"Understood, sir," Ramirez said, his comm in hand again. "And then we should get you to a hospital."
"The hell with that," Bailey said, again fending off the medic's proffered hand. His head was starting to throb again, but he was damned if he was going to let that slow him down. Not with General Poirot in enemy hands. "They can fix me up on the ride back to Athena. Get me a car and driver—I want to be there before they start bringing in the prisoners."
"Yes, sir," Ramirez said.
"And after you get those surveillance units in place," Bailey added as he started toward the door, "get someone looking for everything we might have heard about something called Whiplash."
CHAPTER 4
"There—take the next left," Lathe said, pointing toward a rambling building off on the left side of the road, the only one in the area with its lights still on and cars parked in its lot. A faded sign over the door identified it as Hernando's Hideyhole. "I wonder if they're still serving."
"Definitely a proud member of the cheap dive association," Caine commented, eyeing the place dubiously as he turned their borrowed car toward it. "We weren't supposed to stop until we got to the Guardrail Tavern, though."
"It's called getting the lay of the land," Lathe assured him. "There's no way I would just drop in on someone like Shaw without testing the local water first. Mordecai, you're on backup."
"Right," Mordecai said. "You can drop me anywhere, Caine."
Caine pulled the car closer to the side of the road and slowed down. It was still rolling when Mordecai popped his door and hopped out, hitting the pavement in an easy jog and heading for the row of buildings down the street from their target tavern. "We going with the arms-smuggler routine again?"
Caine asked as he pulled back to the middle of his lane.
"Might as well," Lathe said. "It's a convenient way to stir people up." He paused, and Caine could feel the comsquare's eyes on him. "You ready?"
Caine took a deep breath. "Let's do it."
Inside, the Hideyhole looked even less promising than it had from the outside. It was about a quarter full, with a clientele that ranged from the scruffy to the downright frightening. The conversational buzz faltered as Lathe, Caine, and Spadafora headed toward a four-person table near a partition leading into a currently unlit back room, and out of the corner of his eye Caine could see the occupants giving them a suspicious once-over. Across at the bar, a big man who looked nearly as disrespectable as the worst of the clientele murmured something to the bartender, then angled over toward their chosen table.
He reached it just as they were seating themselves. "Evening," he grunted. "Morning, rather. What'll you have?"
"Three glasses of your best beer," Lathe told him. "You still serving anything besides alcohol?"
"We got a few things on the menu," the man said. "Anything special you're looking for?"
"Depends," Lathe said, looking around the room. "What does everyone else around here like?"
"Whatever's hot at the moment," the waiter said, a subtle new edge to his voice. "You buying just for the three of you?"
"Actually, we're more on the selling end," Lathe said. "Party favors for the more sophisticated sort."
The other frowned. "Party favors?"
"Noisemakers," Lathe said. "Small fireworks. That sort of thing."
The nearest tables had gone quiet, their occupants listening to the conversation. "Don't have much cause to celebrate around here," the waiter said. "With that new base the snorks just put in across town, it's going to be even bets as to whether it'll be Security or a Chryselli raiding party who nails us first."
"And it's a wise man who'll be prepared for either," Lathe said. "Like they say, the one who dies with the most toys wins."
"But he still dies," the waiter countered. "We're lying low, friend. If you want to do elsewise, you're welcome to do it elsewhere."
"Understood," Lathe said calmly. "We'll have our drinks, and be on our way."
For a moment the waiter seemed to measure him. Then, with a curt nod, he turned and headed back toward the bar. "Off to call Security, you think?" Caine asked quietly.
"Actually, I don't think he is," Lathe said, his eyes following the waiter's progress. "We may be in the one criminal hangout in the entire TDE where the patrons really are just going to leave us alone."
"In that case—" Caine broke off as his tingler began tapping code into his skin: two cars approaching; eight armored men.
"Or maybe not," Lathe amended, his battle-hood and gloves already in hand. He lifted his other hand toward the bartender and the waiter, conversing again at the bar. "Excuse me, gentlemen," he called.
"You have a back door out of here?"
The two men looked at Lathe, their eyes widening momentarily as they saw the distinctive blackcollar gear. "Yeah, there's a door through the back room there," the waiter said, pointing toward the darkened room.
"Thanks," Lathe said as he pulled out his slingshot and unfolded the wrist brace. "You might want to move everyone over to the walls. Spadafora?"
"Ready," Spadafora said as he pulled a handful of bright yellow pellets from his ammo pouch. He tossed two to Lathe and set one of the others into his slingshot's pouch. "Double volley, then I handle the rest?"
Lathe nodded. "Caine, go check out our back door."
"Right," Caine said, standing up as he finished pulling on his gloves. He headed toward the archway into the back room, noting that the bar's patrons were making a hasty but orderly retreat away from the center of the upcoming action.
He'd just reached the partition when the front door was flung open and two armored and helmeted figures walked purposefully into the bar. Behind their faceplates Caine could see their eyes darting back and forth, their paral-dart pistols swinging warningly around the room.
They'd made it three steps inside when Lathe and Spadafora lifted their slingshots and sent a pair of yellow pellets squarely into the intruders' faceplates.
No nonexplosive projectile could penetrate that plastic, Caine knew, certainly nothing propelled by human muscle. But unlike the blackcollars' regular slingshot rounds, these pellets weren't designed for destruction. Instead, they burst on impact, splattering the faceplates with a thick, instant-setting paint.
Whatever curses the Security men might have uttered were lost in the double shot they sent blindly in the direction the pellets had come from, one of the paral-dart clusters scattering off the top of Caine's battle-hood as he ducked into a low crouch. Lathe and Spadafora were already out of the line of fire, Spadafora moving to the right with another paint pellet in hand, Lathe moving left and forward and stowing his slingshot in favor of his nunchaku. Caine caught a glimpse of two more Security men crowding in behind their comrades as Lathe swung the flail into one of the blinded men's helmets, sending him staggering, and Spadafora threaded a shot neatly between the two front men into the faceplate of one of the newcomers.
Caine didn't wait to see any more. He slipped around the partition into the back room, his own nunchaku cocked and ready under his arm. The room's chairs were stacked neatly on top of the tables in preparation for cleaning, and the only light showing was a single panel glowing softly in the ceiling.
Senses alert, he made his way between the tables to the rear exit. For a moment he paused there, listening, then eased the door open.
It opened into a deserted alley. Carefully, he leaned out and looked out.
And staggered back into the edge of the door as a cluster of paral-darts slammed into his face, most of them ricocheting from his goggles and hood but a few sinking into the exposed skin of his cheek.
He dropped his nunchaku as his face went instantly numb, his hand grabbing for the tingler on his wrist.
But the drug in his bloodstream was too fast. Even as his fingers dug under the sleeve, both arms went dead. Half a second later his legs folded under him and he sprawled helplessly in the doorway, lying halfway out into the alley.