just ahead. The skycar dropped to street level, angled into Marigold Lane, parked on the cobbled drive of the large adobe house marked 820. Corey tumbled out, dashed to the porch and pounded on the door until a frazzled Martin P. Daniels answered.
“Your garage!” Corey hollered at him, flashing an official-looking GoCom ID.
“M-my what?”
“Open the garage!”
“Of course, of course,” sputtered Martin P. Daniels, scrambling to obey.
A dark blue Daemon Millennium was parked in the garage. The backseat was empty. A window in the side of the garage was open. For a second Corey thought of going after her.
Only for a second. He knew she was long gone.
The trip back to HQ was the longest journey of Corey’s life.
FAT Frank couldn’t sleep. He had a guilty conscience. There were a lot of nights Fat Frank couldn’t sleep, but he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a guilty conscience. A man who deliberately rents living space to criminals and helps sell their services to even bigger criminals doesn’t have much of a conscience left.
He decided to do what he often did when he couldn’t sleep: look at his collection.
Fat Frank didn’t collect stamps or coins or anything as trivial as that. Fat Frank collected cars—vintage cars from as early as the twentieth century. His collection was in a warehouse past Palm Hills Estates, south of the lake. He was on his way there now in an old, rusting hatchback. He didn’t drive the cars in his collection. He didn’t do anything with them but polish them and look at them admiringly in the middle of the night when he couldn’t sleep.
The old, rusting hatchback pulled up to a security gate outside the warehouse. A guard stepped out of a booth. “Hiya, Frank.”
“Wanna let me in?”
“Sure, Frank. Got your ID by chance?”
“You kidding me?”
“Hey, just doing my job!”
“Your job is to open the gate for me, kid. Now move it.”
“You said always check ID, even if I think it’s you.”
“I also said you’re fired if you annoy me again.”
“Right, opening the gate.”
Cameras watched him as he parked in front of the warehouse. He key-carded his way into the foyer, got buzzed into a hallway by another guard, and key-carded into another hallway. Then he punched a long code at a keypad to turn off the interior alarm system.
It cost a lot to protect his collection. It was even more expensive to have his collection in the first place, and sometimes more expensive yet to have pieces of his collection shipped from Earth to Anterra. It was an expensive hobby, all right. But Fat Frank could afford it since he made a nice living helping people commit felonies.
Finally he key-carded through a thick metal door into the central chamber of the warehouse. He stood in the dark at the top of a stairway, and punched a button. One after another, banks of lights flickered to life and revealed his precious collectibles parked at random angles on the vast polished floor below. Fat Frank looked down on his twenty-three gleaming beauties.
He felt better already.
Number twenty-four would be arriving next week—a Benz roadster from the mid twenty-first century. Only a handful had been manufactured. As he walked down the stairs Fat Frank considered where he would park the roadster when it arrived. Maybe over there near the yellow Ferrari, he thought. He could back the Ferrari up a little, nearer that pillar, and then—
Fat Frank paused in mid-step. He looked at the yellow Ferrari again. He squinted, but he couldn’t be sure. So he ran down the rest of the steps and took a closer look.
No. His eyes hadn’t deceived him. It wasn’t just a weird reflection in the windshield. It was a bullet hole.
So much for feeling better.
He was shocked at first. Then his shock turned into anger. Eventually rational thought made its way through the emotions and brought up the question: How
“Your garage!” Corey hollered at him, flashing an official-looking GoCom ID.
“M-my what?”
“Open the garage!”
“Of course, of course,” sputtered Martin P. Daniels, scrambling to obey.
A dark blue Daemon Millennium was parked in the garage. The backseat was empty. A window in the side of the garage was open. For a second Corey thought of going after her.
Only for a second. He knew she was long gone.
The trip back to HQ was the longest journey of Corey’s life.
FAT Frank couldn’t sleep. He had a guilty conscience. There were a lot of nights Fat Frank couldn’t sleep, but he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a guilty conscience. A man who deliberately rents living space to criminals and helps sell their services to even bigger criminals doesn’t have much of a conscience left.
He decided to do what he often did when he couldn’t sleep: look at his collection.
Fat Frank didn’t collect stamps or coins or anything as trivial as that. Fat Frank collected cars—vintage cars from as early as the twentieth century. His collection was in a warehouse past Palm Hills Estates, south of the lake. He was on his way there now in an old, rusting hatchback. He didn’t drive the cars in his collection. He didn’t do anything with them but polish them and look at them admiringly in the middle of the night when he couldn’t sleep.
The old, rusting hatchback pulled up to a security gate outside the warehouse. A guard stepped out of a booth. “Hiya, Frank.”
“Wanna let me in?”
“Sure, Frank. Got your ID by chance?”
“You kidding me?”
“Hey, just doing my job!”
“Your job is to open the gate for me, kid. Now move it.”
“You said always check ID, even if I think it’s you.”
“I also said you’re fired if you annoy me again.”
“Right, opening the gate.”
Cameras watched him as he parked in front of the warehouse. He key-carded his way into the foyer, got buzzed into a hallway by another guard, and key-carded into another hallway. Then he punched a long code at a keypad to turn off the interior alarm system.
It cost a lot to protect his collection. It was even more expensive to have his collection in the first place, and sometimes more expensive yet to have pieces of his collection shipped from Earth to Anterra. It was an expensive hobby, all right. But Fat Frank could afford it since he made a nice living helping people commit felonies.
Finally he key-carded through a thick metal door into the central chamber of the warehouse. He stood in the dark at the top of a stairway, and punched a button. One after another, banks of lights flickered to life and revealed his precious collectibles parked at random angles on the vast polished floor below. Fat Frank looked down on his twenty-three gleaming beauties.
He felt better already.
Number twenty-four would be arriving next week—a Benz roadster from the mid twenty-first century. Only a handful had been manufactured. As he walked down the stairs Fat Frank considered where he would park the roadster when it arrived. Maybe over there near the yellow Ferrari, he thought. He could back the Ferrari up a little, nearer that pillar, and then—
Fat Frank paused in mid-step. He looked at the yellow Ferrari again. He squinted, but he couldn’t be sure. So he ran down the rest of the steps and took a closer look.
No. His eyes hadn’t deceived him. It wasn’t just a weird reflection in the windshield. It was a bullet hole.
So much for feeling better.
He was shocked at first. Then his shock turned into anger. Eventually rational thought made its way through the emotions and brought up the question: How
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