3
ould kill an octogenarian a fifty paces. More than the physical attraction, though, there was the attraction of knowledge: she could point me in the right direction and tell me to go.
Need-to-know. Show-me. Whirrrr.
There are days I hate, and this was one.
I was worried, all the same. Situations like this could mean Enemy in the area. On occasion, silence is the only possible route; too many ears and eyes watching out for wisps of information. If there was an Enemy tag on Kerry, it could mean trouble.
And if Kerry was in trouble, better break out the shining knights -- or at least a slightly overdone one. Enter Kevven Tomari.
I checked my watch, checked the terminal clock, noted the positions of the big hand and little hand on the terminal clock, and the shape of the figures on my expensive watch. Love my expense account, even if Area Fourteen hates it.
Show-me.
He liked that motto, did Area Fourteen. Causing me trouble.
If the Enemy had tagged Kerry, though, they'd kill her. I was wary. We'd lost a lot of agents recently to Enemy work. Too many.
I relaxed when I saw her coming through the entranceway at the bottom of the terminal; five feet of her, plus afro, plus pantsuit. It was impossible to mistake her, even from this distance; there is simply no one else like Kerry in an assortment of planets.
I got ready to go meet her, then stopped and dropped back into the seat.
Kerry was crossing the distance rapidly; she wasn't looking for me. For good reason.
Two of them, trailing her. They hadn't made any move on her yet, and that had to mean they were aware that she was here to make a connection. They were going to hit contact and connection together, neat double-header for them.
And for me, ugly as hell.
I watched them carefully, scanning side to side to check for others. None. Both white types, hair cut in similar fashion, similar casual suites -- it prevents part of your team getting iced if you have a few identifyin