Gateway Station
16.FEB.2283

THE BULLET MISSED a centimeter to the left, as he intended. A warning shot, and damn close at that.

“Enough,” Russell said. “The next one is through your eye.”

The woman stopped pulling his legs. Her grip relaxed.

Over his shoulder he yelled, “You, too, or your friend here dies!” The commotion behind him ended abruptly.

Russell scooted out from the ventilation shaft and rose to one knee. “Hands where I can see them,” he said. “Now! Both of you!”

A pair of hands protruded from the darkness. Then another, from the opposite side.

The guard who had waited with Russell, and performed such an impressive acting job, crawled away from the opening and stood, somewhat unsteady.

Russell kept his gun trained on the blonde. He looked at the dazed guard and jerked his head toward the other vent. The man got the hint, collected his machine gun, and pointed it at the opening.

“Let’s come out of there,” Russell said. “Take your sweet time. I’m in a patient mood.”

The woman emerged from the vent. Tall, intimidating. The recognition did not take long.

“We meet again,” Russell said, craning his neck to face her. “Hardly recognized you with your clothes on.”

She stared back at him, eyes full of simmering rage, and kept her mouth shut.

“Who’s your friend?” He reached out and removed a pistol from her belt, then tossed it down the hallway. “Disarm her, too,” he said to the guard.

“My name is Kelly Adelaide,” the other woman said.

Her voice had a flippant tone that Russell hated the instant he heard it. He fought the urge to shoot her right then.

A sound caught his attention: the sound of running men. Within seconds Larsen and the other guards joined him.

“Your ghosts, Captain,” Russell said.

“Nicely done.” He breathed hard from the run. “What are your orders? Shall I take them to the brig?”

A thrill coursed through Russell at the word orders. Maybe Larsen would fall in line after all. “We all know that’s not good enough,” he said. “I’ll bring them with me, and show them some Nightcliff hospitality.”

Aboard his climber, Russell made sure the women had been properly bound. His men had been a bit too eager, perhaps—they looked like a pair of mummies.

Natalie sat alone by the far wall, strapped into a seat, as far away from the prisoners as possible. Her face bore a look of revulsion. Russell thought about chastising her for that, but he still had work to do.

He floated up to the second-level compartment, where the climber’s lone terminal resided, and punched in the code for Nightcliff’s control room.

“Put Osmak on the line,” he said to the person who answered. “I’ll wait. Be quick about it.”

“Quick” left a lot to interpretation, he realized as he sat waiting. A few minutes passed before he finally felt the climber jerk and heard the hum of the grip apparatus as it began to propel itself along the Elevator cord.

Earthbound. An expedition to Africa. He smiled. He could see it already, standing there in the tall grass, arms folded across his chest and a welcoming grin on his face. Zane Platz, the bumbling fool, staggering out of his climber into the bright sun and staring straight into the muzzle of a machine gun.

“Osmak,” came a voice from the terminal.

Russell had watched the fellow with some amusement over the years, allowing his little smuggling operation. As long as it didn’t get too ambitious, everyone could benefit in their own way. That is, until two days ago. Russell let the hammer fall. He needed the man’s contacts. “How goes the planning?”

When they’d talked the day before, Russell had given specific, ambitious orders, under threat of torturous death: “Find me ten aircraft, at least, that can travel as far as Africa with minimal cargo,” he had said. “Environment suits for fifty men. Survival supplies for a few days.” He told Kip that he didn’t care whom he had to pull in, or what threats he had to make. “Just get it done,” he had told him.

Kip Osmak cleared his throat loudly. “We’ll be ready, Mr. Blackfield.”

“Excellent.”

“You, um …”

“What is it?”

“The scavenger crews aren’t flying since the raid. I’m not sure how to—”

“There’s no time to deal with them. Contact Grillo, he has enough planes.” Planes, and ambition. The slumlord had been trying to earn Russell’s favor for months. Time to see just how deep his ambition ran.