James Corey - Nemesis Games

He pushed the door open and rushed in.

Bobbie was at the table, sitting in one of the two chairs. Her arms were behind her. Her legs were splayed out before her, too long for the chair to accommodate. There was blood on her mouth and down the side of her neck. A man in gray coveralls was pointing a gun at the back of her head.

Two other men, dressed in the same gray, turned toward Alex. Both of them had automatic pistols in their fists. A fourth man, this one in a causal suit the color of ash and a bright blue shirt, turned to Alex, his expression equal parts surprise and annoyance. When he saw Alex, his eyes went wide.

“Fuck!” the man in the suit said, the syllable almost lost in the noise of cracking wood. Bobbie moved faster than Alex could follow, shrugging the chair she was bound to into splinters and grabbing the gunman behind her by the wrist. He screamed and something wet happened to his arm.

One of the pistol men fired wildly, the stuttering report assaulting Alex’s ears. He rushed forward shouting and barreled into the man in the suit. Together, they staggered back. The other man’s knee rammed into Alex’s groin, and the world dissolved into blinding pain. Alex slid to his knees, trying to hold the man by his suit jacket. The guns continued their barrage and the stink of spent powder filled the air.

The man in the suit dug for a shoulder holster, and Alex grabbed his arm. The man’s wrist was like holding concrete. There was a gun in his fist. Someone shouted, and the roar of gunfire became the roar of something else, deeper and more animal. Alex pulled himself forward, the pain in his testicles fading to merely excruciating. He bit the solid wrist, sinking teeth into the raw silk sleeve and digging until his incisors met. The man in the suit didn’t even cry out, just brought his other hand down hard on Alex’s temple.

Everything got a little quieter, a little more distant. Alex felt his grip slip off the man’s arm, felt himself falling back, landing hard on his tailbone. The pain was there, but foggy. The man in the suit lifted his pistol to point at Alex. The barrel looked wide as a cave.

Oh , Alex thought, I die like this.

The man’s head twitched forward in a curt nod and he crumpled. Then it was Bobbie standing before him, a six-kilo free weight curled in one hand. The chrome had blood on it and what looked like hair. No one was shooting guns anymore.

“Hey,” Alex said.

“You all right?” Bobbie asked, sitting next to him. One of the gunmen staggered past her, cradling his forearm, and bolted out the door. She didn’t go after him.

“Little achy,” Alex said, then rolled to his side and retched.

“It’s okay,” Bobbie said. “You did really well.”

“Been a long time since hand-to-hand. I probably could have done better if I’d had some practice.”

“Yeah, well. There were four of them with guns and two of us without. All things considered, we did okay.”

She blew out a long breath, her head sinking low. Alex tried to sit up.

“You all right?”

“Got shot a couple times,” she said. “Smarts.”

“Shit. You’re hurt?”

“Yeah. I’m going to get over to the console there in a minute. Call emergency services before blood loss makes me woozy.”

“I already did that,” Alex said. “Before I came in.”

“Good planning.”

“Not sure planning had much to do with it,” Alex said. And then, “Bobbie? Stay with me here.”

“I’m here,” she said, her voice sleepy. “I’m all right.”

In the distance, Alex heard the rising tritone of sirens. Breath by breath, they grew closer. For a long moment, he thought the deck was being shaken, then realized it was just his body, trembling. At the side of the room, one of the gunmen lay slumped against the wall. His neck was at a strange angle, and blood was drying on his chest. He wasn’t bleeding though. Dead, then. The man in the suit coughed and gagged, choking. The sirens got louder. There were voices now too. A woman identifying herself as police and warning them that people were coming in.

“I was coming to tell you,” Alex said. “I’ll stay. I’ll help.”

“Thanks.”

“This was about the black market stuff, wasn’t it?” Alex said. “I guess you’ve been asking the right questions.”

Bobbie managed a smile. Looking at her now, there was a lot of blood on her shirt.

“Don’t know,” she said. “All they asked me about was you.”

Chapter Twelve: Amos

“Want some coke?” Erich asked. “Not synth. Real stuff that came from a plant.”

“Nope. But I’d take a drink if one is handy,” Amos replied. The pleasantries were just ritual, but ritual was important. In Amos’ experience the more dangerous any two people were, the more carefully polite their social interactions tended to be. The loud, blustering ones were trying to get the other guy to back down. They wanted to stay out of a fight. The quiet ones were figuring out how to win it.

“Tatu, bring the El Charros,” Erich said, and one of the two guards slipped out the door. To Amos he added, “Been on a tequila kick lately.”

“I haven’t,” Amos said. “Earth is still the only place you can get good tequila. The Belter stuff is undrinkable.”

“Not a lot of blue agave up there, I guess.”

Amos shrugged and waited. Tatu returned with a tall skinny bottle and two narrow shot glasses. Erich filled both then lifted one in salute.

“To old friends.”

“Old friends,” Amos repeated and tossed back his shot.

“Another?” Erich asked, pointing at the bottle.

“Sure.”

“Seen much of the neighborhood?”

“Just what was between here and the train station.”

“Hasn’t changed much,” Erich said, then paused while they both drank off their shots. He refilled their glasses. “Faces change, but the corners stay the same.”

“Funny, I was just thinking that same thing on my way in. Things have changed for you though.”

“Not the important ones,” Erich said with a grin and wiggled his small, withered left arm.

Amos gestured at the room, the guards, the renovated building around them. “When I left, you were running for your life. So, at least one thing’s different.”

“You guys can go,” Erich said to Tatu and his partner. They slipped out quietly and shut the door behind them. That seemed like a good sign. Either it meant that Erich was sure Amos wasn’t there to kill him, or Erich had a way of protecting himself that didn’t require other people. It wouldn’t be a gun under the desk. That was too direct for Erich. Amos started casually scanning for wires or suspicious lumps on his chair or the floor beneath it.

Erich poured two more shots of tequila then said, “I learned something important from you, when you left.”

“Do tell.”

“I’ll never be the toughest guy in any room, unless I’m by myself,” Erich said, waving his small arm again. “But I’m usually the smartest. Executing a plan can be subcontracted out. Making the plan in the first place, not as much.”

“True enough,” Amos agreed. “It’s why I’ll never be the captain of a ship.”

Erich reacted to that. He didn’t change his expression or flinch, but Amos could see the words getting taken in and filed as important.

“But always useful, you,” Erich said. “You were always useful. You on a crew now?”

“You haven’t seen me in the news?”

“I have. You look different. Shaved your head, got your nose broke a few more times. But I’ll never forget a name.”

“Well, not this one anyway,” Amos said, and then tossed his shot back in a toast to Erich. “Gracias for that, by the way.”