Outside Fatboy Command
In an evil universe growing less evil all the time
(Song: Burn – Alkaline Trio)
Burn, baby, burn.
The Middleman leaned back against the saddle of the newly reclaimed Middlehog. Above Fatboy Command, flames painted the sky in violent hues.
Who said he didn't have artistic talent? That fire was a masterpiece.
The raid was not only the biggest he'd pulled off against Fatboy, but also the most profitable. The insider info he and Ida had decanted from the secured systems wasn't just dynamite; it was thermonuclear. He might not be able to bring the company down with it, but he could definitely weaken the foundations.
Then there were the physical contents. Food. Fuel. Items people were dying for, during this harsh winter. Plus a hotel's worth of expensively furnished offices. Things which would sell for a fortune on the black market. With help from Lacey's connections in the refugee community, he'd gotten the place stripped bare in record time. Anything worth salvaging had been loaded up for distribution to orphans and freed prisoners of the internment camps.
He'd even found the Middlehog in the vehicle annex. He'd liberated his old friend plus several bottles of prime Scotch from some VP's office. He wasn't that much of a Robin Hood. Torching the place...that was personal. It was, after all, where Tyler had been murdered.
He should have been ecstatic. Instead, every instinct he had twanged like an out of tune guitar. Nothing added up.
A massive business complex stuffed with valuables and devastating insider info guarded by nothing more than a half-staff of inexperienced guards who were dumping loads at the thought of having to get into a real firefight. No resistance from the few employees at the site. Rich pickings, but with some glaring omissions. Like the absence of Manservant Neville's corpsicle, for one.
Something was up. Neville's puppetmistress – he couldn't think of her as Wendy – was a lot of things, but stupid wasn't on that list. If she'd thrown him a bone, it had to be poison bait. All he could do now, though, was sit tight, wait for her to make a move, and hope like hell he was close to checkmating her.
Fuck. The only thing he hated more than waiting was chess. At least he got to watch the whole damn mess go up in smoke while he waited. He sighed in resignation, then keyed his watch.
"Ida. You getting all this on the real time recording?"
"Roger that, boss." The android sounded almost...gleeful. He shook his head. Enthusiasm and Ida in the same sentence just didn't sound right, even if he knew she was anxious to keep him from backsliding into the slough he'd fallen into after Tyler's death.
"Everything secure there?"
"Tight as a drum. Had a wino come in and try to sleep on the lobby floor, but that's about it."
He'd figured she would strike Middle HQ first. So much for that theory. "Start crosschecking the information we got and update our master list of targets. Going to stay here for a while and see if anything happens. Keep me posted if anything suspicious comes up."
"On it." The android cut the comm.
The Middleman settled back more comfortably against the motorcycle, grinning as an aerosolized soup dispenser went off like a giant bottle rocket. A shame Tyler couldn't be there to see it. But the thought of the murdered Middleboy raised only a pang of regret, not crippling guilt. Slipping his flask from his pocket, he raised it in salute.
"Hell of a funeral pyre for you, kid," he said. "Hope it sends you off to Valhalla, or whichever afterlife has the best booze and hottest babes with loosest morals."
He took a long swig, savoring the smoky burn. Damn near better than sex. Reluctantly, he capped the flask and tucked it beneath his belt.
His watch blared an alert signal, followed by Ida's voice. "Boss. Got something for you. Code 7 distress signal."
An ally in trouble. That was what he'd been waiting for. Shit. Wen—She had gone for the weaker links in his chain, not for a frontal assault. "Give me coordinates. Who is it?"
"Lacey."