Wild Country (36 page)

But before he could bring the table crashing over, Sorel was distracted by several thin, sharp reports, one near his head. He felt the peppering of wood and tiny metal fragments from the Chiller against the side of his face, then realized that the body of Harley Slaughter was collapsing on him. He flailed his left arm hard to deflect the corpse, using the impetus to continue in a back shoulder roll.

Lufo's blade was locked and in flight as the table flipped over, its blade sinking into the oak, pinning the tablecloth in place. His only other weapon was the heavy oak chair he grabbed as he ducked, it might do as a shield until he could tip another table over. He saw Ted Quantrill cut loose against Longo, saw the effects of Sorel's shots as the woman screamed and staggered to her right. Lufo began to swing the chair—it was a heavy devil, and he was out of shape—and then saw Quantrill's head snap hard against the tabletop, pistol-whipped by sheer accident.

Lufo had not been recruited into T Section for nothing all those years ago. He could reassess a problem as quickly as anyone, and his reflexes had once been almost as fast as Quantrill's. He continued the swing of that heavy chair and, instead of hurling it directly at Sorel, tossed it in a high spinning arc before he dived for the revolver poking out of Clyde Longo's boot top. A large object tumbling in a high arc tends to draw attention for a crucial second or so.

Sorel saw the chair coming as he bounced to his feet near the wall; sidestepped; saw Quantrill stunned on the tabletop and partly hidden by the woman. He fired at the only person who was in furious motion. The parabellum slug tore into Lufo's left pectoral muscle, was deflected by the high second rib, and exited after cutting a shallow trench to the sternum. Sorel skipped to one side, turned his attention to Quantrill, who had struggled to one elbow, blinking his eyes, and then realized that Marianne Placidas was again staring at him down the barrel of her little automatic. Who would have thought the bitch had so much vitality? He made a feint, then jerked back, and her next round buried itself in the wall.

Sorel fired while diving away, a throwaway shot intended to upset her aim more than anything else. Marianne Placidas spun and sat down hard on the floor, shot through the right bicep, her little weapon clattering onto the table near Quantrill's head. Ted Quantrill saw through watering eyes that his target was scrambling on all fours through the kitchen service entrance. While blinking furiously, he took a groggy sort of aim and fired a full-auto burst. One round carved a grazing welt across Sorel's back before detonating against the swinging door. For the next few seconds, Quantrill could estimate Sorel's success from the wild uproar of shouts, footsteps, and crashing of metal pans that receded through the kitchen.

Rolling from the table. Quantrill sprinted for the kitchen, went through the swinging door in a fast duck walk, bobbed up, and then stayed up, leaning against the doorframe. The shouts of alarm were now coming from the dusty street outside. Cursing himself, he reseated the Chiller and pushed back into the dining hall. Then he raised his hands. He was facing a very nervous fellow with a security star and an enormous Buntline Special.

Because most security cops knew a Chiller when they saw one, Quantrill had little difficulty making his needs understood. A federal "brick," or undercover field agent, often carried no ID beyond a Chiller, and a few even operated without that. Shaking his head to clear it now and then, mopping away runnels of blood from his nose with a borrowed bandanna, Quantrill sought to patch up the mess he had made. It didn't help that he had to ignore the troubles of Lufo and the woman.

"We've got casualties here, so I hope there's a chopper on the way."

"On the bounce," said the Buntline man, who had the look of a retired beat cop.

"I need two things
right now
. or there may be some innocent people killed. Get me a good high-gain VHP set, and throw up a cordon around Faro. Nobody, but NObody, gets out unless I see them first. Felix Sorel is armed and extremely dangerous, and I'm calling for as much expert backup as I can get."

Mr. Buntline hurried out of the room. A waitress was sitting cross-legged with Marianne Placidas's head in her lap, comforting her and thumbing a pressure point in her armpit. "Be sure you release the pressure now and then," he cautioned, and knelt beside Lufo Albeniz.

The TexMex sat with his back against the overturned table. He had torn his shirt open and was trying to make a pressure bandage of a napkin with his right hand. Now he looked up at his old friend. "Jus' like old times," he said.

"Not quite. Is it the big one? Let me see."

Lufo showed him. "The best kind, compadre. One slug, two holes. Listen, you don' believe that stuff about San Antonio Rose. Right?"

"I know you match a detailed description, you dumb shit. I just never thought about you fitting it. But I'm betting Street didn't send you, so…" Quantrill sighed; placed a hand on the big man's good shoulder. "Thank God you never could stay on one side for long. You helped. Thanks."

"I was dead slow, Ted. I think I let that crazy woman follow me here. Whatever I had in this business, it's gone."

"That's not all you've lost. Lufo—
why
?"

Lufo shifted for more comfort and managed a crooked smile. "To get ahead. It's not easy when you have wives and kids on both sides of the border,
hijo
."

"You'll have years to think on that when you're inside, looking out."

"An" my kids callin' other guys 'papa'? You know I can't think about that. Drive me loco."

"You were loco to fuck around with the likes of Sorel," Quantrill said.

"Yeah. Compadre, you remember when I hauled your drowned ass outa that tunnel, about a thousan' years ago?" He waited; got only a grunt of assent. "You tol' me after that, if I ever wanted a favor, jus' ask. Well, I never asked. I'm askin' now."

"For what?" As if they didn't both know.

"For Mexico." He closed his eyes as he said it, drawing the word out softly, "May-zhee-coe," as a child might drawl its mother's name. "I won' come back. I'm not that stupid."

After a long moment Quantrill said, "Could you make it the way you are?"

"Never," said Lufo, rolling his eyes upward. "I swear on the honor of Anglos." The crinkles above lean cheekbones said he was not to be taken seriously.

Shaking his head, trying not to grin, Quantrill stood up and spoke so the waitress could hear. "For the record, Lufo, I can't let you go. And I'm absolutely certain you're hurt too bad to light a shuck on your own. There'll be a chopper for you any minute, and I have a job to do." Pause: "Any idea where Sorel will go to ground?"

"He was waitin' for the delta. Could go anywhere now." As Quantrill started for the doorway, Lufo added, "Listen, compadre, you wait for backups. You know how good you were in ninety-six? That's how good he is, I shit you not."

"I know," said Quantrill. and turned away. From the tail of his eye he saw the big TexMex already struggling to his feet.

Quantrill was patched in to Jim Street's personal circuit within two minutes, holding the VHP earpiece in place. He stood on the outside porch with a man named Bonner, the head of Long Branch security, at his side, in rapid conversation with Bonner until the Gov came on-line. The old man was not pleased with what he heard, and said so. Quantrill knew that the best excuse was none at all.

"Yessir, I blew it. His two
cimarrones
are ready for body bags, but Sorel's running loose out here." A pause., "They were wearing good cosmetic cover, that's how. I should have made them anyway. I didn't. One of 'em was Harley Slaughter; the other one… I dunno; from his phenotype, could be Clyde Longo without the beard. Prints will tell you; they're not going anywhere." He said nothing about the woman and especially not about Lufo, who might indeed be going somewhere. Just how he might do it, in a town looking for a Mexican fugitive, was beyond guessing.

After another pause: "Two civilian casualties, maybe more if you don't get some people here with flak jackets. WCS security's tossing a net around Faro, but you never know, he could get to the airstrip over the hill. You might send mass and motion sensors with the teams. Divert any flights here, especially that delta. He was waiting for it."

After another pause: "I wouldn't, Gov. Bringing a SWAT team in on a delta would be like building a barricade with sticks of dynamite… Beg pardon?… Oh; because they fill delta dirigibles with hydrogen these days. One round into a gas cell and it's a
Hindenburg
barbecue. Just send lots of backup, with intruder sensors, and hope I can whack Sorel before they get here." Another pause. Whatever Street was saying now, the little brick agent wasn't enjoying it.

Now a vein throbbed at his temple. He started to speak twice before, "Jesus Christ, you
know
I can't do that." he exploded, and paused again. "All right. Yessir. hands off until then. But if he starts offing more civilians in the meantime, Gov, I'm back to Job One, right? Isn't that what I'm for?" He nodded in glum satisfaction. "Yessir. I could use one. I take a size forty-two… Goddammit. I
said
I would! Can't you take 'yes' for an answer—sir?"

He flicked off the toggle, handed the VHP set to the security man. hooked thumbs into belt loops, and gazed down the deserted streets. "Direct from the attorney general, you can verify if you like." he said. "There'll be three sprint chopper loads of tough meat here in a couple of hours, wearing flak jackets. Until then, nobody leaves here at all. And we don't challenge Felix Sorel; we box him up if we can. No facedowns until the place is crawling with feds carrying intruder sensors. Unless he starts taking out civilians first."

The security chief had spent twenty years in a Houston homicide detail, and men in that business tended to recall the name of Ted Quantrill. "And you hope he does?"

"No, I don't," in a flash of irritation. "I don't want some tourist on a slab just so I can slip my leash." Quantrill realized it was true only after he said it, and felt a sense of loss. "You've alerted the people over the hill?"

"Sure, for all the good it did. Bunch of pussies at the Hilton and the New Driskill, all the good men are here in Faro. I've called for recon flights from the airstrip. They only fire little tracer blanks, but at least they're eyes in the sky. Here," he added, thrusting an old-fashioned tin star in Quantrill's direction, smiling grimly. "Might keep one of our guys from nailing you by mistake."

Quantrill pinned on the star. It was just one more thing he should have thought of himself. Just as well that Jim Street had put him in a holding pattern; he was definitely not up to
mono a mono
against Sorel in this condition. Maybe not ever, in any condition. He should have known the previous day, watching Sorel operate in that saloonful of androids.

An echo stuttered from storefronts with the popping of a far-distant firecracker somewhere on the prairie. Then more of the same. Bonner ran into the street, shouted toward the roof: "Where's that coming from?"

Of course it was impossible to tell. A minute later the VHP set pinged, and they learned the answer. A man from the Last Chance, riding bareback on the perimeter with an ancient lever-action Winchester and a VHP unit, had spotted someone running hard down a drywash two minutes before. He'd seen hovercycles gleaming behind a pile of tumbleweed and fired one warning shot from over a hundred meters away. Thanks to the return fire, the Last Chance man was now transmitting from behind a gutshot gelding and could not see which way Sorel had gone after that. If Sore I had only that handgun, either he'd had incredible luck, or he was one spectacular marksman. The only good thing was that the guard still had a clear field of fire to the cycles. Sorel would be crazy to risk it, and crazier to spend his time stalking a man in the open.

Bonner replied curtly, then toggled an open transmission. The suspect, he said, was somewhere in the south end of the valley, probably doubling back toward the parking area. He must be allowed to come near enough to be boxed in. Any civilians not in their rooms must be sent inside, in custody if need be. He turned to Quantrill, standing in the rutted dirt street with him, and said, "I'm not proud. Anything else you can think "of?"

"I could use a B-one shot," Quantrill said, trying to smile.

"Hell, why didn't you say so? I keep some in my desk. What brand: SubCute?"

"Whatever." Quantrill replied. The little pressure injectors delivered enough subcutaneous vitamin to send most hangovers packing, but the pop was far from painless. It was one of a thousand little improvements prodded by the technology of the recent war.

One thing Quantrill didn't need was a sore arm, so he shucked down his pants in the office and triggered the SubCute cartridge into the side of his right buttock. The security chief grabbed his VHP set as it pinged, toggled it so that Quantrill could hear both ends of the conversation. A second perimeter guard, this one afoot, had just spotted fresh prints across the sandy bottom of a drywash. They were heading east. "Probably toward the parking area," said Bonner into the mouthpiece, "and he'll have to cross a lot of open ground. Let him go, we've blocked the underground parking exits. That's where we'll have him, boys."

In his bones, Quantrill knew better. "Well. Sorel has caught me with my pants down for the last time," he said, snapping his belt buckle. "Just for kicks, tell me where he'd be heading if he made those prints walking backward."

"Into open country," said Bonner, passing his hand across an area on his wall map. "And our perimeter men would've seen him by now. If he runs that way, our little Spitfires will spot him. If he hides, your teams will flush him out. Either way, we've got him." The gleam in Bonner's eye said that he wanted Sorel to try for a vehicle in the underground parking area. Wanted it so much he was taking it as a foregone conclusion. "He can't hide out here," he finished, tapping the southern prairie of the map.