"Next time it'll hurt a lot more."
"Next time you decide to beat on him, you mean?" Lindsay growled.
Caine turned to face her. "He brought that on himself."
"Don't give me that," she snapped. "You were ready for him—you knew he was going to try that."
"So?" Alamzad put in. "We didn't make him act like an idiot."
Lindsay kept her eyes on Caine. "You could have tied him up. Or even just warned him before he did anything."
But he would have eventually tried it anyway, Caine almost said. But the words caught somewhere between his throat and the almost tangible contempt radiating from Lindsay's face. The decision had been the right one, but no argument would ever convince her of that.
For a while, he'd thought they were slowly winning her to their side. She'd almost believed they were different, and in five seconds all that had been lost. A potential ally was once more an enemy.
He waited until Dupre was seated with the others and then retrieved the water glasses and returned them to the kitchen. Pulling on his flexarmor gloves to protect his hands, he began working Pittman's shuriken out of the wall. A simple enough job; with luck, he ought to be able to finish it without fouling something else up.
—
Manx Reger's estate was at the end of the long road that stretched southward from the main highway toward a set of tree-covered ridges that formed part of Denver's western boundary. Large houses on large lots were sprinkled to either side of the road—a gauntlet, Lathe saw, that wasn't nearly as innocent as it looked. At least twice he caught glimpses of watchers at various windows as he and Jensen drove up the road in their borrowed tow truck—watchers almost certainly on Reger's payroll.
Presumably they had guns, as well, and the comsquare mentally crossed off the road as a possible exit route if this whole thing fizzled.
The estate itself was surrounded by a decorative fence: tall, obviously electrified, and impressive as hell in the early-morning sunlight. It was also probably highly effective at keeping stray rabbits off the grounds. Easing the truck to a halt before the gate, Lathe shook his head at the arrangement.
Presumably Reger had motion sensors and laser-scan trackers in the woods inside the fence, but the fence itself was still pitiful.
As, to some extent, were the two men who came out of cover beside the gate to confront the new arrivals. They were out in the open, their shoulder-slung machine pistols poorly hidden beneath their coats, and Lathe could have taken both before they could possibly have gotten their weapons clear.
Expendables; and they were damned lucky Lathe didn't need to expend them at the moment.
Rubbing his palms on his borrowed yellow coveralls, Lathe settled his mind into his role and waited passively as the guards stepped up to the truck.
"Yeah?" the first said, glancing back at the car on the tow truck's sling as he came up to Lathe's window. If he recognized the car as the one appropriated earlier that morning, he didn't show it.
"Got a delivery," Lathe told him, jerking a thumb back toward the car. "Man told me to deliver it and a message here."
The other guard had gone back to give the car a brief inspection. "Okay," the first said. "Lower it down; we'll get it inside."
Lathe nodded at Jensen, seated beside him in an identical coverall, and the second blackcollar jumped out and disappeared toward the rear. "I also got a message I'm supposed to deliver to Mr.
Reger. Personally, he said."
"I'll take it."
"He said personally," Lathe insisted.
"I don't give a damn," the guard growled. "I'm not getting Mr. Reger up at this hour for some stupid message."
Lathe licked his lips. "Look, uh... the guy didn't seem like the sort to double-up on, if you know what I mean. If I don't do this right—look, I'm not up this early 'cause I want to be. They came storming in—"
"They?" the guard interrupted.
"Yeah—three of 'em, dressed in black suits, just like the old blackcollar demos. Anyway—"
And the guard finally made the connection. "Barky! Check the plates. Is that the car Winner lost tonight?"
"Yeah," the other called back. "Looks clean enough."
"Yeah, maybe." His eyes shifted back to Lathe as. he fumbled out a phone. "You get a good look at these guys?"
"Well... good enough, I guess."
"Okay. Sit tight." The guard backed a few steps, muttering into the phone. Jensen returned to his seat; a minute later the guard finished his conversation and climbed up onto the step beside Lathe's window. "Okay, we're going up to the house," he said, swinging his weapon into sight—a flechette scattergun, Lathe noted—and resting its muzzle against the windowsill. "Either of you got any weapons, drop 'em out the window now. The driveway sensors pick something up, I'll shred you."
Lathe shrank away from the barrel beside him. "No, no—we don't need guns. I just handle a tow truck—"
"Move it," the other snarled.
Ahead, the gate was opening. Keeping his movements jerky, as befit a highly nervous man, Lathe started the truck forward.
The driveway was a long, winding one that passed back into the hills, the trees giving way eventually to elaborately sculpted yards and gardens surrounding a large house. Not exactly the estate of a multimillionaire, Lathe decided, but certainly no hovel, either. Reger would do, provided the man chose to cooperate.
A half-dozen armed men were lined up by the mansion's front door as they approached. Their guide stopped the truck fifty meters back and made them walk the rest of the way. "You, stay here," one of the housemen told Jensen. "You"—this to Lathe—"come with me."
Another four guards joined them inside the carved wood door, and together they walked in silence down a richly carpeted hallway. Three turns later they reached a large study lit solely by a desk lamp swiveled to point at the door. Behind the glare, a dressing-gowned man was visible.
"You got a message for me?" the man asked coolly as Lathe and his escort stepped into the room.
"You Mr. Reger?" Lathe asked, eyes flicking about the room. Hidden gunport in the wall over Reger's left shoulder, a second in the wall to his right. Useless at the moment, unless Reger was willing to cut down five of his own men along with Lathe. Which he might be perfectly willing to do, of course.
"I am," Reger answered with elaboration.
"Okay." Lathe shifted feet the way a simple man might under such abnormal circumstances, his hand clutching briefly at his right wrist and the tingler concealed there. Ten seconds. "The guy said your men were pretty amateurish and that you might like to hire some real fighters for a change."
"Why, you—" one of the guards snarled, jabbing Lathe's side with his snubnose rifle.
And Lathe moved.
It was doubtful that any of the guards ever figured out precisely what happened to them in that first second. Lathe's left arm swung at the gun barrel digging into his ribs, wrenching it from the owner's grip as a reflexive shot shattered the quiet of the room. Jamming the captured gun back into its owner's abdomen, Lathe simultaneously threw a hooking kick at the man on his immediate right, then swung the gun like a club at a third man's face. The other ducked, his shot going wild, and then the blackcollar was on him with a three-punch combination that took him out of the fight for good.
Behind him, the last two guards fired, but Lathe was already out of the way, flat on the floor with his legs sweeping his attackers' out from under them. Both men crashed to the floor; and with a jab behind the ear of each to keep them quiet, Lathe finished his roll back to one knee with another captured flechette rifle in hand. A quick burst to each of the hidden gunports, and the muzzle came to rest lined up on the man behind the desk.
Reger hadn't moved. "Well?" he asked calmly.
"Well what?" Lathe said. "As I said, your men are amateurs."
Reger's eyes dropped briefly to the rifle. "You intend to use that on me?"