S Hunter - Longevity

“In your case, I expect not to have too much of a problem with it,” Bedford said. “It helps to think that it’s retribution for your pest of a wife as well.”

Williams glanced at Bedford and then looked away quickly.

Chris got angry, which helped. He tried to use the anger to think of something to say that would buy them some more time.

“Once you start, you’ll do it again and again whenever anyone puts a roadblock in your way. And you’ll get caught. Homicide doesn’t mind publicity.”

“Bedford, wait. He’s right.” It was Williams. “Not here. LLE may ignore and even conceal a lot to avoid cases getting to the media, but the murder of an LLE detective in your own home… If McGregor disappears and is eventually found murdered, LLE would never let up. There is too much we don’t know to be able to eradicate all evidence of his presence here, besides the fact that you must have one or two staff members on the premises. I mean, besides your security? No matter what happens with LLE, Homicide loves publicity, he’s right about that, and if you kill him here, there will be witnesses.”

“Not necessarily,” Bedford said, turning the gun towards Williams and shooting him in the chest.

He was moving the gun’s muzzle back towards Chris’ face when Chris pushed hard with his feet and threw his weight against the back of the heavy chair, sending it tipping over backwards. He continued the roll and then scrambled sideways, using his hands and knees, to reach the fireplace. It was excruciating, nauseating really, but he grabbed the poker deftly enough and used his extended arm like a spear thrower to launch it at Bedford, who had moved forward to get a clear shot. The poker hit Bedford on the right arm and shoulder hard enough to make him drop the gun and grunt, but it missed his head.

Bedford was cursing and reaching towards the gun on the floor when Chris made another awkward dive to reach Williams. The other LLE detective was lying on the floor where he’d been thrown by the impact of the bullet hitting his side, but he’d been able to draw his Stinger and he was trying to bring it to bear on Bedford when Chris grabbed it out of his hand and fired.

A Stinger dart could hit anywhere and have an almost instantaneous effect, which was part of its charm. The dart hit Bedford in the leg just as Bedford’s groping hand curled around the gun, and he folded before he could aim it. The report of the gun sounded loud in the quiet of the library, and the bullet went off into the fine cherry floor, splintering it.

By then the two guards, no doubt attracted by the first shot, were at the door and Chris had all he could do to shoot cleanly from the floor around the chair legs, hoping that their instincts to focus on a human target and fire were less finely tuned than his. Mostly they were. The first guard through the door got off one wide shot before going down with a duo-load in him. The second got off two poorly aimed attempts, one of which hit Chris in the shoulder and the other, like Bedford’s, went into the floor as the duo-load took effect.

Chris waited another minute, braced on the floor, but no one else came through the door.

“As far as I know,” Williams said harshly, “he only has the two in the house.”

Chris glanced at him. He appeared to be breathing strongly enough, but there was a spreading bloodstain on his side.

“You have a comu?” Chris asked, using a chair to lever himself to his feet. “Call it in to medical. I’m busy. Here, use this. Put some pressure on it,” he added, tossing Williams a silk pillow.

Williams was fumbling with his comu when Chris walked carefully over to each of his three victims, collected their weapons, and put a second dart in them. He shoved Bedford’s gun into his belt and headed for the French doors.

There was a sort of a pop and flare from the direction of the cottages. Chris thought he recognized a firebomb, and lengthened his stride. As he passed Williams, he glanced down. The wounded detective had finished with the comu and was using the pillow to good effect.

“You’re still a… self-righteous bastard,” Williams said, “but you had… good point. About Bedford. One sorry… son-of-a-bitch.”

“I think the house is clear. I’m going after Livvy. If she doesn’t make it,” Chris said, “then neither will you. Other than that, you look reasonably good.”

As he reached the doors he heard gunfire from the direction of the cottages.

Running gingerly on the balls of her bare feet, Livvy raced across the rest of the courtyard into the cover of the smaller cottage, the one furthest from the house. She had been easily visible from the house for a long time. She could only hope that the fact that her assault had been largely silent and that she had just taken out the guards that were probably responsible for acueye surveillance of the exterior would be enough to preserve the element of surprise. If someone had seen her from the house, she might have just killed Chris, and they’d be coming after her with everyone they had. Stop thinking about that , she ordered.

No one came out of the first pretty little cottage. The soft grass around it and the flagstone path up to its front door were a relief. The door yielded to her Masterkey and she went through it braced, sweeping the interior. There was no one in the main room, which appeared to be a hotlab, and no one in the bedroom, bathroom, closet or kitchen. Totally empty.

She moved from window to window, peeking out each, and couldn’t spot any guards rushing to surround her. Nemesis must be playing poker, too, she thought.

The hotlab created a small dilemma, and she paused for the first time, standing in the middle of the neat little interior. She was still running on cold fury. She really wanted to destroy Bedford’s and Josephson’s little private reset facility now , before someone stopped her, but unless she succeeded here otherwise, it would be only temporary, and therefore futile in the long run. Also, although Bruno had given her some nice little firebombs, she didn’t know how things stood in the main house. One of these bombs would draw a lot of attention, and destroy the remnants of their blindside.

There was gunfire from the house, and she realized her dilemma was resolved. Stifling her fear over its significance, she went with rule three: utilize distraction whenever offered.

As she headed back out the door, she rolled a triggered firebomb back into the room. It bounced back towards her when it hit a bank of refrigerator units and rolled under a table before exploding three seconds later. The sound of the explosion, muffled by the cottage walls, was relatively soft, but it was still loud enough to echo across the quadrangle. Also, the firebomb sprayed an accelerant liberally throughout the small space and a majority of the room burst into flames quiet satisfactorily. No one was going to miss the fire engulfing the pretty little cottage. Such a shame.

The next cottage faced the road and had a 5-foot-wide white-columned porch at the front. She made a small concession to her abandoned stealth by going around the back to approach the front door from the side away from the courtyard. Braced with her Stinger ready, she ran in a wide arc around the corner of the cottage into its small front yard. There was a man, she could see part of his gun and arm, standing well back in the doorframe. As her arc brought her forward to where she could get an angle for a body shot, her movement must have caught his eye, because he turned jerkily from his survey of the main house and fired straight for her head. He was either lucky or an excellent shot. The bullet hit the center of her faceplate, whipped her head back and jerked her off her feet. Her faceplate spider-webbed but held, and with a considerable painful effort she lifted her head and aimed her Stinger at the door from flat on her back through her bent knees. The man was gone.