Beluga Fay (Dragon Bone Hill) (33 page)

“Why would he be afraid of us?”

“Doesn’t know how many of us there are.”

“What should we do?” The girl’s voice was tight with fear and sounding as young as her ten years or so made her appear.

“Keep to the houses, or back of these, and follow him while the others catch up.”

There was the sound of scurrying as of rats in the walls, and the girl was gone.

Francisco turned back to the door and watched the back of the man disappear down the street and past the intersection—the rucksack bouncing on his back.

Pym could feel the eyes on him. They’d been on him for several blocks now, and no matter how he twisted and turned up one street and down another, he could not lose them. Occasionally, he jumped through an empty lot or the burnt out husk of a store. When he did, he could feel the perimeter about him flex outward, and as he came back onto the street, this would tighten into the buildings on either side again. Sometimes he would catch a glimpse of a crown, dirty face, or errant hand with smallish fingers. Quickly it became apparent he was being tracked by children, or one of the many adolescent gangs that had taken over many of the city’s neighborhoods following the deaths of their families.

Alone, none of these were dangerous, but bring a half dozen or so together and they were much as locust or piranha. The automatic would give him an edge, but sooner or later they’d swarm, and then how much help it would be might not be enough—if they were desperate, and everyone in the city had become desperate. This, moreover, was just the children—there’d be more out there than them. The kids would lack the strategic sensibility these others would possess, but that did not make either any more or less dangerous than the other.

Again, he flipped down another street and this time through an abandoned motel. Inside he went to ground, attempting to recover some of his strength and force the kids into a move that might help him. This was a risk—it could well turn out they’d have him bottled up and after testing his defenses would swarm. He doubted they had any guns, but knives and spears they could have and might even be good with. Nonetheless, Titus needed to catch his breath and consider what he might do next to get out of this before he ended upcaptured or dead.

“Still there, Francisco?”

He nodded without turning back to Zesto.

“What do you think he’s doing?”

“Resting,” Dugo answered, “and waiting to see what we’re going to do—if Francisco is right and he knows we’re here.”

“He’s got glimpses of us several times—he’s good, but I can tell he knows we’re here.” Zesto shook his head but, with Pym he had to have known. They all knew who he was; all had seen him several times going after the security forces and the Cartel. This meant it was important to be careful and capture him alive. The reward for the man was huge, and this would mean food for a long time—they might even ransom him back to the Beluga Fay.

Buldo wanted to do this, but there’d be a lot of risk in that. Still, it would be safer than the government—they’d pay better, but the Santana would be killed afterwards. The Beluga would be a better and safer deal. Others were less certain about what to do. Some were prepared to kill him and take the gun; others wanted to let him go—the stories about Pym and the Fay had spooked the younger ones. Sure enough, they were bad, but letting him go would be worse for them—that family they’d left tied up in the pool demonstrated how low they had sunk. If Zesto could save them from going that route, all the better. After all, once you set off down that road, there’d be no coming back.

“We,” Luis said from behind, “have to flush him out.”

“Any suggestions?” Analise asked, acid etching the sarcasm.

“Offer him a blow-job.”

Analise tightened at the comment but didn’t answer. Young she was, but she’d not been that young for a long time.

“Luis,” intending to punish him for the comment, “take three of your crew and get in as close as you can—then use your spears to flush him out back. Do not kill him.”

Analise smirked at Zesto’s order but did not make a sound.

Luis looked at him a long moment, but when it became apparent Buldo was not joking, picked out three and headed toward the intersection and the motel.

They were that dumb, or were they that desperate? Seemed everyone had become that desperate, and Pym had not seen this coming—too focused on Glenna and the Wall while the city went to hell around him. It was too easy, and because of that, he’d disbelieved it. What happened was, he’d lost his ride and was beyond his support mechanism—that’s where he found himself. Now down in the same gutter as the rest of the city, the world was taking on a new and disturbing appearance. Titus was going to have to adjust to this, and with that, he put the automatic away and pulled the tactical blade. The 9 would have given him an edge, but each round was precious this far from the warehouse, and he could not afford to spend that capital unless necessary.

With the blade in one hand, he wrapped the ratty remnants of a tee-shirt about the knuckles of the other and waited for the kids to find the courage. They were being sent to flush him, which meant out back of the motel there’d be a trap—couldn’t go out that way nor out the front. To his left was the road, but there was a solid wall between him and it, besides that would be too exposed. If he could get to the hallway from the office, then he might be able to skirt the trap. First, though, he would have to leave a bitter taste, giving him enough time to slip down it unnoticed.

Then there were three of them—appearing to be a punishment detail. None seemed convinced of the tactic, and the kid leading from the back, directing the others, seemed just this side of panic. Helpful and dangerous. Fear made people unpredictable but easier to rout. Pym drifted back into the gloaming of the office, but not too far from the door leading off into the first floor hallway and rooms. There, with his back to the reception desk, Titus waited. He had blocked the door opening on the manager’s office, which, in turn, opened on to the rear parking lot where others would be waiting for him. If they heard anything coming from reception, they might rush the motel, and he did not want anyone piling in on his rear.

Still coming, they closed on the ruined glass mouth of the reception office and stopped. They were young, younger than Titus had originally thought—early to mid-teens at best. What he had to do he would still have to do, but it gave him no peace of mind. The leader, in the rear, raised the first of their three short spears, with its throwing tool, and let fly. The weapon clattered harmlessly far to his right—the good news was that none had any idea where he was. With the throw, however, the others screamed and charged, panic cut deep into their faces.

The first of these received the remnants of an office chair full in the face and went down hard. Following this, the other’s advance was staggered, and Titus stepped through the shadow and struck him square in the face—they went down as well. No movement came from the two after this, and Pym turned to the leader who came in carefully, spear raised and cocked. From a distance, this would have been a formidable weapon, if all things were equal, but in the office with its lack of distance and cramped space, the throwing tool would be a definite handicap.

The spearman halted at the entrance and listened. He could not have liked the silence and hesitated. “Seol? Paulsen?” Nothing.

Pym was back by the reception desk again, not moving—trying not to breathe more than necessary. There was still enough distance that the spear thrower could still be of use, if not of optimum value. One of the youngsters moved, the one that had taken the chair in the face, and a shallow groan escaped him. The spearman’s reaction was immediate. The weapon was launched toward the sound. Another plaintive groan escaped as the weapon drove home. Taking his last spear in hand, he charged the contact. With his back to Pym, the man stepped up and with one arm about the teenager’s neck drove the blade into the soft of his lower back.

The blade slipped in with little effort and the kid, hardly mid-teens, gasped and went limp. Not wasting any time, Titus reluctantly stepped over both figures and into the hallway. Beforethe others understood what had happened, he was down the hallway and out the window of the last motel room on the back of the building. Once out, he ducked across the unlit street and into an alley.

“Too quiet,” Zesto observed, watching the face of the motel. “Analise, slip around back and find out if Pym’s come out there.” Not looking happy with the order, she darted out into the street and swung far wide of the motel, all the way to the other side of the intersection. Once beyond this, the girl wove back into the street behind it and disappeared. Waiting, Zesto stared hard into the blank face of the building—something had gone wrong, but he could not move until he was certain.

“Buldo!” a panting voice of a young child, hardly more than what he’d been at the orphanage those many years ago. Turning he raised a brow at the bloody face.

“What...”

“Someone’s behind us.” The child’s voice was cracking and gasping with the effort of getting enough air into their lungs. “They,” gasping, “killed Karen and Ricardo.”

“They with Pym?”

“Don’t know—but they were fast. Sucked us in, and before we knew it, two of us were dead.” Zesto knew there was more; he could see it on Rico’s squashed face.

“What?”

“It was fast—real fast.”

“What happened?”

“Ricardo had his stomach opened.” Rico mimed a horizontal wound across his belly. “He was still alive when we found him, but he’d had his throat cut as well—so he couldn’t tell us anything.”

Zesto nodded. “And Karen?”

Rico did not answer, but looked at the sidewalk.

“What happened?” Zesto had not raised his voice, but there was an angry urgency in this.

“They,” Rico hesitated and there was a sickness in their face, “took her head.”

“Cut it off?” A quiet shock ran through the group.

“Took it—I couldn’t find it.” There were a lot of twisted things in their world—especially since the Sweats—but no one had expected this, and everyone, Zesto included, fell into a prolonged, nervous silence.