The rest of the evening was as unpleasant and nerve-wracking as the welcome. We made awkward small talk. We drank the bottle of really good wine and ate the excellent food. Cupcake had taken all sorts of Berger-chip lessons, and it was a fabulous meal. The cats sat and watched and accepted bits of chicken as their due, though I figured they were thinking that raw human would have been a better choice. They were on their best behavior, but they all had that predator look in their eyes.
When the plates were cleaned and everyone left, including most of the cats, I stripped and climbed into my bed. Tuffs and Spy joined me. I lay in the bed and stared at the ceiling for far too long, wondering what in the name of anything that might be holy was happening to my thralls.
* * *
I woke an hour before dawn, my thoughts moving, as always, to Harlan, who had been my best friend, the source of much of my intel in the junk business, and my only connection to the OMW. He’d been like a father to me until he was tortured and killed by Warhammer. Vengeance wasn’t a god or a religion, but until I killed Harlan’s murderer, the destruction of Warhammer and her nest would be the center vision of my life. Like every other morning when I first woke, I pledged to kill her for him. If that made killing her my God, then I was surely going to hell.
I rolled over, dislodging Spy, who was draped over my head on my pillow. The command chair was back in place.
I needed to have a long chat with my . . . whatever Cupcake was to me.
My feet hit the floor; my fist hit the coffee maker on. I let the two cats out, cracked their outdoor water bowls free of ice, and started my day. Same as always. But today wasn’t the same as always. Today was the negotiation with the biker clubs, and I had no idea who might show up to talk—or who might show up to kill.
Mateo said into the office speaker system, “Heading out, Shining. Full camo, and all defensive measures active. The Simba and I will be in place when you arrive, if intervention or exfil is needed.”
If he wasn’t needed, no one would ever see him. If he was needed, the shit would likely have hit the fan and blood would have already been spilled.
“Be careful,” I said to him. He didn’t reply.
* * *
The negotiations were to be held at Marconi’s fortress, the one I gave to him in McQuestion’s name—which, in hindsight, hadn’t necessarily been smart. It wouldn’t be an easy drive, not with the bandits, gangs, and poor road conditions, but we could manage.
As Cupcake and I swung into the old truck, which Mateo and Cupcake had loaded and argued over, I figured we had about a twenty percent chance of getting away alive and about a two percent chance of getting away without spilled blood. I also figured we had about a one percent chance we would get there and back without someone trying to make off with Cupcake’s negotiation goodies.
Spy’s clowder jumped inside too, this time with Tuffs and Notch in charge, sitting on the dash. Spy landed in my lap instead of on the dash with her queen. The presence of Tuffs and Notch bothered me on some level, but nothing was clear about why I should be worried, so I let it slide.
In the back of the flatbed, Amos positioned himself in his recliner, which he had rescued on our last jaunt, weapons across his lap. Wanda and Alex were beside him, curled up on a daybed they had found somewhere. I didn’t want to leave them in the junkyard unsupervised, and they had a day or so before they transitioned to my new nanobots, so they could travel. And for this trip there was a nice sunshade over the passengers in the flatbed, a retractable awning taken from the RV where my dinette set and small fridge had come from. The rigging had all the earmarks of a shade-tree mechanic, meaning it was ugly but it worked.
I caught a glimpse of other cats leaping high into the back of the truck.
“Tuffs? Why so many cats?” I asked.
She turned her greener-than-green eyes to me and blinked before turning back to peer out the windshield.
I had not planned on the cats. With the odds of making this work so low—getting the leaders to agree on anything at all, rescuing Evelyn, killing Warhammer, and living through it without infecting everyone I came into contact with—I should have been worried at this last-minute addition. But fighting the cats sounded like a war I couldn’t win. When Cupcake turned the key and the ancient truck began to rumble, my worries began to lift.
“I’m puttin’ on that singer I like,” Jolene said over the speakers. Her favorite song began to play, and it was like a blessing.Jolene, Jolene, Jolene, Joleeeen. Unfortunately, Cupcake joined in, and while my nanobots had given her youth and excellent health, they had not given her a voice at all. She still sounded like cats screaming. Tuffs’s ear tabs folded in, and she turned a regal head to stare at Cupcake in disdain. Spy buried her head in my armpit. I laughed, the sound unexpected and carefree. If I was feeling even the slightest bit positive, it was because of the presence of my nest. I needed them as much as they needed me.
I tapped my tiny earbud and said, “Jolene, the helm is yours. Take care of the place while we’re gone.”
“Shining Sugah, I got it.” As Cupcake pulled us down the drive, Jolene added, “Full alert. Shields active, RVACs in flight, all weapons are a go. Automatic defensive systems active. Hey Gomez, you ever heard of phone sex?”
I tapped my mic and shut my earbuds off. Jolene’s relationship with Gomez—the Bug ship’s AI—was not something I wanted to know about. I checked the truck’s weapons systems, sensors, and integrated screens, which had been seriously upgraded using the military equipment I had confiscated from Morrison’s. I had set fire to the place, leaving his body to burn.
Killing Morrison had been step one in getting revenge for Harlan’s death.
Uniting the motorcycle clubs was step two.
Destroying Warhammer and her nest was step three.
And I’d succeed or die trying.
* * *
We were a few klicks from the armored house, and three-quarters of the way to busted spines and concussions from the bouncing of the old truck, when Jolene silenced the music and said, “Mateo is in position and has reported. An armored Harley One Rider pulled into the parking area. Make of bike and body size and weight of its rider appear to match that of Logan Jagger.”
All sorts of things went through my mind, all of them good, none of them helpful. “Patch Mateo’s screens through,” I requested.
