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"Yeah, they're out there," Valentine said, coming back through the window.
"Maybe you should leave," Randy said. "Wait. What do you mean, they're out there?"
"I work in a competitive field," Valentine said. "High skill, lots of pay, not many openings. You need to be trustworthy. I'm gay, and that's a big black mark. There's a man who wants my job, and he's paying a couple of stiffs to follow me and get evidence."
"What are you paying me for, then?"
"Oh, a little camouflage. My boyfriend's in the River Patrol. I'm trying to kill two birds with one stone here-I want you to act like you had a good time with me, while I nip out and see him."
"Don't I know it. Odd trade on the river. Which boat's he on, Red Forty-Five?"
"Best not to spread gossip," Valentine said. He checked the drop to the ground. "I'm going to leave a little safety line. You relax. I'll be back in less than an hour. If you look a little exhausted when you go back downstairs, there's an extra hundred in it for you."
"What I do ain't usually that exhausting. I save that for my boyfriend."
"Speaking of boyfriends . . ." Valentine said.
"Hey, have fun. I'll make sure no one comes through that door until you get back. It's a slow night, Nel won't mind."
"You're sweet," Valentine said, dropping out the window.
Valentine slipped off his shoes and tied the laces together.
He looked up at the sky. It was a night of danger. This was always both the best and the worst moment, right before you started. The best, because everything came alive. You could swear you could feel your toenails growing. The air was suddenly full of life, not only the smell of diesel oil and river rot.
Working quickly in the shadows, Valentine marveled at how easily this forgotten corner of the Kurian Zone could be defanged. Working quickly, he wedged every door he could find, and cut the wires to the radio antenna. He would have had a harder time with a fueling station in Little Rock. The employees guarding gas pumps were armed to the teeth and alert as Dobermans.
Evidently the "neutrality" of the Kentucky locals here, neither supporting nor resisting the Kurian Order, was still intact. The few personnel on base must have figured that the legworm ranchers wouldn't have need for riverboats anyway. And they were largely right. A legworm could go anywhere, a boat had to stick to easily choked-off river routes.
Valentine turned his collar up and pulled his cap down low. He dug around in his tool kit, came up with two cylinders. He dumped the screws inside out, made sure the heavy-duty spring inside was clean. Then he cut open the lining at the bottom of his tool kit, and took out two razor-tipped darts.
The dart launchers belonged to one of Gamecock's Bears. Valentine had experimented with them. They could bury the dart halfway into an oak tree from twenty feet. The problem was aiming them. You needed to be very close, or very lucky against a man-sized target, especially if he was moving.
Valentine had yet another weapon, a plain old pipe wrench. Five pounds of cast iron, properly swung, was as deadly as his old parang.
He slipped into a gun emplacement covering the river and docks, carefully unrolled the waterproofed canvas covering the 20mm cannons there.
He almost tsk-tsk'ed. There was visible rust on the action. It would be more of a threat to the firer than anyone in its sights. He might as well take one of the guns out of its mount and use it as a club.
He evaluated the anchor watches on the river patrol craft: two men in each of the long cabin cruisers, with guns at the stern and on the flying bridge, one on watch while the other rested. Each boat had one gun ready for action, a machine gun with an armored shield at the back of the boat where it had the widest field of fire. The River Patrol had followed procedure and parked their boats like two horses in a field facing opposite directions, so each one's tail could swat the other's flies.
Nothing to do but start it.
Mouth dry, he walked down to the docks, a spring-loaded dart in each coat sleeve. As he approached the boat, he tapped his utility-worker's hat.
"Dumbledore watermelon hopscotch juice on?" Valentine called, stomping hard on the weather-beaten old boards of the river dock.
"Pfwat's that?" one of the men at the guns said, coming awake.
Valentine shined his flashlight right in the other's face.
"Hey!" he shouted.
Valentine knelt and fired his first dart. He heard a clatter. The second twanged off toward the gunner, and he heard a wet impact.
The man let out an awful sucking sound.
He dropped the now-empty tubes and grabbed for the wrench in his pocket. Naturally, it decided to catch as he ran.
