Junkyard War, page 9
Just about the time their people started hard negotiations, there was movement in the crowd: three made-men from three different clubs walked slowly to the back of my truck and stood together. One was a Black Sabbath, his skin glistening with fever sweat in the mild weather. He looked as if he had been newly transitioned—flop sweat, a case of the shakes. The second man belonged to Whip—white guy, grizzled, a beer belly that hung over his riding leathers, his gray beard in multiple braids. The third was a woman—tough, hard as nails, clearly former military. I recognized her from long ago. If Harlan’s last info had been up to date, she was McQuestion’s number-two enforcer, who reported directly to Jagger. Razor McBride. Her head swiveled to me. There was a semiautomatic weapon on her right side, violence in her eyes, and a promise of blood in her body language.
With the nano detector, I could prove that the three had nanobots in their bloodstreams, hopefully without revealing that I was a nanobot queen myself. But I needed to get close enough to smell their sweat to determine for certain what kind of nanobots had taken them over—Warhammer’s or PRC nanobots. Either was a danger.
I set my tequila aside and started to push away from the table.
Left-handed, Razor pulled a blade and wiped it across her thigh, letting the sun glint across the steel. She wanted to fight me. I could feel that desire through the air between us. I wanted to fight her too, or my nanobots did. She had to be Warhammer’s.
Warhammer had gotten her claws in deep. How many more were there? And were they about to start shooting?
Razor flashed the blade at me. Beside her, the two male thralls reached for their guns.
“Gun,” I whispered to Jagger.
I shoved away. Backflipped. Came to my feet faster than any normal human ever could. Jagger, my thrall, had already turned and fired. As I rose upright, the Hells Angel thrall crumpled into the dirt, a hand on his abdomen.
The men at the table dove to safety.
“Nobody move,” McQuestion shouted.
But it was already too late. Every biker on the premises had a weapon drawn. Most of them were pointed at Jagger and me. I stood slowly, my hands raised.
“He drew on you,” Jagger said to McQuestion.
“I drew on the bitch.” The gray-bearded man pointed at me. And began to gasp. Blood pulsed out from beneath his hand. Razor and the Sabbath pointed guns at the men at the table. At me.
“Asshole,” I said, warning in my tone.
“Jacopo,” Marconi said, his voice calm, too soft to carry beyond the table of standing enemies. “Leg shots. Take them.”
Two shots rang out.
Jacopo had holstered his weapon before anyone else had time to blink. The Sabbath fell, grabbing his leg, dropping his weapon. Razor had moved. I didn’t think it was possible, but Jacopo had missed. Her nanobots and augmentation had defeated nearly superhuman skill.
The wounded Sabbath dropped his weapon, his transitioning not far enough along to force him to keep fighting.
Then, Spy sent me a vision of the woman.
She and her mate, Maul, were perched over Razor’s head as she hid behind my flatbed. I sent Spy a vision of jumping her and scratching her bloody. Spy sent back a smug feeling. She and Maul dropped onto Razor.
Cat screams and a woman’s guttural shout rang on the air. Razor and a ball of furious cats tumbled into sight.
Blood flew. I felt Spy take a cut along her side. She leaped away.
Razor grabbed Maul, ripped his claws out of her face, and threw the cat against the armored side of my truck. The door dented. Maul fell and lay still.
Heat, fury, and hate thumped once, hard, through my bloodstream. Into my bones.
Razor met my eyes across the space. Faster than human, she ran at me, her bloodied blade held in her left hand.
I shoved off. One foot landed on top of the round table. Shot glasses and good tequila went flying.
Second step hit the ground on the far side. Passing McQuestion. Racing at her.
My bloodstream pumped hard, telling me, enemy, enemy, enemy.
My eyes dilated. I saw everything at once. Everyone still had weapons drawn, moving back and forth, covering everyone else.
This would be a bloodbath. Unless—
I dove-leaped-bounded. Seemingly flying. In midair I shifted position. Tightened my left arm, bracing my shoulder. Blocked her left-handed weapon with my right forearm. Hit her with my left shoulder, momentum, body mass in flight. Direct hit. High in her gut.
She oofed out a breath.
I grabbed her wrist with my right hand as we fell. Landed, my momentum driving my shoulder deeper between her ribs.
A strangled sound gagged from her.
I rolled. Yanked back her little finger. Broke it. Took the knife. Shoved it slightly into the flesh of her carotid. She went still. Only her breath heaving. Our faces were centimeters apart, her face and neck covered with cat scratches. Her blood called to me to kill her. I made a fist around the knife hilt and punched her hard, instead. Breaking teeth. The metal bits in my gloves raked her mouth, tearing her flesh.
Tears filled her eyes. “Bitch.”
I grinned, showing teeth and fury. I lay my bare left wrist, above my glove, against a cat scratch on her face. I shoved with my nanobots. Claiming her.
She writhed and I shoved the knife tip deeper into the cut in her neck. “One millimeter. Maybe two. And you’re dead.” She went still, her eyes promising retribution.
Amos sauntered over to me and used plastic ties to secure Razor. The ties were enough to hold a gorilla. I hoped they’d be enough for her.
I passed the knife to Amos and rolled off Razor, keeping my wrist on her face.
“Amos, you and Cupcake get a standard MBB out for the gut-shot male, fast. Put a pneumatic tourniquet and Xstat treatments into the other guy’s leg wound. And put Maul and Spy into our vet-bay.”
My two thralls leaped onto the flatbed. Without mechanical help, Amos strong-armed one of the triage battlefield med-bays to the ground and Cupcake flipped a switch to turn it on. Together they lifted the gut-shot man into the MBB, closed the top, and set it to stabilize. Amos handed down the vet-bay. Cupcake picked up the limp cat and carried Maul to it.
Amos then knelt at the Sabbath’s side and assisted with emergency treatment.
As if I hadn’t just had a fight, I said calmly to the club leaders, “You boys want to know why your number-two enforcer and two made-men drew on a peaceful negotiation?”
They looked pissed, so I raised my voice slightly, drawing all the attention to me. “I can give you that information.”
“How?” Whip’s voice was quiet, demanding.
“The device at my thigh,” I answered softly. I nudged out a hip to indicate it.
The leaders, who had scattered during the fight, moved closer to us, watching each other, watching Razor and me with icy, violent, threatening eyes.
I had to take control of this situation. I shouted to the assembled, “There are traitors among you, like Razor and the two with her. Poisoned. Infected by Clarisse Warhammer and forced to obey her. I know how to find them and stop them. I can make them well again. Put down your weapons.”
No one moved, but no one fired. Tension wasn’t rising, but it wasn’t mellowing to campfires and singing “Kumbaya,” either.
“I’m betting every leader here has a traitor in their midst,” I said, softer. “Probably more than one. Get everyone to stand down.”
None of the dozens of weapons were holstered except Jacopo’s, but still, no one else had fired. I took that as my cue and said, “I. Can. Prove. It.”
I smelled Warhammer on Razor’s blood, but that wasn’t proof I could offer.
“I’m getting up.” Slowly, I rolled to my knees. “I’m pulling the device.” I eased the nano detector from my pocket, activated it, and showed it to the men. I bent over Razor, at the unbloodied side of her throat, then pressed it against her skin at her carotid. The green light turned red, and the gauge hit at about 75.
“She’s got antibodies.” I meant nanobots, but explaining that would take forever. “She’s poisoned,” I said. When I stood up, I wasn’t surprised to find every weapon on me. My voice steady, lower, I continued, “I can prove it. Jacopo. Your arm.”
Jacopo hesitated only a moment before rolling up his sleeve and extending his arm. I pressed the start button. Jacopo tested at zero nanobots. “Green. No antibodies. He’s not infected.”
Marconi met my eyes and walked to me. Extended his wrist.
I tested him and said, “Green.”
Whip held out his wrist.
I tested the prez of the Hells Angels. “Green.”
I then tested the other leaders. Then the man in the med-bay. He was a hard 70. The one with the leg-shot was only at 25, still transitioning.
“And you?” Whip demanded.
“I’m positive. All my people are because we were similarly poisoned. Antibodies are still in our systems. But the queen who infected me is dead.” Surely the bicolor queen who infected me was long gone. It was over ten years ago. “I’m my own person, not a slave to someone else. Because I figured out how to defeat it.” I pressed the detector against my neck. I redlined at 100.
Marconi’s son Enrico—pretty, oh-so-Italian Enrico—stepped up. In his new Berger-chip-created Italian accent, he said, “I was infected by the Warhammer. This woman”—he indicated me with a graceful gesture—“she cure me. I no longer hear Warhammer’s blood calling me to come to her. I am my father’s man again.”
I waited for him to say he wanted to be with me instead, but he stepped back.
“So we need to make sure Warhammer is stopped? Neutralized?” Marconi asked.
“Killed. Yeah,” I said. “Then the problem is solved. Forever.”
Without waiting for the leaders to process all that had happened in the last few minutes, I said, “Amos. As soon as the cats are okay, knock Razor out and put her in the vet-bay. Set the program to cleanse, start Berger chips, and the proper fluids and meds.” Each time I spoke, I lowered my voice, letting it say for me that I had this under control, that no one needed to do anything or kill anyone.
“Copy that, Shining.”
To the leaders, I said, “You have choices to make.”
Whip and Marconi exchanged looks with McQuestion. Bengal and Mama-Killer each nodded.
Keeping one eye on Amos and Cupcake and one on the assembled, I said, “Don’t let anyone fire. It’s what Warhammer wants. Don’t let anyone leave. Any other infected will want to get away if they can’t make us fight each other.”
Casually, McQuestion shouted, “OMW weapons down! At ease. Nobody leaves. Anybody tries to leave without a direct order from me will be shot dead.”
Each of the others called out the same.
The weapons disappeared, but my eyes caught the furtive movements of a number of people. Bloody hell. There had to upward of twenty infected.
Whip tilted his head to the side, and all the leaders stepped away into a tight group. Whatever they said was short and sweet. When they came back to me, Whip said, “Test every man and woman here. Start with Hells Angels.”
This is where it would get dicey. All my people were positive. Jagger was positive, too. Ever since I heard about the nano tester I had been shuffling through ideas on how to keep him safe, and had decided it would have to be situational.
To Marconi, Whip said, “Secure any who test positive. Shoot any who run.”
“Can you make the infected talk?” Marconi asked me.
“No. But she can.” I lifted a hand to Mina, who stood about two meters away. No one but me had seen her approach. The psycho was as stealthy as a cat.
Mina smiled, just the tiniest bit. And bloody hell it was a scary smile.
“I’ll test Mina first,” I said, “then Camilla. We can work through the HAs together. Then the OMWs. I’ll toss a coin for Black Sabbath and Boozefighters.”
“Heads,” the Booze prez said, “for first testing.”
I pulled an old US quarter and tossed it. Caught the coin and slapped it onto my glove. It showed tails up. “Boozefighters will be tested last.”
Whip nodded. “Then we talk. Until we know who our own people are, we’ll drink. Maybe play a little Five Card Stud.”
I wasn’t going to get a better deal. “Jacopo Marconi, Mina Marconi, Camilla Gamble. To me.”
* * *
Marconi’s other children and McQuestion’s daughter tested negative.
Then I told them what reactions to watch for in those waiting to be tested: fear, anger, shifty eyes that calculated a way out, that stared at someone they wanted to kill, or indicated a desire to run. They had an easy job. When I approached the HAs, four people took off. Mina brought them down with small throwing knives, hamstringing or hitting them in their glutes faster than I could follow.
The four were infected—one woman and three men, none of them Marconi’s. He had learned how to protect his people. Whip, however, was seriously pissed that he had spies in his organization.
Jacopo and Camilla left the blades in place and secured the infected people’s wrists.
The OMW had a higher number of thralls—seven in total, five of them male.
Warhammer liked owning men.
McQuestion sat with his back to the action, but I could read fury in the lines of his body.
While we worked, Jolene took encrypted intel off each infected biker’s Morphon, including evidence of Gov., military, and Hand of the Law infiltration in all the biker clubs. I had everything. Names in the Gov. Names and ranks in the military. Cops in every town. Contact info and bios of them all. Our enemies were everywhere. Warhammer’s nest was spreading faster than I had believed possible. And Jolene was absorbing it all into her databanks.
As the Marconi scions subdued the OMWs, I turned to Jagger and said, “Your turn.” He met my eyes and held my gaze as I pressed the nano-detector against his skin. Without pushing the button. “You’re clean, Asshole,” I said loud enough so the Marconis could hear me.
“Of course I’m clean. And my name is Jagger. Logan Jagger.”
“I like Asshole better.”
Jagger laughed and the sound went through me like melted butter and warm maple syrup. My nanos wanted to rip off his armor and take him on the ground. I stepped away from temptation and went back to work.
It took until near sunset before all the infected were sequestered. By then, Razor was in our personal med-bay. Spy was hissing mad, but fine. Maul might limp with pain until he could get back into the vet-bay for a second go-round, but his ribs were stitching together and his broken legs were mending. He could get around. His cracked skull was a different matter, making him dizzy, and that would take several stints in the vet-bay. I would treat him again when Razor was done.
When the last thrall was isolated, one of the noninfected came forward about her man, who was zip-tied and secured to a tree. She told me all about how they had met this woman. Warhammer’s image was on his Morphon. The Old Lady hadn’t told her prez because her man told her not to and backed it up with a fist to her jaw. When I heard that, I walked to her Old Man, adjusted my gloves so the pointed steel knuckle rivets were in the right places, made a good fist, and punched him directly in his mouth. He was laughing as my fist came at him because I was a little girl in name as well as in reality. But I was stronger than human.
Only as my fist impacted his jaw did I realize I had just usurped the power and job of an enforcer. I busted out his front teeth, tore his lips, and gave him a serious case of whiplash.
Behind him, I spotted a woman slinking from tree to tree. Down the road. Getting away. Bloody damn. It was McQuestion’s Old Lady. Six-Gun Annie Gamble. This would get ugly.
I walked over to Jagger. Hiding my gesture, I pointed. “McQuestion’s Old Lady hasn’t been tested. She’s trying to escape.”
Jagger cursed.
“I’m going after her. You deal with your boss.” I raised my voice, shouting as I tore down the drive, “Cupcake! To me!”
She was instantly at my left side, keeping pace. My nanobots reached out to her, connecting. I felt her armor harden, her attention shift for an instant. I saw what she saw.
Knowing what she planned, I held out my hand for the weapon she placed into it. Synchronicity at its finest. I slowed.
Cupcake passed me. Using her armor’s reverse recoil feature, she leaped two meters up.
I fired at a man partially hidden behind a nearby tree in the same moment that Cupcake grabbed a tree limb overhead. Swung forward and landed on Annie’s back. They rammed into a pile of dry dead limbs. Cupcake flipped the woman over and slapped her once. Into unconsciousness.
When my target went down, I walked over, kicked away his sniper’s rifle, and shot him again, outer left arm, the round tearing into his delt. I toed him over and saw where my first shot had taken him through the right shoulder. Blood spurted. My round had hit him low enough to have nicked his lung and the big artery that fed his arm. He’d bleed out in two minutes. I tried to decide if I cared. He stank of Warhammer. I was pretty sure he wasn’t alone. I decided I had other priorities.
He whimpered, gasped, and died.
I walked over and stared down at Annie, who had just complicated my life. She was coming around faster than she would have, had she been a normal human.
Jagger was coming up behind me. He wasn’t alone. I set my expression into battlefield neutral and met McQuestion’s eyes. At his side was his daughter. Tears were running down her face.
“She isn’t dead, Camilla,” I said, my tone neutral. “Just knocked silly.” Concussion, possible brain damage, and a traitor to you and your dad and your club, I thought. Annie shook her head, trying to wake up.
“Roy, you wanted to know how Warhammer found out about today?” I said. “Here’s your answer.”
Camilla stepped into her father’s arms, still sobbing. “Please, Daddy. Please,” she whispered.
Grief etched Roy’s face as he cradled his daughter’s head against his kutte. I didn’t understand. Then he pulled a weapon. “I said if anyone ran, they’d be shot,” he said. “You ran.”
