Turn of the Cards by George R. R. Martin, Victor Milan Read Free Book Online Page B

time.”
    Mark blinked. “What are you talking about? I didn’t kill anybody.” Not on Earth, anyway. He had a hard time dealing with some of what he’d done on Takis, but it was no time to bring that up.
    “What about all those people you sold your poison to on the streets?” Carlysle asked in a strained voice.
    Mark stared at her. About the only crime he wasn’t accused of was trafficking. The two male agents turned a momentary look of disbelief her way, then turned back to Mark, obviously choosing to edit her question out of their personal realities.
    “Tim Dooley, DEA,” the beefy blond said. “His partner. He was killed in a shootout in your lab in New York.”
    “In my lab?” Mark was completely disoriented now.
    “Over your fucking head shop,” the dark-haired one said. “Oh, excuse me. Your New Age deli.”
    “A couple of years ago,” Carlysle said over her shoulder. “About the time you pulled your disappearing act from judge Conower’s courtroom.”
    Mark had no idea what they were talking about. After Judge Conower’s surprise decision — adjudging both Mark and his ex-wife unsuitable parents and remanding Sprout to the custody of the New York juvenile justice system — Mark had sort of phased out of the world for a while.
    “He was actually shot by a Narcotics Division officer from NYPD,” Carlysle said. “It was what you might call a slight misunderstanding.”
    “That doesn’t matter,” the dark-haired agent snarled. “You’re just as guilty as if you’d pulled the fucking trigger. That’s what the law says, dude.”
    “That’s the craziest thing I ever heard in my life!” Mark blurted.
    The agent shoved the muzzle of his machine pistol up Mark’s right nostril. “ Don’t call me crazy!”
    “Hey, Lynn,” the big blond agent said, reaching up as if to touch his partner’s arm, not quite daring to do so. “Take it easy. Don’t want to get blood on the upholstery, you know.”
    The other man turned him a look of hatred so pure it rocked him back against the rear of the seat. Then he relaxed.
    “Yeah, you’re right, Gary” he said, actually taking the gun out of Mark’s face. “We’re supposed to take good care of the little lady, after all. Not subject her to the sight of spilled brains.”
    “You can knock off the condescending sexist crap,” Carlysle said.
    Lynn laughed and tucked his piece out of sight beneath the windbreaker he was wearing today. They were driving southeast away from Leyden Square, along the Lijnbaansgracht. Trees and colorful moored houseboats ticked past.
    “I think I’m going to throw up,” Mark said.
    “Jesus,” Lynn said, and turned away.
    “Go ahead,” his partner said. “You’ll have to clean it up.
    “Wait. My arm. My left arm hurts. Like, what’d you guys do —”
    He slammed his right hand against his sternum and doubled over.
    Lynn came around in his seat. “What? What the fuck?”
    “Hey!” Gary said, holding up a hand to try to keep his partner under control. “Hey, knock that shit off.”
    Mark uncurled a little. “My — my chest. Aaah!”
    “Wait!” Carlysle cried, veering a little. “You don’t understand. Nausea, pains in the arm — he’s having a heart attack, dammit!”
    “Oh, bullshit,” Agent Gary said. He pulled Mark upright.
    “Hey,” the blond agent exclaimed. “He put something in his mouth!” His hand went under his sport coat.
    Mark grabbed the coat by the collar and yanked it desperately down Agent Gary’s back to his elbows, effectively pinning his arms. He changed.
    The blond agent cried out in surprised fear as Mark’s skinny body expanded, filling the slope-roofed rear of the Citroën. Helen Carlysle looked up to her rearview, saw an immense gray-skinned man crushing Gary against the side of the car, and crashed into a Daihatsu parked facing the canal.
    The gray man reared up, crashing up through the tinted-glass fastback. He climbed out of the now-stationary car with a squeal of