Rogue clone Read Online Free Page B

remains of a chair.
    Not all of the wounded made it to the field hospital across the street. One man lay on his back staring peacefully into the sky. He held his arm over his face covering his eyes. A small trickle of blood ran from his gaping mouth. I saw this and knew he was dead. A woman kneeling beside him whispered in his ear. Blood poured from gouges in her cheeks and forehead. Sticks, paper, and shards of glass littered her dirty hair. All in all, the woman looked more battered than the corpse beside her. There was no river of blood along the street, just dirty bodies, some alive, some dead. Jimmy Callahan might find an arm or a leg, as he pulled up chunks of brick and plaster. Panic showed in his movements. He’d already cut his fingers and palms and his blood splashed on the debris as he threw it behind him, but he did not notice.
    “You gonna help me?” he shouted.
    I shook my head.
    He stood up and stared at me. “There are people under here,” he shouted so loud that his voice cracked. Some nearby rescue workers heard Callahan and mistook his shouting to mean that he had located a survivor. Grabbing gas-powered lifts and laser cutters, they ran over to join us. “Where are they?” one of the firemen asked.
    Callahan looked down at the ground and shook his head. “Sorry,” he said. “I was just trying . . . I was wrong.”
    The muscles tensed in the fireman’s cheeks as he clenched his jaws. Then he relaxed. “Don’t worry about it, pal. We’re all desperate.” He dug into his jacket and found a pair of protective gloves which he handed to Callahan. “Try these.”
    Callahan took the gloves and stood there as stiff and lifeless as a waxwork dummy. He held his hands palm up, as if he were cupping water. Somewhere along the way I got the feeling that Eddie and Tommy, the bodyguards, meant more to Callahan than hired muscle, but I didn’t know what was going on between them. Callahan looked like he was going into shock as he looked at the pile of concrete and metal.
    “You take the right glove, I’ll take the left,” I said to Callahan. He looked at me but said nothing as I picked one of the gloves out of his outstretched hand.
    I was right-handed, but my genetic engineering gave me nearly equal dexterity with both hands. I found a long, rough slab of concrete. Holding it with my gloved left hand and balancing it with my right, I pushed it away from the pile.
    “How did you know?” Callahan asked as he pulled on his glove. “How did you know this would happen?”
    “I knew because Billy Patel is a galactic-class terrorist and you’re nothing but a two-bit punk,” I said as I traced the fallen arch of a doorway.
    “A punk?” Callahan asked. He sounded more stupefied than offended. “What does that mean?” He got his foot twisted in some wire and fell on his back.
    “It means that there was no way you and your two-bit operation was going to sell out a big player like Billy the Butcher without him knowing it. He knew we were watching him. He knew you were watching him all along.
    “When he ditched his car and turned to look back at us. He knew exactly where to look. We were right where he wanted us and he couldn’t resist a quick look back just to gloat. He must have figured you were too stupid to guess what he was up to. Know what I mean?”
    “Get specked, Harris.”
    “You asked,” I said.
    “So why did you pull me out?” Callahan asked. “You would have made it out more easily on your own.”
    “Look at this,” I said. I was standing beside a long heavy beam that looked like it might have been made out of white marble. I found leaves from the hedge that had run around the edge of the terrace. The man who gave Callahan the gloves returned. “You found something?”
    “We were just leaving the building when the bombs went off,” I said. “There were people right about here.” I squatted and brushed away a layer of dust, then picked up a smashed branch with five