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Alianha. You know, the two who called us in on the Nat Vat thing?"
I laughed aloud, letting some of my tension go. "You mean Zig and Zag." I nodded with satisfaction.
"Good. They shoot straight and fast."
"Glad you approve. When your two boys take the fence out, we go in hot." Stealth pointed off toward the seashore. "La Plante tends to concentrate his guards on the wet side because he expects me to bob up out of the water and come at him from that direction. We'll go in at the other end and just start ripping things up."
I tossed Stealth a quick nod and he signaled the Redwings to move forward. The light from inside the cannery went out, and the men deployed themselves with quiet efficiency. I followed behind Stealth and hunkered down when he did as we approached the twelve-meter-tall cyclone fence topped with thick coils of razor-wire.
Two figures silhouetted themselves against The Rock's glow as they sauntered toward our position.
Stealth moved his head back and forth a couple of times, then allowed himself a grim smile. "A bit late, but it's them." He moved forward and I joined him at the fence. Zig, a solidly built razorboy sporting a longcoat and an AK-97, gave me a nod of recognition. "Sorry we took so long, chummers. The VIP
yacht arrived late at the docks—only about an hour ago. Assignments got scrambled. It looks like something is going down very shortly—the yacht's owner and La Plante wandered off for a heated chat."
Zag—bigger than his Caucasian partner and wearing an orange and black gang jacket with the Halloweener insignia torn off—fished a remote control device from his pocket. He pointed it at the section of fence and hit a button. "There, it's down. I hope this thing is reporting back normally the way you said it would. If not, we'll have more trouble than we need in about two minutes."
Stealth answered eloquently by reaching out with his right foot and clawing away some of the fence. In a half-dozen passes—unaccompanied by warning sirens or the shouts of guards—he opened a hole large enough for us to drive the whole cannery through. I crossed over first and took up a forward position with Zig and Zag as the Redwings followed. "Zig, tell me more about this yacht."
He shrugged. "Don't know that much about ships. I make it thirty meters long at least and capable of transoceanic travel. The crew are wee little brown guys who find things like razor claws and the like to be amusing. I suspect they're like you—they rely on magic instead of chrome. All of them carry nasty-looking daggers, but they're not strangers to guns."
I turned to his partner and gave the black man a gentle elbow in the ribs. "Yacht have a name?"
Zag shrugged. The red light in his right eye flickered as he tried to remember if he'd seen any name on the ship's hull. "Nothing I saw, but it did have some funny writing where I would have expected the name to be. And in one of the cabins, there were no pictures, only geometric designs."
I frowned. Funny writing and geometric designs meant only one thing to me: Moslems. Growing up, I'd known a family that ran a restaurant down on the strip. They claimed their people had come to Seattle before the Awakening from a place called Syria and they used geometric designs and Arabic for decorations on the menus. I knew that country was some place on the other side of the planet, and I knew Islam was widespread enough to make the ship's point of origin any place from Spain to Indonesia.
Even with that wealth of information, however, I couldn't puzzle out what someone from so far away would want with Etienne La Plante.
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
Stealth crouched down behind me. "Heard the questions and answers. What do you think?"
I swallowed hard. "I think someone has gone to an incredible expense to get something from La Plante.
If we assume that something was Moira Alianha, we can
Alianha. You know, the two who called us in on the Nat Vat thing?"
I laughed aloud, letting some of my tension go. "You mean Zig and Zag." I nodded with satisfaction.
"Good. They shoot straight and fast."
"Glad you approve. When your two boys take the fence out, we go in hot." Stealth pointed off toward the seashore. "La Plante tends to concentrate his guards on the wet side because he expects me to bob up out of the water and come at him from that direction. We'll go in at the other end and just start ripping things up."
I tossed Stealth a quick nod and he signaled the Redwings to move forward. The light from inside the cannery went out, and the men deployed themselves with quiet efficiency. I followed behind Stealth and hunkered down when he did as we approached the twelve-meter-tall cyclone fence topped with thick coils of razor-wire.
Two figures silhouetted themselves against The Rock's glow as they sauntered toward our position.
Stealth moved his head back and forth a couple of times, then allowed himself a grim smile. "A bit late, but it's them." He moved forward and I joined him at the fence. Zig, a solidly built razorboy sporting a longcoat and an AK-97, gave me a nod of recognition. "Sorry we took so long, chummers. The VIP
yacht arrived late at the docks—only about an hour ago. Assignments got scrambled. It looks like something is going down very shortly—the yacht's owner and La Plante wandered off for a heated chat."
Zag—bigger than his Caucasian partner and wearing an orange and black gang jacket with the Halloweener insignia torn off—fished a remote control device from his pocket. He pointed it at the section of fence and hit a button. "There, it's down. I hope this thing is reporting back normally the way you said it would. If not, we'll have more trouble than we need in about two minutes."
Stealth answered eloquently by reaching out with his right foot and clawing away some of the fence. In a half-dozen passes—unaccompanied by warning sirens or the shouts of guards—he opened a hole large enough for us to drive the whole cannery through. I crossed over first and took up a forward position with Zig and Zag as the Redwings followed. "Zig, tell me more about this yacht."
He shrugged. "Don't know that much about ships. I make it thirty meters long at least and capable of transoceanic travel. The crew are wee little brown guys who find things like razor claws and the like to be amusing. I suspect they're like you—they rely on magic instead of chrome. All of them carry nasty-looking daggers, but they're not strangers to guns."
I turned to his partner and gave the black man a gentle elbow in the ribs. "Yacht have a name?"
Zag shrugged. The red light in his right eye flickered as he tried to remember if he'd seen any name on the ship's hull. "Nothing I saw, but it did have some funny writing where I would have expected the name to be. And in one of the cabins, there were no pictures, only geometric designs."
I frowned. Funny writing and geometric designs meant only one thing to me: Moslems. Growing up, I'd known a family that ran a restaurant down on the strip. They claimed their people had come to Seattle before the Awakening from a place called Syria and they used geometric designs and Arabic for decorations on the menus. I knew that country was some place on the other side of the planet, and I knew Islam was widespread enough to make the ship's point of origin any place from Spain to Indonesia.
Even with that wealth of information, however, I couldn't puzzle out what someone from so far away would want with Etienne La Plante.
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
Stealth crouched down behind me. "Heard the questions and answers. What do you think?"
I swallowed hard. "I think someone has gone to an incredible expense to get something from La Plante.
If we assume that something was Moira Alianha, we can
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