Hero Stalker

Part Sixty-Three

Every window looking in on the warehouse had been boarded up years ago.

The black Hummer had rolled inside fifteen minutes ago, and the doors had closed behind it. The one glimpse I'd caught of the inside had shown me a stack of boxes. Whether any of them contained Harpy's missing machine was another question.

"Don't think a buyer's coming." Slasher dropped his infra-red eyepiece back into his belt. "He's just takin' inventory. Fat bastard."

I peered out over the top of the crates we'd been crouching behind. "You know him? Is he psi-positive?"

"No clue. Femme borrowed the psi-meter. You scared?"

Only exhausted. Three days had passed since I'd gotten my new costume. Slasher and I had spent every spare minute since scouring Bayton for Harpy's machine. He'd spoken with all his contacts; I'd hit up The Worldley Fewe and even wheedled information out of Dan during our dinner Wednesday night.

According to Dan, none of the captured henchmen had seen Harpy's face. One had sworn half their organization remained at large. Two had purchased construction supplies, but none had participated in the construction of the weapon itself.

Slasher had heard rumors about this warehouse for years. It sat in the bottom corner of GreenwoodHeights, as close to the ocean as you could get without encountering law and order. The doors didn't open for anyone with less than ten thousand in cash. Half the illegal handguns in Bayton had passed through this building. Rumor had it the dealer handled even more exotic merchandise. With nothing else connecting him to Harpy, the odds didn't favor us. But we'd run out of credible leads last night.

The afternoon sunlight shone down on the broken concrete. Old cigarettes and fast food containers littered the ground. A feral cat lurked in the shade of a dumpster. You'd think two Centurions in broad daylight would attract more attention, but people in GreenwoodHeights tended to keep their eyes on the sidewalk. Some kids had been playing soccer outside the warehouse when we'd arrived. They'd called Slasher a fag. He'd whipped out a blade in response, and they'd all scattered.

"Ready to go?" Slasher asked me. I nodded. "Good. You distract the bastard and I'll get 'im."

"Why do I gotta be the diversion?"

"You're louder." Then he blurred off towards the warehouse and leapt soundlessly onto the roof. I followed him up. Bang! My feet slammed down on the folded aluminum with a shock that echoed across the building. Guess Slasher had a point.

The heat of the sun-warmed metal rose through the soles of my boots as I knelt and cut a hole in the roof. Slasher already stood on the opposite end of the building, tapping his foot. "Ladies first!" he shouted.

I dropped through the hole. My fingers caught the hot edge of a hanging lamp and swung me forward. Dust billowed up as my feet hit the floor. The safety of a gun clicked off. I leapt sideways.

A bullet tore through the space I'd just occupied. Two more shots rang out. I'd already crossed the warehouse and ducked behind his Hummer. My instincts told me to keep running—but the sound of gunfire ended, replaced by heavy breathing.

I stopped and got my first good look at the weapons dealer.

He was a pasty white man in his early forties, with a receding hairline and dark sunglasses on. His suit must have been custom-made for him, since, judging by the way his stomach came down over his knees, he must have weighed at least four hundred pounds. He'd dropped his handgun so he could lean down and pant.

"What do you know about Harpy?" I asked as I jumped down in front of him. He didn't even try to stop me from kicking his gun under a crate. Stacks of the wooden boxes covered the walls. Some were the size of shoeboxes. Others could have held cars.

"Harpy? Nothing!" He gasped as he spoke. "Lady, I'm just a supplier."

I sliced off the top of the nearest crate. A flamethrower, according to Will's Call of Duty game. "Illegal possession and sale of firearms. That's a felony. You up for fifteen years?" If not for the missing superweapon, I'd have already tied him up and called the PCD. These 'just-a-suppliers' caused far more violence than the people who fired their guns.

At the far end of the warehouse, a second circle of light appeared in the roof. Slasher shimmied across one of the metal beams in the roof and dropped quietly onto the Hummer. He waved his hand in a circle. Keep him talking.

"Last chance," I said. "Start talking 'bout Harpy, or I call the PCD."

"I know nothing about Harpy." His face had turned bright red. "You can take the word of The Boss."

"That what you call yourself?" The Donut Boss might work better. I stepped forward. Behind The Boss's back, Slasher leapt onto one of the larger crates and cut a hole in the side. He shook his head. No machine. "What about your crew, Boss? Think they know anything about Harpy?"

"They might," he said. His giant sunglasses concealed half his expression. "Want to talk to them?"

"Sure. Call 'em."

"No need. They're right here." The Boss lifted up the bottom of his shirt.

I briefly glimpsed saggy rolls of hairy flesh before something hit me like a train and knocked me back against the wall.