found messengers an all-too-common annoyance, and had a nice habit—nice from Alec's point of view, anyway—of just waving 'em through.
As he accelerated out of the checkpoint, Alec kissed the Jam Pony ID. This had been the easy part, he told himself; he'd only needed to be a little bit lucky. No time to get cocky. Getting into Sector Eight? A snap. Finding the information he needed and getting back out alive? A whole 'nother deal.
Sector Eight—tired and old and tucked beneath Portage Bay—served as the base of ops for several street gangs, and the Seattle P.D. seldom ventured far beyond the checkpoints. This far north, the shabby urban landscape provided lots of places to stash a body out of the way of prying eyes, official or otherwise.
The Furies operated out of Lakeview Cemetery and Volunteer Park, but had also been known to frequent the woods around Interlaken Boulevard and the Broadmoor. Once a very popular golf course, the Broadmoor now housed a good-sized Jamestown that provided plenty of potential victims for the ruthless violence of the Furies.
Alec knew the Furies manned an observation station atop the Volunteer Park water tower. So this seemed as good a place as any to start. Not at all surreptitious, a man clearly confident about who he was and what he was doing, he rode into the woods, and then, not far from the tower, parked his cycle and strolled forward to within twenty yards of the building.
The tower was four squat stories of faded red brick, rising through the trees like a huge fat chimney, topped by a conical roof perched there like a Chinese farmer's bamboo hat. The structure seemed vaguely medieval to Alec, as he drew closer, though the historical edge was taken off by black spray-painted Furies graffiti.
Within the brick facade, a giant metal tank had at one time been filled with water. Talk now was, the tank was piled with the bodies of those who got in the way of the Furies. Alec figured this was an urban legend—after all, the only smell was of pine trees—but nonetheless he didn't know anyone who had been brave enough to go find out for themselves.
The way—a white, recessed door also adorned with Furies graffiti—was guarded by a pair of the bangers. In broad daylight, Alec saw only one way to do this: walk up like you own the place. It wasn't a foreign approach to the X5.
He stepped out of the woods and walked straight at the two guards, who wore black T-shirts and jeans, like all Furies. They were small for guards—maybe that was why there were two of them he thought—both about the same height, a good four inches shorter than he was, and stick-skinny. They didn't appear terribly bright, either—both looked to be on the dim side of forty watts.
Alec smiled as he approached, nodding, waving casually, and the two guards looked at each other, as if each hoped the other might have managed to form a thought. Then the same thought formed in both their limited minds, as they simultaneously pulled pistols from the waistbands of their pants and leveled them at Alec.
The guy on the left had a revolver which had probably last been fired before the Pulse, the one on the right brandishing a small caliber automatic that belonged in an old lady's handbag.
Pitiful. The only thing that made the Furies formidable was their numbers—they were the largest gang in Seattle, a mix of Latinos and Russians, mostly.
“Whoa whoa whoa,” Alec said, his hands rising easily in a gesture of surrender, his smile never wavering. “I'm a friend, fellas . . . you know Manny?”
This was one of the two Furies he'd met a year or so ago and spent some time with, drinking beers they'd paid for when they were trying to recruit him.
“Manny not here,” the one on the left said.
“Manny not here,” echoed the one on the right. “You see Manny here?”
“I would have to agree,” Alec said. “Manny not here—
where
Manny?”
The one on the left sighed heavily.
“Manny not here!”
If he didn't
As he accelerated out of the checkpoint, Alec kissed the Jam Pony ID. This had been the easy part, he told himself; he'd only needed to be a little bit lucky. No time to get cocky. Getting into Sector Eight? A snap. Finding the information he needed and getting back out alive? A whole 'nother deal.
Sector Eight—tired and old and tucked beneath Portage Bay—served as the base of ops for several street gangs, and the Seattle P.D. seldom ventured far beyond the checkpoints. This far north, the shabby urban landscape provided lots of places to stash a body out of the way of prying eyes, official or otherwise.
The Furies operated out of Lakeview Cemetery and Volunteer Park, but had also been known to frequent the woods around Interlaken Boulevard and the Broadmoor. Once a very popular golf course, the Broadmoor now housed a good-sized Jamestown that provided plenty of potential victims for the ruthless violence of the Furies.
Alec knew the Furies manned an observation station atop the Volunteer Park water tower. So this seemed as good a place as any to start. Not at all surreptitious, a man clearly confident about who he was and what he was doing, he rode into the woods, and then, not far from the tower, parked his cycle and strolled forward to within twenty yards of the building.
The tower was four squat stories of faded red brick, rising through the trees like a huge fat chimney, topped by a conical roof perched there like a Chinese farmer's bamboo hat. The structure seemed vaguely medieval to Alec, as he drew closer, though the historical edge was taken off by black spray-painted Furies graffiti.
Within the brick facade, a giant metal tank had at one time been filled with water. Talk now was, the tank was piled with the bodies of those who got in the way of the Furies. Alec figured this was an urban legend—after all, the only smell was of pine trees—but nonetheless he didn't know anyone who had been brave enough to go find out for themselves.
The way—a white, recessed door also adorned with Furies graffiti—was guarded by a pair of the bangers. In broad daylight, Alec saw only one way to do this: walk up like you own the place. It wasn't a foreign approach to the X5.
He stepped out of the woods and walked straight at the two guards, who wore black T-shirts and jeans, like all Furies. They were small for guards—maybe that was why there were two of them he thought—both about the same height, a good four inches shorter than he was, and stick-skinny. They didn't appear terribly bright, either—both looked to be on the dim side of forty watts.
Alec smiled as he approached, nodding, waving casually, and the two guards looked at each other, as if each hoped the other might have managed to form a thought. Then the same thought formed in both their limited minds, as they simultaneously pulled pistols from the waistbands of their pants and leveled them at Alec.
The guy on the left had a revolver which had probably last been fired before the Pulse, the one on the right brandishing a small caliber automatic that belonged in an old lady's handbag.
Pitiful. The only thing that made the Furies formidable was their numbers—they were the largest gang in Seattle, a mix of Latinos and Russians, mostly.
“Whoa whoa whoa,” Alec said, his hands rising easily in a gesture of surrender, his smile never wavering. “I'm a friend, fellas . . . you know Manny?”
This was one of the two Furies he'd met a year or so ago and spent some time with, drinking beers they'd paid for when they were trying to recruit him.
“Manny not here,” the one on the left said.
“Manny not here,” echoed the one on the right. “You see Manny here?”
“I would have to agree,” Alec said. “Manny not here—
where
Manny?”
The one on the left sighed heavily.
“Manny not here!”
If he didn't