The Hammer Falls Page 6

  The autopistol barrels swung toward him like lethal black eyes.

  Sam Striker righted himself with long-practiced ease and charged toward the gunman. The gunman managed to half-turn, but Striker swept the man’s legs. The Russian went down hard on his back, and the autopistols blasted holes in the ceiling.

  There was blood on Sam’s hand as it came down like a knife on the Russian’s throat. The crack of cartilage sounded somehow louder than the gunshots. Horace grabbed the smoking-hot gun barrels in his hands, yanked the pistols out of the man’s grip, and then stomped a massive boot down with all his remaining strength on the man’s chest.

  The man lay there, choking out his life, eyes crazed but ferocious. Horace flipped the autopistols properly in his grip and cast about for the old woman. Beyond the vertical tabletop, a glimpse of a gleaming black hover car slid away from the front of the store.

  Shredded napkins and foil packaging fluttered to the floor like confetti. Smoke dissipated. Heads poked up over the racks of junk food, peering through incorporeal, holographic buttocks. “Somebody call the cops!” a voice said.

  “And an ambulance!” Sam said, turning back toward Thea, who lay sobbing and gasping under a pile of pretzel bags. He reached out and clutched her hand. “You’re gonna be okay, baby! You’re gonna be okay.”

  “Where’s she hit?” Horace said.

  “Looks like through the ribs,” Sam said. “Missed her heart.” He pulled the netlink out and his thumb did a quick dance. “Don’t worry, baby. Ambulance is on the way.”

  Horace experienced a pang of envy that the Strikers could afford full medical. Without it, no private ambulance service would bother, and never mind any hope of regeneration.

  “Oh...it hurts,” she gasped.

  “I know, baby. It always hurts.” He slid beside her and laid both hands over the wounds, one entry, one exit. The exit wound under her arm was bad, the size of her fist, pouring blood through Sam’s fingers.

  Horace tucked one autopistol under his arm, grabbed a fistful of paper napkins, and handed them to Sam, who wadded them up to put pressure on the wounds. “You’ll be okay. People come back from way worse than this.”

  The Russian choked and clutched at everything within reach for two endless minutes before his eyes glazed, with Horace standing over him, both hands full of autopistol.

  Everyone else had fled outside. The alarm finally silenced.

  “They were after you,” Sam said to Horace, with Thea nestled in his lap, pale as death.

  Horace nodded. “Certain people are unhappy that I won that last fight.” It was close enough to the truth for now. Sam knew full well. Being in the Business for any length of time inevitably led to contact with the mob. Extortion to throw fights and peddle influence were something every fighter had to deal with at some point.

  Horace put down one of the pistols and rifled through the Russian’s pockets. He found a shiny new netlink and a wallet bulging with cash. He took both.

  “What are you doing?” Sam said.

  “If I’m going to see my next birthday, I need to know who’s after me.”

  A sudden, bizarre stench filled the air. Horace had only looked away from the Russian for a few seconds, but already the corpse looked a month dead, flesh bloating and then sloughing away before their very eyes.

  Both men swore and scrambled away, Sam dragging Thea with him.

  The flesh dissolved, and moments later, even the skull and bones were dark sludge. Even the clothing was fading in color, starting to fray and disintegrate.

  “What the fuck is that?” Sam said.

  “No idea, brother.”

  A voice came over the PA system. “This is the Fusion Corp police. Drop all weapons and come out with your hands up!”

  “I’ll go first,” Horace told Sam, then he roared toward the window. “We need paramedics in here!”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Horace bid Sam and Thea goodbye, then the ambulance doors closed. She was already swathed in the familiar tubes of a regenite infusion. Four corp security cruisers, a fire truck, and a forensics transport created a blinding cacophony of light in front of the shop. One of the cruisers followed the ambulance toward the expressway, having to pause at the exit gate to let the two-meter concrete barrier retract into the ground. Another such barrier blocked the entrance.

  It wasn’t until the police pointed out the blood on his hand that Horace realized he had been shot. Two bullets had given him their little kisses, one through the meat of his shoulder, the other creasing the back of his forearm. The chitin plating of his forearms had turned the shot aside, but the inside of his jacket sleeve was wet with blood.

  The paramedic wanted to take him to the hospital.

  “Nah, just stitch it up right here,” he said.

  “I’m not allowed—”

  “I don’t care about what you’re allowed,” Horace interrupted. “I don’t have the money for a hospital trip. I’ll give you a thousand dollars to stitch it up right here. I know damn well you got the know-how.”

  The paramedic shrugged. “If you say so.”

  A security officer questioned him while the paramedic stitched. The wounds would hurt a lot more after the adrenaline wore off, but Horace and pain had been fuck-buddies for years. The guys who couldn’t take pain didn’t finish the second day of pit fighter training camp. Besides, his left shoulder hurt worse. Fortunately, that pain had faded. He didn’t want to think about what it had been.

  Horace gave his account of what happened, playing up the story that he hadn’t been expected to win the fight with Gaston. His victory had pissed off the wrong people.

  “What the hell happened to the corpse?” Horace asked. “I’ve never seen anything like that before.”

  The cop pulled his wrist away from interfacing his netlink, and his eyes focused on Horace. “Hyper-germ implants. Megacorp black ops have been using them for years, but now the mob has picked them up. A capsule in the chest cavity. The heart stops, the capsule releases flesh-eating superbacteria. Five minutes later, nothing left but toxic goop. It’s a damn efficient way to do away with fingerprints, retinal records, even dental records, minus fillings. And the goop is deadly as hell for several hours until the bacteria eat everything and die off. We’re going to have to shut down this whole place for at least twelve hours.”

  Horace whistled. Somehow he couldn’t muster much sympathy for the loss of corporate profits.

  “Before we let you go,” the officer said, “there’s just one last thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  The officer smirked, “Your autograph, Hammer?”

  Horace smiled. “Sure.”

  “For my kid, you know.” The officer held out his notepad and pen, and Horace signed it. “Thanks!”

  A short man with a shiny dome and a comb-over approached, a cigar clamped in his teeth poking through a walrus mustache. Beady eyes glanced between Horace and the officer. “Hey, flatfoot! I gotta get on the road! How long before we can get out of here? “

  The officer’s eyes narrowed. “When we’re damn good and ready. Sir.”

  “Sorry about the flatfoot crack, officer. I’m a businessman. Gotta roll, you know. Anything I can do to help?”

  “No. Sir.”

  “I guess we got off on the wrong foot. Norman Trask.” The man offered the officer his hand.

  The officer hesitated before shaking it.

  “When I say help, what I mean is, anything I can do to hurry things along?” He reached conspicuously into his pocket.

  “No. Sir.”

  “And when I say hurry, I mean like in the next half hour.”

  The officer’s frown deepened. “If you don’t shut the fuck up—right now, sir—I will personally guarantee you are stuck here until next month. After all, this is a murder scene. A massive investigation.”

  “Fine, fine, officer, whatever you say. Anything I can do to help our boys in...well, brown, I guess. That hat looks like a million bucks on
you.”

  The officer walked away with a look of careful restraint on his face.

  Trask looked up at Horace. “And what’s your story, Tiny? You look a little worse for wear.”

  “It’s been a while, Trask.” Horace offered his hand to a man he hadn’t seen in twenty-five years. With the memory came curiosity, and he searched his recollections. Trask had had more hair back then, but the same low, sturdy frame. “Sorry to hear about Rush. He was a hell of a fighter.”

  Trask averted his eyes. “Yeah, a big, beautiful bunch of bad luck. Poor bastard. If only.”

  “‘If only’ is right. That guy was going straight to the top.” Horace’s details on Trask’s career were a little fuzzy after two and half decades, but he still remembered Trask’s fighter, Sirius “The Demolisher” Rush, and the beatdown Rush had given him. And it had all been a favor.

  A cocky, up-and-coming Hammer Harkness, approached by an unknown promoter named Norman Trask in a parking lot after a fight, saying this amazing young fighter might be able to give The Hammer’s rising star a challenge in the pit. And if Hammer gave The Demolisher a chance, Trask would owe him a huge favor.

  Back then the pit fighting scene was a new, booming industry, a new Wild West where anything was fair game. Deals were being made—and broken. Careers were being made—and broken. And this fast-talking young promoter named Trask said he had an eye for fighter flesh, and Sirius Rush was going to make a name for both of them. If only they could break in with a big bout against an established name. A few years into his career, The Hammer was already a rising star. There were those who had given Horace his breaks, and it stoked his ego to think he could do it for somebody else.

  So he’d fought Sirius Rush in one of the most spectacularly bloody matches of those early years, before the weapons got so wild and advanced—and Sirius Rush had handed The Hammer his ass on a platter.

  Horace had licked his wounds and then used the beating to mature and grow as a fighter.

  Rush had been launched into the stratosphere of wealth and celebrity. Endorsement deals. Massive contracts that brought more mainstream sponsors into the fold, helping this ultraviolent sport into the mainstream. Rush had it all. Fighting ability, presence and charisma, dashing good looks, a bevy of Hollywood starlets for girlfriends.

  For about eight months.

  Until a stim-addled trucker hauling a load of rebar had turned Rush and his hover cycle into a smear of hamburger and lubricant.

  And when Rush died, all those contracts and residuals had died with him, leaving Norman Trask to disappear like a UFO off a radar screen.

  “So what are you doing here?” Trask said. “Of all the places on the continent, we run into each other at a piss-ass rest stop.”

  “I was just having a cup of coffee. That your rig over there?” Horace gestured with his head toward the road train.

  “Yeah, Norman Trask Promotions, that’s me. Don’t think I didn’t recognize Hammer Harkness across the parking lot.”

  The paramedic gave Horace’s shoulder one last swab with antiseptic, then slapped a broad swath of gauze across the wound. “You’re all set, sir. But take it easy. You tear those sutures, you’ll regret it.”

  “Thank you, ma’am. You do good work.” Horace pulled his cash out of his pocket, thumbed off a sufficient sheaf of bills, and handed them to her. “I know good stitches when I see ’em.”

  The paramedic flushed slightly, took the bills, buckled up her kit, and retreated to the other ambulance.

  “C’mon,” Trask said. “I got a Glenfiddich 40 burning a hole in the bottle.”

  Horace followed Trask toward the road train, scrutinizing the fighters standing beside the open doors who were, in turn, scrutinizing him right back.

  The sides of the cars were opened up like boxcars, with pneumatic steps descending to the pavement. Horace carried his duffel and equipment case.

  The promoter walked with a slight limp, his barrel-shaped body trundling along, trailing a curl of cigar smoke—at least it was a good cigar. Leather loafers that were expensive ten years ago, now scuffed and worn; rumpled trousers; a sport jacket that didn’t lie well over his slight paunch.

  Horace glanced back toward his bus. Across fifty yards of parking lot, Horace’s bus driver, leaning against the side of the bus smoking a cigarillo, watched him go. Nowadays, as AIs had taken over most driving tasks, calling him a bus driver was an anachronism. He was more a security guard and tour guide these days, depending on the sophistication of the vehicle’s controlling intelligence. His presence on the bus had probably deterred the two shooters until they reached the truck stop.

  The Russian hit team knew where he was, knew which bus he was on, probably would expect him to get back on it. Which meant that they might be waiting for the bus at the next stop. But how had they found him so quickly? He couldn’t remember when the two assassins had boarded the bus, but they hadn’t gotten on in Vegas. How far would they chase him?

  As he drew nearer to the road train, expressions of recognition bloomed on several hard faces. A tall, lithe woman looked him up and down, her face all sharp angles and flat planes and pale, flinty eyes.

  Grunting at each step, Trask climbed into the fluorescent cavern of the front car. Horace followed him into the comfortably appointed space. Playbills and autographed holos plastered the walls. The great ones, Gunnar Jackson, Blade Rodriguez, El Toro, from the early days of the neo-gladiators. Even a couple of faded, yellow photos of pro wrestlers from when Horace’s granddaddy was a kid—Hulk Hogan, Andre the Giant. There was even a photo of Thundertron, champion of the United Cyber-Fighting Federation, the cyborg fighters.

  “Have a seat,” Trask said as he rummaged around under a counter, gesturing toward a couch of plush, scarlet velour.

  Horace set down his things and eased himself onto the couch, which he wasn’t certain would support his weight. A puff of dust and the waft of stale cigar smoke surrounded him.

  Trask drew out a nearly empty bottle of scotch and displayed it with a cigar-clamped grin. “For special occasions.”

  “What’s the occasion?”

  “That remains to be seen.” He set a glass onto the counter and poured a finger. Seeing there was only a dribble left in the bottle, he emptied it into the glass, hesitated a moment as if thinking he might keep it for himself, then offered it to Horace.

  Horace took it. “Thanks, brother.” He held up the glass of whiskey that likely cost about a month’s rent. “You got good taste.” He hadn’t been able to afford a drink like this in years.

  Trask grunted and poured himself a glass from another bottle, the kind of stuff available on any liquor store shelf. “Not many special occasions lately. Times are hard.”

  Horace listened for bitterness in Trask’s voice. How must a guy like that feel, someone who had once stood to become filthy rich, only to watch it evaporate in a split second of bad luck? But he heard nothing except a jaded matter-of-factness. “But I don’t need to tell you how hard things are, do I?”

  “No, you sure as hell don’t.” Horace took a sip and savored the smoky honey-burn. “I worked the minors a long time.”

  Trask pulled up a chair and looked at him with the kind of no-bullshit expression of a shrewd used-car salesman reaching for a stack of cash. “But you just had an enormous score, massive pay-per-view contract, and you even got the win. You should be in Rio, swimming in pussy, champagne, and residuals. But you’re on a piece-of-shit bus to Nowhere. Let’s just say something’s wrong with this picture.”

  The scotch in Horace’s beveled glass caught the light.

  Trask continued, “Hell of an event, you and The Freak.” He rolled the cigar between his thumb and two fingers. “So why’d he throw the fight?”

  Horace tried to play dumb. “What’re you talking about?”

  “Don’t insult me. You don’t work fighters as long as I have and not see when a fighter throws a bout. You might as well have painted it on your forehead. He held back the k
ill shot three times.”

  “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about. You’ll have to take that up with him.” Horace’s heart tripped over a rib. Anger roiled inside him.

  “Yeah, whatever. Look, it’s not my business. But we both know you got a problem needs solving.”

  If Trask knew, others with similar skills would have seen it. Nothing would ever be said publicly, but the insiders would know.

  “And I do owe you a favor,” Trask said. “Don’t think I forgot.”

  “That favor didn’t pan out for you so good.”

  “Doesn’t matter. I don’t like owing people. It’s one I’ve had on the books for a long time, and I’d like to clear it,” Trask said.

  “I hear you talking.” Horace took another sip.

  “I don’t know if you’ve seen the news feeds or rag-mags, but you are on fire right now, my friend. You ought to be riding that wave, get what you can for as long as you can.”

  “That’d be the smart thing to do,” Horace said. But ultimately the wave would subside and slide back into the ocean. Horace had not been following the news feeds after the fight. He had pulled the battery from his netlink, leaving it dead in his pocket so he couldn’t be tracked. “Trouble is, the smart thing hasn’t always been my thing.”

  Trask laughed with a tinge of something that was not mirth. “I’d say that’s true of most people. Where you headed?”

  “Montreal. I’m going to see about retirement.” There it was again.

  “Doing what, polishing up your French?”

  “Gaston Rousseau’s got a training camp and gym, wants to hire me.”

  “That sounds very...stable.” The inflection on the last word was not a positive one. “That what you want?”

  I want a new fucking heart! “We’ll see. I think I need to rest for a while.” Lay low.

  Trask eyed him for a long moment over the rim of his glass. “That wasn’t just a robbery or some shit back there.”

  Horace took a long drink.

  “Who’d you piss off?”

  “Russians.”

  Trask rubbed his stubbled cheek with a meaty hand, calculations flickering behind his eyes. “How much heat you got coming down?”