''What, and miss a chance to talk to a local,'' Kris said with all the panache the pain and drugs allowed her. ''Who knows, this one might tell me the truth for a change.''
''I will never understand Longknifes,'' Captain DeVar said, offering Kris his hand.
''Nobody does, Captain,'' Kris said, dismounting. ''Not even Longknifes. But you didn't hear that from me. It's top secret.''
The captain mumbled something under his breath. Kris made a point of not hearing it.
Marines held their automatics at high port; there was nothing coy now. They escorted Kris, Abby, and a darling girl Kris took for Cara, across the street and into the shade of the front porch.
No one lounged at the tables now. Those still mobile were as far to the left or right as the porch rails allowed.
Several were no longer able to move.
The center of the porch had tables upended and seven, eight men down. Most were sleeping the sleep of Pfizer-Colt's best. Two, no three, were bleeding.
''Did we do that?'' Kris asked Captain DeVar.
''No, Your Highness, those rounds came from the back or side. My guess is these boys weren't all that good at shooting. Hopped up on adrenaline and fear, they couldn't hit the broad side of a barn at five paces, much less my Marines at ten. But they sure could hit the guy next to them, or ahead of them. What were the heartbeats on this bunch, Sergeant Bruce?''
''Gabby says they were pounding near out of their chests, sir.''
''Amateurs. Sergeant, how's your heart?''
''Been higher on the shooting range with Gunny Brown breathing down my neck, sir.'' That came with a grin.
''How I like working with pros,'' the captain finished. ''Your Highness, you stay here while I take a gander inside.''
So Kris stayed put, but the sight of a few women trying to render what aid they could to bleeding gangers was not something she could ignore. ''Sarge, do we have any medics with the team?''
''Of course, ma'am, er, Your Highness,'' Sergeant Bruce answered, apparently having more problems with a princess than a shoot-out.
''If they aren't busy with Marines, could you have them render what assistance they can here?''
The sergeant spoke into his wrist unit and a moment later two Marines with Red Cross bags slid to a stop beside the bleeders. They finished a quick exam with ''They'll live,'' just as Captain DeVar and his two escorting Marines returned.
''There's a lot of nervous people in there. No telling what some idiot will do, Your Highness. I would not recommend you go in there.''
''You're spending too much time around Jack,'' Kris said and headed for the door.
The captain shook his head, but only muttered into his wrist unit. By the time Kris was at the door, she had all three sergeants at her back, as well as the two sniper teams.
Two Marines opened the doors wide for Kris's entrance. It was showtime.
28
The tables in the restaurant showed evidence of hasty abandonment; not all the chairs were upright. The diners, men and women, now lined the side walls and back. Very nervous men. Scared women.
Then again, the nervous were likely scared, too. And the same with the scared. The captain was right. This was no place for a lady.
But Kris was a Longknife, not a lady.
She left the bystanders to her Marines and concentrated on the two guys trying to look cool at the one occupied table toward the back of the room. One wore a white shirt and slacks. The head Bone Man? The other sported red slacks and a bright yellow shirt with poet sleeves. If that was the Rocket Man, he'd certainly never seen rocket exhaust. Two women sat behind them in skimpy, but colorful garb. Were they adornments…or the brains?
That was only one of several questions Kris needed fast answers to.
Why were there two bosses here? Had her Marines interrupted a gang confab? Would one gang come to another gang's hangout?
Clearly, Kris needed to know more about gang diplomacy and etiquette.
But then, maybe there was nothing in the handbook for what a gang did when it kidnapped the buddy of a princess.
Maybe she wasn't the only one making this up as she went along.
Not waiting for answers, Kris repeated her opener from the street. ''I am Princess Kristine of Wardhaven and you have a friend of mine.''
The guy in white diffidently tossed that away with a flip of his wrist. ''If you are this Princess Kristine, then there's a big pot of gold on your head.''
Kris spotted the movement out of the corner of her eye. A man, half hidden by the woman in front of him, whipped out a pistol and fired.
The first shot went high, burying itself in the ceiling.
The second shot smashed into Kris's left arm.
The obsolete lead slug stung like the blazes through the spider-silk bodysuit. It held, though more of Kris would be black-and-blue tomorrow.
The three sergeants' automatics barked once…and within a split second of each other. The darts made a tiny triangle between the eyes of the shooter.
What they did to the back of his head was indescribable, but quickly revealed. He was slammed back against the wall and pinned there…but only for a second. Then his lifeless body began to slide down to the floor. Behind his shattered skull was a smear of blood and gore.
On the way down, his bowels let loose, proving again—unnecessarily for Kris—that sudden death is a messy, undignified affair.
All this must have come as news for some of the gangers. Many turned green. Several emptied their stomachs.
Kris plucked the 6-mm pistol slug from her arm and tossed it aside. Obsolete, it was just the thing the spider silk was made to stop.
Jack took a step forward, his pistol held low and ready. He let his eyes rove the room. ''Anyone else want to try something?''
He got no takers.
Jack and the three sergeants took station beside Kris, quartering the room between them. ''I don't suggest any of you move until we finish here,'' Jack said. ''Breathe if you must.''
Kris took three steps forward, and settled herself in the empty chair at the two boss guys table. ''Yes, I'm the Princess Kristine with a pot of gold on her head. Now you see why I'm still doing my hair every morning…and no one has collected on that pot of gold. Shall we ignore that topic for a moment?''
Both guys nodded silent agreement.
''Now, then,'' Kris went on, ''I understand that you are holding a young man by the name of Bronc. I have never met the fellow. He is not in my service. But he seems to have gotten too close to one of these damn Longknifes and this has caused grief to him and others who treasure his company. I do not like that.'' Kris let that sink in. She allowed plenty of silence because neither gang boss looked like thinking was his forté.
Leastwise, not what most people considered thinking.
''I think you have him. I want him back. Will you return him? Please.'' Kris learned early that a wise politician always said please…even when he was breaking someone's arm.
Polite costs you nothing. Always be polite, Father said.
The two guys eyed each other, apparently not willing to be the first to make the concession. Behind them, the women were having some sort of silent communication between themselves, but Kris's view was blocked by the guys.
Kris let the silence stretch. Then stretched it some more. About the time it started to bend and twist, the guy in white broke eye contact with the other, looked around nervously at the gangers lining the wall,…and the Marines looking at them over their automatics and said, ''Fran, get that little hot dog.''
The young woman in white didn't seem to like the order, but she didn't argue. Instead, she sashayed out, distracting most of the males in the place.
Not the Marine sergeants. They kept hard eyes on their quarter of the room.
As did Jack.