Resistance by John Birmingham

stutter to a halt, but this time they froze not because he had accelerated beyond any human ability to perceive his movement, but merely out of shock. It was possible, he conceded that Georgia’s little squeal was also a result of the gentle butt squeeze he’d given her. She did reach around and grab at her delightfully tight buns, as though goosed by a ghost travelling at warp speed.
    The agent he’d disarmed cried out in surprise and probably some pain. The suit Armando elbowed in the face crashed into the wall. And then Georgia swore once, loudly, even as she jumped involuntarily away from the space where Dave appeared to simply pop into existence, after having disappeared in a blur of fluid movement.
    ‘Stand down!’ Trinder shouted. ‘I said, stand down!’ It was the first smart move he’d made since barging into the room. His face, which had been florid with excitement, now looked sallow and slack. A long, uncomfortable second or two of silence followed, broken only by the thump of the elbowed agent sliding to the floor, groaning and snuffling through his broken nose and bloody lips.
    ‘Comeau,’ said Trinder. ‘See to Agent Bates.’
    One of the Men in Black moved toward the injured agent.
    ‘So, who’d you say you were?’ Dave asked. ‘I’m Dave, by the way. Or Super Dave if you like. That works for me too.’
    ‘His name is Donald Trinder,’ a deep, commanding voice announced from the back of the room.
    Heath.
    Dave Hooper didn’t know whether to smile or flinch. Instead he settled, like everyone else, for turning toward the severe-looking black man who had just forced his way into the proceedings at exactly the right moment. Almost as though he had been waiting for it. A couple of inches over six foot, a long dark streak of corded muscle and deep disapproval with the world, Michael Heath, Captain, United States Navy, gave the impression of glaring at everyone all at once.
    Agent Trinder, Dave noted, did not appear to be pleased by the arrival of his . . . What? His colleague? Dave had worn that same look on his own face many times at Baron’s. Most recently when he thought they were hanging him out to dry for the fire on the Longreach. Before anyone knew what had actually happened.
    Even the small pack of carnivorous management consultants, or talent handlers, or whatever they were, fell silent under the power of the glowering, dark-skinned officer in khaki trousers and a short-sleeved tan dress shirt.
    Again with the confusing wardrobe choices, thought Dave. They were in the desert, why not wear the desert cammies? The mind boggled.
    ‘Chief Allen?’
    ‘Sir!’ Zach dropped the surfer dude ’tude for pure military mode.
    ‘Clear the room of civilians,’ Heath barked, leading Trinder to issue a follow-up order to the agents he had out in the hallway to assist.
    The protests, empty threats and cries of outrage faded away as the small crowd was forced out of earshot. Dave was sorry to see that fistful of Benjamins disappear.
    ‘Them too,’ said Heath, indicating the Fox News staffers.
    ‘No way,’ Georgia Knox said, folding her arms and jutting her chin at the naval officer. ‘You’re on private property, buddy. We’re here as guests of the Bellagio, isn’t that right, Alec?’
    Alec looked as though he was in no shape for a fight with anyone, and simply muttered something unintelligible. Armando bristled in his place.
    ‘She’s right,’ he said. ‘Unless you want a civil rights suit from both the hotel and Fox News you can back the fuck up, Sinbad.’
    All of the smooth polish and charm on display when Armando had been helping Dave get ready for the show, and possibly copping a bit of a feel, was gone. The fluttering tone of voice, the barely perceptible lisp, the lightness of touch, they had all been replaced by an aggressive brawler’s demeanour. Dave expected to find Armando with his fists bunched up in a challenge to Heath, but instead saw the man had shifted position only