Monticelli’s floor was the proverbial hive of activity, only in this case actions involved the methodical destruction of everything from recently received periodicals to entire files whose records stretched back ten years or more. Grim-faced employees carried out their supervisors’ directives as they wondered among themselves about the reasons.
In his private suite Monticelli moved purposefully to the large picture window. A touch on a hidden control, and the large sheet of reinforced glass slid aside a little less than a meter to admit fresh air and a few puzzled insects. Monticelli was not interested in the city air, nor was he planning any foolish leap into oblivion.
Reaching out and down, he fumbled with a spotlight until it snapped out of its holder. Behind the flat bulb lay a touch-sensitive lock. As soon as he keyed in the combination, the metal plate to which the light-holder was welded clicked aside.
Putting a safe on the outside of your office, several floors up, was one way to ensure one’s privacy.
He removed the contents, which consisted of a small plastic case full of critical hardprints and several information storage discs, and slipped them into a heavy-duty plastic bag imprinted with the logo of the hypermarket down the street. It made for an innocuous package.
Closing the external safe, he shut the window behind himself and barked in the direction of the vorec-activated pickup. “Where’s the cretin who’s supposed to have the latest figures from the Port? Time is particularly important today, people, and we’re fast running out of it. As long as everyone does their job, this emergency will turn out to be nothing more than a temporary setback.”
It was much more than that, of course, but by the time terminated employees and outraged stockholders came to that realization, he would be offworld, beyond the reach not only of JeP jurisdiction but that of any Earthly authority.
Out in the upper offices of Borgia I&E, techs and clerks slaved on methodically. They might have been spurred to even greater efforts had anyone thought to check the street outside.
A long-bed, six-wheel JePPD van full of heavily armed officers was about as inconspicuous as a snowman in downtown Phoenix on a July afternoon. The driver swung into a municipal parking place well off the cyberstrip that ran down the center of the street, and his tense passengers hustled the rest of the way to the target building on foot. A second identical vehicle was unloading on the opposite side of the structure. Curious pedestrians blinked at the rapid deployment force, noted the grim expressions on the faces of the flak-suited men and women and the kinds of weaponry they carried, drew inevitable conclusions, and hurried a little faster on their way. Those traveling in the same direction as the squads slowed and abruptly remembered particulars that demanded their attention elsewhere.
Unnoticed by Monticelli or his busy employees, foot traffic around their building quickly dropped to nothing. Fewer and fewer vehicles glided past the main entrance. Admonished by plainclothes officers going from floor to floor, tenants of surrounding buildings found reason to lockseal their doors or close early for lunch, siesta, or meditation.
When the jaguar stalks the rain forest, the accompanying silence or racket that marks his progress depends on the inclination of the monkeys in his immediate vicinity. In this instance, an unusual and unprecedented silence enveloped the entire edifice.
Accompanied by half a dozen select officers, Hafas, Vyra, Manz, and Moses approached the main entrance. All except the mechanical were conventionally armed with both crowd-control devices and less genteel equipment. Vyra clung to her antique quasi-blowgun.
The inspector finished whispering into his com and turned to his companions. “The building is surrounded, and all entrances and exits, including the underground and the roof, are covered. Everyone inside except the Borgia people has been warned.”
“You think Monticelli will give up quietly?” Manz asked him.
“Do you?”
“Hard to say. Depends whether he thinks he can be charged with the deaths of those colonists who died for lack of the medicines his organization jacked. A big fine and confinement time might not bother him, but a couple dozen murder or accessory-to-murder charges might make him decide to take his chances with a gun instead of a lawyer. If the courts can make anything like that stick, he could find himself sentenced to a full mindwipe. I don’t think someone like him could handle that. He might prefer to be dead.”
“We’ll know in about thirty seconds.” Hafas gave the go-ahead, and his armed cohorts rushed the doorway.
There was an extended pause. “He must have been informed of the debacle at the Port by now,” the inspector mumbled. “We don’t know what kind of security he has at the entrance or how it’s been instructed to rea …”
Something went off thunderously just beyond their line of vision. Dust and smoke billowed from the entrance alcove, and the six officers came racing back, hunched low and helping along two of their number who’d been wounded by flying debris.
“Now he’s done it,” Manz declared. “That’s liable to bring the police.” The Minder hovered at his shoulder, reluctant to rise too high.
“Good thing you don’t get paid by the joke.” Hafas leaned cautiously around the artificial stone facing. “Doesn’t look like he plans to give up quietly.”
“Careful. Excessive understatement is Moses’ department. What now?”
The inspector sighed. “I was hoping this wouldn’t get messy.” He pulled his com and began giving orders.
Monticelli peered through his office window and flinched when an enterprising police sharpshooter stationed on the rooftop opposite just missed with a shot that spiderwebbed the thick glass. Made to frustrate just such an attempt by a ruthless competitor, disgruntled employee, or other would-be assassin, the windowpane’s built-in refraction index was designed to make it look to someone on the outside as if anyone standing inside was in reality a full meter further to his left than he actually was. If the marksman was clever enough to figure that out, he’d try to compensate for the distortion with his next shot.
Monticelli had no intention of giving him another clean try. A switch on his desk shuttered the opening with smooth gray composite, impenetrable to anything less than armor-piercing weaponry. Lights came on in the office as he urged his people to redouble their efforts. His security staff was already responding with appropriate measures.
Hafas chatted briefly into his com while his companions waited impatiently. Across the street two officers placed what looked like an ordinary plastic mailing tube on the sidewalk. They did something to its top, then moved off in opposite directions. The tube went phut! and quivered slightly. A tiny puff of white smoke emerged from its base. Hafas, Manz, Vyra, and the rest of the officers turned away and covered their faces.
The sealed entrance to the Borgia building vanished in a satisfyingly spectacular shower of shattered glass, frayed composite, shredded metal, and fractured arcrete. A cloud of white dust ballooned outward. Before it even began to settle, armed officers were rushing the gap from both sides. Manz and his companions accompanied them.
Cracked marble slabs and chunks of composite tried to trip them up as they raced through the lobby. Water rained from activated sprinklers and broken pipes. Except for several bodies, the entryway was deserted.
“JePPD is very proud of its tactical wing,” Hafas was yelling to the adjuster.
“They have reason to be!” Manz slowed as they neared a stairway. Everyone planned to avoid the lifts, he knew. Too easy to booby-trap.
Sensor-equipped officers led the way up multiple stairwells simultaneously. As soon as the lobby was again deserted, Moses, who couldn’t manage the stairs on his trackball anyway, thumbed the call button on the nearest lift and stepped into the waiting cab. A fall of several stories might dent his armored frame, but at the moment he felt the potential drop worth the risk.
In the penthouse suite Monticelli was relaying last-minute instructions to his anxious soldiers while techs and clerks huddled fearfully behind their desks and other office equipment. Some among them were starting to wonder at the precise nature of the emergency their chief executive officer had declared. Intimations of illegal involvement began to occur to more than a few as they identified the JePPD insignia on the jackets of the figures assembling out in the hall.
Monticelli was not concerned with what his soon-to-be former administrative employees might be thinking. It was the reaction of his private security force that occupied him now. “You four watch the main door. Do what you can. The rest of you come with me.”
A quartet of solemn-visaged men and women hurried to the floor’s defense, while the giant Knick-knack easily hefted the composite case Monticelli had stuffed with items taken from his desk and the outwall safe. Together they entered the suite of rooms that abutted the rear wall of the building.
The fireplace was dark now, the entertainment center silent. Hurrying to the back, Monticelli fingered a wall-mounted sculpture fashioned of tiny, irregularly shaped, rainbow-colored composite panels. While the giant waited patiently, his employer methodically twisted several portions of the sculpture, repeating a carefully memorized sequence.
Two sections of wall slid silently apart while the sculpture rose ceilingward to reveal a tightly wound spiral staircase leading downward. Letting his servant precede him, Monticelli closed the safety door behind them.
Monticelli’s rear guard was in the process of erecting an improvised barricade of office furniture when the first JeP officers pushed through into the outer offices. Manz and Vyra followed close behind.
Both sides opened fire simultaneously, but the police were better trained and motivated, if not better armed. Desks, cabinets, monitors, and other hastily stacked equipment disintegrated under the combined fire. The battle was intense but brief. With two of their companions down, the remaining pair of security soldiers retreated to Monticelli’s inner office.
Tac officers assumed the point and concentrated on shuttling the terrified office staff to safety. Everyone’s ears were ringing, and smoke and haze obscured vision. Occasional shots came from holes in the door leading to Monticelli’s inner sanctum.
Unnoticed by Hafas, who was busy directing his people, Vyra slipped something into the slot at the base of her elongated antique and took careful aim between two cabinets. Manz saw what she was up to and said nothing. The inspector might try to restrain her, but Manz knew better than to try. Nothing could restrain Vyra Kullervo when she was on the move, with the exception of certain indomitable forces of nature.
He saw her blow into the tube, heard the accompanying soft whoosh. With appalling violence, the security door that barred the way exploded, taking a substantial section of wall with it.
Hafas and his people dove for cover, rising only when someone identified the source of the explosion. He yelled across the now silent room. “What the hell do you put in that thing?”
“Just a small shape-charged missile. The tube concentrates the heat from my mouth wonderfully and ignites it. It’s an art form.” She smiled pleasantly.
“Save something for Monticelli.” Manz was already rushing past her, heading for the smoking cavity where the door had been. His approach, needless to say, went unchallenged from within.
Monticelli halted, peering downward. Like a camouflage-clad worm, a line of determined men and women was ascending the stairwell toward him.
“Up, up!” He snarled at his hulking companion. “Get up to the roof!” The giant made a strangled noise and reversed direction.
Manz dove for cover the instant he passed the ruined portal, but there was no one left inside to contest his presence … or to surrender. Hafas and several officers piled in behind him and began searching. They quickly found the remains of the two dead bodyguards, but of Monticelli there was no sign.
“He’s still somewhere in the building,” the inspector muttered. “Has to be.” He joined his officers in commencing a check of the walls, ceiling, and floor.
Moments later twin panels parted, and for the second time in minutes a colorful wall sculpture swung upward. The officers took aim with their weapons at the gap beyond, only to find themselves confronted by colleagues who’d come up the no longer secret stairwell from the basement.
“They’re above us!” one corporal shouted, standing aside to make way for his superior. He blinked as Vyra rushed past, convinced that the day’s intense action so far had seriously affected his eyesight.
Once in the stairwell Manz clung to the center pole and swung out for a better look. Light came from an opening not far above. There would be a service and equipment floor containing the building’s climate control system and not much else. Either his quarry was in hiding there, or else he was already on the roof. Which would do him no good, since Hafas had that part of the building covered as thoroughly as the interior. It was all over except for the surrender and booking … assuming the trapped executive chose to surrender.
“Might as well hold it here,” said Hafas, mirroring the adjuster’s own thoughts. “They can’t go anywhere, but they can sit on the roof and pick off anybody who tries to go up after them. No need for that. We’ll get a hookup and talk to them.”
Vyra leaned over his shoulder. “Maybe we’d better not wait too long, Broddy.” She ran a finger through his hair. “If there’s a nice, big service and equipment floor, it might hold something besides climate-control processors. In fact, I’d be willing to bet that it does, because based on what I’ve seen so far here today, our Mr. Monticelli strikes me as the sort who leaves nothing to chance.”
“What else could he …?” The inspector’s eyes widened. “Oh. Oh, yeah. Could be.” He got on his com fast. While he talked, and before he could restrain them, Manz and Vyra made their way back to the stairwell and started up.
“This is stupid,” he muttered. “Even if Monticelli has anything up there, he can’t get away. The whole building’s under surveillance.”
“Sure,” said Vyra from behind him. “You want to take that chance?”
“No,” he muttered as he slowed. “Not now. Not after all this.”
Sure enough, they found a sealed metal door located halfway to the roof. Leaning to one side, Manz took a cutter from his belt and went to work on the lockseal. The metal ran hot, spilling in heavy droplets down the stairwell.
Keeping his head below the opening, he reached up and flipped the narrow door aside. Immediately something blue and hot singed the air above his head.
“Cover me.” He took a deep breath and readied himself. This was the difficult part of his business.
“Later,” she replied coyly. “Right now I’ll just try to shoot some people for you.”
“Whatever,” he muttered. “Pick a step and stay here,” he told the Minder. It acknowledged the order unenthusiastically.
As it was far too confining in the stairwell to make use of her family heirloom, Vyra accepted the loan of a small pistol from her colleague. Bending to her right, she raised her hand over her head and began firing through the opening without aiming. The pistol made a rewarding racket as its tiny explosive shells went off somewhere inside.
Manz counted the shots. The instant the clip was exhausted he threw himself through the opening, hit the floor inside, and rolled madly, firing his other handgun. A distant figure clutched at its torso and collapsed.
Hafas had put in an appearance on the stairwell, his upturned face silhouetted against the light from four floors below. “Hey, what’s going on? You were supposed to wait!”
“Sorry, Inspector.” Vyra smiled sweetly down at him. “When he’s chasing somebody, Broddy gets irritable if he has to sit still for more than a minute at a time.”
Muttering curses to himself, the inspector barked an order to someone unseen and started up toward her. Other officers followed.
Vyra turned her attention back to the opening. “How’s it going in there? See anything?”
“There’s some kind of false ceiling.” The adjuster’s voice indicated that he was somewhere close by. “It’s pretty dark. I can’t see much, but then, they can’t see me either.” As he finished there was a small explosion, followed by bright flashes as lasing weapons went off inside. This was succeeded by a deep grinding noise, as if something large was moving on tracks or rollers.
“Shit!” Manz yelled.
Hafas had drawn up behind Vyra. “What is it, man? What’s going on?”
“I hope your roof watchers are ready, Inspector.” The adjuster’s voice was drowned out by the sound of additional small explosions.
The vertical takeoff and landing craft that had been concealed in the service bay exploded off the reinforced floor, which had been home not only to the building’s climate-control equipment but also to a low-ceilinged hangar. Manz rushed forward, firing as he ran. Behind him Vyra darted through the small entrance, followed rapidly by Hafas and several tac officers.
They took out the three remaining members of Monticelli’s private security force in quick succession, but not before the VTOL was fully airborne. Shots from snipers situated on nearby buildings struck the craft only to rebound harmlessly from its armor. Manz, Hafas, and the men and women who’d come up the stairs with Hafas took their own shots as they squinted up through the huge opening in the roof. Vyra struggled to aim her blowgun, but the aircraft was already moving too fast, its adjustable wings rotating into fixed-wing position.
A police hover ship whined into view, firing repeatedly. They could only use lasing weapons, Manz knew. Slugs or explosive shells could miss a target and fall lethally to the innocent streets below. Such considerations on behalf of the public welfare restricted the kind of weaponry urban police could employ.
Those on board Monticelli’s vehicle, of course, were operating under no such restraints.
With its wings rotated fully forward, the jet-powered craft shot away northward. The police hover ship banked gamely in pursuit, falling further behind with each kilometer.
Hafas uttered an oath in some traditional ethnic tongue as he poured a steady stream of orders mixed with invective into his com. When he’d finished, he turned to Vyra. Manz had plucked his Minder from its resting place on the stairs and was just settling it back in place above his shoulder as he returned.
“They won’t get anywhere. In addition to the municipal patrols, I’ve informed Continental Control. They have aircraft that can run down anything slower than a shuttle.” He shielded his eyes against the desert sun as he gazed north through the gap in the roof. “Smartass move, but that aircraft doesn’t have orbital capability. Port Authority has him on their screens already. He’s being tracked.”
Manz relaxed. “Then it’s just a matter of getting something airborne that’s fast enough and heavily armed enough to force him down. He must know that.”
The inspector shrugged. “So he’s putting off the inevitable as long as he can. Maybe he thinks his pilot is good enough to avoid tracking. Who knows?” He put his lips to his com again. The next time he turned to them, he was smiling.
“He’s not even trying to get away. I thought he might make for the Port and do something really dumb like try to hijack a shuttle. Then we’d just take him at the Port. But he’s heading out toward Pleasant Lake instead. Records indicate that his estate’s out that way.” The inspector was sufficiently confident to chuckle. “Maybe he’s stocked a subterranean shelter and he’s going to try to hole up underground for a while.”
“Any cave systems in the area?” Vyra asked him.
Hafas had been joking. Now he frowned slightly. “I don’t think so. Nearest caverns I know of are way up near Carlsbad. You think he might have an underground connection? That’d be too expensive a tunnel even for someone with his resources to build.”
“Could be hard to winkle him out of an underground complex,” Manz pointed out.
Hafas wasn’t concenred. “Let him squat like a mole for a while, if he wants to. He’ll come out eventually. Or we’ll find a way to pump his air system full of something disagreeable. At this point he can’t do any more than stall. We don’t know that he even has anything out there besides his house and track.”
“Track?” Vyra murmured.
“Yeah. According to records he’s a big, long-time sponsor of competition land-based manually controlled personal vehicles. You know, race cars? Borgia’s a major corporate underwriter on the professional circuit. Apparently Monticelli’s such a fan he has his own track out at his house. There’s plenty of room out that way, and privacy. He could make all the noise he wants without having to worry about disturbing the neighbors. Probably has a collection of race cars out there, too. Won’t do him any good. He won’t get away on the ground any more than he has in the air.” He started for the stairwell, glanced back. “Want to come along? I’ll make room for you.”
“We’re going out there?” Vyra inquired.
“Why not? Probably he’s just putting his affairs in order before we pick him up. Trying to cover his tracks. Maybe he has stuff out there that needs to be wiped and he can’t do it by remote. Or maybe he’s just delaying incarceration because it’s in his nature to fight as long as possible. I’ve dealt with types like that. They figure as long as they’re free, they’ll never be caught. It’s a mind-set common to the successful. Wealth makes ’em arrogant. That’s something that never changes.”
Manz nodded. “Thanks for the invitation, Tew. I think the Company would like to have its own people present when you cuff him.”
Monticelli’s estate was situated on a low sandstone bluff overlooking the distant reservoir. The rambling compound itself was fashioned in by now familiar neo-Hispanic, complete to fake adobe walls and maroon tile roof. For someone of such means, it was a relatively modest complex. The only ostentatious display of wealth was to be found in the oval racetrack that marked the boundaries of the executive’s acreage, and in the lavish use of water in a land noted for its lack of same. Decorative pools and waterfalls, lush gardens, and flowers crowded close to the main buildings, gate, and track.
Artificial brooks chilled to mountain temperatures and running heavy with brown trout lay shaded by towering saguaro cacti. Tropical vegetation thrived in mist-rich alcoves beneath the needles of alpine evergreens. A young sequoia loomed self-importantly over spinifex from the southern continent. The music of running water was everywhere.
Manz and Vyra sat in the hover ship with Hafas and an expectant tactical squad. Two other heavily laden hoverers flanked them on either side, while two more were loading up back in the city and preparing to follow. The adjuster studied the sprawling estate.
“Sure is quiet. You’re sure they landed here?”
Hafas nodded. “Port Authority tracked them all the way. Probably taxied the VTOL into a camouflaged hangar somewhere out back.”
Vyra was peering through a monocular. “Quite a place. Lavish, but understated.”
“I’m sure his architect would be flattered,” Hafas said dryly. “I hope we don’t have to take it apart. I’d much rather see it confiscated after he’s convicted, to help pay the expenses this operation has incurred.” He sounded hopeful. “The racetrack facility alone ought to be worth plenty to some enterprising local entrepreneur, even if it is a little far out of town.”
“Any indication of a subterranean shelter or similar setup?” Manz asked him.
The inspector shook his head. “We ran a quick probe as we flew over. There’s nothing deep here. A lot of power and fiber conduits, but that’s to be expected. I’m sure he has a stat security system running around the property.”
“He’s not through.” Manz gazed intently at the buildings, ignoring the roar as another police hover ship set down nearby. “He’s got something else planned. Something unorthodox. Otherwise he wouldn’t have run. Not even if he had important files to wipe.”
Hafas shrugged. “What can he do? He’s just putting off the inevitable. It’s in the nature of these big execs. Like I said, they think they’re invincible. They never change, even when you slap ’em in a cell.”
“You going to rush the place?” Vyra asked him.
The inspector considered. “I’d rather not have a replay of our little confrontation back in town, though we don’t have to be as careful out here. We can use heavier ordnance if necessary. But if we vape the bastard, he won’t stand trial. Not that his demise would make me shed any tears, but given a choice I’d rather have him intact. He can’t implicate coconspirators, either here or offworld, if his body’s in one place and his brains are in another.”
Manz turned to him. “Let Vyra and me go in. We won’t take any unnecessary chances.” He indicated the equipment belts they were wearing. “We’re both wearing enough antidetection instrumentation to null every alarm and sensor on the place.”
The inspector’s gaze fell momentarily to their waists. “I wondered what all the belly decor was for. Stealth gear. Of course, being merely municipal police officers, we’re not allowed to use that kind of stuff. Strictly against regulations. Anti-civil libertarian and all that.” His tone was sardonic. “If I tried sending in half a dozen officers similarly equipped, the Department would get smacked with an invasion-of-privacy suit that would stretch all the way from here to Austin.” His gaze rose. “What happens if you do manage to get inside without trouble, and then he decides not to cooperate?”
The adjuster shrugged. “We can always pick our way back out and do it your way.”
“If he lets you out,” said Hafas. “Why the hurry?”
“Because I’ve dealt with types like Monticelli too, and I find that if you give them too much time they have a nasty habit of outthinking you. He outthought us back in town, and I wouldn’t count on his not doing it again out here.”
“Like I said,” the inspector reiterated, “what can he do? He can’t leave the place. This time we’ll have hover ships in position. If he tries that trick with the VTOL again, we’ll just knock him down. He must know that.”
“I know, but still …” Manz wasn’t exactly pleading, but the inspector could read the anxiety in the adjuster’s eyes.
“You’re really worried, aren’t you? You really think he’s planning some kind of escape. There’s nowhere out here to hide, and this time he can’t run like he did in town. He’s finished.”
“Then there’s no harm in humoring me. I promise you that we’ll take care.”
“You insurance people are crazy.” Hafas sighed resignedly. “Go ahead, if it’s that important to you. I won’t order you not to. But if you get your insistent selves killed, I won’t take any responsibility for it. I’ll say that you disobeyed my direct orders and snuck off on your own.”
“Suits me.” Manz immediately headed for the exit, the Minder bobbing along above his shoulder.
“I’m only doing this,” Hafas yelled after him, “because two people stealth-equipped might sneak inside and maybe talk him out quietly where a whole squad would set him off! I really want the son of a bitch alive!”
Either the two adjusters didn’t hear him, or else they chose not to reply.
“Surely he must know we’re here.” Manz advanced at a good clip, jogging over the sand toward the house. The Minder bobbed obediently at his left shoulder. There were no other buildings in sight, Monticelli’s estate and private track encompassing quite a bit of gravelly, mountainous desert acreage.
“Pretty hard to ignore three municipal hover ships sitting in your front yard.” Vyra kept pace with him effortlessly, her light boots gliding over the crumbly surface.
Manz glanced at his wrist, checking the readout. It was connected to assorted sensitive and very expensive instrumentation attached to his belt that was designed to warn him if they were about to stumble into any awkward obstacles. A small antipersonnel mine, for example, or something equally nasty.
It was also supposed to neutralize a wide variety of detection sensors and allow them to approach a target unannounced, unless someone happened to spot them visually. It was his experience that this occurred far less often than the average person might suspect, people having become so dependent on electronics that they frequently forgot to make use of their own eyes and ears.
A small opening in the ground directly in front of him snapped shut abruptly, and he slowed to a halt. His belt instrumentation read negative. Either the subterranean device was equipped with an antisensor scrambler of considerable sophistication, or else …
He bent over to inspect the opening, smiled as he straightened. Vyra’s brows lowered.
“Well?”
“Trap-door spider.” He grinned back at her. “Relax, I don’t think she’s armed.” He resumed his stride.
“Made you hesitate,” she told him, giving him a little shove from behind.
They slowed as they approached the first line of landscaping surrounding the main building. On their flyover, Manz had noted that it was roughly rectangular in shape, with a number of smaller outbuildings and a large oblong pool out back. They crossed the first small artificial stream and his sensors remained mute, indicating either that the stealth instrumentation was operating properly or else Monticelli was a lot more trusting with his home than Manz was ready to give him credit for.
Large thermosensitive windows dotted the exterior wall. Since they’d made their approach with the sun directly behind them, the glass was mostly opaqued.
“See anything?” he asked his companion.
“No movement.” She used her goggles, which enabled her to see through the darkened windows. “Nothing. No one patrolling out front. Maybe he left all his people except a pilot or two behind to keep us busy back downtown.”
“Must be cleaning up, wiping what information he can strain from the net.” Manz started forward. “Maybe all we’ll have to do is knock on the door and ask him to give it up. Maybe that’s what he’s waiting for.” He stepped over another small brook. “Maybe worms can fly.”
“They do on my world,” she reminded him reprovingly.
An unopaqued window located in the wide, covered walkway that led to the main entrance opened onto a spacious, high-ceilinged living area spotted with chairs and couches. A huge fireplace faced with native stone dominated the far wall. Instead of a business suit or casual gear Monticelli wore some kind of bulky jumpsuit. At the moment he was engaged in animated conversation with three figures, all of whom were armed. Knick-knack stood behind him. No one was looking toward the window.
“Looks like he has complete confidence in his alarm setup.” Manz checked his belt. “Place is swarmed with security gear, none of which is doing him any good at the moment. I’m sure he doesn’t expect anybody to just walk up and say hello without setting off so much as a bell. A competent security consultant would’ve designed this place to cope with anything the police or a substantial private contractor could bring against it.” His eyes glittered. “I guess they never expected him to have to deal with an outfit as well armed as a major insurance company.”
A check of her own belt showed Vyra that everything was operating satisfactorily. “Do we knock? By the look of the guns his merry men are fingering, I get the feeling he isn’t waiting for an invitation to surrender.”
Manz considered. “There’s still the possibility of an underground passage of some kind, or him trying to make a run for it in the VTOL. I’d just as soon not wait to find out.” He glanced back the way they’d come. “Much longer and our friend Hafas is going to start getting impatient.”
She reached back over a shoulder and tapped the long, narrow snout of her favorite weapon. “I could take them all out at once with the Piccolo.”
“Yeah, and if you aim wrong there wouldn’t be enough left of Monticelli to make a positive identification, let alone question. If there’s any shooting, use something less inclusive.” Removing a small, oval-shaped device from his belt, he approached the door. The pistol he hefted in his other hand fired heat-seeking anesthetic darts. Their individual sensors were set at 98.6 degrees, and after traveling a certain preset distance from the barrel would automatically activate and direct themselves at anyone within range, provided the potential target wasn’t suffering from an extreme fever or hypothermia. Monticelli and his minions looked to be in sufficient health for the system to operate at maximum efficiency. Vyra was similarly armed. The problem was convincing her to mute her enthusiasm for loud bangs and airborne body parts.
As Manz was about to null the door lockseal, Knick-knack happened to look up and catch sight of Vyra crouched just within view. He shouted something inaudible, raised a very impressive hand weapon, and fired. Vyra had just enough time to curse and leap clear as the window and a section of framing disintegrated.
The adjuster lurched and fired as the giant raised a large packing case to his shoulder and ran. Monticelli didn’t even look back. By now the three bodyguards had all taken cover, but that didn’t save the first as Manz’s dart described a tight curve to stick the startled gunman in the ribs. He swatted at the offending dart as if at a bee sting. Then a look of surprise washed over his face, his eyes rolled back in his head, and he fell over on his side.
Two more darts subdued his remaining companions, catching the third and last as she broke for a back door. Vyra went in fast and checked the room, but there were no hidden bodies waiting in ambush. Her stealth gear desensitized any automatic weaponry concealed in walls or furniture. As far as the house sensors were concerned, the room now held three unconscious regulars and nothing more.
Manz was already at a locked side door. This seal was made of sterner stuff and exhibited a maddening reluctance to yield to his entreaties. He stood watching impatiently as the decoder he’d slapped against the seal scanned through millions of possible combinations.
“Come on, come on,” he chided the device as the lock stubbornly persisted. “After all this …” The decoder hummed and began beeping softly. Nodding once to Vyra, he shoved the door open and jerked back. She rolled and fired, but the dart from her gun searched in vain for a target before falling unfulfilled to the floor.
A downward-angled floor.
“So there is a tunnel,” he murmured as much to himself as to his companion. Ceiling lights illuminated the narrow, arched passageway that stretched out before them. They started down, advancing swiftly but cautiously.
His belt had flashed half a dozen times to indicate the presence of automatic stealth-nulled weaponry before the smooth pavement gave way to a large room filled with unexpectedly massive controllers and other equipment he failed to recognize. Vyra paused to examine a brightly lit readout board while her companion gaped at their enigmatic and enormously expensive surroundings.
“Lloyd’s Bell! What’s he got down here? Look at the size of those power ducts.”
Vyra spoke without turning from her inspection. “He’s drawing energy off the territorial grid. An awful lot of energy.” As she finished, something nearby began to whine insistently. Manz envisioned a major hydroelectric dam suddenly gearing up to cope with the peak power demands of a large metropolis.
“What kind of setup is this?” He ran to the far side of the room, yelled back to her. “Hey, there’s another tunnel over here! With rails. He’s got his own private subway down here, but to where?”
Vyra’s violet eyes widened as her gaze fell on several other instruments. She was no physicist, but by now she’d seen enough to draw some conclusions.
“Call Hafas; tell him to warn any aircraft in the area to watch out!”
Even as he was pulling his com unit and wondering if it would work this far underground, Manz was racing back to her. “Why? Isn’t this a subway?”
She whirled to face him. “Kisimas, no. The private ‘racetrack’ that circles the property? It’s a goddamn cover. He’s built an entire electromagnetic accelerator down here.”
He blinked at her. “That’s what all the energy’s for. He’s got a huge arc of sequential magnets to power up.” He flicked on the com. Not that it would do any good. Departmental or territorial aircraft couldn’t track, much less shoot down, something that would emerge from below ground traveling at escape velocity.
Among other things, their discovery explained Monticelli’s current choice in leisure attire. Somewhere in low orbit he had a pickup vessel waiting to transfer him to a chartered deepspace vessel. Borgia was big enough to afford that, especially if it was intended as the last major expenditure for the current fiscal year. Doubtlessly Borgia’s last fiscal year, though its shareholders didn’t know that yet. The company was preparing to go out of business while its chief executive officer was in the process of relocating to a more congenial business climate.
And they couldn’t do a damn thing about it.
Hafas checked his chronometer and muttered to the sergeant waiting next to him. “They’ve been in there a long time.”
The woman gently slapped her riot gun. “Want us to get them out?”
The inspector deliberated. In the interval since the two insurance operatives had gone inside, the rest of his reinforcements had arrived. “Give ’em another five minutes. If we don’t see or hear from them by then, we’ll move one squad forward, put two on the roof and the other two down in back. That ought to stir things up inside no matter what’s happening.” He frowned. “You hear something, Helen?”
The sergeant listened, turned to him. “A low whine? Like machinery complaining?”
“Yeah, something like …” He broke off as the ground began to vibrate. Beneath him the hover ship trembled on its landing gear. Officers exchanged uneasy glances and clutched their weapons a little tighter. The vibration increased, then leveled off. It did not fade, but remained constant at that level.
“Not an earthquake,” the sergeant observed unnecessarily.
“What, then?” Hafas took an unsteady but determined step toward the exit. “This wasn’t part of the plan.”
The whine was superseded by a thunderous sonic boom as something moving too fast to identify burst from the earth half a kilometer to their right and shot into the air. Something like a small metal arrow left the briefest of afterimages on the inspector’s retinas as it sped skyward. He joined his officers in throwing himself to the ground and trying to bury his nose in the hard plastic deck.
An instant later the unidentified projectile impacted the rim of a series of low cliffs located off to the east with the force of an armed missile. Everyone flinched at this second explosion, but there was no residual fireball. Hafas climbed slowly to his feet, gaping at the hole in the distant plateau.
“Christ.” The sergeant brushed at the legs of her combat suit. “What was that?”
The inspector noted that his com unit was flashing for attention. He pulled it from his service belt and flicked it open. “Manz! What’s going on in there?”
The adjuster’s voice came back clearly. “Never mind that. What’s going on out there?”
Hafas squinted at the distant, crumbling section of cliff face. “Something just blew out of the ground a hundred meters from us like it’d been shot from a gun.”
“It was, in a manner of speaking. Where is it now?”
The inspector blinked. “Where is it? Looks like about fifty meters inside solid rock. What’s left of it.”
There was a pause. “It didn’t disappear into the clouds?”
“Hell no. Ran straight into a cliff. Just missed clearing the top. Why, what was it? Manz, get your ass out here! What’s going on? And where’s Monticelli?”
This time it was Vyra who responded, her words contrasting with her girlish voice. “Probably all around you, Inspector.
I’m sorry. It sounds like we won’t be taking him alive. Apologies.” She clicked off.
Hafas stared blankly at the com speaker, then slowly raised his gaze a last time to contemplate the steaming black hole in the distant cliff face.