Undaunted

30

Captain Jack Montoya was madder than hell. But all he could do was fume as the elevator took forever to drop to the ground floor.

Kris took foolish risks. He knew that when he took the job. But she was being downright childish just now. Not holding the elevator for him and his Marines was stupid, juvenile, and just not professional.

This planet was dangerous. Someone on this ball of mud could be heating up an eighty-year-old vendetta. Even if that old history wasn’t coming back to life, Kris was dropping herself smack-dab into the middle of bad blood between two bunches of nuts who had festered for eighty years. If one of these crazy people thought she was about to side with the other, there was no telling what could blow up.

The elevator car ground to a halt. The doors took their own good time to open. Jack charged out. Looked left, looked right, spotted Kris.

The shout of “Bomb!” came in Nelly’s voice.

“Where?” Kris yelled back.

“Above you,” Jack shouted, spotting two falling objects. “Duck, Kris.”

Kris dove for the deck, but only after taking that kid down with her.

The bombs exploded before hitting the ground. First one, then the other.

Jack flinched as the shock wave hit him. Something else did as well, but he was running, his Marines right behind him, before all the stuff in the air hit the ground.

“Bruce, take the squad and one sniper. Up those escalators.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Medic, second sniper, with me.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Jack slid to a stop on his knees beside Kris. Most of the Marines pounded past him, but a second later the woman medic was kneeling on the other side of Kris. The sniper took guard, rifle up.

Two things were immediately obvious to Jack. Kris had covered the civilian with her body. Well, she was the Longknife, and he was just the poor damned soul that got too close to her.

And Kris had not put on an armored wig this morning. The spider silk had stopped a lot of sharp crap from slashing into her body. Nothing had protected her skull.

Her head was a bloody mess.

“Sal, call whatever passes for 911 on this godforsaken planet.”

“I have, sir. An ambulance is on its way, ETA ten minutes. A hospital is twelve minutes away. I have alerted the emergency room to prepare for a head-trauma case. In this building, two companies have nurses with emergency equipment. Both are responding. I’ve taken other measures.”

Before Jack could ask what those other measures were, the building’s public announcement system came to life. “A medical doctor is required in the foyer of the DuVale Building. Any medical professional in the area, please respond.”

“I’ve done all I can, sir,” Jack’s new computer said.

“I think we all have. Medic?”

“None of the blood is spurting, sir. I don’t think any of her arteries were hit. I don’t want to move her, sir. If we’ve got more medical responding, I’d rather wait.”

“I hate waiting,” Jack growled.

“So do I, sir.”

Jack stood. “Sergeant Bruce, tell me you’ve got the bastards that did this,” he said.

Sergeant Bruce took the up escalator two or three steps at a time, pushing civilians aside. The noise drew the attention of those higher up. His pistol, held at high port, settled any arguments.

People got out of his way.

On the second floor, he spotted two figures in green coveralls as they ducked left just past the elevator bank. Bruce sprinted after them, the footsteps of Marines coming hard behind him.

“Chesty, give me a layout of this place.”

“Yes, sir,” and a building map sprang to life on his contact lenses. “There’s a wide concourse leading off to the left behind the elevators to a large food court,” his computer added.

“Damn,” Bruce muttered, turning his sprint into a full dash. If those two got into a food court at lunchtime, he’d have the devil’s own time separating them from all the chaff.

He rounded the corner just in time to see his two quarries shove their way through double glass doors. Any temptation to shoot got swallowed up by the dozens of people hurrying toward their lunches who quickly blocked his view of the two.

Bruce ran, Marines on his heels.

He busted through one of the double doors. It only took him a moment to glance around, to take in a dozen different fast-food restaurants spaced along opposite walls. They faced a vast, noisy expanse of tables, filled with hundreds, maybe thousands of people eating.

He saw no one in green overalls running, walking, or even standing.

“Put that gun away,” came in a demanding voice.

Sergeant Bruce glanced to his left, spotted a man in khaki pants, a brown shirt, a gold badge, and a huge belly walking toward him. He had a holstered weapon on his belt but made no move to draw it.

The Marine went back to searching the crowd as he said, “A bomb just injured Princess Kristine Longknife. I chased two people of interest into this area. They were both in green overalls. Did you see them? I want to talk to them.”

“Put that gun away. You can’t walk around brandishing that thing in here. Where do you think you are, some cow town?”

Bruce ignored the noise as three Marines ran up to him. “There’s a door over on the far side of this place. Block it. Don’t let anyone in or out.”

A woman corporal took off at a gallop with two lanky privates at her side, all holding their pistols out at high port.

“They can’t do that,” the cop whined.

“You got a boss?” Bruce asked, then turned to four more Marines. “You two, block this entrance. No one in or out. You other two, walk through this place. Keep your weapons in plain view. Most folks here will be surprised by them. Look for the two that aren’t. Use deadly force if you have to on them. Please don’t shoot innocent bystanders.”

“You better not, or I’ll have your ass in my jail,” the cop added.

“You see the problem.”

“Yes, Sergeant,” the sniper said, resting his long rifle on his hip and heading into the crowd. The woman Marine, pistol up, headed toward the restrooms.

“Sergeant Bruce, tell me you’ve got the bastards that did this,” Captain Montoya said over the net.

“I pursued them into a large food court, sir. I’m presently searching for two needles in a very large haystack.”

“Can you get any local help?”

“Local cop is jiggling my elbow, sir. Wants me and mine to surrender our weapons. Seems this ain’t cowboy country.”

“I’ll try to raise some serious local support. If he causes you too much trouble, shoot him. In the knee if you can, but I want those bomb throwers.”

Clearly, the captain was not serious, but the cop didn’t know that. Bruce gave the guy a cheerful look. He beat a hasty retreat, now using his own commlink. The reply he got brought a sea change to his face.

“There’s two more cops on their way. One will back up the people you got on the other doors. I’ll secure these doors.”

That was followed by a series of complaints by people not allowed in to eat, or out to return to their shopping or their jobs.

So, lots of folks were going to have a bad day. The memory of what the princess looked like said she was having the worst day the sergeant had ever seen her have . . . and he’d been there for some bad ones.

The woman Marine exited the ladies’ room, waving a green pair of coveralls.

“Check out the men’s room,” Sergeant Bruce shouted.

“She can’t do that,” the cop said.

The Marine did. A moment later she was waving a second pair of greens.

Damn, this truly was a lousy day.

“Captain, in restrooms, the assailants ditched the green coveralls they were wearing when they threw the bombs. We have no idea what they may look like now. I’ll check with the locals to see if they have any security cameras that might have caught them while still in coveralls or as they left the restrooms. Without some camera shots, we’ve lost them.”

At the question about security cameras, the cop’s expression took on the look of someone who’d just been asked if he could fly across the room . . . naked.