Fontanas Trouble (7 page)

Fontana started to refuse, then
paused. If the Corps were watching her, or even if the cartel discovered her
whereabouts, she would want them to believe she was enjoying a real vacation.
Not to mention, Fontana didn’t like the fact that Janice—the Lauren Bacall
look-alike—had been in the same remote part of the station they currently were
in, or that strange flash of anger on her face when Brent had brushed her off
in favor of Fontana. Joining in on Brent’s fantasy –- an affair with him –- was
the perfect cover.

* * * *

Fontana shifted on the hotel
bathroom toilet seat as she studied the screen on her subspace videophone. Dawn
had only begun its crawl across the streets an hour ago when she’d slipped from
the bed where Brent still slept. They had fallen asleep at three in the
morning, and he hadn’t stirred since.

As hoped, the New Kenyian had
sent information on the freighter. His source reported the freighter had been
carrying PAs, or photonic activators. Fontana’s jaw tensed. Who had the
freighter captain paid off to get PAs past inspection? That had taken serious
funds. By themselves, PAs were harmless. But customs had to know that when
combined with Poincaré crystals, it created a near infinite source of energy
using the zero-point state of the quantum vacuum.

Poincaré crystals were extremely
rare. She didn’t have to ask where they planned on getting them. Jenny had been
working on Poincaré crystals on Rigil IV. But no one was supposed to know that
was part of her research. Someone had leaked the information to Gaelen Castor.

Anger rose, but Fontana
concentrated on the message. She now knew what Castor had wanted on Rigil IV.
But the crystals couldn’t be what he’d beamed off the planet in those last
seconds before his warehouse exploded—the substance wouldn’t have gotten past
the security filters.

And what about the freighter's
shipment? Had they set out before or after the Corps had captured Gaelen? How
did the Track Cartel plan to get the crystals? All cartel members on Rigil IV
had been arrested, and nothing had left the planet since then. Fontana stilled.
Except the S-warp drone with Jenny’s body.

Her heart sped up. It wasn’t
possible. Fontana’s stomach turned. Surely even Gaelen Castor wasn’t such a
monster as to murder a woman in order to use her coffin as a way to smuggle
contraband off a planet. Was he?

Chapter Eight

At 9:15 that night, Fontana stood
shoulder to shoulder with Brent in a dark alley in Sagitariun’s section of the
1920s replica of Chicago, their backs pressed against a building with a brick
facade seven stories high. Imitation moonlight illuminated wooden crates and
steel trash cans outside the back doors of the ground-level businesses. An
occasional scrap of simulated newsprint drifted in the breeze. A horn blasted,
and Fontana jerked her gaze to the Ford Model A that dodged a pedestrian
cutting across the street. She hadn’t been to this part of Sagitariun and found
it oddly attractive. Rick’s Morocco had a civilized veneer that was absent
here.

Brent’s instructions said the
crime kingpin Jimmy the Bull had the abort key, a data file Brent needed.
Jimmy’s office sat across the street in the back room of Eastside Billiards.
Fontana had located a rough floor plan for the building on the resort’s help
system. The layout was simple. Like many speakeasies, this one had been a bar
before Prohibition, but the bar area now served as a pillbox for Jimmy’s
henchmen.

“You think we cased the joint
good enough from the cab earlier?” Brent asked.

Fontana bit back a laugh at his
attempt at 1920s mobster vernacular.

“The guy with the Tommy gun could
be a problem.” He stared at the man outside the pool hall.

Yellow light from the streetlight
streamed down on the guard who leaned against the brick beside the front door,
the early twentieth-century submachine gun hugged against his body like a
lover. The report from Brent’s agent had stated that Jimmy kept two bodyguards
close. But it wasn’t the guards that concerned her.

“The people playing pool could be
a problem.” She’d noted the half-dozen players through the front windows when
they’d passed by in the cab. “If they get in the way, we’ll have to abort the
operation.”

Brent turned his head toward her,
an odd look on his face, and Fontana realized her words
abort the operation
had caught his attention. This was a fantasy, not an operation, and casualties
weren’t a possibility.

She grinned. “What do you think;
can we beat the system and finish your fantasy ahead of time?”

A smile spread across his face.
“Hell, yes!”

“They’ve got a couple more
customers.” She nodded at the man and woman entering through the front door.

In the hour since they’d watched
the building, they’d observed guests coming and going, headed for the speakeasy
in the back of the building. She and Brent wore loose brown suits, white
shirts, and thin neckties. Had this been a real operation, she would have been
properly outfitted, have complete intel on the building and Jimmy’s operation,
and possibly have had backup and extraction arranged. At minimum, she would be
wearing Nylene body armor, a formfitting bodysuit that wouldn’t stop a bullet
but was effective against slow-moving projectiles like knives and flying glass.

She had no access to equipment or
weapons here at the resort. Nothing more dangerous than a table knife could be
had. But that was also the case for the Bull as well as the guard carrying the
wicked-looking Tommy gun. Their guns—props—only looked real. Fontana again
shifted her attention onto the guard. Unlike the inconspicuous modern handheld
weapons, the submachine gun looked every bit an instrument of death. She
wouldn’t want to face the primitive weapon if it was real.

As part of Brent’s cover, his
agent had given him a pool cue that unscrewed into two pieces and rested inside
the case he’d set on the ground beside him. She and Brent had agreed that he
would leave the cue here, and Fontana would use the thick, heavy end as a
weapon.

“If we get in and out without any
trouble, the people in the back room won’t be aware anything’s going on,” she
said. “We can retrieve the key and be out of here before they report to
Sagitariun that it was stolen. You know your part?”

“I get a game of pool going, then
start a fight with the thugs that keeps them busy.”

Fontana would enter through the
alley and surprise the actors inside, who wouldn’t expect him to have an
accomplice. She would force Jimmy and his gang to retreat so Brent could
retrieve the code from the safe. She was almost giddy. What would the resort do
when Brent solved his fantasy well in advance of their schedule? The fantasy
adventure games were designed to be unsolvable until the very last hour. Many
guests finished their quest in the last few seconds and ended up rushing to
catch their departing ship or missing it altogether and taking another flight.
That was considered a successful fantasy. If she and Brent beat the computers,
the planners might have a nervous breakdown.

The prospect of blowing off steam
with some hard play had her blood pumping. She hadn’t played war games since
her days at the academy. This was a damned good distraction. Fontana shifted
her gaze to Brent. He stared at the building, oblivious to her interest.

The only better distraction was
having his cock inside her—or hers inside him. The thought of repeating their
experience at the Roman baths sent a frisson of desire through her—just as
seeing the way his broad shoulders filled out the brown suit did. The white
collar of his shirt hugged his tanned neck like a silk manacle. Fontana leaned
the few centimeters toward his ear and drew in a deep breath of his scent. His
head swiveled in her direction. His eyes lay in shadow, but she recognized the
sudden tensing of his body as both surprise and desire. She’d give him a little
distraction.

She again brought her mouth to
his ear and brushed his skin with her lips as she whispered, “See the window up
there?” The shudder she felt in his body sent a jolt straight between her legs.
Yep, this was the way to play war games. “The window,” she repeated and pointed
at the side of Jimmy’s building facing the alley.

He looked toward the building.
“The window with the sash propped up with the piece of wood?”

“I’m not positive what room it
is,” she said. “The plans weren’t detailed—but it’s close to Jimmy’s office.”

“The window is three centimeters
from the ground,” he said. “Can you get up there?”

“One of those crates over there
will hold my weight. You ready?”

He looked at her, and a corner of
his mouth curved upward. “I’ve never walked in the front door when trying to
break into a place.”

“The best defense is a good
offense. I’ll wait two minutes, then go in. You sure you can handle those
boys?”

His smile widened. “Somebody’s
got to save this space station.”

She laughed. He dropped a kiss on
her mouth, then sauntered across the street and into the vulture’s den. She
watched him through the plate-glass window. The men inside turned as he
entered. He strolled up to the bar and said something to the two men behind the
counter. The men looked at each other, and the taller man—he stood two meters
tall and skinny as a laser beam—raised his chin and answered. Brent stepped to
the side out of view. She would love to watch him in action. Better yet, drag
him back out here and straddle him right there in the alley.

What would he have done if she’d
shoved him against the wall and impaled herself on his cock? She recalled the
thick rod inside her ass, and a shiver slid down her spine. The man wasn’t shy.
She was half-surprised he
hadn’t
fucked her in the alley. Maybe when
they got the codes from Jimmy, they could stop to finish what they’d started
that first day outside Spacer Jack’s.

Brent’s two minutes were up. He
still stood talking to the men. Fontana retrieved the heavy end of the pool cue
from its case and stuffed it into her waistband at her back. She fitted her
jacket over the cue as she shifted her attention to the guard. His gaze was
straight ahead. She slipped from the alley, walked up the sidewalk a few meters,
then dashed across the street between traffic. The guard gave no indication
he’d noticed her, and she ducked into the alley beside Eastside Billiards.

She slid a crate under the window
and piled a second smaller one on top, then climbed up. Her fingertips just
reached the windowsill. From her vantage point, the only thing visible inside
the room was a white ceiling. Fontana jumped up and latched on to the
windowsill and started to pull herself up. A globe light fixture came into
view, then a black-and-white-checkered tile wall opposite the window. A tile
wall meant a washroom. A men’s restroom, she realized once the stalls and
porcelain urinals came into view. Who would be expecting a trained woman to
attack from the men’s bathroom? That should send the actors running for their
mamas. From her vantage point, she couldn’t tell if any of the stalls were
occupied.

Fontana heaved herself over the
sill, threw one leg through the opening, then pulled the other leg over as she
touched down inside. Three stalls stood on the left, and sinks jutted from the
wall on the right. Straight ahead on the opposite wall hung two urinals
separated by partitions and the entrance door. She squatted to look under the
stall doors into the toilets. Empty. She strode to the entrance and eased the
door open a crack. To the left, the hallway led to the poolroom, where one of
the pool tables was in sight.

Brent’s voice drifted down the
hall. “How about you? You think you can kick my ass?”

Fontana grimaced. If he wasn’t
careful, those men would strip him and send him running, an element that seemed
to be the theme of his fantasy.

“I’ll take you on,” said a man
with a gravelly voice, followed by the sound of crumpling paper.

“All you mugs are witnesses.”

Fontana chuckled. Brent had
watched too many old movies.

“One hundred bucks.” Brent
stepped into view as he crossed to the cue rack on the wall. He selected a cue,
sighted along its length, and inspected the tip like a pro. “I’ll break.”

“No,” said Mr. Gravelly Voice.
“We lag for break.”

Brent turned. “What’s that?”

Raucous laughter broke out, and
someone said, “You have a pigeon, Mac.”

“Go ahead, you break, then,”
Brent said.

Fontana needed to get a look at
the hallway to the right. Jimmy’s office had to be in that direction, but she
would have to open the door wider and expose herself to anyone who moved into
the line of sight from the poolroom or any guards lounging at the end of the
hall.

A crack of colliding balls
indicated the game had started. She eased open the door and peeked around the
doorjamb. No guards stood in the hall at any of the three doors right outside
the men’s room: one to her right, one on her left, and one straight ahead. She
frowned. Those three rooms weren’t on the plans. But then, the men’s restroom
hadn’t been either. She guessed the room beside the men’s room had to be the
ladies’ room, and the one on the left was probably a storage closet. She hoped
she was right. If she got them caught, Brent would never let her live it down.

Fontana glanced toward the
poolroom to find no one in her line of sight, then hurried to the door at the
end of the hall. She turned the handle and stepped inside.

Jimmy the Bull looked up from
behind a wide desk that was neat enough to belong to a corporate executive. A
banker’s lamp with a green shade sat in the right-hand corner, and a
twenties-style telephone lay beside it, along with a cigar box and ashtray—all
of which she recognized from watching old movies. Sitting on the left side of
the desk was a pair of dice and something with a dozen buttons and a lever with
a handle sticking out the side.

“Who the hell are you?” Jimmy
demanded.

Fontana grinned. Seemed the Bull
didn’t like visitors.

He looked exactly like his online
photo. He had his jet-black hair slicked back and had flabby jowls like a
Greduvian bulldog. He wore a black-striped vest, a fat, puffy necktie, and a
blood red dress shirt.

“What do you want?” he growled.

She closed the door and pulled
the pool cue from her waistband. “I’m here for the codes. Hand them over, or I
get rough.” When in Rome…

He stared for a long moment, then
laughed. A rush of adrenaline jumpstarted her heart. He wanted to be pummeled
by a lead-filled stick? This was what she’d hoped for.

Fontana surveyed the room. Three
wooden cabinets sat against the left wall, alongside a floor lamp. A coatrack
was located beside the door, and a guest chair faced Jimmy’s desk. The chair.
Fontana tightened her grip on the pool cue and took two steps forward as she
swung the heavy end at the chair. The impact stung her hands but made a
satisfying crack. The chair slid across the floor and hit the wall.

The Bull stopped laughing. “Get
out before I mess up your pretty face.”

She brought the cue down on his
banker’s lamp. The green lampshade dented. The lamp flipped end over end onto
the floor.

He jerked the desk drawer open.
His hand came up aiming a revolver at her. “Dames like you need to be taught a
lesson. I’ll give you to my boys—after I finish with you.”

Fontana lifted a brow. Beam and
explosives were today’s lethal weapons of choice. She’d never seen a revolver.
The old weapons were ass backward. Instead of an explosion at the target, the
explosion was inside the weapon—which didn’t mean it wasn’t dangerous. But this
was all a game. Still, it might be entertaining to hear that prop gun
go
poof
.

She pointed the pool cue at him.
“How about I break your legs?” Fontana couldn’t resist another grin. She was
really getting the hang of things.

He fired. The cue shattered out
of her hand. The gunshot rang in her ears as her arm jammed back with force.
Pain radiated from her hand clear to her shoulder.

“What the—” Fontana started
toward him, then stopped short when he leveled the barrel at her stomach.
Footfalls sounded in the hall. She yanked her head in the direction of the
door.