From: jgoodric@dante.nmsu.edu (GOODRICH)
Subject: Carnivore 1/3
Date: 15 Oct 92 17:04:36 GMT


             Carnivore 1/3
      Copyright 1992 by John Goodrich
    Characters portrayed in this story may
       or may not live down your street.

    The day had that hot, humid, dead August feel to it.
Polluted air sweated from the pores of the urban sprawl,
creating an all- pervading haze that filled lungs and bodies
with the excreted filth of innumerable factories.  While
thousands of air conditioners strangled, only the wealthy
could afford to have their names put on the top of the
enormous repair lists.  The repair businesses were making a
mint.  The rest of the city just lay festering in the filth
and heat, praying for relief that didn't exist.  The only
breezes moved the swollen air from one blistering Hell to
another.  Infrequent rains steamed off the sticky asphalt,
clotting the air with reeking clouds of vapor.  The city was
restless.  Human vermin crawled from one place to another
seeking shelter from the oppressive heat and pollution.
Desperate men and women were willing to kill for the
privilege of a few breaths of cool air. The murder rate
skyrocketed.
     	Kiv walked into Slammer's Gym.  He seldom entered
any of the local exercise emporiums; the smell of
perspiration made him queasy.  He passed a few bucks over
front counter, and explained that he was looking for the
owner.  After getting his directions, he entered the primary
training area.  The stifling heat and pervasive perspiration
made the sweatshop stink like a week-old carcass.  Trying
not to breathe too much, Kiv walked down the center of two
rows of sweating, pumping women and men.  Perspiration
rolled down faces and chests, gleaming in the dim
fluorescent lights. Metal weights clanked, giving him the
impression of an enormous engine that used bodybuilders for
pistons.  Somewhere in the blinding reek was the man called
Damage.
	Spying his intended target, Kiv walked up to a man
with biceps the size of Kiv's own thighs.  He was enormous,
well over two meters tall, and massively built.  Damage
wasn't so much a human being as a walking edifice. The giant
was currently bench-pressing a hundred kilos in fast
repetitions, eyes closed.  Kiv thought for a few seconds,
wondering if the man was aware of him, then decided to
announce himself.
	"Yo maggot!"
    	The clanking stopped, and heads were raised,
wondering who was being spoken to.  After a few seconds,
everyone was back to their endless labor, but the fleshy
giant below Kiv didn't even open an eye.
	"Kiv, you fucking rat, watchoo doin' here?"  The
mountain of meat moved; waist-thick legs swung off the bench
and planted themselves on the floor.  Damage stood, towering
over Kiv, at least double the smaller man's mass.  A thick
finger slammed into Kiv's chest.  "You fucking trash.  I
told you never come here." The finger hammered into Kiv's
sternum a second time.
	With a snarl that was gone in the blink of an eye,
Kiv tried to knock the offending finger aside.  It didn't
move.  Suddenly angry, he grabbed the finger with both hands
and tried to force the leather-sheathed paw down.  Damage's
hand closed on both of Kiv's and flexed a set of muscles
that belonged on a cape buffalo, and all three hands shot
upwards.  Kiv's shoulders screamed as his body ascended half
a meter and hung from the massive, outstretched arm.
	 Kiv looked down at the face below his own.  For the
first time, Kiv saw the fine network of hairline scars that
flattened the right side of Damage's face.  It looked like
he had been pressed with a hot frying pan.  The cheekbone
had been smashed and badly reset, forming a flat plane
between the side of the massive head to the face.  The scar
tissue was a slight unhealthy gray that Kiv had always
assumed was some omnipresent shadow.  The eye on the scarred
side of the face was milky-white with a cataract, but the
other was a deep, almost soulful brown.  Neither eye
betrayed strain or anger, just calm and wariness.
	"You and your fucking polymer bones." Kiv said in
disgust.
	Damage grinned something that passed for
pleasantness and dropped Kiv, who landed catquiet on gray
sneakers.  The clanks and grinding of men and women making
repetitions filtered back into his consciousness; he hadn't
realized they'd been gone.
	Damage's office was sufficient, but dim, and
spartan, but less oppressive then the main weight room.
Whatever sunlight that fought its way through the
omnipresent cloud layer was effectively stopped by the grime
caking the window.  As Kiv sank into a naugahyde chair, his
host took a seat behind the massive wooden desk.
	"Hey Kiv, why you wearing a knife? You always pack a
pistol." Damage had a deep, subbass voice that could
outpower helicopters.  Kiv was afraid they'd be heard all
the way down the weight room with its endlessly pumping
pieces of meat.
	 "The knife keeps you from looking for the pistol in
my pocket."  Even in the tremendous heat, Kiv was wearing
baggy, gray pants.  From a flapped thigh pocket, Kiv
produced a small, chromed handgun slightly wider then a
cigarette.  "Small, but effective."
	The giant on the other side of the desk was
apparently discomfited by the small handgun, and began to
fidget.  Kiv concealed it again in his pocket.  Damage still
didn't look happy.
	"Watchoo here for, anyway?  You never show up unless
you need somethin'." Damage's tone was sharp, and he still
shifted uncomfortably behind his desk.  Kiv was getting
nervous watching him.
	"I need a spare hand on a small job."  Damage knew
what kind of work Kiv did.
	 Damage scowled, "Your standard?"
	"Yeah."  There was some uncertainty in Damage's
voice that Kiv couldn't place.  Damage was one of those rare
people who was in a constant calm.  This strange edginess
made Kiv very uneasy.  Wondering what boil might be under
the surface, Kiv prodded. "What's your problem, never done
the wet thing?"
	 Damage started as if he'd sat on a wasp.  "I've
killed," he slammed a hand on the desk, which threatened to
collapse under the punishment.  "Shit, you're twisted.  You
know everything, gonna take on the world with that edge of
yours.  Get this straight, you little fuck, long after
someone's put splattered you across the sidewalk I'll be
here, helping someone just like you do the same thing.  Got
it?  Trash like you comes and goes, but I'm here to stay."
	Kiv rolled his eyes.  "Y'know, Damage, I hadn't
pegged you as an old fossil, but I guess the age
requirement's gone down.  You got any friends just like me
who need some money?  Somebody who likes guns?"
 	Damage elevated a thick middle finger as he stroked
the stubble on his chin.  There was silence for a few
heartbeats.  "Try Firedancer.  She likes your kind of
pacifiers, hangs around the entertainment district.  Or the
Vegetarian, he's probably mugging people in the park.
There's Nikita, she likes big guns."
	 Kiv frowned.  "Nikita's gone corporate.  I think
she took a job with the French government," he grinned, and
stood up. "Still, I owe you, you steroid-popping freak."
Damage stood also, and grunted, "Don't die with it on your
chest."
	"Ape," Kiv jabbed, retreating toward the door.
	"Cat molester!" Damage called when he was halfway
down the corridor.  Kiv closed his eyes and walked on.
Half a minute later, Kiv walked out of the gym and back into
the wan sunlight.  The heat was still stifling, but at least
the cloying reek of sweat left him after he got out of the
gym itself.



             Carnivore 2/3
      Copyright 1992 by John Goodrich
    Characters portrayed in this story may
       or may not live down your street.

	Kiv boarded the subway.  The few passengers sat
separated, avoiding the heat spilling from other bodies,
sweltering in the close air.  A great blond lug attempted to
dash through the doors as they closed.  Glass panes struck
the middle Greek letter of the tee-shirt and rebounded.
Grinning broadly, the blonde monolith stepped into the train
and swung its head around, looking for a seat.  It slouched
into a seat across from Kiv and stretched long, meaty legs
across the aisle, resting shiny-white sneakers on the seat
next to Kiv.
	Ice-gray eyes flicked from the sneakers to the
stupid face across the aisle, and back to the sneakers.  The
feet failed to move.
	Then the monolith opened its mouth.
	"Pretty good, huh?  I mean getting on the subway.
Musta been fifteen meters away when the doors started to
close."  It had a strong, throaty voice that carried clearly
through the car.  Either it liked its own voice or it was
deaf.  Or both.  "Just goes to show being a quarterback has
its advantages, eh?  You," Kiv was prodded with a gleaming
white sneaker, "you probably couldn't run a full field
without sucking wind.  Jesus, you know, people like you just
sit around living half-lives.  You oughta get healthy,
skinny-boy, you'll live longer.  Pump some weight, get some
muscle in those thighs."
	Kiv's face remained bland, his smoky eyes hooded and
dangerous.  "I don't know what your problem is, chum, but
this isn't the place to air it.  Leave it now."
	The car tinny clank of the car rattling down the
tracks was the only sound.  The other passengers had fallen
silent, their own conversations much less interesting.
	It wasn't fazed.  "Come on boy, you're so ashamed of
your legs you're wearing long pants in this heat.  C'mon
down to the gym, getcher blood pumping; work up a decent
sweat, put meat on you.  I bet we could make a real man of
you yet.  Bulk you up, get you women, you'll thank me when .
. . "
	Half a second later, the blonde's skull went crack
against the window as Kiv's fingers jerked the jaw up and
stuck a thin, sharp knife under the left ear.  The brown
sheep's eyes filled with Kiv leaning over, feet planted on
each side of the thick chest.  Kiv thrust his face within
centimeters of the boy's, grinning like the Angel of Death.
	"I've haven't killed anyone just because I didn't
like them yet," Kiv said to the terrified face.  He drew the
knife across the skin, just slitting the top layer of flesh.
The brown eyes widened at the pain, and the breathing became
shallower as the translucent flesh around the cut darkened
with a trickle of blood.
	"Next time I see you, I'll cut your throat and spit
down it. Got it?"
	Without waiting for an answer, Kiv backed off,
stepping to the aisle floor, then resettling in his seat.
His target, holding its hand to the slit skin, blood just
trickling through his fingers, retreated to the furthest
corner of the car.
	 Nobody reacted.  Kiv caught a few secret smiles,
but nothing was said as he wiped off his knife and returned
it to the small sheath in the small of his back.  Kiv leaned
back and smiled, savoring the memory of frightened eyes and
sweating fear.  He was enjoying himself so much he almost
missed his stop.
	Two hours later, after discreet inquiries at bars,
brothels, and several less definable establishments, Kiv
traced Firedancer to a large arcade.  The video games were
alive in the twilight, despite the oppressive heat.  Bleeps,
blips, gunfire, detonations, afterburners and computer
speech mixed into an atmosphere that literally hummed in the
collected body swelter.  Multicolored lights reflected off
rings, pendants, and earrings, each a tiny star in the muted
light.  Kiv passed two Robotech booths ("totally
interactive!" they blared, sensing motion), the X-rated
version of Custer's Last Stand, a battered but still
functioning Asteroids, and the newest Mega-Destroyer, until
he came to the heart of the noise.
	Air-raid sirens screamed as a Soviet Tupolev Tu-16
bomber cruised over the latest in hologram technology.
Armageddon, a six meters wide and as high as a kitchen
table.  State-of-the-art technology brought the excitement
and beauty of Mutually Assured Destruction to your
fingertips.  As Kiv and a crowd of spectators watched, Japan
was engulfed in a series of bright flashes and mushroom
clouds.  Deep booms thudded through Kiv's chest as
digitalized detonations resounded in the arcade.
	Someone near Kiv whispered "He always dusts Japan in
the fifties.  Cripples the States later on."  But America
wasn't done for yet.  A pair of retaliatory missiles arced
into the Ukraine, the most fertile land in the Soviet Union.
Shockwaves again rolled over the crowd, something that was
felt more than heard.  The twin mushroom clouds spelled
disease and famine for millions of electronic citizens.  Kiv
doubted the world would last to the seventies at this rate.
He sauntered off out of the crowd and its ambience of heat,
looking for Firedancer.
	He found the big Mejicana concentrating in front of
an aged Space Gun video game, blasting away at mounting
walls of electronic aliens.
	Kiv hooked his thumbs into his pockets, and assumed
a cocky stance.  "Hey Firedancer, I got a pro-po-si-shun for
you," Kiv announced over the shock wave of another Hydrogen
bomb detonation.
	"Blow," she retorted.
	Rebuffed, Kiv tried another approach; he punched two
quarters into the video game.  An alien rushed, and Kiv
pumped electronic bullets into its torso.  Blood fountained
from the purple body as it fell, but Kiv had already turned
to another.  A quick burst and this one also went down
thrashing, its head gone.  A third figure whipped forward
and three slashes pulsed redly in Kiv's vision.  Angered, he
retaliated with a grenade, and the lithe form exploded into
spectacular flames.  The multicolored suicide machines
gained speed, rushing into the hail of destruction put up by
the playing pair.  At first, Kiv was careful with his gun's
heat level, but he soon found he had no time to let it cool.
Eventually, the gun's heat bar constantly pushed the top of
tolerance.  Kiv's finger continued to convulse, firing quick
bursts into the onrushing bodies.  The aliens rushed in
waves, single minded and monotonous except for their speed,
each one killed revealing another just behind.  Lesser
gunmen would have been overwhelmed, but Kiv and Firedancer
were competent.  They cut like cold steel through the walls
of aliens, their advance slow and inexorable, like death by
cancer.  Blood spurted, body parts were blasted off, and the
occasional desperate grenade blew the creatures back.
Bloody red and white explosions reflected off the tight
purse of Firedancer's lips and the hard grin of Kiv, both
locked in their microcosm of fury and destruction.
	The game ended; the humans stood victorious.  Kiv
shot in his initials for second place while 'Dancer claimed
first.  When this little conceit was done, she turned to
Kiv.  As she did so, Kiv noticed for the first time that she
was at least four centimeters taller than him.  Her brown
leather vest was laced tightly in front, pressing the taut
breasts to her ribcage.  Baggy camouflage pants were tucked
into the tops of her combat boots.  Muscled arms reflected a
myriad of colors off an uneven sheen of sweat and grime.
More important to Kiv was the respect in her eyes.
	She jerked a thumb at the blue plastic gun mounted
on the front of the video game.  "Not bad, Kiv.  Would you
believe that was the first pistol I ever used?  My parents
wouldn't let me have toy guns; they thought it might
encourage me.  Guess they were right, huh?"  She said with a
half-grin.
	Kiv returned the grin.  "Can't keep a good gun down.
Hey 'Dancer, wanna make some easy cash?  I got a job that's
paying real good."
	She turned her head and spat on the floor. "I got
enough to eat for a month.  Why should I go looking for
trouble?"
	 Kiv thought quickly.  "Insurance.  Maybe buy a new
gun, or some safety slugs?  Air conditioning?  It's pretty
easy and the pay is high."
	She chewed on that as they walked out of the arcade.
A wind was ineffectually trying to cut its way through the
thick, sweltering air, but it was better than the simmering
body heat of the arcade.  "Why me?  We're both loners, Kiv.
You'd be better off with a team player."  She turned left
and Kiv had to jog to keep up with her.
	 "Naw," he said, his New Hampshire accent slipping
into his voice for a second.  "I figure two loners would do
better, especially if it goes ugly.  I came to the best."
She bridled a bit and stopped walking, allowing Kiv to catch
up with her.  On her face, her disdain of empty flattery
warred with the desire to accept the compliment.  She
settled for an amused half-grin.  "You're either real slick,
or you're dumb enough to think flattery will work."
	Kiv knew flattery worked on her.  It worked on
everybody a little.  He dangled another piece of bait,
"Three thou."
	She gave him a sour look.  "Total?" she asked.
	Embarrassed, Kiv coughed.  "Each."  He watched one
of her eyebrows move toward her hairline.  "Six thou total.
I just need some help."
	She thought for a minute.  "So OK, why do you need
an extra gun?  Multiple targets?  Vehicles?  Invasive hit?
What's the setup?"
	Kiv's confidence dropped several notches.  He didn't
like the way she kept sliding around, impossible for him to
pin down. He also hated the fact that she kept guessing
close to the truth.  "There's a bodyguard organization, and
they're toting the target around in an armored van.  Quit
fucking around.  D'you want in or not?"
	 The tall Chicano thought for a few seconds, her
face unreadable.  "Maybe.  If you want the best, I'm going
to need more info.  Where'd you get the contract?  Who's the
target?"
	Kiv sighed.  He didn't like giving out information
about business.  "I got the contract in the Prophet's Doom,
the talker was Japanese."  Kiv pulled a photograph out of
his pocket and handed it to her.  "This jerk is selling
industrial secrets to General Dynamics.  They sent Li Chao
after him, only he screwed up.  So he hired himself a bunch
of bodyguards.  He needs to stay in town for six more days
to finish some business."
	 Firedancer thought about this.  "You know anything
else about him?"
	Kiv ground his teeth.  "As if the heat wasn't
enough, the bitch's got an attitude", he thought.  "Look,"
he snapped, "I'm getting paid to punch his clock, not write
his fucking biography.  You in or not?  My time's valuable."
	She made a placating gesture with her hand.  "Chill,
Kiv I'm in.  Three thousand, fifteen hundred in advance.
Shake on it?"
	Sullenly, Kiv stuck out a hand.  "Right.  You better
be worth it."  They shook hands.
	The deal settled, 'Dancer was all business.  "Now,
how do you figure on picking this guy off?  You got a
reputation as the man with a plan."
	 Feeling a little better for this slight
superiority, Kiv laid his plan out for her.  "Three days out
of four, they use this back-alley route to make sure
nobody's following them.  There's a stretch that's got some
abandoned buildings on each side.  They sweep the alley
about ten minutes before the van pulls through.  They got
voice-activated mikes, so any shooting's going to alert the
van.  I need you to take out point-man number two.  When the
van gets there, you toss a grenade under it, and it's all
over but the shouting."
	Firedancer thought about it.  "Most bodyguards check
in every five minutes.  You've got a ten-minute lag there."
Kiv's face betrayed more than a hint of pride.  "My coup de
grace.  I happen to own a wide-band receiver with a
record/play option."  He grinned broadly, "Isn't technology
wonderful?  If anything goes wrong, we meet back at, say,
this arcade after two days.  You don't get the other fifteen
hundred if it goes sour."
	'Dancer nodded her approval.  "Sounds fair.  What
time do we meet?"
	Kiv thought.  "They go through about two.  Meet you
here about noon tomorrow?
	"Done."
	And that was the end of it.



        Carnivore 3/3
      Copyright 1992 by John Goodrich
    Characters portrayed in this story may
       or may not live down your street.


	At one fifteen, Kiv and 'Dancer arrived in the
alley.  Like the rest of the city, the narrow street was
stuffed with greasy heaps of rotting garbage.  Bags, cans
and dumpsters overflowed with uncollected trash, reeking of
rot in the heat.  Despite the stench, they decided to use
the refuse for their operation.  "Gotta use what's
available,"  Firedancer said with a shrug.
	Kiv chose a dumpster while his partner set up a
large pile of fermenting trash bags, then lined it with
several cans.  Neither provided hard cover, but at least
they couldn't be seen from the road.  Each was armed with
their own favorite submachine gun and two phosphorus
grenades.  Kiv had a ten millimeter Intratec Tec-9 automatic
pistol.  Firedancer favored her Heckler and Koch SP94, also
of the ten millimeter persuasion.  Kiv carefully placed his
all-band receiver at the bottom of the dumpster where it
wouldn't get shot.  He was very protective of the small
electronic package, since the success of the whole operation
hinged it.  Besides, it had cost him a bundle.  He climbed
in and waited, reeking of trash, his world lit by the moving
red LED's of the receiver.  Kiv sat patiently, trying not to
breathe.
	Two minutes later, his small receiver stopped
cycling, and a flat voice came over the small speaker.
"Front one to Blackjack, all clear," followed by "Front two
to Blackjack, clear."
	"Beautiful" thought Kiv.  Five minutes later, as the
message repeated, Kiv held down the record button.  The
recording was adequate, and the frequency hadn't changed.
Kiv thought it could have gotten really interesting if they
had been changing channels on a schedule.  He was pleased
with the recording, but waited for a second check-in to make
sure there was no variation or code in the transmissions.
There didn't appear to be.
	With about ten minutes to spare, he stuck his head
out of the dumpster and called "Set!" and was gratified to
hear a reply of "Match!" from behind a medium-size pile of
trash cans and bags.  Everything was set, and they waited.
	Three minutes ahead of schedule, Kiv heard the two
motorcycles approach, slow, then idle.  After half a minute,
feet approached, and the soccerball of nothingness formed
just under Kiv's sternum.  The ball absorbed all his
emotions, quashing them into oblivion.  To Kiv, killing was
a lot like lying; a lot easier if you didn't feel anything.
Emotions at a time like this were a detriment.  Somewhere in
the back of his mind, a tiny piece of scrabbled and squeaked
pitifully, trying to get him to feel something.  Kiv was
dimly aware of the rebellion in his mind, but ignored it
with practiced ease.
	The lid of the dumpster raised, and Kiv felt no
emotion as his knife drove through the meaty throat above
him.  The man staggered back and fell, spurting blood,
clawing at the handle of the knife protruding from his neck.
The heavy dumpster lid slammed down onto Kiv's hand, and he
winced.  Then he stood up explosively, sending the lid to
slam against the back of his green steel bunker.  The man
was on the ground, unable to remove the knife from his
airway, spraying his life on the asphalt around him.  A
quick glance to the other side of the street showed that
Firedancer had already taken her target.  Kiv lunged and
landed near the squirming body.  He kicked the knife,
causing a spray of blood as the knife twisted and tore
ligaments and muscles.  Kiv realigned and landed a solid
kick to the man's head, and was satisfied to hear the crunch
of vertebrae.  The nameless guard's surprised eyes glazed
over as his consciousness also fading to nothing.
	Quickly, Kiv frisked the body for useful equipment.
A .44 magnum and the in-ear transmitter were the only useful
items he could find with time so short.  Kiv removed them,
then manhandled the corpse into the dumpster.  Gun at the
ready, he made toward 'Dancer's hiding-place, to make sure
she had aced her target, not the other way around.
	Fifteen seconds later, her head and gun popped out
from the fortress of trash.  He held up his hands and
smiled, in case she thought he was someone else.  Then he
jogged around her fortress and held a whispered conference
over the corpse of the other guard.
	 "Trash the bikes," she said flatly.
	"No.  Move them up, keep them running.  We may need
a quick out.  Besides, they'll make the van hesitate for a
second.  Can you ride a bike?"  Kiv hated to waste money,
especially when it was free.
	 She nodded, "Yeah, sure, let's do it."
	They moved the motorcycles out of the projected fire
zone, and kept them running.  Kiv was impressed by the
smooth, sleek lines of the racing bikes.  They'd be an
unexpected bonus, if they didn't get trashed by stray
bullets.
	 Kiv glanced at his watch and noticed that he had
less then half a minute until the recorded check in was
supposed to go out.  He raced back to the dumpster and
leaped in, scrabbling around in the trash for the small
transmitter.  Five seconds late, he found it and pressed the
play button.
	"Front one to Blackjack, all clear," reported the
flat voice, exactly as it had ten minutes ago.  "Front two
to Blackjack, clear," came the second one.  Kiv held his
breath for a full minute.  When no other response or traffic
broke on the airwaves,  he relaxed.  He stuck his hand out
of the dumpster and gave a thumbs-up, then carefully opened
the top of his dumpy little fortress.
	 Flies had found the corpse by the time it was time
for the second check in.  Again, the recorded message went
out. "Front one to Blackjack, all clear," a pause, then
"front two to Blackjack, clear."  Kiv occupied himself
between watching the swarms of flies laying eggs in the eyes
of the dead guard and checking his watch.  There wasn't much
else to do.
	 Right on time, Kiv heard the van came around the
corner.  He tensed, and again the nothing formed.  The big
engine came closer.  From the sound of it, the van had a
pretty major engine, probably a custom job.  For an instant,
Kiv thought it was a shame to waste such a nice piece of
machinery, but the vacuum of his emotions swallowed the
thought.  Have to be focused he thought.
	 The van slowed, presumably having seen the two
bikes.  Kiv waited, hoping Firedancer was as competent she
boasted. The motor slowed to an idle, and just below the
rolling crackle of the engine, Kiv thought he heard
something small and metal bouncing down the road. Suddenly,
the van slammed into gear and screeched its wheels.  Almost
simultaneously, the grenade went ffffup, and the reek of
burned rubber washed into Kiv's hiding place, scattering the
flies.  Kiv popped his head and the stolen .44 magnum over
the lip of the dumpster.
	 The van was a mess.  The driver must have backed
right over the grenade; both rear tires were on fire, and it
looked like the back axle was broken.  Instead of a rolling
pillbox, the van was now a sitting target for whatever they
decided to throw at it.  Smoke from the explosion obscured
most of the alley, but Kiv knew that wouldn't last.  He
sighted on the small rear window and opened up.  Slugs
nearly half an inch wide smashed into bullet- proof glass,
cracking it.  Kiv smiled to himself.  The .44 had much more
penetration than his ten millimeter.  He sent another
careful shot into the window, punching a small hole in it.
Kiv was pleased, but took out his Intratec.  He didn't want
to be caught out with a gun that had only four bullets in
it.  Gun ready, Kiv waited.
	A quiet rolled over the battlefield as each side
assessed the situation.  Above the buzzing of the flies, Kiv
could faintly hear a muffled conference issuing from the
van.  He wondered if the team would give up their client,
making it easier on all of them.
	 Good bodyguards knew better than that.  The sliding
side door of the black van was wrenched open, and four
guards and a fat man poured out onto the roadway.
Suppressing fire went everywhere, spattering off brick and
road, shredding garbage bags that might have concealed the
assassins.  At the same time, Kiv heard the light schuff of
something falling into the garbage next to him.  In an
instant he was airborne, then rolling as the asphalt tore at
his unprotected hands and arms.  Behind him, the dumpster
exploded, vomiting garbage six meters into the air.  Heat
from the explosion seared his face, neck and arm.  "Fucking
grenades," he thought, then "so much for the receiver."  He
scrambled for a large heap of trash a few meters distant as
burning plastic and paper rained down on him.
	Across the road, Firedancer appeared from behind her
fortress of garbage, the SP94 roaring metallically.  Her
body vibrated from the recoil, although her corded arm
absorbed most of the shock.
	Bullets raked into guards and skittered off the
armored side of the van.  Two guards down, and the suited
man's face dissolved as three slugs passed wetly through it.
Without even as much a scream, the large corpse convulsed,
fell like a sack of grain, and began to drain onto the
asphalt.
	Again, a silence fell over the battleground,
disturbed only by the scuffle of boots.  One guard ran to
their client while others searched for the vanished pair of
assassins.  Firedancer had disappeared behind another
mountain of trash, and Kiv had done the same. The guard
kneeling by the target broke the silence, "He's dead."
	Kiv grinned and clenched a bloody fist.  "Yes!" he
whispered to himself.  Three thousand bucks in the bank.
Now all he had to do was get rid of the guards.  Dancer
apparently had the same idea.
	"Target's dead, gang," she called.  "We don't want
to have to kill you, too!  You can go, no trouble."
	The guards didn't quite buy it.  They gathered into
a defensive knot, supporting their wounded companions.
After a second consultation that bristled with weapons and
anger, the guards left the safety of the van and began to
move down the alley, guns levelled in anticipation of a
cross.
	They were smart, but they weren't fast.  Kiv erupted
from his pile of trash, his gun deafening in the heavy air.
The guards tried to dive, but were caught by the burst of
automatic fire.  Red splotches blossomed in the air and
spattered across greasy bags of trash.  One guard thrashed
on the pavement for a few seconds, then everything was
still.  "No witnesses," Kiv said when last one quit moving.
Smiling and victorious, Kiv headed for the shell of the van
to make sure the target was dead.  He noticed Firedancer was
headed in that direction, also.  He grinned when she was
close enough.
	"Nice going, 'Dancer.  I thought we might have some
trouble flushing them out.  Good work," he said, and looked
at her just in time to see her foot lash across his face.
Kiv slammed into the van and rebounded, falling to the
asphalt.  As he floundered in this new position, aware that
his gun was somewhere out of reach, something foot sized
detonated in his abdomen.  Pain exploded into his
unprotected abdomen and ribs twice, three tim
es, and again.  After six or so kicks, the pain overwhelmed
his ability to count, think, or see.
	 Half a minute later, his vision cleared enough to
register the outside world.  He was lying on his side in
fetal position, ribs throbbing from several large, painful
bruises.  Breathing hurt, and blood trickled across his face
to puddle under his right ear.  Everything was moving a bit
slower than it usually did.  Kiv felt curiously detached
from the scene in which he found himself.  It was like being
on a TV with the picture fuzzed out just a little.  He
looked left and right, watching the new way the world moved.
After a minute or so, he noticed Firedancer standing several
meters away.  He started to smile and wave, but it
registered that her gun was pointing at his head.  He gulped
blood and tried to refocus, forcing the fuzziness to the
back of his head.  She was panting, as if she had just
finished a heavy workout.  Her teeth were clenched so hard
he could see the muscles in her cheeks standing out.  Seeing
his consciousness, she began to control her breathing.  The
muscles of her jaws unclenched, but did not relax.
	"You vicious little fuck!  I've never been part of a
dirty operation!  I ought to grease you right now, fucker."
Firedancer spoke with a harsh voice that hardly seemed
human.  "You didn't need to fucking kill them, you shit!"
Kiv winced at the sound of her voice, she sounded ready to
kick him again.
	He coughed up the clot of blood and grit that had
taken up residence in his mouth and then spit for good
measure.  "Wait a minute," his brain was reeling.  Different
pains elbowed at each other for his attention.  His burned
skin shrieked in an enveloping sheet of constant pain while
his ribs send their messages in compact, regular bursts in
synch with his heartbeat.  Kiv couldn't feel most of his
face.
	 "Wait a minute," he repeated, his face and lips not
reacting exactly the way he had told them to.
 	Thup said the gun.
	White hot pain exploded in Kiv's thigh, and he
screamed through clenched teeth.  Vision darkened.
"JesusfuckingChrist you bitch if I ever get-"
	 "Shut up." She snapped, "They're armor-piercing.
It went right through."  Her breathing slowed, and now that
the epinephrine rush was over.  "That was shit you pulled.
Word on the street isn't gonna like either of us.  I like
clean kills, Kiv and those three weren't it."
	 Kiv wasn't listening much.  He was contending with
a new, overwhelming pain.  A tiny piece of him wondered how
Indiana Jones managed to function like this.  More and more
of his mind began to ponder this problem, then caught
himself before reality slipped away.  He wondered if his
pain centers were about to give out.  Maybe he'd be able to
walk away from this if the pain stopped.
	 Reality intruded in the form of a thrown rock that
hit him in the head.  Kiv raised an arm to ward off any more
and looked at the Mexican who was watching him slip in and
out of reality.
	"Wallet," she said.
	It took him a second to figure out that she meant
his wallet; the place where he kept his money.  After a few
long seconds, Kiv unglued one hand from his leg, reached the
red-soaked hand to his wallet.  With slow care, Kiv withdrew
the wallet.  He gestured with it, making sure this was the
one 'Dancer had meant.
	"Throw it here," she said.  He couldn't think of a
good reason not to, so he flipped it at her.  It seemed to
fly toward her in slow motion, tumbling free of gravity.
After a time, it flopped to the sticky pavement.
	She glanced through the nylon fold, and looked
unhappy.  Withdrawing his credit card, she let the rest of
the wallet fall.  "What's your access code?"
	"Jesus 'Dancer..."
	She indicated her impatience with the heavy
automatic.
	"Eat Shit," he said, "No spaces.  You can spell
that, right?"
	She turned on her heel and left.  She claimed a
motorcycle and started it.  With a single backwards look at
Kiv, the bike snarled off onto the main road.  When the
sound of her cycle was lost in traffic, Kiv let himself
shudder.