Accelerated (17 page)

With the adrenalin pumping, I burst into the nearest apartment and kicked the door shut behind me. A cat on a sofa scrambled in fright and leaped behind the furniture. As I holstered my gun, I moved into another room, rolled open a sliding glass door and stepped onto a balcony. I was on the third floor and the ground looked a long way down. The sirens were louder now.

Deciding I didn’t have time to think about it, I climbed over the balcony and worked my way down. Soon I was hanging from it. A woman screamed. I let go so the ground rushed up to greet me. Landing hurt like a S.O.B, and I shattered cement. I climbed up, stunned, but quickly recovered and staggered to some trees. I don’t know how much force it would take to break one of my bones these days. The acceleration had strengthened them, too.

I hurried into a grove of trees and thick bushes, only then looking back. I saw Stone staring at me. He stood on the third-story balcony. That took guts coming after me like that. Maybe I should have killed him. Or at least shot him in the leg.

On the street leading to the front of the apartment complex, two police cars with their lights flashing began skidding as they braked. They were the reason for my dropping stunt. I was at the back of the complex. There were more sirens coming, and Stone now moved back into the apartment. If I’d killed him, he’d be lying on the floor, and a new murder investigation would have soon begun, with me as the target. I also wanted him to flee, not hobble around with a shot leg so the police would question him.

I used the screen of trees to head for my car. I was glad I’d parked away from the apartments. This was definitely not what I’d expected to find.

-18-

I did some deep thinking as I drove away from the growing excitement. Maybe I should have followed Stone into his apartment. Would I have found listening devices there? He must have detonated the medicine cabinet IED.

Upon opening the door, Stone had been surprised. Had he been surprised it was me or that I’d survived the blast?

I was surprised I hadn’t shot him in the face. I hadn’t hesitated the other night with the Shop sniper. Why had I let Stone live and only shot to knock him down? There was no good reason I could think of, which was an ugly thing to believe. Cold-stone killers thought like that. I wasn’t cold-blooded, but I was a killer.

I gripped the steering wheel harder. What did my subconscious know now that it wasn’t telling me? I had the chip that had been hidden in a light bulb, and there was a ninety-nine percent certainty that it had belonged to Kay. Why should I have given Mike Stone a second chance?

I didn’t know why, and it bothered me. This was a bad time to start getting squeamish. The Shop, Polarity Magnetics and Harris’s biker outlaws all played dirty. To survive among sharks one had to be a bigger shark, or preferably, a killer whale.

Suppose Mike Stone had been surprised because it had been Gavin Kiel that he saw and not the other person he might have expected. What would that tell me? One: Stone was willing to kill that other person. Two: Stone or Cheng believed the other person would go to Kay’s apartment looking for the chip. Why would they want the chip? What did it do? Maybe that was the wrong question. What did everyone want? The cube—it always went back to the cube. More than ever, I wondered what it did that made it so important.

I knew the Shop’s position—correction—the Chief’s position on Polarity Magnetics. He didn’t like them and probably wanted them shut down. What was Harris’s position concerning Polarity Magnetics? I knew how the Shop felt about Harris.

Doctor Harris, what did I know about him? He had sent men after me in San Francisco. One of those men had stabbed me with a needle, or he had tried. Two of them had boarded my boat, and they had carried weaponry designed for use against me. Doctor Harris had told Kay where I lived. That implied she’d had communication with him.

The Shop had taken their gloves off, and now so had Polarity Magnetics. Harris with his needle man—I would be at a disadvantage if I continued to pull my punches. Either it was play hardball or go home. I nodded. I needed more money. That was something I’d learned in Afghanistan. You could often get more done with cash than with bullets or threats. Especially in the early years of the Afghan War, cold cash and airpower had built a conquering coalition.

I needed cash, and I needed it now. I took a turn so sharp my tires squealed. Then I headed for the bad part of Long Beach.

In less than a half hour, I cruised past rundown tenement buildings with teenagers outside. Some of them shot hoops behind a chain-link fence. Others slunk along the street, with their baggy pants just below their asses. Everyone gave me hard stares.

Then a jiving young brute sauntered to me. He had a backward Raiders cap angled on his head, ear-buds in his ears and listened to his gangsta rap.

“Whatacha needing, man?” he asked, coming to my window.

“Smack,” I whispered, with my head down.

“Don’t be nervous, man. It’s cool.” He leaned closer, his grin like a hyena’s.

I reached out the window and grabbed his collar, yanking his head through the open window.

“Hey, mother—”

He didn’t get any further, as I used my other hand to grab his face, mushing his mouth together as I used to do to my five-year-old nephew, but in play back then. I squeezed as he tried to jerk back, and I saw the fear in his eyes. He understood I had strength he’d never dealt with before.

“Listen real close, man. You listening?” I asked.

He tried to nod.

“Give me a wad of cash, a nice fat wad if you want to live. But do it cool, man, or I’ll break your face.”

In a second, a healthy wad of cash lay in my lap.

“Keep your hands on the car door.” Then I reached with my free hand and fished out his gun. “You listen real close,” I said, squeezing a little harder. “If you make a scene when I leave, I’m coming back to finish it with you. Got it?”

He tried to speak through his mushed lips. Then I felt him try to nod.

I shoved him, not too hard, but hard enough so he staggered into the street. Then I drove off. There were hostile stares from the teenagers. Through the rearview mirror, I watched the dealer I’d just robbed watch me as he rubbed his face. Maybe he thought about giving me the bird. Maybe he wanted to yell. He just kept rubbing his face, watching me drive away.

***

I made it to the marina without incident. A quick glance showed me it was free of Long Beach PD or plainclothes detectives. Then something odd caught my eye.

Five piers over from the
Alamo
was a huge yacht, a brown monstrosity with a Scottish flag flying. A man slid down the ladder from the top deck to a lower one. He wore a black leather vest without a shirt, and he sported a beard and tattoos. It was the Viking-like biker that had tried to stop me from speaking with Doctor Harris last night. There was another biker, a smaller man, busy unmooring the yacht.

I spotted Harris then. He wore his Savile Row suit and bowler hat, and he clutched his closed umbrella. He might have seen me as he ducked into a cabin, although he didn’t pop back out to hail a greeting. It was obvious they were about to leave. All the hoses to the pier looked to be disconnected, and the smaller biker hurried to untie another line.

I thought about Harris’s discovery of
calling
, and that he had found me in San Francisco. What had he been doing here in a yacht?

I strode toward the boat. The bigger biker, the one with the Viking-like beard, scowled as I approached.

“The doctor is busy,” he said. The man had a deep voice and scars on his face. He was a bruiser, likely one of the biker leaders, a man no doubt used to enforcing his wishes.

I didn’t feel like asking why they were here. All I’d get from him was lies.

I strode across the gangplank and headed for where Harris had ducked inside.

The bearded biker scowled more fiercely, and he moved toward me. A revolver was tucked in his leather-studded belt. He put a ham-like hand on it, and began to draw.

I didn’t let him finish, but turned fast, closing the distance between us. I grabbed his gun-hand, and I slammed it hard against a cabin so wood splintered as I punched his hand through. His features twisted with pain. I know I’d broken bones. I wrenched the revolver from him and tossed it into the water. It splashed, and he tore away from me, staggering backward.

He cursed nonetheless, and his eyes flashed. Reaching behind his back, he pulled out a wicked-looking bowie knife.

I rushed him. He tried to bring his knife into play, but he lacked skill with his left hand. I backhanded him across the face. He crashed backward, and the knife went flying, skittering across the deck. Although he was dazed, he wasn’t finished. He tried to lift himself up from his back, and he used both hands. With a cry of pain, he fell onto his broken hand. Then he was spitting curses, and he managed to climb up to his knees when I hit him in the face. He collapsed, and the back of his head thudded against the deck.

I reached under my jacket, putting a hand on my holstered Browning. A quick scan showed me an empty vessel. I didn’t see the second, smaller biker, and there was no sign of Harris. Where was the rest of the crew?

Warily, I entered a short corridor. Hearing the clink of glasses, I headed toward the sound, ready for anything. Harris surprised me. He stood behind a bar, pouring drinks.

“Scotch?” he asked.

I stepped away from the door, making sure my back was against a wall. I kept expecting more bikers to enter, with some of them carrying exotic weaponry.

“Eric has always found it difficult to accept second place,” Harris said. “He resents you from the other night. I presume you walloped him?”

“Why didn’t you call him off?” I asked.

“No, no, I want him to hate you, to desire revenge. Next time, he will be more dangerous, and he will understand what it takes to defeat someone like you. Such lessons are better taught than told.”

I kept glancing around. The décor in here felt wrong for Harris. It was very South American with giant flamingo photos and those of Rio dancers. There was too much glitz, chrome and over-expensive furniture. It didn’t match his English suit.

“Nice boat,” I said.

“I have been observing your vessel,” Harris told me.

“Is this more of your scientific inquiry?” I asked.”

“You would be surprised how many people prowl past your boat and eventually sneak onto it.”

“The Shop?” I asked.

“They have likely scoured it from top to bottom. Elementary logic dictated the best tactic would be to sit and observe.”

“Maybe they’re watching you,” I said.

“Oh, I assure you they tried. The three stationed in the vicinity are now out of commission.”

“Permanently?”

“I dearly hope so,” Harris said, pushing a drink toward me.

I approached the bar. “Last night, how did you know the Chief was coming to Neil’s Grill?”

“Surely you realize I have advanced further than any of you in the use of my abilities.” Harris grinned. “Let us drink, for despite my superiorities, we are brothers in a world of lesser beings.”

Was Harris trying to stall so the other biker could race for reinforcements?

I put my hands on the bar as I said, “You want the cube. I want to know who killed Kay.”

“Is that all?” Harris asked. “Let me tell you then. The chief of Security at Polarity Magnetics did it, Mike Stone.”

“Why do you suspect him?”

“Ah…if I told you, I wouldn’t have any bartering points, now would I?” Harris picked up his glass. “Let us toast to acceleration.”

I examined my shot glass and the oily brown liquid in it. His drink was clear.

Harris followed my gaze. “Dear me,” he said, setting down his drink. “I’ve made you suspicious. Observe.” Harris reached over and picked up my drink. He downed it in a swallow, although he grimaced. “There,” he said, faintly out of breath as he set the glass onto the bar.

Working on a hunch, I said, “Stone tried to kill you.”

“What?” Harris pulled a handkerchief from his suit and mopped his suddenly sweaty face. Then he picked up a different bottle and poured himself a healthy glass of red wine, or it looked like wine. He slugged it like a chaser and gave me a sickly grin. “It seems I’ve developed a thirst.”

I nodded, saying, “Stone put an IED in Kay’s cabinet, in her apartment.”

He peered at me as if he was finding it hard to follow what I said. “At her apartment, you say?”

“That’s right. It’s empty.”

“Empty? You mean the apartment?”

“What else could I mean?” What was wrong with Harris? What had he put into my drink?

“Quite right,” Harris said. “Yes, please continue.”

“Are you sure you’re well?”

He slapped his chest and smiled. It failed to convince me. He looked winded, unsteady.

“Kay’s apartment was empty,” I said, “but not the medicine cabinet. Kay’s pills and toothpaste were still there, along with an IED inside the wall.”

“Indeed. I’m interested.”

I looked around, but didn’t sense anyone creeping near. How long would Eric remain unconscious? What had happened to the smaller biker?

“The cabinet…” Harris said.

“When I studied it—boom.”

Harris arched his eyebrows. That put high furrow lines on his pale forehead. “And yet you’re here,” he said.

I nodded.

“You survived the explosion,” Harris said.

“Exactly.”

“Do you care to tell me how?”

“You’ve made some assumptions along the way,” I said. “One of them is that you’re the only one of us who has discovered extra abilities.”

“That isn’t precise,” Harris said. “I said I’ve moved
further
along than any of you. But this is interesting. Are you saying you survived a bomb with the use of one of your new abilities?”

“Now you’re getting it,” I said.

“What happened?”

“That’s privileged information, only gained through bartering.”

Harris nodded, and seemed less winded now. “Did you kill Stone for his attempt?”

“I taught him a lesson,” I said, “just as I taught Eric a lesson here.”

Harris drummed his fingers on the bar. He seemed nettled, to use an English word. “Why do you tell me this?” he asked.

“The brotherhood of the accelerated,” I said.

Harris took my former shot glass and did a neat little palming trick with it. He wiped it clean, and then he pretended to set it back on the counter. But he set a new glass there instead. He poured into the glass. It was clear whiskey this time, not the oily stuff he’d tried to give me.

“You sank the cube,” Harris said, “which Kay went to great lengths to acquire. I believe she would want me to have it.”