Wild Country

Chapter Sixty-Five

Quantrill was patched in to Jim Street's personal circuit within two minutes, holding the VHP earpiece in place. He stood on the outside porch with a man named Bonner, the head of Long Branch security, at his side, in rapid conversation with Bonner until the Gov came on-line. The old man was not pleased with what he heard, and said so. Quantrill knew that the best excuse was none at all.

"Yessir, I blew it. His two cimarrones are ready for body bags, but Sorel's running loose out here." A pause., "They were wearing good cosmetic cover, that's how. I should have made them anyway. I didn't. One of 'em was Harley Slaughter; the other one… I dunno; from his phenotype, could be Clyde Longo without the beard. Prints will tell you; they're not going anywhere." He said nothing about the woman and especially not about Lufo, who might indeed be going somewhere. Just how he might do it, in a town looking for a Mexican fugitive, was beyond guessing.

After another pause: "Two civilian casualties, maybe more if you don't get some people here with flak jackets. WCS security's tossing a net around Faro, but you never know, he could get to the airstrip over the hill. You might send mass and motion sensors with the teams. Divert any flights here, especially that delta. He was waiting for it."

After another pause: "I wouldn't, Gov. Bringing a SWAT team in on a delta would be like building a barricade with sticks of dynamite… Beg pardon?… Oh; because they fill delta dirigibles with hydrogen these days. One round into a gas cell and it's a Hindenburg barbecue. Just send lots of backup, with intruder sensors, and hope I can whack Sorel before they get here." Another pause. Whatever Street was saying now, the little brick agent wasn't enjoying it.

Now a vein throbbed at his temple. He started to speak twice before, "Jesus Christ, you know I can't do that." he exploded, and paused again. "All right. Yessir. hands off until then. But if he starts offing more civilians in the meantime, Gov, I'm back to Job One, right? Isn't that what I'm for?" He nodded in glum satisfaction. "Yessir. I could use one. I take a size forty-two… Goddammit. I said I would! Can't you take 'yes' for an answer — sir?"

He flicked off the toggle, handed the VHP set to the security man. hooked thumbs into belt loops, and gazed down the deserted streets. "Direct from the attorney general, you can verify if you like." he said. "There'll be three sprint chopper loads of tough meat here in a couple of hours, wearing flak jackets. Until then, nobody leaves here at all. And we don't challenge Felix Sorel; we box him up if we can. No facedowns until the place is crawling with feds carrying intruder sensors. Unless he starts taking out civilians first."

The security chief had spent twenty years in a Houston homicide detail, and men in that business tended to recall the name of Ted Quantrill. "And you hope he does?"

"No, I don't," in a flash of irritation. "I don't want some tourist on a slab just so I can slip my leash." Quantrill realized it was true only after he said it, and felt a sense of loss. "You've alerted the people over the hill?"

"Sure, for all the good it did. Bunch of pussies at the Hilton and the New Driskill, all the good men are here in Faro. I've called for recon flights from the airstrip. They only fire little tracer blanks, but at least they're eyes in the sky. Here," he added, thrusting an old-fashioned tin star in Quantrill's direction, smiling grimly. "Might keep one of our guys from nailing you by mistake."

Quantrill pinned on the star. It was just one more thing he should have thought of himself. Just as well that Jim Street had put him in a holding pattern; he was definitely not up to mono a mono against Sorel in this condition. Maybe not ever, in any condition. He should have known the previous day, watching Sorel operate in that saloonful of androids.

An echo stuttered from storefronts with the popping of a far-distant firecracker somewhere on the prairie. Then more of the same. Bonner ran into the street, shouted toward the roof: "Where's that coming from?"

Of course it was impossible to tell. A minute later the VHP set pinged, and they learned the answer. A man from the Last Chance, riding bareback on the perimeter with an ancient lever-action Winchester and a VHP unit, had spotted someone running hard down a drywash two minutes before. He'd seen hovercycles gleaming behind a pile of tumbleweed and fired one warning shot from over a hundred meters away. Thanks to the return fire, the Last Chance man was now transmitting from behind a gutshot gelding and could not see which way Sorel had gone after that. If Sore I had only that handgun, either he'd had incredible luck, or he was one spectacular marksman. The only good thing was that the guard still had a clear field of fire to the cycles. Sorel would be crazy to risk it, and crazier to spend his time stalking a man in the open.

Bonner replied curtly, then toggled an open transmission. The suspect, he said, was somewhere in the south end of the valley, probably doubling back toward the parking area. He must be allowed to come near enough to be boxed in. Any civilians not in their rooms must be sent inside, in custody if need be. He turned to Quantrill, standing in the rutted dirt street with him, and said, "I'm not proud. Anything else you can think "of?"

"I could use a B-one shot," Quantrill said, trying to smile.

"Hell, why didn't you say so? I keep some in my desk. What brand: SubCute?"

"Whatever." Quantrill replied. The little pressure injectors delivered enough subcutaneous vitamin to send most hangovers packing, but the pop was far from painless. It was one of a thousand little improvements prodded by the technology of the recent war.

One thing Quantrill didn't need was a sore arm, so he shucked down his pants in the office and triggered the SubCute cartridge into the side of his right buttock. The security chief grabbed his VHP set as it pinged, toggled it so that Quantrill could hear both ends of the conversation. A second perimeter guard, this one afoot, had just spotted fresh prints across the sandy bottom of a drywash. They were heading east. "Probably toward the parking area," said Bonner into the mouthpiece, "and he'll have to cross a lot of open ground. Let him go, we've blocked the underground parking exits. That's where we'll have him, boys."

In his bones, Quantrill knew better. "Well. Sorel has caught me with my pants down for the last time," he said, snapping his belt buckle. "Just for kicks, tell me where he'd be heading if he made those prints walking backward."

"Into open country," said Bonner, passing his hand across an area on his wall map. "And our perimeter men would've seen him by now. If he runs that way, our little Spitfires will spot him. If he hides, your teams will flush him out. Either way, we've got him." The gleam in Bonner's eye said that he wanted Sorel to try for a vehicle in the underground parking area. Wanted it so much he was taking it as a foregone conclusion. "He can't hide out here," he finished, tapping the southern prairie of the map.

That open prairie area was south of Soho. Quantrill: "Is it absolutely flat and open terrain?"

"Like a pool table," said the security man, smiling. Plainly, he discounted the idea that Felix Sorel had the cunning to lay a false trail while on a dead run.

"I think I'll take a look anyway," said Quantrill. "You have a spare VHP set?"

"They're all in use."

"I'll get back to you," said Quantrill, and hurried away.

Once into the street, he walked more casually. Turning his torso now and then, he made it easy for anyone to see that tin star on his jacket. He waved to a perimeter guard who stood on the brow of the hill, pointed to his breast, then trotted up the embankment. He was puffing at the top and exchanged handshakes with the guard who was scanning with a pair of old binoculars. From this vantage point they could see both Faro and the sprawl of the Thrillkiller, with Soho rising in a rectangular pile to the south. As he watched, a double-decker bus teetered away from Soho en route to the Hilton parking lot. Even in track shoes, Sorel could not have sprinted that far in so short a time. But he might be out there somewhere to the south.

Quantrill borrowed the binoculars, studying the bus, then sweeping the prairie. No, by God, it was not an absolutely flat expanse to the south. A caliche-poor prairie was rarely without its little contours and shallow runoff depressions, and this one was no exception. Damn. "Is Soho crowded this time of day?"

The guard consulted his wristwatch. "Nope. That's the second busload and she ain't full, so all the tourists are out now. They'll be pulling maintenance and cleanup from now 'til after lunch." The young man was looking at him in frank curiosity. "Your guy's headin' for the underground parking, ain't he?"

"I hope so. Don't bag me by mistake," said Quantrill, and strode back down the trail until his head was below the brow of the hill. At that point, no one watching from the open prairie could see his progress. Then he began to trot southward, wishing he had a VHP set, wishing Sorel were dead and in hell, wishing he could give Felix Sorel the throb in his head that paced his rapid footfalls.