World Walker 2: The Unmaking Engine (27 page)

Walt felt his lack of Manna even more keenly as he struggled to his feet. He’d lost the ability to know when someone was disguising their features. This was how confused non-Manna users must feel all the time.
 

“But if it wasn’t Seb, then…” Walt’s voice tailed away as he realized the only logical conclusion.

“Shit! Westlake.” He threw himself away from the wall and sprinted after both of them. He couldn’t feel the pain in his ribs anymore and he was running faster than he thought should be possible in his condition.

“I’m helping,” said Sym, keeping pace beside him. “I’ve shut down some your pain receptors and taken control of your blood flow. I can’t do much, but I can give you a chance.”

Walt was too stressed to reply—physically and mentally. He took the stairs two at a time. He wasn’t closing on Westlake, but he wasn’t losing ground either.
 

“You’ll pay for it later, I’m afraid,” said Sym. He was no longer visible. Walt guessed that if Sym was putting his resources into helping him physically, there wasn’t anything left over to keep up the illusion of a separate body.

A metal door clanged above them as Meera got to the roof. Westlake followed, the door shut and there was the sound of snapping metal from the other side. Walt tried to follow, but the handle wouldn’t turn.

“Grab it,” said Sym.
 

Walt gripped the handle and watched as his skin stretched subtly, faint lines appearing on the back of his hand. In less than a second, a flesh-colored spider had taken shape. It scuttled along his fingers to the lock, extended two hair-thin limbs and began manipulating something inside.
 

It seemed to take forever. Walt heard tiny metallic sounds, there was a click and the door opened. The spider sank back into Walt’s skin.

“Careful,” said Sym.
 

“I will be,” said Walt as he stepped through the door.
 

Chapter 31

Westlake snapped off the handle of the door behind him as he stepped out onto the roof. So, Walter Ford had finally grown a pair. He’d picked a bad time to switch sides, though. As soon as Patel was safely in Westlake’s hands, he’d kill the old fool himself.
 

He scanned the roof. An open space other than some pot plants and herbs in one corner. The only cover, other than the door behind him was a ventilation shaft to his left. His prey wasn’t hiding, though. She had her back to him. She had climbed over the safety railing and was six inches away from a fall no one could survive.

Westlake was breathing normally again and thinking hard. Patel hadn’t seen him yet. He ducked to his left and moved behind the housing of the roof door until he was hidden. He heard Ford’s footsteps approaching from below. The snapped handle would slow him down. He might not be a threat, but he was certainly a complication, and Westlake didn’t like complications.

He had snipers in place, waiting for his orders.

“Alpha, Beta, report,” he said, his voice quiet and level.

“Alpha in position.”

“Beta in position.”

“Do not take the shot unless she is at least ten yards away from the edge,” said Westlake. The snipers were experienced enough to know that the powerful tranquilizer darts took around two seconds to work, on average. Tranquilizing a human was much harder than killing one. The designer of the ammunition had to make some guesses about body weight and metabolism. Too much of the chemical mix would kill, too little would leave the victim conscious for longer than was ideal. The operative in charge of providing the darts had been told to be cautious with the dosage. So, if he had underestimated by a fraction, Patel might easily stay conscious for long enough to take a nosedive from the top of the apartment building. Not a good outcome.
 

Westlake moved around to the other side of the housing. He could hear the lock being picked. He had to move. Patel hadn’t seen his face yet. That would give him his best chance of grabbing her. He would have to be fast and decisive. He might
look
exactly like Varden, but he couldn’t speak like him, move like him, behave like him. And the woman he was trying to convince knew Varden better than anyone else alive.
 

Westlake made his decision. He came out into the open.

“Help,” he said, making his voice as raspy and pained as he could.

***

Mee flinched at the sound of a voice on the rooftop. She wondered if it was even worth turning. She’d pretty much made her mind up. Mason’s people had found her. Seb had gone—another visit to the aliens. Worst timing ever. If she let herself be taken, Mason would have power over Seb for the rest of her life. She couldn’t let that happen. She
wouldn’t
let it happen. Which left only one choice. Seb would be alone. But he would be free. She closed her eyes. She was still holding on to the railing at the edge of the roof. She prepared to let go.

She heard the voice again. This time, she made out the word.

“Help.”

It was the last word Mee expected to hear. Still holding the rail, she turned. Coming toward her, dragging one leg, obviously in pain, was Seb. She tried to speak, but found she couldn’t form a single word. Her legs felt shaky. She glanced at the drop a few inches away and felt suddenly faint. She leaned toward the rail and managed to climb back onto the roof. She took a step away from the railing and watched Seb get closer.

“What happened?” she said. “What’s wrong? Where is he?” She scanned the roof for Westlake. There was no one else. The door was rattling. That must be him.

“Seb, Westlake is here,” she said, “he’s behind you—the door.”

Strangely, Seb didn’t even glance that way, just continued limping toward her. Something felt wrong. Something
was
wrong.

“Stop,” she said. Seb stopped. He looked at her, his face a mask of pain.

“Say something,” she said. Seb just looked at her.

“Seb,” she said, “say something.”
 

She looked into Seb’s eyes. She may have used up all her Manna, but something deeper and more primal spoke to her and she
knew.
It wasn’t Seb.

Westlake looked at Meera Patel and saw the change in her expression. He was too far away from her and she was still far too close to the edge. He thought fast.

Behind him, the door to the roof flew open. Westlake didn’t react. He watched Patel. Her eyes flicked to the doorway, then back to Westlake. She blinked. Her eyes were shut for a fraction longer than a normal blink. She held her breath. Westlake knew the signs. He’d seen people make decisions in the field, under intense pressure. He’d seen people fling themselves out of windows, suddenly produce a concealed knife or turn guns on themselves. He had seen the same moment of decision in the eyes of all of them. He saw the same moment unfold now.

Patel turned, her legs bending. She was going to jump. Without hesitating, Westlake pulled a gun from his shoulder holster, released the safety and fired, all in one smooth, unhurried, practiced sequence.

Walt came through the door and saw Westlake on the far side of the roof. Meera was to his left, three or four meters nearer to the edge. She looked at him, then back at Westlake, before turning away. Westlake moved fast and a single shot rang out. The hem of Meera’s dress flicked backward as if it had been caught in a gale-force wind. A pink cloud of blood blurred Walt’s view as Mee’s right leg exploded above her knee and she fell heavily onto her side.

Before he’d even realized he’d made a decision, Walt was running across the roof toward Westlake, who was now standing up straight, his gun still pointing at the woman below him.
 

As he ran, he felt a sudden searing pain in his shoulder, followed almost immediately by another in his lower back. He’d been shot.

“Tranquilizer darts,” said Sym, now just a voice in his head. “I’ve slowed down the effects. Ignore it.”

Walt said nothing, all his attention focused on the man in front of him. Westlake was now turning to face him, aware of the threat. The gun barrel was swinging toward him. Fast. Too fast. Walt increased his pace, his entire world now contracted to include nothing other than his legs pushing forward, his arms pumping, his breath fast, ragged, but strong. He felt strong. Even when the puff of smoke appeared at the end of the barrel and the bullet smacked into his chest, flinging his upper body sideways for a second, he barely noticed.

There was a certain satisfaction to be had in the expression on Westlake’s face as Walt plowed into him, his shoulder dropped like a quarterback with anger management issues. Westlake didn’t look angry, panicked, or afraid. He just looked surprised. He continued looking that way for the last 3.45 seconds of his life, as Walt’s momentum carried both of them over the railing, off the roof and, shortly afterwards, onto the sun-cracked dusty tarmac of the Mexican street below.

***

A small crowd had gathered around the mess at the bottom of the building by the time the ambulance arrived. Orfelia Mendez, the first paramedic to reach them gestured for the crowd to move away. She knelt by the two men, but there wasn’t much urgency in her movements. They had fallen over a hundred and thirty feet. One had landed on top of the other. The one who had hit the ground first had broken his fall with the side of his skull, so Orfelia didn’t bother taking his pulse. The man on top was bleeding most noticeably from an exit wound in his back. The bullet must have hit him in the chest and passed through a number of internal organs before punching through part of his spinal column.
 

For the sake of appearances, rather than any hope he might have survived, Orfelia put two fingers on the man’s blood-slimed neck. To her shock, there was a tiny, faint, fluttery pulse which was so erratic, it was bound to fail imminently.

“Crash cart!” she shouted to her colleagues, turning toward the ambulance to get their attention. As she did so, a hand caught hold of her wrist in a surprisingly strong grip.
 

Impossibly, the man with the bullet wound had grabbed her and was now trying to speak. His head was twisted to one side. Small, pink bubbles formed as he tried desperately to form words.

“Señor?” said Orfelia. She bent her head close to his.
 

“The roo—,” said the man, his voice barely audible. He pulled her closer. “The roof. Bullet wound. She needs help.”

Orfelia nodded her understanding.

“I’ll get someone up there,” she said. She turned to the ambulance. Two men were approaching with stretchers and bags.

“Alejandro! There’s someone on the roof with a gunshot wound.” The second man turned and ran back to the building.
 

“Thank you,” the man whispered. The grip on her wrist tightened for a moment, then loosened. Unnoticed, a flesh-colored spider ran lightly along the man’s fingers onto her arm and sank into her flesh.

Orfelia went through the motions of CPR, but she’d seen enough people die to know when there was a chance of bringing them back. This one wouldn’t be coming back.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, and waited for the driver to bring two body bags. She sat on the sidewalk while she waited. Her cell buzzed in her pocket. One long buzz meant an email. She took it out and looked at it. No new emails. It was near the end of her shift—maybe she was more tired than she realized. If she’d checked
sent messages,
she would have had about two seconds to see an email send without a subject before it deleted itself.
 

As the bodies were lifted away, she stood, stretched her aching muscles and jogged back to the ambulance. They’d found a woman on the roof with a gunshot to her leg. She was pumped full of painkillers, but as they lifted her into the back of the vehicle, she pulled the oxygen mask off her face to speak to Orfelia.

“Are they—?”

Orfelia wasn’t sure what the young woman wanted to hear. One of the men must have shot her before the fall from the roof. The truth was usually the best choice.

“They both died,” she said.
 

The woman looked at her for a long moment before putting the mask back to her face and lying down.

For the rest of the day, and for much of the week that followed, Orfelia couldn’t get the image of the dead man out of her mind. She discovered later that he’d been shot twice with powerful tranquilizer darts designed to bring down animals, then once with a bullet at close range into his chest. Yet—somehow—he’d pushed the man who’d shot him off of the roof, then survived long enough to tell her about the injured woman. Orfelia knew she would never be able to forget the expression on his face when he finally succumbed to his terrible injuries.

He had been smiling.

***

Westlake’s unit followed the exit strategy perfectly. Their commanding officer was down and the police and ambulance response had been faster than anticipated. The fall from the roof had drawn a crowd, some of whom had gone up to the top of the apartment building to gawp at the bodies below. There was no way of getting to the target.
 

Leadership of the team fell automatically to Beta, one of the snipers positioned on the roof of a neighboring building. Seconds after the two men had gone off of the roof, she had packed the rifle, put it back into her backpack and took the stairs down to ground level.

At the bottom of the stairs, she’d put on a pair of sunglasses and a baseball cap. Then she’d pushed open the door and walked into the building’s lobby, head down.
 

The sound of weapons being cocked stopped her in her tracks. She looked up. Six police officers were positioned around the lobby. They were all pointing handguns toward her. She wasted no time wondering how they had known she was there. That would come later. She quickly considered her chances. Against six of them? Effectively zero.

 
A seventh officer stepped forward.

“Your bag, please, Señora,” he said, “and any concealed weapons. Now, please.”

Beta knew when she was beaten. She also knew there would be chances to escape. She’d been in worse positions before. She shrugged the backpack from her shoulders and let it fall. It hit the ground with a metallic clunk. Next, she removed the knife from her boot.