He and Kane strode across the lane. The girl shot them a look of crimson terror, then her long left leg arced up, the foot landing solidly between Boon’s legs. He choked out a curse and jackknifed at the waist, dropping the scanner. The girl wrested away from his grasp, spun and loped down the street, running in a graceful, ground-eating stride.
Boon struggled to straighten up, leaning against the wall of a building, clutching at his crotch. His “That bitch!” was a strangled gasp.
Kane found himself angrier with Boon than with the girl. Instead of going off shift, they now had to engage in a probably pointless pursuit through a maze of back alleys and dead-ends. As he ran past Boon, he said tersely, “Catch up when you’re able.”
Tails of their coats flying behind them, Grant and Kane sprinted after the white, flitting shape of the girl. She had a head start, was much younger and could run encumbered by Kevlar coats or blasters.
Grant spit the cigar from his mouth. Kane kept his clenched tightly between his teeth. It was his last one, and he didn’t want to throw it away until it was a smoked-out stub. Legs pumping, boots squashing mud, the two men dashed down the lane. Smoke kept curling into Kane’s nostrils, and he constantly fought the urge to sneeze.
Since it was close to dinnertime, the crowds were thinning out and many of the street vendors were closing up their stalls. They didn’t have to dodge many obstacles or push more than three people out of their path. They turned a corner and sprinted between the shells of old duraplast buildings that had formerly housed laborers but now served as squats. This part of the Pits wasn’t wired for electricity, and only the most hopeless and helpless lived here. The girl was leading them through the darkest section of the Pits, and Kane remembered that since it wasn’t equipped for electricity, then it wasn’t equipped with spy-eyes, either.
Kane’s thigh muscles felt as if they were seizing and locking up, his chest was caught in an ever-tightening vise and his vision was shot through with gray spots. Because of that, it took him a moment or two to realize their quarry was nowhere in sight.
He stopped running and lurched over to a heap of broken masonry. Grant was a score of yards ahead, still trying to run full out, but his stride was faltering.
Cupping his hands around his mouth, Kane shouted, “Forget it! We’ve lost her!”
His cigar fell to the base of the rock pile, and he stooped over to pick it up. Then he heard the crackle of blasterfire.
Chapter Thirteen
Grant concentrated on running, praying he wouldn’t stumble on the rocky, uneven ground, hoping the nagging pull in his groin wouldn’t get any worse. He didn’t see the girl, only half-tumbled walls overgrown with scraggly vegetation and a pair of dome-roofed duraplast buildings on either side of him.
When he heard Kane shout from behind him, he slowed down in midstride, grateful for the chance to stop. His lungs felt as if they were on fire, and he drank in great gasps of air through his open mouth. He cursed the tobacconist, then himself.
As he stopped running, despising the ache in his knees, a cold knot of warning inched up his spine to settle at the nape of his neck. His scalp felt as if it were pulling taut. Something was wrong. He could sense it the way a seasoned wolf senses a trap. He took a few more steps before coming to a complete halt. There was no sign of danger. The sky was a crimson-and-orange wash, the duraplast structures gleamed in the setting sun. Everything seemed in order.
“KEEP COMIN’ you black bastich,” Uno crooned quietly. He lay prone beneath a windowsill, the mini-Uzi resting on the decaying wooden sash. He gripped the butt tighter and squinted down its short length. Grant was about five yards below and twenty away. It was fairly long range for such a small gun, but he didn’t have to be precise. The effective range was about 150 yards, and the trajectory was just a slight downward angle and there was no wind to worry about.