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Shadbolt was on his way back from Doc Black's. He had lab time booked for the next morning, now he had pilfered more components ready to fit into his project. He'd used Doc Black before - when he had hardwired Dove's CICI - and he knew the good Doctor was reliable when it came to rush jobs that needed to be done in secret. Shadbolt's portable testing kit wasn't up to the task of scratch-building. He kept glancing over his shoulder as he walked, acutely aware of how vulnerable he was out here in the open. He didn't have secure transport, or ever-vigilant bodyguards. Even with his metamorph enhancements, bonuses from Medico on his work on the Model 15, he could fall prey to ambush. Dove was even more vulnerable, and he needed her skills. His hands were plunged deep into his pockets, the set of his shoulders masking where his firearm hung. Take that motorbike swerving down the road. If the passenger pulled a gun, even Shadbolt's improved reflexes would struggle to pick him off before he squeezed out a round.
He watched the helmet-less rider and passenger wincing in the slipstream. It was only as they raced towards him that he noticed the length of pipe in the passenger's gloved hand. It was too late to dodge. Shadbolt caught the pipe on the heels of his hands, reducing the strength of the blow before it landed on his stomach. He held it tightly, getting dragged backwards across the road. The passenger, feeling himself toppling, released it but the bike was already too badly off-balance. The passenger instinctively rolled away onto a grass verge, but the rider and bike slid onward down the road.
Shadbolt lay prone. He didn't need any fancy technology to establish he had cracked ribs, or that the bruising would be horrific. The pipe helped him get to his feet, and his activated his stimulus filter to block the pain.
He stalked over to where the rider was struggling to pull his leg out from under his machine. The biker produced a pistol from his grubby jacket; an H&K MP14a. A poser's weapon; favoured by thugs who didn't really want the attention a real gun would attract. The lead pipe smashed it from his grip. Shadbolt's boot smacked into his windpipe. Shadbolt leaned over the choking youth, studying the badges crudely stitched onto the leather jacket. The slowly dying man appeared to be a member of one of the anarchic gangs that ruled the sink estates of London. They often had initiation rites where the initiate had to 'do a civvie' before being accepted. Shadbolt threw the pipe to one side.
The passenger, Lucas, had come to a stop on his back. The game had gone foul, he knew that much. He saw the pistol tumble end over end through the grass. Before it had stopped he had leapt for it, scrabbling in the damp mud to take the safety off, and...
There was a shadow across him. He raised his head slowly. The stranger was there, with an SMG trained on him. Recollections from his back issues of 'Guns & Ammo' came to him: Virgin .50 automatic. Twin magazines in a 'horn' configuration with auto mag selection for continuous fire for as long as the wielder had ammo. Virtually no recoil. All weapons individually numbered. Normally too unwieldy for a non-enhanced man to use. Lucas froze.
"You've got good reflexes," Shadbolt said.
Lucas stayed still. Behind them, the rider spluttered his last. A passing car swerved to avoid the crashed bike.
"Looks like you've also got balls," Shadbolt continued. Pause.
Slowly, Lucas put the safety catch on and dropped the pistol.
"All that, and wits too." Shadbolt put his gun away and offered the youth a hand. "Care to play for higher stakes?"
Lucas thought of his flat, that had just been vandalised, and his brother, who was in hospital after a gang fight. There was no hesitation.
Ben Wright, 03/11/00
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