After a few moments, they headed off down the street, away from Finch. With as much stealth as possible, he followed. Erring on the side of too much distance between them rather than too little. Until the streets around them began to get more crowded. Mostly former camp prisoners. Still wearing their uniforms. Some had crutches. A few bandaged around the head or arms. Most with that pinched, withdrawn look around the eyes from hunger, stress, or worse. Birthmarks they’d picked up in the camps shone mossy and bright.
They made it much easier. Buried. Following.
As he walked, Finch saw hints of Wyte in the faces of passersby. It sustained his anger, and his grief. Living against the odds.
5
Stark was using a mushroom house as his headquarters. Off Aquelus Street. About a half mile from Albumuth Boulevard. About a mile from Wyte’s apartment. Maybe a little more back to the station. Positioned so Stark would also have a straight shot, as straight as he’d get, back down to the Spit. A route that meant nothing now.
Using a mushroom house hinted at a rough genius in Stark, and a kind of insanity. It was three stories high. Light green with striations of metallic blue that gave it an ethereal sheen. Except for the tendency of the walls to curl and curve, the windows to flutter without a breeze, it shared a close resemblance to the normal houses on either side.
Finch stood on the opposite side of the street. Four houses down. Hidden by the stoop behind him and in front by a few high bushes with leaves shaped like shovels. An F&L neighborhood before the war. Protected from the worst predations of the wars. A quiet street. Little foot traffic. The mushroom house had probably scared people off. Or Stark’s people had done it.
The men he’d followed had gone in. A few minutes later, Stark and Bosun had come from the opposite direction. They stood for a moment on the steps in front of the house. He couldn’t hear what they were saying, but it sounded violent, like flames or swords. Then they went inside. He’d been waiting ever since. Going through the options. No way he could storm the house by himself. There were no guards at the front door, but that would’ve drawn too much attention. They’d even left garbage and debris out front. Let the fungus overgrow everything in sight.
He could just see the shadow of two men sitting back from the windows on the third floor. More men inside, of course. Possibly in the house opposite, on Finch’s side of the street. Watching. Finch didn’t particularly care. You could defend whatever position you wanted, but if the enemy hit you somewhere else, you were still fucked. He cared more that most of Stark’s men would be muscle bought after he’d arrived. Take care of Stark somehow and many of them wouldn’t be too keen to hunt Finch down. Too busy looking after their own interests.
An hour later, Stark and Bosun emerged from the house. With the short man who’d gone into Wyte’s apartment. The tall man who’d come out the back. Headed his way, on the other side of the street.
“You never gave me up, Wyte. I’ll never forget that.”
“I can’t control myself anymore. There’s not much of me left. The rest might fight back. But I don’t mean it if I do.”
Quick and neat is how he wanted it. But that’s not quite how it went down.
They passed by his position. He ran out firing, the sound so loud it shocked him. Put the bodyguards down. One shot in the chest, crumpling into oblivion. The other from a leg wound, blood spurting out. Screaming. Spasming.
Bosun turned at the same time as Stark, in time to get clipped in the shoulder. Registered extreme surprise, but recovered. Took off running, hunched over, cursing.
Bad luck. Finch didn’t have time for another shot. Stark had about gotten his gun out. Finch smashed into Stark, twisted the gun out of his hand. Then hit Stark across the face. Saw the pain and anger as Stark bent to one knee.
“Bosun!” Stark shouting it like an order.
Slammed Stark against the side of the head. Started to drag him away as the other two lay on the ground. Grunted with the strain of Stark’s bulk. Stark muttering, trying to get his senses back. Couldn’t see where Bosun had gotten to. Had to get off the street quick.
A bullet kicked up dirt near his feet. Turned with Stark partially shielding him, the weight more awkward than he anticipated.
Bosun was across the street. Using a lamppost and a pile of junk for cover.
“Let him go and I won’t kill you!” Bosun shouted. Had a gun in each hand. And not shitty knockoffs. Looked like custom-made revolvers.
Stark, muttering: “Go ahead, Bosun. Take the chance now.”
Finch pulled Stark up. Shoved his Lewden Special against Stark’s head. Other arm around Stark’s waist. The man was still dazed.
“I’ll kill him,” Finch shouted back. “I’ll kill him right here.”
“You’ll kill him anyway!” Bosun, anguished.
Backtracking toward the alley. Hoping nothing nasty waited there. Stark’s weight awkward, hard to control. Didn’t want to fall during this crude shuffle. Bosun would be on him in an instant.
Bosun fired off a couple of shots over his head. “You’re a dead man if you hurt him.”
Could already hear a commotion coming from the mushroom house. It had all happened in a couple of seconds. But Stark’s men were good.
“Come after me, and I’ve got bullets enough for both of you, you bastard!” Finch shouted back.
Made it to the alley. Got off a couple of rounds to keep Bosun back.
The alley split into three directions just a hundred feet back. Hustled Stark around a corner. Pulled Stark’s left arm behind his back. To the point of breaking as Stark groaned. Shoved the muzzle of his gun under the taller man’s chin.
“Just keep going. Keep walking.” Didn’t want to talk. Didn’t want to hear.
Guided Stark through a welter of back streets as confusing as any number of doorways on the Spit. Until they were far enough away that Finch felt comfortable stopping. Bosun didn’t know Ambergris as well as Finch. And he’d know he had to be careful looking for his brother.
Finch released Stark face-first against a plain brick wall on a tiny side street. Windowless walls of fire-scarred buildings, rectangular and unimaginative. Crowding out the light from above. Stairwells running up their sides like rusting spines. Water on the pavement. A leering shelf of pink fungus jutting from the wall a couple inches from the ground. Stark’s boots had cut into that ridge, the fungus staining the leather.
Stark started to talk. Finch came at him from the side. Punched him in the kidneys. Stark crumpled forward, air driven from his lungs. Wobbled, regained his balance. Breathing heavy.
“If you’ve killed Bosun, I swear…” The verbosity had left him for the moment. As if he’d been playing a role.
“Your brother was coming after me the last I saw. With just a nick in his shoulder. But you’ve got worse problems.”
“So do you, Finch, unless you let me go.”
But Finch was past that point. “If you just hadn’t kept pushing, Stark. If you hadn’t kept at it, maybe you wouldn’t be here now. Take off your shoes.”
“What?” A kind of pulsing rage threatened to make Stark’s face unrecognizable.
Finch put the gun up against Stark’s temple. “Now!”