Flashback

Nick walked quickly toward the centerfield wall. He refused to run, to keep the last of his dignity, although the back of his head waited for a bullet to strike it and his shoulders scrunched up despite his best efforts to keep them from doing so. The K-Plus might deflect the body shot, but the blow to the back of his head would kill him even if it didn’t penetrate the Kevlar balaclava.

“Warden Polansky will not be happy with us,” whispered Sato’s voice in his ear. “But by great good coincidence, Bottom-san, your video and audio pickups seem to have failed the last two minutes or so.”

“Okay,” said Nick, not caring. “Tell Polansky and Campos that they have to get Soul Dad out of the yard… right away. Everyone saw him talking to me before you took out Ajax.”

The centerfield fence and door were less than fifty feet away now. How many outfielders had rushed at that flaking green wall while chasing a fly ball? How many relief pitchers had come through that door and walked toward the mound with their hearts pounding and body jagging with adrenaline the way Nick’s was now?

Only the top of the centerfield wall then hadn’t been covered with rolls of razor wire as it was now.

Chief sniper Campos’s voice buzzed in his ear. “We don’t need to get Soul Dad out, Mr. Bottom. He’s almost worshipped here at Coors Field. A lot of the blacks think he’s hundreds of years old and some kind of wizard. Even the whites and spanics leave him alone. No one will harm him.”

“But…,” began Nick.

“Trust me,” continued Campos. “Soul Dad is in no danger. I don’t know why he warned you, but he must have had his reasons. And he was right about Bad Nigger Ajax having no friends here. Lots of toadies and butt-boys, but they hated Ajax even more than the others who were terrified of him. Soul Dad’s all right.”

Nick shrugged. He would have jogged the last fifteen feet or so to the high wall and door, but his legs were weak with the retreat of adrenaline.

He could hear someone on the other side loosening the heavy latch. Someone opening it with the rusty hinges screeching like a dying man’s scream. Except Bad Nigger Ajax hadn’t had time to scream.

Then Nick was through. Then he was out. 

1.10 Raton Pass and New Mexico—Wednesday, Sept. 15

When Sato called him sometime after 6 a.m. and told him to be on the roof of the Cherry Creek Mall Condos by 7 a.m. to wait for a pickup by the Sasayaki-tonbo dragonfly ’copter, Nick felt a shameful rush of relief so profound that it almost affected his bowels. He’d not known before this that he was such a coward.

He didn’t care. Flying to Santa Fe—despite the Nakamura Corporation’s worries about shoulder-launched or other kinds of missiles—had to be a hell of a lot safer than trying to drive.

There were no clouds visible from the roof of the former mall. Sixty-some miles to the south, Pikes Peak caught the low, sharp morning sunlight. The dragonfly ’copter came in from the west, circled, and set down lightly. Nick tossed his duffel in the open back door and ignored Sato’s offered hand as he clambered up and in by himself.

The oversized bag was heavy. Besides the Glock 9 he had holstered on his belt, the duffel held full police body dragon armor that he’d bought on the black market after losing his job (much more serious stuff than yesterday’s K-Plus undies), a sheathed KA-BAR fighting knife, an M4A1 assault rifle that had belonged to the Old Man, an M209 grenade launcher that Nick had bought to attach to the old M4A1, a box of M406 HE grenades in their egg crates, a Negev-Galil flechette sweeper, and a compact Springfield Armory EMP 1911-A1 9mm semiautomatic pistol. Nick had also brought an S&W Model 625 .45-caliber revolver that he’d used to good effect in DPD shooting competitions—firing six shots, reloading with a moon clip or other speedloader, and firing six more in just over three seconds—and, finally, boxes of appropriate ammunition for everything that required ammunition.

“Be careful with the duffel,” he said to Sato as he took his fold-down webbed seat against the aft bulkhead and dragged the heavy bag under it.

“Ah, you brought your toys along, Bottom-san?” said Sato. There was almost no engine or rotor noise, but as the dragonfly ’copter rose, leveled off, and headed south, the roar of air through the open doors was loud enough that Sato handed Nick a set of earphones and shouted the number of the private channel they should use.

They were flying steadily at about three thousand feet of altitude. Nick looked out the open door as the southern suburbs of Denver melded into the northern suburbs of Castle Rock.