30

“Never been up close to one before?”

Sam jumped. He hadn’t heard the man approach, but, even at idle, the noise of the hulking panzer drowned out anything less than a shout.

The speaker was an Amerindian, but his clothing was pure Anglo. He was broad-shouldered and narrow-hipped, with the skin on his bare chest so brown from the sun that his muscles seemed carved from teak. The grime under his fingernails was at odds with the shiny rigger sockets in his palms and wrists and the jacks on his temple.

“You Twist?”

Sam nodded.

The man smiled and stuck out his hand. His grip was firm and the induction pad in his palm rasped Sam’s palm as they shook. “Cog said you were green. Name’s Josh Begay, late of the Dineh.”

“You’re Navaho? You’re a long way from home.”

Begay’s eyes hooded and the smile faded into a hard expanse of wrinkles. “Smart boy. Stay smart and stick to polite conversation.”

From the snap in the Navaho’s voice, he was obviously sensitive about his origins. If Sam was going to be spending several days in company with the rigger, he’d best stay on the man’s good side. The panzer should be a safe topic; most riggers were more interested in the machines they controlled than they were in people. “I’ve only seen tanks like this on the trid,” Sam said appreciatively.

Begay relaxed a fraction, and Sam knew he had taken the right tack.

“This one’s a little different from the beasts they run in the Corp wars. They want flash and intimidation; its better for the ratings. I got more need for stealth. The Thunderbird’s engines are baffled and she’s got a lot of extra ECM. The baffling cuts the speed some, but I’ll take the quiet at the cost of a little KPH. T-bird’s as quiet as they come.”

“Quiet?” Sam shouted. The concept seemed absurd. The panzer’s engine noise was deafening as it echoed off the walls of the warehouse. Even in the open, someone would hear it coming a klick away.

“It’s all relative. No machine with muscle is ever gonna be sneaky silent. Still, ain’t no need to run an advertisement for the next valley over. Time any dust-eater hears T-bird and figures out where and what she is, we’ve long flown past.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

The Navaho said nothing, just stared at him. The pressure of the deep brown eyes began to make Sam nervous. “You come highly recommended.”

Still no response.

“Cog says you’re one of the best running the northwest routes. He says I’m lucky you were available.”

Begay hacked and spat on the ground. “Cog’s a good fixer, but he’s got a White tongue.” When Sam looked blank, the Navaho wiggled two fingers in front of his mouth. “Forked, you know.”

Sam gave the joke a nervous laugh and was relieved to see the ghost of the former smile return to Begay’s face.

“Chummer, you’re lucky that I’m going where you want to go. Lucky that I got room for a second hand. Lucky there ain’t nobody in town who knows how to ride shotgun and who I’m willing to ride with. Lucky I ain’t got time to wait around till I do find somebody.” He spat again. “I like that kind of luck. It’s contagious.

“ ’Course luck had nothing to do with it. My being available is pure money. From what I heard, you couldn’t afford it. But you got friends who can, and that’s lucky, too.”

“What do you mean? I thought I was working for my passage.”

“Oh, you win. Cog says somebody likes you enough to boost the Tir border patrol roster and post a couple of incentives for some old friends of mine to be elsewhere when we slide the border.”

“We’re going through the Tir? Wouldn’t it be easier to cut around it through the Ute Council?”

“Don’t run Ute territory,” Begay said shortly. “Don’t worry, though. We’ll do most of the Tir by day and, with the fix in, it’s gonna be a smooth scorch. Then we blast through the Rockies where the Salish-Shidhe Council dips down and cuts the edge of Sioux territory. Then on through the Algonkian-Manitou Council till we slide into Quebec.

“Got a resupply stop up by the Dworshak Reservoir before we cross the divide. Stop again in Portage-La-Prairie after we cross the old Canadian border. Last lay-over is Hearst, just before we try the Quebec border. Once we slide the line, I dump you and you’re on your own.”

“You said you were already hired so you must have a cargo, too. What are we carrying?”

Begay spat. “Cog said you was a curious one. It’s bad luck to ask too many questions.”

“Got it.” Sam smiled in what he hoped was a disarming manner. “Wouldn’t want to spoil my luck.”

“Cog said you was smart, too.”

Sam didn’t say anything to that, apparently winning Begay’s approval. After a moment or two of silent evaluation, the Navaho clapped him on the shoulder. “You smart enough to learn a few things about riding shotgun on a panzer run?”

“Try me.”

Begay swung up the side of the vehicle, scrambling like a rock ape across molded grips and convenient protrusions. Sam followed more slowly, the weight of his pack shifting his center of balance enough that he was cautious of some of the handholds Begay used. By the time he reached the top deck, Begay was vanishing down the hatch into the panzer. Sam tossed his pack through and followed, snagging his holster on the hatch coaming. He had to pull himself back up to free it. The holster and the Narcoject Lethe pistol it held were a parting gift from Dodger. The Elf had wanted him to take something more lethal, but Sam resisted. Having a gun at his hip was strange enough. That the weapon was his own was even stranger. Inside the panzer, Begay showed him how to strap into the gunner’s couch and started a simulation program that would let Sam get the feel of the controls. Shooting the computer targets was easy. Just like a game.

Hart unfurled the hood from the collar of her black windbreaker and snugged it down with the drawstring. She hated what it would do to her hair, but the hood was a better alternative than an invisibility spell at the moment. She didn’t want the distraction of maintaining the mana flow to power the spell. It was going to be two against her one, and she would need her wits about her. Verner might be a corporate softie, but the other was an experienced runner of unknown combat capabilities. Like her whole life, this would be a calculated risk. San Francisco wasn’t one of her towns, and so she’d had no time to check out quality backup. Her quarry was about to leave town, and that meant she had to be quick and fast. Good thing she’d completed the transaction for her working equipment before she’d gotten the word of their location.

She made her selections from the satchel and placed them on the rooftop before caching the bag under a rusted-out air-conditioning unit. Returning to her new toys, she tucked the sheathed stiletto into her belt, under one of the supposedly decorative ornaments that were actually her custom-styled throwing stars. Then she slipped the band of the thermal goggles over the hood and glanced around the rooftop once to confirm their quality. Satisfied, she pushed the lenses up onto her forehead, where she could pull them down in a hurry. Running gloved fingers over the Beretta Model 70, she confirmed that the serial numbers had been seared out with a laser, as specified. She initiated the self-test and nodded once in satisfaction as the LEDs signaled the laser sight in full true, the sound suppressor at ninety-seven percent efficiency, the magazine full, and the trigger pressure set at a hundredth of a pound less than she had requested. The fixer who supplied this gear was reliable; she wanted to remember him in case she had future business in the city by the bay. Having checked the Beretta, she slung it over her right shoulder. The weapon would enable her to finish the business quickly and without a trace. Once she was gone, it would be just another crime of random street violence.