by holding to a dying mind. Panic seized him, and he fled back from that terrifying boundary.
In the physical world the air was filled with the undulating wail of sirens. Oh, ancestors, what to do? Be found here with a murdered hotel maid? Ludicrous. There would be questions to be answered. They would learn of his grandchild. And if wild cards were a national treasure, how much more a treasure was a part-blood Takisian?
The pain was beginning. Tachyon experimentally moved the leg and found that the bullet had missed the bone. The effort had popped sweat and filled the back of his throat with bile. How could he possibly reach the Ritz? He tightened his jaw. Because he was a prince of the house Ilkazam. It's only two blocks, he thought encouragingly.
He laid Danelle gently aside, folded her hands on her bosom, kissed her forehead. Mother of my child. Later he would mourn her properly. But first came vengeance.
The bullet had passed cleanly through the fleshy part of his thigh. There wasn't much blood. Yet. As he walked it began to pump. Camouflage, something to hide the wound just long enough to get past the desk and up to his room. He checked in parked cars. A folded newspaper. And the window was open. Not perfect, but good enough. Now he just had to find enough control not to limp those few steps from the front door to the elevator.
Piece of cake, as Mark would say. Training was everything. And blood. Blood would always tell.
He had taken a stab at sleeping, but it had been useless. Finally at six Jack Braun kicked aside the entangling bed clothes, stripped off sweat-soaked pajamas, dressed, and went in search of food.
Five months of hunched shoulders and nervous backward glances. Five months in which he had never spoken. Refused to grant him even eye contact. Had the hope of rehabilitation really been worth this amount of hell?
The Swarm invasion was to blame. It had pulled him back, out of the womb of real estate and California evenings and poolside sex. Here was a real crisis. No ace, no matter how tainted, would be unwelcome. And he'd done good, stomping all over monsters in Kentucky and Texas. And he'd discovered something interesting. Most of the new young aces didn't know who the hell he was. A few, Hiram Worchester, the Turtle, had known and it had mattered. But it was bearable. So maybe there was a way to come back. To be a hero again.
Hartmann had announced the world tour.
Jack had always admired Hartmann. Admired the way he'd led the fight to repeal certain parts of the Exotic Powers Control Act. He'd called the senator and offered to foot part of the bill. Money was always welcome to a politician, even if it wasn't being used to finance a campaign. Jack found himself on the plane.
And most of it hadn't been bad. There'd been plenty of action with women-most notably with Fantasy. They had lain in bed one night in Italy, and she'd told him with vicious wit about Tachyon's impotency. And he'd laughed, too loud and too long. Trying to diminish Tachyon. Trying to make him less of a threat.
Over the years he'd absorbed a bit about Takisian culture from the interviews he'd read. Vengeance was definitely part of the code. So he'd watched his back and waited for Tachyon to act. And nothing had happened.
The strain was killing him. And then had come last night.
He smeared butter on the last roll in the bread basket, washed down the hard crusted bite with a sip of the unbelievably strong French coffee. He sure wished these Frenchies had a concept of a real breakfast. He could order an American breakfast of course, but the cost was as unbelievable as the coffee. This basket of dry bread and coffee was costing him ten dollars. Add in some eggs and bacon, and the cost soared to near thirty dollars. For breakfast!
Suddenly the absurdity of the thought struck him. He was a rich man, not a Depression farm boy from North Dakota. His contribution to this tour had been big enough to buy him a piece of the big 747, or at least the jet fuel to fly it--
Tachyon was entering the hotel, and the hair on the nape of Jack's neck prickled. The door of the small restaurant gave him only a limited view, and soon the alien was out of sight. Jack felt the muscles in