him over to the side of the street beside their landspeeder. “Savich may not be finished playing her little games yet.”
Hal pulled out the instrument, giving the area around them an automatic once-over as he did so. There’d been some turnover in the tapcafe’s clientele since they’d gone inside the boutique, and a half block farther down the street a couple of Kubaz were unloading a speeder truck, but nothing else seemed to have changed. “Horn.”
“Hello, Inspector,” Moranda’s voice came back. “Just wanted to see if you and your Imp were still on schedule.”
“We’re working on it, yes,” Hal said.
“Good,” Moranda said cheerfully. “I also wanted to tell you that I’ve talked now with Nyroska, and he’s ready to offer me two million.”
“Is he, now?” Isard put in, glaring at the comlink in Hal’s hand as if it were a display Moranda could see her through. Down the street, one of the Kubaz dropped a crate onto the street with a loud thud. “Now you listen to me, you little walking dead woman,” she bit out. “And listen closely.”
She began voicing an exquisitely detailed threat, a recitation Hal would normally have paid close attention to if only for professional interest. But in this case, he wasn’t even listening. Isard, her full attention focused on her anger and pride and threats, had apparently missed completely the fact that the crash of that dropped crate had been echoed faintly on Moranda’s comlink carrier.
Which meant that Moranda was here somewhere.
Slowly, carefully, Hal let his eyes track across the area, studying every visible face and searching windows and doorways for less than visible ones. His gaze fell on a woman about fifteen meters away at one of the tapcafe tables, her face in profile to him as she gazed meditatively at the distant mountains rising over the cityscape, a mug held to her lips. She was the right height and build, but he could see both hands clearly enough to tell there was no comlink palmed in either of them. Unless she had the device clipped to her collar or something…
“I get the point,” Moranda put in, cutting off Isard’s threat. “Here’s the route I want you to follow to the warehouse. Listen closely, and don’t interrupt.”
She launched into a detailed list of streets, comers, turns, and backtracks. As she did so, the woman at the tapcafe table set her mug down and stood up, digging a coin out of her hip pouch and dropping it on the table. She turned toward Hal and Isard and started in their direction, glancing back and forth between the various business signs lining the street.
And there indeed was no comlink fastened to her collar, nor a telltale bulge beneath her jacket where one might be hidden. Listening with half an ear to Moranda’s instructions droning on from his comlink, Hal shifted his attention back to the doorways around the area. She had to be here somewhere…
“Hal?” a woman’s voice called excitedly. “Hal Horn?”
He wrenched his eyes back to the woman approaching them. She was looking at him with wide eyes, her mouth gaping open in a happy grin of recognition. “It is you,” she said, now almost bounding as she closed the distance toward him. “Well, I’ll be a mynock’s breakfast. Allyse Conroy—remember? How are you?”
“Uh,” Hal said, glancing in confusion at Isard as he searched his memory in vain for an Allyse Conroy. “I’m…”
Isard plucked the comlink from his hand. “We’ve got trouble,” she cut into Moranda’s monologue. “Call us back in ten minutes.” Without waiting for a response, she clicked off.
“Imagine running into you here on Darkknell, of all places,” the approaching woman said, her grin if anything even bigger than it had been. “How are Nyche and Corran? He’s what, sixteen years old now?”
“Eighteen,” he said, flinching back as she raised her arms for a hug. But her ebullience was hardly to be stopped by anything as simple as a flinch,
Hal pulled out the instrument, giving the area around them an automatic once-over as he did so. There’d been some turnover in the tapcafe’s clientele since they’d gone inside the boutique, and a half block farther down the street a couple of Kubaz were unloading a speeder truck, but nothing else seemed to have changed. “Horn.”
“Hello, Inspector,” Moranda’s voice came back. “Just wanted to see if you and your Imp were still on schedule.”
“We’re working on it, yes,” Hal said.
“Good,” Moranda said cheerfully. “I also wanted to tell you that I’ve talked now with Nyroska, and he’s ready to offer me two million.”
“Is he, now?” Isard put in, glaring at the comlink in Hal’s hand as if it were a display Moranda could see her through. Down the street, one of the Kubaz dropped a crate onto the street with a loud thud. “Now you listen to me, you little walking dead woman,” she bit out. “And listen closely.”
She began voicing an exquisitely detailed threat, a recitation Hal would normally have paid close attention to if only for professional interest. But in this case, he wasn’t even listening. Isard, her full attention focused on her anger and pride and threats, had apparently missed completely the fact that the crash of that dropped crate had been echoed faintly on Moranda’s comlink carrier.
Which meant that Moranda was here somewhere.
Slowly, carefully, Hal let his eyes track across the area, studying every visible face and searching windows and doorways for less than visible ones. His gaze fell on a woman about fifteen meters away at one of the tapcafe tables, her face in profile to him as she gazed meditatively at the distant mountains rising over the cityscape, a mug held to her lips. She was the right height and build, but he could see both hands clearly enough to tell there was no comlink palmed in either of them. Unless she had the device clipped to her collar or something…
“I get the point,” Moranda put in, cutting off Isard’s threat. “Here’s the route I want you to follow to the warehouse. Listen closely, and don’t interrupt.”
She launched into a detailed list of streets, comers, turns, and backtracks. As she did so, the woman at the tapcafe table set her mug down and stood up, digging a coin out of her hip pouch and dropping it on the table. She turned toward Hal and Isard and started in their direction, glancing back and forth between the various business signs lining the street.
And there indeed was no comlink fastened to her collar, nor a telltale bulge beneath her jacket where one might be hidden. Listening with half an ear to Moranda’s instructions droning on from his comlink, Hal shifted his attention back to the doorways around the area. She had to be here somewhere…
“Hal?” a woman’s voice called excitedly. “Hal Horn?”
He wrenched his eyes back to the woman approaching them. She was looking at him with wide eyes, her mouth gaping open in a happy grin of recognition. “It is you,” she said, now almost bounding as she closed the distance toward him. “Well, I’ll be a mynock’s breakfast. Allyse Conroy—remember? How are you?”
“Uh,” Hal said, glancing in confusion at Isard as he searched his memory in vain for an Allyse Conroy. “I’m…”
Isard plucked the comlink from his hand. “We’ve got trouble,” she cut into Moranda’s monologue. “Call us back in ten minutes.” Without waiting for a response, she clicked off.
“Imagine running into you here on Darkknell, of all places,” the approaching woman said, her grin if anything even bigger than it had been. “How are Nyche and Corran? He’s what, sixteen years old now?”
“Eighteen,” he said, flinching back as she raised her arms for a hug. But her ebullience was hardly to be stopped by anything as simple as a flinch,
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