Shadows of Falling Night by S. M. Stirling Read Free Book Online

like this? Defending them from fates worse than death. Risking my life to do so when I could be in La Jolla throwing treats to the cormorants? It is a wonderment.”
    “You gave that one a toe-cap vasectomy, so he probably won’t be breeding any more of ’em. And hey, usually we’re in more civilized parts of the world,” the man said. “Don’t you love to travel?”
    “With
you
?” she asked snidely.
    “Hey, I’m not a sexist troglodyte banchut!”
    “Not a sexist. Full stop.”
    Harvey waited until they were both looking at the front door and pulled nothing-here around himself as he sidled in, hooked a chair over with one foot, and sat down at their table. They were both naturally stronger with the Power than he was; that was just a matter of the genes. But his technique was perfect, which also mattered, and the
don’t-notice-this
trick was his best. Good enough that he hadn’t died forty-odd years ago, on his first op against a
real
adept. He held the coach gun below the level of the table, tapping the barrels once on the underside for emphasis when he let them see him.
    Neither started when they recognized him, or at the equally distinctive sound of the stubby gun knocking on rough wood. Instead their hands moved smoothly towards their own weapons and he sensed preset Wreakings welling up towards the surface of their minds, like smooth fanged shapes rippling the surface of still black water. Harvey showed his teeth.
    “Now y’all don’t have to get unfriendly, and it would be a pity to go throwing Wreakings around in this fine scenic example of Turkish peasant authenticity because anything they built to replace this shitheap would be even worse,” he said. “’sides, I got a barrel for each of you. At this range…”
    At this range, the sixteen pea-sized silvered shot in the smoothbore weapon would spatter bits of skin, bone, intestines and blood back a dozen paces, and both the Brotherhood operatives had seen more than once how swiftly he could react in a hard place. Plus there was something illogical but primal about having a weapon pointed at your crotch. They froze, and then returned their hands to the table, keeping them carefully in sight. Their eyes rested on his, unwinking as snakes. They were shielded well, but he could feel their taut readiness. And a curious relief, as if they realistically feared deadly violence and welcomed the prospect as well.
    Don’t you love life in the Brotherhood?
he thought whimsically.
Eventually your head becomes a bad neighborhood you don’t want to go into by yourself. You need more of the stuff that fucked you up to distract you from how badly you’re fucked up.
    The four remaining locals all put away their backgammon games, got up and walked out into the night, talking loudly among themselves about the local football—soccer—team’s chances. Possibly they were going to go to the town cop, but Harvey Ledbetter didn’t think so, not from his read of their auras. Certainly the man he’d seen being helped out earlier wouldn’t be. Pigs would strap on jet-packs before a highland Turk or a Kurd complained to the authorities about getting slammed in the nuts by a female tourist. Bursting back in behind an AK on rock-and-roll was more likely, and still not very high on his list of worries right now.
    With his left hand he picked up a glass of a milk-like fluid and sipped. It was raki, which for some reason colored up like that when mixed with chilled water. There were plates of meze on the table:
beyaz peynir
goat cheese, sliced ripe melon, hot pepper paste with walnuts, yoghurt, stuffed bell peppers, and kÖfte lamb meatballs.
    He scooped some up with a piece of the lavash flatbread; using his left hand was mildly impolite hereabouts, but nobody would expect better from a
Frenk
, and he wasn’t going to take his right index finger too far from the trigger just yet.
    “Anjali,” he said, nodding to the woman. She stared back expressionlessly. “Mighty