Michael Williamson: When Diplomacy Fails…

“We’re going to meet at the Garden Bazaar, three klicks north of our recent location.”

“I know where that is.”

“Well, there are still two guys on the springblades. You don’t know who’s behind that yet, do you?”

“Not at all. Do you want us to meet you sooner?”

“The bazaar will be fine. We’re five minutes out.”

He disconnected without waiting for a response.

He wasn’t the only one staggering, but Highland seemed reasonably stable, so they’d done their job properly. Could they finish up now?

“Elke, how are you set on smoke?”

She counted by touch. “A couple of minutes’ worth.”

“Can you hold one as we travel?”

“Make us an area target instead of points? Hold on.”

She fumbled with something, pulled out a bandage and started wrapping it around a smoke grenade.

“It’s going to catch on fire, but I can hold it for the duration.”

“Pop it. Contact movement. Ms. Highland, grab onto Bart’s harness. Let’s move.”

Elke pointed Aramis to the front, with Lionel, then took the number three position. Alex followed her, then Bart and Highland. The others gripped off the sides and back.

Following a concussion with lungfuls of ammoniac smoke was not the best thing for either health or concentration, but with the group clutching into a chain, they could move well enough. But were they concealed from outside, or just blocking their own vision?

“Time to waste the flashbangs!” he called. “As interruptions.” He let his carbine hang while he reached into a pouch and pulled his free. He strained his thumb forcing the cap loose, then caught the lanyard in his teeth, yanked and tossed it to the right. “Every ten or fifteen seconds, and fire in the-” BANG!

His ear got punched again and the smoke eddied in ripples around him.

Off to the side, Jason said, “Contact airborne! Right forward forward high!”

Elke shouted, “Take this!” and shoved her shotgun over. Jason fired his, dropped his, took hers and raised it.

Alex had his own up, saw the figure, shouted, “All fire!” and started shooting. Maybe enough bullets in the air would get lucky.

The figure leapt across a building roof, about fifteen meters up. He did have to acknowledge that was one hell of a brave way to travel, and not something that would catch on generally.

Whoever the guy was, he seemed to be raising some other weapon, and relying on speed, angle and altitude for protection, along with distortion effects and armor. He was probably pretty safe, unless..

Whatever Elke had loaded, Jason fired. Shotgun. It must be one of her tungsten bore-riders, that would breach almost anything. The recoil staggered Jason back, but the shot hit. Their antagonist tumbled and twisted, the impact disturbing his trajectory enough, and tossing his leg off line. Instead of landing, he cartwheeled across the roof, over the edge and landed with a cracking thud a few meters ahead.

Cady and Lionel dropped out of formation, sprinted hard, caught up and stomped on him. They pinned and twisted his arms, Cady reached down with a pistol, and put a round in the crease between his body armor and helmet, right through the cervical spine. He convulsed twice and stopped.

From the front, Aramis said, “Through that alley will put us right in the bazaar.”

“Keep moving. Lionel, Bart, I need you two to flank front. As we pass, take our weapons. We want to look nonthreatening to the public, blend in, then meet these people. Cady, Jason, you’ll have overwatch, and be prepared to do something violent. Jessie, peel out and start recording as soon as you’re through the alley. In the meantime, everyone watch top.”

Elke’s smoke was still pouring out.

“About thirty seconds left,” she said. “Take it aside?”

Alex said, “Yes. Walk that way down the street. Everyone else into the alley. Move.”

Elke moved the flare gingerly and winced. Yeah, the stink of scorching fabric indicated how hot it was. He went left at a walk with Aramis. The rest moved into the alley, shifting from tactical movement to a nonthreatening walk.

It was long and dark. There seemed to be a couple of small lanes crossing ahead, and it looked to be about 200 meters to the bazaar itself. They kept weapons up, trained instincts leading them to create overlapping fields of fire.

Alex pulled his phone up. “Mister Machac, are you there?”

“Here,” the man replied. “Are you arriving?”

“It’ll still be about five minutes. We’ve been delayed,” he lied. “We’ll be coming in north of you. Stand by.”

He closed the connection and disconnected power again. The phone dropped back into its shield.

The group crossed one lane, which had everything from trucks to donkeys and a Mercedes, then back into the alley, narrower here and nasty. They were alone, though, and no one seemed to be aware of them.

Aramis said, “Shit, it’s widening out. Conceal fast.”

There was a clatter and shuffle as they all handed weapons off to Lionel and Bart. Rucks went too, into a pile. There was just enough room to squeeze by, and the two men stood over it all, shotguns ready. As he passed, Alex unslung his pack, passed over his carbine, drew his pistol and concealed it under his hands.

“Here we go,” he said, taking a deep breath to steady himself.

The alley widened because whatever had once stood here had collapsed. The pieces were gone, probably for reuse, but the remains of a foundation were irregular underfoot. There were booths here, selling very questionable items for any culture on this planet-tattoos, porn, mild drugs. Ahead was the bustle of the bazaar proper, stalls, trailers and shops, noise and shouts and haggling customers.

“Find them,” Alex ordered in a calm voice.

Aramis said, “Twelve people in suits, standing in a defensive circle around three limos, forty meters ahead, mostly facing north.”

Reactively, everyone started to surge forward.

“Steady,” he said. “Don’t surprise anyone. Jessie, start sending. Elke, slave your photos to her feed. Walk slowly.”

Elke said, “I’ve also got the photos of the bladers. That should prove interesting in a press release.”

Highland said, “Oh, my, yes, thank you.”

Yes, that would pretty well cinch the election for her. And how had they come around to actually caring and supporting that goal, at least on paper?

Because the administration was that corrupt and incompetent that even a bitch like Highland looked good in comparison.

He remembered the BuState security chief saying that Special Service were not that special. They got within ten meters before someone positively IDed them. Hands came up to indicate “halt,” and people shuffled around.

From there they did okay and it was anticlimactic. One man stepped forward. “I’m Machac.”

“Marlow. Glad to see you. Here’s Ms. Highland.”

“Ma’am.”

“You are officially accepting responsibility for her safety?”

“I am.”

“Then good luck to you. And to you, ma’am.”

“Thank you, Chief,” she said, looking wrung out and worn. “I do appreciate it. I…” she seemed about to make a speech, then just said, “Thank you.”

“Glad we could be of service. We’ll just see you into the limo,” he said, with a glance at Machac.

The man didn’t smile, but it seemed to be professional mask, not personal. He opened the door, Highland sat in heavily, and another agent took a seat next to her.

JessieM stepped up, held her phone in front of Alex. It showed a load of Highland being transferred into the limo.

“Check with an outside feed,” he said.

She thumbed and gestured and said, “I have a feed from Georgie Ortiz. She’s known and reliable. There are ten copies and forwards.”