StarCraft II: Devils' Due (28 page)

owned it, as he did many—most, actual y—of the

businesses in Deadman’s Port. It was a place cal ed

Jack’s Spot, with a gambling theme to play along with

the pun, and was run-down enough to be

inconspicuous and clean enough not to be a

cesspool.

They arrived early and ordered food. “I don’t plot

bank robberies on an empty stomach,” Tychus said.

He ordered two sandwiches, chips, and beer, which

for him was essential y little more than a midday

snack. Jim poked disinterestedly at Tychus’s basket

of chips and nursed his own beer. He was growing

less and less excited at the prospect of what they

were about to embark upon with every passing

moment, and was beginning to wish he had just left

and not let Tychus talk him into one final big heist.

At exactly one minute to the appointed time, three

men approached them and slid into the booth.

“I like it when my team is punctual,” Tychus said.

Jim evaluated the men who had just joined them.

They looked exactly as he had expected them to look.

Hardened, calculating, wary, and yet confident. Just

like Scutter O’Banon’s boys
should
look.

He wondered how
he
looked to
them
.

The one sitting beside Tychus—a man in his

thirties, about Jim’s size and build, with dirty blond

hair and a pale scar down one cheek—narrowed his

eyes at the comment.

“The name is Ash Thompson. And
I
am the leader

of this … team. I was told to listen to your plan and, if I

found it sound, to bring you in on the job.”

Tychus took an enormous bite of his second

sandwich, chewed, and swal owed. “Wel , maybe we

can learn a lesson from the playground and share the

bal , then, Ass.” He feigned mortification. “Sorry …

Ash
.”

The man seated next to Jim and across from

Tychus growled. “This guy is starting to piss me off,

Ash. I already don’t like what I’m hearing. Let’s end

this now.”

The third man stayed silent. He was smal , thin, and

dark-haired. Jim didn’t like his silence and glared at

al of them.

“Now, now, Rafe, settle down. Let’s hear the man

out before we cut his throat.”

Jim actual y rol ed his eyes. “Ash, I gotta tel you, if

this clichéd routine you three have going is any

indication,
we’re
the ones who want out.”

Ash’s mouth slowly stretched into a smile. It was

thin, and cold, and dangerous. “The quiet one

speaks.”

“Hel , he ain’t quiet,” Tychus said. “You’l find that out

soon enough.”

“I’m just enjoying the potato chips,” said Jim,

munching another one. “And I want to listen before I

speak.”

Ash nodded approvingly. “Let’s get down to

business, then. I understand that you said my plan

was crap.”

Tychus shook his head, swal owing a bite of the

sandwich. “Nope. I said it was shit. There’s a

difference.”

Jim smothered a chuckle as Ash’s face darkened.

“I doubt you wil come up with anything better. But

Scutter told me to listen and decide which of us is

right. I like to obey the man who pays me. Let’s start

with an overview before we get to specifics.”

He took out a pocket-sized holoemitter and placed

it on the table. At the touch of a button, the Covington

Bank building appeared, then proceeded to slice

itself into sections like a three-dimensional blueprint.

Jim started, spil ing his beer. “What the fekk, man,

do you want everyone in the sector to know about

this?”

Ash laughed. “Scutter owns this place, right down to

the dirt on the floor. I could bang a senator’s wife right

here on the table and no one would bat an eyelash.”

Jim threw up his hands in surrender. “Don’t mind

me. I just like to be smart sometimes.”

Ash ignored him. “The Covington Bank is one of the

sector’s most secure. It has state-of-the-art security

systems, wal s thicker than a man is high, and a

reputation that discourages al but the most die-hard.”

He flashed a grin. “That’s us. Now—the creds are only

going to be inside the bank where we can get at ’em

for thirty-seven hours. It’s a narrow window, but we

have a few days before the chrono starts ticking. We

have something working for us, and something that

seems
to be working against us but real y isn’t. First

off, we have an ace in the hole.” He pointed to the

fourteenth story of the massive building. “The bank

itself occupies the entire lower level, but there are

other businesses here, and from the tenth story up, it’s

luxury penthouse apartments.”

“Don’t tel me,” said Jim. “Scutter O’Banon owns

one of them.”

“Not so you’d ever find out, but yes,” he said. “For

the last few years, he’s had an inside man who’s been

operating from here. This is going to help us out in al

kinds of pleasant ways.”

Tychus al owed that it certainly would. “What’s the

thing that seems bad but isn’t?” Jim asked.

“Wel ”—Ash half-smiled—“it seems that during our

narrow thirty-seven-hour window, the Interstel ar

Marshals Convention is in town. Over a thousand law

enforcement officials are going to be running around

the place.”

Tychus grunted. “Shit, Ash—how the hel could that

possibly be anything but bad?” He finished off his

sandwich with a single bite and fished out a cigar.

“Think about it,” Ash said, his voice a trifle

condescending. “Sure, they’re marshals—when

they’re on duty. You think lawyers at a convention are

going to be working on their cases? Hel no. They’re

going to be attending seminars during the day,

conveniently al holed up in one lavish hotel. After the

speeches and seminars and boring lunches, they’re

going to be drinking, gambling, eating, watching strip

shows, patronizing prostitutes, throwing up, and

passing out, just like everyone else does after hours

at a convention on Bacchus Moon.”

Jim nodded.

“Our inside guy sees this convention every year,

and that’s exactly what he reports. Listen—they’re

going to be in town, but the last thing on their minds

wil be enforcing the law. It’s party time, and this is

Bacchus Moon.”

“The town
and
the bank are going to be lul ed into a

false sense of security,” Jim said before Ash could

continue. “The bank’s going to think, Hey, we’ve got

the safest money in the sector right now—there’s a

thousand law officers right down the street. Who’s

gonna try anything with
them
in town?”

Ash nodded. “And
that
, my dust-kicking friend, is

why it seems to be a liability but actual y is a plus.”

Tychus nodded, lighting the cigar. “Makes sense.

Regardless, ain’t a thing we can do about it.”

“Go on,” Jim said.

Ash leaned forward slightly. “I said I would fol ow my

boss’s orders. I’m going to listen to your plan with an

open mind, because I want to do this successful y. But

I wil tel you this: I’ve been breaking into banks for six

years. Places that are so beyond your abilities you

can’t even have wet dreams about them. Rafe and

Win here have been with me for most of them. We

know what can and can’t be done a lot better than two

low-life dirt-pushers like you.”

“Aw, now, that done gone and hurt my feelings,”

Tychus said, blowing smoke right into Ash’s face.

“Why don’t you just hear me out and use your own

best judgment like you said you was gonna do?”

Slowly, Ash sat back in the booth and nodded.

“Sure, sure. Let’s see what the guy with the neck

that’s thicker than his head can come up with.”

Tychus smiled around the cigar. Jim smothered a

grin of his own. Both men loved it when people

thought Tychus was stupid. It was such a kick to prove

them wrong.

“When Scutter O’Banon sent Cadaver—”

“‘Cadaver’?” asked Rafe, frowning.

“Guy who looks like a walking corpse,” Jim

supplied helpful y. Rafe made an “Ah” of recognition

and nodded.

“—to ask me and Jimmy here to work for him, it

was because of our reputation. We ain’t the sort of

men who come up through the ground. We come in

through the front door, during business hours. In broad

daylight. And we get out the same way.”

Ash stared for a long moment. “You’re a fekking

lunatic, Tychus Findlay.”

“Now, now, your momma shoulda taught you to

watch your language, son,” Tychus said. “Let me tel

you what I can do if you give me three days’ lead time

and enough credits.”

Edward Baines had the night off, and he was

planning on celebrating. Any day that got Tychus

Findlay and James Raynor out of Deadman’s Port

was a good one, and they should be gone for a while.

With a little luck, permanently.

He slipped in through the narrow doorway, hearing

the soft sounds of a quartet, and felt his heart lift.

This place was an oasis for him. Baines didn’t get

to come here often enough, and he was already

looking forward to a glass of something pleasant and

an evening of soft, soothing music. Tonight his

favorite singer, Tanya, was scheduled to perform.

His eyes adjusted to the dim room, lit only by

candles, and he eased into his favorite seat close to

the stage. The quartet finished up and their leader

stepped up to the mic.

“Thank you, thanks very much. Now, we know that

most of you came here expecting to hear the

magnificent Tanya, but she won’t be able to join us

this evening. Instead, we have a special guest here to

sing for you tonight. I hope you’l enjoy her

performance.”

Baines sat down, a bit disappointed. He loved

hearing Tanya, but it was also nice to hear new talent

as wel . He gave his drink order to the waiter, then

settled in.

The quartet packed up, and for a few moments the

stage was empty. The crowd began to murmur,

although they were genteel murmurs. Baines’s drink,

scotch and soda, came, and he sipped it, frowning

slightly.

Then the spotlight came on. There was a lone

microphone stand. “Ladies and gentlemen, please

welcome …
Kyttyn!
”

Baines’s eyes widened.

The young woman—he could not imagine cal ing

her a “young lady”—who came onstage was dressed

in tiny striped scraps of clothing. She wore large fake

cat ears and a tail sewed onto the rear of the

microbikini that covered—wel , not very much at al .

Her body was toned, tight, and in-your-face.

“Hey, everyone!” Kyttyn said cheerily. Her pert little

nose was painted black, and three whiskers adorned

her cheeks on either side. “Tonight, I’m doing a

special performance for one very lucky Mr. Edward

Baines.”

Another spotlight practical y blasted Baines’s

retinas as it glared down at him.

“Mr. Baines … or should I say Cadaver … this is

just for you, from Jim and Tychus.”

And she launched into something loud, and

raucous, and screaming, peppered with words that

would make a marine blush to hear.

The spotlight stayed on Edward Baines for the

duration.

There was no green on Bacchus Moon.

Jim had been looking at images of the place, and it

was wal -to-wal plascrete and neosteel. The only

areas where living things seemed to grow were on the

grounds of the acres-wide luxury hotels. The rest was

solid city. It had once been a verdant and pleasant

world, he learned, with the sort of land that his parents

would have til ed with care and from which they would

have reaped bountiful crops. But because of its

convenient location, its destiny had been determined

early on.

He, Tychus, Ash, Win, and Rafe were approaching

at night, and the only spaces where there were not

bright lights were the oceans, dark and black and

open. Every single landmass was glowing from coast

to coast, crowded with people, glitz, and glamour.

It was beautiful, after a fashion, but Jim found

himself thinking about it in a way he hadn’t before. He

had grown up on Shiloh, where every bit of energy

was careful y safeguarded and used as efficiently as