Free Wear Iron by Al Ewing Page B

different person entirely. “Way I see it, we’ve got two problems. If I’m reading these plans right, the money room has some kind of in-built security on the door...”
    Mooney nodded. “Right. Not exactly a bank vault, but there’s a lot of alarms there. It’d take a good half hour’s work to get through without setting them off—and once we do, the folks inside will have had time to call the Jays.”
    “Problem two is moving the cash. That many creds—we’re looking at maybe six hundred pounds of weight.” Rico checked the time on the chronometer on his glove, then quietly drew the Lawgiver from his boot holster.
    “W-what’s that for?” Mooney blinked, the colour draining from his face.
    “Like I mentioned, Buddy-boy. I’m back on duty in eight minutes. If it gets to seven minutes and you’ve not given me something I can use...” Rico shrugged. “You’re not going to like the last sixty seconds all that much.”
    “You don’t gotta threaten me, Rico,” Mooney muttered, reaching in his pocket for something. “I’ve got answers. Hold on a sec, I gotta find this—it’s mixed up with my prescriptions—”
    “That’s my Buddy-boy,” Rico smiled. He sat back, waiting patiently for Mooney to produce whatever he was going to from his pocket. Eventually, the fat man smoothed a clipping from a trashzine out onto the table—some kind of advert. Rico cocked his head, looking at the image of a blow-up rubber doll staring back at him. “Buddy, Buddy, Buddy... if this is a suicide method, it’s kind of roundabout.”
    “It ain’t a blow up doll!” Mooney snapped, then flinched, as if expecting the bullet. “Sorry. But I know what it looks like. Listen, what these are—they’re woman suits. Like, rubber woman suits for perverts to wear—over their clothes, even. Like a gimp suit, but flesh-coloured, and... y’know.” He reached up, miming a pair of breasts in the air with his sausage fingers. “Y’know, like that. They even got hair.”
    Rico raised an eyebrow behind his visor. “The world is a strange place, Bud. Thanks for reminding me. You’ve got five more minutes.” He tilted his gun, flicking idly at the dial that selected which bullet it fired. “Ricochet’s fun. You ever fired a ricochet in between someone’s ribs? If you angle it right it’ll bounce about like a pinball—major agony, but the perp won’t actually die for—”
    “All right, already!” Mooney was getting angry now. Lack of sleep, Rico figured. “Listen, the guys who make these super-perv suits—they do custom jobs. I ordered a guy—big fat guy. Like the contestants, y’know? Zips up in the front.” He stared at Rico, as if expecting him to get the gist immediately. “Jeez! It’s like a bag, okay? A big bag that looks like it’s a guy!”
    “A guy who weighs six hundred pounds.” Rico nodded, satisfied. “Not bad, Mooney.”
    “We steal an ambulance from someplace—it’ll have to be a civilian one, I ain’t stealing one from the Judges. But it’s not out of the question one of these big-time eating champions is gonna have private cover, y’know? Anyway, we steal one of those, modify it for a quick getaway if we need one, beef up the suspension a little too. Two of our guys pretend to be paramedics—we’ll need a third guy in the money room, loading the skin-bag up, but after he’s done that our fake medics can lift it up onto a hoverstretcher and carry it out with a sheet over it. Figure in the confusion, anybody looking will think it’s a dead contestant.” Mooney exhaled hard, slumping back in his chair.
    “Not just a pretty face, are you? What about that half-hour on the door?” Rico grinned, aiming the Lawgiver right between Mooney’s eyes. He had to admit, he was getting a real kick out of this—he’d have to plan heists a little more often. “Tick-tock, Buddy-mine. Two minutes.”
    Mooney shook his head, looking disgusted. “Ain’t no way to run a damn railroad, Rico.” He