nearest barrel.
“Where’s who?”
“Don’t fuck around, mutie bitch. Where is he?”
Hagic had an H&K 5.56 mm. He was holding it downward, by its pistol grip. Ryan
thought he was either very sure of himself or very foolish. More likely the
latter.
Charlie repeated, “Where’s who?” She sounded genuinely baffled. “Ya looking for
someone, we’re all here.” She gestured around the room at her patrons, all of
whom were staring at the sec men with ill-concealed malevolence.
“Listen, mutie bitch,” Hagic snarled. “A guy dived in here moments ago. I want
him, want him bad. I don’t get him, I’ll fire this place and you in it. All of
you.” He didn’t look at Ryan. Hagic clearly didn’t give a quarter-credsworth of
shit if he was nice to the Trader’s men or not.
“Whyn’t ya say so in the first place?” muttered Charlie. “The Liz, he just came
in. Didn’t ya, Liz?”
The Lizard, a tall thin mutie with a long nose and bluish squamous skin, stood
up at his table. He looked puzzled.
“Sure, M-miss Charlie. Wh-what’s ya p-problem, Ca-ca-ca-captain?” The Lizard’s
speech impediment made it sound as if he was saying “caca” deliberately, and,
knowing his sense of humor, he probably was.
Hagic looked murderous. He began to swing the H&K up, and Ryan thought this
whole business had gone on long enough.
Ryan said, “You mean the wimpy little fucker who galloped through here just
now?”
Hagic paused before turning to face him. Ryan could almost hear the pinwheels of
his tiny brain creaking slowly into action. Hagic knew something; more to the
point, he knew something was up, was going on—possibly right now, at this very
moment. But Hagic was a stupe of the first water. A smile darted across his
sallow features. It was probably meant to be friendly but it simply made him
look sly. His squint didn’t help.
“Ryan. Good to, uh, see ya.” He switched his wall-eyed stare to the rear of the
room. “You, uh, say you see a guy…”
“Guy come in here, like there were rad rats chewing his ass? Sure. C’mon. Show
you where he went.”
As he said this he turned away from Hagic, began striding down the room, aware
of Charlie’s pop-eyed gaze on his right, but also aware, just, of a flicker of
dark amusement fleeing across the ugly features of Ole One-Eye down the room,
“Shifty little bastard he looked to me.”
Out of the corner of his eye he could see the mirrors, could see Hagic
following, three men in tow. And as he was speaking, his back to Hagic, his open
coat cloaking his movements, his left hand was smoothly cross-drawing the
SIG-Sauer, his right feeling his belt, fingers unpopping a pouch, drawing from
it a stubby little suppressor, screwing it into the SIG’s barrel.
“Door here. Yeah, curtain.”
That was a pisser. He couldn’t not draw the curtain back, leave it closed. Even
Hagic would smell a rat. As he slid the heavy material to one side he heard Ole
One-Eye berating Chewy the Chase in a loud voice, Chev’s angry tones replying.
Good. Even some noise was useful, attention grabbing just when it was needed. He
wondered what the hell was beyond the door. He wondered how he would play what
now had to be played.
Sometimes a response had to be purely automatic; you had to work blind and the
nature of the killing ground was in the lap of the gods. The suppressor was
tight. He carefully pushed the gun inside his pants but with plenty of grip
available for instant draw.
A door faced him. It opened inward, toward him. That was a bonus. He pulled it
open, smiled. He was in a small lobby. To one side, carpeted wooden stairs rose
to a narrow landing before doubling back. He could see the upper portion of the
staircase through its banister posts. A lamp hung low on a chain from the
lobby’s ceiling.
“Stay here,” Hagic’s voice sounded in Ryan’s ear.
Magic’s three sec men pushed past him and began to mount the first flight of
stairs.
“Bad character, huh?” murmured Ryan.
Hagic moved closer, inclined his head toward Ryan’s. His chin was stuck out and