The Man of Bronze (30 page)

So what could I do? I couldn’t shoot him. I couldn’t beat him in a fair fight. I couldn’t tell him the truth.

Okay. New strategy.

I retreated a step into the dining room. Stood up. Set my guns on the dining room table. Walked unarmed into the living room.

“Hi, luv,” I said in strong Cockney-accented Portuguese. “You all set up for the photos, yeah?”

The big man looked at me blankly.

“The photos!” I said. “You know, pictures? To commemorate the ultimate moment.”

He still just looked at me.

“Oh, sorry, luv, forgot to introduce myself. I’m the bronze fella’s publicist. Lara.” I grabbed the big man’s hand and shook it. “Vidonia didn’t talk about the photo shoot? But she got you dressed up for it, yeah? I mean, those clothes you’re wearing, they’re new, yeah?”

“Yes . . .” he said.

“So, good, Vidonia got you dressed for the pictures.” I took him by the shoulders and moved him back a step from the leg. “Now here’s how it’ll go. Bronze wants to document the whole thing: him coming into the house, yeah? Him walking down the hall, stepping into the room, the look on his face—got it? The whole scene. For posterity, yeah? End of a journey of ten thousand years. Not a dry eye in the house.” I glanced around, then went to the nearest lamp and rearranged the angle of its shade. “We just need a few lighting adjustments. Oh, you got the camera?”

“What?”

“The camera. Vidonia promised us she’d provide the camera. You know where she keeps it, yeah?”

I gazed at him encouragingly . . . hoping like mad that a well-off woman like Vidonia Portinari had
some
kind of camera on the premises. Also hoping that this man wasn’t overbright or suspicious; otherwise, I’d have to try to coldcock him, with all the attendant risks of noise, delay, and getting walloped myself.

The man paused a painfully long heartbeat; then said, “I think the camera is in the kitchen.”

“Right then, luv, you fetch it while I fix the lights. Go on, chop-chop, we need this set up before Mr. Bronze gets to the door.”

I took the man by the shoulders again, aimed him toward the kitchen, and gave him a shove. “Time’s wasting, luv. Move it. You know how these high-muck-a-mucks carry on if they don’t get everything their way.” Without pausing, I went back to fiddling with the lampshade. I didn’t turn around, but I heard footsteps heading out of the room.

As I snatched up the leg and ran, I thought,
Ten years ago, I would have tried to wrestle the big lug. Five years ago, I would have played the sex-kitten card.
I grinned.
Thank heavens, now I’m mature!

I got away from the house without being seen . . . and without being blown up by the bomb getting too close to Bronze. Mission accomplished on priority one. Now for priorities two and three: Silver and Lancaster Urdmann.

Astute readers will have realized I was now in possession of what I needed to settle Silver’s hash: a booby-trapped leg expressly designed to blast an android to pieces, triggered as soon as said android got close enough for the bomb to sense androidal “emanations.” I dearly longed to lower the boom on Silver . . . but in such a way that I didn’t end up dead myself. I couldn’t just walk up to the metallic scoundrel with the bomb in my hands; that would kill us both. Neither could I get close to Silver and throw the leg the rest of way—I didn’t know how close was too close, nor did I know the size of the bomb’s blast radius.

Rather than take chances, I decided to hide the bomb under Silver’s Rolls-Royce. Silver would return to the car eventually. When he did: sayonara. Furthermore, I’d seen the robot stomp off petulantly across the coffee field. I hoped that meant he was still far enough from the Rolls that the bomb wouldn’t go off while I was planting it. If everything went
really
well, the bomb might take out Urdmann as well as Silver. That struck me as poetic justice—for Reuben’s sake.

After all—this is important—I was
not
trying to kill either Silver or Urdmann with my bare hands. Oh, I’d wanted to do that at first . . . but I’d had long enough to cool down and reconsider.

This was not about vengeance. This was not about venting my anger or getting “closure.” This was not even about making the villains pay in some suitable way for their crimes. I’d gone down the road of retribution often enough to realize it was a dead end. It eased no pain. It restored no balance. It righted no wrongs. Reuben would remain dead, whatever happened to his killers. Only fools believed in evening the score. I’d been such a fool more than once . . . but I was trying to get past it.

I was here not to pay back but to pay forward: to remove Silver and Urdmann from the world so they could never kill anyone else. I didn’t want to see them bleed—that wouldn’t help anybody. Forget revenge; this was simple necessity. Silver and Urdmann had to go. My role was making that happen.

At least, that’s what I told myself. Another example of trying to mature.

I was halfway to the Rolls when events heated up. The helicopter had landed and turned off its engines. A mercenary had announced over the radio set: “Target is entering the house.” There followed a long silence.

Ten seconds later, Silver himself came on the line saying, “What’s gone wrong? Why no explosion?”

“Can’t see,” said the first mercenary. “They’re all inside.”

“Maybe the fuse was a dud.” That was Urdmann, his voice sneering.

“It wasn’t a dud,” Silver snapped. “It was perfect.”

“People are coming out of the house again,” a mercenary reported. “They look upset.”

“Something’s gone wrong,” Silver said. “Everyone move in . . . but carefully. Don’t attack until the whole team’s in position.”

“Attack?” Urdmann said. “What’s the point? If something’s gone wrong—”

“We are
going
to attack,” Silver answered. “This is the first time I’ve drawn Bronze from his safe little sanctuary, and I’m not going to waste the opportunity. Move in, everyone! That’s an order.”

I hurried my pace. My first priority was planting the leg at the car. As soon as that was accomplished, I could do something about the coming attack. One gunshot would warn everybody at the house to take cover. A single blank fired into the air—see how useful blanks are? Once Vidonia and the others had found refuge, I could eliminate the mercenaries one by one without risking innocent casualties.

But first, I needed to divest myself of the fake leg: put it in place, then get clear fast. Every second it was in my hands was a second it might explode.

The Rolls-Royce was in front of me now. I could see only one heat signature—a single man leaning against the side of the car. The profile was too slender to be Lancaster Urdmann. I assumed it was a driver, under orders to stay here no matter what else happened. Perhaps that’s why he had none of the equipment other mercenaries carried: no gun, no radio headset, no night-vision goggles.

He never saw me coming. Oh, in the last three seconds, he probably noticed a figure approaching through the deep darkness . . . but I’d left the fake leg in the weeds by the road, so all the driver saw was a figure in black, like the real mercenaries, carrying an Uzi, like the real mercenaries, and wearing goggles that covered my face, like the real mercenaries. The man had no clue I wasn’t on his side until my elbow connected with his jaw. “Quit whining,” I said as I punched him to sleep, “at least you’ll still be alive in the morning.”

“Unlike you, Lara, dear,” said a voice on the far side of the car.

Urdmann.

I hit the dirt a nanosecond before a ream of bullets ripped full auto through the Rolls. Urdmann was on the opposite side of the car. He must have been lurking there, staying low so he’d be out of sight if anyone approached from Vidonia’s house. I thought,
He must have suspected I’d come.
As soon as things started to go wrong, he knew . . . and he’d gotten into position to receive me. Now, safety glass from the Rolls-Royce’s windows rained down on my head in peanut-sized nuggets. The edges weren’t sharp, but they hit me like a hail of pebbles.

“Hey,” I shouted to Urdmann, “hasn’t Silver heard of bulletproof glass?”

“The cheap bastard wouldn’t pay for it,” Urdmann called back. “He’s bulletproof himself.”

“But you aren’t,” I said.

I flattened myself on my belly, low enough to shoot under the car. I thought I’d see Urdmann’s ankles. Instead, I saw his face and the muzzle of an Uzi pointing in my direction. We both rolled out of the way and fired at the same time, our shots going wild, slugs of lead spanging off the Rolls-Royce’s chassis.
Even if the windows aren’t bulletproof,
I thought,
I hope the petrol tank is.

My roll across the ground took me to the temporary refuge of the car’s front wheel. Urdmann couldn’t see me with the tire in the way. I scrambled to a seated position, my back against the hubcap. Not bothering to aim, I pointed my Uzi blindly under the chassis again and fired a couple more bursts. Both tires on the far side blew out with ferocious bangs, but I heard no sound to suggest I’d hit Urdmann. I threw myself to one side just before the tire near my head blew out too. Scraps of steel-reinforced rubber slashed through the weeds along the roadside, cutting them down with the fierceness of a scythe.

“Well, that was jolly fun,” Urdmann called to me. “Want to try again?”

“Can’t shoot under the car anymore,” I said. All four tires were gone. The Rolls was now resting on its wheel rims in the rutted dirt track, sitting too low to allow any clearance for bullets. “We’ll just have to—”

I jumped in midsentence, hoping Urdmann would be slow to react. Being close to the front of the car, I threw myself straight across the bonnet lengthwise, sliding forward on the smooth metal and shooting another Uzi burst as soon as my gun cleared the far side. I hit nothing . . . because Urdmann had done exactly the same thing at the rear, leaping across the car’s boot and firing at the side where I’d been.

We both realized what had happened in the same instant. Simultaneously, we turned our guns and let loose: firing at each other down the length of the car, me through the front windscreen, him through the back. Though the glass wasn’t bulletproof, the two safety windows combined provided us both with sufficient protection to withstand each other’s first bursts. Before he could shoot again, I rolled off the front of the car and hit the dirt in front of the Rolls-Royce’s grill.

“What do you think, Lara?” Urdmann called. “Is there any other way we can shoot up this car?”

I said, “Why don’t you get in the backseat, I get in the front, and we’ll see if
then
we can hit each other?”

“Tempting,” he said. “But first, let’s try something more imaginative.”

“Fine by me.” I whispered to my VADS pistols, “Explosive rounds,” and began backing up from the Rolls as fast as I could.

The OICWs from
Unauthorized Intervention
had computerized timers on their explosive shells, allowing for precise in-air bursts above their targets. The explosive rounds in my pistols were less sophisticated—they blew up only on impact—but my bomblet bullets had a naïve charm that might give Urdmann something to think about. As soon as I’d scrambled far enough back, I edged sideways until I had a decent shot at where the car’s petrol tank would be. Thinking ahead, I took off my night-vision goggles; some things are best not seen at high amplification. Then I sighted along the gun barrel. Just as I pulled the trigger, something sailed up and over the Rolls to land where I’d been crouching a few seconds earlier: something that looked suspiciously like . . .

. . . a grenade.

It’s hard to say what
really
did the trick: my exploding ammo or Urdmann’s tossed incendiary. They both went off simultaneously. They both went off
with authority.
And together, they managed a feat that is actually quite difficult unless you’ve got a Hollywood special-effects team—they blew up the car.

It went with fiery blast, full of light and heat and thunder. I thought of the booby-trapped bronze leg, lying in the roadside weeds where I’d left it; but whatever explosive Silver had stashed inside the leg bomb, it wasn’t ignited by the force of the car’s detonation. That made sense—when Silver had manufactured the bomb, he would have used something that would stay safe, even if it got knocked around. The last thing Silver wanted was his booby trap exploding before Bronze arrived.

Then again, Bronze might arrive any second. Or perhaps Silver. Or anybody else attracted by light and noise. If my gunfight with Urdmann hadn’t drawn everyone’s attention, the Rolls going up in a fireball would.

Suddenly, the
trrrrrrr
of Uzis erupted near the house, even though no one had signaled for attack. Some overexcited mercenary must have opened fire without waiting for orders. I heard screams, windows breaking, more shots. Whatever fertilizer Vidonia used on her fields, it was all hitting the fan.

Then, beside the inferno of the burning Rolls, I saw a figure moving: a shining silvery figure on whom the surrounding fire reflected like flames in a mirror. It strode deliberately around the blaze, circling past wreckage until it stood in front, backlit by the orange conflagration. For a second I thought it was Silver . . . but then I realized the figure had Urdmann’s size and shape. He was covered in a shell as glossy as mercury: yet another Silver Shield. Urdmann bowed in my direction as if to say Shall we dance?

I stood up and dusted myself off. “Okay, Lancaster. If that’s how you want to play it . . . let’s get this done.”

I charged. Foolhardy, I know—if I’d run in the other direction, Urdmann couldn’t possibly have kept up. But now was not the time to flee the scene; that would only give the enemy a chance to regroup. With a team of mercenaries to run interference, Silver and Urdmann might even manage to escape . . . unless I stopped them now.

“It’s the endgame, Urdmann,” I muttered. “Rule Britannia, and God save the queen.”

My pistols were still set for explosive rounds. I fired six to soften him up. As far as I could see, the blasts had no effect on the Silver Shield—it held with no signs of weakness—but each detonation knocked Urdmann back a step with its force, until he teetered just outside the burn radius of the blazing Rolls. By then, I’d closed most of the gap between us. I holstered my pistols and raised the Uzi, gripping it with one hand on the muzzle, one on the butt.