Junkyard Cats - Faith Hunter Page 0,8
a slight reflection as Mateo moved into place between the entrance and me, his seven-and-a-half-meter tall warbot suit in full visual shielding, his head invisible behind a meter of horizontal silk-plaz view screen.
Mateo muttered, “Body posture is too ready.”
I relaxed just a bit. Filed a rough spot off my trigger fingernail. The black engine grease around my cuticle was a dead giveaway that I wasn’t the girly girl the clothes suggested. If I let the stranger get close enough to see that grime, I better already know he wasn’t a threat.
I really needed to give myself a full mani.
From the corner of my eye, I caught a flash of movement. A big solid-gray cat was crouched on the roof of the office, one of the two breeding males of the prides of junkyard cats. His fighting partner, a black-haired, green-eyed male devil, raced along a branched, prewar electrical pole leaning against an old earth-mover. Dang cats had heard the sound of the bike and come to investigate. I tried to remember the last time I had provided the junkyard cats a ritual offering—dead goat or cave bat—and nothing came to mind. The most I’d had to share lately was my water and some goat milk. Nothing high in protein. I hoped they’d behave, but they were cats, so it wasn’t likely.
“He’s changing gear. Still armed,” Mateo murmured into my earbud. “Lighting a cigar.”
That was a good sign. I couldn’t see an assassin taking time to start a smoke.
The two male cats inched closer to the edges of their perches. As one, the hunting females raised heads and looked over the open space I currently occupied, then back to the entrance, before hiding again. I had no idea what they were looking at, but the prides were synchronized enough to be scary; it reminded me of the bicolors and their modifications. Reminded me again that I had made mistakes over the years. Big ones.
My visitor walked around the corner. Two meters tall, with a strong neck and broad sloping shoulders, a chest like a brick shithouse, narrow waist, and huge hands, each finger wearing a ring, like disconnected knucks. Fast-looking and rangy, if rangy was also big enough to play offensive tackle in the NFL. Bugger was big. Sweaty brown hair was cut two centimeters long and lay flat to his skull, his beard a half centimeter of buzz. Brown skin, maybe Hispanic, maybe American tribal, maybe mixed Cauc and Surprise Special, like me. Little Mama hadn’t known her ethnic heritage and Pops hadn’t cared. My visitor’s brown eyes were hard and focused on me. He was neither happy nor unhappy. A smart, violent man with a job he liked and was scary good at.
He must have left the protective gear on the bike, because he wore battle boots, no cold coat or pants, no sunglasses or helmet, just brownish Harley Davidson riding plex and a loose, long-sleeved T-shirt in desert camo. Over his shirt, he wore an OMW kutte, the official riding vest of the Outlaws, and though I had mostly expected it, my body went into battle stillness.
The leather vest was worn and raw in places, and was fully covered with chapter patches from a whole bunch of the pre-war states. More significant were the patches from post-war foreign countries. He had traveled the world for the Outlaws even after the peace treaty. This asshole was a very important dude in the OMW. He had been called to serve everywhere.
Maybe most important, he had a patch from the mother chapter in old Chicago. Criminy. Whoever he was, he was more than a full patch member, more than just a made-man. His patches showed he had moved up in the world from a nobody to a national sergeant-at-arms—also known as an enforcer—which meant he reported to the vice president of the entire club. The club motto patch—“God Forgives, Outlaws Don’t, ADIOS”—was worn and . . . maybe blood-splattered. In this day when any drop of blood could instantly ID the donor, that was brave. Or scary stupid. Or proud of the death of his enemies. I went with door number three. There was a dark bulge at his belt, a handgun, butt exposed—a big-mother semi-automatic. The grip was marked with a scarlet skull and crossbones. The biometric marker indicated it was linked to him alone. An expensive, high-tech, killer’s gun. Assassins used them when they wanted to make a statement.
“Bugger,” I muttered aloud to Mateo.
“Not interested,” the visitor said with