CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The Bosling Red turned out to be a reasonably upscale place, with soft lights, softer background music, tasteful décor, and an impressive wine list. I got there forty-five minutes before the designated meeting time, with Selene arriving about two minutes behind me. I’d picked out a small, round, two-person table that offered a fairly decent view of the main door and, more importantly, a perfectly positioned airflow toward Selene from the extra chair I’d borrowed from one of the other tables. If our guest was planning any shenanigans, the subtle changes in his scent should give us at least a few seconds’ warning.
We watched as customers filed in, a fair mix of humans and aliens, watching for a familiar face or at least someone who looked like they were here for a business meeting. We got two false starts, lone patrons who paused by the door and searched the room before spotting and joining their respective groups.
Then, at precisely five minutes to nine, a man strode in.
Not just any man. If some lunatic genetic engineer had deliberately set out to load the most sheer intimidation he could into a single package, this would probably be the result. He was massive, a good half head taller than me, with a broad chest, muscled shoulders and arms, no neck to speak of, and a face that would probably curdle milk when he was smiling and terrify babies when he wasn’t. His beady eyes swept the room.
And came to rest on me.
“Selene?” I murmured as he started toward us.
“Clothing is local style, and no one seems to be paying particular attention to him,” she murmured back. “Probably a well-known resident.”
I nodded. I’d noted those same two points and reached the same conclusion. “Hired muscle, then. Let’s see how he smells when he gets closer.”
The man maneuvered the rest of his way through the tables and came to a stop behind our empty chair. Up close, he looked even bigger than he had from across the room. “Roarke?” he rumbled in a voice that matched the rest of his intimidation level.
“Yes,” I confirmed. “You?”
“Call me Basher,” he said. He frowned briefly at Selene as if wondering what species she was, then seemed to give up the effort. His eyes flicked to our hands, making that long count up to four to confirm they were all visible on the table. “Where’s the package?” he asked, pulling out the chair and dropping into it.
“Nearby,” I said. “Where’s the money?”
He eyed me a moment, then pulled a thick envelope from his jacket pocket and pushed it across the table toward me. “You want to count it?”
“Absolutely,” I said, making no move to pick it up. “Selene?”
She took the envelope and sniffed at it, then opened it and did the same to the stack of certified bank checks inside. “Yes,” she said.
“And . . . ?” I asked, nodding toward Basher.
She nodded. “Yes.”
“Thank you,” I said. So the scent I’d been expecting was on both the bank checks and Basher himself. My suspicions about Hades’ identity had indeed been correct. All as expected, but it was nice to have confirmation. As my father used to say, Accusing someone without proof can destroy a relationship, bring embarrassment, or get you shot. So can accusing someone with proof. “And thank you for the delivery, Basher. But we need to speak to your boss now. You want to give Hades a call and invite him to join the party?”
For a fraction of a second Basher’s eyes widened before he could narrow them back down. “I don’t know any Hades,” he rumbled. “You have the money. I want the package.” He leaned a little ways over the table and flexed his fingers. “Unless maybe you want me to do a grip workout on your neck.”
I gave a theatrical sigh. “Basher, have you ever heard of a rooster-spur boot?”
He blinked. “A what?”
“A rooster-spur boot,” I repeated. “It’s a fighting shoe with a double-hook knife that comes out of the toe.”
His gaze dropped briefly to the table, as if he could see my feet through the opaque surface. “So what, you’re going to kick me?”
“You weren’t listening,” I said patiently. “I could just kick you, sure. A knife to the shin or kneecap would hurt like hell and pretty much end your day. But I could also scoop it up behind your ankle and hook your Achilles tendon. That would end your entire week and take a lot of medical work to repair.”
I let my expression harden. “Or I could slice across the back of your knee and cut the popliteal artery. That would end everything, since you’d bleed out in about half a minute.”
He was staring at me, his mouth slightly open, looking rather like a beached fish. Furtively—or at least as furtively as someone that size could manage—he tried to ease back from the table and hopefully out of the reach of the terrifying footwear I’d just described.
A useless effort, as I’d already hooked my instep around the front leg of his chair. It would be trivial for him to break that tenuous grip, of course, but he’d probably seen enough knife fights to know how fast a stab wound could be delivered and wasn’t anxious to test my speed with such things.
I let the tense standoff go on another two heartbeats. Then I lifted a hand, palm upward in invitation. “Hades?” I prompted.
“I’m here,” a voice came from behind and to my left.
I half turned in my chair to look. Trent was walking up behind me, a longer-hair wig, muttonchop sideburns, and a short Fu Manchu mustache wrapped around his face. Against the wall behind him and downwind of us I spotted an empty two-person table, probably where he’d been sitting while he watched our drama play out. He was just putting away his phone, clearly how he’d been monitoring our conversation. “There you are, Hades,” I said, beckoning to him. “Grab a chair.”
“No need,” he said. “Basher was just leaving.” He stopped a couple of meters short of our table and sent a leisurely look around the taverno. “So where is she?”
“She’s close enough,” I told him. “First, we need to talk.”
Trent pursed his lips, still studying my face. Then, with a microscopic shrug he started walking again, circling the table and stopping beside Basher. “That’ll be all, Basher,” he said, motioning the big man to get out of the chair.
“But—” Basher gestured helplessly at me.
“There’s no such thing as this ridiculous chicken shoe he was blathering about,” Trent said impatiently.
“A rooster-spur boot,” I corrected him. “And actually, it does exist. I saw a couple of guys fight with them once.”
“Sure you did,” Trent said. “Good-bye, Basher.”
Basher lurched to his feet and took a hasty step back from the table. Trent pointed him toward the exit and sat down in the vacated chair. Basher turned toward the door.
And paused, frowning at something across the room. “Mr. Trent?”
“Good-bye, Basher,” Trent repeated, more firmly this time.
Basher’s lip twitched. He nodded silently and headed for the door.
“Local talent?” I asked, watching Basher wend his way through the room. Halfway across he slowed, his eyes once again lingering on something near the bar before he resumed his pace.
“You don’t really think I’d partner up with an oaf like that, do you?” Trent countered scornfully. “How did you know?”
“That you’re Hades?” I shrugged. “It was pretty obvious after you drugged me in the Badlands instead of enlisting me to help capture her. So when did you know she was traveling with us?”
He gave a small shrug. “After she shot her way through those hunters on Vesperin,” he said. “I checked the records, saw the Ruth was there the same time she was, and came to the logical conclusion.”
“More of a lucky guess than a conclusion,” I said. “Considering how many people and ships must have been on Vesperin at that time.”
“You were also seen together on Balmoral.”
“Extrapolating from two data points is still building on wet sand,” I warned. “How did that point you to Niskea?”
“There are two or three master gunsmiths she’s worked with over the years,” he said. “I figured she might want something special on hand, flipped a coin, and ended up with Niskea.” He favored me with a small smile. “And yes, we also had the other places covered.”
“Very efficient of you,” I said. “Who’s we?”
“Myself, my client, and my client’s other front men.”
“Not really helpful,” I pointed out. “How about a name?”
“How about not?” he countered. “Come on, Roarke. You know how the confidentiality thing works.”
“Okay, fine,” I said. “So here’s the deal. I have a job to do, Nikki has a job to do, and until those jobs are finished I can’t let you have her.”
His face hardened. “You can’t let us have her? And how exactly do you intend to stop us?”
“Oh, you’d be surprised how good crocketts are at disappearing,” I said. “All those lovely inhabitable but uninhabited worlds you can sit on with all the air and water you could possibly want.”
“I thought you said you had a job to do.”
“I’m told it’s open-ended.”
A muscle in Trent’s cheek twitched as he clenched and then unclenched his jaw. “I presume you have a counteroffer?”
“You and your client take a step back and let us finish our respective jobs without interference,” I said. “Once Nikki’s off the Ruth, whatever any of you want to do is none of my business.”
“And if I refuse?”
I shrugged, trying to look casual. I’d beaten Trent once, which I was pretty sure he was also thinking about. But that had been as much by luck as by skill, and I had no desire to try for a rematch. “Then we’ll just have to disappear until your client loses interest or kicks you off the job.”
“And you’re very good at the disappearing, or so you say,” he said. “Let’s try another approach.” He leaned back in his seat, stretching his arms straight to either side as if easing tired or cramped muscles and joints. He brought them back in again—
And suddenly there was a Libra 2mm cricket gun gripped in his right hand.
“Here’s the new deal,” he said in a tone that managed to be conversational and threatening at the same time. “We’re going to go outside—you first, Selene next, me last. I only have six shots, as I’m sure you already know, but if you make trouble all six will be going into her back. I genuinely hope you believe me.”
“I do,” I said, trying to work some moisture into a suddenly dry mouth. “Believe me in turn when I say that if you hurt Selene, you’ll die tonight.”
“Good,” he said with another small smile. “We understand each other, then. Ready?”
“One question first,” I said. “Well, one question and one comment. Do you really think even six shots from a cricket gun will be enough to take down someone like Nicole Schlichting? Even if she doesn’t, you know, get in the first shot?”
“Don’t worry, this is just an opening conversation piece,” he said, tapping his left elbow gently against his side for emphasis. “I have more in reserve. Everyone up, please. Nice and easy—we don’t want to draw unwelcome attention.”
“I still have a comment,” I reminded him, making no move to stand up. “The most useful thing about hiring local talent like Basher is that they are local. They’re familiar with the streets and shops, can fit in with the citizenry, and know all the workers and patrons of places like this.”
Trent’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Your point?”
“My point is that when someone like Basher spots something off-kilter,” I said calmly, “you really ought to pause and let him tell you about it.” I nodded over his shoulder.
He smiled. “You don’t really think—?”
He broke off, his smile vanishing, his face and body going rigid as the muzzle of a plasmic pressed briefly against the back of his neck. A plasmic concealed from casual view by the serving tray of the bogus waiter Basher had spotted and puzzled over earlier.
The bogus waiter Jordan McKell.
“Nicely done, Selene,” I complimented her.
“You said you wanted extra firepower,” she reminded me. “This seemed the best option.”
“Absolutely,” I agreed. “Hello, McKell. We were just talking about you.”
“So I heard,” McKell said. “Who’s this?”
“A man who’s going to wish he’d taken me up on my offer.” I reached across the table and took hold of the Libra’s muzzle. For a second Trent resisted; then, reluctantly accepting the inevitable, he released his grip on the weapon. “Selene?” I prompted as I turned the Libra around to point at its previous owner.
She stepped around the table, probed delicately beneath the left side of Trent’s jacket, and came up with a nasty-looking Ryukind plasmic. She pocketed the weapon and resumed her seat.
“Thank you,” I said. “So: let’s recap. The new arrangement is for you and your client to back off until Nikki is off our ship for good. Right?”
Trent looked like he’d just bitten down on an especially sour lemon, but nodded. “Fine,” he said.
“And you’re going to rescind the bounty notice.”
“Fine,” he said.
“And make sure that your client doesn’t reinstate it.”
The imaginary lemon seemed to get a little sourer. “He won’t be happy.”
“You’ll just have to find a way to make sure he is,” I said. “But however you need to do it, the notice is rescinded.”
“No, not rescinded,” Selene put in. “Mark it as fulfilled.”
“Excellent idea,” I agreed. “That way no one will stay on the hunt hoping the notice will come back at a future date.”
Trent sent Selene a look that could frost liquid steel. “Fine,” he said again. “As soon as I’m back on my ship I’ll square it.”
“Excellent,” I said. “And just to make sure”—I picked up the envelope of bank checks Basher had left there, held it up for Trent’s inspection, and slid it into my jacket pocket—“I’ll be hanging onto this for the moment. You’ll get it back after Nikki’s off the Ruth and I alert you that she’s fair game again.”
Trent stiffened. “That wasn’t part of the deal.”
“Not the original deal, no,” I agreed. “But that was when I was going to be a gentleman and trust you to keep your end. As my father used to say, Trust is like a mirror. Break it, and you’ll have seven years of bad deals.”
“Yeah,” Trent growled. “Cute. My client isn’t going to be happy to hear I’ve lost his money.”
“Why tell him?” I asked. “Like I said, you’ll get it back. Then you can go after Nikki and earn it.”
“What if someone gets to her first?”
I cocked an eyebrow. “Gets to Nikki?”
“Point,” he conceded reluctantly. “Can I go now?”
“I think we’ll all go together,” McKell put in. “I’d hate for you to catch your death sitting out there in the cold waiting to ambush us.”
“Anyway, Basher might be waiting to inquire about hazard pay,” I added as we all stood up. “We’ll see you to a runaround stand before we leave.”
We didn’t escort him all the way to a stand, of course—we also couldn’t have him grabbing a vehicle and following us. But we did leave him in sight of one before the three of us piled into McKell’s runaround and took off into the night.
“Very much appreciate the assist,” I said to McKell as he headed toward the spaceport. “You can just drop us anywhere near the south entrance.”
“I’ve got a better idea,” he said. “Let’s go to the Stormy Banks. I can fix us a drink.” He threw me a sideways look. “And you can enlighten me as to what the hell game you’re playing this time.”