The Backlash Mission

Chapter 8

Geoff Dupre arrived home precisely at seven o'clock, and to Caine, at least, he was something of a surprise. Raina's description of his job as a computer systems troubleshooter for the city's vast water retrieval network had somehow led Caine to expect a large yet quiet, intellectual man. He was unprepared for the spirited off-key singing interspersed with tuneless whistling from the hulk who came through the back door. Came through the door, and froze at the sight of five oddly dressed strangers grouped around his wife and friend.

"Your wife's unhurt," Caine said into the suddenly brittle silence. "We're only going to be here a few more hours, and as long as you behave there's nothing to be afraid of."

Dupre sent his gaze to each of the team in turn, then locked eyes with Caine. "Who are you?" he asked, his voice deep but surprisingly calm. "What do you want?"

Raina broke in before Caine could answer. "They're blackcollars, Geoff. They hijacked our truck out on Seventy-two—"

"Just hitched a ride, actually," Lindsay put in. "Caine here let me deliver the truck intact."

"Probably only to avoid stirring up attention." Dupre snorted.

"And also because we're not here to steal," Caine told him. "Whatever we need from you, we'll pay for it."

Dupre considered that. "May I sit down?"

Caine waved him to a sturdy-looking chair. The other lowered himself into it and again looked around the group. "Idunine must be cheap wherever you come from," he commented. "All right, then. What do you want from us?"

"For the moment, just shelter," Caine said. "And perhaps some information. Did you fight in the war?"

Dupre shook his head. "I have vague memories of it, but I was only three when it ended."

"Father? Older relatives? You know anyone who fought?"

A frown creased Dupre's forehead. "Not in Denver. My father lives in Sprinfielma, out near the east coast. No one talks about the war much here. At least not to me."

Caine pursed his lips. "Are there any veterans' groups you know about? Aboveboard or otherwise?

The phone directory doesn't list anything obvious."

Dupre shrugged his massive shoulders. "I don't know about anything like that."

Dead end. If Aegis Mountain's emergency escape route had not, in fact, been collapsed when the base went silent, one of the men who'd been stationed there might be able to show them to its exit.

But only if that hypothetical person could be found.

The others were looking at him expectantly. "I guess we'll have to find the old vets ourselves, then," he said, trying to sound confident. "In the meantime"—his eyes flicked to Braune and Colvin—"you two'd better get started. You have money?"

Colvin nodded. Their Plinry marks, Caine had quickly discovered, wouldn't pass as local currency, and he'd had to appropriate all the cash Raina and Lindsay had had on hand. It wasn't a lot, but it would do at least for the clothing they needed. After that... well, they'd simply have to get creative.

"Off you go, then," he told the other two. "Watch yourselves."

They left. "I expect we'll be out of your lives by tonight," Caine told Lindsay and the Dupres.

"Sooner if we can manage it."

"You expect us to believe that?" Dupre asked quietly. "We aren't stupid, you know. We know what blackcollars are like."

"They're not from Denver, Geoff." Lindsay spoke up unexpectedly in Caine's support. "I don't think they're like... the stories we've heard."

Dupre looked at her, then back at Caine. "Maybe not," he allowed, dropping his eyes with a slight shrug.

And in that instant Caine knew the big man had made his decision. Sometime in the next few minutes, Dupre was going to make a break for it.

It was a situation they'd discussed frequently in their classes, and Lathe had given them exactly two choices as to a response: block the attempt before it started, or defeat the attempt and thus plant a psychological block against a second try.

And in this case the choice was clear. They couldn't simply tie everyone up for the next few hours, and Caine knew he wouldn't be able to concentrate on the hideout search if he was worried about the skeleton guard he would be leaving behind. Besides, a little fear might slow the inevitable phone call to Security when they pulled out for good.

"May I have a drink of water?" Dupre asked.

Caine focused on him. The big man's concept of a casual expression didn't even begin to camouflage the determination beneath it. "Sure," Caine told him, forcing unconcern into his own voice. "Raina, would you get it for him?"

Silently, she got to her feet and disappeared into the kitchen, Pittman stepping to the doorway to watch her. The sound of running water; and then she was back, carrying two tall tumblers. "I brought one for you, too, Karen," she said in a voice that trembled only slightly. Husband and wife were clearly on the same wavelength. She handed the two glasses to Dupre, started to reseat herself. Caine tensed, noting peripherally that his teammates were also ready—

And Dupre leaped to his feet, hurling the water at Alamzad and Pittman as he charged toward Caine.

Pittman ducked under the airborne wave, while Alamzad merely raised his arm to protect his eyes—and that was all Caine saw before Dupre, swinging the tumblers like short clubs, was on him.

For all his size, the man wasn't much of a fighter. Caine's right foot snapped upward between Dupre's waving arms to connect squarely with his solar plexus. The other whuffed with the blow, but his momentum kept him coming. Caine brought the foot down to his right, pivoting on his left foot into a crouch that left nothing in the path of Dupre's charge except an outstretched leg at trip height.

Dupre hit it full force as Caine assisted him over with a left backfist under the shoulder blade. The big man slammed to the floor and lay still.

In the silence Caine heard a frustrated-sounding sob from the kitchen. He took a step toward the doorway as Pittman escorted a slump-shouldered Raina from the room. "Tried for the phone," he explained to Caine as the woman returned to her chair.

Caine glanced into the kitchen. The phone was lying open on the counter with about half its cord still attached. Embedded in the wall, near the rest of the cord, was a shuriken.

Dupre had gotten to his knees now, holding his stomach. "Go sit down," Caine told him shortly.

"Next time it'll hurt a lot more."

"Next time you decide to beat on him, you mean?" Lindsay growled.

Caine turned to face her. "He brought that on himself."

"Don't give me that," she snapped. "You were ready for him—you knew he was going to try that."

"So?" Alamzad put in. "We didn't make him act like an idiot."

Lindsay kept her eyes on Caine. "You could have tied him up. Or even just warned him before he did anything."

But he would have eventually tried it anyway, Caine almost said. But the words caught somewhere between his throat and the almost tangible contempt radiating from Lindsay's face. The decision had been the right one, but no argument would ever convince her of that.

For a while, he'd thought they were slowly winning her to their side. She'd almost believed they were different, and in five seconds all that had been lost. A potential ally was once more an enemy.

He waited until Dupre was seated with the others and then retrieved the water glasses and returned them to the kitchen. Pulling on his flexarmor gloves to protect his hands, he began working Pittman's shuriken out of the wall. A simple enough job; with luck, he ought to be able to finish it without fouling something else up.

—

Manx Reger's estate was at the end of the long road that stretched southward from the main highway toward a set of tree-covered ridges that formed part of Denver's western boundary. Large houses on large lots were sprinkled to either side of the road—a gauntlet, Lathe saw, that wasn't nearly as innocent as it looked. At least twice he caught glimpses of watchers at various windows as he and Jensen drove up the road in their borrowed tow truck—watchers almost certainly on Reger's payroll.

Presumably they had guns, as well, and the comsquare mentally crossed off the road as a possible exit route if this whole thing fizzled.

The estate itself was surrounded by a decorative fence: tall, obviously electrified, and impressive as hell in the early-morning sunlight. It was also probably highly effective at keeping stray rabbits off the grounds. Easing the truck to a halt before the gate, Lathe shook his head at the arrangement.

Presumably Reger had motion sensors and laser-scan trackers in the woods inside the fence, but the fence itself was still pitiful.

As, to some extent, were the two men who came out of cover beside the gate to confront the new arrivals. They were out in the open, their shoulder-slung machine pistols poorly hidden beneath their coats, and Lathe could have taken both before they could possibly have gotten their weapons clear.

Expendables; and they were damned lucky Lathe didn't need to expend them at the moment.

Rubbing his palms on his borrowed yellow coveralls, Lathe settled his mind into his role and waited passively as the guards stepped up to the truck.

"Yeah?" the first said, glancing back at the car on the tow truck's sling as he came up to Lathe's window. If he recognized the car as the one appropriated earlier that morning, he didn't show it.

"Got a delivery," Lathe told him, jerking a thumb back toward the car. "Man told me to deliver it and a message here."

The other guard had gone back to give the car a brief inspection. "Okay," the first said. "Lower it down; we'll get it inside."

Lathe nodded at Jensen, seated beside him in an identical coverall, and the second blackcollar jumped out and disappeared toward the rear. "I also got a message I'm supposed to deliver to Mr.

Reger. Personally, he said."

"I'll take it."

"He said personally," Lathe insisted.

"I don't give a damn," the guard growled. "I'm not getting Mr. Reger up at this hour for some stupid message."

Lathe licked his lips. "Look, uh... the guy didn't seem like the sort to double-up on, if you know what I mean. If I don't do this right—look, I'm not up this early 'cause I want to be. They came storming in—"

"They?" the guard interrupted.

"Yeah—three of 'em, dressed in black suits, just like the old blackcollar demos. Anyway—"

And the guard finally made the connection. "Barky! Check the plates. Is that the car Winner lost tonight?"

"Yeah," the other called back. "Looks clean enough."

"Yeah, maybe." His eyes shifted back to Lathe as. he fumbled out a phone. "You get a good look at these guys?"

"Well... good enough, I guess."

"Okay. Sit tight." The guard backed a few steps, muttering into the phone. Jensen returned to his seat; a minute later the guard finished his conversation and climbed up onto the step beside Lathe's window. "Okay, we're going up to the house," he said, swinging his weapon into sight—a flechette scattergun, Lathe noted—and resting its muzzle against the windowsill. "Either of you got any weapons, drop 'em out the window now. The driveway sensors pick something up, I'll shred you."

Lathe shrank away from the barrel beside him. "No, no—we don't need guns. I just handle a tow truck—"

"Move it," the other snarled.

Ahead, the gate was opening. Keeping his movements jerky, as befit a highly nervous man, Lathe started the truck forward.

The driveway was a long, winding one that passed back into the hills, the trees giving way eventually to elaborately sculpted yards and gardens surrounding a large house. Not exactly the estate of a multimillionaire, Lathe decided, but certainly no hovel, either. Reger would do, provided the man chose to cooperate.

A half-dozen armed men were lined up by the mansion's front door as they approached. Their guide stopped the truck fifty meters back and made them walk the rest of the way. "You, stay here," one of the housemen told Jensen. "You"—this to Lathe—"come with me."

Another four guards joined them inside the carved wood door, and together they walked in silence down a richly carpeted hallway. Three turns later they reached a large study lit solely by a desk lamp swiveled to point at the door. Behind the glare, a dressing-gowned man was visible.

"You got a message for me?" the man asked coolly as Lathe and his escort stepped into the room.

"You Mr. Reger?" Lathe asked, eyes flicking about the room. Hidden gunport in the wall over Reger's left shoulder, a second in the wall to his right. Useless at the moment, unless Reger was willing to cut down five of his own men along with Lathe. Which he might be perfectly willing to do, of course.

"I am," Reger answered with elaboration.

"Okay." Lathe shifted feet the way a simple man might under such abnormal circumstances, his hand clutching briefly at his right wrist and the tingler concealed there. Ten seconds. "The guy said your men were pretty amateurish and that you might like to hire some real fighters for a change."

"Why, you—" one of the guards snarled, jabbing Lathe's side with his snubnose rifle.

And Lathe moved.

It was doubtful that any of the guards ever figured out precisely what happened to them in that first second. Lathe's left arm swung at the gun barrel digging into his ribs, wrenching it from the owner's grip as a reflexive shot shattered the quiet of the room. Jamming the captured gun back into its owner's abdomen, Lathe simultaneously threw a hooking kick at the man on his immediate right, then swung the gun like a club at a third man's face. The other ducked, his shot going wild, and then the blackcollar was on him with a three-punch combination that took him out of the fight for good.

Behind him, the last two guards fired, but Lathe was already out of the way, flat on the floor with his legs sweeping his attackers' out from under them. Both men crashed to the floor; and with a jab behind the ear of each to keep them quiet, Lathe finished his roll back to one knee with another captured flechette rifle in hand. A quick burst to each of the hidden gunports, and the muzzle came to rest lined up on the man behind the desk.

Reger hadn't moved. "Well?" he asked calmly.

"Well what?" Lathe said. "As I said, your men are amateurs."

Reger's eyes dropped briefly to the rifle. "You intend to use that on me?"

"Not really. Consider it a conversation piece." Lowering the gun to the floor, Lathe rose to his feet.

"Good. You might take a look at the gunports you shot, then."

Frowning, Lathe did so. The dark wood was unmarked. "Blanks?"

Reger nodded. "I couldn't take the risk you'd be hurt. I see now how unlikely that was. Excuse me."

He leaned over slightly. "Stretcher team to my office," he said. "Five injured. Should I send another team to the front door?" he added to Lathe.

"Probably ought to." The comsquare tapped his tingler. Okay. Jensen?

Okay. In control. "Make that definite. And better have everyone else leave him alone out there."

"Of course." Reger gave the orders, then leaned back in his chair and regarded Lathe thoughtfully.

"After all, we can't start off by fighting with our new allies, can we?"

Lathe cocked his head. "Allies?"

Reger's eyebrows lifted slightly. "You suggested we might want to hire real fighters. I presume that's you."

The comsquare nodded, studying the other for a moment. Something about the man seemed wrong, somehow, behind that concealing light. "I must say, you're a cool one. When did you place us?"

Reger waved a negligent hand. "Oh, right from the beginning. The road out there isn't as innocent as it seems—I have watchers and sensors all along it. And of course my men got a good look at you at the bar."

"So why did you let us in?"

"Curiosity. Blackcollars out for vengeance or destruction wouldn't simply come walking up the front walk like you did. I thought it might be interesting to see what you wanted."

"It could have been fatal," Lathe told him bluntly. "Even with the gimmicked guns."

"You weren't carrying any of your shuriken or nunchaku weapons." Reger shrugged again. "And I took some other precautions."

Lathe frowned... and suddenly understood. Reaching down, he picked up the rifle again and lobbed it gently over the desk.

Reger didn't move as the weapon arched neatly through his chest and chair and clattered to the floor behind.

"My congratulations," Lathe said. "An exceptionally good hologram. I didn't know they could be made that realistic."

"All sleight-of-hand," the other said modestly. "The light in your eyes is the key—even this one has the usual flat look when you see it under normal conditions. But most of the visitors I use it for don't have the time to be that observant."

Lathe nodded. "So what happens now?"

Reger folded his arms across his chest. "We discuss business, of course. Why don't you start by telling me exactly what you want here.—Ah."

The "ah" was for the arrival of the medical team. Lathe watched them closely, half expecting them to suddenly sprout guns and attack. But they merely loaded the casualties onto stretchers and carted them off.

"You were saying...?" Reger's image said when they were gone.

"We need information," Lathe told him. "I'm guessing you have the connections to get it for us."

"I see. And in return you offer what?"

"That's negotiable. I realize that blackcollars-for-hire is probably a new concept for you, but we have a number of specialties you might find useful."

Reger's face didn't acknowledge the delicate probe. "From what my men said and implied, I take it you haven't been in town long."

"About seven hours now," Lathe admitted.

"From...?"

"Plinry."

That got a raised eyebrow. "Indeed. Off the shuttle that came in from orbit?"

"More or less."

"Which means that along with information, you also need protection. Security exists in large part to hunt down people like you."

"With the paying off of informers part of their yearly budget?" Lathe asked pointedly.

Surprisingly, Reger smiled. "You really are uninformed. Do you know who I am?"

Lathe pursed his lips. "You're Manx Reger, who collects a share of smuggling operations in this area. I gather there's more."

"A great deal more. I own nearly every illegal operation from Arvada west to the mountains, and a fair amount of the legal stuff as well. My yearly income is in the three-quarter-million-mark range, my total assets probably five million. What the hell can Security offer me that'll make it worth turning you in?"

"I suppose that depends on what you want us to do for you?"

For a moment Reger was silent. "Yes, it does," he conceded. "Okay. Let's start with what exactly this information is that you need."

"We weren't the only team that dropped from that shuttle," Lathe told him. "The other group's gone to ground, and we need to find them."

"Didn't you have signals or a rendezvous place picked out? I'd have thought—"

"They don't know we came with them."

Reger snorted, shook his head. "Damn pretzel thinking'll get you every time. So you want them found, but not brought in or tipped off?"

"Right—and I don't want Security to get a sniff of them, either. Your people have the finesse for something like that?"

"Enough of them do. I've been in this business a long time, blackcollar. I know how to find people I can trust."

"I hope so, for your sake," Lathe told him grimly, "because any unravelings will come back here to spawn."

Reger gazed at him a moment. "Let's get one thing straight from the top," he said coldly. "I don't react well to threats. Not yours, not anyone else's. You ask, you deal—you don't threaten. All right?"

"Fine," Lathe said. "As long as we've got a clear understanding. Now, let's discuss your half of the trade."

"Yes." Reger stroked his lip thoughtfully, his eyes drifting to the side wall and the hidden gunport there. "You caught the Judas holes pretty quickly earlier. You always that good at finding stray openings?"

"Some of us are better at it than others. You need someone infiltrated?"

"No—quite the opposite." Reger waved his hand in an all-encompassing sweep. "You've seen my home and grounds, at least in passing. What do you think of its security?"

Lathe shrugged. "I'd have to take an in-depth look. Good security is never visible on the surface."

"True. All right, then, here's the deal. I'll find your stray team and offer you shelter if you'll upgrade my security system. Totally upgrade. When you're through, no one is to get in here without my knowing about it."

Lathe returned the other's gaze steadily, trying not to show any reaction. It was a far more ethically acceptable bargain than he'd expected to have to make, all things considered. And yet, the oddness of it was setting off quiet alarms in the back of his mind. A man with Reger's resources shouldn't need to hire blackcollars to fence his yard for him.

Unless he was trying to keep out other blackcollars. Such as those Lathe and Skyler had been mistaken for. Whose existence Reger had blatantly avoided mentioning.

"All right, it's a deal," the comsquare said. Whatever the undercurrent was he was sensing, he needed time to track it down, and this was the simplest way to buy a few days. "We'll need complete specs on the system you've got now, plus layouts of house and grounds, power and water systems, and other odds and ends we'll think of as we go along."

"You'll have them," Reger said. "How many of you are there?"

"Enough," Lathe replied. "You probably won't see more than three of us at any one time."

"If you're staying here—"

"Not all of us will be. You're too far from central Denver for this to be a practical base."

He'd expected Reger to object, but the other merely shrugged. "Fine. I trust you'll accept local clothing, money, and IDs?"

"Certainly. At the moment, though, we need to return the tow truck and these coveralls before their owner misses them."

Reger smiled. "Of course. We don't want any extra attention drawn this way, do we? I take it you'll return for your money and clothing before you head into Denver?"

"We'll be back within the hour," Lathe promised. "And I'll leave two men here to start on your security system at that time. For the moment we'll all use my name as a pass with your gateman."

"And that is—?"

"Comsquare Damon Lathe, Blackcollar Forces. Temporarily at your service."

Reger smiled again. But it was a tighter smile than before, and it was accompanied by a slight shiver.

—

They rendezvoused outside the still-closed service station after the tow truck and coveralls were back in place. Or, rather, four of them did. "Where's Hawking?" Lathe asked.

"I left him outside the road into Reger's little subdivision to watch for interesting traffic," Skyler told him. "Reger bought it?"

"It and us. And our part of the deal is to secure his house for him."

"Oh?" Skyler cocked an eyebrow. "Against whom?"

"He skimmed around that part, but there's only one real possibility."

Skyler glanced back at Phelling's car, where the barman was peacefully sleeping off the drug they'd given him. "The blackcollars Phelling mentioned."

"Whom he also implied were for hire," Lathe reminded him.

Jensen's eyes flashed with contempt. "Blackcollars for hire. He'd better have been wrong."

"Maybe they're just running a mission with the mercenary bit as cover," Hawking pointed out.

"Especially given that Reger apparently can't buy them out himself."

"Possible," Lathe agreed. "He certainly isn't dying to talk about them—I dropped one or two conversational gambits around the topic that he totally ignored. He may be hoping we'll get his job done before we find out we're working against other blackcollars." Lathe looked at Jensen. "I want you and Hawking to start work on the project as soon as we get back there. Do a good job, but leave a keyhole from due west to the house in case Reger tries to pull something backhanded. The rest of us will take the supplies he's offering and set up a safe house in central Denver. Then tonight..." He hesitated.

"It's only Monday," Mordecai reminded him quietly.

"I know," Lathe said. "But I think we'll give the Shandygaff Bar a try anyway. If this blackcollar contact man Kanai isn't there, maybe someone will know where we can find him."

"Are we in that tearing a hurry?" Skyler asked.

Lathe glanced at Jensen. "If Reger and the blackcollars are on opposite sides of the fence, we need to find out which side we should be on. And we have to do so before Reger's men find Caine."