“Well, Mr. Nixon,” the woman says. “It seems we have ourselves something of a situation.”
Nixon hesitates then decides not to say anything.
The translator goes on. “You killed my father. Now, I have to kill you. I don’t like it. You’ve got a fight in you that I admire. But, this is how the business works.”
Nixon still says nothing. It’s blacker than black inside of this alley. He works his hand tighter around the grip of the blaster, and that’s when he feels it. His other hand. It’s empty. He’s lost the card.
“So come out of that alley. Toss the blaster out in front of you, and we’ll get this all settled.”
Nixon inches toward the alley entrance. He has no intention of turning over the blaster or handing himself over to this girl and the memory of her father. He looks out to the street. There’s something in the debris pile that doesn’t look like it belongs, but he can’t tell from here.
“C’mon, Mr. Nixon. I don’t want to have to send someone in there to get you.”
Nixon moves a couple of feet closer and looks again. There it is, the card that Mira gave him.
“My father was patient, Mr. Nixon. It’s not a trait I inherited. I’m going to give you to the count of ten and then I send someone to come get you.”
Nixon moves back from the entrance and feels around in the dark for anything he can stack.
“Ten.”
“Nine.”
He’s groping around and finds one crate. It’s narrow and tall. Then there’s a second. He puts one on top of the other and climbs up. He gropes for the top of the warehouse wall, but he hasn’t stacked crates tall enough.
“Eight.”
“Seven.”
“Six.”
He stoops and keeps a hand low, hoping to find anything else that will give him some kind of height. His hand catches something cool and smooth. It’s a metal box. He picks it up and puts it on the other two boxes.
“Five.”
“Four.”
Nixon grabs Shaine’s crate and tosses it onto the roof of the building. He tucks the blaster back into his waistband, then he climbs to the top of his stack of boxes and grabs for the edge of the roof. His fingertips catch the moulded concrete lip at the top of the wall, and his feet kick the stack of boxes over. They go down with a crash, and Nixon scrambles his feet up the wall just as the two big Uzeks round the corner.
“Oh, Mr. Nixon, there’s that fight. But I’m afraid you’re making a bad choice.”
Nixon stands so he can see from his new position down into the alley. The Uzeks that rushed into the alley have stopped. Their eagerness superceded by their fear of what’s in the dark. They start grunting something to one another, but neither of them move.
Nixon quietly steps closer to the street and toward the edge of the roof. He’s standing over them now. He’s got a shot, but he can’t fire this blaster accurately without both hands. He bends to set Shaine’s case to the ground, but his fingers are slick with sweat and dirt and it slips. It bangs into the roof, and both Uzeks whip around. They bring their blasters up with them and both fire wild shots.
Nixon drops to the rooftop and hears the shots blister the air just above him. He goes to stand and three more blaster shots explode the brick and concrete at the edge of the building. A large chunk smashes Nixon in the forehead. He puts a hand to it and presses hard. He wipes, and his palm is covered in blood.
His head is light and he gives himself a moment before crawling back away from the edge of the building. He finds a large piece of mechanical equipment and crawls behind it.
“Gonna be harder than that to take me out.”
“We can be here all night,” the translator calls back. “Now that you’re trapped like a dog.”
Nixon looks around. He’s safe here, for now. But he’d be safer if he could get off this roof. He puts a hand to his forehead and wipes away blood that was about to dribble into his eye.
It's all rooftop behind him, and that’s the safest place to run, so he does. He’s not more than a dozen steps away before he hears the Uzeks grunt their way onto the roof with him. One of them shout-grunts something that he ignores.
He’s at a sprint.This pace can keep the Uzeks at bay, but that assumes there is endless road in front of him. This road ends abruptly. In about 20 yards.
Nixon tries to slow, but he’s too late. He stutter steps until the very last second then leaps into what looks like a black hole.
From mid air he looks down and makes out a pile of crates and boxes. He braces then crashes through them, back first. The case comes loose and falls out of his arms. It clangs against the ground, and Nixon hears it bounce away.
He picks himself up out of a pile of sticks and busted concrete, and there’s a voice that starts speaking: “There you are, Mr. Nixon.”
Grunts come from above him. Grunts and footsteps.
The translator, closer now: "Just come out and let's put an end to this. You owe us a debt, Mr. Nixon."
Blaster fire blows a hole into the wall next to him, and he rolls away then scrambles to his feet. One of the Uzeks is looking over the edge of the roof at him, a smaller blaster up and aimed at Nixon.
Nixon raises his blaster and fires a quick shot. It misses the Uzek standing at the edge of the roof, but there’s a deep cry coming from behind that Uzek. The second one stumbles
