Better to Beg Forgiveness (16 page)

The event was canned, nothing but speeches and platitudes, which was reassuring. Both parties were showing their presence, agreeing that they could work together, and the pats on the back were just to locate where to stick the figurative knife.

Her attention was split between Bishwanath and the event. Nothing untoward seemed to be going on, and there were plenty of personnel around. Assuming Dhe's people cared about him, and he had competent friends somewhere, there didn't seem to be much to worry about.

Shaman walked past and just nodded, nothing to comment on. Aramis had, too. Everything seemed clean without any excessive neatness to suggest a setup. Nor was there anything to indicate Dhe's people were anywhere good enough to set up something so clever that it would look innocent.

When the face-to-face finished, there was a brief question-and-answer. The whole thing was so predictable.

"President Bishwanath, what do you intend to offer to the unemployed, since Department benefits have run out?"

"Obviously, we will be creating a system of payments to ensure these people are taken care of. However, there are delays in the implementation, since we have to identify everyone and arrange for funds to be delivered. With the existing lack of infrastructure, this could take time, but you have my assurance it's high on my list of priorities."

Bishwanath was good. All the questions fell into the same pattern. How much, what benefits, what money are you going to give to group X to buy their vote and ensure they don't riot like chimps? Isn't it your fault we trashed and burned our society and now have nothing to show? What about Lady G, who's living on the street? Why do we have to wait? Can't money be handed out now? Make people happy and security won't be a problem. Look at the money being spent on your guards . . . 

Then a reporter approached Elke. She tried to turn and be busy elsewhere, but a microphone was in her face, and she was on the spot. Their SOP was to give polite but uninformative replies and finish quickly. Elke could also pretend to speak no English, but she disliked doing that.

"Miss, you're one of the President's hired guards. How do you respond to allegations of waste on your contract?" The speaker had a practiced, pleasant smile and a huge set of tits that stunned Elke. They had to be natural, couldn't be comfortable, and the outfit was designed to make them very visible to the interviewee. That meant distraction. The woman operating them had to be bright and planning on being underestimated mentally.

"That's really not my place to say," she replied, programmed response. "The contract was arranged through BuState to my company. I don't handle such matters."

"Very well. What is it like guarding the President? How much time do you actually work?"

Inquiry of information not to be shared. "I really can't discuss that," she said, hoping to pass this off to Alex, but he was busy and she was in the crosshairs. "We have an ongoing task of planning and executing security in the palace and for events, rehearsing, training, making advance trips to locations. We're busy pretty much all day, every day."

"And what is he like, then?"

Personal. Be discreet. "He's a busy man, and we keep out of his way. He's been very gracious and hospitable with our facilities and support."

"Hypothetically, if there was an attack at one of these functions, would you work to protect other victims? Or is only the President your concern?"

Trap question!
"Obviously, the President's safety is our primary concern. Once we have ensured that, we are available to help others, depending on the situation. If you'll excuse me, I have to escort the President."

"Absolutely, ma'am, and thank you for your time."

She fell back into position as Bishwanath headed slowly for the car, shaking hands and smiling. "Grip and grin" it was called. Necessary, if time consuming.

They moved in, passed off and surrounded the President, escorted him to the car, and slipped inside as planned.

Alex said, "Okay, wrap up and head for the barn." Bart drove the escort this time, Jason had the President. They switched off at random for further safety, and rotated on who was close to Bishwanath as well. The catch was that either Shaman or Jason had to be nearby for medical support, and Bart and Jason were the best drivers. Jason was also deputy, so either he or Alex had to be in the primary vehicle. Jason was really the person to watch.

The local police did manage to hold the press back as they boarded, Elke on duty with Alex, Jason driving, and the others in the chase car. Bishwanath gave a last wave as they pulled away slowly. That slowness was predicated by the crush of crowd the police hadn't managed to restrain.

Once through the crowd, Jason accelerated. Elke grabbed a water bottle and downed a liter.

"Thirsty," she said, suddenly feeling sweat in the air-conditioned compartment.

"Very," Alex agreed. Bishwanath didn't say anything. He also was drinking, also water.

Gulping, Alex said, "Three kilometers and we'll group back up. Shouldn't be any real—"

Which was of course when the attack hit.

Elke's bottle went flying as something crashed into the car. She let it fly and dropped down, grabbing one of the dump guns and reaching for her shotgun. Alex sprawled across Bishwanath, and she snagged helmets from the center mount, one for each of them, then grabbed for her own. She had the wrong helmet, she realized as she slapped it on. It was too loose, but there wasn't time to deal with that.

Jason yelled, "Incoming rockets, get the fuck
out
! Right!" and she took that as gospel. Alex had one of Bishwanath's arms, she had the other. She kicked at the release on the right door as she slid over, and raised the carbine over her feet.

Half the seventy-round stick evaporated into a roar and a sharp smell, with plastic vapor in the air. By the time the burst finished, three point two seconds at full rate of fire, heat waves were pouring off the barrel and distorting the image in her glasses, and she'd fanned the shots across ninety degrees of space in front of them. A second burst indicated Jason unloading. Right now, it sucked to be anyone in the area, because their only concern was saving Bishwanath, no matter how many locals took fire.
Innocent bystander
was an oxymoron when someone was bringing rockets to bear.

She dropped the dump gun and tumbled out, Bishwanath rolled over her, pushed by Alex and crushing her left breast between their weight and the sharp angles of the carbine. Luckily, the serrated cap of the suppressor wasn't where it could poke her. The armor was good against impact but was quite soft otherwise, which was a mixed blessing. Alex stepped on her shoulder, but lightly as he sprang, then he was lifting the President off her.

"Mister President, we have to move! Please come with me!"

First thing was to clear a perimeter, but Jason had mentioned . . . 

SLABOOM!

Direct fire grenade. He'd said rockets, she thought through the ringing, and was glad of her earbuds. A glance back showed Jason patting Bishwanath down and slipping plugs in his ears, and Alex scanning. There were the other three. She'd missed their car being hit, but it was in pieces and flames now, everything forward of the passenger compartment shredded. Or maybe it going up had been the warning Jason had shouted. Bart limped a bit and curled around his left side, but was moving well.

They had a perimeter and their principal, and they were within a couple of kilometers of backup, including possible air cover. It was even possible Dhe's men would show up and be of help.

She shook her head, realizing she was a bit stunned to think something so silly. Those posers were useless even if they had courage, professionalism, or the desire to help, which they didn't.

"Report," Alex demanded.

"Argonaut, one, full, go, Dishwasher," Jason said. He had the President.

"Shaman, one, full, go, Dishwasher," Shaman said. Both medics had the President. No report of injuries.

"Babs, one, full, go," she said. Condition one. Her injuries were some scrapes, stings, and bruises, minor enough she wasn't going to report them.

"Brat, four, half, go," Bart said, indicating some injury and half ammo load.

"Aramis, two, three-quarter, go," Aramis said. Minor dings, a couple of bursts shot.

"Playwright, one, half, go, Dishwasher," Alex confirmed. "Cover and retreat. Say so?"

Both vehicles had been crashed with small trucks and then rocketed. That showed definite planning. They needed cover fast, and this was a largely residential area north of downtown with broad avenues and center islands. There wasn't much to cover behind except houses.

Elke heard a sound, identified it as nearby fire and a threat, then caught the movement.

"
Fire to our left!
" she shouted, and turned. Bodies stumbled through a doorway from an apartment building and headed toward them.

"Ground arriving, air en route, over," Weilhung's voice said.

Behind her, Jason had Bishwanath and turned for cover with Shaman. Aramis and Bart moved ahead to clear a building. Alex was moving to her right to cover her. In a few seconds, Recon should be there with the Hate Truck, but she had a fight on her hands now.

She raised her shotgun and shot at once, pointing center mass of the attacker closest to her. The others were spreading out slightly. She took a quick glance for threats while continuing to snap-shoot at the point. Fifteen meters wasn't enough distance to require aiming, and the pattern would be about fifty centimeters at that range.

The first two tumbled off the steps. The second one contented himself with twitching and clutching. The first one got to his knees and began to rise. Elke was already on one knee and shimmying behind a tree above the curb that would hopefully provide at least some cover from high-vel rounds. The skinny palm barely qualified as a tree and only her slenderness made it worthwhile as cover. At that, it wouldn't stop rifle fire, and maybe not carbine. Still, any cover was better than no cover.

One of the enemy was wearing body armor, and while she didn't believe it, a dress underneath. So that rumor really was true. A wiry, buff young male in a turquoise evening gown. His sartorial elegance didn't stop Death or her pellets from finding him. The first load shattered his hip, flashing crimson through the fabric, while the second, raised and right, went through his face. She was proud of that shot, but didn't stop to admire it. She scooted back, slip-stepping, to make sure she didn't trip on obstacles. Alex was in close with a carbine, chattering out bursts.

She tossed a retch-gas canister just downwind enough to be clear of it, a frequency tailored smoke upwind to conceal their retreat, and toggled her glasses to see through it. Then she swiped at a pocket to get a handful of what she called Nasty Pebbles. They were little balls of hyperexplosive wrapped around a kernel cap, with a fuse and microcontroller chip protruding enough so she could program them with the controller she had hanging under her right arm to counterbalance her pistol. She didn't waste time programming them under the circumstances. She just clutched and threw.

"Here they come," Alex said, and, "Dishwasher ready to be installed."

She was still slip-stepping backward as the pebbles started bursting with loud snaps. The smoke swirled and billowed, but she moved fast enough to keep it mostly between her and the threats. One more freak in a dress—a violet summer print with a fetching brimmed hat with a fringe—came running through, dripping blood where something had nicked him. She shot him. Slip-step might look like a silly pop-music dance step, but it also gave you a very smooth, level retreat that made shooting easy.

* * *

Jason had point and led the way toward the nearest building, a small house that would become their redoubt of the moment. He bounded up two steps. There were no obvious threats, but it paid to be discreet anyway. He doubted there were any here, but he was not paid to make that assumption. He stood to at the door as the rest closed in, keeping his attention split between street and their potential retreat. He couldn't let anything flank them, but also had to be aware for a tactical shift that would require exfiltrating through another route.

Aramis came up next. Jason watched him. The kid was doing his job well despite being the new guy. He laid down good fire and moved in an orderly fashion. Then he was against Jason. A few moments later, Shaman and Bart joined the huddle and it was time to move. Aramis goosed him to signal readiness. That wasn't a prank; the buttocks were the easiest exposed contact. He felt the touch and moved to the left, shooting a solid load into the door's mechanism, wishing for Elke's shotgun with breacher loads.

Bart kicked the door off its latch and stepped back again. Jason crescent-kicked it back against the wall and charged inside, to their right . . . 

Aramis was a few centimeters behind and moved left, as Shaman went straight, and Bart backed up behind Bishwanath. Alex and Elke tumbled up the steps and took position right inside the door. Elke reloaded at once and instinctively clutched a grenade. Bloodthirsty bitch. He was glad to have her along. He noted one civilian inside, not a threat.

Just outside, the Hate Truck rolled in. A crackle of electricity stunned all those nearby, then the troops inside opened up with the nonlethal hardware. Between stunners, weepy gas, and retch gas, psychoactive agents and foams sticky and slick, it was a matter of seconds before the entire streetful of locals started thrashing and puking, sliding around on the ground and sticking together, with the reek of shit coming from involuntarily voided bowels. Recon was required to use nonlethal force, but they used as much of it as they could get away with.

Aramis had wet himself. That of itself wasn't amusing; it happened even to experienced pros at times, and there were also times you had to go. It had really struck his macho ego, though, and he was trying hard to hide the dark stains down his legs. Elke snickered blatantly. She'd never had that problem that he knew of, but didn't think less of people who did. However, Aramis was now in a position of ruining his own image. That made it hysterical. Jason suppressed his own chuckle.
There's some humility for you, son.