“Cover me.” He took a deep breath and readied himself. This was the difficult part of his business.

“Later,” she replied coyly. “Right now I’ll just try to shoot some people for you.”

“Whatever,” he muttered. “Pick a step and stay here,” he told the Minder. It acknowledged the order unenthusiastically.

As it was far too confining in the stairwell to make use of her family heirloom, Vyra accepted the loan of a small pistol from her colleague. Bending to her right, she raised her hand over her head and began firing through the opening without aiming. The pistol made a rewarding racket as its tiny explosive shells went off somewhere inside.

Manz counted the shots. The instant the clip was exhausted he threw himself through the opening, hit the floor inside, and rolled madly, firing his other handgun. A distant figure clutched at its torso and collapsed.

Hafas had put in an appearance on the stairwell, his upturned face silhouetted against the light from four floors below. “Hey, what’s going on? You were supposed to wait!”

“Sorry, Inspector.” Vyra smiled sweetly down at him. “When he’s chasing somebody, Broddy gets irritable if he has to sit still for more than a minute at a time.”

Muttering curses to himself, the inspector barked an order to someone unseen and started up toward her. Other officers followed.

Vyra turned her attention back to the opening. “How’s it going in there? See anything?”

“There’s some kind of false ceiling.” The adjuster’s voice indicated that he was somewhere close by. “It’s pretty dark. I can’t see much, but then, they can’t see me either.” As he finished there was a small explosion, followed by bright flashes as lasing weapons went off inside. This was succeeded by a deep grinding noise, as if something large was moving on tracks or rollers.

“Shit!” Manz yelled.

Hafas had drawn up behind Vyra. “What is it, man? What’s going on?”

“I hope your roof watchers are ready, Inspector.” The adjuster’s voice was drowned out by the sound of additional small explosions.

The vertical takeoff and landing craft that had been concealed in the service bay exploded off the reinforced floor, which had been home not only to the building’s climate-control equipment but also to a low-ceilinged hangar. Manz rushed forward, firing as he ran. Behind him Vyra darted through the small entrance, followed rapidly by Hafas and several tac officers.

They took out the three remaining members of Monticelli’s private security force in quick succession, but not before the VTOL was fully airborne. Shots from snipers situated on nearby buildings struck the craft only to rebound harmlessly from its armor. Manz, Hafas, and the men and women who’d come up the stairs with Hafas took their own shots as they squinted up through the huge opening in the roof. Vyra struggled to aim her blowgun, but the aircraft was already moving too fast, its adjustable wings rotating into fixed-wing position.

A police hover ship whined into view, firing repeatedly. They could only use lasing weapons, Manz knew. Slugs or explosive shells could miss a target and fall lethally to the innocent streets below. Such considerations on behalf of the public welfare restricted the kind of weaponry urban police could employ.

Those on board Monticelli’s vehicle, of course, were operating under no such restraints.

With its wings rotated fully forward, the jet-powered craft shot away northward. The police hover ship banked gamely in pursuit, falling further behind with each kilometer.

Hafas uttered an oath in some traditional ethnic tongue as he poured a steady stream of orders mixed with invective into his com. When he’d finished, he turned to Vyra. Manz had plucked his Minder from its resting place on the stairs and was just settling it back in place above his shoulder as he returned.

“They won’t get anywhere. In addition to the municipal patrols, I’ve informed Continental Control. They have aircraft that can run down anything slower than a shuttle.” He shielded his eyes against the desert sun as he gazed north through the gap in the roof. “Smartass move, but that aircraft doesn’t have orbital capability. Port Authority has him on their screens already. He’s being tracked.”

Manz relaxed. “Then it’s just a matter of getting something airborne that’s fast enough and heavily armed enough to force him down. He must know that.”

The inspector shrugged. “So he’s putting off the inevitable as long as he can. Maybe he thinks his pilot is good enough to avoid tracking. Who knows?” He put his lips to his com again. The next time he turned to them, he was smiling.

“He’s not even trying to get away. I thought he might make for the Port and do something really dumb like try to hijack a shuttle. Then we’d just take him at the Port. But he’s heading out toward Pleasant Lake instead. Records indicate that his estate’s out that way.” The inspector was sufficiently confident to chuckle. “Maybe he’s stocked a subterranean shelter and he’s going to try to hole up underground for a while.”

“Any cave systems in the area?” Vyra asked him.

Hafas had been joking. Now he frowned slightly. “I don’t think so. Nearest caverns I know of are way up near Carlsbad. You think he might have an underground connection? That’d be too expensive a tunnel even for someone with his resources to build.”

“Could be hard to winkle him out of an underground complex,” Manz pointed out.

Hafas wasn’t concenred. “Let him squat like a mole for a while, if he wants to. He’ll come out eventually. Or we’ll find a way to pump his air system full of something disagreeable. At this point he can’t do any more than stall. We don’t know that he even has anything out there besides his house and track.”

“Track?” Vyra murmured.

“Yeah. According to records he’s a big, long-time sponsor of competition land-based manually controlled personal vehicles. You know, race cars? Borgia’s a major corporate underwriter on the professional circuit. Apparently Monticelli’s such a fan he has his own track out at his house. There’s plenty of room out that way, and privacy. He could make all the noise he wants without having to worry about disturbing the neighbors. Probably has a collection of race cars out there, too. Won’t do him any good. He won’t get away on the ground any more than he has in the air.” He started for the stairwell, glanced back. “Want to come along? I’ll make room for you.”

“We’re going out there?” Vyra inquired.

“Why not? Probably he’s just putting his affairs in order before we pick him up. Trying to cover his tracks. Maybe he has stuff out there that needs to be wiped and he can’t do it by remote. Or maybe he’s just delaying incarceration because it’s in his nature to fight as long as possible. I’ve dealt with types like that. They figure as long as they’re free, they’ll never be caught. It’s a mind-set common to the successful. Wealth makes ’em arrogant. That’s something that never changes.”

Manz nodded. “Thanks for the invitation, Tew. I think the Company would like to have its own people present when you cuff him.”

Monticelli’s estate was situated on a low sandstone bluff overlooking the distant reservoir. The rambling compound itself was fashioned in by now familiar neo-Hispanic, complete to fake adobe walls and maroon tile roof. For someone of such means, it was a relatively modest complex. The only ostentatious display of wealth was to be found in the oval racetrack that marked the boundaries of the executive’s acreage, and in the lavish use of water in a land noted for its lack of same. Decorative pools and waterfalls, lush gardens, and flowers crowded close to the main buildings, gate, and track.

Artificial brooks chilled to mountain temperatures and running heavy with brown trout lay shaded by towering saguaro cacti. Tropical vegetation thrived in mist-rich alcoves beneath the needles of alpine evergreens. A young sequoia loomed self-importantly over spinifex from the southern continent. The music of running water was everywhere.

Manz and Vyra sat in the hover ship with Hafas and an expectant tactical squad. Two other heavily laden hoverers flanked them on either side, while two more were loading up back in the city and preparing to follow. The adjuster studied the sprawling estate.

“Sure is quiet. You’re sure they landed here?”

Hafas nodded. “Port Authority tracked them all the way. Probably taxied the VTOL into a camouflaged hangar somewhere out back.”

Vyra was peering through a monocular. “Quite a place. Lavish, but understated.”

“I’m sure his architect would be flattered,” Hafas said dryly. “I hope we don’t have to take it apart. I’d much rather see it confiscated after he’s convicted, to help pay the expenses this operation has incurred.” He sounded hopeful. “The racetrack facility alone ought to be worth plenty to some enterprising local entrepreneur, even if it is a little far out of town.”

“Any indication of a subterranean shelter or similar setup?” Manz asked him.

The inspector shook his head. “We ran a quick probe as we flew over. There’s nothing deep here. A lot of power and fiber conduits, but that’s to be expected. I’m sure he has a stat security system running around the property.”

“He’s not through.” Manz gazed intently at the buildings, ignoring the roar as another police hover ship set down nearby. “He’s got something else planned. Something unorthodox. Otherwise he wouldn’t have run. Not even if he had important files to wipe.”

Hafas shrugged. “What can he do? He’s just putting off the inevitable. It’s in the nature of these big execs. Like I said, they think they’re invincible. They never change, even when you slap ’em in a cell.”

“You going to rush the place?” Vyra asked him.

The inspector considered. “I’d rather not have a replay of our little confrontation back in town, though we don’t have to be as careful out here. We can use heavier ordnance if necessary. But if we vape the bastard, he won’t stand trial. Not that his demise would make me shed any tears, but given a choice I’d rather have him intact. He can’t implicate coconspirators, either here or offworld, if his body’s in one place and his brains are in another.”

Manz turned to him. “Let Vyra and me go in. We won’t take any unnecessary chances.” He indicated the equipment belts they were wearing. “We’re both wearing enough antidetection instrumentation to null every alarm and sensor on the place.”

The inspector’s gaze fell momentarily to their waists. “I wondered what all the belly decor was for. Stealth gear. Of course, being merely municipal police officers, we’re not allowed to use that kind of stuff. Strictly against regulations. Anti-civil libertarian and all that.” His tone was sardonic. “If I tried sending in half a dozen officers similarly equipped, the Department would get smacked with an invasion-of-privacy suit that would stretch all the way from here to Austin.” His gaze rose. “What happens if you do manage to get inside without trouble, and then he decides not to cooperate?”

The adjuster shrugged. “We can always pick our way back out and do it your way.”

“If he lets you out,” said Hafas. “Why the hurry?”

“Because I’ve dealt with types like Monticelli too, and I find that if you give them too much time they have a nasty habit of outthinking you. He outthought us back in town, and I wouldn’t count on his not doing it again out here.”