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smacked into the crown of the Samothracian's head. He bellowed with pain, recoiling backward; then
struck down with both hands, a double chop that would have severed his opponent's collarbones like green
branches . . . if the situation had been what he assumed.
Time slowed as the net laid along his nerves activated.
First level, he commanded: the biological price was too high for anything more. His bladed palms
chopped up and out, thudding into Debrowski's forearms with a meaty, rubbery sensation. He used the
momentum to drive himself upward, aiding the powerful spring of his legs and capturing the other man's
arms under his own for a second.
Crack. Crack. He punched the rear of his head into the others face again, slightly harder this time.
Despite the reinforced bone, that was still a little painful for him, but much more so for Debrowski. The
bulky figure toppled away behind him. Andrews was coming erect, his lips moving slowly and the gun
coming out from under his arm. Lafarge's time-sensor clocked the movement; remarkable reflexes. The
automatic system brought his softsuit flowing out from cuffs and collar to complete its coverage of his body.
Cool neutrality insulated his skin, like dipping into dry water; it pressed his short-cropped hair against his
scalp.
Transparent, he commanded—no use giving away more than he had to. The locals would see only
a slight shimmer over his skin, if they saw anything at all in the heat of the moment. He turned and leaped
through the glass door, one foot driving down on the seat of the chair. Glass exploded away from his
outstretched fists as his hundred and ninety pounds dove forward. He landed on his hands and front-rolled.
The outer office was empty; and now he knew why Andrews had insisted on an evening meeting. Fewer
witnesses, when they took his sedated body away to someplace secluded.
Smart boy, he thought. Smart in the day-to-day sense, at least. Pity he didn't have much
imagination. Lafarge skidded slightly as he cornered to drive down a corridor between rows of cubicles
separated by movable partitions. The disguising shoes gave poor traction; no amount of strength or speed
could increase the gripping surface on the soles of his feet. And—
WHACK The 9mm bullet struck the base of his skull. Red-tinged blackness surged in, and the floor
came up to strike him. The iron and copper taste of blood filled his mouth as teeth gashed lips or tongue. A
diminished pinnnnnng caught at the edge of his attention as the ricochet whined off to lose itself in a
computer or potted plant or water cooler. He twitched, fingers scrabbling at the synthetic carpet. The
softsuit could sense the bullet coming and turn instantly harder than diamond and more frictionless than
liquid mercury on dry ice. It couldn't repeal the law of conservation of momentum. A substantial fraction of
the bullet's energy moved his head forward, and his brain surged backward in its bath of fluid as inertia
prevented it from moving quite in synch.
Time for concussion later. The combat web dumped chemicals into his carotids and stimulus into
the motor centers of his brain. He rose to his knees.
Bang-ptannng. Again and again; the next three shots hit him between the shoulders, ripping the
disguising clothes and torquing his body around just enough to see the pistol coming out the shattered office
door with Andrews's face snarling behind it. Partitions collapsed as he lurched against them. He scuttled
forward like a mechanical crab on hands and knees, the fabric of his trousers ripping with his haste. More
shots, none hitting this time; Andrews wavered sideways as Debrowski's body struck him at the waist.
"Stop that, you stupid fuck!" Andrews screamed. He snapshot again as Lafarge pistoned up from
the floor, running like an Olympic hurdler and leaping desks with a raking stride. "I've got him, I've—"
Another shot struck Lafarge in the back of the knee. The softsuit saved the joint from the sideways
leverage, but it cost him momentum toward the windows. The rectangle of the gasgun slapped into his palm,
thrown forward by the holster. He shot; the windows burst away in a cloud of needles as the slug of
ultracompressed air hammered them out of his way like an invisible piledriver. He followed in a soaring
leap.
***
"He brothk my dose! De bathurd brothk my dose!" Debrowski yelled, as much in rage as pain.
"Fuck your nose," Andrews shouted.
The wounded man tumbled sideways, knocking over the wastebasket. The younger agent
wrenched the door open—both panels of frosted glass were gone in a pile of shards that shifted
treacherously underfoot. He went through in a skittering crouch, gun in a two-handed grip, down the aisle to
the windows overlooking the parking lot. The bastard's body would have to be there. He wasn't necessarily
dead; Andrews was fairly sure he'd hit him with at least one round, and a three-story fall onto pavement
had to break bones, but doing wet-work you learned how tough the human body could be. He wouldn't be
going anywhere, though. Not fast.
"Nothing," he said, with more obscenity in the word than ten minutes' scatology. Then, quietly and
with conviction: "Shit."
He holstered his weapon. Alarms were ringing downstairs, and the stairwell doors burst open as a
couple of the guards came through. Andrews spread his hands.
"It's Andrews," he said, repeating it in a loud, clear voice.
You couldn't tell what men would do when they came charging into a room expecting a firefight;
except that it wouldn't necessarily be what hindsight thought best. When the gunmen straightened up from
their crouch he went on:
"Get a medic. Fast. Then get on the horn to the local police, put an APB out on Kenneth Lafarge,
the picture's on my desk, armed and dangerous, wanted for assault and attempted murder." His calm broke.
"Move! Now!"
God alone knew who this fruitloop was really working for. God alone knew what he'd be doing
now.
Andrews shuddered slightly. In reaction, and for what might be. The Firm had dozens of scenarios [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]