He looked up. The barman's eyes were on the pistol, his mouth hanging slightly open. "Uh, well, now wait just a second. How many of those do you have?"
"Are you interested in buying?" Lathe countered.
The other licked his lips. "Not me personally, but I know someone who'll definitely want to talk to you. If you and your chaser want to take a seat I'll give him a call."
A setup? Possibly. But the barman didn't seem the Security type... and besides, Mordecai was outside. "Fine." he told the other. "He's got fifteen minutes." Slipping the laser pistol away, he nodded to Skyler, and together they headed to a back-wall table that offered a good view of both door and bar.
"Any bets as to who he's calling?" Skyler murmured, sipping at his beer.
Lathe looked at the barman, wrapped secretively around his phone. "Not Security, I'd say. On the other hand, he doesn't strike me as the fanatical type, either, and from what Caine told Lepkowski about Torch I wouldn't expect them to take anyone who wasn't frothing over with Noble Purpose."
"Maybe we've got two separate undergrounds operating here," Skyler suggested. "As well as a group of blackcollars."
Lathe smiled wryly. "I rather thought you'd pick up on that."
"What's to pick up? The family back there labeled us from the second I used my nunchaku, without even needing to see our flexarmor. They may not have had any direct contact with blackcollars before, but we haven't been consigned to ancient history, either."
"Agreed. Which unfortunately leads to a disturbing question: why were they so terrified of us?"
Skyler chewed at his lip. "They were, weren't they? Worried about Security reprisals for aiding us?"
"Maybe." Conversation had returned to its earlier level in the bar, but several of the patrons still seemed to have half an eye on the blackcollars. "This bar may not be as innocent as it seems—could be it caters largely to a certain type of traveler. The type that doesn't care much for strangers."
Skyler shrugged. "If so, the smuggler routine should put us right at home here."
"Maybe."
They sat in silence for a few minutes, keeping a general eye on things and waiting for a signal from Mordecai. The fifteen minutes Lathe had allotted the barman were nearly up when the word finally came: Big car arriving; five men inside... three approaching you.
Acknowledged, Lathe sent. Hitching his chair a few centimeters back from the table, he surreptitiously drew a shuriken from his belt pouch and slipped it into the pocket where he'd put the laser pistol. Skyler, across the table, made his own preparations.
The three men walked into the bar as if they owned the place, and almost instantly all conversation again ceased. The barman nodded toward the blackcollars' table, and two of the men swaggered forward, leaving the third standing guard beside the door.
"Hear you've got some poison for sale," one of them said as he stopped a meter in front of Lathe. His partner took another few steps to hover behind Skyler.
"Poison?" Lathe shook his head minutely. "Weapons."
The other gave him a long, appraising look. "You are new at this, aren't you? 'Poison' is illegals, dimbo. Let's see it."
Lathe didn't move. "You in the market to buy or just browsing?"
The second man growled something. "Don't push your luck or my patience," the first man told Lathe, his tone icy. One hand reached up to unfasten his coat, and the comsquare caught a glimpse of a compact pistol slung under his arm. "Let's see the merchandise."
Lathe cocked an eyebrow and reached his right hand into his pocket. For a moment he froze there, as a gun magically appeared at Skyler's head. Then, moving with exaggerated caution, he drew the laser out by its barrel and held it out. "I've left the power pack out, of course," he said.
"Yeah, uh-huh." The other looked the weapon over for a moment. "How many you got?"
"How many you want?"
The man turned cold eyes on the blackcollar. "Twenty-five percent of your stock. For permission to sell the rest—and I'll throw in some helpful advice about doing business in this area."
"Oh?" Lathe eased his right hand up to smooth his beard, the shuriken he'd palmed biting gently into his skin. "That seems a bit high."
"Not really. Especially when you consider the price lets you keep your skin, too." Stepping back a pace, he drew his own pistol and leveled it at Lathe. "You got five seconds to make up your—"
The last word never made it out of his mouth—but most of his air did, as Lathe's foot snapped in a curving kick that knocked the gunhand aside and then buried itself in the man's abdomen. The other folded over and dropped to the floor as Lathe's shuriken flashed across the room to bury itself in the wall by the third man's head. The backup jerked violently in reaction and then stood perfectly still, his hand dropping empty from inside his coat.
A flicker at the edge of his vision made Lathe turn, just in time to see Skyler's knife bounce hilt-first off the barman's right forearm. The man bellowed, the short rifle he'd been holding clattering to the floor... and a deathly silence descended on the room.
Just as it had in the house up the road. And from the terror-frozen faces at the bar's other tables it was very likely for the same reason.
Standing up, Lathe retrieved his laser and his assailant's gun. Off to the side, Skyler was also on his feet, scooping up his knife and the barman's weapon. The man who'd been standing behind the big blackcollar, Lathe noted, was stretched out unconscious two meters back from Skyler's chair.
"That wasn't very polite," Lathe said to the first man, curled around himself on the floor where he'd fallen. Through the pain in his eyes Lathe could see a fading remnant of fear being replaced by resignation. "Pulling a—looks like a flechette or dart gun—on us. Skyler?"
"This one had a pellet scattergun," the other reported, hefting the barman's weapon. "Pellets may be paral-drugged."
Lathe eyed the man by the door. "Dump your gun onto the floor and come here."
The other obeyed instantly, moving in the jerky fashion of an unoiled automaton. "I'm sorry, sir—we didn't know it was you guys—Phelling just said—"
"That we were easy targets?"
"Oh, no, sir—just that you were selling in the boss's territory without his okay—"
"Shut up, Travis." The man at Lathe's feet spat between clenched teeth.
"Ignore him, Travis, this is very interesting," Skyler put in. "Just who is this boss of yours?"
Travis gulped but remained silent. Lathe switched his gaze to the barman. "What's his name, Phelling?"
The other shrugged slightly. "It's no secret—you could figure it out easily enough with a territory map. Manx Reger."
Lathe nodded, though the name didn't flip any switches. "And what's your excuse?"
Phelling spread his hands wide. "Look, all this is Mr. Reger's territory. You know how it works—part of the price for letting me run my place is to keep my eyes open."
"Uh-huh." Lathe's fingers sought out his tingler. Mordecai: Clear out backup.
Acknowledged.
"Well," Lathe told Phelling, "I suggest you be a bit less enthusiastic about joining in the fight next time. Let's go, Skyler."
The two blackcollars walked through the still-frozen tableau to the door, dropping their appropriated weapons there as Lathe pulled his shuriken out of the wall.
Mordecai was standing beside a large and well-polished car as they emerged into the parking lot, two vaguely crumpled figures sprawled beside him. "Any trouble?" Lathe asked.
"Hardly." Mordecai gestured to the car. "This thing's a rolling arsenal—a pair of scatterguns in the back seat and a long-range sniper's flechette rifle in the trunk. Are they Security?"
"No, they seem to be the local underground. The wrong underground, unfortunately." Lathe stooped to peer inside the car. Plenty of room for both themselves and part of Caine's team. "Might as well ride in comfort. You got the keys?"