Time and Chance Page 6

  To this day, Carlo thought, that's what Teddy's good for. Fighting, driving a car. Not much in the smarts department, but good to have around when you just need meat.

  Still inside the Lincoln with Teddy was Tony Inciardi. Also muscle. Tony was one of the new breed of gangster who empathized with Tony Soprano, idolized Don Corleone, and patronized Brooks Brothers. He complained constantly that his gun ruined the cut of his sport coat, to the point that Carlo often wanted him to leave the gun at home.

  At which point, he'd end up wearing the sport coat in his casket.

  One thing Carlo couldn't stand, it was a complainer.

  Anyway, Carlo was more of a Banana Republic type, even though it infuriated his uncle Niccolo, the tailor. He liked simplicity of line, the modern cuts, the contrasting hues. Tonight he wore a black cashmere sport coat under a black wool overcoat, with white wool slacks. His shirt was white silk, as was the white scarf draped once around his neck, outside the sport coat. His black hair was slicked back and pulled into a tight ponytail. Some of the guys told him he looked like one of the Colombians, or maybe even a Cuban. When they said that, he just smiled. He knew they thought the Colombians were dangerous.

  He liked to be thought of in that category. To further promote the image, he always traveled with muscle.

  Chances were, he wouldn't even need muscle tonight. It was to be a simple transaction, cash for merchandise. The Lincoln's trunk held the cash.

  The Range Rover rolling across the parking lot toward him carried the merchandise. Carlo just hoped that it was only bringing merchandise, and maybe a couple of big dumb guys to lift it.

  He wasn't in the mood for a firefight, especially after the things he'd been hearing about the fiasco at the Trench. A perfectly legitimate dispute between opposing business interests, broken up by a bunch of super-powered do-gooders who didn't know how to mind their own business.

  This city was built by people who could mind their own business. You take care of your own problems, Carlo thought, and you let other people take care of theirs. Unless, of course, you are their problem.

  The Range Rover pulled into position twenty yards from the Lincoln. Carlo glared at its unseen driver until the SUV's lights blinked out. When he was no longer in the spotlight, he walked forward, until he was ten feet from the Lincoln's hood, and stopped there.

  The rear passenger-side door of the Range Rover opened, and a man got out. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with short curly hair. He wore a leather jacket over a polo shirt and khakis.

  Carlo almost laughed. If you are going to play in these leagues, he thought, you should at least dress seriously.

  The front passenger door swung open, and another man stepped down. This one was even more laughable. He looked like a technician, a scientist maybe, or the guy you call to come over and hook up Internet service for your kid. Thick glasses, short disappearing hair, a bit of a paunch. And nervous—Carlo could practically see his knees wobble from here.

  If this man wasn't here to sell him a million dollars worth of weapons, Carlo would have shot him just on principle.

  "You bring the money?" the egghead asked him.

  Carlo shook his head sadly. "I am a businessman," he said. "You, I take it, are also a businessman, no? When you do a business transaction, you do not ask if the other party has the money, correct? It is assumed that if you're there to make a deal, you have the money. Otherwise, what would be the point?"

  "I guess so," the guy said.

  "Let's start over," Carlo said. He walked a couple of steps closer to the Range Rover. "My name is Carlo. Carlo Bertolucci."

  "Sam Perrine," the egghead said. He stuck his hand out, as if to shake across the distance. Carlo held his hands close to his sides. His right was ready to snake underneath his cashmere jacket for his Beretta automatic if it became necessary.

  He didn't think it would. But it bothered him that Perrine was so unprofessional. Anything could happen when amateurs played.

  "A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Perrine," he said. "My understanding is that we can help one another out."

  "Sounds like I have something you want," Perrine said. "And you're willing to pay a fair price for it.

  "That is so," Carlo said. He smiled, and he knew that his smile was considered charming by almost everyone who saw it.

  Perrine returned it with a shaky grin.

  "I have two associates in my car," Carlo told him. "And the 'fair price' you mentioned is also in my car. I assume that the merchandise is in yours?"

  "Yup," Perrine said. "Along with two men of my own. Plus Jake there." He indicated the polo shirt guy on the pavement.

  "A reasonable precaution," Carlo said. "If I might make a suggestion. Your driver has parked the car so that its nose is facing my car, which adds to the distance the merchandise will have to be hand-carried. It's fairly heavy, isn't it?"

  "Weighs a bit, now that you mention it," Perrine agreed.

  "Why not have your driver back the Rover up to my trunk?" Carlo offered. "You and I can stay here and chat as he does so."

  Perrine thought about it a moment. Carlo could almost see his brain ticking, calculating the chances that this was some kind of trick or setup. It wasn't—Carlo was genuinely worried about the ability of Perrine's men to lift the merchandise, and he didn't want his own people to be holding anything but their own guns, in case there was some kind of double-cross.

  Finally, Perrine nodded. "I guess he can do that, all right," Perrine said. He went back to the still-open passenger-side door and said something to the driver. Then he shut the door, and the driver backed away cautiously. When he was far enough back, he put the Rover into drive and pulled it behind the Lincoln. He backed up again, until the rear ends of the two vehicles were about ten feet apart. In the red glow of the back-up lights, Carlo could see a man squatting in the cargo space of the Rover, with a rifle or shotgun in his hand.

  "Cold night," Perrine said while they waited.

  "Very," Carlo agreed. "But after we're finished you'll be able to afford to visit the nicest restaurant you can think of. Sit by the fire, enjoy a lobster or some fine beef, some good wine, a cup of espresso after."

  "Sounds nice," Perrine said. "You really know how to live it up, huh?"

  "Money's pointless if you don't use it to enjoy life," Carlo replied. "It is never an end in itself, to me. Only the means to get what I want."

  "Which, tonight, is ten I.O. Atomizers," Perrine said.

  "That is correct."

  "You going to want a demonstration?"

  "I know how they work," Carlo answered. "I want to see that they do."

  "Figured you might." Perrine moved closer to Carlo. Carlo let his hand drift toward his jacket.

  "Don't sweat it," Perrine said. "Now we've moved the Rover, I've got to walk past you to open the back. You do want the back open, right?"

  "I do," Carlo said. "And I want that shooter in the back to come out of the car before you open it. I'd also appreciate it if your man in the leather jacket moved closer to the Rover, so my back isn't to him during the transfer."

  "Done, and done," Perrine said. "Jake," he called. "Do me a favor and stand over there by the front of the Range Rover, okay?"

  "Got it," Jake replied. He jogged past the Lincoln, took up a position off the Rover's front right fender.

  Perrine crossed to the back of the Rover, tapped on the window. "Larry," he said, "come on out the back door."

  There was motion inside the dark vehicle, and after a moment, the rear passenger door opened again, and Larry climbed out. He was just as tall as Jake, and more muscular. He still held the rifle in his hands. Carlo noted with some pleasure that it was an Italian carbine.

  "Is that really necessary?" he asked Perrine.

  Perrine shrugged. "Put the hardware away, Larry," he said. "We aren't gonna need that tonight."

  "Thank you," Carlo said as Larry complied. "Now, the back."

  Perrine opened the back of the Rover. Inside it was a s
ingle wooden crate, about four feet long, two feet wide, a foot and a half tall.

  "Here they are," he said.

  "Please open it," Carlo asked.

  "Glad to." The crate was held closed by a hasp, but no lock. Perrine turned the swivel eye and lifted the strap. The top of the crate swung open easily.

  Carlo stepped closer. They were there. Ten International Operations Atomizer AE-4s. They looked more like vacuum cleaner tubes than weapons—flat steel cylinders, ridged about halfway down like corrugated cardboard. At one end, there was a small instrument panel, and a trigger button. At the other, instead of being an open tube, they tapered to a point, and there was some kind of crystal embedded in the very tip.

  "May I?"

  "Be my guest," Perrine said.

  Carlo lifted one from the crate. He held that away from the wooden box, then reached in and chose an Atomizer from the second row. Just to be cautious. He put the first one back into the crate.

  "You said you know how to work it, right?"

  "I have never actually fired one myself," he said. "But I've seen it done, once."

  "Let me," Perrine said. He pointed to the instrument panel. "Power switch is here. Most of the controls are heat sensitive, so you just have to have your fingers in the right spots, but not that one. Press that little switch."

  Carlo pressed.

  The Atomizer hummed softly. "All charged up and ready to go," Perrine announced. "See that display screen? That shows you your target, reads distance, wind velocity, atmospheric conditions, and so on. That display make sense to you?"

  "Let me pick a target," Carlo said. He turned slowly. About a hundred yards off, across the empty parking lot, was a tall metal light pole. The lights were no longer working, and the thing stood there like a child's forgotten toy in an overgrown backyard. "Okay, I've got it."

  "Once you've acquired the target, then rub your index finger over that little panel that says "Lock."

  Carlo did it. On the flat plasma display screen, he saw an image of the light post. It was clearer than he could actually see the post from here.

  "That tells the AE that what it thinks is your target really is your target. Then the display onscreen settles down. Those distance numbers are accurate to within .05 millimeters. Thing can't really read wind and atmosphere at a distance from itself, but it can estimate based on the conditions where you're holding it, and any visual cues it might pick up. But the beauty is, the AE's blast is self-guiding, so if it should encounter a sudden gust or something, it won't matter. It'll correct its course. It knows you've selected that target, and by God it's gonna take out that target."

  "And the trigger?"

  "That other panel," Perrine said. "Like I said, it's heat and pressure sensitive. Once you've locked a target, all you have to do is touch the panel and she's triggered. Just don't be standing in front of the focusing crystal when you do that."

  "I imagine that would be unpleasant."

  "Putting it lightly. Some versions of this weapon were made using quartz, emerald, ruby. Even cubic zirconium. These babies are diamond, all the way. Nothing works like the real thing." He watched Carlo. "Go ahead, do it."

  Carlo looked at the plasma display, ran his finger over the trigger panel. The Atomizer seemed to wriggle in his hands—or maybe that was his imagination. A pure white beam shot out from the end of the weapon, raced across the distance, and enveloped the light pole. It flared brightly, and then was gone.

  So was the pole.

  There was no sound, no smoke, no mess. Just… gone.

  "Where does it go?" Carlo asked.

  "Nowhere," Perrine explained. "The AE just alters its atomic structure, destroys the stuff that holds things together. That light pole was composed of a bunch of atoms clinging to each other like babies to their mommas. Without the cling, the atoms disperse. I could get more technical if you want, but…"

  Carlo waved a hand. "Not necessary," he said. He smiled at the cylinder in his hands. "I don't care how it works, as long as it does that every time."

  "Guaranteed," Perrine said.

  "Now, now, now!" Frank Parkhurst shouted into his microphone. He was airborne in a Buzzer, a small three-person copter that Wager had bought the design for and manufactured to his own specifications. They were fast and agile and deadly, and there were five of them descending on the parking lot that had once belonged to the Lummis Desk Works.

  Wager's sources had told him that a deal was being made here tonight, and that Wager would probably be interested in the goods that were changing hands. Frank, leading the assault, had kept the Buzzers out of sight of the participants, watching through binoculars until the demonstration was over. At that point, instructed by Wager, watching via comm-link, that he really did want these weapons, Frank ordered the pilots to take the copters off stealth mode and move in loud and fast.

  The five of them swooped down like angry birds defending a nest, from five different directions. The chop of their rotors filled the night air, kicking up trash and debris from one end of the vast parking lot to the other. As his Buzzer closed on the vehicles, Frank gripped the trigger joystick and squeezed. Tracers flew from the side-mounted guns, sparking on impact with the pavement. The fury of the guns competed with the din of the copters.

  In each of the other Buzzers, a gunner followed suit, strafing the ground and cars with large-caliber tracer rounds. This is going to be a breeze, Frank thought. And when its over, I'll have delivered Wager's two most powerful weapons to him. Let's see how useful Suzanne Sawyer seems after that.

  Carlo heard the helicopters coming a moment before he could see them. They appeared, as if from nowhere, out of the blackness of the night sky. He barely had time to register them as a threat when the guns began to fire.

  "Trap!" he shouted. He hit the ground and, still clutching the Atomizers, rolled underneath the big Lincoln. He knew it was armor-plated, but he figured the Range Rover probably wasn't.

  The first spray of tracers tore up the pavement and pounded against the car. He heard someone scream, and between the Rover's wheels, saw Jake hit the ground bleeding from a couple of wounds.

  Either they shot their own guy, or Perrine wasn't in on the setup. A third party was in play.

  The copters buzzed away, then banked and came back in for another strafing run. This time, Teddy and Tony returned fire with their AK-47s. Larry, Perrine's guy, had jumped back into the Rover for his rifle, but it wasn't going to do him much good against those helicopters.

  Carlo had the perfect weapon. The only problem was, how did you use it against a moving target? And what kind of a shot could he get from underneath a car?

  While he was debating that, he heard an engine start up. The Rover! Perrine was going to make a run for it— with his merchandise! He aimed the AE-4 at the Rover's wheels, but then realized he didn't know enough about how it worked. Would it atomize the whole car, including its contents? That was no good—he wanted those other Atomizers.

  He took a chance, and rolled out on the driver's side of the Lincoln. He pounded on the door with his fist.

  "Teddy!" he called. "Stop that car!"

  "How?" Teddy asked.

  "I don't care how!" Carlo roared. "Kill the driver, whatever. Just stop it!"

  Teddy stepped from the Lincoln, raised his AK-47 to his shoulder, and aimed down its length at the departing Range Rover. He fired, and one of the SUV's tires blew. He fired again, holding down the trigger, chewing up metal and shattering glass.

  But the Rover kept going.

  Then a burst of tracer fire tore up Teddy's leg and torso. He dropped the AK-47 and hit the pavement. Another copter skimmed by overhead, another spray of tracers, and Teddy's head exploded.

  Carlo threw himself back under the Lincoln. This was all going wrong.

  From underneath, he hammered on the Lincoln's skid plating. "Tony!" he cried. "Hey, Tony!"

  But there was no answer. Tony was either dead, or paralyzed with fear. Either way, he'd be dead all over
again when Carlo got hold of him. Leaving him here underneath a car with those freaking helicopters strafing everyplace…

  Through his anger, he realized that the pitch of the choppers' rotor blades had changed. They'd landed. He looked out from his position beneath the car, and saw four of them, blades spinning slowly, spread out around the parking lot. They had surrounded the Lincoln, but they'd landed a good distance away.

  Probably thought everyone in the car was dead by now.

  In the distance, Carlo could hear the fifth one racing away. Following the Range Rover, he guessed.

  He knew he was a dead man. He only had one chance to pull out of this, and that was with the weapon that he had clutched through the entire attack. The weapon he'd only used once, with instruction.

  On a stationary target.

  Carlo shrugged. You did what you had to do, in this world. He eyed the plasma screen, pointed the diamond tip at one of the teams of men who were even now advancing from the copters. Two men from each one, and he figured each had a pilot who stayed with the ship.

  When the first pair was visible on screen, he touched the "Lock" panel. The numbers on the screen stabilized, except for the distance number, which was getting smaller as the men approached.

  He touched the trigger.

  The bolt of white light hit the men.

  They didn't even have time to scream.

  But Carlo knew that he had just targeted himself by taking out those two. There was very little question of where the light had originated from, and he was a sitting duck under this car.

  He scooted out between the front wheels, rolled onto his stomach, and sighted on another pair. Locked, and fired.

  They were gone.

  Still moving, he leapt onto the Lincoln's hood, rolled over it. Lead slapped the Lincoln's armored sides.

  He laid the cylinder down across the car's roof, sighted, locked, fired.

  Another pair was bathed in bright light, and then vanished.