Deathlands 117: Desolation Angels (31 page)

When he looked out he first checked right because that seemed to be where the traffic was coming from. People were running through the hall from the cathedral toward the front. None of them glanced his way.

He realized the SWAT riot helmet he wore had a lot to do with that. He wasn’t the only DPD officer who sported an eye patch. But they seemed completely focused on whatever was happening at the front of the building.

Then he looked that way. It felt as if a mailed fist punched him in the gut.

The V-100 Commando was stuck in the arched main door with its pointy snout sticking into the lobby, and it was puking yellow flame and greasy black smoke from every opening.

Chapter Thirty-Two

“J.B.!” Mildred cried.

“Ricky in trouble, too,” Jak said.

“Somebody’s coming down the passage,” Raven said from the secret door, her voice low and urgent. She drew her katana.

Jak turned back and slipped past her into the passage. He and the volatile sword-wielding Angel seemed to have an understanding.

Then he said, “No shoot!”

A moment later J.B. strolled into the antechamber.

“Oh, my God!” Mildred exclaimed. She threw herself at the Armorer and grabbed him in a fierce hug. He returned her embrace and gave her a quick kiss.

“I’m here, too,” Ricky said, also emerging into the light and taking a sidestep to avoid the pair.

Krysty went and gave him a hug. He blushed. She knew it was cruel to risk exacerbating his crush on her, but she was glad to see they were both alive, and he seemed to need the appreciation.

“Ace on the line,” Ryan said. “How?”

“Once we cleared the lobby out,” J.B. said, detaching himself from Mildred, “we popped smoke and left the wag to our Angel buddies. Then we ducked off into one of these hidden passages, and here we are. Reckoned we’d find you here.”

Although they’d lost their gear in the treacherous arrest by Bone and Michaud, they still had their considerable cache of “excess” C-4, black powder, safety fuse and blasting caps they’d squirreled away while working for the self-proclaimed mayor. J.B. and Ricky had spent some time whipping up a few surprises for their enemies out of that trove.

“What about Mikhail and Keiser?” Leto asked.

J.B. shook his head. “Don’t rightly know. I think the barrel finally burned out by the time we found the secret entrance. If they got out then, they should be ace.”

“What took out the war wag?” Ryan asked.

“Turns out Hizzoner did have at least one wag chiller, even if the Angels don’t. Somebody hit the car with an M72 LAW. Went right up.”

“You came at just the right moment,” Krysty said. “Despite how worried we all were about you, it’s time to split up and go after Michaud and Bone.”

Ricky and J.B. looked at each other and grinned.

“Not much need to go after Bone,” J.B. said.

“Why not?” Leto asked.

“Because he’s already as full of holes as an old flannel shirt in a drawer full of moths.”

“I chilled him!” Ricky said. His eyes gleamed and his cheeks flushed red.

“He tried intimidating somebody who was sitting in an armored fighting vehicle behind a 7.62 mm machine gun by yelling at him,” J.B. said.

“He’s just out there to the right,” Ricky said.

Ryan peered cautiously out of the little room. “There he is, all right.”

He ducked back inside. “Even I forget how much blood there is in a body.”

“So who exactly are the Detroit sec men shooting at?” Doc said. “And more to the point, who is shooting back at them?”

“No idea,” J.B. replied.

“Right,” Ryan said as another squad of sec men trotted toward the front door. “Then we all go after Hizzoner. Now.”

“You sure you’re up for this?” Leto asked Raven, which puzzled Krysty because the woman seemed constantly eager for a fight.

“Never more sure,” she said and slammed her sword home hard in its scabbard.

* * *

“
A
CCESS TO THIS
floor is strictly restricted,” a voice barked from above as the little party headed toward the midfloor landing above the sixth floor.

Two sec men in full SWAT armor with open visors stood glaring down from the next landing, beating their side-handle batons suggestively against the palms of their gloved hands. The ancient Masonic Temple’s seventh floor was the exclusive preserve of Hizzoner, Mayor Michaud.

Ryan didn’t find it easy to see with his own visor down. Fortunately, the landing was well lit by two kerosene lanterns, so he was able to make out the way the guards’ eyes bugged out of their faces when they actually saw who was walking between Ryan and Leto in their full-on SWAT drag.

Krysty was anything but vain, but she had also never been particularly shy about her voluptuous body. From voracious reading as a kid, Ryan had gathered that people back before the Big Nuke had been a lot more uptight about nudity than people were these days, and temporal refugees Mildred and Doc had confirmed it.

However casual they might be about nudity here in the citadel of the self-proclaimed city government of Detroit, it was unlikely the two SWAT guards had ever seen anything that could compare to what they were seeing now.

Krysty had thrown off all attempts at disguise. Her hair was free and whipping defiantly about her shoulders as she marched with head up between her apparent captors. Her face was still smudged, but that went with the image she was trying to project: of a woman captured by bitter enemies who hadn’t submitted easily and gotten roughed up double well in the process.

Her stained man’s shirt, it seemed, had suffered particularly in the struggle. It was torn open so far her entire left breast was in plain view, and her right kept slipping in and out of view as she climbed the stairs.

“Is that—the renegade coldheart slut?” asked the guard to Ryan’s right.

“Yeah,” Ryan growled. “Got brought in just before all the excitement started down below.”

“What was all that all about, anyway?” asked the second guard, who had an impressive auburn mustache.

“Not sure,” Leto said from Krysty’s right side. “We were already in charge of the prisoner when the alarm started. Our priority was to get her to Hizzoner as soon as she got processed.”

“Heard somebody say some of the Rubble-rat gangs were attacking the perimeter,” Ryan said.

From the corner of his eye he saw Leto’s faceless helmet twitch ever so slightly as the Angel boss resisted the impulse to look at him in surprise. The keen-witted young man had caught the ring of truth to Ryan’s statement and was starting to wonder.

Let him, Ryan thought.

“Not our job, anyway.”

The Klaxon had cut off right before they came out of the warren of secret passages to the main stairs. By this time there was a rousing firefight going on in the main lobby—and outside as well, to judge from the sounds that filtered through the thick limestone walls.

As they started up the stairs, a couple groups of hastily dressed and armed men passed them going the other way. Because the two remaining SWAT-armored members of their party walked in the lead, nobody questioned why they were walking
away
from the fight.

On the third and fifth floor they’d encountered individual men racing down the stairs, probably bearing messages from above. J.B. and Mildred had chilled them with the suppressed .45s. Then the group had paused on the fifth-floor landing to set up this final charade.

They continued to march up the steps. It was a little crowded, with the three of them trying to walk abreast, so to speak. Behind them tramped Bronk and Friendly—who still hadn’t uttered a syllable in Ryan’s hearing—in their patrol uniforms.

The sec man with the auburn mustache held up a hopeful hand. “Cop a feel before you go?”

“Those are some
prime
goods,” the other guard said.

“Sure,” Ryan said. “If you want to explain to the mayor why you got your fingerprints all over his shiny new playmate.”

“Uh—” The guard dropped his hand. Then he and his partner reluctantly stepped to either side to clear the way.

To Ryan’s surprise, the corridor beyond was clear of guards. Apparently Michaud—and his now-late sec boss—had relied largely on intimidation to keep intruders out of Hizzoner’s private sanctum. Naturally, though, there would be more sec when they reached Michaud’s rooms.

Ryan felt the opposite of relief. This is too easy, he thought.

* * *

T
HE TWO GUARDS
stood crowded together in the doorway, staring single-mindedly after the four escorts and their flame-haired captive.

It placed them in an absurdly easy position for Mildred and J.B. to step out on the landing below, sight on the gap between the backs of their polycarbonate helmets and the beginning of their body armor and fire a kill shot each.

They fell where they stood without uttering a peep.

J.B. and Mildred stood aside to let Ricky and Raven slip past as the noise of their heavy slides reciprocating echoed down the stairwell. They sounded as loud as gunshots to Mildred, though she knew they were far from that. They didn’t
sound
like gunshots, though, and that made all the difference. If there was even anybody in position to hear them, which she doubted, especially with the battle raging outside.

I know they were brutal coldheart bastards, Mildred thought as she, J.B., Doc and Ricky followed the two scouts, who had quickly made sure the guards were truly chills and moved on. And no doubt extrasadistic, to make Bone’s first team and Michaud’s personal detail. It still makes me feel a bit better about shooting a man in the back to know that he died watching Krysty’s perfect rear end work its moon-white magic as she walked away, Mildred thought.

“Krysty really is a pro,” she murmured as she and J.B. hauled the dead guards to the sides of the door, out of sight from the hallway beyond. “The way she cut open the rear of her jeans like that, just for that added level of distraction.”

“The woman’s good,” J.B. agreed, straight-faced. He showed no signs of interest himself.

He knows what’s good for him, she thought.

* * *

M
ICHAUD’S RESIDENCE LAY
down a blessedly short corridor from the last turn in their path. Though Krysty and the others had gotten a basic idea of where it lay on the seventh floor while they still worked for Hizzoner, Jak and Raven had had to scout a couple times to find the right route. She was constantly amazed at how labyrinthine the giant old building was.

When they turned the final corner, she gave her head a toss, partly to make sure she had the proper look of defiance on, partly to hide the restless stirring of her sentient hair.

Four guards stood flanking the door, arrogant in their black SWAT armor. Like the ones by the stairs, these held batons ready, though each man had a longblaster slung.

These guards reacted the same way: initial barking followed immediately by big, staring eyes. Just before turning the corner Krysty had pulled open the right side of her much-abused shirt a little farther to enhance the effect.

“We were ordered to bring this one straight to the mayor!” Ryan barked. “Let us in.”

The guard nearest Ryan nodded instant acquiescence. Krysty had to force down a laugh at the way his head bobbed while his eyes stayed locked as if gyro-stabilized on her naked breasts. He reached a gloved hand and knocked a fast but complicated pattern on the door, which was covered in what appeared to be a brass sheet, engraved in curious geometric patterns, dominated by a curiously intricate cross and a symbol with a drawing-type compass and angle ruler with a giant
G
in the middle. From the sound of it there was thick hardwood behind the metal.

Krysty heard heavy locks being disengaged. The door opened.

Inside stood the last thing Krysty had expected to see: an Asian-looking woman almost as tall as Krysty in stiletto heels, with jade-green eyes and black hair flowing down over a black leather bustier almost to the tops of a pair of black thigh-high boots. Dawn light pouring through huge windows outlined her graceful form.

She tipped her head to one side and slowly smiled. Then she turned her head.

“It’s the red-headed mutineer woman, Claude,” she said. “They’ve caught her and brought her right to you.”

“Splendid!” Hizzoner called from behind her.

The woman stepped back, pulling the door open.

Ryan raised a heavy boot and kicked the door open. It knocked the woman sprawling backward against the side of a huge bed.

Krysty heard two clacks from behind, coming one on top of the other, as J.B.’s and Mildred’s handblasters cycled after firing a single suppressed shot each. Both guards immediately to either side of the door grunted and collapsed.

Then came the sound of soft feet rushing forward. She heard ripping sounds, gurgling. Then liquid splashing on the black-and-white checkerboard floor.

Jak and Raven had just chilled the other two sentries with their blades.

Ryan stepped into the room, drew his M4 one-handed and fired a quick burst into the ornate ceiling to make sure he had everybody’s attention. Leto unslung his big riot shotgun and leveled it.

Krysty took a large step forward and to her left. She drew a compact autopistol from where she’d kept it concealed tucked into her pants, its cold muzzle pressing uncomfortably between the cheeks of her half-exposed backside, with the untucked tail of her shirt to hide it. She aimed the blaster at the man on the bed.

The sight that met her astonished eyes instantly wiped away any trace of regret, either for helping beguile sec men to their deaths or helping Ryan with his brutal treatment of the slinky doorkeeper.

The room was a bizarre and gaudy fantasyland even by the standards of the old temple. She had the impression of the usual hand-rubbed hardwood paneling and the metal ceiling of gilt and silver and deep indigo blue, both on the floor and parts of the wall. But there was also a fireplace with a gilt mantel, and flanking the bed stood two obelisks, fluted like Greek columns and topped by malachite globes, as well as nightstands and sturdy chairs.