Li’l Bertha.
“Well,
this
is a romantic date,” I whisper.
We quietly walk up the necropolis’s main street. Jacques comms to us about the famous Frenchmen buried in the tombs we pass. Everywhere I look is crammed with crypts and elaborate gravestones. The statues and carvings are creepy as hell. A chill crawls up my spine and I’m about to tell Jacques to shut up, when he switches topics.
“Stop,” he comms. We stop. He crouches and shuffles up the path a bit. “Okay, just ahead.”
I comm to both my partner and Jacques, “What are the rules of engagement here? Do I just plug ’em all?”
“No,” Jacques replies. “We are to capture if possible. If zey fight back and leave us no choice, zen you plug zem all.”
I comm, “How many are there?”
Jacques comms back, “Five, maybe six.”
Jeez
. I comm to Trick, “What the fuck? I’m supposed to capture six guys single-handedly?”
“Well,” he comms, “Jacques only said not to shoot them. Besides, we’ve got surprise going for us. Let’s try one of your flying punchfests.”
I slide Li’l Bertha back in her holster and zip my jacket. The three of us sneak up the hill until I hear murmuring voices.
I take a deep breath and comm, “Okay, here I go.”
“Roger zat.”
“Go get ’em, Scarlet.”
I have my neuroinjector ramp me up with more Madrenaline, then I charge up the hill. There’s a large crypt, or chapel, or something in front of which stands a tight cluster of people. I hit the jets, and by the time they hear me coming, I’ve already leaped in the air. I smash the back of the first guy’s head with my new biorobotic hand as I fly past him.
Clonk!
I land on the far side of the group and fire my fists into the faces of two more goombahs. The remaining three dudes grab at me. I latch on to two of their arms and yank them into each other so that their skulls clonk together. They drop. The last guy reaches into his coat. I kick him right in the nuts. He exhales sharply and crumples over backward.
As the six men collapse into a groaning heap around me, my enhanced hearing picks up the sound of someone—no, two people—running down the other side of the hill.
“Guys,” I comm, “two more targets, moving away from our entrance.”
Jacques comms, “They’re going for ze back entrance, near Gambetta. Follow zem, Scarlet. We’ll pick you up.”
Jacques and Patrick gallop back to the car, and I take off after the footsteps. My night vision shows me the way, but not in any great detail. My balance is out of whack because the booze and the uppers are battling forcontrol of my body. I nearly fall down a flight of steps, and then almost wipe out on a patch of damp cobblestones. I slow down a little.
I’m about ten seconds behind the fleeing men as they emerge from the cemetery and jump into a BMW coupe. The car starts and screeches away as I burst out of the back entrance.
“Solomon, where are you guys?”
“We’re in the car. Look left. You’ll see us coming.”
Jacques’s Citroën skids around the corner to my left.
“Roger that. I see you.” I step off the sidewalk and into the street. “Hey, make sure the passenger-side window is open.”
“Way ahead of you. Get ready.”
Jacques flies down the street and slams on the brakes. I throw my body into the car’s front passenger window as he skids past me. The instant my upper half is inside, he steps on the gas. I fall ass over teakettle onto the passenger seat. My head swims from all this tumbling around. Patrick leans forward from the backseat and helps me wriggle myself upright.
Meanwhile, Jacquo shows us how a Frenchman drives when he really means it. Power slides, e-brake turns, heel and toe, he’s got all the moves. I hang on to the Jesus strap as he whips his surprisingly agile Citroën through the nearly empty Paris streets.
“Hey, Jacques,” Patrick comms. “Don’t we need to keep an eye on the suspects Scarlet trashed at the cemetery?”
Jacques
“Well,
this
is a romantic date,” I whisper.
We quietly walk up the necropolis’s main street. Jacques comms to us about the famous Frenchmen buried in the tombs we pass. Everywhere I look is crammed with crypts and elaborate gravestones. The statues and carvings are creepy as hell. A chill crawls up my spine and I’m about to tell Jacques to shut up, when he switches topics.
“Stop,” he comms. We stop. He crouches and shuffles up the path a bit. “Okay, just ahead.”
I comm to both my partner and Jacques, “What are the rules of engagement here? Do I just plug ’em all?”
“No,” Jacques replies. “We are to capture if possible. If zey fight back and leave us no choice, zen you plug zem all.”
I comm, “How many are there?”
Jacques comms back, “Five, maybe six.”
Jeez
. I comm to Trick, “What the fuck? I’m supposed to capture six guys single-handedly?”
“Well,” he comms, “Jacques only said not to shoot them. Besides, we’ve got surprise going for us. Let’s try one of your flying punchfests.”
I slide Li’l Bertha back in her holster and zip my jacket. The three of us sneak up the hill until I hear murmuring voices.
I take a deep breath and comm, “Okay, here I go.”
“Roger zat.”
“Go get ’em, Scarlet.”
I have my neuroinjector ramp me up with more Madrenaline, then I charge up the hill. There’s a large crypt, or chapel, or something in front of which stands a tight cluster of people. I hit the jets, and by the time they hear me coming, I’ve already leaped in the air. I smash the back of the first guy’s head with my new biorobotic hand as I fly past him.
Clonk!
I land on the far side of the group and fire my fists into the faces of two more goombahs. The remaining three dudes grab at me. I latch on to two of their arms and yank them into each other so that their skulls clonk together. They drop. The last guy reaches into his coat. I kick him right in the nuts. He exhales sharply and crumples over backward.
As the six men collapse into a groaning heap around me, my enhanced hearing picks up the sound of someone—no, two people—running down the other side of the hill.
“Guys,” I comm, “two more targets, moving away from our entrance.”
Jacques comms, “They’re going for ze back entrance, near Gambetta. Follow zem, Scarlet. We’ll pick you up.”
Jacques and Patrick gallop back to the car, and I take off after the footsteps. My night vision shows me the way, but not in any great detail. My balance is out of whack because the booze and the uppers are battling forcontrol of my body. I nearly fall down a flight of steps, and then almost wipe out on a patch of damp cobblestones. I slow down a little.
I’m about ten seconds behind the fleeing men as they emerge from the cemetery and jump into a BMW coupe. The car starts and screeches away as I burst out of the back entrance.
“Solomon, where are you guys?”
“We’re in the car. Look left. You’ll see us coming.”
Jacques’s Citroën skids around the corner to my left.
“Roger that. I see you.” I step off the sidewalk and into the street. “Hey, make sure the passenger-side window is open.”
“Way ahead of you. Get ready.”
Jacques flies down the street and slams on the brakes. I throw my body into the car’s front passenger window as he skids past me. The instant my upper half is inside, he steps on the gas. I fall ass over teakettle onto the passenger seat. My head swims from all this tumbling around. Patrick leans forward from the backseat and helps me wriggle myself upright.
Meanwhile, Jacquo shows us how a Frenchman drives when he really means it. Power slides, e-brake turns, heel and toe, he’s got all the moves. I hang on to the Jesus strap as he whips his surprisingly agile Citroën through the nearly empty Paris streets.
“Hey, Jacques,” Patrick comms. “Don’t we need to keep an eye on the suspects Scarlet trashed at the cemetery?”
Jacques
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