Lone Wolf by Nigel Findley Read Free Book Online Page A

someone’s tossed the place or maybe set off a grenade in the middle of the room. Basically just the way I left it.
    Someone’s sprawled in my single armchair—formerly the home of a pile of laundry that’s been pushed onto the floor. Bart is his name—Big Bad Bart to his friends—“that trog bastard” to everyone else (the overwhelming majority). He’s a big, bloated ork standing a touch over two meters and massing one thirty-five if he’s a gram. He’s got a big sagging gut that looks like it’s sitting on his lap, and jowls big and heavy enough to stop a punch to his larynx. Sure, Bart’s a tub of lard, and it would be easy to dismiss him because of it. But I’ve seen him move, and he’s stronger and faster on his feet than his flabby bulk would make you think.
    He smiles up at me from the chair, and I’m glad I haven’t eaten. Bart’s one of those orks who seems to consider tooth decay a badge of honor. His protruding fangs are yellowed and chipped, and the rest of his teeth are black. His breath could knock over a devil rat at five paces.
    And since we’re on the topic of Bart’s odious personal habits, let’s talk about Darwin’s Bastards. I’m egalitarian and open-minded when it comes to musical preference. Even though I’d probably rather listen to a jet engine spooling up than sit through an album by DB or Trollgate, if Bart wants to listen to that poisonous trash, it’s chill with me. My kick is that he likes to inflict it on the world, He’s always got his Sony ChipMan deck hanging from his belt, but instead of listening to the so-called “music” through earphones, trode rig, or datajack, he sets the deck to narrowcast to a pair of Bose Micro Vox speakers built into the rigid shoulder-boards of his jacket. With the volume usually cranked up to brain-melting, trying to carry on a conversation with the slag turns into an exercise in lip-reading.
    Big Bad Bart and I aren't on the best of terms. Never have been, and recent developments seem to be conspiring to make sure we never will be. The fat pig apparently hoop-kissed his way up the hierarchy of Cutters soldiers until he became one of Ranger’s more trusted lieutenants. When I showed up in the sprawl, my faked background marking me as a real “comer” in the gang scene, Bart decided I was a threat to him and all his progress. He never made any moves against me, though; by the time he’d figured things out, I’d already ingratiated myself with enough of the big bosses to make fragging me too big a risk. But he sure as frag nuzzled up even closer to Ranger’s hoop.
    That’s ancient history. Now? If Bart was once concerned that I was angling to be Ranger’s protege, it doesn’t seem to be bothering him anymore. Don’t get me wrong. Ranger would never confess that I’d whipped his hoop in the council meeting. But drek like that spreads through the gang faster than gossip in a retirement-village bridge club.
    It’ll also have made the rounds that I’m boss-man Blake’s fair-haired boy at the moment, and that—probably—protects me from harassment and direct retribution. Unless it can be disguised as something else, of course.
    So, I snarl at Bart, “What the frag do you want?” My H & K’s by my side, handshaking happily with the wire in my brain. The tech reassures me just how fast I could bring the gun up and squeeze the trigger if I have to, and estimates how much of Bart would be blown into the upholstery of my armchair.
    Bart smiles, and I can imagine the wave of halitosis rolling slowly across the room toward me. “War council,” he says—or that’s what I think he says.
    “Yeah?” I ask. “So what you doing here, priyatel?” The word’s Russian for “friend,” but I know my tone changes the meaning to something very different. “Never heard of a fragging phone?”
    He shrugs, and his jowls wobble. Darwin’s Bastards are screaming something about being a rock and not rolling, and the accompaniment sounds