Rogue(82)

She said, “They were chasing a killer.”

I had to stop and integrate that.

The rules said I was the good guy. So why did I keep doing the same things as the bad guys?

The thought physically hurt my brain, and triggered an explosion of anger.

I wanted to hit something, smash something, but she was right, and that made it worse, and it was irrelevant dogshit to our mission, and her job wasn’t to psychoanalyze me, nor teach philosophy, “. . . it’s to build the goddam tools I need and provide technical support and overview, is that clear?”

“Yes, sir,” she said, with an icy lack of emotion.

I wasn’t sure when I’d switched from thoughts to vocalizing, either.

This was not going to help me sleep.

“You’re shaking,” she said.

“I was just shot at. You’re shaking, too.”

“Yes.”

Well, I was glad we agreed on that.

She added in a hurried shout, “I’m shaking because you’re scaring me.” She gripped the controls rather tightly.

“I couldn’t leave them alive.”

Calmly now, she said, “I know. It’s not that.”

“Too dispassionate for you?”

“Dispassionate? You’ve got a fucking erection.” She nodded at my crotch.

Yeah, I did.

Damn.

Thrill of the hunt, pleasure at surviving, massive endorphin dumps.

“When?”

“About the time you had them secured and started asking questions.”

“It could be coincidental with ending the shooting.”

“It could,” she said. She didn’t believe it.

I wasn’t sure. However, the more intense things got, the more I did enjoy them.

Sadistic tendencies? Maybe.

I was supposed to be the good guy. I think the only thing that told me that was I had national sponsorship.

That wasn’t a definition I liked.





CHAPTER 18





She drove well enough, and I directed her through several turns at random to dissuade pursuit. I hated that we’d used our own vehicle. Sooner or later that would haunt us. However, the evening score should dissuade most thugs. That they’d had eleven shot and hacked to death spoke well for me against him. Silver’s complaints aside, and she was right about several things, I’d done what was necessary. Also, he’d be the first suspect, not me.

I wondered if he was scared yet.

Back at the house, I stripped, and all my clothes went into a burn bag. I wiped off with bleach, the wipes went into the bag, and I showered, my ruined finger screaming in the flow. Then I wiped the weapons down, washed them, wiped them again, and showered again. After that, Silver peeled, we dumped her clothes, she showered, washed guns, showered again. We got the burn bags into another one, then wiped down one more time before getting dressed. I wanted the minimum possible evidence against us if questioned. I managed to focus on work and pain and ignore her naked and wet body. It didn’t help that she was shivery after her first kill. She distracted herself by making discreet arrangements to have the shot glass replaced in the car.

My ribs hurt again. My scalp was bruised, but minor, and luckily under my hair. My finger was on fire, and I’d need to see a doctor, but not soon enough to attach me to the crime. I still hadn’t seen a doctor about follow up on my ribs either, and the rolls, combat and general crashing around was something for teenagers, not guys my age. I popped some analgesics and sat down to think.

I needed more analysis of Randall’s motivation. I had a summary I’d glanced at but not paid attention to yet.

Two hundred of us went to Earth. Ten died on the insertion. Five had to be withdrawn for various reasons. One hundred eighty-five of us took down the infrastructure of a planet, rendering the inhabitants physically and morally incapable of further fighting, and terrorizing the hell out of the survivors so much they were still having panic reactions half a generation later.

Of the survivors, twenty-four were still alive. Minus the two of us was twenty-two.

Three stayed in the military in Special Warfare, though all had gone on to less strenuous acts now. Four others went straight to non-SW slots and showed little interest in returning—all were non-SW before I recruited them. Five transitioned straight to boring civilian lives, safe and comfortable. One ran a tactical school—former survival instructor. Four were security contractors and bodyguards—they’d come from Blazer diplomatic protection. Two did spaceside rescue, three did wilderness rescue—those five had all started in combat rescue.

We stuck to our backgrounds mostly, except for Randall and me. I’d probably have stayed in if the circumstances had been less horrific. I was getting a rush out of the project now, and that was disturbing on several levels.