Ruthless (9 page)

There was a knock at the door. "Johnny!" bellowed Wulf from outside.

"You can put me down now," squeaked the Gronk, considerably more subdued.

Johnny ushered them in.

"We've got der trouble," said Wulf.

"Oh yeah," said Johnny. "I'll say."

"Who on Earth is this?" asked Nigel.

"Wulf Sternhammer, Nigel Less," said Johnny. "And the furry thing's a Gronk."

"Hello," squeaked the Gronk. Nigel shrank a little beneath his covers.

"Johnny, Sick Squid is in der building," said Wulf.

"Oh, sneck it. What's he doing here?"

"Probably getting his ribs fixed," glowered Wulf pointedly. "You have given him der excuse to get into the hospital."

Johnny sighed.

"Okay, okay, sorry. It's still gonna take him a while to find this room." Wulf flapped his hand in imitation of a mouth opening and closing. "The doctor treating him is der big talker. Loves to tell you der stuff."

"Dammit. How long have we got?"

"Ten minutes, tops."

Johnny wiped his hand across his forehead. It was turning into another one of those days.

"Who is this Sick Squid?" asked Nigel.

"He's another Search/Destroy Agent," said Wulf.

"Yeah," said Johnny. "And he's a bad one."

"Worse than Simon der Hapless Boy," added Wulf.

"Aren't you guys all, like, on the same side?" asked Nigel.

Johnny and Wulf permitted themselves a two-second chuckle before bellowing "No!" in unison.

Johnny and Wulf cased the hospital cafeteria with practised ease, darting glances left and right, looking for any gaze bold enough to return their own. The high-vaulted hall rang with unbearable clatter: knives and forks, spoons and chopsticks, prongs, scoops, and mini-suction devices, all banging on plates, bowls, and each other. Native Tammerfortians screeched at the top of their avian lungs, each trying to outdo the clamour from the neighbouring table. Human visitors and staff sat scattered about the room, earplugs clearly visible even from a distance. It was hardly the ideal place to have a private chat.

Johnny peered over a Tammerfortian's high, feathered shoulders at the dish of the day, which propelled him to get the sneck out of the place as soon as possible. He made a beeline for the Fire Exit and bashed on the lever. Wulf and the Gronk followed him through, the door slammed shut, and they were in the blissful quiet of an access stairwell.

Johnny sat wearily on the dusty, unadorned concrete step. Wulf did likewise several feet above, where the upper flight of steps right-angled away. The Gronk snuggled against Johnny and gently nudged him with its head, attempting to elicit some kind of friendly reaction. Johnny patted its head absently.

"What do you think?" said Wulf.

"We give Squid five minutes in there. Let him think we're still on the way."

"It is good,
jah
?"

"Yeah. He doesn't know about Ruth. Nigel can spin him the official line, send him off on a wild goose chase. Let Squid think he's ahead, and we're still pissed off about him stealing our money."

"
Jah
," mused Wulf, tugging at his beard. "It is probably der only thing keeping him from going to the cops."

The Gronk squealed as Johnny inadvertently tugged at the fur on the back of its neck.

"Sorry, Gronk," he said.

"So, are you to be filling me on this?" asked Wulf.

"Ruthie and Nigel are cool," said Johnny. "She's unhurt, and she didn't attack him."

"Oh," exclaimed Wulf happily. "That is fantastic."

"Yeah," nodded Johnny. "Nigel was beaten up by the crooks he hired to smuggle Ruthie offworld."

"Ah, that is not so good."

"And they've kidnapped Ruth. She's probably still in stasis. We need to get her back at the handover or she could be shipped anywhere in the galaxy."

The Gronk let out a plaintive sigh. It looked up at Johnny and blinked sympathetically. Despite the miserable situation, Johnny found himself smiling thinly back at it.

"What do we do?" asked Wulf.

"We'll be the bag men. We'll take the cash out to the location tonight."

"Which is where?"

"We don't know yet."

"Johnny, should we not be going to the police?"

Johnny shook his head. "We can't let anyone find out who Ruth is."

"Johnny," said Wulf, sternly. He held out his hands, palms upraised in a pre-emptive gesture of surrender. "Do not be flying off der handle, but-"

"What?"

"You short tempered all of the time. You beat up der Squid. You don't tell der police. You make der plans for double-crossing der kidnappers. What kind of law enforcement are you?"

"This is different. This is family."

"I'm just saying, these things might be working out on the frontier, but we are back in the cities now. You know, in the civilisation. They do things differently here."

"It's cramping my style," glowered Johnny.

"This is not your style at all! You are not the Johnny I know."

Johnny ruffled the Gronk's fur. "Okay Wulf, you're feeling out of place, too?"

"Oh,
jah
."

"You think this isn't regular bounty hunter territory?"

"Well," said Wulf carefully, "
Jah
."

"I'm working an angle."

"You are? This isn't about your sister?"

"No, it is. But what Nigel said in there has put a whole new spin on stuff."

Wulf perked up. So did the Gronk, lifting its head off Johnny's lap and staring at him expectantly. Wulf leaned in closer.

"What is it?" he asked.

"Nigel was dealing with body sharks."

"Oh boy!"

"In this sector, that means he can only be dealing with one organisation."

Wulf looked pensive for a moment. Then he leapt to his feet in excitement, so swiftly that the Gronk began to quiver in surprise. "Johnny, they are Alnitak's men! We are dealing with the Alnitak guy!"

"Quite possibly," said Johnny. "Him, his henchman Tuka, and one of the other minions. So..."

"This is not the snecky poo money at all! This is big cash!"

"Right, and-"

"If they can lead us to their big boss, the reward is in the millions."

"We's rich," squeaked the Gronk.

Wulf and the Gronk attempted to high-five each other, an act rendered difficult by their obvious disparity in height.

"Wait!" said Johnny. "Hold on!"

They stopped and waited. Johnny knew that look. He had seen it in men's eyes at Stonehenge and Upminister, glowing on the faces of S/D Agents on a hundred worlds, waiting for his word. They trusted him and they would follow him anywhere. Deep down, he heard a troubled whisper that it had been some time since he had seen them like this - for several days, they had been doubting him, and it was only now he realised it.

"First things first," he said. "We do the swap, we get Ruthie back, and
then
we see if we can take down the real bad guys."

"Okay," said Wulf, punching the air with his fist. Beside him, the Gronk nodded eagerly until its head spun and it had to stop.

"Which means," said Johnny, "we need decoy money. Something to go in the bags at the handover."

"How are you going to do that?" said Wulf.

Johnny sniffed. "I guess we'll have to go to a pawnshop," he said.

Wulf's eyes went wide in amazement. "We will be in der dirty movies? All to get money."

"No, Wulf.
Pawn
. As in temporarily flogging stuff off."

"Oh, right. But what do we be having to be flogging?"

"Mister Wulf," said the Gronk. "I haves a bad feeling about this."

"It will be fine, Gronk, trust me," said Wulf, as he slammed the hatch shut. He banged his hand in commiseration against the side of the box. "Think of it as a game of the hide and der seek," he added, picking up the box by its handle.

Muffled sounds of protest came from within, as Wulf manoeuvred his way through the crowd. There were several lanes of traffic on the road, made all the more confusing by an overhead skyway of hover vehicles. The Viking stood tall enough to clip his head on some of the lower flying trucks and was forced to duck on two occasions. Somehow, he made it across to Isaiah's, where the three golden balls that signified the patron saints of fast cash hung prominently in their own repulsor field.

An old-fashioned bell on a piece of metal tinkled as Wulf entered. He faced a small shop crammed with the cast-offs and heirlooms of a multispecies world. Perch ornaments left by native Tammerfortians jostled with items more suitable for humans and other resident life forms: clocks, jewellery and weapons.

Something sparkled bright red in the darker recesses near the back of the shop, and Wulf went further inside. There were mementoes here marked Not For Sale: pictures and souvenirs of someone's career as a pilot. And there, behind a counter displaying several curious firearms tooled for many different species, sat the owner.

He was a human, which was some relief to Wulf. He never could work out what the Tammerfortians were thinking. The chair he sat in had visible handles at the level of his shoulderblades; it was a wheelchair. A pair of spectacles sat on top of his head, while a monocle lens covered his left eye as he stared at a faceted red gem the size of his fist.

"Looks nice," said Wulf.

The owner snorted and turned to look at Wulf. Behind the magnifying glass, the right eye was grossly distorted, seemingly three times the size of the left.

"You think?" said Isaiah, clicking the monocle into the Off position over his forehead. The eye beneath it turned out to be naturally three times normal size. Isaiah was a mutant.

"Worthless," he said. "I think. I never should leave the Boy in charge."

From somewhere out the back of the shop, someone tutted in a surly fashion. The Boy was clearly in trouble.

"If you want it," he said. "It's a thousand."

"No," said Wulf. "Thank you," remembering his manners. "I am here for der selling, not der buying."

"Bring it on," said Isaiah, and Wulf lugged the box onto the counter. Isaiah lifted the hatch and peered inside. The Gronk blinked up at him with huge saucer eyes.

"It's a real Gronk," said Isaiah, approvingly.

"You bet," said Wulf. "Eats der metal, scared of everything, der whole nine of der yards."

"Is it a
Pavidus
?"

"A whatticus?"

"What happens when it's scared?"

"It shakes a lot."

"Oh, good. I don't want the other kind."

"Hello-" began the Gronk, as the hatch was slammed shut on it again.

"I'll give you eight thousand," he said.

"I was hoping more for der ten," said Wulf.

Isaiah smiled ten per cent of a smile.

"Maybe it's worth a million," he said. "Except you haven't brought the paperwork to prove it's a slave. And besides, you're not selling it to me, are you?"

"That's right!" said Wulf, leaning in close to the airholes so the Gronk could hear. "I am just lending it to you for a fee, and I will come to get it back very, very soon."

Satisfied coos came from somewhere inside the box.

"Fine," said the owner. "It's your money. I'll get you a charge card."

"No!" said Wulf. "Cash. In hundreds."

"But a charge card is just a single bit of plastic." said the pawnshop owner. "It's all encoded in there. Much easier to carry-"

"Thanks all the same," said Wulf. "But I am preferring der credits themselves."

"Less traceable, eh?" tutted Isaiah.

"Something like that," said Wulf. "It will all be coming back soon enough."

"Whatever," said Isaiah, counting out some plastic chips from a drawer nearby. "Just remember to bring eight hundred more."

"Sorry?"

He stopped somewhere around the six thousand mark and looked at Wulf impatiently.

"Son," he said. "You have to give me an extra ten per cent when you come back."

"I do?"

"Uh-huh."

Wulf sighed, and looked back at the carry-case. The Gronk banged on the inner wall and wailed something about claustrophobia. Wulf looked back at the mounting pile of money on the countertop. He pushed the money back towards the pawnshop owner.

"Sorry to waste your time," he said, reaching over and popping the catch on the transport case.

"Come on out, Gronk," he said. "We're going for plan B."

The Gronk enthusiastically scampered from its place of confinement. Isaiah shrugged and turned back to his red gem. He was used to sudden cases of cold feet.

"There's a plan B?" asked the Gronk, as the duo turned to leave the shop.

"Well, no," said Wulf. "Not yet." He ducked under a full set of diving gear that was dangling from the ceiling from a rope wrapped under the chin of the helmet - it looked as if someone had hanged himself in the middle of the store.

"But Mister Johnny wants the money," wailed the Gronk. It looked back at the counter, wondering if this was the chance for it to show its Gronk mettle, to get back in the box and do what had to be done.

"Listen," called Isaiah behind them. "You don't want to leave your pet, I understand." Isaiah spun out from behind the counter, his arms powering on the wheelchair's rims with unexpected strength. "What's that on your back?" he called.

"This?" asked Wulf, hefting his hammer from its sling.

"Yes," Isaiah wheeled himself right up to Wulf, the base of his chair gently knocking into Wulf's knee.

"This is not for der sale."

"Shame..." said Isaiah.

"It is just a Happy Stick."

"You think?" said Isaiah. "I beg to differ, my tall friend."

The Gronk tugged at Wulf's cape, pointing with one of its arms at the street outside. But Isaiah was so keen that he was half out of his chair, craning for a better look at the hammer.

"I don't believe it," he said.

"What is so special about der Happy Stick?" asked Wulf.

"Where did you get this?" pressed Isaiah.

"Erm... well, Norway," began Wulf, trying to think of a way to explain how it got there.

"Thought so. Thought so. I would have said Norway or Sweden."

"No," said Wulf, insulted at the very thought. "Not Sweden."