Alternities Read Online Free Page B

the policeman’s face. Food jobber from Mercer, hah .
    But the questions Wallace was expecting didn’t come. “Arms behind your back, Mr. Wallace,” Chambers said. A moment later, a plastic strap was tight around Wallace’s wrists, the meek little ratcheting sound of the catch a misleading measure of the quickcuff’s strength.
    Some protest seemed in order, even if it was guaranteed to have no good effect. “I don’t understand what I did wrong—”
    “Up, Mr. Wallace,” Chambers said. “You’re going for a ride.”
    What had saved him so far, Wallace thought as he tried to keep his balance on the narrow seat in the back of the speeding jeep, was that his captors weren’t detectives. They were foot soldiers in an urban war, trained more for obedience and rote thoroughness than curiosity.
    But the questions they hadn’t asked would be asked eventually. The courier pouch was still strapped to his midriff. They would find it, and they would defeat its lock and open it. There was no chance of it going undiscovered until the six-hour chemical timer ran down and reduced the contents of the bag to dust.
    And then they would draw the obvious, completely wrong, conclusion that he was one of the Brats.
    Which was fine as far as the Guard was concerned, but less promising for Wallace. True, Rizzo didn’t have quite enough of a free hand to carry out his oft-stated solution to the terrorism problem—which would involve disemboweling Wallace with a power drill and then mounting his head on a spike outside police headquarters.
    But if Wallace’s future wasn’t completely black, it was certainly bleak. The Guard had rescued more than one runner from an ordinary criminal offense, paying the bail in manufactured money so that he could escape to Home. But there would be no bail for a Brat terrorist.
    The jeep took another hard, high-speed turn, and Wallace slid clumsily sideways on the seat until he was directly behind the driver. As he squirmed back into an upright posture, he concluded that getting out of the jeep would be no problem. Chambers was dutifully keeping an eye on him from the front passenger seat, but Wallace was confident he could throw himself over the side of the vehicle at any time.
    But that was no answer. They’d either end up scraping him up off the pavement or shooting him down in the street. Only marginally better outcomes than ending up in Rizzo’s little Home for the Criminally Suspicious—Short-Term Boarders Only. He had to get the jeep stopped and the two badges distracted.
    Wallace had archived one idea when they put him in the jeep, under “There’s Gotta Be a Better Way, But…” With each passing block, every foot farther from the gate house and closer to police headquarters, it seemed more and more certain that better ways were in short supply.
    Roll the dice , Wallace thought.
    The jeep was slowing to round a corner, and Chambers was looking away as he reached for the radio. Now—
    In one quick motion, Wallace pulled his knees up to his chest, then drove his feet against the back of the driver’s seat. The hinged seat back pitched forward, jamming the badge hard against the steering wheel.
    The jeep, already turning, lurched sharply left as the driver fought to free himself. The struggle pitted the strength of the driver’s arms against the power in Wallace’s legs. Chambers was not a factor. The black was fighting his own battle—against inertia, against being catapulted from the vehicle.
    Wallace had the edge, but even more, he knew both the rules and objectives of the contest. For two long seconds, he held the badge helpless against the wheel as the jeep continued to turn, curling left toward a solid barrier of storefronts. Then, with a massive jolt, the jeep struck the curb and leapfrogged it, front wheels wobbling in midair.
    The shock separated both Chambers and Wallace from their perches. Wallace tried to transform his graceless jouncing exit into a controlled backflip, but