The Man Who Never Missed by Steve Perry Read Free Book Online Page A

impassive as he was marched into the hard foam structure. Of course, the Scum didn’t have to storm the building…
    Khadaji was checked for weapons; he emptied his pockets—he only had a pack of flicksticks and some change, which he handed to the Lojt in charge—was hand-searched, then walked past a fluroproj to double check that he had no material secreted in his clothes or body cavities.
    “Clean,” the tech said, looking at the proj.
    The Lojt handed the flicksticks and money back to Khadaji. Khadaji extended the pack toward the officer. “Like a smoke?”
    “No, sir. Not on duty.”
    “For later, maybe?”
    The officer hesitated a moment, then shook his head. “Better not. Go ahead in, sir.”
    Inside, there was at least a pretense of privacy; Creg sat behind his desk, and the two men were alone in the room.
    “Sit,” Creg ordered.
    Khadaji shook his head. “First we make sure I get back to the Jade Flower alive,” he said. “I want you to arrange for a quad to escort me back, now that you’ve marked me by having me brought in under heavy guard.”
    “It’ll be taken care of.”
    “No, sir. I want you to get on the com and tell that friendly Lojt outside the door that when I come out, he’s to take me back to the Flower without any stops—that anybody who tries to approach is probably Scum, no matter what they claim to be or look like and they are to be spiked.” The commanding officer of the forces on Greaves looked irritated. “Mister Khadaji, you have vital information for me and we are under Military Interdiction. I can pry what I want from you in five minutes.”
    “I know that,” Khadaji said. Careful. “But I’m here voluntarily. I want to tell you what I know, and you can verify it easily. I just want to make sure I survive. Is it so unreasonable a request?”
    Befalhavare Creg weighed his options. Khadaji could see him decide. “All right, Mister Khadaji.” He reached for the com unit on his desk, touched a pressure-sensitive pad, and spoke quietly. “Temms, when this man leaves here, you are to escort him back to where he came from. No one is to approach without being considered an assassin—not anyone, including your mother, you copy?”
    “Sir.”
    The Old Man looked up. He was only about fifty, Khadaji estimated, hardly old, with a military shag cut and hard features. Probably a by-the-tape commander.
    “You have somebody monitoring this conversation, commander?”
    “I gave you my word otherwise, didn’t I?”
    “Recording?”
    “That I do, mister. Now, you had something to tell me?”
    Khadaji nodded. He took the pack of flicksticks from his pocket. “Do you mind if I smoke?”
    Creg shook his head. “Not if you get to the point.”
    Khadaji smiled and scratched the tip of the flickstick along the leg of his pants. The tip flared and he put the doped cigarette to his lips, but didn’t draw on it.
    “Me,” Khadaji said.
    “Excuse me?”
    “Me. I’m the leader of the Shamba Freedom Forces. In fact, I’m the whole army.”
    Creg’s eyes widened, then narrowed. “I don’t much care for jokes, mister—!”
    Khadaji took a deep breath, centered the flickstick in his mouth, and blew, hard. There was a paper tube inside the thinly packed flickstick and inside the tube, a single dart of fluroproj-transparent plastic, just in case. The dart tore through the tip of the smoldering flickstick and across the desk, hitting Befalhavare Creg’s throat. The poison took him, one knee snapping up into his desk, throwing him forward. Number twenty-three-eighty-eight, Khadaji thought. He wouldn’t be able to top this one.
    He stood and walked to the door, slid it aside and was out. He locked the door behind him. The Lojtnant looked startled.
    “Time to go,” Khadaji said.
    “That didn’t take long.”
    Khadaji shrugged. “Who are we to question the C.O.?”
    “I should check with him—”
    “I wouldn’t. He told me he wanted a few minutes to think about what I told him.