Chapter Nine
The initial mission had been one of infiltration, but had been redefined at the last moment. The reason for the last minute switch was not revealed. Deckard figured the Section had discovered what was inside the compound by other means and did not like what that was at all. The personnel inside were to be contained, the compound destroyed. To do that, mines would have to be placed at key locations, without alerting the massive force within. The perimeter guard would have to be skirted, mines placed, exit made, and the compound obliterated. This was the first time Ultra One-Seven would be working in tandem with Ultra Team Alpha.
The two teams had met on base before in passing, but nothing close up or official. Alpha team's missions had been more along the lines of Commando raids. Light assaults on positions, diversions, demolitions, and operations requiring more direct force fell into the hands of Ultra team Alpha. This time, Alpha team would be escort and guard, escort to the edge of insertion, guard the exit in case One-Seven was discovered.
The mission had been going on target, almost all the mines had been placed, forty-one, to be exact. Alpha had perched, just out of sight, with a sniper rifle watching the scene. A guard had moved off his position, but One-Seven had seen him and stayed put. Now, One-Seven was edging their way back to Alpha's position. After that, a leisurely walk through the woods, blow the mines, then await pickup. Then it happened. A man with a large machine strapped to his chest, a tech of some type. His ears were covered with a large headset.
The technician meandered through the courtyard, swinging the front end of the machine to and fro. Bowen kept a bead on him through the scope. His features were quite plain in the scope-light. The man's face took on a look of surprise, he looked quickly up. Right in the direction of One-Seven's exit route. A millisecond to decide. Bowen decided. The suppressed crack of the rifle could've been passed off as a snapping tree branch. But only one thing could explain the tech's sudden crash to the ground, his eyes wide and empty. There were two guards near him, as he fell, and both went for the alarm. Bowen dropped one before he made it, but not the other. Shouts, a general calamity of armed figures streamed out of the main structure, and high piercing shriek filled the air.
"One-Seven, check, One-Seven." Bowen breathed into his throat mike. Static echoed through the headset twice. One-Seven was active, but keeping silent. Then, one of the mines on the far side of the compound went off. Screams, shouts and sounds of destruction increased against the canvas of black, oily smoke. Bowen was mystified; the mines had been wired to go off all at once. He picked his targets and sent them down, each one with a third eye.
Murphy, meanwhile had been stirring restlessly at his side, howling softly. At One-Seven's approach, he gave a small bark. Bowen gathered his gear, as the Ultra team went racing by.
"Time to leave the party, Alpha!" Deckard said as he ducked into the trees. Alpha followed suit. They caught up with One-Seven, keeping a steady, quiet, pace through the thick of it.
"Why did the mine go off?" A hushed pant.
"When that tech came out, I knew we were tipped, so I rewired. Thanks for taking him down before he pointed and yelled." One-Seven stopped. "Better duck down, some of the mines had haz-mat/NBC decals on them,"
The two teams squatted behind cover and the detonator was clicked seven times. The explosion was so loud, it seemed the very air was shattered and blown away. The shock wave blew in a concentric ring twenty meters above their heads. The forest caught fire, and the wreckage began raining down on their heads.
Without a word, they turned and ran towards their extraction point, Kitka point, Murphy tail gun. They cleared the forest, with billows of black smoke pouring into the heavens. They stopped on a small cliff, as Murphy followed a path down to the beach. The sense of urgency was gone from their composure. Slowly and silently, they filed down to the beach. Nothing in the compound survived, above it or below it. The facility, the men in it, the clearing, the whole compound, and the forest were burnt to cinders by now, the entire area, contaminated. On the beach, a small amphibious jet copter was waiting for them. It would take them to a ship, or submergible fort for decontamination and debriefing.
.
Deckard and Kitka hailed a cab and rode down to the docks, where "Tubby's hat" lay. He had decided to dress in a black suit, white shirt, and black tie. He had seen a mob movie where all the characters wore it. Even if it just a movie, the outfit was anonymous and good cover. They stood on the edge of the dock where the club way, watching.
"Wait in the alley, that's where they'll probably go."
Kitka hummed, blinked and trotted off. He then went into Tubby's Chapeau. There was a maitre'd at a podium. Inside was white tablecloths, red velvet wallpaper, red and white tiles, candles in wine bottles on the tables. There were a number of people, men and women inside. Clinking plates & glasses, soft piano music filled the gaps between throaty conversation and high feminine laughter.
"May I help you, sir?" Which sounded more like "You're making a big mistake."
"Yes, I have a message to give to Karl Starkweather." Hands folded in front of him.
"I'm sure I can relay it to him."
Deckard stepped closer. "I have to give it directly to him."
"Mr. Starkweather is not here." The maitre'd hands stole under the podium
"Oh, I'll wait."
"I'm afraid that would be impossible." A sniff. Clearly, a signal had been sent. Two goons who'd seen the same movie Deckard had approached.
"What's the trouble here," Said the brains of the two, glaring at Deckard.
"This gentleman would like to be shown to the door." He noticed that they didn't wear ties, though.
Flanking him, each seized a bicep and walked him to the door and out to the alley, where Kitka was waiting for them.
Deck swiveled his arms, broke the holds and caught both of them with nerve pinches under their arms. They gasped in sudden pain and he squeezed harder. One of them struggled to break out, while the other just stood there and gasped. He let go of the gasper and planted his right foot square in the solar plexus. As he fell back and down, Deck rammed his palm into struggler's throat. The man choked, his eyes rolled up into his head and he fell to the dock. Pivoting, he faced Gasper. Kitka had made her move and had dug her claws into his nose, holding him there. If he tried to get away, his face would be laid open like a Danish sandwich. Her shadow fell across his chest faintly. Deck bent over and felt around on the fallen man, Kitka growling loudly. He had a gun, Vector 9mm, and a switchblade. He broke the switchblade and tossed the gun into the water.
He ducked back in time to feel the breeze from struggler's kick. Rolling back and flipping upright, Deckard stabbed at his eyes with outstretched fingers. The man swayed back to avoid them, but not far back enough to avoid the sole of Deckard's boot as it swung upwards and connected with his chin. His head bobbed up and down, as he sank to his knees and then fell face forward. Deck turned him over with his foot to search him. Brass knucks: into the water, sheath knife of cheap and shoddy make: into the water, Glock 19 about forty years old. He stood to examine it. It was a .40 cal with tritium night sights. It would make a good present to Bowen, so he stuck it into his pocket. He went out of the alley, leaving struggler out, and gasper mumbling about ghost monkeys.
The maitre'd was speechless, as Deckard went up to him.
"Mr. Starkweather back yet?" Only slack jawed silence. "No? Okay, well I can't wait any longer. I'll be back tomorrow, at nine, with the same message."
More silence. Deckard squinted and snapped his fingers in front of his face. The maitre'd came out of it long enough to nod slightly, jerkily.
Pausing by the alley, Deck hissed twice and Kitka materialized by his leg, leaning against it. He heard nothing but groans from the alley. They went towards the edge of the dock. Deckard picked up his pack where he'd stashed it and disrobed. The suit was stuck in along with the gun. A pair of swim trunks on and off the dock into the water. They swam slowly, parallel to the beach for a c
ouple of miles, then went up and dried in the warm, night air, lying on the sand. Deckard hesitated to go back to the Impaler's pointe, or to Daria's house.
They used the public showers and wall mounted blow driers, and hunted up an all-night coffee shop. Back in the Before time, coffee shops just served coffee, but now coffee was just the cover name. Now they were ad agencies for the Infra-web, hardware and software companies. For the price of a cup of Joe, you could bang away at a keyboard, web slinging for hours. The place was typical, shabby, low light, good coffee, and the latest equipment. Computer companies would murder to supply a busy shop with its wares. Most people got their first taste of newer technology in shops like this one. If a company could get a person to use their equipment first, chances are that they would buy one for their homes or businesses, after that, they were hooked. If they used MircoPact first, they would buy one. And all the upgrades for the rest of their lives. They would become zealots; try to get their friends and neighbors to buy one and become members of their cult. It was the best form of advertising possible: practically free.
Deck bought a cup with cream on the side and logged on. He avoided using his MIL in the field as much as possible, someone with right equipment and know-how could pin point his location. Deckard sent the information that he'd discovered to Bowen and his next move. It was all in code, a code that he and Bowen had worked out years before. There was an E-note for him on a collector netwindow. The site was devoted to Toy racing cars.
An employee of the Section had opened the netwindow, years ago, with a special code word at login; agents could pass messages back and forth. It wasn't connected to X by an official means. In fact, the employee had been fired right after it was discovered he had used company time and equipment to build it. It was curious to note, however, right after he was fired, a distant relative of his, died and left him a substantial trust fund. It was so substantial, that he was free to do nothing else but maintain his site. Very convenient.
Kitka lapped up the cream, as Deck tapped keys. Bowen had no new info for him. There was a post sub-station near, so he wrapped up the gun and shipped it to Frank Meriwell, one of Bowen's nom de guerre. They went to a fish stand by a carnival that looked like it had come out of another time zone and settled. The lights and the people made good scenery while they munched on the catch of the day. Kitka sat on the wooden picnic table, nosing out the air.
It was a tourist crowd, keeping the clip joints, gambling dens, pawnshops, bars, pubs, taverns, and gaming halls busy taking their money. There were a few French and English sailors that had staked out a place called The Soap Bar, giving each other baleful glances. Some Imperial Marines were scattered about as well, but everyone was behaved as the Lone Star Shore Patrol moved in. Heavy with green shiny body armor and helmets, they hefted their power shields and clubs off the HCV car. The power shields were capable of giving shocks up to lethal doses.
Deckard watched two SPs test their shields against each other: their body armor was insulated. They then stationed themselves right across from The Soap Bar. The HCV rumbled away, to deposit SPs elsewhere. Deckard strolled past them and snapped off a sharp salute. They saluted back with their clubs. Smirking, he made his way off the beach front, Kitka trailing ahead and behind. There was a small over pass ahead out in the streets, with a large tractor-trailer under it. It was turning in the director he wanted to go. With a burst of speed, they were on top of the overpass and off of it. Deckard landed with a slight thud on the trailer. Kitka landed beside him, and the trailer took off, taking him back to Cen.
.
It was nearly four in the morning when they got back to Cen. They scrambled along the tops of roofs and high wires of the telephone poles until they got to a roof across from the Impaler's pointe. The telephone poles were an anachronism in the days of wireless communication, but some people still clung to the old ways. The black clad fellowship numbers fell a bit during the waning hours of the morning, as Deck rigged up some equipment. Kitka sat on top the buildings low roof wall, watching two Christopher Lee types scuffle drunkenly. Kitka's eyes were wide, whiskers were forward as she tested the air rapidly.
Glancing over his shoulder at her briefly, he turned to the pole and hooked into the line with two alligator clips. Activating the handset, he waited for the operations computer to come on the line. A voice recognition menu identified the number he wanted and dialed it for him. Twenty rings later, Daria's voice answered.
"Yes, I understand you've had a problem sleeping," He asked her.
"Justa sec." She replied. He heard her scream into the background noise: "I found out what was ringing!"
"Hello, who's this?"
"I understand you've had a problem sleeping lately." He said again.
"Deck? Is that you?"
He didn't answer.
She caught on. "It's okay to talk on this, no one would ever think of it." Daria giggled. "The guys and I didn't even know what the sound was a first. The last time I talked on one of these was at my Gram's house."
"I just called to ask if you're all right. See if everything is all right."
"Yeah, sure, I....wait a minute, Wills Carmichael, one of Stark's errand boys, was in here earlier, just picking up the cut, but he stayed longer than usual." There was a pause. "He could've been asking about you, everyone was sure wondering where you were tonight."
"What? Why?" He was making all the wrong moves out here in the real world.
"Take it easy, Peter Gunn, this is a small town acting like a big one, you know. People just talk. You are kinda unusual after all. These guys just talk the talk. You're walking the walk, sweetheart."
"Does this mean you still like me?"
She gave a low murmur on the phone. "Probably too much for my own good."
"And you're safe?"
"No one is going to go out on a limb for those guys, and they'll want very little help, too. There afraid of looking weak, you know."
Deck shifted the handset to his other ear and leaned up against the pole.
"Weak, eh? They're fixing to look really weak, weak as kittens as a matter of fact," Kitka twined around his knee.
"Be careful, they'll be ready for you this time."
"No one is ready for me, I guarantee it."
"I know I wasn't," Daria sighed into the phone. Longing and loneliness coupled and sifted through the line.
"Don't worry, I'll be gone soon and you'll forget all about me."
"I seriously doubt that," She sighed again in resignation.
Grinning, he disconnected the line.
"C'mon girl, let catch a few winks, and then we'll shake the tree and see what falls out." Kitka opened her eyes very wide and meorred in a low tone. They left Cen and went to near where the "tree" was.
A small, unoccupied bungalow on the beach provided them with a shower, a laundry, food and rest. It belonged to a Mr. and Mrs. Maddox, who lived in Chicago and took their summers here. They had four children, all blonde, according to the photos on the walls. A large desk filled with papers told the whole story. His job, his car, her tennis tournaments, children's weddings and grandchildren, their whole life together. Deckard gazed on the rich tapestry of a normal person's life. A life that he may or may not have had.
He shut the desk drawers slowly, reflecting. Kitka was curled up on the desk, asleep. Stroking her sleek fur without waking her, Deckard shut the light off overhead. He took a running start and leapt into the air, spread eagled and landed on the queen-sized bed, bouncing slightly. He turned over, removed his shorts and flung them away and was soon fast asleep. The next night would be pay dirt, he hoped.
.
He dreamed about his other life, a life that would never exist. One where he had made all the right moves, avoided the bad mistakes and led a peaceful productive life. His dreams, for some reason, were incredibly lucid, in color, complete with sound track. Deckard never dreamed like this before the Section got a hold of him. He assumed that it was an unintended side effect of the treatme
nts. He understood why cats were able to sleep any given time or place. He understood why they seemed to sleep 23 hours a day. There was another life waiting for them, one that was better, happier. Sometimes when he woke, it was hard to distinguish which reality he was in. It varied, to be sure. Sometimes he was himself, sometimes someone else. Sometimes he was in the past, sometimes in the future.
This time Deckard dreamed about the past, way back to the beginning of another century, the end of a war, the war of great, great grandfather Blaine perhaps. In large city, foreign, church bells were pealing like mad. The vision swept away from him miles and miles, it faded into the distance. He was in a hole, looking over the top of a destroyed field. No, it was bigger than a hole, they're were others in the hole with him. They had long rifles with knives, bayonets, at the end of them. They were wearing green uniforms of wool and metal helmets, spattered with mud and grime. They were all smiling. One by one, they left the hole and he followed. The land was a smoking ruin. Men were coming towards them. They had on helmets and carried rifles too, their uniforms were gray. They looked tired and sick. The men he was with rushed upon them, shaking their hands and pressing cigarettes into them. A movement caught his eye to the far left. A man was approaching him. He wore a helmet with a metal spike on the top, a big brass eagle on the front. A large bushy mustache and a pair of red eyes were the only features he could make out. The spiked helmet man drew a pistol out of his holster and slowly pointed it towards Deckard.
Blaine sat upright in the purloined bed. His heart was racing, his breath came in short shocks. Looking about swiftly, he spotted Kitka sitting calmly atop a wardrobe, looking at him, with something like distain. She after all was a real cat, and no dream, no matter what it's content, would have woken her out of a sound sleep. Deck leaned back, exhaling his relief.
Looking at the window, he saw that night was falling. Time to go. They covered their tracks and made their way to the Chapeau. The "Hat" was a longish sort of building, half of it sat over the water, with outside eating area. The roof, low with a slight rise to it had several skylights on it. They were crusted with salt and residue. Blaine dropped his pack and went to each of them, peering into each of them. The place was practically deserted inside. There were three men on the balcony, two out front and four in the front room.
They all seemed to be wearing pea coats. It could be counted on that all of them had guns, probably auto caseless models. There were three dogs as well. Dobermans, from the look of it. Augmented. Flipping out his monocular, he dialed them into view. The scope readings blinked out the distance in green. Thumbing the control, it zoomed in on their collars. They were sonic collars to keep the dogs in control. There was a possibility on that. Something about their eyes. They looked strange. Another zoom showed them to be implants, infrared, or relays, maybe.
The men were alert, but waiting. It was not quite eight yet. A man, Starkweather, he guessed, came into the place, and began issuing orders. Deckard could barely hear him through the skylight. A muffled, slightly high pitched voice jabbering out. One of the dogs and its handler went out to the balcony. Starkweather was thinking that wherever trouble came from it would come in through the back door. He kept the other two dogs in the main dining room, with two handlers.
"You two check out the roof." Deckard heard through the glass.
He looked around for Kitka; she was near the last skylight, sniffing around it. She looked up at him, and faded from sight. Deckard crept over swiftly and looked at the skylight. It was hinged. They would come through here. This would have to be quiet, otherwise, dogs and gun fire.
The light opened with a creak and a man's head poked up, with a gun barrel alongside. It then flopped all the way open and he came up, looking warily around. The second man came through. They split up and looked it over. Nothing. The first man looked over the roof to the balcony and waved to his counterparts there. The other man did the same with the ones up front. He then went to the long end and looked down into the alley. Rubbish and the dock was all that he saw.
"I dunno, Chucky, all this trouble for one guy?" He muttered. No reply.
He turned around, gun up. The roof was empty. Then pain crashed across his calves in bright flashing waves. He buckled over, feeling the raw red pulp stripping down his legs. The man looked up, tears of agony spilling from his eyes. He took a deep breath to cry aloud and then blacked out. Deckard stood over the crumpled form, fist cocked for a second blow, if necessary. Kitka faded back in, ears back and trotted to the balcony edge. It was all quiet. The wind favored them, so the dogs had not smelt them or the blood that was seeping out all over the roof. Deck searched through his victim's pockets. Stun gun, wallet, MIL, and a small rod. His automatic lay near his hand. Deckard emptied it and flung the rounds into the surf. The other guard had been subdued then the quietly released into the crashing surf. He had gone to check out the remaining roof edge, where Deck had been hanging off. When he knelt down, Deckard grabbed him and head butted him into oblivion. This accomplished, Deckard slipped back onto the roof and made his way to the other guard, who had just been attacked by Kitka.
Perfect. The small rod turned out to be the control stick to the sonic collars. It was just was he had hoped to find.
The guards on the balcony were walking back and forth, keeping their eyes towards the water. One of the dogs had been sent out, growling unceasingly. Suddenly, the dog fell to the deck, whimpering and yowling unmistaken cries for help. The men gathered around him in alarm.
"What are you doing?" One of them said, with panic in his voice.
"Cut that out!"
"I'm not doing anything!" The handler exclaimed, reaching for his control rod. A small report from the roof made them all look up. A loud metallic clatter made them all look back down. The dog's control collar had been shot off. The large Doberman scrambled to his feet and took his pain out on the only ones he knew was responsible for it.
Above, Deckard shook his head. As he turned, the sounds of brutal mauling, men jumping into the water, shots going off behind him. It was a shame to cause animals pain. By now, the men in the main room had heard the commotion and were now by the glass door near the outside. Deckard kicked the top of the skylight off and he and Kitka leapt down.
As soon as she landed, Kitka cloaked and went after the two dogs. Deckard landed on the balls of his feet, crouching, firing both guns at the two men inside. A 10mm hit one square in the chest, blowing him backwards on to a table full of dishware, which tumbled over. The grappler splattered through the remaining man's left hand, thunking in the wall behind. At the touch of a button, the wire retracted back, pulling the man off his feet. The returning hook clicked back into its housing with blood and gristle on it.
During this, Kitka had attacked both dogs. Thrown into a frenzy by their invisible assailant, the two began attacking everything, including one another. The front door opened, and the two remaining guards stormed through. A bullet plowed into the post that Deckard stood by, and he pivoted, firing back. His man went down, as more bullets tore by him. The last man went down as the two dogs set on him, tearing and rending. Hoarse cries and snarling filled the air. The control rod was activated and the dogs squealed briefly and then sat down. The guard lay there, not moving.
It was now quiet in Tubby's Chapeau, but where was Starkweather?
There was a large padded door off in the corner. First things first. The man with the torn hand had been pulled off his feet was out, having struck his head on a cement beam. The immobile man was not going to be doing anything, except wonder where a lot of his skin, part of one arm, and some of his face had gone for a long time. Still, he got a blow to the top of the head. On the balcony, the dog had taken care of things there, and was now lying the corner, exhausted from his ordeal.
He growled when Deckard appeared, but he didn't get up. Deck imagined that all the dog wanted was to be left alone. The other two dogs, bearing several wounds from Kitka's attacks, were sitting quietly, as they had been tra
ined to do. Deckard showed them the control. The still sat, but looked anxious. A silent agreement came between them. He who has the control, has our loyalty. These dogs might even be rented. Unreliable, as he'd just proved. The hold on them was released. The two dogs sprawled apart, and immediately began to lick their wounds.
Kitka was on a table, drinking out of a glass of ice water. She sat and licked her chops, as Deckard came up. He stroked the length of her.
"Into the dragon's lair, girl." Deckard angled his head at the door, then picked up the glass of water and drained it.
Kitka leapt from the table and made for the door, her long ropey tail high. Deckard paused at the door. What was waiting on the other side? A trap? A gun? What kind of gun? Would it be on a trip beam or wire? Would Starkweather be holding it himself? Holding the 10mm ready, he slowly opened the door, ready.
Inside was a plush office, done in red leather and oak. Behind a large oak desk was Starkweather, sorting through papers, reading glasses on the end of his nose.
He grunted as Deckard swung the door wide.
"Well, spill it," he said without looking up.
Deckard entered glancing about. Kitka stole in and got a good position for trouble.
"Dammit, I..." Starkweather looked up and gaped.
His 10mm leveled, Deck approached.
The man behind the desk did nothing.
Two sharp hisses brought Kitka onto the desk, poised to strike.
"Don't move." Deckard said, rapidly checking above the door, beneath the desk, and elsewhere.
Finally, he grew tired of it.
"Where is it?"
Nothing but disjointed stuttering mumbles.
"Where," He pointed his gun right at Starkweather's face. "Is it?"
"Where is what?"
"Kitka,"
At his word, Kitka got into Starkweather's lap, ears back & hissing. She put her front paws on his shoulder and slowly dug in her claws. Her mouth was bare millimeters from his face, and he began to shake. She growled and hissed suddenly, loudly, so that he could see each one of her white razor like teeth.
Satisfied that he was subdued, Deck began to make a more vigorous search of the office. Drawers emptied, desk cleared away, chairs overturned, pictures knocked off walls.
"There's nothing here,"
"What, the safe?" a voice shaking.
"No, not that." Deckard righted one of the chairs and sat in it.
"Didn't you hear all that?" He waved in the direction of the recent chaos.
"No, I heard nu-nothing."
"Why not?"
"My, my office is sound proof," At this last word, Starkweather sneezed, much to the displeasure of Kitka.
"Please, I'm, I'm allergic," He was trying to contain another sneeze.
Kitka retreated to the desktop and washed her face.
"You mean to tell me, that you have nothing in here like a gun or laser emitter, or anything?
"No, all that's out there." He was looking shaken and red in the face. "I didn't think you make past them, why should I have anything in here?"
Deckard stood, put both hands on the desk and leaned forward.
"Because it would've been smart."
"Would I have been able to use it, to get you?"
Deck considered this. "Doubtful."
"Then I guess it doesn't matter."
"Well, against another operative..." This was getting him off the subject.
"Never mind, what I want is some information." He un-slung his pack and set it on the desk.
"Information on why you set one of your hit men to take out Jeordi LesPaul."
"What makes you think I have hit men, or have anything to do with them?"
Karl Starkweather was getting some of his nerve back.
His limit being reached, Deckard reacted. He put one hand one the desk and flipped it sideways. It crashed into the wall and the remaining pictures fell, glass shards sprinkling the floor.
"Okay, tough guy," He grasped Karl by the collar and hauled him out of the office.
"See all this?" The bullet pocked and bloody ruin of the club lay before them.
"I did all this when I was totally calm," Deckard spat through clenched teeth.
He pulled Starkweather out to the balcony.
"And now you're making me mad,"
The dog was still in the corner. It opened its eyes and regarded them balefully.
Kitka positioned herself between them and the dog, but he did little more than bare his teeth. He had had enough, it seemed.
"Now you want to act like a jackass." Deckard peered over the edge of the railing. It was about thirty feet up. He shoved the bigger man into the corner and drew out his grappling hook.
"Fine with me." He wrapped it around Starkweather's leg. "I hope you make a lot of money, Karl."
With an angry snarl, Deckard threw him over the railing.
Starkweather screamed all the way to the bottom. Well, not quite. Just before he struck, Deckard tapped the reel button, stopping him.
Sure that his intentions had been made clear; he let him dangle for a few minutes, then reeled him up. Then hanging upside down, gibbering with fear, Starkweather spilled his guts.
.
The Tri had been responsible for several of the hits on the "Jaybird" industrial heads. Some of them were sponsored by rivals, others by foreign business, and still others by the victim's own employers. The LesPaul contract had not come to Starkweather directly: He'd been ordered to have it done by the Tri head in Houston. Leila Mawson, the daughter of Eugene "Cowboy" Mawson, had taken over his Tri status when he died.
The hit man, Tuscarora was a regular in the stable, and good with tricky set-ups. He'd been on LesPaul's tail for almost a month, and had been asked to step it up.
Starkweather knew both Mallos and Wouk. Wouk had helped them out from time to time with equipment, and had masterminded the defection of Mallos. Wouk was anxious about the arrival of Mallos, saying that he held the key that Wouk needed. It was way over Starkweather's head, but he knew it had something to do with gene-manipulation. Mallos and Wouk spilt Lone Star after Mallos' arrival, and Starkweather never heard from either one of them again. However, he did hear that Mallos had been spotted in the Port Arthur swampland. He'd been pulled over by highway patrol because they had spotted him smoking. Mallos had mentioned Starkweather's name and they let him go. All the same, they called up the Galvez Tri to ask about it. Deckard nearly let go of Starkweather then. He'd known in his gut that Mallos had been alive, with Goramund, out there, waiting to tell him what he wanted to know.
Ignoring the pleas from Karl, he let him dangle there, contemplating the ramifications. There were several possible leads to chase down. Mawson, to the north, Mallos to the east. Monica and home were to the west. South? Nothing.