Dark Angel: Skin Game by Max Allan Collins Read Free Book Online Page B

felt the man she loved take her hand and give it a gentle squeeze. Without looking away from the flag, he said, gently mocking, "Now look what you've done."
    It felt so good to be at his side, hand in hand; but she could never let her guard down: if their flesh touched, even if all she did was absently wipe a stray hair from his eyes, even if she accidentally brushed her hand against an exposed section above the surgical gloves, Logan Cale would be seized by that Manticore-implanted virus—
    specific to his DNA— and he would in all likelihood die.
    A tiny smirk dug into her cheek. Most men were allergic to commitment; her man was allergic to her.
    They all stayed there for a long time after that, just watching the flag flutter. After a while, Logan finally said, "We need to talk."
    Max looked at him, and he glanced meaningfully toward the door.
    She nodded.
    Joshua ambled over to them, a shy smile on his snout-mouth. He was proud of himself, but obviously embarrassed by the feeling.
    "Nice job," Logan said. "It looks good, Joshua. You have a real touch."
    The one who had been the first of the transgenics—an unfortunate failed experiment who was in some ways the best of them all—shook his wooly mane. "Thanks, Logan."
    He turned to Max, who enveloped him in a hug.
    "You did good, Big Fella," she said.

    "Thanks, Little Fella," he said, returning the hug hugely.
    The silly nicknames were a small indication of the big brother and sisterly affection these two shared.
    The rest of the transgenics broke up and headed back downstairs, their conversation light and hopeful. Taking one last look at the flag, Max allowed herself a little smile, then followed.
    Logan and Joshua stood at the bottom of the stairwell, waiting for her to join them, which she did.
    "I just want to check the monitors one more time," Max said. "Before we talk?"
    Logan shrugged; he always deferred to her—almost always. "Sure."
    The two men followed her into the media center, where Dix, Luke, and their merry misfit band were back to watching all twenty-five monitors at once.
    "Any movement?" Max asked.
    Luke shook his head, which more or less resembled a soft-white lightbulb. "The cops seem happy just to keep us in here for now."
    Reverting to his cynical activist mode, Mole asked, "And how long do you think that'll last?"
    No one said anything.
    On one of the media monitors a superimposed announcement of a special bulletin flashed across the screen.
    "What's this now?" Dix asked.
    The picture abandoned the police barricades beyond the Terminal City fence in favor of an area just outside a checkpoint in another sector, where three police cars and an ambulance sat parked, their lights flashing.
    A female voice-over intoned somberly, "A sector officer was found murdered this morning, when his replacement reported for duty."
    The video cut to a pair of EMTs pushing a gurney up to the back doors of the ambulance. Whatever was underneath

    the sheet on the stretcher, it seemed to be bleeding through everywhere, damp crimson splotches making terrible polka dots.
    The female newscaster continued: "Police refuse to comment on the rumor that the officer had been skinned."
    "Skinned?" Luke asked with a touch of disgust, wincing at the thought.
    As the ambulance doors closed, the voice-over continued, "If this officer was skinned, it would mark the second such murder in the Seattle metroplex in the last four months."
    Mole harrumphed. "And they're worried about us?"
    "The previous victim, Henry Calvin, a shoe salesman, turned up last March in a part of Sector Three known to be heavily frequented by transgenics."
    "Didn't take 'em long to try to pin this shit on us," Dix said.
    "One of White's men?" Logan wondered aloud.
    Mole said, "They're reachin'—any way to blame this damn thing on us, they'll find."
    But that was the end of the coverage of the sector cop's murder, and the news broadcast returned to the studio for other local news. There was a perverse sense of