The girl was the same albino whom they had pursued into the ambush. Grant looked hard at her, from her short, untidy white hair bound by a colorful scarf, her piquant face and shapely arrangement of curves beneath a tight T-shirt and very short, very red shorts. A pair of bulging duffel bags lay on the floor, one near where the Pit boss had fallen.
“Taking a trip?” Grant demanded. “Let’s see your travel permit.”
A torrent of slack-mouthed words spilled from Teague’s lips. Grant couldn’t understand much of what he said, except for repeated pleas for a Magistrate’s mercy.
“Shut up,” Grant snarled. He strode over to Teague, who cringed away, scooting on the seat of his baggy pants until his back was pressed against the whitewashed wall. Grant went to one knee beside him and planted the bore of the weapon against his forehead.
“I’m going to ask you a few questions,” said Grant quietly. “If you don’t answer them, if I think you’re lying or if I simply don’t like your attitude, I’ll blow your head off. You understand?”
Squeezing his eyes shut, Teague nodded several times; “Yes. Yes.”
“You tried to have me chilled.”
The Pit boss swallowed with difficulty. His voice was a harsh rasp. “Yes.”
“Someone hired you.”
He hesitated, and Grant dug the bore into his forehead. “No. Yes. I meanoh, hell, I don’t know!”
The girl raised her hand, as if she were in a classroom. “I know, I know!”
Grant glared at her. “What’s your name?”
“Domi.”
“You’re Guana’s piece?”
Her face contorted in a mask of scorn and intense loathing. “He forced me. Held me prisoner.”
“Right,” said Grant dryly. “All right, Domi, what do you know?”
“I show you.” She turned and moved toward the wall behind her.
“Freeze, goddamn it!”
Domi froze in midstep. “Have to show.”
“Domi,” groaned Teague. “Don’t.”
“Show what?” Grant asked.
The girl met his level stare unblinkingly. “A comm. Hidden in wall.”
“Show me, then,” Grant replied. “Do it slow, hear me?”
Domi nodded, stepped carefully to the wall, ran her hands over the surface and swung open a square panel. Slowly she picked up an object from the recess and turned, holding it in both hands.
“A trans-comm,” said Grant. “Standard Mag issue. Where’d you get it, Guana?”
“From a Mag.”
Grant smacked the side of his head with the barrel of the Sin Eater, not hard enough to cause serious injury, but hard enough to cause serious pain. “The truth, you sack of blistered mutie fat!”
Guana clapped a hand to his head. Tears welled in his tiny, flesh-choked eyes. “I swear! A Mag gave it to me!”
“Who?”
“I don’t know. I swear! He was in armor. He just handed it to me.”
“When?”
“Years ago. I swear! It’s an arrangement kind of thing. Every once in a while, I’ll get a call on it, and I’m told to arrange things.”
“And somebody called you on a Mag trans-comm and told you to arrange my murder?” Grant snarled out the question.
“I swear! Hell, I’m sorry, Grant. I got nothin’ against you. It wasn’t personal.”
“I’m relieved to hear that,” replied Grant. “I’ve got nothing against you, either, Guanano more than I have against any other swill bucket that decided to get up and walk around.” He whacked him again with the blaster, this time on the other side of his head. “Why chill me?”
Voice nasal and snuffling, Guana Teague choked out, “I don’t know. I swear! He told me to chill you and the other Mag”
“Kane?”
“No, not Kane. This whole thing was about Kane. The cherry Mag, Boon, if he got in the way. You were supposed to be blown away in front of Kane, really messy. Traumatic, like? You know?”
“No, I don’t. Where’d you get the blasters?”
“Found ’em here one night. About a year ago. I swear.” Grant said, “Knock off the swearing. Have you been contacted since the hit went sour?”
Teague nodded miserably, his triple jowls creasing and uncreasing, like an accordion made of suet. “Yeah, about two hours ago, on the trans-comm. Told me I fucked up royal, but he could fix it, do some damage control. Said for me to sit tight, keep low, not to try and split the ville. Said I was still of use to him.”