Breakaway: A Cassandra Kresnov Novel (v1.1) (29 page)

A four-lane road, traffic banked at the lights of an intersection. Crowded sidewalks, pedestrians walking in the bright sunshine ... a typically busy downtown Zaiko scene. Another block beyond, the street ended in greenery and a walkway skirting the broad, blue expanse of the river. She overlaid the location her seeker trace had shown on the internal schematic ... a brief disorientation of distorted vision, graphical lines matching up reference points and measuring distances ... then came clear, a single, coloured spot flashing clearly upon the right-hand sidewalk amid the passing crowds. Another moment's calculation, adjusting for movement at time of detection, speed and time elapsed ... the circle vanished and reappeared further on toward the river, moving at walking speed. She frowned, visionzooming upon the people within the circle, knowing all too well it was an imprecise guess, her target could have changed directions, crossed the street, stopped or started running ... but there, in the middle of the visually imposed circle, was a man with a heavy jacket, zippers on the shoulders and pocketed cargo pants. Like her own. Black skin, dark sunglasses, hands in pockets and apparently unworried by the heat on this sunny Tanushan day. Cocky bastard. If she'd picked that last transmission, no doubt others would have too. Certain mafia types, especially, having access to League codes that League operatives had been stupid enough to lend them ...

"Excuse me, ma'am," came a waiter's voice at her elbow, no doubt concerned at the consternation of the other patrons at this rude arrival, "can I help you with something?"

"How 'bout a rope?" Sandy asked. And hurdled the railing before the waiter could consider what the hell she was talking about. Yells of desperate alarm from behind as she fell ... The broad transparent awning covering the tower's entrance spread directly below at a fortyfive degree downslope. She hit it feet-and-backside first, slid to the rim and leapt off with an extra shove, aiming for an empty space of sidewalk she'd spotted on the way down, hit, rolled with a hand to her side to keep the pistol in place-and set off running as pedestrians around leapt or stopped in double-take startlement at this woman who fell from the sky and into their midst.

She ran comfortably fast, weaving between pedestrians and certain their numbers would block her from view at this distance ... Ahead the lights on the cross-street were changing and she put on an extra burst of speed, edging onto the road to avoid collisions and leaping onto the far pavement just as the lights changed ... her uplinks registered the traffic-net's disapproval, her image caught on visual and no doubt analysed for fines and warnings at Traffic Central, but no big deal, the CSA would pay for it.

She caught a glimpse of the man up ahead as he neared the crossstreet before the riverside park, strolling apparently unawares ... A groundcar leapt the grass-verged curb opposite with a squeal of tyres, men leaping out. Her target vanished with explosive speed into the doorway of the corner building, the five men from the groundcar pouring after him, obviously armed beneath their expensive jackets. She was already sprinting, edging once more onto the road to gain a clear path, uplinks registering a mess of active scans, attack barriers and encoded IDs. Nothing official, nothing CSA, mostly very illegal. She reckoned she'd just found the Tanushan mafia in person, this time without their violent and well armed mercenaries. And the man they were after was a damn fool for transmitting that signal from the street ... which could easily mean he was an amateur. Or new in town.

Bashed through the wooden doorway, through the entrance foyer and found two employees sprawled unconscious upon a broad, open nightclub floor ... uplinks informed her with a rush of three-dimensional data that the building was five storeys of "entertainment complex," nightclub, VR gaming, backroom gambling and backroom sex, all equally expensive ... and now the local network barriers were making a total mess of her attempts to lock onto local sources.

"CSA!" she yelled at the three startled-looking employees working on the dance floor lighting and sound system in a sea of assorted cables and switches. "Which way'd they go?" A stunned silence, shattered by three tough, tattooed gentlemen who rushed from a side doorway and blocked her path ...

"You get!" one yelled. "This private property! CSA not allowed, you get!" Very menacingly. She registered the sprawl of tattoos across thick-muscled arms, connected that with the mass of encrypted barriers clogging the network premises, and realised to her extreme displeasure that this too was a GGs establishment. And these guys looked like Yakuza, an ancient phenomenon she'd heard of but never thought to encounter directly ... bloody Tanushan antiquities, how many of these damn gangs were there, anyway?

Gunfire erupted from back rooms above, heads snapped around and she moved-one grabbed at her and she hit him in the stomach. Snapkicked the second across the shoulder and threw the third halfway across the dance floor, then raced through the side door and up the next stairway before the three groaning bodies had barely hit the floor.

Got a sudden connection as she reached the second floor and ripped the pistol from her shoulder holster, her systems breaking through the infiltrated chaos on the networks and the complexity hit her in a rush ... her floor, her level, her present location and the layout around her. Other people's locations, too, and the obscuring mass of static where some new infiltrator was attempting to cover his location and systems ... More gunfire ahead. Corridor walls and doorways fled past her as she took the corners bouncing off the suavely deep-green and decoration-trimmed walls, and once off a staff member. She could hear only too well that some of that fire was rapid-auto, and from the local men's positions on the links, she guessed it wasn't them. Whoever it was, they were coming up a stairwell down the next corridor ... it loomed ahead, and she slid feet-first along the shiny surface ... saw the dark figure appearing at the top of the stairwell and yelled, "CSA!," smacking the side of the corridor with her feet and bracing.

Covering gunfire erupted as the gunman ducked back, Sandy ignoring the ill-aimed fire that smacked the walls and ceiling about. Unloaded a rapid ten shots into the stairwell banisters and railings, knowing she hit nothing even as the wood splintered and kicked fragments, but hoping to scare him back down those stairs ... and remembering vaguely that she wasn't supposed to kill him anyway, even if he shot at her.

Something dark lobbed over the stairwell as she lay braced on one side ... she tensed a leg and kicked off in barely a split second, hurling herself back down the corridor into a rolling ball, uncoiling once more for a second spring with that momentum as the grenade exploded behind her with a thump that rattled the walls and sent plaster and wood fragments showering about her. She knew the footsteps would be coming even before she heard them, rolled quickly to a crouch by the wall in barely enough time for a black figure to dash blindingly fast by the corridor mouth ... she snapped fire, one-handed reflex, knowing even then that she'd scored multiple hits. The lack of impact holes in the far wall confirmed it. Scampered forward through the billowing dust of the explosion, pressed her back to the left wall and leaned right ... even without seeing, she knew there was no body lying there, having heard the footsteps continue onward at frantic pace. Body armour, perhaps ... but she'd aimed for the legs.

Damn he was fast. And well armed. It gave her a bad, bad feeling.

Yells and footsteps from back down the stairwell. Pursuers climbing ... she set off in fast pursuit herself, not wanting regular security to try tackling this particular gunman, even if they were only mafia. She skidded to a halt at the next corridor, snapped a fast look around ...

"Freeze!" yelled a voice from back at the stairwell, obscured through the drifting dust.

"I'm CSA!" she yelled back. "Stay back and I'll get him!"

"CSA, my fuckin' arse!" came the reply, and Sandy spun about the corner in time to avoid a volley of shots that splintered the plastered walls. Buggered, she thought calmly, if she was going to tolerate that crap behind her ... she had enough to worry about in front.

She snapped a quick look around the corner, pistol out left-handed and fired two fast shots into the murky dust ... multiple screams and yells of "my fuckin' arm!," and "my leg, my leg!," and she moved off at speed, content that pursuit would now pause for a long moment.

The gunman was not hard to follow, even if her uplinks into the local establishment security failed to grasp the location ... the lingering effects of whatever virus this guy was using to cover himself, she thought, sliding up against a doorway that should have been locked but instead hung partly off its hinges, bashed open with great force. A quick scan of the layout showed the most likely escape, and she sprinted beyond the doorway, ducked through a bathroom to the frightened yells of several sheltering in the toilet stalls, crashed footfirst through the far door, bounced hard right off the wall, skidded for acceleration, smacked off the right wall to fly sideways into the next upward stairwell, leapt four metres vertically onto the adjoining flight to save time, sprang through that doorway, shoved off hard left and leapt for a flying kick at the end doorway. It exploded off its hinges, as she flew foot-first and dropping, pistol out and searching ... The blow hit her unexpectedly in mid-air from the side, and she snapped a right fist back into hard contact, losing balance to thump the ground shoulder-first and tumbled before coming back fast to her feet.

A moment's fast register, time-lapsed-motion and sound like treacle, blurred and slow. A storeroom. Boxes and junk surrounding. A man waiting for her by the doorway. She'd lost her weapon. He'd been thumped in the head, hard. He was still alive. Which meant he was a GI. Like she'd thought. Get him before he recovers.

Her tackle smashed him over backward, locking his gun arm and fighting for leverage even as they somersaulted, him re-gripping to counter, abandoning the gun, which clattered free as they ceased rolling ... and suddenly he found a hold, twisted and kicked with force that flung her hard into the nearby wall-her grip on his jacket held and spun him hard about to a crouch. Sandy came off the wall and spun for a full-power kick that smashed him flying eight metres sideways through the air, hammering awkwardly off the wall with force enough to fracture stylish brickwork, and fell out of sight behind some boxes.

She grabbed up his fallen automatic ... and saw it was a palmreader, not operable without a personalised operator's signature. Got a good grip and broke it with a brief burst of applied power, a shriek and crack as the handle bent, looking about for her own weapon, full heat scan ... no reds from hot muzzles, only blues, and the reddish tinge of recent footsteps, and the cracked imprint where the other GI had hit the wall...

"Looking for this?" came a voice from behind those boxes. The man was standing, if a little awkwardly, holding her pistol in his hand. Grinned at her as she stared, the muzzle centred with effortless precision upon the centre of her chest. CSA weapons were not palm-readers, securitied only by uplink verification, which was of course vulnerable to rearrangement with the kinds of interface systems a GI had available. Now, staring down the barrel of her own pistol, she wondered why that should be so.

The GI had the appearance of an African man. Whatever that meant, for a GI. Shorter than average, as usual. Not especially muscular or broad, also as usual. Handsome, strong, jet-black features, military-inspired jacket and pants, with many pockets. He stepped around the boxes, and stood before her, not four metres distant. Limping slightly. So she had hit him ... she eyed several small holes in his pant legs, about the thighs. Sweet fuck-all good it'd do against a GI, with that little civilian pea-shooter. Especially in the thighs. Best to go for a knee or an elbow ... you could always get lucky. Or the throat or an eye, for a half-chance killshot. Headshots with low-calibre weapons were just an annoyance.

"Cassandra Kresnov, I presume," the GI said. Smiling broadly, in a very handsome way. More than amused. Like he was genuinely pleased to see her.

"Who the fuck are you?" she asked, in no mood for pleasantries with someone pointing a gun at her. Past the deadly combat calm, she suffered a cold tingle up the spine. A GI, one who knew her name. It narrowed the possibilities alarmingly. The man shook his head in amazement.

"I have heard so much about you." The cold tingle got worse. He seemed very pleased, for someone she'd just put bullets into and smashed full-force into a wall. "This is amazing. I had expected we would meet, but not so soon. Fate, perhaps."

On the net, there was commotion, people moving and shouting. New arrivals-police and incoming CSA. Somewhere downstairs, a directing shout.

"Who are you?"

He sighed. "Patience. I must go. Don't look for terrorists, Cassandra, they aren't important. The game is elsewhere." Footsteps from somewhere down the corridors. He backed away, headed for the rear window across the storeroom, which was she could see on her schematic within leaping distance of the rear laneway, and escape-for a GI. Sandy regathered herself ... as soon as he was out that window, she was going after him, gun or no gun. From the last look he gave her, she realised with dismay that he knew it.

"I apologise," he said-and shot her twice in the stomach.

The blows kicked her backward, doubling over with painful force ... the window shattered, the GI tossed the pistol away, sprang onto the windowsill and leapt into empty space. Several long seconds later, a light thump, then nothing. Sandy made to move for her weapon ... and realised that it bloody hurt. Gasping, she fell to one knee, holding her middle. Bastard. Utter, fucking bastard. A downward glance showed two small holes in her shirt, and a light, creeping red wetness. Her stomach muscles refused to untense, cramped tight and painful. The cramp spread into her back, and down through her hips and thighs ... and she recalled certain long ago lessons in GI anatomy, and how stomach muscles connected into nearly everything else, and which loosening exercises needed to be employed to prevent various strains and immobilities ...