The Operative (A Star Trek novel)

Chapter Twenty-Two

Ligo and Kirk are alone in a warehouse in the old industrial section of the city. On their way here in Ligo's car, they passed row after deserted row of identical warehouses. Only their various patterns of decay allowed them to be told apart. It was like driving through a rat-infested ghost town, though here, Kirk imagined, the rats were humans like Ligo and himself, lone scurrying creatures bent on their own ends.

At least, Kirk hopes they are alone. The warehouse is huge, even bigger than Enterprise's shuttle bay. And much, much more cluttered and run down. There are tall stacks of boxes and crates on pallets on all sides, some of them reaching almost to the ceiling, dimly visible overhead in the gloom. There are no windows. He is just as glad, since that means that they can allow themselves at least a little light. A feeble yellow glow, from a row of bare bulbs trying desultorily to keep the darkness at bay, throws most of the warehouse into shadow.

He is on edge, but cannot afford to show it. It could be any of a number of kinds of traps: Ocht's people, a rival gang, the underground itself, maybe someone he hasn't even thought of.

Ligo, on the other hand, is the soul of calm, leaning in his gangster rags against a grimy crate and cleaning his fingernails with a switchblade.

"Relax, old man," Ligo smirks. "They'll be here."

"Who's worried, sonny?" Kirk forces himself to relax a little. Or at least become less tense. "I was doing this sort of thing when you were still in diapers."

He has to struggle to keep from touching the phaser tucked into his waistband. He hopes it won't come to a firefight. But if it does, he intends to see that he wins.

Ligo has taken to giving Kirk what he undoubtedly considers a good-natured hard time. Kirk does his best to play along. Wouldn't do to let the little toad see what he really thinks of him.

❖

"Keep your hands where we can see them!" The voice comes from Kirk's right, just behind the first line of crates. Before he is even tempted to do anything foolish, slapping sounds come from at least six locations all around them.

He is encouraged. If this is the underground, they're smarter than he had hoped. They nicely and efficiently let them know they are surrounded.

The leader steps from around the crates. She is a short, square woman, college-aged, with an oddly hard face. Odd, that is, because she looks like someone drew hard lines over a face that was more naturally given to laughing.

Which is probably the case, he reflects. Nothing like getting caught in a rebellion to make you grow up—and old—really fast.

"You Ligo?" she asks. Her voice is hard, like her face. She almost barks at them. She is obviously used to giving orders.

"Yeah," Ligo says, making a show of casually putting his switchblade away. "And you are...?"

"A customer," she says. "You have the merchandise?"

Ligo nods to Kirk. He slowly pulls a tarpaulin off the box at his feet, opens it to reveal a row of gleaming automatic projectile weapons.

"You got the cash?"

"Right here." She tosses a canvas bag at Ligo's feet. "Now where are the rest of the guns?"

"You know," Ligo says, "prices have a way of going up suddenly—unanticipated business expenses, things like that. I figure what's in here"—he toes the bag—"is about right for half of what you asked for."

The slimy little bugger! Kirk thinks, figuring firing lines, timing to get to his phaser, possible cover. What's he trying to do, get us killed? She doesn't look like the type who'd take double-crossing well.