Bone Song (17 page)

“Oh, Bastard Balrooney, we used to call him.”

“And this was in—”

Harald looked at Alexa, then at Donal, and smiled peacefully. “The Fighting Sevens.”

Donal had rarely come across the men of the 777th during his own military career, but those few had always lived up to the reputation of their brigade, known widely as the Cursed Commandos. He had once seen a one-eyed old sergeant of the 777th take down six military policemen, before walking back to barracks and handing himself in for punishment.

“Mr. Gentle,” Donal said.

Harald smiled again.

“So what do we do next?” asked Alexa.

“The usual.” Harald closed his food box and tucked it away. “We pick the most comfortable surveillance spot and wait.”

That was the way of things. Surveillance consisted mostly of watching and dying to take a pee. The biggest challenge was boredom and the tendency to doze off.

From somewhere behind them, an engine started up, then revved with power.

“Did you say we were going to wait?” muttered Donal.

“I am occasionally wrong,” said Harald.

A dark car turned into the avenue, its headlights a liquid malevolent green. Then the driver accelerated hard, and the car sped past them. Startled, a reptilian gekkobat launched itself from a stone tree and flapped away into the dark, featureless sky.

“Shit,” said Alexa.

The limousine parked at the curb started up, as the passenger window rolled down. “You guys want a ride?” The speaker was square-jawed and gray-haired: the sergeant that Harald had mentioned. “Better hurry.”

The driver had the limo pointing the wrong way, but he swung away from the curb in a tight U-turn and jerked to a stop next to Donal and Alexa. Donal pulled the door open and pushed Alexa inside, then followed.

“Go ahead,” said Harald. “I'll catch up.”

“Okay.”

Donal pulled his door shut, and acceleration slammed him back into the seat.

“Don't let him see you,” he muttered to the driver—what was his name again? “Uh, you're Ralfinko, right?”

“Yeah, and you gotta be kidding. The bastard's already out of sight.”

Tires screeched as Ralfinko hauled them through a left turn and piled on the acceleration.

At the corner of Silvan Avenue and 504th rose a blood-red craggy tower, famed locally for its twisted architecture, black oval windows that looked like rows of eyes, and the odd visitors who passed through its doors.

On a windowsill on the thirteenth floor, near the junction where a necrotonic cable disappeared into the wall, a gray cat hunched. Its crimson gaze followed the embassy car speeding past below, followed by a dark limousine, then a small car, and finally a bone-colored motorcycle, taking up the rear but accelerating hard.

The cat blinked.

After a moment, it leaped lightly onto the hanging cable and walked on toward the next roof, dismissing the chase it had seen developing below. Two other cats had relayed the message since the hard-bitten tomcat, Dilven, got it from the young Spike, but it was the goings-on at the docks that would concern Laura Steele.

The place where she awaited news, Darksan Tower, stood tall against the purple sky.

Viktor pressed down with his thumbs, and the sniper gave a strangled scream, all that his paralyzed vocal cords would allow. At this stage, the sniper didn't even know what information Viktor was after. This was only to establish that Viktor was willing to cause suffering.

Willing, and able.

“A short woman.” Viktor's voice was low and throaty, designed to reinforce fear. “With green eyes. Have you seen her?”

“No. . .” The sniper could only croak a whisper. “Haven't—”

Viktor pressed again, hard, and the sniper's back arched off the floor, though his limbs remained helpless. Viktor had worked on the shoulders and hips first, and those joints must be burning in agony by now.

“Is there a prisoner? A woman?”

“I—Yes!” A finger twitched: all that the sniper could manage as a warding-off gesture. “There . . . Sal. Got some . . . one.”

Viktor glanced at the window. “In the compound? Sally the Claw's in there?”

The sniper nodded, eyes wide.

“With a prisoner?” Viktor's jaw muscles flexed. “Tell me.”

“Brought her . . . in. Tonight.”

“Her name. What's her—”

But the sniper was already shaking his head. If he knew the name, he'd say it: Viktor was sure of that.

“Which building?”

“Block . . . Three.”

Viktor didn't know which building that was, but he wasn't going to ask—to maintain dominance, he had to appear to already know almost everything.

“What else can you tell me?”

The sniper shook his head.

Viktor stared down at him. As the sniper regained consciousness, fear and bewilderment had cracked his conscious defenses, and direct questions had elicited answers. But now Viktor had run out of specifics to ask about.

“Next time,” said Viktor, “choose your employer more carefully.”

“No, you—”

Viktor's fist hammered down.

Afterward, just in case he had missed something on the first search, Viktor went through the beaten man's pockets with care, finally extracting a small brass ID strip. It was stamped with the dragon-wing logo of CalTransPort, the main holding company of Sally the Claw's near-legitimate import-export group.

There was no personal identification to go with it. For a moment Viktor considered stripping the sniper of his armored hexlar vest and impersonating him, rifle in hand. But there was no way of knowing whether the guards down below knew the sniper by sight, or even by name.

Or perhaps Viktor was too attached to his own leather jacket to want to leave it in this infested joint.

Shaking his head, he picked up the unconscious sniper's rifle, checked the balance, and ejected the magazine. It held a clip of five long, slender bullets. If the sniper had a spare clip, he must have hidden it somewhere, and he was in no position to divulge that information now.

Viktor put the cartridge clip in his jacket pocket. Then, with a last inspection of the sniper—the man would live, provided someone found him within the next few hours—Viktor left the bare room. The landing and the rest of the dilapidated building looked clear. He stepped carefully over the trip wire, and went down the old treads quickly but almost silently.

At ground level, he stepped over broken shards on the floor, ducked under the stairs, and groped around until he found a suitable hiding place. He slid the rifle into the gap between a tread and a broken shelf—this had once been a cupboard, but the door had long since been ripped off, probably used for firewood.

There. Good. The rifle was too conspicuous to take inside the complex, but if Viktor had to retreat, this would be a good place to grab a long-range weapon. Five shots would drop one or two pursuers, maybe more.

Viktor hefted the brass ID strip in his left hand and walked out of the building, pulling the door shut behind him. If someone was expecting the door to be hexed but had no detector, then everything would look as before. If they
did
have a detector, they'd know the defenses had been breached. There was nothing Viktor could do to help that.

In the broken alleyway beside the building, Viktor paused, scanning the street, the blackened pits that were paneless windows in other buildings. Then he took a deep breath, held it, and let it out.

Viktor walked out into the open street and headed for the main gate, his walk loose-limbed and confident, projecting ease. Inside, his nerves crawled. Perspiration speckled his skin as the fine hairs rose across the back of his shoulders.

Someone behind the wire fence swung a flashlight beam in Viktor's direction.

T
hey hurtled through the streets,
not yet in open pursuit. If anything, the man they were tracking should be suspicious at the lack of cops. Twice he'd gone through stoplights at speed.

On the other hand, this was the early hours of the morning, and they were into the less-than-salubrious district of Vulkan's Vale, otherwise known as Blood Alley. Here, police cruisers traveled in convoy or not at all.

“I don't like this,” muttered Alexa, sitting on Donal's left.

“Ralfinko knows what he's doing,” said the sergeant from the front.

“Yeah.” Donal gave a grin that lasted half a second. “We can see that. But why's the target going so fast?”

“Because he can,” said Ralfinko. “Looks like he's got diplomatic flags flying.”

“Or—”

Donal stopped as the radio squawked beneath the dashboard. The sergeant pulled the mike from its clip.

“Car oh-seven-niner. What's up?”

“Is Lieutenant Riordan with you?”

“Yeah, affirmative.”

“Could you put him on, please?”

“Er, sure.”

Donal leaned forward as the sergeant passed the mike back. The coiled cable just reached over the back of the passenger seat. Donal clicked the mike to transmit.

“Riordan.”

“Sir, Bone Listener Carryn said we needed to tell you this. There's been a break-in in the OCML.”

“What?” said the sergeant, while Ralfinko muttered, “Impossible.”

“There are four fatalities reported so far, sir, including Dr. d'Alkarny.”

“Say again?” Donal glanced at Alexa. “Did you say Wilhelmina d'Alkarny?”

“That's correct. We have possible sightings of a green van leaving the vicinity, possibly with stolen goods aboard.”

“Stolen goods? From the morgue?”

“Sir, Bone Listener Carryn says to tell you, the missing body belonged to Director Cortindo.”

“Damn it,” muttered Donal, with the mike still set to receive. He clicked to transmit. “Can you contact Commander Steele?”

“Sorry, sir, but no. We've been trying.”

Outside the window, buildings were streaming past. Then Blood Alley was dropping away as the car climbed the steep onramp to the ten-lane skyway. Donal realized that Ralfinko had floored the acceleration by the way the engine howled.

“What is it?”

“Your man from the embassy is up ahead.”

“Yeah, but—”

“And he's driving parallel to a green van.”

Donal stared at Ralfinko for a moment, then clicked the mike. “Control, do you have any more description on the green van?

From the OCML incident?”

“Negative, sir.”

“Shit.”

Alexa said, “We need to coordinate with our other cars. Can we get a roadblock across the skyway?”

The traffic was sparse, moving fast. There was one more exit ramp before they reached the two-thousand-foot-high skull intersection passing into the mouth.

“Control,” said Donal. “Stand by for all points. Listen, have you got any cars down on the flat that can block Exit Forty-seven North? We need a barrier.”

“Sir.”
There was a loud crackle, then:
“Done it. Two cars moving to block off.”

The freeway curved and banked, and just for a second Donal glimpsed the white-and-purple flashing beacons ahead and down below, as the cars closed off the exit at ground level.

“Nice work, Control. We have a possible match for the green van, linking up with our own suspect.”

“I'll relay that information.”

Up ahead, white-and-purple flashes showed from inside the empty right orb of the great skull. More cruisers in position. But on the route that Ralfinko was following, no obstacles were visible. The green van and the Illurian embassy limo increased their speed, drawing away from the pursuit.

Then a long, low bone-colored motorcycle swept past in the fast lane, as if the cars were standing still. Ralfinko flinched.

“What the Thanatos—”

“That's Harald,” said Alexa.

At the edge of the dock complex, a dark-finned low-slung automobile drew close to the wire fence. It was a Vixen, top of the line, and more. The vehicle seemed to shrug as it drew close to the wire.

Silvery waves passed across the fence, then faded from sight as the Vixen's door swung open. Laura stepped out onto the cracked asphalt.

“It's hexed, sis,” Laura muttered. “Can you do something about it?”

A glimmer grew in the headlights. The car rolled forward, edging closer to the fence, until its passenger side was touching the wire. More silver pulses passed along the wire, arcing downward as if tugged by gravity. Soon there was a dark area of fence directly above the Vixen: the car was diverting the hex flow along her chassis.

“The hood's safe?” Despite her skirt suit, Laura climbed up onto the hood, her high heels morphing into combat boots. “Nice one, sis.”

Laura checked the pistol holstered at the small of her back, slung her handbag diagonally over one shoulder, and leaped lightly from the hood toward the fence. She landed like a cat about to scramble up, hands and feet fastening into the wire mesh.

At the top of the fence, razor wire writhed and swirled. But as Laura neared the uppermost portion of the mesh, she was deep in concentration, preparing herself. When she reached the wire, she grabbed with both hands simultaneously. The wire bucked and thrashed, and then the section between her hands grew limp.

After a moment, Laura scrambled over the top and descended to the other side.

That's one thing I couldn't have done when I was alive.

By the time she reached ground level, the razor wire was stirring again, though feebly.

“If I don't come back—”

The Vixen flashed her headlights.

“Yes, I will be.” Laura opened her handbag and checked the larger gun inside: a Grauser .23. It was a smaller caliber than Viktor carried, but still a man-stopper. “Don't worry so much.”

She moved into shadow.

Inside the Vixen, a small furry shape stirred, then curled up into a ball. Spike closed his eyes, whiskers spreading as he slipped into sleep.

He had done all he could, passing on the message to the network and keeping watch on the man, Viktor, as he entered the compound. He had told Laura which building Viktor had entered. Everything else was up to her.

The air in the car's cabin was warm, soothing. In seconds, Spike was breathing softly, paws twitching as he dreamed of the chase, before growing relaxed once more.

But the car herself maintained a watch, tracking Laura's progress for as long as she was able, until Laura slipped among piles of shipment pallets and was lost from sight.

They'd blocked the off-ramp, so the green van and the limo were constrained to remain on the skyway. No one had thought to block the next on-ramp, even if there had been cars available, but as soon as Donal caught sight of the second big truck he knew there was a problem.

There were six of them, approaching the skyway at improbable speed, though they were hauling huge trailers. The trailers had to be empty.

“Speed up,” Donal told Ralfinko. “Get past those bastard trucks.”

A light silver rain was beginning to fall. Slippery road surfaces were not what they needed.

“I see 'em, but I can't get there,” muttered Ralfinko. “Not before—Shit.”

Already the first three trucks had pulled alongside one another in the fast lanes and were beginning to slow. Harald on his bike was just behind them, and then he was level with their tailgates.

Just as Harald started to accelerate into the gap between two trucks, they drove closer together, dangerously close, blocking Harald's bike. Harald fell back.

Two more trucks moved into position, blocking the road. The sixth was backup, and it pulled in behind one of the others as the whole formation slowed.

“Damn it.”

The sergeant was using the mike, describing the situation to Control. Alexa watched Donal pull out his Magnus and check it before reholstering. She bit her lip.

“What is it?” said Donal.

“They're well organized.” Alexa was staring forward. “So far. What have they got in mind for up ahead?”

The sergeant put down the mike. “We got barricades across every lane beyond the skull. Once they're in, they ain't leaving.”

At that moment, Donal saw something: a shadow high in the sky.

“I don't think,” he said, “they're planning to leave by road at all.”

“You've gotta be—”

“There goes Harald,” said Alexa.

The motorbike shot forward through the narrow gap, and then Harald was clear of the trucks, accelerating in front of them. Behind the trucks, civilian cars were braking, pulling over; in front, one car was driving too slowly, while the other three drivers that Donal could see were making use of their mirrors and speeding up, drawing farther ahead of the steadily slowing trucks blocking the skyway.

A truck nudged the slow car in the rear, jolting it. The driver panicked, swerving across two lanes before regaining control and flooring the accelerator. Far ahead of him were the green van and the dark limo, with the bone-colored Phantasm motorcycle fast catching up.

Then a sequence of white flashes brightened the night, reflected as silver threads in the thickening rain.

“What the hell is Harald firing?” Donal leaned forward, trying to make out what was happening.

“Don't ask,” said Alexa. “I'm sure it's regulation issue.”

Ralfinko snorted.

“Sure,” he said. “So you got any ideas on how to get past these guys?”

The trucks were still slowing down. Civilian cars had already stopped. The sergeant looked back at Donal; both men nodded and turned to roll down their windows. Ralfinko's face grew mask-like with concentration as he drove close to the trucks' tailgates and kept the car steady.

It took a magazine full of shots from Donal and the sergeant firing in parallel to blow out the rear tire, but when it happened, it was spectacular. Ralfinko swung the car left, hard, just as the truck swerved and bounced from the neighboring truck on one side to the other, the skid setting up an oscillation.

Then Ralfinko jerked up the hand brake and slammed his heel into the brake pedal, turning the car sideways into a skidding deceleration as the colliding trucks bounced off one another. The crash became catastrophic as four of the six trucks entangled and the fifth lurched and toppled. Only the sixth managed to brake as the remainder collided, smashed, and swerved across the lanes, one going through the central barrier and into the opposing lanes.

Flame belched from a truck that was lying on its side.

The car stood still.

“Can you get through?” Donal pointed to a path through the wreckage. “That way.”

“Got ya.” Ralfinko gunned the engine.

Donal had already slammed a replacement clip into his Magnus.

More white weapons fire flashed from Harald's motorcycle up ahead, and the dark limo swerved but corrected its course. They were less than a minute from the orange-lit mouth of the great skull, and the chase was getting serious.

Donal leaned out the open window, eyes squinted against the slipstream, and stared up into the sky. Nothing. He must have imagined the—

There.

“Shit.” He pulled himself back inside the car. “It's big, maybe a pterabat.”

“What the Death have they got going on?” said the sergeant.

“I don't know,” said Donal. “But let's make sure they don't get away with it.”

The sergeant had the mike again and was telling Control to get air support organized any way they could, but things were moving fast: everyone knew there was no time left.

White fire flashed up ahead once more, and this time the dark limo screeched across the fast lane and ricocheted from the central barrier. It swerved back, and for a moment Donal thought the driver had regained control, but then the limo wobbled, Harald fired twice more, and the rear tires went.

The limo swung wide and spun as it headed for the hard shoulder and hit the balustrade.

Concrete exploded and the limo went straight through, sailing out into the air. Donal shut his eyes, trying to listen for the impact, hearing nothing amid the ongoing roar of motor and slipstream and the shocked voices of Alexa and Ralfinko.

“Impossible!”

“What kind of—”

“It was molyscarab armor,” the sergeant told them. “The limo's body. I've seen the stuff before. Goes through anything.”

Up ahead, the green van—looking black as it slid into the orange sodium-vapor light—was entering the tunnel, through the great skull's mouth.

“You're not saying the limo survived that drop?” Alexa was staring back at the gap in the balustrade.

“The bodywork might,” said the sergeant. “But the wheels 'n' axles are a different story, and the driver's probably a mite squished by—”