Not a soul in sight. Nothing moves.
Landon sees John tapping on his omnicron. Holographic touch-responsive dials and lines dance across its chromium surface.
“What are you doing?”
“Hailing a cab.”
Landon scowls, perplexed. He suspects actual taxis are not involved in this.
John pulls out his pistol, checks for the round in its chamber and proceeds to haul Landon across the roadway by his collar. They haven’t got far when the snap of a twig upsets the stillness. The crush of footfalls drifts into audible range. John halts. Whoever was approaching certainly has little need for stealth.
A woman forms out of the screen of rain and glides into the shelter of the viaduct. Like a stage diva she passes between the columns of creepers, tapping a pistol against her thigh to the leisurely cadence of her strides. The shadows recede to reveal Hannah’s hard, impressive visage. John raises his weapon at her and still she advances.
“Don’t!” Landon yells.
John aligns the sights right between Hannah’s eyes. She now steps onto the roadway and stops a few yards from them, all the while looking at John and never once venturing a glance at Landon.
“Quite a duel, wasn’t it?” says Hannah, her wet hair pulled neatly behind her head. “Never had time for a formal introduction. What’d they call you?”
“John.”
Landon slides in between them, lifting his arms. “Don’t raise your gun, Hannah. He’ll shoot you. We can talk things out, I’ll get him to lower his gun and—”
“Nice stunt with the Neut.” Hannah addresses John and cuts Landon out. “Never thought you’d fool me with an old trick. Seems we’ll have to do it again.”
John’s voice is hard. “Putting me down won’t help anything.”
“It would,” she says. “Gives you the jitters knowing you’d have to die again, for real this time.”
John’s trigger finger twitches. “Try it.”
“Don’t!” Landon screams.
John takes a step back and shoves Landon protectively behind him. “As one entrusted with the Serum, you can serve a nobler purpose.”
“Like giving it up to serve your interests?” Hannah’s unblinking eyes track the barrel of John’s pistol. “Either way the Chronie’s going down; whether by your hands or mine.”
“We offer them life as we know it,” says John. “We offer the option of a Transfusion. That is the difference between our Sides. We don’t kill Chronies. We rehabilitate them.”
“Hear yourself, John.” Hannah’s eyes soften into what appears to be sympathy. “No Chronomorph ever survived a Transfusion. You take him back and he’s as good as dead.”
“We’re wasting time.” Landon watches as John conspicuously tightens his grip around his weapon.
“I’ve got a four-eighty-seven on him.” She waves her gun at Landon without looking at him. “I can guarantee his life if he comes with us.”
“It’s a dud. Whoever got you that Directive is going to kill him.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Believe me, I do.”
“You’re a good man, John,” she says. “You don’t have to die for a pack of lies.”
“To a count of three. Back off the track or I’ll shoot.”
The threat tickles her to a wry little smile. “I’ll just have to bite the bullet.”
“One.”
She doesn’t move. Somewhere above them the bat screeches. The rain lightens to a mizzle, and the choir of toads sings louder.
“Two.”
“Don’t do this, John!” Landon implores. “Listen to me!”
“Three.”
“Stop!” Landon’s voice reverberates off the underside of the viaduct above them.
John looks sideways, and Landon sees the realisation of the empty holster on his ankle register on John’s face. “It is not a water pistol, Landon.”
“I know.”
“Why are you pointing it at my head?”
Landon fights his quivering arm. “I’m sorry, John. Can’t let you do this. Drop it.”
John grudgingly lowers his pistol.
“Drop it and kick it to me.”
“What you think this is? A movie?” John looks at him with a restrained expression of disbelief. “What would I do if she pounces?”
“You kick me your gun and I’ll point mine at her.”
“This isn’t a game, Landon.”
“Never was.”
Hopelessly flummoxed over the entire affair he starts shifting his weapon clumsily between John and Hannah, afraid that one would seize an opening and shoot the other. “Let’s talk our way through this, okay?” he cajoles. “You’re both some special forces shit, so go talk… Go… negotiate, you know… Do your stuff… your thing, whatever…”
“Seems we’re in a fix.” Hannah goes on tapping her pistol against the side of her thigh. “Thought I’d seen everything after all these years.”
“My back-up is on its way,” says John.
“So is mine.” Hannah turns to Landon and accords him attention for the first time. “Between us, you have to choose.”
Landon holds up the pistol and starts fidgeting with an awful spell of indecision.
“You go to her and you’re dead,” says John.
“He’s going to milk you dry,” Hannah offers.
“Oh for God’s sake…” Landon swallows to soothe his parched throat. His eyes flit nervously between them, and each time Hannah’s weapon shifts in her hand he directs his pistol back at her for fear that she would shoot John.
And then the shadows around them begin to stretch and shift. A Nissan GTR cruises into view, headlights blazing white and blue, its wet, glossy body reflecting the spots of illumination around them. The splendid coupe purrs to a stop. Its engine gives a final rumble and goes quiet. The door swings open and out steps Marco. He plucks the stub from his lips and ejects a stream of smoke.
“Evening.” He flashes a grin and checks his watch. “It’s two in the morning and we’re keeping the party going.” He takes his time identifying each of them before resting his good eye on Landon. “I trust you’ve found your missing IC?”
“What missing IC?” says Landon. “And who are you?”
“Marco, Police Intelligence.” Marco takes another draw and stamps out the stub. “It’s the third time I’m introducing myself, you absent-minded airhead. I was about to pair you up with the kind lady who processed your live birth application at the hospital.” A knowing half-smile breaks across his pouty lips and reveals the gap between crooked incisors. “She gave a description of a man who looks just like you.”
Landon blanches and doesn’t realise that his arm has sagged and his pistol is now pointing at the patch of ground beside Hannah.
The half-smile now widens into a grin. “Busted.”
Landon could’ve shot Marco there and then. But he lacks the resolve and brutality to carry out the act. He turns to Hannah for an explanation, and sees fear in her.
“One-Niner-One?” she says.
Marco spreads his arms in a gracious bow. “That I am, AlpineOne.” He then recovers, shaking his head and clucking his tongue. “Is this how professional operatives handle situations? Even the Chronie has a gun. Could hurt yourselves bad with those.” He draws his own pistol. “Come, children, better to lose them all.”
“Not going to happen, Marco,” says John.
“Ah.” Marco’s attention suddenly sharpens. “How’s Sheik Didi’s case coming along? You should’ve told me if you wanted something from my hard drive.” He nods at Hannah. “So you’ve read all about her?”
“Enough to know your part in this,” says John.
“It’s a score between us, my friend.” Marco alternates the pistol between Landon and himself. “Walk away while you can. Doesn’t matter we’re on different sides; I’ll even write something up for you.”