Chapter 290: The Heater Had Better Survival Instincts

The launcher came within three meters of me just as its owner decided the best way to shoot a hanging heater was to stand directly underneath it.

I selected the weapon with Mine Now and moved it into the clear space beside my coils. Its full weight dragged my tail against the sling, and its owner's finger left the trigger while his mouth continued making threats at equipment he no longer possessed.

[System: Lovely shopping, mate. Now point the angry end away from your face before you invent a much shorter version of yourself.]

I knew which end was angry, but the rest of it weighed enough to express an opinion as well.

I shoved the launcher into the heater's transport cradle. Below, the little charge rolled off the car roof and dropped between the vehicle and the platform rail, where its flashing light disappeared beneath the water.

The pursuer scrambled back through his window. I pulled my head above the heater, shouted a warning through the office call and wrapped my coils around the sling as the worker raised us faster.

The blast struck the underside of the car before we cleared the platform. Water and broken glass punched upward, the trolley jumped against its straps and my injured side hit the heater hard enough to make breathing briefly feel optional.

I hadn't blocked the explosion. The car and platform had caught most of it, and the scraps that rattled against the appliance explained why hiding behind something solid remained an excellent hobby.

[System: Your uncle's boys just bombed their own getaway, champ. Must be the clever branch of the family, because the other branch would have charged themselves for parking.]

If Hansen asked, I intended to describe this as a successful delivery with minor customer feedback.

The worker swung the hoist over the dock. I stayed wrapped around the sling until the trolley wheels touched concrete, then slid down with the grace of a wet scarf somebody had beaten against a wall.

My tail hurt where the stolen wheel had landed earlier. My fin stung, my side throbbed and the heater looked annoyingly pleased with itself for possessing neither nerves nor relatives.

Security staff reached the platform controls. The two men below were alive and shouting, though their car had stopped looking like anything a reasonable insurer would recognize.

I left the launcher on the dock and pointed out who had brought it. The worker had watched enough to support that part, which was fortunate because explaining the ownership history of the freight car would have made the conversation much longer.

He demanded that I move the heater out of his loading lane. I accepted this generous opportunity to leave before anyone developed an interest in follow-up questions.

A hired cargo cart cost eighty from my private balance. I paid through my internal phone, secured the trolley and let its driver take the dry freight passage toward the visitor lifts while I lay beside the heater like a dissatisfied decorative rope.

Nobody followed through the next security barrier. Bridget answered my call from the dry entrance to underwater Ami and listened while I confirmed that the prize remained intact.

"The heater survived, sweetheart, although I felt it should contribute more toward the relationship after everything I'd done for it."

"I was going to ask whether you were hurt, but that answered the question about your head. Tell me about the rest of you."

I admitted the blast had knocked my side against the casing. She told me to stay with the cart, and the warmth in her voice did more for my mood than the appliance had managed all night.

Once we passed into the guarded freight lift, Old Mate checked the objective and finally paid me for my deeply unreasonable evening.

[System: Keep the Prize completed, you stubborn little shit. Six thousand EXP and thirty IP, because you and the heater both made it out and neither of you learned a fucking thing.]

Twenty-eight thousand five hundred EXP sat beneath the sixty-thousand target. My IP rose to one hundred and thirty-five, while the cart charge left twelve thousand four hundred and sixty in my private account.

I hadn't earned anything by stealing the launcher, frightening the dock worker or nearly boiling myself. The reward belonged to the actual escape, which seemed fair even if the suffering deserved a loyalty program.

Bridget met the cart at the lower arrival bay. She checked my fin before touching my face, and I leaned into her palm without pretending the evening had left me too impressive to need it.

"Before you said anything sensible, I wanted credit for remembering that you preferred me alive."

"You remembered eventually," she said, looking from my torn suit to the trolley. "We were starting with that, then working toward remembering before the explosion."

We took the heater to the club's rear service room. Lukas opened the door, saw the damage and asked whether formal dinners on the surface usually included being dragged behind a truck.

I told him the richer guests expected entertainment. He laughed until his ribs objected, then carefully moved aside instead of trying to lift anything heavy.

The cow lady checked the serial against her record. While she inspected the casing, a loose plate rattled beside the power connection and revealed a small blinking unit tucked behind it.

Bridget photographed the label before touching anything. The unit carried the same freight mark as Hansen's reserved equipment, and its little screen showed a delivery route extending beyond the surface docks into the Drop Off.

The route wasn't a map of hidden treasure. It was a scheduled collection path, complete with tomorrow's departure time and a cargo description that included an industrial pressure controller.

Lukas stared at the blinking light and asked whether we had just wheeled a tracker into our club.

Old Mate gave a delighted chuckle while I read the destination again, because apparently my uncle had followed an attempt to kill me with directions to something expensive enough to make revenge feel productive.