“30k each for y’all. Expenses out of my end.”
“I don’t think y’all get it,” Zipline interjected. “Y’all got the easy slice of pie. The Towers are a jumbled mess of private networks, honey pots, bear traps, black ice, and server bombs. Place isn’t secure; it’s just fucking dangerous. I could end up a Toaster Strudel if one of those ICE counters slips me up.”
“Oh, like, our fucking end of this is easy?” Ivan growled. “Remember the meth’d Russians?”
“Zero out. Both of you,” I said calmly. “The money is good. If shit gets oblicuo I might consider a combat bonus. But let’s not pretend that risk is a new concept.”
They both looked at me, Ivan’s augmented eyes a stark contrast in matte black and metallic gold. Zipline’s were still his original organic, murky green ringed with bloodshot white. The Tri-Dees would have you believe violent men would follow their leader because there was some deep spiritual connection that made them want to follow them into hell. The reality is we all did it for our own reasons, and my leadership was more a trait of tactical ability than any thrilling heroics.
“Alright, I am in. But if I fry processors I expect coverage,” Zipline stated sourly.
“That’s covered in expenses,” I said hitting the tab out button. A weak Tri-dee sprang to life showing the itemized list and total. I waved a preloaded card and added a 20% tip.
“Now let’s get going. I’d like to be home at some reasonable time tomorrow.”
The security field wavered and disappeared. I stood and started walking to the door, noting that the table of armored officers were gone, their unpaid tab lazily dancing in the air over a table covered in dirty dishes. I heard Ivan and Zipline slide out of the booth and follow me, Zipline tossing a wave to Limerick and his entourage.
Outside, I saw the cluster of cops standing near an empty clearing of the parking lot, smoking and obviously waiting on their ride. The path to our van took us past them. I silently whispered prayers to a god who, if He were real, would want nothing to do with me, and that my compatriots would act like the professionals they were paid to be.
As we passed, I felt one set of eyes track on me and follow. I ran my memory trying to think where I had last seen the somewhat-familiar face. As the memory came to me I heard the voice. He had all the measured authority a badge and gun gave you. Trained in the academy to command respect and obedience from the frightened and weak willed.
“Well, well, well. Mr. Drake. What brings you out and about tonight?”
“Officer Anderson,” I said, turning, flicking my eyes to my two compatriots, hoping they got the message to stay calm. “Just another late dinner with friends.”
“Uh-huh,” he vocalized condescendingly. “Where you working tonight?”
Our last encounter had not been an overly kind one, and in the end, he had been forced to concede the point that police authority only extended so far. So, his needling right now was less a threat and more a statement that he knew what I was and didn’t care for it.
Of course, I didn’t much care for him either.
“Oh,” I said opening the sliding door of the van and stepping in. “No place with a high enough income bracket for you to care about.”
I closed the door before he could reply and turned to Zipline.
“Get us rolling.”
He didn’t say anything; he just shifted us into gear and slowly rolled the work van out into the night.
* * *
The back of the van was a strange mix of rituals. Ivan sat with his back against the wall of the van, his feet bouncing in rhythm with whatever SlamSalsaPop song filled his ear buds. Long ago, he had confessed to me that the moments before a hit were the hardest for him, so he pretended like it wasn’t happening. Zoned out with his thoughts on how he would be spending his share, it was an almost sexual look for him.
I looked decidedly less serene. Stripped to the waist, my body was racked with micro tremors and was drenched in sweat. I watched as the auto injector fell from my hand soundlessly—over the pounding of the blood in my ears, I couldn’t hear anything. The cocktail wasn’t one of my making. I had learned it years ago from Sicarios trained by the Mexican government, back when they gave a shit about fighting the century old drug war. A combination of chemicals and nanos would let me operate at peak combat efficiency. I would move faster, feel less pain, react quicker, and process the world around me better. But like everything in the world there was a tax to be paid. And that meant not only a hard shock to the system as it was carried through my veins and distributed throughout my body, but also a wicked hangover in the next three days...which was about the same amount of time before I would be able to go to sleep.
I breathed deeply in and out. Pushing air from my body and feeling the tremors slow and finally subside. I reached under the bench I sat on and pulled out a black duffle bag. I had packed and repacked it over the years. My quick and dirty work bag. If the job wasn’t a specialty gig, this bag would likely get me through it. As I unzipped it, I saw Ivan staring at me.
“What?” I asked, overly hostile. It wasn’t that I particularly gave a shit if he looked at me or not, but the drugs left me aggressive and snappy.
“Nichego man, that shit never looks fun,” he said coolly, “or healthy.”
“Berserk really isn’t something done for pleasure,” I said, trying my best for a flat response, not that I pulled it off.
“Yeah, I get that. But typically you dose up two or three hours before we smash someone. You about to walk in there looking like a fucking Ángel muerte junkie.”
He dug into his jacket and pulled out a green-tipped vaporizer. Pressing it out to me as an offering he continued. “So chill, man. We are going to have to be glass smooth before this thing turns to kinzhal.”
My initial reaction was to smash it down and inform him he could get fucked—which told me he was likely correct—so I took it and drew deeply off it, letting the THC concentrate flood my lungs in a cloud of water vapor.
“Thank you,” I coughed out.
“Nyet,” he said, leaning back.
I returned myself to the task at hand, hoping the THC could stabilize me for now. I considered the hardware and tools in the bag. Hard and soft goods massed in an organized jumble. The mixed smells of sweat, lubricant, gun powder, and pine freshness (from the tree shaped car fresheners I had thrown in the bag) assaulted my nostrils in a familiar wave.
I glanced up and consulted Ivan’s hardware and considered how to best compliment it. His Remington 230 short barrel auto-shotgun sat across his lap, a compact and brutal weapon that made up for its lower capacity with the sheer brutality of its 10-gauge buckshot shells. The short shotgun was a popular home defense weapon for those worried about the threat of cybernetically augmented foes. Ivan had a fondness for the gun, despite its punishing recoil. He’d also taken a pair of compact Glock handguns from the office, one tucked into his pants by his belt buckle with a cheap holster, the other stuffed into the pocket of his bomber jacket. Ivan’s theory revolved around disposable firearms and gear, cyberware over hardware.
Once, we had been deep into our cups after a successful hit. Sitting on a boat in the middle of Lake Lanier, our blood-soaked clothes and hardware sinking quickly into the murky waters in our wake, he got philosophical. “It’s America, man; guns are the one thing we aren’t running out of anytime soon. Whole country who made with the things. This here is Cordite Country.”
I disregarded the compact Beretta SMG—Ivan had indiscriminate mayhem covered. What I needed was accuracy and utility. I opened a side panel and removed a padded case. Inside rested a Sig 430, customized by the company’s elite Grey Division. They’d taken a basic service handgun and made it a tack-driving weapon worthy of any high-end special-ops types.
The gun featured a low-profile, frame-mounted, red dot sight, ported and compensated barrel, flared mag well, retextured grip, and reworked trigger. All these features gave a well-trained, discerning shooter a super-
compact and accurate weapon in an easily concealable package. Its 11mm cartridge allowed for a number of different load options for the various threats in the world. I selected four extended 20-round magazines. Two were filled with flesh and augment-shredding micro-explosive hollow points, the other two with armor-piercing rounds.
I fitted myself with a gun belt and filled the pouches with ammunition, knives, emergency medical gear, and a breaching charge before sliding a magazine into the Sig and racking the slide. I slid it into a PHLstar holster I had mounted to the right of my belt buckle, the aggressive rearward cant of the holster allowed for a faster draw, even if it was slightly harder to conceal.
Next, I pulled on a thick black shirt. The 3mm thick shirt felt much like a 20th century wetsuit and was nearly skin tight, but its honeycombed features would act as reactive armor. It should stop most frag, spall, and lower velocity ammunition. In addition, I slid in two titanium plates, one front and back.
My light-up sneakers were stylish, but also a poor decision tactically, so I replaced them with a set of black Altama combat moccasins. Finally, I pulled on a loose-fitting hoodie emblazoned with the logo for a local chain of restaurants. It may have seemed like an odd thing, but it was comfortable, hid most of the hardware, and they really did make a tasty burger.
“Towers are coming up,” Zipline said from the driver’s seat. The front passenger seat was filled with his intrusion rig. “Once I drop y’all off, I’ll find a parking spot. They are in Tower 3, Nineteenth Floor, Suite Twenty-Nine. Don’t take any fucking risks with these guys.”
I looked up from my preparations and caught Zipline’s eyes in the rear-view mirror.
“Cornered dogs fight harder,” he stated, meeting my eyes.
He was right. This gang had once been a powerhouse, content and rich off multiple schemes. Now, they couldn’t even pull off a simple heist. They were like a rabid dog riding a meth high, and if they felt pressured or threatened, they would go to guns.
“They’re expecting a purchase. Once they pop the door, I am hitting it with a sonic charge and following a 12-Bang in. We burn them down, grab the girl, and dip. This all goes according to plan, it should be a milk run.”
And with that, we were there.
* * *
With the influx of refugees from both sides of the Sino conflict, Atlanta had few options for placement. It had finally been decided they would take the former Six Flags Over Georgia theme park and convert the 300 acres into a “Rehoming Solution.” They’d redesigned it to transplant the refugees into a place they could make a new home, with low-income housing and open-air markets that would foster new businesses and create a thriving community.
The concept was presented as, “A bold new direction in housing for the less privileged.” Politicians and corporate types were on all the right talk shows saying all the right lines. The public bought it hook, line, and sinker. Those of us who are considered undesirable laughed at the whole show. We knew what was going to happen.
The first tower had a full ribbon-cutting ceremony with Vladimir Ivanovic, a 16-year-old Russian refugee, holding the scissors. Smiles all around. The kid’s story was a touching one—his mother and father killed in the fighting, making his way to America with his sister and grandmother, his English was just broken enough to be endearing. He was on all the morning talk shows and became a three-minute celebrity.
The third tower wasn’t even open yet before Vladimir was found dead.
The story was different every time I heard it, but a dozen bullets found their way into the kid in the middle of an apartment-turned-drug-den. The news didn’t cover it, because his three minutes were up. It was better if The Towers project completed without scandal, and the news knew who paid their bills.
A total of twenty towers were planned. Eight were completed, but the ninth sat half-finished in a skeletal husk. By that time, all the towers had become such horror shows not even the corporations could keep the stories under wraps. Much of the money intended for the refugees had found its way into bonus checks for corporate types and campaign funds for politicians, a few paltry arrests were made, all approved by the lords on high, and the damage was done. More importantly, the grant money was all gone, so The Towers were left to their own devices and became what they were destined to become all along.
Now multiple factions lived, worked, and fought over them in a tale as old as time. Gangs, prostitution, drugs, weapons, and anything else you could desire could all be found there. Police rarely went into them, and the corporate owners could barely be bothered to maintain them, let alone pay for privatized security firms. So, instead, the police watched the exits, the message clear: “Stay where you belong.”
As we walked down trash-strewn walkways, we were greeted by the few dwellers of The Towers still up at this hour. Junkies, drug dealers, and hookers looked us over and, in most cases, immediately directed their eyes elsewhere. While we were obviously outsiders, our cyber augments and clear gun bulges also clearly marked us as apex predators. We were allowed to pass without challenge.
Once inside Tower 3, we looked around the deserted area that was once supposed to house a bustling marketspace full of restaurants, theaters, stores, and other shops a self-contained society might need. Now, all that was left was a gun shop sitting behind armored glass and a bar where even the heaviest sound proofing couldn’t contain the pulsing, hard bass.
We made our way toward the elevator bank. Designed to raise and lower dozens of citizens at a time, they had once been glass and glow bulb lit. Now years of abuse and neglect left it with chain link and armored neon bulbs. No one joined us as we slowly rose into the air.
“Place is more and more depressing every time I come here,” Ivan said looking out of the elevator across the open air chasm at the other side of the tower.
“Out of one warzone into another,” I replied blandly. The plight of refugees was occasionally a drum beat by the wealthy elite who liked to pretend they gave a shit, but the reality is they wanted someone else to do the hard humanitarian work. They never beat the drum long, just enough to get the social currency they needed from it.
A noise buzzed in my ear. A micro bead bio-communicator was slowly dissolving there.
“It’s Zipline. I’m in.”
“How do we look?” I asked, adjusting my gun belt.
“Good. Tower is quiet tonight. Not too many active users. The floor above the target is pure black ice. I think someone is running an offsite server farm there.”
“Weird” Ivan said, as he checked the load in his shotgun.
“None of our business,” I stated as the doors opened. “Zip, we clear?”
“All cameras down, and I will start suppressing all phone service when you hit the door.”
“Golden.”
We made our way down an off-shoot hallway. Barely lit, graffiti-stained walls, and the smells of food and humanity beat down on me, tearing at my brain, but I focused myself toward the target door. A nights’ work was finally coming to fruition. Soon everything would come down to my team’s skills vs. the other side. My muscles trembled as adrenaline mixed with the drugs already there. My gut tingled like a virgin on prom night.
The door to Suite 29 was a hardened security door with a cheap video intercom drilled into the wall. The door itself was covered in painted Kanji and Cyrillic. I reached into my pockets and pulled out a sonic breaching charge. Pulling off a protective cover, I adhered it to the door and placed the detonator in my left hand.
“Ready?” I softly whispered.
“Ready,” Ivan breathed, palming a 12-bang and hiding it behind his leg.
“Ready,” Zipline stated calmly.
“I have control.” I nodded at Ivan, who reached out and hit the buzzer.
Crackling with cheap audio feedback, a voice on the other end said, “Who the fuck are you and the fuck you want Gaijin?”
“Zipline sent us,” Ivan said calmly. “Said y’all had grade alpha crystal.”
“Yeah we do. Y’all got cash?” the voice asked.
“Duh.” Ivan looked disinterested. Of course when most of your face was mostly cybernetic, that was fairly easy. He lifted a wad of cash in the hand not busy holding a flashbang.
“Hold on a fucking tick,” the box.
“Stand by,” I whispered.
Ivan tensed, getting ready to hurl the device into the room. I waited, trying not to look overly threatening in case they were still watching the camera. The sound of grinding metal told us the door was being unlocked, and I felt the tension escape. Now was my time, the time I was made for. Gone was all doubt, all fear; now there was only the fight.
“Execute. Execute. Execute!” I said and detonated the charge.
* * *
Door breaching was as ancient as warfare and engineering. Defenders always want to keep attackers out, and so as long as men had invented doors, other men had found solutions to getting through them. Battering rams, hammers, picks, crowbars, and bombs. Bombs were great for removing doors, but they were also the most dangerous to the attacker.
The sonic breacher eliminated the issues of over pressure, fragmentation, and flame that traditional 20th century door charges had. Instead, they sent a rapid series of ultra-high frequency pulses through the door that shook the surface so hard it practically disintegrated.
Of course it would be beyond unpleasant if you happened to be touching that surface that was being attacked in such a fashion. The Ronin gang member who had been unlocking the door screeched as his hand was vibrated to the point that his bones and muscle up to his shoulder were liquefied in a flash.
I kicked the remains of both the door and Ronin out of the way and stepped back so Ivan could do his part.
“YEET!” Ivan screamed as he hurled the 12-bang into the room.
The hallway shook and flashed as if in the middle of a rave thrown by a Norse god, each flash bright enough to be seen through closed eyes and each bang left one feeling as if they had been slapped across their entire body. Even I, someone who had trained with them extensively, had to hold onto my focus with everything I had. I was only in the hallway, anyone in the room would be on the ragged edge of sanity.
We Dare Page 33
