Jagger still needed more Berger chips. A lot more. Either that, or his own attraction to me was keeping him in thralldom. So far, setting him free was a failure. If Jacopo were accidently transitioned, I could get my people killed.
???
It was midnight, but we were too coffee-wired to go to sleep. When you haven’t had good coffee in years and you drink two cups of espresso, it jumpstarts your body like an anti-grav grabber. You feel like you’re floating, vibrating, and you have to move. So Jagger, our bodyguard, Cupcake, five cats, and I ordered a rental car recommended by Marconi (which meant he likely owned a percentage of the company) and drove to see the earthmover he had reserved for us. We were exceptionally well-dressed visitors to the equipment yard, but no one said anything about the strappy heels and the dresses, not after Marconi’s call and approval. We traipsed across dry rutted ground to the earthmover, and Jagger looked it over.
Half a century ago, it was the latest model, one designed to use a variety of shovels, buckets, snowplow, moldboard, and grader. The paint was long gone, but the mechanics and hydraulics looked well maintained, and the bucket was new and not missing teeth. In a shed nearby was a high-capacity pump, which came with a bladder system, and Jagger seemed to know why that was important and how to use it. He and Cupcake and the bodyguard—I finally learned his name was Amos—had a long conversation about the equipment and its limitations and strengths. I listened and learned a lot about bladders, valves, gear boxes, and hydraulics. It was information a scrapyard owner and any warrior might need.
We got back to the hotel before 2:00 a.m., sent Amos off, and we three curled up on the sofa and the chair, with the cats running everywhere, mock hunting. Together we went over prewar city maps and new maps, and discussed getting the machines to the swamp where the Simba was buried. I hadn’t seen wetlands in years and was looking forward to it.
At breakfast, I would be bargaining for the rest of the equipment we needed to rescue the battle tank. We needed my trades with Morrison’s Foundry, Metals, and Scrap to provide us with a single piece of military equipment that a snoop from Harlan’s old network had suggested Morrison possessed. A rare, hard to turn over, and very expensive piece of equipment that fell off an Army truck—meaning it was stolen.
Marty Morrison was a sneaky bastard. I had to be on my toes.
So of course, I crashed at 4:00 a.m. I never heard Jagger leave.
The only good thing about the busy night and the crash was that Jagger’s afternoon kiss and its promise of mind-blowing sex went nowhere. Which was good. Because I had already surely reinfected Jagger by sticking my tongue down his throat.
???
There was no espresso to wake me up. Jagger did that by banging on our door. It was so loud the hotel patrons up the hall shouted in irritation.
Cupcake and I got fast showers—God, I loved water!—smeared on sunscreen, dressed in sun-protective clothing and gear, grabbed weapons, and headed into the day. Jagger was in the hotel’s secure parking area, sitting on his anonymous bike beside the big rig. Amos was standing beside him, carrying a rifle, a shotgun, two handguns, and a daypack. When Cupcake maneuvered the huge diesel onto the road, the bodyguard jumped into the bed and made himself comfy, protecting the trade items. I liked Amos. He was dependable, not trigger-happy, steady like a rock. And he brought his own guns.
Morrison’s Foundry, Metals, and Scrap was on the other side of the river, and Cupcake maneuvered the rig over the rickety bridge like the pro she was, chattering incessantly. I was pretty sure that if I’d had coffee, I would feel less inclined to strangle her. Maybe.
Jagger followed us on his motorcycle, weaponed up like he was going to war, meaning he carried everything he owned that cut, sliced, diced, boiled people’s innards, or went bang. At Morrison’s, Cupcake pulled in where I instructed, and parked the rig while I fluffed my spiked hair, smeared on fresh lipstick, and prayed Marty would serve coffee with our breakfast.
I secured my weapons: a ten-millimeter strapped over my jeans at my left thigh, a .32 holstered at my spine over a T-shirt and under a loose cotton shirt, and a blaster holstered on my right thigh close beside my hand. I had done business at Morrison’s four times in the past, but I’d never had a stack of sterling or the jewelry Cupcake had unearthed. I didn’t want Marty to think I was a pushover, or that he could help himself, or about his profit margins if he ended us and dumped our bodies in a hole.
I pulled on thin leather gloves that covered my bicolor-ant scars and swung down from the cab. The cats dropped down after me. “As soon as you find the new containers, let me know,” I said to Spy. “They’ll smell different from containers that have been in the scrapyard for years. And watch out for junkyard dogs.”
She tilted her head, clearly insulted that I thought she and her pals couldn’t handle a dog or two. The cats scattered.
I tapped my comms and said quietly, “Mateo?” TheSunStar’s EntNu communication system was handy in case we needed info not available on my outdated Berger chip. And in case Mateo had to mount a do-or-die rescue, giving away all our secrets and probably getting caught and stripped out of his warbot suit. Which would kill him. The last thing I wanted.
“Copy,” his metallic voice said.
I walked around to the side of the truck bed and peered at Amos through the side slats. “Stay put. You hear shots, you protect the trade items. If there’s a firefight and we get through this alive, your bonus will be nice. And stay out of the sun.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He grinned through a full beard, missing teeth attesting to his familiarity with fistfights, and popped open an umbrella I hadn’t seen. He relaxed in its meager shade.
I met Jagger and Cupcake, adjusted my 2-Gen sunglasses, and tugged the gloves tighter for possible weapons draw. “Let’s go have breakfast with Marty.”
“Rock and roll,” Cupcake said. She tossed the bag of jewelry she had brought to trade and caught it one-handed, before tying it to her belt at her split cotton skirt. She looked tough yet feminine, wearing biker boots, a plaid shirt tied at the waist, and Little Mama’s old hat, which she had called a fancy Panama sunhat. She carried a sawed-off shotgun, one I hadn’t seen before, and I started to tell her the recoil would knock her on her ass, but she did have my nanos. She probably could handle the recoil just fine.
I led the way to the front door of the sales room, smelling bacon and maple syrup on the air. Marty had never offered me breakfast before. Cupcake said, “By the way, I’m your security, personal secretary, and antiquities specialist. My job is to make sure you get the biggest bang for your buck. And keep Marty off-balance.”
I chuckled. “Knock yourself out. He knows me as Ms. Smith. If you have to use a first name, go with Heather.”
Cupcake entered—shotgun to the fore—and stepped to the left. I entered and stepped beside her. Jagger followed to the right and closed the door. After the bright daylight, the interior of Morrison’s was blindingly dim. I pulled off my sunglasses, even my weird eyes needing light. The public area had been refloored, the walls painted, and a new sales counter installed. Three men stood behind it, two of them with weapons out. The one without a weapon drawn was Marty.
“Ms. Smith!” he called out, too loud, hale and hearty. “Just in time.” He rounded the counter and indicated the small area to the right of the door. It had once been an octagonal nook with tall windows, but had been redecorated since my last visit, now with a round table and chairs, the windows draped. Marty pulled out a seat for me, one facing the windows, my back to the door. Cupcake slid around me and took up a position in an angle of the nook. She stared at Marty as she pulled out the chair in the most secure spot. Without a word, I took the seat she offered. Jagger moved across the room to a better firing angle. He could take down the armed men behind the counter, shoot Marty in the back, as well as cover the front door and the hallway leading into the back of the shop. Or he could stand there looking scary. Which he did.
I settled myself and said to Marty, “It smells divine. I was honored when my assistant said you invited me to breakfast.” I pulled off the holster and blaster with a melodramatic relieved sigh and placed them on the table, inches from my plate. I smiled at Marty.
Marty Morrison had never seen my funky orange irises. They gave some people the willies. Marty stared at them, seeing the color, not me. I had considered that my weirdness might be useful. Seemed I was right.
Cupcake asked, “Breakfast first, or deals?”
