Run Hard, Die Fast Read online

  Argent also knew that if the men and women in the tavern realized he was actually the target they'd get down to some serious negotiating with the yabos outside. He glanced across the room and spotted Telma in motion.

  She laid down a pattern of fire with her pistol that picked off two men beating feet for the doorway.

  "Staying here is not an option." she said over the commlink. "Whoever put this into play may also have enough pull with the Cal-Free National Guard to get them in as backup."

  "We go up." Argent said. His satlink connection through the Corona glasses to the mini-cams revealed that ground units had arrived at the scene as well. They fanned out behind and along the sides of the building, creating an armed perimeter.

  "And get trapped like rats at the top of this building?" Beedle asked. He gestured at the street outside. In response, a three-meter wide section of the pavement suddenly erupted. The earth beneath the concrete rose up a meter and a half and shoved itself forward in a ripple that ran nearly six meters before collapsing.

  The secguards that occupied positions in its path were flung around like sparks jumping from a malfunctioning static-charged dust sweeper.

  "They've got the building surrounded." Argent replied.

  "So fragging quick?" Beedle asked in disbelief.

  "Yes."

  A high-caliber round caught the troll bouncer in the head and punched him free from his position near the open door. As he stumbled back, struggling to retain his footing, a dozen more rounds smacked into him, driving him backward. His corpse slammed into the bar counter and left a bloody swath on the synthwood as it slumped to the floor. Other bullets chipped away the synthwood surface, revealing the ceramic plating beneath.

  Keeping the mini-cams cycling on the right lens of the Coronas, Argent watched as some of the attack team infiltrated the building. Once inside, they disappeared from view.

  "The helicopter belongs to Asian Fuchi." Peg reported. "By way of four shell companies in the area. The corp also owns the bank the company who owns the helicopter makes payments to."

  "Nakatomi?" Telma asked. "You didn't say anything about him being involved in this, Argent."

  "I didn't know." Argent said. He laid down a blistering arc of fire that blunted another attempt by the attackers to regroup.

  "I guess we're talking fragging bonus when we get out of here, huh?" Beedle said.

  "We haven't made it out of here." Telma snapped.

  "Details, details." Beedle gestured again. In response, a smoke cloud billowed up outside, swirling around the sec force. Many of the men collapsed, choking on the sulfuric fumes that made up the smoke.

  Before Beedle could get back to cover, he spun around, blood flying from his shoulder. He cried out in pain, dropping to his knees.

  At the same moment, three Asian Fuchi secmen fired through the windows at the tavern's side. A male and female elf went down under the bullets before they could defend themselves. Their ork companion rose up with a roar of rage and fired a cut-down shotgun at the secmen.

  Argent didn't wait to see who was going to win. It was only a matter of how many the ork took with him.

  Reinforcements were coming up behind the sec force, revealed to the big warrior by the mini-cams linked to the Coronas. He crossed the floor, dropping the Ingram from his left hand and letting it hang from the Whipit sling around his shoulder. He closed his fist, trapping the material of Beedle's shirt.

  Beedle looked at him, barely hanging onto his consciousness. The bullet had taken the young mage high on the upper chest, punching all the way through.

  From the way his arm hung, Argent guessed the heavy round had broken the clavicle as well. He lifted Beedle to his feet and draped him across one shoulder. Before Argent could move, he felt a chill wind ghost across the back of his neck.

  "Have you got him?" a voice asked behind him.

  Argent spun, bringing the Ingram in his right hand up. He stared across the sights at Chandler.

  The private investigator's clothing had been shot to hell. The turtleneck and mid-thigh khaki jacket hung in rags across his upper body. But there was no blood. He held a nickel-plated Ruger Thunderbolt pistol in his fist.

  Seeing the man standing there, apparently unharmed, Argent knew then what had seemed so different about Chandler.

  "Fragging vampire." Beedle groaned in a pained voice that was barely audible above the sustained bursts of gunfire filling the tavern.

  Chandler grinned. "Not exactly my first career choice."

  "Clear the area." Peg called over the commlink.

  Argent caught the reason for her concern only a couple heartbeats after Peg did. He instantly recognized the vehicle pulling into the periphery of vision afforded through the mini-cams.

  Then the sound of grinding tracks hammered into the tavern, rising above the din of wounded and gunfire.

  Staring through the broken plastiglass shards clinging to the window frames, he saw the dark green LAV-103 Striker Light Tank roll into position in the street.

  The tank crew was obviously experienced, locking down quickly. The treads chewed into the street, ripping it up as the anchors resettled the weight.

  "Oh bloody frag!" a woman screamed.

  Argent kept the Ingram centered on the middle of Chandler's face. Even a vampire could die if its brain or spine were too severely damaged. At this range, both of them knew Argent wouldn't miss. "How did the tank get here?" he asked.

  "Beats me." Chandler said. "But if I'd only come to set up you, I wouldn't be standing here now."

  Argent ignored the man's words. As a vampire, Chandler didn't have to worry about injury as much as a human. He could regenerate any wounds he took, and turn to mist if things got too bad. Staying with them he could serve as a living gunsight.

  "The tank was brought there on a truck transport." Peg answered. "I've got it on-screen."

  Cycling through the images on the Corona, noting that he'd lost one of the mini-cams, Argent spotted the truck a few blocks down the street. Peg enhanced and magnified the image, showing the ramp sticking out the back.

  “I’ve traced the license and the name of the company on the side of the track." Peg said. "It's out of Los Angeles."

  "You were followed." Argent stated, pulling the Ingram away from Chandler's face.

  "No drek." Chandler looked uncomfortable. "Didn't figure on this little piece of biz getting slotted so drekking quick. And if they followed me, they must have been using some wiz tech. I'm no wannabe, and I've been to see the elephant."

  Argent ignored the comment. He gathered Beedle's sagging weight, shoving the younger man toward the back door. "Telma."

  She broke from her position at once, ramming a fresh clip home in the butt of her weapon. Two men near the back door on the other side of the bathrooms noticed the group moving toward the exit.

  "You're the ones brought this down on us!" one of them snarled, lifting his pistol.

  Without a word, Telma shot him through the shoulder, expertly hitting the nerve cluster that controlled the hand. The pistol tumbled from the joker's numbed fingers as he squalled in pain and fury. His partner dropped his weapon and stepped back.

  Argent kept the Ingram moving, holding back the Lookers clientele. Beedle was nearly dead weight in his grip, his head lolling around on his shoulders. Watching the image of the Striker tank on the Coronas lens, Argent saw the turret turn, coming to bear on the front of the tavern.

  Telma pushed through the door and into the dark, narrow corridor beyond. Glass doors beckoned at both ends of the corridor, letting out into the street in front and a parking area behind the building. "We can try for a vehicle." the bodyguard suggested.

  "Not one of those." Argent said. "They'll have those covered." He gestured toward the stairs, knowing they'd be less vulnerable on them than in one of the elevators midway down the corridor. In the Corona lens, he saw the Striker tank's turret turn more, coming to rest on the corridor of the building. He didn't know how the sec force h
ad managed it, whether by infrared sights or by one of the tank crewmen assensing them on the astral plane, but the cannon was definitely pointed at them. "Move! They've got a lock on us!"

  21

  Using the strength of his cyberarm and the leverage he'd learned from years of having it, Argent hauled Beedle over one shoulder and raced up the steps after Telma. His breath came harshly from the exertion of the last handful of minutes, but his body performed like a machine, flawlessly and relentlessly, just the way he'd built it and trained it to respond.

  Telma ran ahead of him, graceful as an acrobat. She held her pistol in both hands, twisting her shoulders as she swept the shadows.

  Beedle kept up a steady litany of curses. His words and the breath jarred out of him as his abdomen slammed into Argent's shoulder.

  The cannon round from the Striker tank slammed into the front doors of the corridor below. The plastiglass doors didn't stand for a nanosecond against the projectile, but the impact set off the shaped charge within the sabot round. Designed as a tank killer, the sabot round penetrated its target's exterior surface, then exploded a secondary charge within that target's belly. In this case, the target's belly was the corridor.

  A sheet of coiling, racing flames speared out across the corridor. The concussion and heat spilled over Argent, knocking him flat as he reached the second floor, then making the air too hot to breathe for a few seconds. If he hadn't had a damper in his cyberears to weed out sudden increases in sound, he would have gone deaf temporarily.

  Dazed by the concussive force, he had to push himself back to his feet. Ceiling tile sections dropped from the grids above him, fragmenting against the floor, the railing around the second story balcony, his companions, and himself. White powder puffed up from the broken tiles, dispersing in clouds throughout the air.

  A coughing fit racked Beedle, causing him to cry out in pain as well. The blood stain across his shoulder had spread, matting the material of his shirt to his flesh.

  "They're getting set to fire again." Peg warned over the commlink.

  "Do they still have a lock on us?" Argent asked. He glanced down at the swath of destruction that filled the corridor below.

  Flames clung to the walls and floor, and licked greedily for anything they could claim as fuel. Debris scattered the floor, littered with gleaming diamond pinpoints of shattered plastiglass. Black shadows showed where holes had been knocked in the walls. A plastic rubber tree plant hung upside down from the ceiling, burning brightly.

  "I don't know." Peg answered.

  Chandler was the first to rise, whirling up out of the debris in mist form, then taking on flesh again. He picked his Thunderbolt up from the floor.

  Telma shoved her way out from under tiles, covered in the white dust. She still held her weapon.

  Kneeling, Argent reached inside his jacket and took out the small case of slap patches he carried. He opened it and took out a low-grade tranq patch and put it over Beedie's neck.

  "No." Beedle protested.

  Argent ignored the protest. The tranq patch would negate, or at least interfere, with Beedle's ability to work his magic. But Argent didn't want the man in pain because that could make him even harder to work with.

  A second cannon round screamed into the interior of the building, impacting against the wall with a blinding display of pyrotechnics. The rush of heat took away the air again for a moment, and the vibration shook the balcony, stressing the supports enough to leave them bent and sagging. The balcony floor pulled away from the sides of the second floor, leaving gaps ten and more centimeters wide. The vibrations continued, accompanied by screeching as plastisteel rebar in the foundation gave way under the weight of the concrete.

  Beedle's hand worried at the tranq patch on his neck, but his efforts grew rapidly weaker as the strong anesthetic surged through his system. His eyelids fluttered, slowly and finally closing.

  The mini-cam locked onto the street view wavered, going gray, then flickering back into full-color mode alternately. The gray-toned projections started lasting longer and Argent knew he was losing the cam.

  "Argent." Telma said.

  "Up." Argent said.

  The floor shifted violently, tilting toward the corridor below. Benches and artificial plants skidded toward the railing, then spilled over, falling into the flames.

  Telma bolted up the stairs, having difficulty navigating them because they'd turned sideways when the bottom section had been blown loose. She paused at the top of the third-floor landing, sinking into cover provided by a pillar connecting the landing to the next floor.

  To her left, an elevator opened, the floor level indicator light flashing on. The doors opened and a man stepped out, guiding two young girls.

  Telma broke her stance. "Clear." she called back to Argent.

  The big warrior never broke stride. Beedle hung limply over his shoulder, making negotiating the stairs harder.

  Argent accessed the commlink. "Peg, what's on the top two floors of this building?"

  "Primarily residences." she told him. "A few scattered individual businesses."

  That agreed with what Argent remembered from the files Peg had sent him during the plane flight. He joined Telma on the landing, Chandler at his heels.

  "We're about out of running room." Telma stated grimly.

  "We've got company downstairs." Chandler said.

  Argent peered over the railing's side. Nearly a dozen men fanned out below, taking up covering positions with overlapping fields of fire. The hard black armor reflected the flames. "We're not going to wait for them. Let's find the quickest way to the roof."

  "I've got the building's schematic." Peg said. "At the top of the fourth-floor landing, turn left and go down twenty-five or thirty meters. There's a maintenance room there with a ladder that goes up to the rooftop."

  Argent nodded at Telma, giving her the lead.

  She took off in a sprint.

  Argent followed her, feeling the steps jerk under the weight he was carrying. Groaning metal roared up from below as the bottom two levels of the stairs pulled free and fell. Bullets ripped through the air around them, tearing chunks out of the walls and ceiling.

  The maintenance room door was locked when they arrived. Telma pulled on it in frustration. "I can pick it, but it's going to take time we don't have."

  "I've got it." Argent said calmly. He released the Ingram and splayed his fingers out. Ramming his hand into the door facing around the handle, he closed his fist and yanked back. The maglock ripped free of the door. He tossed it onto the floor, then gripped the door and yanked it open.

  Track lighting illuminated the room on the other side of the door. Shelves lined the walls, filled with cleaning supplies, spare bulbs, and carpenter's tools. Two washers and a dryer occupied a corner, their hoses wrapped up and thrust inside the compartments.

  Argent scanned the room. "Where's the ladder?"

  "Mounted inside the ceiling." Peg told him. "There's an access chute that runs to the roof."

  "Here." Telma called out, moving into a corner at the back of the room. She leaped up and caught a dangling chain. The hatch mounted on the ceiling opened and a ladder extended down to the floor.

  "Let's go." Argent said.

  "You can't get Beedle through there on your back." Telma said.

  Argent looked at the narrow chute and silently agreed. When he spotted the drive belts on the wall, he wasn't sure what they were intended for. But he knew how he could use them.

  The belts were thin, hard plastic, with teeth cut into them to mesh with notches on pulley wheels. He took four of them, finding that number made a comfortable handgrip. A nearby box yielded an emergency flare that he pocketed. Turning back to Beedle, he looped them over the man's upper body and pulled his arms out.

  "The sec force has taken the bar." Peg said. "Many of them are running into the corridor. I can't see them there."

  Argent didn't have to guess to know that the sec force was dogging their footsteps. The
secmen must have been thinking they had them cornered.

  "Go." Argent said to Telma.

  She stared up the ladder, going quickly hand over hand. "Running across the rooftops isn't a good idea.

  Most of them are too far away. Especially trying to carry Beedle."

  "We're not going to run." Argent said. He motioned Chandler up next.

  "You go." Chandler said. "I'll come up behind in case you need help with your friend."

  Argent didn't argue despite the fact that he didn't like to be contradicted in the field. What Chandler said made sense. He climbed the ladder one-handed, his move-by-wire reflexes allowing him to carry Beedle's weight perfectly balanced.

  He was bathed in perspiration by the time he reached the top of the chute at the end of a five-meter climb. Judging from the distance, he guessed the building had storage space over the top floor. Breathing hard, he carried Beedle to a safe place near the roof's edge.

  Blood continued to flow from the street mage's gunshot wound. Argent knew if it wasn't stopped, the young man was going to die. Just like Hawk and Toshi had.

  Kneeling, Argent gently ripped the cloth from around the wound. He took the flare from his pocket and popped the self-starter. The flame sizzled to life, burning with a carmine and gold intensity.

  "What are you doing?" Chandler asked.

  "Trying to save his life." Telma answered. "Do it, Argent. There's no easy way."

  Argent clamped down on his feelings the way Brynnmawr had taught him all those years ago, becoming as hard as the ferrous metals and ceramic that made up the cyberhand that held the flare. He shoved it against the bleeding wound.

  When the pain hit his system, the young mage almost woke up, struggling against Argent's inexorable grip. Then he passed out again, a scream still-born on his lips.

  Argent held the flare against the wound for a quick count of five, then pulled Beedle over and applied it again to the exit wound. Flesh sizzled and white smoke that smelled like frying meat twisted up into his nose. Raw, angry red blisters healed up at once.

  But the bleeding stopped.

  Argent hoped it would hold the wounds long enough to allow them to get Beedle to a medico who worked in the shadows and off the books. He closed his fist on the flare, crushing out the fire that still clung to it. When he tossed it to one side of the pebbled roof, a few sparks scattered, then the chemicals went inert.