“You’re probably just going to kill me,” she said, and she couldn’t quite hide the quaver.
“No, your power is too useful, and I may need it again. I’m very annoyed about Jaako because his power was quite unique, but I’m not going to trash another power on something as pointless as vengeance.” He stood and felt his knees crack. “Now let’s finish this.”
Mollie opened a doorway into Cumming’s apartment. His gold was delivered. Noel’s was sent through to the abandoned farmhouse in the Hebrides. Mathias was pushed through into the winestube in the Grinzing. He shrugged at Noel’s raised eyebrow. “I own it,” he said.
“What about mine?” Mollie asked again.
Noel took an ingot off the remaining stacks, and laid it in her lap. “Here. A little grubstake.”
“That’s not fair!”
“I’m not killing you or your hillbilly family. You should be grateful. Now open the door to the yacht.”
“No,” Mollie said. Silence stretched between them as they matched stares. She broke first, unable to hold his gaze. “You… you won’t kill me. Not in cold blood.”
Before Noel could disabuse her of this notion, Mathias intervened. He came between Noel and Mollie, and knelt down next to her. “You’re a little girl. Very young. Very foolish, but you could have a big career. I would help teach you if you wanted to work with me. I’ve been a criminal for forty years. I’ve met many criminals. This man
…” He gestured at Noel. “He’s a killer. They aren’t common. He’ll do what he says.”
Mollie audibly gulped. The doorway into the hold of the yacht appeared. Noel was relieved. He hadn’t really wanted to reformulate the plan, but Mathias’s words echoed in his head, and felt like a weight on his chest.
But I’ve changed. I’m not that person any longer.
And he looked down at the gun in his hand. He didn’t remember drawing it.
Bahr al-Ghazal Base
The Sudd, South Sudan
The Caliphate of Arabia
The painted children’s chanting raised the hairs on the back of Tom Weathers’s neck. The bonfire capered high, throwing yellow flames and brown smoke spires into the face of the dense Sudd night. His eyes watered to the smoke of the pungent dried acacia he’d hyperflown in for the ritual. The fire cackled as if it had a life of its own.
He imagined Noel Matthews inside that fire. Twisting. Screaming. Charring. Melting. But he knew that couldn’t be. Matthews was a fucking teleport. Tom would have to finish him fast. Yeah, you think you’re so smart, Meadows, you fuck, he thought. But I got your number. Sleep is for the weak anyway.
He surveyed the circle of small faces, human and otherwise, all shades turned orange by firelight, eagerly watching him. He could feel their hunger: to strike out at the world that threatened them. That made them hurt. Could see it in the feral glitter of their eyes, hear it in their chanting: Death, death, death to imperialists! Death, death, death!
The same rage and desire burned in his own chest, bared and painted in violent smears and jags and drenched in glittering Sudd sweat. “Yes, death,” he cried out, throwing his arms up over his head, baying like a wolf at the moon. “It’s time for justice. Time for righteous payback! Down with the oppressors. Bring them death!”
The twisted children howled in reply.
His cell phone rang.
Tom’s ring tone came from Jefferson Airplane’s “Volunteers of America.” Grace Slick screaming, “Up against the wall, motherfucker!” Appropriate as the sentiment was, the interruption pissed him off.
He dug in the hip pocket of his faded blue jeans, pulled out the phone, and flipped it open. When he saw the caller’s name he waved his hand at the circle of chanting children. “Wait one. Got to take this.” Turning away from the bonfire, he hunched over and pressed the phone to his ear. “Heilian? This isn’t a good time-”
“No,” she said in her best clipped secret-cop colonel voice. “You must listen now. The Nshombos’ private yacht. Get there at once.”
Dr. Nshombo’s Yacht
Kongoville, Congo
People’s Paradise of Africa
A few lights stretched wavering yellow fingers across dark water. The big yacht itself showed few lights, though its white hull gleamed like sun-bleached bone.
With a loud thump Tom landed on the hand-polished hardwood deck a few yards aft of the superstructure. Damn, he thought, misjudged a bit. As he straightened a voice shouted in angry French from his left.
Thrusting a hand into his pants pocket, Tom turned. A Leopard Man in mufti-slacks, a dark T-shirt with a Miami Vice sports coat over it, the inevitable blackout shades, and leopard-skin fez-was hauling a Micro UZI machine pistol out of a shoulder holster. “No one is allowed aboard,” the Leopard Man shouted, aiming his handgun-sized piece. “Not even you, Mokele-mbembe.”
Tom’s left hand came up holding a PPA five-franc piece, the size of a U.S. quarter. He flicked it at the Leopard Man. With all his buckle-tank-armor-with-a-punch strength.
The coin cracked as it went hypersonic.
The Leopard Man’s body jerked. A darker stain appeared in the front of his dark T. The coin had hit going fast enough to blow through rib cage, heart, and spine. He folded.
A curious skritching sound made Tom look up. A vast multilegged blot descended toward him from the roof of the cabin. Just in time, Tom got his hands up to fend off a round furry body.
Thick blunt legs with spiky fur belabored Tom’s face. Ayiyi’s weight almost toppled Tom over backward. He barely managed to keep his feet. Huge fangs curving from furry bases clawed for his face. He pulled his head backward. The spider-monster hissed at him. All the time Ayiyi’s little-boy face stared impassively. A drop of green venom dropped to his left shoulder. It sizzled.
Shouting with pain Tom finally found a grip. He hurled the monstrous spider away. It flew across the water to strike the front of the warehouse, hard. Tom anticipated a gratifying splat.
Instead the child ace flipped his spider body in the air, landed using all eight legs to cushion the shock. Then, dropping to the dock, he shot a tendril of web at Tom.
It stuck his bare, painted chest. And clung. He tried to brush it away. His hand stuck to it. “Hey,” he shouted. “I didn’t know you could do that!”
With a single spring the spider landed on the brass railing. It scuttled quickly behind Tom, then leaped back to the cabin roof.
Tom found the sticky stuff pinning both arms to his sides. He tried to break free. But it had the legendary strength of spider silk, plus monster cross section. And Tom couldn’t get decent leverage.
The giant spider reared to fling itself on him. The fangs reached for him. He saw the skin where the poison had struck was blistered. He drew a deep breath.
He was in space. The monster spider floated, tethered to him by webbing that, flash-dehydrated and rapidly freezing, was already losing its adhesiveness and becoming brittle. With a soundless shout of triumph Tom tore free.
The child ace began to turn over as he drifted away. Tom saw his mouth straining open in a scream. He transfixed the monster thorax with a sunbeam. Then he was back on deck, brushing stiff web remnants from his skin.
Candace Sessou, the Darkness, appeared atop the cabin. Flanking her stood a pair of Leopard Men. They raised weapons. Tom blasted each with one hand.
Then he looked at Candi. “Why didn’t you help me? Or try to stop me?”
“I’m done being a puppet on a string,” she said. “You and he are the same. You don’t care who you hurt. Well, you have no more power over me!” She turned her back on him, crossed her arms beneath her tiny breasts.
And she was half hung-up on me, Tom thought. Ungrateful little bitch. “You’re either with me or against me!” He flung up a hand.
She wrapped herself in Darkness. The sunbeam stabbed through it. He heard a splash near the portside rail. He ran to look. The Darkness spread out across the river like mist. He heard the girl’s mocking laughter. Then she was lost. “Hell with her.” He thrust through the hatchway.