Shadowrun 44 - Drops of Corruption Page 24

  X-Prime lowered the gun and squeezed the trigger. The bullet hit the ground in front of Shivers, sending dirt into his face. Shivers jerked his head backward. “Don’t push your luck,” X-Prime said. Then a thought struck him. “You’re working with Kader now? I thought you were with the Bigios.”

  “I work for myself,” Shivers said. “Now and always.” “Then why should I take your word for anything?” Shivers might have smiled, but X-Prime was now too far away to see him clearly. “Because that’s all you have.”

  X-Prime considered this, and decided Shivers was right. He kept his gun aimed at Shivers for a few more steps, then turned and walked east into the increasing darkness.

  “Shivers?” Bannickburn said. “Shivers is here? What's he doing here?”

  “He wants the water bottle,” X-Prime said. “Like everyone else here.”

  “But he’s on our side!”

  X-Prime shrugged. “Apparently he’s not.” Bannickburn felt like he’d been kicked in the stomach. His supposed best friend in this strange bleeding land was preparing to kill him. And now, no matter what he did, he was dead. If he didn’t turn the water over, Kader and Shivers would kill him. If he gave the water to the Finnigans, Martel would most likely kill him when he got back to Seattle. Of course, he could always turn over the bottle and never go back to Seattle, but he didn’t feel inclined to run again. And Martel would not easily give up on finding him.

  Only one solution came to mind—take the fight to them before they brought it to him. Unfortunately, that was the same strategy he’d used in the Stinklands so long ago, and it hadn’t worked out too well.

  He was in a dank, spider-filled basement. Puddles of moldy water sat here and there, and Bannickburn was certain the air, and now his lungs, had become filled with the same mold. He sat on a wooden stool with uneven legs. Jackie and Cayman sat on a board suspended between two cinder blocks. Kross was left to alternate between sitting on the floor or standing; with the suit he was wearing, he generally chose to stand. Spindle was upstairs, keeping watch. X-Prime was pacing back and forth in front of Bannickburn.

  It wasn’t much of a hideout, its chief advantage being that there was no good way to fire a bullet into it. In six hours, though, Kader and Shivers would make an attempt, and if they managed to trap them in their headquarters, Bannickburn and his team would quickly be butchered. In short, the basement was of limited utility. Bannickburn’s time here would best be spent dreaming up a way to get out quickly. He got Bailey on the radio, and briefed him on the message from Shivers.

  “That filthy, slimy, whore-born pustule on a monkey’s ass,” Bailey said. “That little piece of excrement buried in maggots and weevils. That . . . that . . . absolute pisser.”

  “I understand,” Bannickburn said. “And I agree. But what now?”

  “What now? We fraggin’ rip him limb from limb! We plant his fraggin’ head three feet underground, and come back next year, and see if there’s a new batch of traitors growing here. We kill him!”

  “May not be that easy.”

  “Right.” Bailey took a breath. “A plan. We need a plan.”

  “Maybe shouldn’t be discussed over the radio. In case they’re listening.”

  “Tough for us to get out,” Bailey countered. “They got a couple cars running up and down our street, keeping us pinned inside.”

  “Okay. Let me think for a few minutes.”

  Bannickburn flicked off the radio. “We need a plan,” he said, then he sat and thought. He looked at the other members of the team. Each of them started to say something, then stopped, instantly seeing a hole in whatever plan they were about to present.

  Bannickburn rolled his eyes. “You’re all tremendously helpful. Okay. Here’s the first thing we do.”

  27

  The house at 301 Carnation Drive burned. It had smoked for about half an hour, then the Molotov cocktails Bailey’s people had thrown in (while they dashed between the cars that kept zipping up and down Violet Cove) finally pushed the house beyond smoldering and into full-scale burning. The wind pushed the smoke west, hopefully into the faces of Kader, Shivers, and their men.

  Then X-Prime and Cayman came out. X-Prime carried the large sheet of metal that, until recently, had been protecting the back door of their hideout. Cayman carried one of the prizes of his weapon collection, an Ingram SuperMach. Under covering fire from Bailey’s people, Cayman and X-Prime made it into the front yard of a house just north of Bailey’s hideout. The decrepit fence, combined with X-Prime’s metal sheet, would, they hoped, give them enough protection until the bigger guns and grenade launchers came out.

  The yellow Mustang rounded the corner, heading south. The driver watched the fire to his right more than the dark fence to his left, so he didn’t see Cayman when he leaped up and sprayed forty rounds into the car. Crawling along, the car didn’t squeal or skid when the driver was hit; instead, it kept creeping ahead, getting slower and slower, until it came to a stop at the intersection of Violet Cove and Carnation Drive. No one got out of the car—Cayman had hit the driver and the gunman both.

  They didn’t have to wait long for retaliation. Two more Mustangs, the blue and the black, sped east on Carnation Drive, pushing smoke away from them as their engines roared. The occupants of the cars fired constantly, the bullets going right where the triggermen were looking, smartlinks guiding their aim. They peppered Bailey’s house, and the fence that had hidden Cayman and X-Prime, with dozens of rounds. Cayman and X-Prime had already moved on, knowing the return blow would be heavier than anything their modest shield could handle.

  That was the end of the watchfulness of the previous few hours, the simmering hostility. Cayman’s shots commenced open warfare that would continue until one side or another surrendered or died.

  Bailey left his headquarters before the fire across the street was set. The moment they put their plan together, Bailey had known what his role was going to be, and he accepted it with relish. It wasn’t quite accurate to say he’d completely forgotten about the bottle of water, but he now had more pressing matters on his mind.

  He walked low through the backyard of the house where he’d been hiding, scrambled over a few fences (and through one—he found a spot so rotten he just punched his way through), and ended up on the northeast corner of the block that sheltered his people.

  Bannickburn was holed up in a house across the street from him—it was easily identified by the bullet-riddled van in front of it. He didn’t want to be this far east—a house or two to the west should be the ideal spot.

  He found the perfect location at 411 Windswept Lane. An entire panel of the backyard fence had fallen away, opening to the barren land beyond. There was a tree, one of the few still standing in the neighborhood, no more than twenty feet from the gap. A few of its branches were dead, but a cluster of leaves about three meters off the ground would provide him the necessary concealment. He scampered up the tree.

  Behind him, the burning house glowed orange, while the smoke drifted slowly northwest. Gunshots clattered—first one long burst, then a more steady exchange of gunfire. People were dying behind him— maybe Kader’s people, maybe Bannickburn’s people, maybe his own people. He didn’t care much. The one person he wanted dead was, he was pretty sure, still alive. In a few minutes, he planned on taking care of that.

  The night breeze was enough to blow the smoke in the right direction, but not enough to rustle the leaves in Bailey’s tree, which was good. Nothing interfered with his perception of surrounding sounds.

  He saw Jimmy before he heard him. It was only a quick glimpse—a head with a black watch cap, darting above the fence before ducking back down—but it was enough. He didn’t see Jimmy’s red hair, or any other identifiable traits, but he knew who it was. He knew Jimmy well enough to know that as soon as the fighting broke out in the middle of the development, Jimmy would use the chaos as a distraction while he snuck off and got the water. He hadn’t, Bailey admitted to himself, known Jimmy well e
nough to know that he’d turn traitor, but he had a pretty good grasp of Shivers’ tactics in a fight.

  He wouldn’t get a great shot off. Shivers was too smart to linger in front of the gap in the fence for very long. Bailey’s finger would have to be squeezing the trigger before he saw Jimmy again.

  Now he heard it—soft footfalls on the lightly crunching dirt. He caught occasional dark glimpses of Jimmy between fence slats, but never enough to take a shot.

  The footfalls stopped. Bailey estimated that Jimmy was a mere two meters away from the gap. He grabbed his right wrist with his left hand, steadying his shooting arm.

  He waited maybe twenty seconds. Then came three quick, loud steps, then silence. Then Shivers flew across the gap, a full meter above the ground, diving, preparing to roll.

  Bailey squeezed the trigger as soon as he heard the last step. He was gratified to see Jimmy’s flying body— he’d guessed right again. Jimmy didn’t just roll across the ground, since that would be too obvious. He had clearly hoped the elevated dive would be more unexpected. Unfortunately for him, it wasn’t.

  Bailey heard a grunt right after the pop of his gun. He smiled, then scrambled down from the tree. His hiding place had served its purpose—now, his presence revealed, he’d be a sitting duck if he stayed up there.

  Jimmy was scrambling on the other side of the fence, either looking for some kind of defensive position or writhing in pain. Bailey fervently hoped it was the latter, but he took no chances. Dropping from the tree, he landed in a crouch, gun pointed toward the noise, in case Jimmy felt like sticking any part of himself above the fence.

  He didn’t. The scrambling stopped, replaced by quick, even steps. Jimmy was on his feet and running.

  Bailey dashed after him, running through the gap in the fence, and firing a second shot at the fleeing shadow. He glanced down at the ground as he ran over it and thought he saw a trace of reflective wetness—Jimmy’s blood, further polluting this foul patch of earth.

  The fence line gradually arced to the right, and as it turned Jimmy gained some degree of concealment. Bailey continued after him in a mad dash as long as he could see at least a trace of his foe, but when Shivers managed to disappear from him completely, Bailey slowed. Now all bets were off—Jimmy could have climbed the fence, could be doubling back, could be hiding in a hole in the ground. Bailey couldn’t charge headlong anymore.

  He couldn’t just sneak ahead, either. Too predictable. If he continued along the fence while Jimmy maneuvered out of his sight, he’d invite an ambush. Sooner or later, Jimmy would jump out at him. Bailey had to be unpredictable.

  The most concealment and the best hiding places lay to his right, in the backyards of the houses. So he didn’t go that way. He dropped to his belly and crawled out into the dirt and weeds.

  Progress was slow, especially since he stopped every few seconds to look and listen. He worried that Jimmy had just taken off, abandoned his pursuer to go after the water. But that wasn’t Jimmy’s style, especially if Bailey had marked him with a bullet. Shivers would want to hunt him down before continuing on, not leaving any loose ends. Besides, if he went after the water, he’d be in for a surprise—Bannickburn had left the safety of his house by now. The place should be empty, except maybe for the ork waiting to greet interlopers.

  He saw a movement on the other side of the fence to his left, in the backyard where Bannickburn had been staying. Jimmy was moving slowly, looking for his assailant somewhere, but not spotting him.

  Here I am, Bailey thought. He made sure his cartridge was full of ammo, then leveled his gun and fired four rounds through the fence.

  Another scramble ahead of him. Jimmy was running toward the house. Panicked, maybe; wounded, hopefully. Bailey might have a small window of time to finish him off.

  He got to his feet and charged forward, firing a few more rounds where the first four had gone, adding holes to the already innumerable pockmarks in the gray wood surface. It should be weak enough now, he thought.

  He put his arms over his head and crashed through the fence, splinters tearing at his hands. He didn’t care. He lowered his arms in time to see a surprised Jimmy in front of him, trying to get his gun around. Bailey fired a few more rounds.

  Jimmy went down, but he wasn’t motionless. He was rolling like a log toward Bailey. Bailey lowered his aim and took another shot, but it fell short—he’d been expecting Jimmy to keep moving, but the man had stopped.

  Jimmy got a shot off, catching Bailey in his right forearm. Bailey dropped his gun. Oops, he thought. Better pick that up.

  He went flat on the ground as a second shot from Jimmy whizzed over his head. Then more shots came, aimed at the ground, and Bailey had to roll to stay away from them. He hadn’t gotten his hand on his gun.

  He wouldn’t last long this way, unarmed and on the ground. Jimmy must be leveling his killing shot right now.

  There was a report, and Bailey waited for death to finally round him up. When he didn’t feel any new pain, he looked up.

  Jimmy was spinning to the ground, one hand clasped to his cheek. Bailey could see a gun barrel sticking out between the boards over the back doorway. Must be Kross, Bailey thought. Good ork.

  Unfortunately, Kross couldn’t see through the door well enough to let loose a killing shot. Then a clatter of gunfire echoed from the front of the house, and the ork bellowed. The gun barrel disappeared, and Bailey was left alone with Jimmy.

  He couldn’t see his gun—it was buried in the weeds and dirt. But he could see Jimmy, who was starting to realize he’d only been grazed in the cheek. Bailey charged.

  His left shoulder hit Jimmy in the gut, sending the man’s arms flying out. Shivers lost his grip on his gun. Now they were evenly matched.

  Jimmy fell back on the broken concrete that had once been a small patio. If he was surprised to see who his assailant was, he didn’t show it. He let his backside absorb the impact of his fall, swinging his arms around to pummel Bailey. The blow on Bailey’s wounded right arm was particularly painful.

  Bailey pulled Jimmy closer to him, then brought his knee up. It met its intended target, and Jimmy folded at the waist, gasping. Bailey loosened his grip enough to put a few blows into Jimmy’s kidneys.

  Jimmy heaved, managing to roll both himself and Bailey. They turned, once, twice, three times, each one trying to stop when he was on top. After the third roll, Bailey managed to stop himself, digging a knee into the dirt, rocks cutting through to his flesh. He pushed up on his hands, and had a clear view of Jimmy’s face. He punched once, twice, three times. Jimmy wasn’t putting up his guard. Bailey had a clear target.

  Wait, he thought vaguely as he pummeled his underling. He’s not putting up his guard for a reason. I’m forgetting something. . . .

  Jimmy’s right arm moved up, and ice entered Bailey’s side. He sagged suddenly, uncontrollably. It didn’t really hurt, but the feeling seemed to drain him.

  Then Jimmy the Shiv took his flat metal knife out of Bailey’s side and plunged it into his chest.

  Bailey fell back in slow motion. He heard Jimmy cough a few times and heard his own wheezing breaths. He looked up at the stars, suddenly enchanted. / didn’t know there were stars out tonight. Look how bright they are.

  He grasped the knife in his chest. It was piercing all sorts of things that had no business being touched by dirty metal. He could try, maybe, to pull it out, but at this point it would be a pretty meaningless gesture.

  Jimmy had gotten to his feet, and stood over Bailey. His face was blank. He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t really have to. There was nothing to explain.

  Bailey’s breath was shallower, more painful now. He tried to talk, but only a whispered rasp came out. “Jimmy,” he said. “Jimmy.”

  Jimmy only arched an eyebrow in response.

  “I’ve been . . . I’ve been . . . doing this a long time. Made a lot of money. Kept some of it. Cash. Hid it, just for me. For when ... for when ... I retire. You . . . might as well have i
t. Money shouldn’t just. . . shouldn’t just sit in the ground.”

  The familiar bored expression made its way onto Jimmy’s face, but he didn’t walk away.

  “I’ll tell . . . tell you where to find it. Come here. Come closer. I can . . . can barely talk.”

  Jimmy looked one way, then the other, then shrugged. He moved closer, dropping to one knee just to Bailey’s left.

  With all the strength he had left, and at the cost of a considerable load of pain, Bailey reared up and spat blood in Jimmy’s face.

  “Stupid bastard,” he said, in his normal, full voice. “I don’t have any money saved anywhere. I spent it all on clothes and women. A lot better than giving it to the moron that killed me, don’t you think?” Then he laughed. It hurt terribly, but he couldn’t care less. He just laughed, while Jimmy shook his head.

  He laughed until a spasm racked his body, forcing air out of his lungs once and for all. His body settled into the ground, and Quinn Bailey died with a smile on his face, just like he always said he would.

  28

  This was the plan. Bailey’s men, with help from X-Prime and Cayman, would cause a disruption in the middle of the development. Bailey would track down and eliminate Shivers. Jackie and Spindle would try to find a vehicle or two that worked well enough to get them back to Seattle. Kross would stay at the house, hoping to ambush any enemies who came looking for them. And Bannickburn would stay on the move, away from the action, keeping the bottle of water safe.

  He kept telling himself that his role was important. After all, he was guarding the bottle of water, the reason for all this fuss. But he was out of the action. He should have been on the front line, blowing up entire houses, not cowering in the back, sneaking from empty house to empty house. It was embarrassing.

  Of course, with the protection they’d given him, he damn well better stay away from trouble. All the real firepower had gone to the people in the thick of things, while he was left with a lousy Colt Asp and its measly six bullets in the cylinder. Sure, he had a box of extra ammo, but quick reloading was not his forte. He certainly didn’t want to have to do it in the middle of a firefight.