StarCraft II: Devils' Due (34 page)

spare magazines. There were two bodies on the floor

that were not law officers. Neither of them was

Raynor. Raynor’s body was also not among those

found in the lobby, and the single surviving witness

had said both Raynor and Findlay had escaped.

Conclusion: Raynor had escaped, and Findlay was

taking the fal .

Tychus Findlay therefore had nothing to lose. Butler

swal owed hard.

He leaned over, took aim, and fired. Findlay

grunted as a bul et embedded itself in his arm. His

head snapped around, and his eyes locked with

Butler’s. A grin curved his mouth as he brought one of

the guns around and pointed it right at the marshal.

It clicked. Empty.

Findlay didn’t even slow down. He charged toward

Butler, who stepped out from behind the protection of

the pil ar. Butler took slow and careful aim—

Four of the armored cops jumped on Tychus. He

shook them off as if they were so many flies, but they

kept coming. Three more sprang on him, including

Wilkes Butler. Even now Tychus Findlay tried to rise,

but he had been wounded in the fight, and at last they

had him pinned.

Butler snapped a pair of handcuffs on the bul of a

man and stood over him, panting. Paramedics were

already swarming over the wounded. He did a quick

count: almost twenty. Some of them were far too stil .

He turned his gaze back to the man who lay before

him, blood flowing from at least half a dozen places.

“Marshal Butler,” came a voice, “this one’s stil

alive.”

Butler glanced away to see one of the paramedics

tending to one of the bodies that had been in the

penthouse before they had broken in. His eyes

widened. The man had a cybernetic arm … and an

ocular implant. Butler glanced up at the stil -playing

holograms, then back at the man on the floor.

“Hel ’s bel s,” he said. “That’s Ezekiel Daun.”

“Aw, for fekk’s sake,” muttered Findlay, “won’t that

bastard just die already?” His voice was strangely

thick, and as Butler turned to regard him, Findlay spat

out a great deal of blood and a few teeth.

“Patch Daun up and arrest him,” he told his deputy.

He thought about the bounty hunter’s reputation.

“That’s someone who real y needs to be behind bars.”

“This the best you could do, Butler?” drawled

Findlay. “Just the sort of pansy-ass takedown attempt

I’d expect from someone dil ydal ying at a convention.

Couldn’t even kil me.”

Butler’s nostrils flared with anger. For so, so long,

he had been chasing Raynor and Findlay. Findlay had

gotten away every time, often with some scathing

insult. But now the tables had turned. Tychus Findlay

had final y been caught—by Marshal Wilkes Butler.

He yearned desperately to find fitting words to

humiliate this man, who had led him on such a merry

chase—something memorable to quote as he told the

story again and again over the years.

Tychus’s grin widened, though it had to be a painful

gesture. The seconds ticked by.

“Wel ?” said Tychus Findlay.

“You’re under arrest,” was al Marshal Wilkes Butler

could say.

Tychus laughed.

There was, mused Myles Hammond, about the

same amount of papers to push here as on Shiloh.

And there was red tape—because there was
always

red tape. But the furniture and supplies in his office

were newer, and there was a lot less dust.

Best of al , when he pushed the papers and cut

through the red tape, papers stayed pushed, and tape

stayed cut. Things … got done. There were no veiled

offers of bribes, no looking the other way. No trying to

get something taken care of, only to find unexpected

obstacles. He was now Magistrate Myles Hammond,

and he was making a difference.

So it was that despite the pile of work on his desk,

he was whistling as he brewed a fresh pot of coffee

and his door swung open.

He did a double take and started to grin. “Wel , if it

ain’t Jim Raynor.”

“Magistrate Myles Hammond,” Jim said, walking up

to his old friend and shaking his hand. He looked

around. “Bigger office. Nicer title.”

“Better chance of actual y doing something useful,”

Myles said, handing Jim a cup of coffee.

Jim nodded his thanks and took a sip. “Better

coffee here too. So … this is your little slice of

perfection.”

Myles chuckled and took a sip. “No, it ain’t perfect.

But it beats Shiloh, that’s for sure. At least there’s

some decency here. Some damned honesty. People

look out for one another instead of just themselves.

They help. And my hands aren’t tied here, so I can

help too.” He gave Jim a fond, proud look. “Welcome

home, Jim.”

“Whoa, whoa,” Jim said, “I didn’t say I was staying.

Came to take a look-see is al . And I’m stil looking.”

“I think you’l like what you see,” Myles said. “These

parts … wel , like I said, there’s decency here. But you

know as wel as I do—hel , maybe better than I do—

that when there are decent folks, there’s people

looking to take advantage of them. Mar Sara stil

needs some law to make sure that decency doesn’t

vanish. A man who understands both sides of that

situation could real y make a fine marshal.”

Jim chuckled and scratched his nose. “You gotta be

out of your mind, Myles.”

Myles raised an eyebrow. “I don’t think you came al

the way out here, sneaking the whole way, just to have

a cup of coffee—mighty fine though it is.”

Jim shrugged and turned away, sipping his coffee.

Myles continued.

“There’d be something in it for you other than

altruism,” he said. Jim turned his head slightly,

listening. “I can offer you clemency.”

“It was just a job you were offering back on Shiloh,”

Jim said. “You can real y give me clemency?”

“Absolutely. It’s within my authority as magistrate

here.”

“What would I have to do?”

“Be my right hand,” Myles said. “Be my marshal.

Get out there and protect the good folks and catch the

bad. You do that, and I can promise that clemency’s

yours.”

Jim finished the coffee and set the cup down on the

desk. “Wel , Myles, I gotta say, you make some mighty

fine coffee here.” He moved toward the door. Myles

grasped his arm.

“Jimmy—marshal’s where I can use you the most.

Where you’l be able to make the most difference and

—clichéd as it’s gonna sound—do the most good.

But the offer stands for anything you want. Even if

you’re just working for me filing papers, you’l have

clemency.”

Jim paused at the door to put on his hat. He turned

to Myles. “I won’t lie to you, Myles. After al I’ve seen

and done … it’s mighty tempting. But before I can tel

you yes or no, there’s something I need to put to bed

first.”

Something in his voice made Myles’s eyes narrow,

but he nodded. “You go on and do what you gotta do. I

respect that. Offer’s always on the table. After al ”—

and he winked—“it’s not like Mar Sara is going

anywhere.”

The moment had been long in coming.

Raynor had begun planning it as soon as he

jumped out of the Covington Bank building. It had

been forming in the back of his mind as the modified

prototype hardskin took him through the city, fighting

off pursuit, outrunning and outgunning it until he got far

enough away to break into an abandoned building

and shuck the suit. He continued to elude capture the

next day, final y managing to sneak out on foot to

where the ship was waiting for him. The poor pilot

seemed confused to see Jim instead of Ash, but went

along with it long enough to give Jim the chance to

knock him out and commandeer the vessel.

Then the journey had begun. Researching. Digging

up old contacts who owed him favors. Getting in good

with the right people. Five years of criminal activity

harnessed, sifted, and milked dry to find out what he

needed to learn, to do, to become, in order to put the

plan into action.

For seven months, Raynor had been investigating

something that made the heists he and Tychus had

pul ed seem noble. There was a black market for a

very specific type of commodity—hard to learn about,

harder to locate. It involved not just trafficking in goods

but in humans—and not just the sel ing of bodies but

of souls, minds, and hearts.

Unlike Tychus, Jim had not spent al his money like

water—wel , not quite—and was able to grease more

than a few palms. He had next to nothing, now, at

least with regard to funds—but he had something

more important. He had the ID, the cover, the codes

…

… and the room location.

He had easily negotiated the labyrinthine building’s

twists and turns. While he had never physical y been

inside before, he had been here a thousand times via

a hologram he had had privately constructed, based

on expensively stolen blueprints. He stood dressed in

the white uniform of the resocs who had access to

this, the inner sanctum of what was the modern

equivalent of a medieval fortress.

As if to confirm the analogy, the resocs cal ed it “the

master’s quarters.” The door before him was large,

dark, sinister. Considering whom it housed, Jim

thought that was quite apt.

He looked at the door, and thought that he and

Tychus had blown safes that seemed more secure.

The thought made him recal the train robbery, and

Woodley, and the jukebox, and Wilkes Butler.

Already, the memories had a nostalgic quality to

them. The taste of something that had passed.

Soon he would feel the same way about the next

few minutes.

He looked over at the security pad. The code was

not a problem. It was triply secured: the correctly

entered code, fingerprint identification, and a retinal

scan were al required. As he had managed to get

himself hired by forging a completely new and

thoroughly verifiable identity, this should be easy.

His “new identity” was as a resoc.

Raynor noticed that his hand trembled slightly as he

entered the code, and forced himself to be calm.

The massive barricade slid open. It was even more

dimly lit inside than in the corridor. Jim hadn’t been

expecting this and closed his eyes as the door closed

behind him, helping them adjust quicker despite the

burning desire to behold his enemy.

In front of him was a metal contraption that looked

like a large coffin. Jim’s lips twitched in a bitter smile

at the appropriateness of the image. Lights flickered

along the outside in a running pattern, and various

tubes went in and out through smal apertures. Jim’s

eyes strained, but he could make out only the barest

outline of a head extending from the end of the metal

box. A short distance away, a large bel ows worked

slowly and methodical y, emitting a dul thunking

sound as it operated.

This was what Ezekiel Daun had showed him and

Tychus when he had revealed who had hired him to

kil them. This room, this metal box … this shel of a

man inside it.

Jim forced himself to turn his attention to the resoc

standing off to the side in front of a screen, careful y

examining rol ing statistics. His hand dropped to his

pocket and closed about a syringe.

The resoc looked up at him. “You’re new,” he said,

frowning slightly.

“Yes, I am. I just got started a few days ago. I’m so

pleased to be here.” Jim stuck his hand out and

smiled cheerful y, receiving a handshake and smile in

return.

“How is the master doing today?” Raynor asked,

feigning interest in the scrol ing statistics.

“His condition hasn’t changed much. He—”

The resoc gasped in pain at the sudden sharp

needle stab, turned confused eyes on Jim for a few

seconds, and then crumpled. Jim checked to make

sure the man was real y out—and that he would be out

for a while—then rose and turned to the coffin.

“What’s going on over there?”

The voice was hol ow, weary, querulous. But it stil

had that same cool arrogance, and Jim was surprised

at the quick flash flood of hatred that washed through

him.

Javier Vanderspool.

He heard that voice again dripping contempt,