The Supernaturalist Part 10

'Yes. Sure I like Cosmo. He's a good kid. Learns fast.'

Mona lay flat on the conduit, scanning the crowd below her for Miguel. If she had a chance to save anyone, it would be Miguel. He'd taken her in off the street when a couple of his boys had caught her trying a little hooshka on a Sweetheart auto. Instead of punis.h.i.+ng her, Miguel had put her to work.

Ditto chuckled. 'He's a good kid? Come on, Vasquez, it's me you're talking to.

You've been marginally less grumpy since he got here.'

'Company, OK? It's nice to have someone my own age around Abracadabra Street.'

Ditto kept on needling. 'It's not as if he's handsome. No hair yet to speak of, and that forehead looks like he's got a porcupine hiding under there.'

'Well, at least he's tall,' said Mona pointedly.

'Look who's getting protective? Do I sense a crack in the Vasquez armour?'

Mona would never admit it to the Bartoli Baby, but in a way he was right. The orphan kid was interesting. He had made quite an entrance into their lives, lying smoking on a rooftop. Then he had gone on to save her life. After that he would have to have the personality of a hungry bear for her not to like him.'He's just a friend. That's all. Maybe that concept is too big for you to understand.'

Ditto grinned, delighted that his needling was having an effect.

'Oh, big jokes now, is it? I may be small, Vasquez, but I have more brains in my undersized head than the rest of the Supernaturalists put together.'

Mona pointed her lightning rod at her pint-sized companion. 'Stop annoying me, Ditto. Do you think I wouldn't gumball you? Is that what you think? Because if it is, you'd be mistaken.'

Ditto raised his palms. 'Threats of violence? I didn't realize how serious this had become. So quick, too; who would have guessed it?' He paused, smiling genuinely.

'Seriously, though. He's OK, that Cosmo kid. I'm glad you found a friend.'

Mona tutted. 'You make him sound like a puppy.'

'I'm trying to be serious. You're young, Mona. A teenager. You need somebody to talk to. I may not look it, but I'm too old. And Stefan, well, most of the time he's not in the mood for talking.'

Ditto's phone vibrated in his pocket.

'Text from above,' he said, reading the screen. What are you two playing at?

Keep your mouths shut and your eyes open. The Bartoli Baby waved in Stefan's general direction. 'You better keep your mind on the job, Mona, or I may have to pull rank.'

Mona grinned. 'You know something. If you weren't three feet high ..."

'Three foot two,' pouted Ditto.

On the factory floor beneath them, things were hotting up. The minor races had been run and now the prized cars were being ramped on to the a.s.sembly line. The Bulldogs were gathered around a six-wheel charger, hooting and loosing shocker charges into the air. The charger had wide profile tyres, plasma decals and twin double exhausts vibrating at its tail. Like the Bulldogs themselves, the car was loud and rippling with muscle. The Bulldogs were obsessed with appearance. The victor in tonight's drag would probably use his winnings to have some saline muscle sacs inserted under his epidermis.

The Myis.h.i.+ racer appeared tame in comparison. Its bodywork was retrospectively curved and a single exhaust poked from beneath the rear b.u.mper, and there were only four wheels. Ridiculous. The Bulldogs were not impressed. They howled at the roof, their trademark method of expressing derision.

Mona rolled her eyes. 'Bulldogs. Nature's leftovers.'

Mona was not as calm as she sounded. Whatever was going to happen would happen soon. Death was gathering in the very oxygen. The Parasites could feel it too, cl.u.s.tering ever lower on the factory walls.Ditto's phone vibrated again. 'Another text,' he groaned. 'What does Stefan think?

I'm his secretary?' He pulled the phone from his pocket, reading the message.

'You better read this,' he said in strangled tones.

Mona reached for the phone, keeping one eye on the scene below. The letters stood out black against a green screen.

Pigs have flown, said the text. The Bulldogs posted a sentry. He's behind you.

Mona heard a power cell charging beside her ear.

Cosmo jumped to his feet.

'We have to help them.'

Stefan grabbed him by the lapels, dragging him back down.

'Get down, Cosmo, you're making a nice target of yourself.'

'But they'll be killed!' protested Cosmo.

Stefan rolled over, clamping a hand over Cosmo's mouth.

'Listen to me carefully, Cosmo. I know what I'm doing. I've been doing it for the past three years. You have spent your entire life in an orphanage. All you know about combat missions could be written on Ditto's underpants. Get the idea?'

Cosmo nodded.

'Good. We watch and see how this develops. Mona and Ditto may have some ideas of their own.'

He removed the hand; Cosmo drew a shaky breath. 'What if they shoot them?'

Stefan turned his gaze to the scene below. He was blinking rapidly and his hands were clamped around the walkway bars. He was not as in control as he pretended.

'If they shoot them, then they pay.'

Maybe, thought Cosmo. But not as much as us.

The Bulldog sentry was naked except for black shorts, and his skin was dark.

Unnaturally so. Ditto realized after several seconds' scrutiny that the man's skin had been almost completely tattooed. Initially he couldn't see anything in the ink, but then strange hypnotic swirls and patterns suggested themselves.

'You like it?' asked the sentry. 'Full body coverage with Jamaican hypno-patterns; only three ninety-nine in The Ink Blot tattoo parlour. Ask for Sasha.'

'Wow,' said Ditto. The patterns were all over. How had he missed them before?

Mona snapped her fingers before his eyes.

'Don't look at the ink, estupido. Hypno-patterns will zone you out.'

'It's true,' said the sentry. 'I had a cab driver once, staring at me in the mirror. Fell asleep at the wheel.'

He pointed the nozzle of his weapon at Mona. 'Now to business. On your feet.

You just have time to make your last appointment.'

Ditto opened his mouth to pa.s.s comment and Mona clamped a hand over it.

'No problem, amigo. Lead the way.'

The tattooed sentry prodded them down a steep stairwell to the factory floor. The other Bulldogs seemed a lot taller when you were looking up at them. They jostled the intruders, brandis.h.i.+ng weapons and baying for blood.

Their leader stepped forward. You could tell he was the leader because the words 'Head Honcho' flashed across his bare chest in subcutaneous lighting.

'What did we find, Shadow?' he growled, a metallic mohawk quivering on his skull. And Head Honcho actually did growl. He'd probably had surgery on his vocal cords to achieve the effect.

Shadow pushed his prizes into the ring. 'Two little rust mites hanging in the rafters.'

Head Honcho sized the intruders up. 'OK. Strap them on the bonnets, they'll make nice hood ornaments.'

Dozens of hands grabbed the pair, hoisting them roughly overhead.

'Wait,' said Miguel, blocking the Bulldogs' path. 'Nothing gets strapped on my hood, Honcho. This machine is aerodynamic. b.u.mps like that will mess with the speed. Comprende!'

Mona glared down at him from a sea of arms.

'Thanks a bunch, Miguel. And I thought you cared.'

Honcho's brain gears ground noisily, making the connection. 'You know this kid?'

Miguel sighed deeply. Another night fouled up. 'Yes, sure. She's my . . . little sister. I told her to stay home, but she likes the races. In the blood I guess. Do me a favour and cut her loose.'

Head Honcho's chest lights flashed faster, racing with his heartbeat.'I don't know, mate. Rules are rules.'

Miguel persisted. 'Come on, hombre. I can't go home without the nena.'

'Why not, mate? Teenagers are just a waste of s.p.a.ce and air.'

'True, but this girl is one of the best drivers we have. Almost as good as me. Be a shame to waste all the driving hours we invested. In a couple of years she'll be burning up the strip.'

A nasty smile spread across Honcho's face. His steel mohawk vibrated as he laughed.

'OK, mate. I got a deal for you. The girl drives the last race.'

'Que no!' protested Miguel. 'No way. That car is my baby.'

'It's your call. She's in the car, or she's on it.'

Miguel pulled his bandanna off, wringing it between both hands.

'OK. She drives.' He pointed a rigid finger at Mona. 'You mess this up, Mona, and there'll be h.e.l.l to pay.'

Not much of a choice really. On the car or in it? Not that Mona actually had a choice. Dozens of strange hands fed her overhead to the Myis.h.i.+ Z12. She felt herself being folded almost in half and stuffed in the car's side window. Ditto was hustled into the pa.s.senger's seat.

'You can take your mascot too,' said Honcho, strapping himself into the Bulldogs'

contender. 'You need all the luck you can get.'

'Mascot,' said Ditto, between gritted teeth. 'That moronic sack of implants. I'd like to punch his lights out. Literally.' He checked his blond hair in the mirror. 'You can drive this thing, right?'

Mona studied the confusing array of dials and meters.

'Yeah. Maybe. In theory.'

'Do you think they'll give us a practice run?'

Outside the car, groups of adrenalized gang leaders were bouncing with antic.i.p.ation. A mob of souped-up, tattooed, testosterone-fuelled young men with big money riding on this race.

'No. No practice runs.'

Mona could drive or fix just about anything with wheels, but this was a nitrous racer, not the Pigmobile. Generally drag racers fed a nitrous oxide mixture into the regular fuel for that extra burst of speed when it was needed. But this thing actually used heated nitrous oxide as the regular fuel. Because nitrous was used up so quickly, the entire car had been converted into a fuel tank. Every strut and panel was filled with the explosive mixture. n.o.body really knew how to drive a car like this.

Miguel leaned in the window. 'Tell Stefan he owes me a big favour.'

'Tell him yourself,' retorted Mona. 'In ten seconds I'm gonna be a carbon stain on the asphalt.'

'Just hold her steady, let the nitrous do the work. Standard pedals, but brake early.

This car is a terror to stop. You lose this one, Vasquez, and you better leave town in shame.'

Honcho sounded his hooter impatiently.

'A couple of questions,' said Miguel. 'Where's Stefan, and why are you here?'

Mona placed a hand on his arm. 'When it happens, you'll know. Just keep your head down and get ready to run.'

Miguel settled his bandanna gangster-style.

'We're Sweethearts, baby. We never run.' And with that tough-guy rejoinder, he was gone, down on to the factory floor with his boys.

Ditto's phone vibrated. He slipped it out surrept.i.tiously. On the screen was a single question mark. Ditto composed a return message.

Stay put, read his response. Everything under control.

Mona craned her neck to read the text.

'Under control? Let me know when we're in trouble.'

The gates were lowered on Krom robot arms, powered by a portable generator.

One sparking grille settled in front of each car. Honcho was howling now, the digi- cals on his fenders showed running, s...o...b..ring bulldogs. The other Bulldogs took up his canine call, until the entire factory echoed with the yelping of deranged gang members.