Exile to Hell

Still, during the span of the twelve years they had partnered together, he had learned to rely on Kane’s instincts. As a pointman, his senses were uncannily acute when something nasty was underfoot or lurking just around a corner. Try as he might to dismiss it, Grant was positive Kane’s instincts were on the mark this time around, as well.

The warble from the trans-comm unit on his desk was so unexpected, he jumped and swore. A quick glance at his wrist chron told him dawn was only an hour or so away. Only Kane would be so defiant to contact him after he had been ordered not to do sobut then he wasn’t stupid. Trans-comm frequencies were public, and he was absolutely sure Intel had a monitor on both his and Kane’s units. He let it warble several seconds before he picked it up and opened the circuit.

“Grant?” Salvo’s voice filtered from it.

“Yes, sir.” Grant sat down at the desk, leaning back against his coat draped over the chair.

“Hope I didn’t wake you. If I did, you can go back to sleep in a few minutes. I’ve gone over your statement. I regret to say I’m putting you on suspension until further notice.”

“Sir?” Grant felt tension coiling in his stomach like a length of slimy rope.

“Confine yourself to quarters. I’ll be sending around a couple of men to pick up your equipment. I realize this is a shock to you, especially with your record, but Abrams insisted on it. Protocol and all that, you know.”

Fingers clenching tight around the box of pressed metal and molded plastic in his hand, Grant asked, “What about Kane?”

“He thinks you were the target,” Salvo replied, a faint hint of suspicion in his voice. “Not Boon.”

“Yes, I know. I suspect it, too.”

“Then the primary question is why you? Can you offer any clues?”

Grant groped for a response, then said, “No, I can’t. Perhaps Guana Teague can.”

“What does the Pit boss have against you personally?”

Grinding his teeth, Grant said, “I have no idea. Sir.”

“I have a few,” said Salvo. “The blaster recovered at the scene was one of two that disappeared from the armory.”

“What?”

“Mags selling goods to Pit merchants isn’t without precedent, you know.”

“Something like that hasn’t happened in either of our lifetimes.” Grant’s voice rose. “Are you accusing?”

“Not yet, I’m not. Tell me, were you getting impatient for your administrative transfer to come through? Did you decide to cut a little jack on the side?”

Grant said nothing. His hands trembled in fury. He felt as if he were trapped in a burning building with every exit door locked.

“You’re not charged with anything,” Salvo went on, “and you may never be. But you’ll have to pull some pretty impressive moves to redeem yourself in my eyes.”

“Sir”

“You have your orders. Out.”

The circuit closed with an arrogant click. Grant looked at the trans-comm unit in his hand, then hurled it the length of the room. It struck against the far wall, denting the dura-plast.

He sat motionless at the desk, wrestling with his rage, staring out of the window without seeing anything. A pre-dark term floated through his mind, and though old, it was very appropriate scapegoated .

He was being scapegoated over this, while Kane, for whatever reason, was being haloed. He tried to wrap his mind around the possibility that Kane had rolled over on him to save his own ass. He couldn’t.

The concept of such a betrayal was too stunning, too nauseating, to dwell upon. The worst part was he couldn’t even call Kane to ask him about it.

He was about to get up when he heard the tiny voice of Kane reaching him from what seemed a light-year away.

“Grant?”

Grant shook his head. Terrific. Now he was suffering auditory hallucinations because of his overwrought nerves.

“Grant? Grant!”

Grant stiffened. The faint whisper wasn’t emanating from empty air or his brain. He turned and dragged his coat from the back of the chair. He drew out the pin mike from the lapel and brought the receiver button up to his ear.