A strangled scream broke from the guard’s lips, as the whites of his eyes mooned in horror. The bumper sheared through the bay doors as jagged metal folded him sideways, erasing his shoulder and crushing his right limb.
The shredded gatepieces clattered behind as I crashed through the sheet metal, the wheels bucking as they took the two-foot drop without hiccup in the absence of any loading ramp. I looked back in the mirror to see his palsying form sprawled on the concrete. I burst out into the pale overcast, wondering where the hell Marty was. No one in sight. A sallow glare streamed from the sky.
Sense started to come to me. What to do with that piece of tech?
The gears in my brain worked with slow precision as I hit the gravel road and headed toward Hoath. I looked for a quick solution. Take the device to my ship at the rendezvous point, several miles out from the east end of town. A no brainer, right?
No.
An abandoned warehouse came up to my left and my heart did a little tumble.
That feeling that grips you when you’re forced to make a quick decision in a time of trouble. Take Path A or Path B. The path through the woods on the tried and true trail, or that unknown animal path down by the lake you’ve never been to. Step right up, folks, sign your name on the dotted line in blood. The bad feeling that had been lurking in the pit of my stomach just suddenly jerked up a notch.
“Aw, screw me!” Acid boiling to my throat, I cranked the wheel hard, front tires spitting gravel. The flatbed broke through the rickety steel gate, and I pulled up to the loading docks.
Stumbling out of the vehicle, panting, I kicked open the rusty door of the warehouse with my good leg. Cursing, I tucked my hands in my sleeves. With hands shielded, I dragged the foreign parallel-plate gadget into the gloom, dropped it into a storeroom with only bats and mice flitting about. The place smelled of dung and mildew, but I didn’t care. Hadn’t been used in years. I pushed the tech deeper into the shadows and covered it with some old mildewed battered skids and tarps. One brown rat with pointed snout jumped out with a baleful stare and squeaked. Knock yourself out, rodent. Get blasted to oblivion, if you like. I limped out to the flatbed and gunned the engine, churning gravel all the way.
Forget Marty. Got to get to my ship.
I drove toward the outskirts of Hoath, following the main road. I must have driven for miles before I became aware of little oncoming traffic.
Warning bells chimed in my mind. What the hell? Minutes ago, only an odd lorry had passed, probably carrying dubious cargo. I didn’t know the side roads. Might have to run some detours, which was a bad thing. My leg tingled to the barest edge of feeling as the Myscol began to wear off. To drive that piece of junk into the city—was not ideal.
The flatbed rattled over the top of a hill. Ahead and below, I saw flashing lights. A blockade of some sort: steel girders, surface cars, a few air speeders and milling figures. No way! Men in uniform, hailing down traffic, and detaining and searching vehicles. My mind raced. Baer’s work? Coincidence?
Baer’s boys must have called in for reinforcements—which meant I was meat if I didn’t quit this scene.
I slammed on the brakes and did a full 180. An air speeder looped out after me, its airhorn piercing the stillness and scaring a flock of ducks with long spoonbill beaks. Those horseshoe-shaped air speeders looked like local law. Could Baer’s reach run so deep?
I screeched down a gravelled side road. The lights flashed as an official police van lurched after me from the blockade. Now I was up shit creek. This clunker wouldn’t hold up to air pursuit and souped-up cop van. In desperation, I cranked the wheel hard and ran her into the fields.
Not wise. The ground was wet and soggy with a recent rain. The engine whined at max rpm, tires spinning in the black mud. The van halted and two burly figures leaped out who looked none too pleased, grimacing through their beards. I could see their faces set and rifles in their hands. The air speeder came bearing down on me.
I bolted the doors, clutched my glock, but they smashed through the glass and hairy hands pulled me out onto the wet grass. I struggled, getting off a wild shot, but losing my grip on my gun, as it was kicked out of my grasp.
“You rotten prick,” I bawled. “Pick on someone your own size.”
“Funny man at two o’clock, Roy. Spike him.”
I still had some juice left in me from the Myscol and I kneed the bastard in the chest just as he bent down to clobber me with his rifle. These thugs were keen on taking me alive, otherwise they would have peppered me long ago. Wrestling, I jammed his weapon in his face, breaking his nose and mashing an eye. He howled and went down in the mud, clutching at the ruin of his face. His partner reached to help him as I staggered off.
The air speeder disgorged three air guards. Husky, military boys. They looked royally pissed, a mean bunch, though nothing more than mercenaries paid to patrol and beat down whomever their employers told them to—which in this case must be Baer. I could see the blue decals with the hunting eagle on the underbelly of the craft. Not that that meant anything, the insignia of city air guards.
Rat-a-tat-tat, Three men and a rat. The rhyme worked in rhythm with the
