“Well, Raven just did,” Squeaky says. Finally, he’s calming down a little. He rocks back on his heels, looks up at Hiro.
“T-Bone and your driver are not likely to be alive,” Hiro says. “This guy better not move—he could have a neck fracture.”
“He’s lucky I don’t fracture his fucking neck,” Squeaky says.
The ambulance people get there fast enough to slap an inflatable cervical collar around the Crip’s neck before he gets ambitious enough to stand up. They haul him away within a few minutes.
Hiro goes back into the hops and finds T-Bone. T-Bone is dead, slumped in a kneeling position against a trellis. The stab wound through his bulletproof vest probably would have been fatal, but Raven wasn’t satisfied with that. He went down low and slashed up and down the insides of T-Bone’s thighs, which are now laid open all the way to the bone. In doing so, he put great length-wise rents into both of T-Bone’s femoral arteries, and his entire blood supply dropped out of him. Like slicing the bottom off a styrofoam cup.
Chapter Twenty
The Enforcers turn the entire block into a mobile cop headquarters with cars and paddy wagons and satellite links on flatbed trucks. Dudes with white coats are walking up and down through the hop field with Geiger counters. Squeaky is wandering around with his headset, staring into space, carrying on conversations with people who aren’t there. A tow truck shows up, towing T-Bone’s black BMW behind it.
“Yo, pod.” Hiro turns around and looks. It’s Y.T. She’s just come out of a Hunan place across the street. She hands Hiro a little white box and a pair of chopsticks. “Spicy chicken with black bean sauce, no MSG. You know how to use chopsticks?”
Hiro shrugs off this insult.
“I got a double order,” Y.T. continues, “cause I figure we got some good intel tonight.”
“Are you aware of what happened here?”
“No. I mean, some people obviously got hurt.”
“But you weren’t an eyewitness.”
“No, I couldn’t keep up with them.”
“That’s good,” Hiro says.
“What did happen?”
Hiro just shakes his head. The spicy chicken is glistening darkly under the lights; he has never been less hungry in his life. “If I had known, I wouldn’t have gotten you involved. I just thought it was a surveillance job.”
“What happened?”
“I don’t want to get into it. Look. Stay away from Raven, okay?”
“Sure,” she says. She says it in the chirpy tone of voice that she uses when she’s lying and she wants to make sure you know it.
Squeaky hauls open the back door of the BMW and looks into the back seat. Hiro steps a little closer, gets a nasty whiff of cold smoke. It is the smell of burnt plastic.
The aluminum briefcase that Raven earlier gave to T-Bone is sitting in the middle of the seat. It looks like it has been thrown into a fire; it has black smoke stains splaying out around the locks, and its plastic handle is partially melted. The buttery leather that covers the BMW’s seats has burn marks on it. No wonder T-Bone was pissed.
Squeaky pulls on a pair of latex gloves. He hauls the briefcase out, sets it on the trunk lid, and rips the latches open with a small prybar.
Whatever it is, it is complicated and highly designed. The top half of the case has several rows of the small red-capped tubes that Hiro saw at the U-Stor-It. There are five rows with maybe twenty tubes in each row.
The bottom half of the case appears to be some kind of miniaturized, old-fashioned computer terminal. Most of it is occupied by a keyboard. There is a small liquid-crystal display screen that can probably handle about five lines of text at a time. There is a penlike object attached to the case by a cable, maybe three feet long uncoiled. It looks like it might be a light pen or a bar-code scanner. Above the keyboard is a lens, set at an angle so that it is aimed at whoever is typing on the keyboard. There are other features whose purpose is not so obvious: a slot, which might be a place to insert a credit or ID card, and a cylindrical socket that is about the size of one of those little tubes.
This is Hiro’s reconstruction of how the thing looked at one time. When Hiro sees it, it is melted together. Judging from the pattern of smoke marks on the outside of the case—which appear to be jetting outward from the crack between the top and bottom—the source of the flame was inside, not outside.
Squeaky reaches down and unsnaps one of the tubes from the bracket, holds it up in front of the bright lights of Chinatown. It had been transparent but was now smirched by heat and smoke. From a distance, it looks like a simple vial, but stepping up to look at it more closely Hiro can see at least half a dozen tiny individual compartments inside the thing, all connected to each other by capillary tubes. It has a red plastic cap on one end of it. The cap has a black rectangular window, and as Squeaky rotates it, Hiro can see the dark red glint of an inactive LED display inside, like looking at the display on a turned-off calculator. Underneath this is a small perforation. It isn’t just a simple drilled hole. It is wide at the surface, rapidly narrowing to a nearly invisible pinpoint opening, like the bell of a trumpet.
The compartments inside the vial are all partially filled with liquids. Some of them are transparent and some are blackish brown. The brown ones have to be organics of some kind, now reduced by the heat into chicken soup. The transparent ones could be anything.
“He got out to go into a bar and have a drink,” Squeaky mumbles. “What an asshole.”
“Who did?”
“T-Bone. See, T-Bone was, like, the registered owner of this unit. The suitcase. And as soon as he got more than about ten feet away from it—foosh—it self-destructed.”