Walking Dead by Greg Rucka Read Free Book Online

over.”
     
I put the lid on his barrel, leaving enough room for air to leak in. He could push it off with no effort, but it was either that or kill him, and despite everything, I didn't want to do that. It's one thing to put down the shooter trying to light you up; that's survival, and when it comes down to survival, anything goes. But it's something else entirely to put a round in a man who's been rendered defenseless, who poses only a potential threat. Yes, Zviadi could make things difficult for me when his mates came through the door, but he could be smart and stay quiet, too. I had to give him the benefit of the doubt, no matter how vile I found him, no matter how dangerous it might be.
     
I had a good idea what Alena would've said about that, too.
     
Lid on, I made another quick survey of the space, looking for anything I'd missed, anything I could use. There was a rusted fuse box on the west wall, near the broken mounts where some heavy machine or another had once been secured, and I followed the conduits running off it with my eyes, tracking them. The trunk line dropped into the foundation, as was to be expected, but the two others running from the box ran up to the ceiling, then separated at a junction, sending out power to the rest of the building. The lights were high-hanging fluorescents, set in naked fixtures, half of them dead.
     
I checked the doors, first the southern one, from which we'd entered. It opened inward. I paused at it, listened, and then resolved myself to the fact that I wouldn't be hearing anything anyway through the concrete and steel. I cracked the door, looked out, and as I did so saw a set of headlights approaching, maybe fifty meters out, and if headlights could look familiar, these certainly did.
     
I shut the door and sprinted across the space, to the northern access. They'd arrived faster than I'd thought, probably waiting on Zviadi's call. Hell, we could've easily walked past them on the way here and I'd never have noticed, because I hadn't been certain at all what I was looking for. I checked the north door, and this one opened inward, too. I scanned the floor, found a rusted length of pipe that I thought would serve, stepped outside far enough to prop it quietly against the wall. I heard car doors slamming, the echo amplified by the concrete all around. The water's edge was only twenty, maybe twenty-five meters away, but it was all open ground between here and there, with no place to hide. I closed the door quietly, counted my steps back to the hydraulic lift, had almost reached it when the door to the south opened and they entered.
     
There were four of them, which was better than six, but not nearly as good as one, and they all had the swagger that comes from being predators feasting in an ocean of prey. Each was Caucasian, the same Central-to-Eastern European stamp on his face. Maybe Russian, or Ukrainian, or Georgian, or Albanian, or Romanian—I couldn't tell and doubted they'd answer if I asked. The weak fluorescent light grayed each of them out, made their pale skin paler, their dark hair darker.
     
The first one through the door was the biggest of the crew, and not in the way Zviadi was big. His hands, surprisingly, were empty, and when he saw me, he saw the pistol I was holdingparallel with my thigh, barrel down. His expression didn't even flicker. I was a threat that didn't rate.
     
Which made sense, because the second and third guys through the door were carrying their pistols in hand, much the way I was, and the last of their party had brought a shotgun with him. The door swung closed after him, heavy metal meeting concrete, and the echo rang off the floors and walls.
     
“Tiasa Lagidze.” I kept my voice even. “Where is she?”
     
The one to the left spoke softly in Russian, and the leader canted his head slightly, to listen. None of their eyes left me. Shotgun and the second pistol began to spread out slowly, trying to keep from bunching up.
     
“That's the