The Hammer Falls Page 29

  “Jesus Christ,” he said after a long breath. “You want to see me go berserk, Bunny, do that again.”

  Roxanne smiled, an enigmatic twist of her lips.

  Here at an elevation of almost three thousand meters, the stars sweeping their slow arcs above the desert shone sharper, brighter, the moon and Milky Way so bright and clear they looked almost within reach. The drive twisted upward on an even steeper slope toward a glow shining behind pine tree lines, a glow so bright it eradicated the spectacle of night.

  “This place is built like a military base,” Bunny said. “Surveillance everywhere. Infrared, motion sensors, 3-D imaging. If a gnat winked at you anywhere on these grounds, someone would know it.”

  “What about armaments?” Roxanne said.

  “No weapon emplacements that I can detect. For firepower, it looks like drones and guards only.”

  “I hope we don’t have to shoot our way out,” Horace said. “We haven’t exactly discussed how we’re getting out of here.”

  Red text flashed in his vision from Roxanne:

  THAT PLAN IS STILL UNDER DEVELOPMENT.

  “Got it,” Horace said. That kind of suicide mission he could deal with. In the pit, as in war, no battle plan survived contact with the opponent, even when spots had been discussed in advance.

  “Just remember this,” she said. “Once we get out of this car, say nothing that will blow your cover, inside or outside the house. I do not know this for certain, but it is extremely likely that eavesdropping bots will be assigned to all the guests. I believe the entirety of his house is covered in hidden microphones sensitive enough to catch your slightest whisper and cameras that can read your lips.”

  “Got it,” Horace and Tina said together.

  The drive flattened and spread until it emerged into a broad artificial platform extending like a shelf of steel and concrete from the side of the mountain. Lights delineated the perimeter of the platform, and the shelf extended from the front of one of the strangest structures Horace had ever seen, a palace of sweeping domes and curving lines, an architectural vision from the dreams of someone who did not believe in straight lines. A great geodesic dome in the center emerged from undulations of polished stainless steel and silvered concrete like a crystal bottle from the sea. The entire dome glowed from within.

  The snow-dusted summit of Bonanza Peak loomed beyond the house, rising perhaps another half kilometer against the sky.

  The limo eased to a halt, its drive spooling down, and formed the last of a caravan of vehicles that circled the artificial platform, which dropped off sharply into the pine forest dozens of meters below and overlooked the sprawling skirt of forest that receded into stippled desert plain far beyond.

  “Bunny,” Roxanne said, “any indication that your lock has been lifted?”

  “No. Nothing. And if it ever is, believe me, I’ll know. The guy just has to key in a code.”

  “If we survive this, I’ll see her parole officer sacked.” Roxanne gathered her dress and clutch purse, a note of trepidation seeping into her voice.

  “And I was right,” Bunny said. “That entire structure is EM-shielded. All signals travel in and out through two firewalled repeaters. Once you’re inside, I won’t be able to see you. You’ll have to come outside to talk to me, or I’ll have to come in. And if I get out of the car, I’ll be made within thirty seconds by facial recognition packages on the cameras.” She sighed. “Maybe we should have changed my face after all. Your netlinks might work inside in walkie-talkie mode, but only with each other. Good thing I brought tea and a crossword puzzle.”

  Tina said, “Isn’t it cheating to do a crossword puzzle with an AI in your brain?” She tried to sound flip, but an underlying quaver threatened to crack her voice.

  Bunny said, “It sure is.”

  Roxanne put a hand that only trembled a little on the door latch. “Time to go.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  More limousines and expensive cars were pulling in behind Roxanne’s as Horace and the two women crossed the platform toward the entrance of the structure—he hesitated to call it a house, or even a mansion. It was a fascinating monstrosity, the intricacy of the exterior lines, the windows, the domed skylights, the balconies, all interspersed with swatches of solar-electric skin.

  Other figures in suits and evening gowns disappeared ahead of them into the brightly-lit entrance, flanked on both sides by men almost as brawny as Horace. They were not overtly carrying weapons, but then, neither was he.

  Just inside the door was erected a full security station, manned by three more large men in grim, gray suits. The guards had blockish Slavic heads, beady-eyed and crew-cut.

  Roxanne led the way, striding up to the checkpoint like a queen breezing into her court. Two scanner pillars awaited them to walk between, plus a chrome pedestal with a finger-shaped indentation. Roxanne pressed her finger into the indentation, then passed through the pillars. One of the guards took her firmly by the arms, raised them to the sides, and frisked her in ways that would have gotten him throat-punched anywhere else.

  When Tina repeated the process, the guard blithely ignoring Tina’s—Ambrosia’s—scathing glare, a twinge of protectiveness shot through Horace. He wanted to take those fingers and make the guy eat them with splintered teeth.

  To distract himself, he surveyed the expansive foyer. As cold, shining silver, and crystal as the exterior was, the interior was warm, polished-wood, and mirror-smooth marble. The walls were gleaming expanses of intricately-carved wood in baroque style, the floors inlaid with gold leaf and mosaics of ancient Russian czars. Chandeliers the size of dinner tables, grand, inverted ziggurats of gold and sparkling crystal, filled the space with light. A sweeping staircase of red velvet and gold spiraled upward. In the shadow of the staircase was a hallway through heavy double doors leading deeper into the house. In the next room, servers circulated through a crowd of guests and bodyguards.

  Horace stepped up to the pedestal and placed his synth-skin finger in the slot. A quiet hiss told him that the sample had been taken from the stored blood reservoir. The light in the slot turned green, and he walked through the scanners.

  The guard grunted. “Weapons?”

  “I’m clean,” Horace said, holding open his suit jacket.

  The guard eyed him for a long moment, then patted him down, immediately noticing the extra thickness and strange lines under Horace’s suit. He paid special attention to the armpits, shins, and belt line, where weapons were most often concealed.

  On the outside, Horace placidly allowed it. On the inside, anger spurred his heart quicker and formed a lump of sour heat in his stomach. He could crush this caveman’s skull with one blow, and the guy wouldn’t even know what hit him.

  Apparently satisfied, the guard waved him on. Roxanne took Tina by the hand and led her toward the party just ahead.

  As they breezed into the room, eyes swiveled toward the two women like x-ray searchlights. Immediately the wolves began to circle, and the other females in the room, perhaps a dozen altogether, hung back with arms crossed and eyes narrowed.

  In his vision, halos of information appeared around the guests’ heads, color-coded by alliance and probability of threat. If he focused on an individual for a length of time, the information would zoom closer for easier reading. And as he read, he could discern possible patterns of alliance and threat in the guests, those most closely allied with Mogilevich, those on the periphery, and those who were “enemies kept closer.”

  Only a handful were outright gangsters. Others were prominent executives, heads of state from South America and Eastern Europe, famous professional athletes, a porn star, and one that disturbed Horace most of all, a recruiter from Death Match Unlimited, Darryl Stone.

  Horace had fallen so far from the major leagues for so long—an entirely new generation of corporate managers and fighters populated the company now—that he’d never met the man. He only knew him by face and reputation. Darryl Stone was young, part of the leag
ue’s New Breed who had been publicly vocal about making sure the Old Guard was put out to pasture. The public wanted to see vicious young killers, not doddering old bruisers.

  As the wolves circled toward Roxanne and Tina, Horace interposed himself and warned them away with a harsh glare. For some, however, even that was not enough. A short man with a nose like a pock-marked eggplant and a white bristle of hair encircling a shiny pate shouldered past Horace with a glare of annoyance.

  “My dear Roxanne,” the man said, taking her hand and kissing her fingers.

  Roxanne smiled faintly. “A pleasure to see you again, Senator O’Connell.”

  “Please, you must call me Richard.”

  Over the heads of the conversation, Horace locked gazes with Senator O’Connell’s bodyguard, a slight, hard-eyed man with the wiry build of ex-military or mercenary.

  “Richard, allow me to introduce my companion, Ambrosia Welch. Perhaps you’ve heard of her. She was recently on Broadway.”

  The little big man turned his smile full onto Roxanne’s auburn-haired companion. “Alas, I can’t say that I have, but I would certainly like to.” He took her hand and brushed her knuckles with his lips. “You’re an actress, then.”

  “Yup.”

  “What have you done?”

  “Like Roxy—Roxanne was saying, I was on Broadway. The biggest one was A Midsummer Night’s Wet Dream.”

  The senator cleared his throat. “That sounds splendid, my dear. But don’t you think it a pity that the once great symbol of culture in our country has degenerated to sex plays and performance art?”

  “I can’t say I have an opinion on that, Richard. I’m just a struggling actress trying to make a living.”

  “I’m sure that you have a splendid future ahead of you. Just splendid.” He grinned wider. “Have you ever been to an event like this before, my dear?”

  “I haven’t.”

  “Then you’re in for a treat. Here is where we see what men are truly made of.” His eel-colored eyes glittered.

  “I’m looking forward to it, Richard.”

  “Please, you must both join me at my table! We shall toast, and you shall indulge a smitten old man.”

  “If I didn’t know better, Richard,” Roxanne said, “I would think you are trying to steal my date.”

  “Oh, not steal. Share perhaps?” He kept his voice playful, but there was no mistaking the lascivious tinge to his tone.

  Tina wrapped her arm around Roxanne’s shapely waist. “Oh, I never share, sir.”

  The senator chuckled gamely. “Nevertheless, you must join me. Come, I’ll spare you having to make niceties with people who don’t deserve your time.” He maneuvered himself to Roxanne’s side and guided her toward a set of French doors leading deeper into the house.

  Text flashed in Horace’s vision:

  MOGILEVICH AND O’CONNELL HAVE BEEN IN BED TOGETHER FOR TEN YEARS. HIS TABLE IS LIKELY TO BE MUCH NEARER MOGILEVICH THAN THE ONE WE’VE BEEN ASSIGNED.

  Horace kept his mouth shut and blinked the message away. Would he really be able to get close enough to Mogilevich for a decapitation or a skull-crushing Thunder Hammer? Would it really be that easy? And even if it were, what about Lilly’s kids? Were they dead already?

  God almighty, his mouth was dry. He took up a glass of champagne from a passing tray.

  DON’T. GIVE THE GLASS TO ME.

  He diverted the glass’ path from his mouth toward Roxanne’s hand, and she took it with a grateful nod.

  IT IS BAD FORM FOR A BODYGUARD TO DRINK AT AN EVENT LIKE THIS, UNPROFESSIONAL ENOUGH TO BLOW YOUR COVER. YOUR JOB IS TO BE AS INVISIBLE AS POSSIBLE.

  He wished this silent form of communication was two-way so he could tell her to go fuck herself. For half a second, he’d felt like a slave, like the Roman gladiators of old.

  Senator O’Connell was regaling Tina with tales of his artistic patronage and how he just adored theater people. Why, he had been a theater major for a while in college. He had played Pocket in King Lear, the original version, his sophomore year at DuPont University. Tina effervesced with enthusiasm about Shakespeare, but that King Leer wasn’t her favorite of the plays, she was more into Her Twelfth Knight and Lady Macbeth’s Lover. The old man listened politely as they entered the great space under the central geodesic dome.

  Around the perimeter of the huge circular chamber was a spectacular collection of antique cars. Horace wasn’t a car expert, but he knew 1930s Rolls Royces when he saw them, along with Bugattis, Ferraris, Model T and Model A Fords, 1960s muscle cars, Porsches, Lamborghinis, Mercedes Roadsters, a DeLorean, a Duesenberg Coupe, even a hundred-year-old Batmobile from one of the old films. Dozens of cars, all gleaming with high polish.

  The senator noticed Horace’s interest and said to Roxanne, “Your large friend seems to have an interest in cars. What about you, ladies?”

  “Oh, I love cars!” Tina said.

  “An indulgent luxury from a less civilized time,” Roxanne said.

  “Come now, Roxanne, surely you have a few of your own indulgences,” the senator said.

  “I do.”

  “Mind sharing what they are?”

  She laughed and touched his shoulder. “Oh, Richard. My indulgences are not for public consumption.”

  The wattle of flesh around his collar reddened as he laughed with her.

  “That’s my job!” Tina said.

  The redness deepened and crept higher. He cleared his throat and stopped before a hundred-and-eighty-year-old automobile. “My dear ladies, this is a Bugatti Royale Coupe, from sometime in the 1930s, I don’t precisely remember the year. Twelve-liter internal combustion engine. As perfect an automobile as was ever designed. Perfect lines, perfect curves, meant for men of exacting tastes. Much like you, my dear Miss Welch.”

  “You flatter me, Richie,” Tina said, “but I’m not meant for men at all.” She grabbed Roxanne and laid a brief but sensuous kiss across her lips. “I’m all double-X, all the time.”

  His smile turned brittle and cracked, then he said, “I’m sure you are.”

  Roxanne gently pushed Tina away with an indulgent smile. “I admire your enthusiasm, Ambrosia, but let’s not give everyone a show.”

  “Are you sure, Roxy? I mean, Richie here has been so nice, and I’m sure he’d love a show.” Tina threw her arm around his neck and kissed him on the cheek, leaving a smear of scarlet lipstick.

  The redness in his neck crept up through the fringe of white bristle toward his bald pate. “Oh, indeed, I love shows, but let us table that topic for now. The night is young! My table is over here....”

  In the center of the dome, surrounded by tables draped in white tablecloths and overstuffed chairs designed in a century long gone, was an old-style, square boxing ring, complete with canvas floor, ropes, and turnbuckles.

  When they reached the table, Roxanne and Tina sat down with the senator, and text flashed before Horace’s eyes.

  STAND BACK A DISTANCE. BODYGUARDS DO NOT SIT WITH GUESTS. BESIDES, YOU WOULD BE AT A DISADVANTAGE THAT WAY. JUST HANG BACK AND BE INVISIBLE AS A MOUNTAIN IN THE DISTANCE.

  Other guests began filtering into the chamber.

  Near the table, Horace stood with his hands clasped in front of him, reading the information of the incoming guests, committing faces and data to memory as best he could.

  And then a dancing rabbit from Hell exploded into his vision with a silent poof! of pixels.

  Bunny’s elated shriek raked into his earpiece. “Oh golly! It’s happened! I’m free! The son-of-a-biscuit let me go! I just sliced through the repeater system and found you!”

  A surge of elation shot through him like a jolt of electricity.

  “Oh my gosh I can’t believe it! The White Rabbit is back! Let’s go kick their naughty little behinds! Let’s... Oh. Oh, something’s wrong. Something.... I... Oh...”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Before Horace could open his mouth, Roxanne turned to him with perfect aplomb. “Frankie, I left my netlink
in the limousine. Would you be a dear and go get it? I’m sure Ambrosia and I will be fine for two minutes, and I simply must show the good senator photos of my new yacht. Richard, perhaps you’ll be so kind as to join us next week for a cruise to Havana?”

  Horace nodded and walked back out toward the entrance as fast as nonchalance would allow. His departure was noted, but unchallenged.

  Outside in the cold night air, he trotted toward the car. After so much activity on his feet over the last several days, his knees felt full of lava gravel and sent jolts of pain with every step. The platform was packed full of cars and limousines, both wheeled and hover-equipped.

  He reached the side of their limousine and found the doors locked, the windows closed and darkened, even the windshield. He may as well have been looking at the dense carapace of a black beetle.

  “Roxanne,” he said into his netlink. “Can you hear me? Car’s locked.”

  No reply.

  He knocked on the window. “Hey, open up!” With no response, he rapped harder.

  Unless Bunny opened the doors, there was no way he would get in there. The entire thing was armored. It would take heavy machinery for him to open a door unless the car allowed it.

  “Bunny!” he whispered into his netlink. “Are you all right?”

  No reply.

  He rapped on the window while trying to peer through. He thought he could see Bunny’s shape slumped over the steering yoke. There was no apparent damage to the vehicle, no holes in the glass or anything indicating she had been harmed from the outside.

  Having no way to break into this armored car without drawing attention, he walked with as smooth and even a gait as he could manage back inside, within the shell of the building’s electromagnetic shielding.

  The guards motioned him to pass through the scanner again, frisked him again.

  “Can’t get enough, can you, brother,” he said to the guard with a hand under his crotch.

  The guard grunted with a mirthless half smile and waved him on.