CHAPTER 9
TACTICAL LIABILITY
The sun had just set, pulling the narrow streets into darkness. Lieutenant Kaneda squeezed the blue gray van into an alley across from the mosque, and cut the electric motor. Lights glistened in primary colors through the slit windows of the wudu entry hall, backlighting the dark shapes of people on the streets. Several hurried up through the doors into the mosque. The lieutenant rolled down the window and immediately sensed the slab weight of slum walls tottering above, the cram and stink of the zones closing in on him. Filthy rat’s nest – how can people live like this? He turned and leaned back into the small cargo interior, regarding the two clone agents. They were sorting through the contents of one of the large duffle bags. He cleared his throat.
“There it is. Over there. The place hosts an illegal fighting arena in the basement. You’ll be meeting at least one of the mercenaries down there, so be on the look out. Here is some black market currency to gain admission.” He passed back a grimy pastel wad of old large denomination Euros. “Their man will be at the bar – the contact phrase is obvious: ‘something to trade.’ Understand? Confirm his identity and from there make arrangements to pick up the apparatus. Try for tonight if possible, tomorrow if you must. The colonel has a boat standing by.” He paused, waiting for a response that never came. In fact, the two didn’t bother to look up. “Whatever you do, do not draw attention to yourself. Just get the information and set up the delivery. No more bodies.” The two still said nothing, drawing weapons out of the bag’s black nylon folds. He saw the girl pocket two of the Kanji automatics.
“What are you doing? I said no more bodies.”
“Call it contingency planning,” replied her partner. “It’s a tactical liability to be unprepared.”
“This is a meeting – not an assault,” he bit off the words one at a time, as if talking to a child. At his tone, they froze utterly still and stared at him. He drew back, and continued softer, “That’s run by one of the local crime gangs. They’ll be armed guards, some kind of security. A crowd. Guns will get detected – cause more problems.” He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, “Obviously I can’t go in there, but the Colonel wants this fast and off the radar. You’ll have no trouble blending -”
“It is an illegal gambling operation. There are armed guards – you’re saying we go in without any weapons?”
“Yes. Remember the technology is priority here. Those are my orders.”
“That is unacceptable. Arbiter Hsiang himself ordered us to retrieve the item.”
“An Arbiter? Spoke to you directly? When?”
“During our deployment flight. He made it clear there is no room for failure. We must guarantee this mercenary’s cooperation,” the girl shrugged and passed a medical hypo-spray to the large man.
“What was that?”
“A tranquilizer. We will remove the subject for interrogation. You need to be ready when we exit the building.”
“Look,” the lieutenant was almost pleading now, “These Zone scabs want to get paid. They know what’s at stake here. They’re cooperating. Get the technology first. It’s simple: you’re there to talk – not kill.”
“You are correct.” The girl shifted in the back cargo area, facing the lieutenant directly. “It is very simple. And because this mission is also crucial, we’ve been directed to take whatever steps necessary to ensure success.”
He gritted his teeth. “Fine. Bring the spray. No weapons – that’s final. Just meet with him and get the information.”
She hesitated, a mannequin smooth look on her stunning face, then “We’ll take care of it.” Behind her, black nylon slick, the large man tucked an Isuku machine pistol and a single Semtex micro grenade into his coat. “We will return shortly.” Lieutenant Kaneda nodded and toggled the switch so the cargo door slid open. The agents hopped out and made their way across the street, two more dark creatures sinuous in the gathering night.
MIXED SIGNALS ON THE PRIMAL FREQ (or MAD BADMINTON SKILLS)
I leaned back into the damp shadows clinging to the wall. I was on the top level across from the entrance watching the last of the spectators flow in. Tam stationed himself near the tumbledown bar with its busy swarm of bookies, while Alejo found a bench seat in my line of sight across from me in the first tier. We were ready and the night was getting started. Below us, a goateed little Emcee in a tuxedo ran around on the pit floor, working up the crowd like some evil circus midget. His voice was amplified incoherence as he bellowed into an ancient hand-held mike. Somehow the crowd understood him, or maybe they just knew the routine, because they all roared on cue. It made me glance down to see the first contenders. Judging by all the chanting and stomping in the stands, the first guy, the reigning champ, must have been local talent. He was a thick, swarthy pug -faced punk who strutted out of the northern tunnel, his fists raised as he circled the pit, thrusting his groin at the painted women screaming out his name. I shook my head. Hold the lines - we have a winner. Even from up top, I could see the thick lattice of scars on his shoulders and head. Guess his trainer told him to lead with his face. He flexed his arms a couple times, all poser ape, and danced some cheap footwork pattern back to his door, rolling his shoulders like he was warming up. Someone handed him a heavy, short club studded with nails. He stood there, low hit street trash muscle, with his legs spread apart and braced, and a dumb smirk on his thick face, swinging it back and forth. He figured himself the alpha dog in this pen, and he was ready to piss on anyone who dared to say otherwise.
The announcer then turned to the southern wall, and shouted out another inchoate run-on, introducing the challenger. Out of that dark oversized rat hole stepped a colored man. At first, I thought he was old; he had a small, almost emaciated frame, all knobby boned and long muscles, and hair frizzled dirty white from years of malnutrition. He hesitated in the lights, standing still in a half crouch as he adjusted to the halogen brightness and din of the crowd. I looked again and realized I’d seen hundreds like him before. He was a boy soldier, probably yanked from the garbage heap of a border camp somewhere in the bloody nose of East Africa and the rabid playground of their tribal wars. The entire crowd jeered and hissed at once, the prejudice palpable, throwing a volley of contempt and beer bottles smashing onto the chainlink canopy above him. He looked up unfazed, and strode into the middle of the ring. In his left hand he gripped a battered, military green folding shovel. Cheap Chinese knockoff, it was as scarred and beaten as he was, but the edge held a ragged gleam. Pug Face snorted in contempt and started complaining to the Emcee with grand indignant sweeps of his thick arms. The crowd loved it, and chanting swelled again. The African kid just stood there watching Pug Face go on. He finally stopped his little machismo jerk off and agreed to continue, even though the fight was obviously beneath his skill and dignity. The crowd roared their approval - the victory as good as won for their boy. Last bets were called and there was a flurry of notes changing hands, but watching the skinny ‘fugee, I knew where the smart money went.
They came in right then - a large man with a good looking woman. Can’t say spotting them was intuition; we were expecting them. But to me, they were too loud from the start. They looked Spanish for sure, wore proper clothes, the shuffled walk, everything blended right down to the grubby particulars. Training spotted the looseness of their limbs, the tightening around their eyes as they swept through the crowd, but something else gave it away. An absence really. I stared again. It was space: body space all around them. Everyone else was jammed in tight as they passed through the doors, but people gave these two distance. It was like they had some repelling field around them, or oil in water. They didn’t mix. No one jostled or knocked into them, or even spoke to them. They veered away unconsciously. Mixed signals on the primal freq. Tam made them right off too, and caught my eye from across the room. I raised my beer to Alejo. He nodded back. I loosed a Boker in my left sleeve and Tam moved towards the bar.
I tracked them over my newsprint fightbill as they sauntered up to the bar. Tam eased in two stools down from them and ordered another drink. I started waving my betting sheet and drunk stumbled toward the bookies, drawing them out like gulls to a carcass. I fielded two of the better dressed ones, keeping them between me and the bar, and played my best Anglo ignorance, demanding translations of fighter’s names, reps and odds. The bookies chattered away while I kept most of my attention on the bar.
The bartender working our end was a shaggy haired foot soldier with muttonchops and missing teeth. He grinned wide and poured the girl a drink on the house. She smiled back, but it never reached her eyes. Despite the subliminals, the girl was definitely drawing attention. There were even whistles and appreciative stares. The big guy didn’t respond though. He just leaned back against the bar, sipping his beer, oblivious and waiting. He was hefty enough to dismiss little dogs yapping, but his body language was way off beam. Meanwhile, the girl stretched, arching her back slightly, and I could see those effects ripple up and down the bar. Heads were turning now and at least four other men zeroed in on her. This whole thing was reading wrong - way too sloppy for A-PAC. I was ready to hit cancel and call it off, but while everyone was eyeing the girl, Tam edged onto the stool next to the man.
“The first ones are never good, eh?” Tam lurched, sloshing his beer.
“What?” The big man tensed and turned, eyes two flat black stones.
“The fights - you know. Opening bouts are just to get everyone’s blood up. Or spilt on the sand.” Tam weaved and slurred a little, raising his bottle toward the pit. “Fresh meat can’t even fight properly, any more than a couple minutes.”
“Go away.” The big man replied, leaning back again, not looking at Tam. “I want to be left alone.”
“What’cha doing down here then, you grumpy bastard? Your friend over there want company? Ain’t got any credits left, but I got something to trade.” Tam leaned past and winked at the girl.
I saw the grab start, then freeze within a second as the big guy caught the code phrase. He was so fast, I’d only started moving when I realized he’d stopped. Sirens in my head now. No one else picked up on it; they were either heading off to watch the first fight, or intent on his girlfriend. In fact, one of the four other admirers had screwed up his courage and was angling in.
He was a post prime ganger with his face hemi-tatted in prison Bic blue; half a weeping skull with wrinkles and gray stubble. Lingering on the fringes of a place like this, he was wringing the last dregs out of a fading street rep before winding up as a notch on some up & coming’s shank handle. Still, he must have been someone in his misspent youth, because everyone gave him wide berth when he moved. Almost as big as her partner, he displaced a skinny meth-head off a barstool and sidled up next to the girl. He puffed out his chest and yelled.
“Armando, another drink for the lady here!” Then softer, “Hey chica. I’ve never seen you before, ‘cause I know I’d remember. First time to the fights?” She turned her head, appraising the man as if through a rifle scope. He missed it because he wasn’t looking at her face. He went on, “They’re exciting, but you can’t see from here baby.” He leaned in conspiratorially, “Tell you what, chica. I’ve got a couple good seats down pitside. So close you’ll get blood on you,” he paused, eyeing the big man, “you want get closer baby?”
“No.” She turned her back on the ganger. I passed a handful of faded Euros off to one of the bookies, and moved in. The big guy was just staring at Tam. Like a snake.
“You have something to trade?” he blurted out. Tam nodded barely perceptible and kept on the drunk act.
The ganger eye raped the girl long and low, and persisted. “C’mon baby. Don’t be shy. No harm done. Just asking that’s all.” He pressed up against her back. Smirking, he’d liquored up his courage, figuring he could take her companion. “Your friend don’t matter. He’s ignoring you anyway. Thought you might want to get closer.”
If I hadn’t rolled my eyes at the ganger’s play and looked back to Tam, I’d have missed it. The big guy was utterly unconcerned about the girl and his right hand had faded down to his jacket pocket. It was coming up, palming something. Tam was acting the drunk, leering in on the drama with the girl, waiting for the guy to respond. Then everything went to hell. Just as I yelled “Hand!”, the old ganger grabbed at the girl’s butt, pawing hard. Both she and Tam reacted simultaneously; he by pushing back off the bar while swinging his beer bottle at the upcoming fist; the girl by reaching down and grabbing the ganger’s fingers. She jerked her wrist. I heard them crack the same time a yellow medical hypo-spray flew through the air.
The ganger bellowed like an animal, but it was lost in the roar of the crowd as the bell rang and the fight started below. “Bitch!” he snarled, and raised his other arm to backhand her. I saw just a blur, heard cloth snap as she reached out with her left hand and struck his windpipe. Perfect. It indented a precise V. He jerked upright in surprise and started gagging. The room around us was howling over the pit. Bar patrons missed her blow, but started backing away as soon as they spotted the choker going blue. He sagged to his knees, then fell face first onto the floor.
Tam was backpedaling away from the big guy. The girl hadn’t even turned to look at her victim. I shook my arm and a Boker dropped into my palm. In my peripherals, I saw a Turk angling in, and one of the ganger’s buddies reached for the girl. She spun into him taking his arm in hers and made a right angle at the elbow. The snap and yelp made the bartender yank a Russian Saiga 12 from under the counter. An automatic shotgun - this was a definite ’situation’ now. I started moving faster. Her partner spotted me and whipped a flechette gun out of his jacket. A 3mm Isuku Shredder. Great - I’d brought a knife to a gun fight. I threw the blade anyway. He sidestepped and let it thunk into the bar. Yep - bad all around. I dove sideways.
The girl vaulted the counter and moved on the bartender. He dropped out of sight so fast it seemed the floor opened up and swallowed him, and suddenly the Saiga appeared in her hands. The second bartender didn’t even have time to grab his weapon before double-ought painted him all over the bottles. Behind me, the fight was kicking into gear down in the pit. Everyone in the benches was on their feet, screaming for blood; but the panic was spreading from our more immediate violence; shockwaves fanning out from our little epicenter. Except for a couple Slipstream junkies nodding in their chairs, people started bolting when the first shots hammered off the walls to the skittering chimes of broken glass. The big guy searched for me, extending the Isuku out in front of him. I spun a second blade that sunk in his forearm and a long burst cut a hooker next to me in half. The throng at the bar scattered. I glimpsed the girl trying to track me through the criss-cross of darting figures. Bad to worse. A second later, she gave up and just opened fire.
I slipped on a warm blood slick and scrambled away from the Little Miss Shotgun, her rounds chasing me over the drop into the first level. I could hear the Turks start shouting over the screams and worried moan of the mob. I’d lost sight of Tam and Alejo. Somewhere, a pistol crescendoed. The Saiga barked twice more and it stopped. Fear was hemorrhaging into the crowd now, kick-starting a stampede. I rolled under a bench to avoid getting trampled. Just then, the heavy clatter of an assault rifle fired up. I dropped another knife into my hand and peered over the ledge.
The floor was littered with bodies and blood. There must have been a sale on Soviet relics, because the girl was still behind the bar, only now she was cranking off shots with a vintage Kalashnikov. There was this look of dead calm on her face - the zen of homicide. The Boss Turks on the far side had hustled themselves into the Power Utilities room and slammed the door shut - must have figured this for a robbery or raid. Their remaining no-necks surged forward, firing heavy pistols gangsta sideways. Amateur night at the fights. On my right I heard the Isuku buzzing and I spotted Tam weaving cross current against the rush of spectators, the big guy firing after him off hand.
One of the guards came charging in from my left, shouting and firing toward the bar. He managed to kill three patrons. The girl never flinched and aimed his way. Right then, Alejo popped up and saved his life, dropping him with an uppercut of his cane. He stepped through the swing and snatched up his fallen gun one handed. “Down!” he yelled to me. “Go down” and pointed with his cane toward the fightpit. He was right: the stairway up was heaving with the crush of bodies trying to escape. He knelt quickly and began rifling thru the guard’s jacket. Nearby, the shredder ran dry, giving Tam a spare second. He twisted and slid under the rail down onto the first level, and rolled hard toward the next drop. The big guy shouted something - in Japanese - as he snapped another coil into the Isuku. The girl stepped out from behind the bar. Both began closing in on Tam.
Alejo came up placing shots on the girl. He didn’t hit her, but drove her back behind the counter. He was moving down the stairs when she came up, spraying where he’d been. The big man, surprised by the fire, spun and ripped two quick bursts, sending streams of tiny steel darts whining after him. The range was long, but I spun out two more blades at him; one slicing past his face, the other sinking into his shoulder. I heard a grunt as he bobbed and doubled back out of sight. Tag, creep. You’re it. I ran down the stairs.
On the bottom level, bystanders gripped each other, huddling by the walls and whimpering. Tam was already slinking down by the cage, staying out of sight and looking for the gate. Alejo was doing his best to back down the steps with his bad leg while keeping a bead up top. Around me swam sobs and snapped whispers, while above, the moans of the wounded and dying drifted over the frenzied jabber of the stampede. “We need to leave Tam.”
“I’m working on it.”
I had a blade in each hand. Not that it mattered at this range, but it made me feel better. Sort of. Sprinkled in special pitside stands, a few flush patrons had been caught slumming, and they crouched fat and sweaty fearful with clinging arm candy blondes behind their large cushioned chairs. “Is it a raid? A raid?” one popped up and wheezed. His girlfriend was crying mascara black tear streaks under a glittery tangle of peroxide and neon blue.
“No. Stay down.”
“I can’t be here – I can’t -” he burbled and his head exploded like a melon. Wet tissue and gray matter spattered on my face. The bimbo went a shrill two octaves higher, then collapsed in a heap, vomiting. I sheered off to one side and Alejo blasted until the clip ran dry. “I’m out.” he yelled, and threw the Star .45 automatic down in disgust. Up top, two faces slid away from each other over the chipped yellow railing. The girl going west, the man south. “Now would be good.” he growled.
“A minute ago would be better. They’re flanking and we’re out of bang bang.” I yelled.
I heard the jangle of chain link as Tam broke the lock. We all fled into the pit and made for the north wall. The Emcee was gone, and the evening’s entertainment stood opposite; un-bloodied, animal tense, and uncertain. Alejo yelled in Spanish and waved for them to follow. At that, the two agents opened fire again, gliding down the stairs two at a time. They must have been offended at our wanting to leave so soon. Heavy rounds from the girl cut right through the steel fencing and it rent, sagging down onto the sand. The Shredder darts pinged and ricocheted off the links, sparking and veering crazy. Tam made it to the north tunnel, but Alejo and I were stuck center ring with the fighters. I was right next to the African and his reactions kicked in at the sound of the AK. He dropped his shovel, swiveled out of the line of fire and skirted along the wall for the nearest hole. Pug Face froze, then flailed like a mad puppet as the rifle rounds hit. He went down in chunks. I turned to see the big guy stopped halfway, looping his good arm in an underhand toss. A small drab egg arced towards us.
Time dilates in combat. Sometimes fast forward; sometimes underwater slow. This went slow. I dropped my hands, letting the blades slip out, then grabbed for the worn haft of the shovel. A chorus of AK rounds sang over my head, and steel dart splinters stung my face and neck. I watched the grenade as it sailed almost lazy and caught a tear in the fencing, then bounced straight at me. The girl was still firing, far away, and Tam was yelling. I swung and smacked the grenade back with the flat of the blade, and turned away. I saw the African staring at me, grinning. Mad badminton skills. Someone grabbed me from behind and the world exploded.
The sun had just set, pulling the narrow streets into darkness. Lieutenant Kaneda squeezed the blue gray van into an alley across from the mosque, and cut the electric motor. Lights glistened in primary colors through the slit windows of the wudu entry hall, backlighting the dark shapes of people on the streets. Several hurried up through the doors into the mosque. The lieutenant rolled down the window and immediately sensed the slab weight of slum walls tottering above, the cram and stink of the zones closing in on him. Filthy rat’s nest – how can people live like this? He turned and leaned back into the small cargo interior, regarding the two clone agents. They were sorting through the contents of one of the large duffle bags. He cleared his throat.
“There it is. Over there. The place hosts an illegal fighting arena in the basement. You’ll be meeting at least one of the mercenaries down there, so be on the look out. Here is some black market currency to gain admission.” He passed back a grimy pastel wad of old large denomination Euros. “Their man will be at the bar – the contact phrase is obvious: ‘something to trade.’ Understand? Confirm his identity and from there make arrangements to pick up the apparatus. Try for tonight if possible, tomorrow if you must. The colonel has a boat standing by.” He paused, waiting for a response that never came. In fact, the two didn’t bother to look up. “Whatever you do, do not draw attention to yourself. Just get the information and set up the delivery. No more bodies.” The two still said nothing, drawing weapons out of the bag’s black nylon folds. He saw the girl pocket two of the Kanji automatics.
“What are you doing? I said no more bodies.”
“Call it contingency planning,” replied her partner. “It’s a tactical liability to be unprepared.”
“This is a meeting – not an assault,” he bit off the words one at a time, as if talking to a child. At his tone, they froze utterly still and stared at him. He drew back, and continued softer, “That’s run by one of the local crime gangs. They’ll be armed guards, some kind of security. A crowd. Guns will get detected – cause more problems.” He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, “Obviously I can’t go in there, but the Colonel wants this fast and off the radar. You’ll have no trouble blending -”
“It is an illegal gambling operation. There are armed guards – you’re saying we go in without any weapons?”
“Yes. Remember the technology is priority here. Those are my orders.”
“That is unacceptable. Arbiter Hsiang himself ordered us to retrieve the item.”
“An Arbiter? Spoke to you directly? When?”
“During our deployment flight. He made it clear there is no room for failure. We must guarantee this mercenary’s cooperation,” the girl shrugged and passed a medical hypo-spray to the large man.
“What was that?”
“A tranquilizer. We will remove the subject for interrogation. You need to be ready when we exit the building.”
“Look,” the lieutenant was almost pleading now, “These Zone scabs want to get paid. They know what’s at stake here. They’re cooperating. Get the technology first. It’s simple: you’re there to talk – not kill.”
“You are correct.” The girl shifted in the back cargo area, facing the lieutenant directly. “It is very simple. And because this mission is also crucial, we’ve been directed to take whatever steps necessary to ensure success.”
He gritted his teeth. “Fine. Bring the spray. No weapons – that’s final. Just meet with him and get the information.”
She hesitated, a mannequin smooth look on her stunning face, then “We’ll take care of it.” Behind her, black nylon slick, the large man tucked an Isuku machine pistol and a single Semtex micro grenade into his coat. “We will return shortly.” Lieutenant Kaneda nodded and toggled the switch so the cargo door slid open. The agents hopped out and made their way across the street, two more dark creatures sinuous in the gathering night.
MIXED SIGNALS ON THE PRIMAL FREQ (or MAD BADMINTON SKILLS)
I leaned back into the damp shadows clinging to the wall. I was on the top level across from the entrance watching the last of the spectators flow in. Tam stationed himself near the tumbledown bar with its busy swarm of bookies, while Alejo found a bench seat in my line of sight across from me in the first tier. We were ready and the night was getting started. Below us, a goateed little Emcee in a tuxedo ran around on the pit floor, working up the crowd like some evil circus midget. His voice was amplified incoherence as he bellowed into an ancient hand-held mike. Somehow the crowd understood him, or maybe they just knew the routine, because they all roared on cue. It made me glance down to see the first contenders. Judging by all the chanting and stomping in the stands, the first guy, the reigning champ, must have been local talent. He was a thick, swarthy pug -faced punk who strutted out of the northern tunnel, his fists raised as he circled the pit, thrusting his groin at the painted women screaming out his name. I shook my head. Hold the lines - we have a winner. Even from up top, I could see the thick lattice of scars on his shoulders and head. Guess his trainer told him to lead with his face. He flexed his arms a couple times, all poser ape, and danced some cheap footwork pattern back to his door, rolling his shoulders like he was warming up. Someone handed him a heavy, short club studded with nails. He stood there, low hit street trash muscle, with his legs spread apart and braced, and a dumb smirk on his thick face, swinging it back and forth. He figured himself the alpha dog in this pen, and he was ready to piss on anyone who dared to say otherwise.
The announcer then turned to the southern wall, and shouted out another inchoate run-on, introducing the challenger. Out of that dark oversized rat hole stepped a colored man. At first, I thought he was old; he had a small, almost emaciated frame, all knobby boned and long muscles, and hair frizzled dirty white from years of malnutrition. He hesitated in the lights, standing still in a half crouch as he adjusted to the halogen brightness and din of the crowd. I looked again and realized I’d seen hundreds like him before. He was a boy soldier, probably yanked from the garbage heap of a border camp somewhere in the bloody nose of East Africa and the rabid playground of their tribal wars. The entire crowd jeered and hissed at once, the prejudice palpable, throwing a volley of contempt and beer bottles smashing onto the chainlink canopy above him. He looked up unfazed, and strode into the middle of the ring. In his left hand he gripped a battered, military green folding shovel. Cheap Chinese knockoff, it was as scarred and beaten as he was, but the edge held a ragged gleam. Pug Face snorted in contempt and started complaining to the Emcee with grand indignant sweeps of his thick arms. The crowd loved it, and chanting swelled again. The African kid just stood there watching Pug Face go on. He finally stopped his little machismo jerk off and agreed to continue, even though the fight was obviously beneath his skill and dignity. The crowd roared their approval - the victory as good as won for their boy. Last bets were called and there was a flurry of notes changing hands, but watching the skinny ‘fugee, I knew where the smart money went.
They came in right then - a large man with a good looking woman. Can’t say spotting them was intuition; we were expecting them. But to me, they were too loud from the start. They looked Spanish for sure, wore proper clothes, the shuffled walk, everything blended right down to the grubby particulars. Training spotted the looseness of their limbs, the tightening around their eyes as they swept through the crowd, but something else gave it away. An absence really. I stared again. It was space: body space all around them. Everyone else was jammed in tight as they passed through the doors, but people gave these two distance. It was like they had some repelling field around them, or oil in water. They didn’t mix. No one jostled or knocked into them, or even spoke to them. They veered away unconsciously. Mixed signals on the primal freq. Tam made them right off too, and caught my eye from across the room. I raised my beer to Alejo. He nodded back. I loosed a Boker in my left sleeve and Tam moved towards the bar.
I tracked them over my newsprint fightbill as they sauntered up to the bar. Tam eased in two stools down from them and ordered another drink. I started waving my betting sheet and drunk stumbled toward the bookies, drawing them out like gulls to a carcass. I fielded two of the better dressed ones, keeping them between me and the bar, and played my best Anglo ignorance, demanding translations of fighter’s names, reps and odds. The bookies chattered away while I kept most of my attention on the bar.
The bartender working our end was a shaggy haired foot soldier with muttonchops and missing teeth. He grinned wide and poured the girl a drink on the house. She smiled back, but it never reached her eyes. Despite the subliminals, the girl was definitely drawing attention. There were even whistles and appreciative stares. The big guy didn’t respond though. He just leaned back against the bar, sipping his beer, oblivious and waiting. He was hefty enough to dismiss little dogs yapping, but his body language was way off beam. Meanwhile, the girl stretched, arching her back slightly, and I could see those effects ripple up and down the bar. Heads were turning now and at least four other men zeroed in on her. This whole thing was reading wrong - way too sloppy for A-PAC. I was ready to hit cancel and call it off, but while everyone was eyeing the girl, Tam edged onto the stool next to the man.
“The first ones are never good, eh?” Tam lurched, sloshing his beer.
“What?” The big man tensed and turned, eyes two flat black stones.
“The fights - you know. Opening bouts are just to get everyone’s blood up. Or spilt on the sand.” Tam weaved and slurred a little, raising his bottle toward the pit. “Fresh meat can’t even fight properly, any more than a couple minutes.”
“Go away.” The big man replied, leaning back again, not looking at Tam. “I want to be left alone.”
“What’cha doing down here then, you grumpy bastard? Your friend over there want company? Ain’t got any credits left, but I got something to trade.” Tam leaned past and winked at the girl.
I saw the grab start, then freeze within a second as the big guy caught the code phrase. He was so fast, I’d only started moving when I realized he’d stopped. Sirens in my head now. No one else picked up on it; they were either heading off to watch the first fight, or intent on his girlfriend. In fact, one of the four other admirers had screwed up his courage and was angling in.
He was a post prime ganger with his face hemi-tatted in prison Bic blue; half a weeping skull with wrinkles and gray stubble. Lingering on the fringes of a place like this, he was wringing the last dregs out of a fading street rep before winding up as a notch on some up & coming’s shank handle. Still, he must have been someone in his misspent youth, because everyone gave him wide berth when he moved. Almost as big as her partner, he displaced a skinny meth-head off a barstool and sidled up next to the girl. He puffed out his chest and yelled.
“Armando, another drink for the lady here!” Then softer, “Hey chica. I’ve never seen you before, ‘cause I know I’d remember. First time to the fights?” She turned her head, appraising the man as if through a rifle scope. He missed it because he wasn’t looking at her face. He went on, “They’re exciting, but you can’t see from here baby.” He leaned in conspiratorially, “Tell you what, chica. I’ve got a couple good seats down pitside. So close you’ll get blood on you,” he paused, eyeing the big man, “you want get closer baby?”
“No.” She turned her back on the ganger. I passed a handful of faded Euros off to one of the bookies, and moved in. The big guy was just staring at Tam. Like a snake.
“You have something to trade?” he blurted out. Tam nodded barely perceptible and kept on the drunk act.
The ganger eye raped the girl long and low, and persisted. “C’mon baby. Don’t be shy. No harm done. Just asking that’s all.” He pressed up against her back. Smirking, he’d liquored up his courage, figuring he could take her companion. “Your friend don’t matter. He’s ignoring you anyway. Thought you might want to get closer.”
If I hadn’t rolled my eyes at the ganger’s play and looked back to Tam, I’d have missed it. The big guy was utterly unconcerned about the girl and his right hand had faded down to his jacket pocket. It was coming up, palming something. Tam was acting the drunk, leering in on the drama with the girl, waiting for the guy to respond. Then everything went to hell. Just as I yelled “Hand!”, the old ganger grabbed at the girl’s butt, pawing hard. Both she and Tam reacted simultaneously; he by pushing back off the bar while swinging his beer bottle at the upcoming fist; the girl by reaching down and grabbing the ganger’s fingers. She jerked her wrist. I heard them crack the same time a yellow medical hypo-spray flew through the air.
The ganger bellowed like an animal, but it was lost in the roar of the crowd as the bell rang and the fight started below. “Bitch!” he snarled, and raised his other arm to backhand her. I saw just a blur, heard cloth snap as she reached out with her left hand and struck his windpipe. Perfect. It indented a precise V. He jerked upright in surprise and started gagging. The room around us was howling over the pit. Bar patrons missed her blow, but started backing away as soon as they spotted the choker going blue. He sagged to his knees, then fell face first onto the floor.
Tam was backpedaling away from the big guy. The girl hadn’t even turned to look at her victim. I shook my arm and a Boker dropped into my palm. In my peripherals, I saw a Turk angling in, and one of the ganger’s buddies reached for the girl. She spun into him taking his arm in hers and made a right angle at the elbow. The snap and yelp made the bartender yank a Russian Saiga 12 from under the counter. An automatic shotgun - this was a definite ’situation’ now. I started moving faster. Her partner spotted me and whipped a flechette gun out of his jacket. A 3mm Isuku Shredder. Great - I’d brought a knife to a gun fight. I threw the blade anyway. He sidestepped and let it thunk into the bar. Yep - bad all around. I dove sideways.
The girl vaulted the counter and moved on the bartender. He dropped out of sight so fast it seemed the floor opened up and swallowed him, and suddenly the Saiga appeared in her hands. The second bartender didn’t even have time to grab his weapon before double-ought painted him all over the bottles. Behind me, the fight was kicking into gear down in the pit. Everyone in the benches was on their feet, screaming for blood; but the panic was spreading from our more immediate violence; shockwaves fanning out from our little epicenter. Except for a couple Slipstream junkies nodding in their chairs, people started bolting when the first shots hammered off the walls to the skittering chimes of broken glass. The big guy searched for me, extending the Isuku out in front of him. I spun a second blade that sunk in his forearm and a long burst cut a hooker next to me in half. The throng at the bar scattered. I glimpsed the girl trying to track me through the criss-cross of darting figures. Bad to worse. A second later, she gave up and just opened fire.
I slipped on a warm blood slick and scrambled away from the Little Miss Shotgun, her rounds chasing me over the drop into the first level. I could hear the Turks start shouting over the screams and worried moan of the mob. I’d lost sight of Tam and Alejo. Somewhere, a pistol crescendoed. The Saiga barked twice more and it stopped. Fear was hemorrhaging into the crowd now, kick-starting a stampede. I rolled under a bench to avoid getting trampled. Just then, the heavy clatter of an assault rifle fired up. I dropped another knife into my hand and peered over the ledge.
The floor was littered with bodies and blood. There must have been a sale on Soviet relics, because the girl was still behind the bar, only now she was cranking off shots with a vintage Kalashnikov. There was this look of dead calm on her face - the zen of homicide. The Boss Turks on the far side had hustled themselves into the Power Utilities room and slammed the door shut - must have figured this for a robbery or raid. Their remaining no-necks surged forward, firing heavy pistols gangsta sideways. Amateur night at the fights. On my right I heard the Isuku buzzing and I spotted Tam weaving cross current against the rush of spectators, the big guy firing after him off hand.
One of the guards came charging in from my left, shouting and firing toward the bar. He managed to kill three patrons. The girl never flinched and aimed his way. Right then, Alejo popped up and saved his life, dropping him with an uppercut of his cane. He stepped through the swing and snatched up his fallen gun one handed. “Down!” he yelled to me. “Go down” and pointed with his cane toward the fightpit. He was right: the stairway up was heaving with the crush of bodies trying to escape. He knelt quickly and began rifling thru the guard’s jacket. Nearby, the shredder ran dry, giving Tam a spare second. He twisted and slid under the rail down onto the first level, and rolled hard toward the next drop. The big guy shouted something - in Japanese - as he snapped another coil into the Isuku. The girl stepped out from behind the bar. Both began closing in on Tam.
Alejo came up placing shots on the girl. He didn’t hit her, but drove her back behind the counter. He was moving down the stairs when she came up, spraying where he’d been. The big man, surprised by the fire, spun and ripped two quick bursts, sending streams of tiny steel darts whining after him. The range was long, but I spun out two more blades at him; one slicing past his face, the other sinking into his shoulder. I heard a grunt as he bobbed and doubled back out of sight. Tag, creep. You’re it. I ran down the stairs.
On the bottom level, bystanders gripped each other, huddling by the walls and whimpering. Tam was already slinking down by the cage, staying out of sight and looking for the gate. Alejo was doing his best to back down the steps with his bad leg while keeping a bead up top. Around me swam sobs and snapped whispers, while above, the moans of the wounded and dying drifted over the frenzied jabber of the stampede. “We need to leave Tam.”
“I’m working on it.”
I had a blade in each hand. Not that it mattered at this range, but it made me feel better. Sort of. Sprinkled in special pitside stands, a few flush patrons had been caught slumming, and they crouched fat and sweaty fearful with clinging arm candy blondes behind their large cushioned chairs. “Is it a raid? A raid?” one popped up and wheezed. His girlfriend was crying mascara black tear streaks under a glittery tangle of peroxide and neon blue.
“No. Stay down.”
“I can’t be here – I can’t -” he burbled and his head exploded like a melon. Wet tissue and gray matter spattered on my face. The bimbo went a shrill two octaves higher, then collapsed in a heap, vomiting. I sheered off to one side and Alejo blasted until the clip ran dry. “I’m out.” he yelled, and threw the Star .45 automatic down in disgust. Up top, two faces slid away from each other over the chipped yellow railing. The girl going west, the man south. “Now would be good.” he growled.
“A minute ago would be better. They’re flanking and we’re out of bang bang.” I yelled.
I heard the jangle of chain link as Tam broke the lock. We all fled into the pit and made for the north wall. The Emcee was gone, and the evening’s entertainment stood opposite; un-bloodied, animal tense, and uncertain. Alejo yelled in Spanish and waved for them to follow. At that, the two agents opened fire again, gliding down the stairs two at a time. They must have been offended at our wanting to leave so soon. Heavy rounds from the girl cut right through the steel fencing and it rent, sagging down onto the sand. The Shredder darts pinged and ricocheted off the links, sparking and veering crazy. Tam made it to the north tunnel, but Alejo and I were stuck center ring with the fighters. I was right next to the African and his reactions kicked in at the sound of the AK. He dropped his shovel, swiveled out of the line of fire and skirted along the wall for the nearest hole. Pug Face froze, then flailed like a mad puppet as the rifle rounds hit. He went down in chunks. I turned to see the big guy stopped halfway, looping his good arm in an underhand toss. A small drab egg arced towards us.
Time dilates in combat. Sometimes fast forward; sometimes underwater slow. This went slow. I dropped my hands, letting the blades slip out, then grabbed for the worn haft of the shovel. A chorus of AK rounds sang over my head, and steel dart splinters stung my face and neck. I watched the grenade as it sailed almost lazy and caught a tear in the fencing, then bounced straight at me. The girl was still firing, far away, and Tam was yelling. I swung and smacked the grenade back with the flat of the blade, and turned away. I saw the African staring at me, grinning. Mad badminton skills. Someone grabbed me from behind and the world exploded.
