet arrangements to replace the shot back glass.
My ribs hurt again. My scalp was bruised but minor, and luckily under my hair. My finger was on fire, and I’d need to see a doctor, but not soon enough to attach me to the crime. I still hadn’t seen a doctor about follow-up on my ribs either, and the rolls, combat and general crashing around was something for teenagers, not guys my age. I popped some analgesics and sat down to think.
I needed more analysis of Randall’s motivation. I had a summary I’d glanced at but not paid attention to yet.
Two hundred of us went to Earth. Ten died on the insertion. Five had to be withdrawn for various reasons. One hundred eighty-five of us performed the mission of taking down the infrastructure of a planet, rendering the inhabitants physically and morally incapable of further fighting, and terrorizing the hell out of the survivors so much they were still having panic reactions half a generation later.
Of the survivors, twenty-four were still alive. Minus the two of us was twenty-two.
Three stayed in the military in Special Warfare, though all had gone on to less strenuous acts now. Four others went straight to non-SW slots and showed little interest in returning—all were non-SW before I recruited them. Five transitioned straight to boring civilian lives, safe and comfortable. One ran a tactical school—former survival instructor. Four were security contractors and bodyguards—they’d come from Blazer diplomatic protection. Two did spaceside rescue, three did wilderness rescue—those five had all started in combat rescue.
We stuck to our backgrounds mostly, except for Randall and me. I’d probably have stayed in if the circumstances had been less horrific. I was getting a rush out of the project now, and that was disturbing on several levels.
So yes, he was doing it for the thrill, the challenge, to prove to the universe he was every bit as good as his friends growing up had said he never would be. The money was nice. The beating the entire universe at the game was better.
I’d had second thoughts about recruting him, as I’ve said. I needed everyone I could get and didn’t expect him to survive. So in that, he was even proving it to me. That was probably important to him. I’d keep that in mind, too.
This did reinforce he had to be stopped. Outside agencies would keep underestimating him. He’d get better with practice. End game he’d take out one or more heads of state. Then he’d likely retire, with entire cultures in chaos. He was probably okay with that.
With that presumed, back to the hunt.
I didn’t sleep well, woke early, and Silver took me to a clinic for the finger. They weren’t overly concerned with ID, just with payment and a statement. I said I’d abraded it under a stuck wheel, and they accepted that. I made a point of not watching as a medical assistant debrided the wound and wrapped it with some nanos and bandages. It was ugly, but should heal.
***
Given the number of hits in this system, the smuggled explosives and connections, I had to give strong credibility to the possibility the local crime families had hired Randall. Could it really be as simple as him being hired by the mafia? Well, not simple. Some of them were vory v zakone, literally “Thieves-at-law,” well-connected. However, they were unlikely to hire Randall. They’d just arrange suicides where someone shot themselves in the back of the head twice. It didn’t happen often, but there were one or two here.
Viktor Toptygin was one, officially connected. Mean, Earth ex-pat a couple of decades back, when he got too corrupt even for them. He was responsible for better than thirty assassinations that we knew of, plus a hell of a lot more nonfatal violence. He got away with it because he was giving the UNBI information. Useful information at first; info that put his main competitor, a Sicilian mafia don, into prison. Later, just tokens. He was giving his handler-agents some quite generous bribes.
The fun part is that he had a younger brother, a Russian assemblyman, who effectively ran a large chunk of the country on his older brother’s behalf. In fact, we confirmed that government investigators were pulled off probes that might have led to Viktor. There were also favors the other way, including intimidation of people who might have voted against his bills or opposed him for leadership positions.
When even Earth’s system decided enough was enough, he’d moved here. Apparently, some kind of lesson seeped in. He was much less blatant, and none of the official parties wanted to deal with him. They reached a semi-truce. However, assassinations happened from time to time. There were import laws here, so there was smuggling. Political favors came into play. Eventually, bribes and pushes and hits. It’s something we don’t deal with well in the Freehold, because we don’t have a need to. Merchants bring product in, we let them. We’re simple people that way.
Still, that was the environment we faced here. Rarely did anyone die, rarely did the public even know. The mob and the government and the CEOs played their games, and everyone else was mostly happy. They’d see something in the news occasionally, and not realize that years of politics and deception went into that occasion.
What this was, I suspected, was someone challenging Toptygin now that he was old. They’d hired Randall, sent him on some remote tasks to check his bona fides, and to handle some exterior business. Then they’d brought him here. It was entirely possible they rented him out as well. He’d generate income for them, and perform inside cleaning jobs. He got good money without a lot of capital, they got income and work.
However, Randall was getting flashy. The chameleons were high tech. Some of the other hits were just sophisticated in approach. A couple of recent ones had been outrageously over the top.
I suspected they w
ere finding him tough to handle. They might also find him tough to get rid of.
It wasn’t a safe tactic, but I decided to offer my services. I’d need to guess as to whom.
The general consensus in news and reports was one Timurhin, who also had a small holding on Grainne. Well, well. That tied things in interestingly. This could be much closer to home than we’d expected.
Of course, I had to consider that Randall took multiple contracts. He may have just gotten greedy. That could also cause stress with any primary contractee; conflict of interest and all that, as well as visibility being a bad thing. You wanted your enemies to know and bystanders to be clueless, for really high-end stuff.
I wasn’t sure I had the right outfit, but they’d likely direct me or hire me anyway. This was the kind of thing that turned into an arms race, which was another risk. Once Operatives or Blazers knew it was possible, not only would others consider it, but some recruits would enlist for the chance. That was good, if the post-military career was demolition, rescue, security, bad if it was assassination. Yet another reason he had to go down. Worst case, the mobs would start sending recruits to get trained. That would avoid all the issues we all had with Randall by keeping it in the family. It had happened in other militaries throughout history. Your veterans-turned-mercs needed some national loyalty.
This was at a cusp where it could all go to hell, with repercussions for years.
Timurhin and his crew ate out regularly. He owned the restaurants, so he might as well benefit, and it kept his eyes and ears on happenings. Not a bad move, really. He was also fairly easy to track, in that big Skoda limo he favored. It was dangerous to get too close, but easy enough to watch from a distance.
So I had Silver purchase and tailor some garb for me, found a spot from where I could stake out his departures. That evening his limo pulled out, and Silver tracked him with a couple of carefully placed remotes. We pulled places off the list as he travelled, narrowed it down to two.
I drove to the area in a rental car with fake ID and transponder, orbited and waited, until she called and IDed Lava Creek. I found parking, stepped out and across the evening street, heavy with humidity and clutter in the twilight. I carried a small bag.
I crossed the street, approached down the service road behind the place, sort of an oversized alley, but reasonably clean. I pulled the apron and vest from the bag, pulled them on, tossed the bag aside. I tied both, turned and climbed up the steps and walked in the rear.
The technique I used is based on confidence. If you act as if you belong, people assume you do. Routine and standard are comfortable. Stepping out of those bounds is not. Blend in, act normal, and most people are reluctant to raise a fuss.
So, wearing the appropriate clothes, I walked into the service area. A few seconds found me what I needed, and I scooped up a tray and accessories. They actually taught us this in training, for cover and for poise.
With a tray full of frosty water glasses, two bottles of mineral water and some menu pages—the place ran a single sheet of entrees at a time—I stepped through the staff door, scanned the screen and found Table Four. I spun the tray up over my shoulder and headed out, just as someone said, “Excuse me—”
“I’ll be back in a moment,” I said with a cheery wave.
Then, of course, I had the dining room for cover. Staff are taught and ingrained not to make a scene in front of the customers, and that’s more the case with an elaborate establishment.
I got only two quizzical looks as I walked across the room, and had no trouble with the broad spaces. Classier establishments tend not to crowd tables together.
“Good evening, gentlemen, and ladies. May I offer some lemon wedges with your water?”
Timurhin said, “Thank you. I’d like a bottle of Remington Fifty-Eight, the lady would like an Effervesca, and anyone else?”
His goon, much classier than most and probably a veteran of some kind, said, “A Coke is fine for me, please.”
“Coke, Effervesca, Remington Fifty-Eight, at once, sir.”
I placed the glasses, slipped a bottle under my arm and flipped off the cap, poured for all, placed the tray of lemon down, slid the note under the corner of Timurhin’s napkin. I gave a brief, courteous bow and departed with the tray.
I walked through the door, right through the damping curtain, and the first person asked, “Who the hell are you and what are you doing here?” He was one of the cooks, sweaty and a little pudgy and right in my face.
“I just served Table Four and they need a bottle of Remington Fifty-Eight, a Coke and an Effervesca.” I smiled and kept walking.
I wasn’t stopped.
Ideally, of course, no one would have noticed me at all. However, no one was going to mention anything to the rich, dangerous guests if they didn’t complain. It would be assumed I was some kind of mob messenger, and no one would say a word. Randall might have a plant, but he knew I was after him, and another turn of tension would be beneficial to me.
So now I had to see how it played out.
Back at the house, I watched the news and Silver dug news and police nets for connections that might lead back to us. I was always nervous about her doing that, but she’d never had a trace that we knew of. Her passive receivers were tiny but molecular edge tech. We’d get nailed in any system if caught with them. Still, she was able to find leads on many networks, both digital data and old style direct RF.
I didn’t see anything of note, so I crawled off to bed. Not masquerading as a couple was a lot easier on me.
The next morning I made my run of “packages,” bought some supplies including soft drinks and some wonderful dark, heavy bread, and made a couple of passes against possible tails. I was actually on the street on my way back when she buzzed.
“Yes?”
“Another one,” Silver said.
“Stand by.”
Damn. That was interesting. Two hits, hard attempts on me, and another hit. I decided to consider better defensibility. Though where could we go other than a military installation?
I walked in the door and said, “Three in one system? That’s not good.”
“A sign of desperation?”
“More likely a sign of competence. He’s proven he’s the man for the job. It’s more cost effective for him to stack up projects in one system.”
“Well, this one was messy. Someone blown up.”
On the vid, the story was, “—Roberti was a well-known commercial property developer, and—” and little of substance.
He was a commercial developer, but he used very modern technologies for building, and tended to acquire property during various disasters; economic, structural, traffic. There were rumors he tweaked the traffic himself to impoverish his marks. Then he moved in, bought at fire sale prices, demolished—he always demolished, it was a trademark—and built new. An economic rape of a troubled victim. I could see why people would want him dead.
What they did show was a lot of cops and beacons and forensics vehicles and the words “blown up.”
“Explosive?” I asked.
She said, “Not as such. Localized to the individual and no collateral damage at all. It’s nearby.”
“We need to examine it. Got ID?”
“I certainly do, Investigator Gold, licensed by the Citizen’s Council.”
“Let’s go.”
I just set the car to shortest route and let it go. I didn’t know the map well enough to override. The car took us through several main streets, two detours through residential loops, and then I had to take over manual because we hit the crime scene. It was an entire square, with tens of cars, trucks, lights, warning beacons. The car’s systems flashed warnings to avoid the area and I had to argue for manual control.
I found a spot to pull in, and was immediately faced with a uniform shaking his head, waving at us, and trying to override the car with his wand.
I swung out quickly but smoothly and said, “I’m here officially.” I wanted to distract him
from the fact that our car was immune to his control.
“Who are you?” he asked, politely enough. He was about my age, good bearing, a little gray. He did have a name badge. Yazrikov.
“Gold. Contract investigator to the Freehold Council. I’ve got reason to believe this is one of ours.”
“Oh, do you?” he said. He examined the ID and even ran his reader over it. It was good enough for that scrutiny. “We’re guessing he’s a veteran.”
“Then he’s probably the one I’m looking for,” I said.
“Great. I served near some of your people on Mtali. I’m not happy with the idea of one turned to crime.”
“Well, I’ll have to see what I can find. This is my assistant, Gretchen Wickell.”
“Ms Wickell.” He nodded, and gave her ID the same going over.
“Very well,” he said, and keyed his phone.
“Seven to Two. I have two investigators here requesting escort.”
I didn’t hear any reply, but a few moments later, a young woman officer came over. She looked a little ill. Her uniform made her Patroller Meyerson. She wasn’t particularly small, but presented as rather meek for the moment.
“It’s ugly enough they sent me to be escort,” she said to Yazrikov. She looked at us. “First violent case I’ve seen. I’m a bit out of sorts. I apologize.”
“We’ve all been there,” I said to reassure her.
“Please come with me,” she said.
It was a very pretty building: a monococque cylinder with a oblique roof, the outside a spectral translucent that shifted from violet to green in sunlight. It was opaque from outside, the appearance coming from prismatic effects. The landscaping was coordinate-neat but warm and not mechanical.
The walkways were well laid out in cobbles, and the parking aprons back just enough to give a sense of distance and space. There were field-supported molecular weather screens over the walks. Classy.
Inside, I could see cops at the door, cops down the hall, cops back and forth, cameras, DNA tools, bio isolation gear, everything. I could hear casualties talking softly and occasionally moaning in the other direction.