As long as he could hold them. The soldier of fortune smiled. Cohaagen might be an effective Agency Head, but he knew nothing about running a colony. He was so intent on political intrigue that he ignored the welfare of the people on Mars, especially those who worked in the mines. When they protested their deteriorating living conditions, he cracked down on them without mercy. But his terror-tactics were backfiring, creating the revolution that now threatened to halt turbinium production and undermine Cohaagen’s quest for power.
The soldier of fortune shook his head. He was not a politician. He had no interest in matters of state. But, unlike many of the thugs who had recently been recruited, he did have a strong sense of personal honor. The things Cohaagen had ordered him to do to suppress the revolt on Mars were not honorable. He was a skilled professional, not a petty sadist. He wanted out of the Agency and he wanted out fast.
His duty to the man called Quaid done, he could continue to effect his carefully planned disappearance. He had made a promise and he had kept it, at great personal risk. Now he could lose himself again, his promise fulfilled. He sauntered casually into a side street, trying to act like an ordinary pedestrian, but he was nervous. He knew that the Agency was after his friend and would stop at nothing to nail him. He had helped a buddy, as he knew he must, but if the act were ever discovered, it would alert the Agency and put his own disappearance in jeopardy. That was why he had to conceal his identity; the less known about him, the better.
Cruising around the Galleria, Helm saw someone who looked familiar. He nudged Richter and pointed. Richter, too, recognized the man. His eyes condensed to points. What the hell was Stevens doing here? Hadn’t he and the quarry been buddies back on Mars? Were they in on this little game together? Richter would soon find out.
Helms cut the car into a parking space. Swiftly and silently they got out, stalking the man.
Stevens left the inner circle of the mall, his eyes darting nervously into the dimness before him. He turned his head briefly to see if he was being followed—and walked straight into the arms of Richter and Helm. Helm grabbed him and smashed his head against a wall, then landed a few solid kicks to his ribs and kidneys. Stevens slumped on the sidewalk.
“What’re you doing here, Stevens?” Richter asked. “Visiting your old pal Quaid?”
“What are you talking about?” Though dazed, Stevens recognized Richter, the Agency enforcer, the kind of thug that gave the organization a bad name. Stevens leaned on one hand, propping himself up as best he could, but he knew that he was doomed.
“Do I have to explain?” Richter raised his foot and brought it down on Stevens’ widespread hand. Stevens screamed as the bones in his fingers snapped. Helm shut his mouth with another well-aimed kick.
“Where is he?”
“Can’t say,” Stevens mumbled through blood and broken teeth. “Classified.” Evidently, the ploy with the towel had been successful, and they had lost the quarry. Let him stay lost. Stevens didn’t intend to take his friend down with him.
Richter ground his heel into Stevens’ hand. The pain jolted straight up his arm to his shoulder.
“You can tell us, Stevens,” Richter said soothingly. “We’re on the same team.” He bounced casually on Stevens’ mangled hand.
“Okay, okay!” Stevens wheezed. “Just call Cohaagen; get clearance.” Furious, Richter stomped on Stevens’ shin, cracking it against the edge of the curb.
“Are we clear yet? Hunh?” he taunted.
Stevens rocked in agony. He knew he couldn’t take much more. Suddenly he felt a faint flutter of hope. Helm’s attention had been diverted by something; he elbowed Richter and pointed.
“There he is!” Richter peered into the distance and saw Quaid walking past a JohnnyCab stand on the far side of the mall. He had something white wrapped around his head and was carrying some sort of bag. Richter smiled malignantly. Yeah, Quaid was holding the bag, all right.
Gun in hand, Helm took off in pursuit, but Richter lingered, looking down at Stevens’ crumpled form. Bending slightly, he tapped Stevens on the shoulder. The man looked up, into the barrel of Richter’s gun.
A shot sounded.
CHAPTER 12
Johnny
Quaid had the satchel, but he still had nowhere to go. He walked down the street in the rain, no longer noticing it. He hoped the bag had what he needed, whatever that was. It seemed like a very slender thread on which to hang his life.
Suddenly, he heard a sound that had of late become all too familiar: someone had fired a gun. He supposed it wasn’t that unusual in this neighborhood, but he’d been through too much already to take it for granted. Looking for the source of the sound, he saw two men racing toward him. They were too far away for him to see who they were, but he didn’t wait for introductions. He turned and plunged into a waiting JohnnyCab, ducking down and trying to hide his head.
Johnny turned to the back seat and smiled his patented smile. “Welcome to JohnnyCab. Where can I take you tonight?”
“Just drive!” Quaid snapped. “Quick!”
The mannequin paused, then spoke with the same friendly tone. “Would you please repeat the destination?”
Quaid glanced back through the rear window. The two men were close enough now for him to make out their faces. They were the two goons who had been after him at the subway station. They must have traced him here despite the towel!
“Anywhere!” he exclaimed, still looking back. “Go! Go!” He saw Richter draw some heavy artillery and aim it. “Shit!”
Johnny did not move. Neither did the cab. “I’m not familiar with that address,” he said.
Now Helm had his own gun out and was taking aim. They were still half a block away, but those guns looked like young cannons from here.
“McDonald’s! Go to McDonald’s! Now!” Richter and Helm started firing. Still the cab didn’t move.
“There are fourteen McDonald’s franchises in the greater metropolitan area. Please specify—”
Enough was enough. Quaid knew that if he didn’t get moving in seconds, he’d be done for! He grabbed the mannequin and wrenched it from its moorings, dragging the thing into the backseat and taking the steering wheel with it.
Bullets shattered the back window. Quaid wished briefly for the old days, when all vehicles were required to use shatterproof glass or plastic. He leaned over the driver’s seat and reached awkwardly for the joystick on which the steering wheel had been mounted. The cab lurched forward.
Johnny’s head spoke: “Please fasten your seat belt.”
Without the steering wheel, Quaid barely had control of his vehicle. How was he going to manage?
As well as he had to, he thought grimly, as bullets whizzed past his ears. He gunned the engine and tried to maneuver the sensitive joystick into a left turn down a side street. Another window shattered and he jumped, sending the cab into a spin. He was flung to one side as the cab turned in a neat circle.
Richter and Helm poured on the gunfire. Windows exploded around Quaid as he tried to regain control of the cab. He jerked the joystick in the opposite direction—and it broke off in his hands!
“Shit!” The cab stopped spinning and sped onward, leaving Richter and Helm behind. For a moment Quaid thought he was in the clear. Then he glanced through the windshield.
He was headed directly for a concrete wall.
“Prepare for a collision,” Johnny said calmly. “Prepare for a collision.”
Quaid felt hysterical laughter fighting its way out as he struggled to reach the nub of the joystick, but it was quickly replaced by sheer terror. The car was completely out of control and the wall was getting closer by the second. A crash was unavoidable. He opened die door to jump to safety.