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“Nonnegotiable,” Pat said. “Are you coming?” He was already walking away.
Bryn looked to Joe for some kind of support, but he just shrugged. “He’s the boss tonight. Sorry. ”
She had to take long strides to catch up, since Pat didn’t slow, but by the time she reached him, she?
??d calmed down. He was right, of course. This wasn’t an area where either of them needed to be poking around alone. It wasn’t just the risk of Mercer and Fast Freddy getting the drop on them; there were plenty of paranoid, well-armed gun enthusiasts out here protecting drug-related investments. She didn’t see anyone, but she could sense the danger; the shadows were shifting as the boats rose and fell on the waves, and the constant creaks and groans of wood whited out other telltale noises. It was calm in the bay, but never silent.
Pat said, “We start on the right and work our way left. Don’t board any boats without signaling me first. ”
She nodded and took a deep breath. She smelled rotting wood, the low-level stench of the still water, a sharp, foreign tang of oil and metal. She had good night vision, but she saw no one moving.
Certainly no sign of Annie at all.
She tried to redial, but got nothing except a recorded message from a robotic operator telling her that the mobile customer she had dialed was unavailable. The phone was switched off, or (just as likely) tossed overboard. …If Annie had been caught, that would have been the most logical thing to do. And then they would have raised anchor and gotten the hell out of here, not waited around for us. Unless, as Pat assumed, it was a trap. Her gut was telling her that this was bad, and turning worse with every passing moment.
But damn her gut. What it boiled down to was that she could not, under any circumstances, let a chance to get Annie back slip away. Not without a fight.
The docks were as slimy and ill maintained as she’d expected, but Bryn had worn thick, gripping boots, and she had no trouble with her footing as they methodically examined the boats. Most were fast, light craft without a cabin; there were only two moored at the first dock that had any chance of holding Annie in concealment, and Bryn slipped aboard each of them and searched. Empty.
The second dock didn’t hold anything of interest, either, but the third was clustered with larger fishing boats (probably not used for fish, these days; she imagined they were prime smuggling vessels). She and Pat were very quietly debating which to choose when he held up a hand for silence, and turned his head slightly to the side.
She mouthed Joe? and he shook his head, gestured sharply, and headed back toward where they’d parked.
Bryn had an urge to yell, but she was sensible enough to know it was not a good idea, not here. Besides, the speed with which he was moving was telling.
When he was off the dock and onto the dirty gravel beyond, he broke into a full run, and she had to work to keep up with the sprint…but it didn’t last long. Pat skidded to a stop, and drew his sidearm at the same time. Not the shotgun, which was in a canvas holster on his back. He had a steady aim almost before his feet stopped sliding.
Bryn pulled her gun as well, though she had no idea what she’d be aiming for…
…until she saw Joe Fideli, on his knees, hands laced on his bare, bloodied head.
With his P90 pointed at his skull.
Fast Freddy Watson, former embalmer for Fairview Mortuary, stood there with his finger on the trigger. He bared his teeth at Bryn. It was his version of a winning smile, and she supposed if she hadn’t been acquainted with him, it would have had a charming quality to it. He was a good-looking man, but there was something base and rotten behind the candy coating. Something truly awful that the nanites had enabled to be even worse, somehow. Whatever shreds of decency he’d ever had were long, long gone.
“Hello, friends,” he said, and pressed the P90’s blunt barrel to Joe’s head. “Drop ’em if you want Daddy here to see his kids again—”
Bryn let her weapon fall.
It hadn’t hit the ground before Patrick took the shot. No hesitation at all. The bullet hit Freddy in the exact center of his pale forehead. Freddy stumbled back, and his finger spasmed on the trigger once before the gun fell out of his hand to hit the gravel. The round went wild, spanging off the metal of the nearby transformer casing, and disappearing into the night.
Joe pitched forward onto the gravel and rolled. “Jesus Christ, Pat!” he yelped, and got to his feet as he wiped blood from his eyes. “Little warning next time?”
“He’d have killed you the second I disarmed,” Pat said. He sounded steady. He looked steady. “It was the best chance I had to save your life. The odds were bad either way. And since when do you get sucker punched?”
“Since I met you. ” Joe bent down and picked up the P90.
He was in the act of putting the sling back over his neck when Annie’s voice said, softly, “Bryn?”
Bryn spun around, reaching blindly for the gun at her side, but that was instinct, and the weapon was still lying on the gravel at her feet. No time to get it, and when she saw her sister, the gun was the last thing on her mind.
Annie was dying. Worse than that. She was dead, dead and rotting and still standing. Bryn froze, unable to move, unable to think. She just stared, drenched in a cold, drowning horror. Annie’s eyes were cloudy, her face gray and wet, her hair in matted, thin clumps. There was something so wrong in the way her skin hung loose over her muscles.
The wind shifted, and the smell of death made Bryn choke.
“Bryn,” Pat said softly. “Don’t move. Stay where you are. ”
She didn’t think she could move. There was something gut-deep wrong, seeing her little sister like this—sweet, vibrant, laughing Annie. This was nightmare Annie, bathed in stark moonlight and black shadows. Something no one who loved her should ever, ever see.
