Jensen grunted. "Wondered where they came from. Can't see much, but I heard two new voices join the party."
"How many in there so far?"
"Sounds like just your two plus Bernhard and Kanai. If Sartan's with them, he's being mighty quiet."
Mordecai chewed his lip. "Maybe this isn't his house after all. Well, we're here; might as well get something out of it. You stay put and keep counting; I'll go back and watch for visitors and bandits."
"Sounds good."
They stayed at their posts for nearly half an hour more. In that time a grand total of three more blackcollars arrived.
"That can't be all the troops Bernhard's got." Jensen shook his head when they met again and compared notes. "I got the impression he had at least a squad, more likely two or three of them.
We're talking, what, seven men total here?"
"Maybe he's just called in his top circle," Mordecai suggested. But something about that felt wrong.
"Or just the ones he thinks will cooperate in taking us out."
"No." Jensen was positive. "I can't hear any words out here, but the tones are clear enough—and that's not a nice simple war council. They're having a good healthy argument in there. Besides, if these are the troops he's going to hit us with, why is Kanai with them?"
"Point," Mordecai admitted. "And no sign of Sartan either way. Are you tracking the logic the same way I am?"
"Bernhard's got barely six blackcollars he can trust, even counting Kanai, or only six blackcollars period," Jensen said promptly. "He knows we've got at least five blackcollars plus Caine's team, and that we've got the advantage of being the defending party. He therefore needs all the forces he can get if he wants a chance in hell of stopping us—and those forces ought to include all the street troops Sartan can offer him. If he isn't talking to Sartan..." He spread his hands.
"Then either Sartan has already backed out of the operation," Mordecai concluded, "or else Sartan doesn't exist at all."
Jensen cocked an eyebrow thoughtfully. "Hard to avoid that conclusion, isn't it? So what the hell is Bernhard trying to pull with his Sartan game, anyway?"
"Control of some of the criminal underground, maybe," Mordecai offered doubtfully. "Or he could just be muddying the waters for Security's benefit. I don't know—this sort of stuff is Lathe's forte, not mine. We've seen enough—let's get out of here and report."
"Just a second," Jensen said, an odd look on his face. "If this really is all Bernhard can bring to bear, and if they're not flocking to his banner as it is, maybe a gentle push would do some good."
"A gentle what? Jensen—"
"Why not? A nice, civilized talk with them—surely they aren't going to attack two emissaries here to deliver a message. He's clearly under some pressure from them already; a little more may get us Bernhard's help without our having to run amok all over Denver. You can stay out here as backup if you want, but I'm going to give it a try."
Without waiting for a reply he started back toward the garage. Mouthing an old Hebraic curse he'd been saving for just such an occasion, Mordecai followed. If Jensen's erratic behavior of the past few months had finally played him false... well, at least he wasn't going to die alone.
—
The others heard them coming, of course. A flurry of barely audible movement began as they stepped through the garage door into the house proper and continued as they crossed a large kitchen, and by the time they reached the living room off the solarium only Bernhard was still sitting there.
Still, the look of astonishment that appeared on his face made the entrance worthwhile. "What the hell?" he gasped, mouth opening with shock. "You! But—"
"Hello, Bernhard." Jensen nodded gravely. "We thought we'd drop by and see how you're coming with the job of persuading your team how easily we can be taken." He glanced around the room.
"Nice place. Sartan get it for you?—sorry, I forgot; Sartan doesn't exist. I guess mercenary work is profitable enough even without a sponsor."
For a long moment Bernhard was silent, a whole spectrum of emotions chasing each other across his face. Then, with a sigh, he reached for his tingler and tapped a brief message: All clear; return.
Almost immediately the others started filtering in, and in under a minute Jensen and Mordecai were standing inside a circle of seven blackcollars.
"Nice group," Jensen said, glancing around. "You want to make the introductions, Bernhard?"
"Not especially," the other growled. "I could order you killed for this, you know."
Jensen shook his head in disgust. "Bernhard, how long are you going to play this game? Haven't we proved that you're the ones who're going to get hurt if you keep up this nonsense?"
One of the others growled something under his breath, and Mordecai braced himself for combat. He understood what Jensen was trying to do, but baiting someone like Bernhard took a lot of skill—and even when it was done right it could backfire at the turn of a gyro.
But Jensen either didn't notice the danger or didn't give a damn. "How can someone who claims to be a blackcollar roll over and play dead just because Security asks him to?" he continued. "Have you forgotten that we're supposed to be fighting people like Quinn?"
"We haven't forgotten," Kanai said. "All right, you know about the Sartan screen—but you don't know why we're doing it."
"So tell us," Jensen invited.
"Because we need money if we're going to pick up the war effort again. Lots of money, coming in on a regular basis. For that we need part of the Denver territory and to get it we need Sartan."
"Ingenious," Jensen said, not sounding overly impressed. "And after you have your nest egg?"
"We take the fight back to the Ryqril," Bernhard said.
Jensen looked at him for a long moment. Then he shook his head. "No. It'll never happen. No matter how much money or territory you get, it'll never be enough. Maybe it would have been once—maybe while Torch was still around and you had to face the fact that they were doing your job for you. But not any more. You're too comfortable, Bernhard. Too content with your role here—particularly too comfortable with your special dispensation from Quinn. Left to yourselves you'll just sink deeper and deeper into the garbage of the underground, until you're no better than any of the other bosses or underlings in town. And that's how you'll die."
Slowly, his eyes locked like targeted weapons on Jensen, Bernhard got to his feet. "You're wrong," he said, each word as hard and precise as if cut from hullmetal.
"Then prove it," Jensen told him. "Come back with us. Now."
Bernhard's expression didn't change, but suddenly Mordecai felt something new in the atmosphere.
A sense of thoughtful anticipation had been added to the antipathy there, as if Jensen's analysis had found a resonance with thoughts and fears some of the others had also had. Thoughts they'd perhaps tried to bury but never completely killed.
And it was clear that Bernhard felt it too. "Cute," he said, lip quirking as some of the tension seemed to leave his body. "Very cute. I don't have to let you herd me into that kind of box, you know—not even if my own men are helping you do it," he added, glancing around. "But you're right on one count: bucking you won't do anything but grind down both our forces needlessly." He took a deep breath. "All right. Let's go."
"Just like that?" Mordecai asked, not quite believing it.
"I said so, didn't I?" Bernhard snapped.
He started toward the garage, and as he did so Kanai stirred. "I'd like to come along," he said.