| From: | Mike Goldberg <michael.goldberg@*******.COM> |
|---|---|
| Subject: | Captured in Denver? (Denver Saga #1) |
| Date: | Wed, 2 Jul 1997 01:46:02 MST |
>>>>>[ Here's the latest news from Denver. It was a very interesting
night.
+++++ begin transmission
A nighttime street, in a bad neighbourhood, in an indeterminate town.
Firetrap tenements, heavily shuttered storefronts, and a bar whose
fizzing green neon proclaims "Topless - Bottomless - All The Way -
TONITE!" and is the best light on the street. The Troll on the door is
letting in a queue of patrons, and if the "Over 21s Only" sign is
being enforced, there are a lot of short pimply 22-year-old men in
this town.
"Think he's going to show?" Easy's voice. The view seems to be from a
helmet camera: it dips to show her working on the engine of a battered
Rapier motorcycle, a toolbag by her where she's crouched and a few
chrome sockets and spanners nearby.
"Man of habit, he's usually late." Griffyn's voice has the slight
roughness of a commlink. "I've got our guy in sight, he's heading past
you."
Easy clicks the mike twice in return, continues to scrape carbon off a
spark plug as footsteps pass her without slowing or stopping.
"Bingo. He's headed for the alley, just like we thought. And I've got
a Bulldog in sight, matches Finny's wheels. Game on."
Easy glances up with bored curiosity as a silver Bulldog slows, then
reverses into the alleyway where the pedestrian also vanished - you
see her reflected in the mirrored windows for a moment, a slim figure
of indeterminate race and gender, clad in bulky motorcycle leathers
and a full-face helmet; crouched beside a partially-dismantled Rapier
- before it is gone.
"Our guy's getting in. Alley's a dead end. Ready?"
"Ready." Easy rises from her crouch, picking up the toolbag as she
does so. "Street clear?"
"As clear as I can see. His backup's either well hidden or further
out."
"Then let's do it. Trax, Basher, start the smoke and mirrors, buy us a
few minutes on the cops' response time." Easy sets the toolbag down on
the bike's seat, brings out a CAR-15 assault rifle and extends the
stock, keeping it low and behind the bike: slinging the carbine to
ride along her side, inconspicuous in the darkness, she carries the
green canvas bag across the alley mouth as she uncoils a length of
spiked chain along the asphalt.
"Any reaction?" she asks tensely.
"Not yet."
"Too easy, pardon the pun." The Bulldog is parked broadside-on in the
wide alleyway - a loading dock and dumpster park for several
buildings.
Griffyn appears at the other side of the alley entrance, opening his
long duster enough to grasp the AK-97 carbine hidden beneath. "Easy's
my middle name. And your handle. You take the van, I'll cover then
watch for his backup. Let's go."
Easy runs to the silver Bulldog, grabs the side door, and with a snarl
of exertion and a squeal of tortured plastic tears it off, throwing
something inside and at once raising the CAR-15 -
"Down." Griffyn's voice is level, but carries a heavy freight of
command, and Easy throws herself backwards at once: bullets crack
through the air where she had been a moment before, the front
passenger window shattering as Griff fires at it. The Bulldog's tyres
squeal as it accelerates out of the alley, Griffyn raking it with
gunfire and Easy emptying the CAR-15 into its rear in one long,
hammering burst, the muzzle flash enormous in the dark alley.
There is a flashbulb pulse of light and the van's windows shatter in
unison, then the deafening report of the concussion grenade hits you.
Griff ducks out of the van's way, reloading with controlled speed, as
it crosses the spiked chain and a flurry of popping noises mark the
great gashes being sliced into the tyres.
Easy drops the empty magazine out of her rifle, slides in a
replacement and lets the bolt fly forward to chamber the first, as the
van continues to move - slower and clumsy, but still moving.
Muzzle flashes strobe in the shattered windows and bullets thump into
plascrete or ricochet wildly: Easy fires back, strikes visible around
and under the window and the gunfire ceasing.
Griff is shooting for the driver, then at something else, as Easy runs
forward: someone is leaping out of the open side of the van, and the
Elven samurai slaps the machine pistol out of his grip, and manages to
avoid the slash of the saw-backed survival knife in his other hand.
The van comes to an grinding halt, smoke billowing from somewhere
underneath it.
Twisting and kicking out, she smashes one motorcycle boot into the
man's left thigh: there is a crisp clear snap and he falls like a
puppet with cut strings. As he does so Easy fires five shots into the
van's missing side door, deliberately high, as she advances on it: too
high to hurt the occupants, but hopefully enough to dismay and alarm
them.
Inside are three bodies, all bleeding and motionless. She staggers and
you hear a shot, whirls to see the broken-legged man aiming a small
pistol at her: a short burst of 5.56mm stitches crimson flowers across
his torso.
"Shit. All down." Another couple of shots hit the van, the Troll
bouncer outside the club firing at her: another burst knocks him
backwards, and Easy aims for a moment and shoots him in the head, then
empties the magazine back and forth across the glaring neon sign in a
cacophony of breaking glass and ricochets.
"Why'd you do that?" asks Griffyn politely, moving past her and
glancing into the van, then breaking into a run.
"Because I'm pissed off." replies Easy, reloading again. Behind them,
the sign sparks and fizzles as it tries to show "To ess o tom e -
l e W y - TO IT !" A face appears in the club doorway and Easy fires
two shots, deliberately low and to the side: the face vanishes at
once.
"Okay. Star due in eight minutes. Guess we're tonight's hot act."
"You've never seen my hot act yet. Which one is Mick, just from
curiosity?" asks Easy.
"The Ork with the suit, the shades and the sucking chest wounds."
"Too bad." Easy sounds annoyed rather than dismayed or distressed, as
she picks up the body in question: an elderly Americar pulls up and
she throws the wounded Ork into it, ignoring his cry of pain, before
climbing in herself. As she buckles up, the Americar rounds the corner
of the block, swerving around a bullet-riddled Jackrabbit with one man
dead behind the wheel and another lying beside it, moaning steadily
and clutching her stomach.
"That was his backup?"
"Yeah, no real problem." Griff says calmly.
"How about the drone tailing us?" The camera isn't seeing it clearly,
but Easy's eyes must be better.
"Not mine. Basher, did the cops get a drone here?"
"Negative. Not theirs, they are six minutes out at least - more like
fifteen, they're drekking themselves over the autofire and explosions
and screaming for backup before they'll commit. Not cops, not ours."
"Okay. Griffyn, any chance we can lose it?"
"No." The answer is firm and calm.
"Fuck." Easy reaches down the front of her jacket, retrieves the three
magazines she'd discarded there, begins reloading them with a rapid
grace. "We may be in trouble. Can you think of any other players?"
"Maybe Mick has backers who don't like our intervention." Griffyn
accelerates slightly, takes a left.
"Maybe. Or maybe this was a setup?"
"Too easy for a setup. We'd have been up to our asses in bad guys
before you tore the door off. Or the van would have blown."
"Yeah." Easy finishes loading the first magazine, starts thumbing
loose brass cartridges into a second. "So, who the fuck is it?"
"Don't know. I got some five-forty-five in the glovebox." Griff hands
Easy two of the curved plastic magazines for his AK as she finishes
reloading her own.
They drive in silence for nearly a minute - a police car passes them,
siren screaming - until the electronic chirrup of a telephone makes
them both jump.
Easy curses and fumbles out a pocket cellular. "Yeah. Who?"
"I'm known as Midnight, but not to you. I'm a friend of the Mighty
Quinn."
Easy pauses, glances at Griff: seeing no warnings there, she says "So
what's Quinn's real name?"
"Names are powerful, as Baroness Glamis would tell you herself. And
this is a somewhat open channel. I'd tell you where you were, but that
would be unwise: though if you wanted a soyburger, you'd be set for a
tasty and nutritious breakfast." Easy glances out of the window at a
branch of Big Kahuna Burger zipping by.
"Check out the big brain on Brett!" she replies.
"Then you know the Lady of whom I speak, and her taste in movies.
Follow the spotter. I guarantee your safety, and I can help you
extract certain information from your passenger."
Easy hits the "discretion" button, killing the small 'phone's mike.
"Opinions, Griff?"
"We have a choice?"
"We could shoot that drone down, at a pinch." Easy suggests.
"You trust your friend Quinn?"
"She probably wouldn't get us killed. Coyote shaman."
Griff shakes his head with a tired smile. "Let's do it. If all else
fails, hide behind me and use me as cover."
"Shut up, you oversized stripy housecat." Easy offers a shy smile in
return, then reactivates the cellular. "Okay, deal. We'll follow the
drone." ]<<<<<
-- Easy <08:44:27/07-02-58>
