Robert Charrette - Arthur 03 - A Knight Among Knaves by Robert N. Charrette
Book: Robert Charrette - Arthur 03 - A Knight Among Knaves by Robert N. Charrette
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Authors: Robert N. Charrette
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spotted the lurker in an alley across the street. Any attempt at a simple, bold approach would be intercepted. Holger drove on past. He would come back on foot.
He ditched the car in the new carpark built out into Southampton Water next to Canute's Pavilion, a large structure enclosing a maze of restaurants, shops, and entertainment facilities that thrust out onto the Water. Though the rest of the old city seemed asleep there was still a crowd in th tourist attraction; the Pavilion blared sound and light into the night. Tourists, it seemed, didn't care about following the rhythms of the town. He left them to their pointless frolics and set his course away from the light and noise and towar" the quiet city. He headed toward God's House Tower, intending to work his way through the back streets to the rear of the Red Lion. In the Middle Ages there would have been guards awaiting him at the God's House Tower gate; the town had crept out beyond the gate, and the gate itself was gone, and the tower had been made into a museum. A relic— as he would be if he failed the test.
The guns of the two men who stepped out of the shadow thrown by God's House Tower were not relics. They were Smith & Wesson Equalizers™, fourteen-round, semiautomatic, 12mm handguns. Powerful. Expensive. Reputed to be highly accurate, especially when fitted with the TRW Night-fighter™ targeting system, as these were. The muzzle of the weapon thrust into Holger's face was clean, showing very little wear. The weapons were new, their matte combat finish unscuffed except for small laser-cut channels where the manufacturer's serial number and the owner's registration number had been. That last datapoint told him that he was not dealing with run-of-the-mill street toughs.
Obstacles in the test? The weapons weren't standard issue, and the faces weren't familiar. He'd thought that he knew all the possible opposition. Whoever they were, they had caught him off guard. His own fault.
"Give us the chip," said the one with his weapon in Holger's face.
Holger could hand over the chip. Containing nothing more than bogus files, the chip wasn't worth anything. But that wasn't the point. The point was that he had been entrusted with it. The chip was not his to give up.
"Since you ask so politely, I don't see how I can refuse," he said mildly, in an attempt to put them at ease.
He slowly opened the left side of his greatcoat and lifted his right hand, as if to reach in and get out the chip. Instead, he struck out and snagged the talker's wrist. Holger pulled the man closer and drove his left fist into the talker's solar plexus. There was armor there. Not enough. The power of Holger's strike drove the air from the man's body.
His partner reacted, raising his pistol to fire. Holger pulled back and away from the man. The Equalizer's throaty cough sounded, a three-round burst. Holger felt two slugs hit thee talker, his shield. One round ripped through the talker's sleeve and struck Holger in the ribs. Hard. It hurt!
Real bullets weren't part of the test specifications.
Red anger flashed in Holger's mind. He heaved the talker into the other man. The two of them went down. Holger was on the partner before he could recover, foot smashing into the man's chin as he struggled to rise. Holger felt and heard hone crack in the man's jaw. He went back down on the pavement, hard. More bone cracked as his skull connected with the concrete.
No movement. No breath. No pulse. Just the stink of feces, urine, and blood.
Dead.
So was the talker. One of his partner's bullets had found a chink in his armor.
Something was wrong.
Holger checked the bodies. He found no identification. Cards, yes, but only certified debit cards. Like the weapons they carried, nothing they wore had identifying marks. The communications gear they carried was not standard ECSS issue, and like the Equalizers, it was expensive stuff.
No ID. No standard-issue gear. Nothing obviously traceable. It all added up
He ditched the car in the new carpark built out into Southampton Water next to Canute's Pavilion, a large structure enclosing a maze of restaurants, shops, and entertainment facilities that thrust out onto the Water. Though the rest of the old city seemed asleep there was still a crowd in th tourist attraction; the Pavilion blared sound and light into the night. Tourists, it seemed, didn't care about following the rhythms of the town. He left them to their pointless frolics and set his course away from the light and noise and towar" the quiet city. He headed toward God's House Tower, intending to work his way through the back streets to the rear of the Red Lion. In the Middle Ages there would have been guards awaiting him at the God's House Tower gate; the town had crept out beyond the gate, and the gate itself was gone, and the tower had been made into a museum. A relic— as he would be if he failed the test.
The guns of the two men who stepped out of the shadow thrown by God's House Tower were not relics. They were Smith & Wesson Equalizers™, fourteen-round, semiautomatic, 12mm handguns. Powerful. Expensive. Reputed to be highly accurate, especially when fitted with the TRW Night-fighter™ targeting system, as these were. The muzzle of the weapon thrust into Holger's face was clean, showing very little wear. The weapons were new, their matte combat finish unscuffed except for small laser-cut channels where the manufacturer's serial number and the owner's registration number had been. That last datapoint told him that he was not dealing with run-of-the-mill street toughs.
Obstacles in the test? The weapons weren't standard issue, and the faces weren't familiar. He'd thought that he knew all the possible opposition. Whoever they were, they had caught him off guard. His own fault.
"Give us the chip," said the one with his weapon in Holger's face.
Holger could hand over the chip. Containing nothing more than bogus files, the chip wasn't worth anything. But that wasn't the point. The point was that he had been entrusted with it. The chip was not his to give up.
"Since you ask so politely, I don't see how I can refuse," he said mildly, in an attempt to put them at ease.
He slowly opened the left side of his greatcoat and lifted his right hand, as if to reach in and get out the chip. Instead, he struck out and snagged the talker's wrist. Holger pulled the man closer and drove his left fist into the talker's solar plexus. There was armor there. Not enough. The power of Holger's strike drove the air from the man's body.
His partner reacted, raising his pistol to fire. Holger pulled back and away from the man. The Equalizer's throaty cough sounded, a three-round burst. Holger felt two slugs hit thee talker, his shield. One round ripped through the talker's sleeve and struck Holger in the ribs. Hard. It hurt!
Real bullets weren't part of the test specifications.
Red anger flashed in Holger's mind. He heaved the talker into the other man. The two of them went down. Holger was on the partner before he could recover, foot smashing into the man's chin as he struggled to rise. Holger felt and heard hone crack in the man's jaw. He went back down on the pavement, hard. More bone cracked as his skull connected with the concrete.
No movement. No breath. No pulse. Just the stink of feces, urine, and blood.
Dead.
So was the talker. One of his partner's bullets had found a chink in his armor.
Something was wrong.
Holger checked the bodies. He found no identification. Cards, yes, but only certified debit cards. Like the weapons they carried, nothing they wore had identifying marks. The communications gear they carried was not standard ECSS issue, and like the Equalizers, it was expensive stuff.
No ID. No standard-issue gear. Nothing obviously traceable. It all added up
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