Into the Shadows

by Jordan Weisman

  "Someone's put out numbers on me."

  "What about it?" The expression is unchanged, the voice a monotone.

  "Maybe you should tell me."

  "Get real."

  She sits back, places her hands on the table. "I shag this Dominick Freise. Now his corporate bodyguards are after me. What the frag is going on?"

  "Unusual situation."

  "Yeah," Tikki agrees. "Real unusual." As of this moment, she can think of only one person in a position to tag her as the one who killed Dominick Freise, and that person is sitting opposite her in this booth.

  "Specialist in psychometry examined Freise’s apartment. That’s how you were targeted. I don’t have all the details."

  "What’s psychometry?"

  Castiliano pauses to glance at her. "Magic."

  This is beyond her ken. She accepts the fixer’s words, but would almost prefer to hear that Castiliano had given her away for a fee. Her own special brand of magic is all the world should allow.

  "Who ordered the hit on Freise?"

  Castiliano digs at his front teeth with a wooden toothpick. then drops the broken stick into an ashtray. "Wrong question."

  Tikki sits back and lights a cigar. Always with this man there are forms and protocols. No one just walks up to Castillano in a bar and starts asking him questions. No one ever asks him to reveal the identity of his clients. No one. under any circumstances, offers overt menace. Those who violate the rules too often end up floating face-down in the Union Waterway. Tikki enjoys a certain latitude because of who she is and what she has done for the fixer in the past, but even she must be careful. Castiliano could make a very dangerous enemy.

  "There are things I need to know."

  The man briefly stretches his arms across the table, flexing his fingers, then lowers his chin to his breast, staring down into his lap. "How much do you know?" His voice is almost a whisper.

  "I know this Global had a man on Freise."

  "Global’s incidental. Forget them." Castiliano pauses to sip at his ice water. "Your run on Freise was engineered to liberate certain goods. A covert action team swept the apartment after you left. The goods weren’t found."

  "So I’m supposed to have these goods."

  "You were there. That’s enough."

  Tikki meets the fixer's eyes when he finally looks at her, but says nothing. Castiliano should know better than anyone that Tikki would never steal while on a run. She is too smart for that. She knows the game too well. Greed leads inevitably to untimely extinction.

  In a world where her kind is outnumbered a million to one, she is concerned, first and foremost, with survival. Any other point of view would be madness. Her best means of assuring her survival is to do what she knows best. Anyone seeing Tikki in her natural form would immediately recognize that Nature intended her for one purpose and one purpose only. An expertly executed stalk or a clean, quick kill may yield her a certain satisfaction, but she does it neither for sport nor for easy profits. She follows her instincts. Her specialty is killing. The prey may vary as much as the terrain, but whether she hunts in the city or in the wild, the essence remains unchanged. There is only the hunter and the hunted, predator and prey, and the immortal cycle of life and death. She is the weapon by which Nature weeds out Her mistakes. Taking people in the city for money simply provides Tikki with an interesting and diverse lifestyle and plenty of leisure.

  Why should she risk hosing up her existence by stealing when she does just fine as a part-time enforcer and freelance killer? Who could think her so stupid?

  "What are these goods I'm supposed to have stolen?" Castillano rubs his hands together, seems to consider. "Chips," he says. "Special data assembly."

  "Like for computers?"

  Castillano nods.

  "What makes them so valuable?"

  "Unknown."

  Tikki sits back, sips at her cider, draws on her cigar. What should she ask next? Castillano will offer only so much. Just the fact that he sits here, apparently willing to help point her in the right direction might be construed as a favor to be repaid one day. If she were just some snag off the street, he would not waste his time. "What was this man Dominick Freise doing with this data-thing?"

  "Datapak."

  "Whatever."

  "Freise may have been defecting." Castillano murmurs, gazing at his open palm. "Datapak probably contained proprietary info. Freise offered the pak for sale. Man named Hogan met him downtown. Just before you ran. Probably the pak changed hands there."

  "Doesn't Global know this?"

  "Global is drek." Castillano looks directly into her eyes. It is a rare occurrence, the rough equivalent of a glare. The Were do not like going over old ground. "Global does what it's told. It doesn’t have my sources. Understand?"

  Tikki nods. "From what was Freise defecting?"

  "Firm called BioDynamics. Castillano glances at her again, then resumes contemplation of the fingers of his left hand. The brief rise of temper appears to cool. "Freise worked for BioDynamics. That's where the pak comes from."

  "Freise was an executive."

  "Middle management."

  "And this Hogan who met Freise?"

  "Hogan works for Conway."

  Tikki sits back and closes her eyes. Her life has suddenly become very complicated. This Conway is a big man, a major international figure. Most of his biz is with megacorps and governments. He and his organization operate like high-level fixers—negotiating, deal-making, and going-between— almost always with the appearance of strict legality. Conway is often referred to as the prototypical "Mr. White," the codename for someone whose illegal connections are no more than rumor.

  That a name like Conway would even come up strongly suggests that her problems originate with the upper levels of human corporate society and involve very high stakes.

  "Maybe I should just cut out."

  "Your decision," Castillano replies. "My advice is to go see Hogan. Find out what he knows. That would be worth something to me."

  "You have some interest in this?"

  "Call it prestige."

  Now that is very interesting. She suspects that what Castillano refers to as "prestige" might better be described as a matter of revenge or retribution. Castillano is, of course, the one who contracted the hit on Freise. He would not look good if his contractee suddenly got killed. Doing him a small favor in this regard might be worth a good bit at some future time. "Where do I find this Hogan?"

  "Friends of mine’ll show you."

  * * *

  The parking garage is quiet. Rows of compact commuter cars inarch off into the distance. Fluorescent panels in the ceiling shimmer and shine, conjuring patches of light and shadow. Tikki keeps to the darker places, skirting concrete columns, slipping between the bumpers and grilles of cars. The central hub of the garage comes into view. A long black Lincoln American limousine sits there idling, engine softly rumbling.

  Two guys in flashy streetboy attire stand by the doors to the elevator, not far from the limo. They are obviously waiting for something. Tikki watches them closely, covertly.

  She has time.

  Castillano’s friends will wait for her.

  The two muscleboys are very familiar. She spotted them in their car outside the garage and followed them inside. The large fat one is known as Uza. The muscular oriental is called Sonny. They are local boys, indigenous to the factory districts of Seattle Southeast, most particularly Auburn. Over the past few months, they have made an attempt to build their reputations by diminishing others, herself included. They have gone so far as to visit Tacoma, at the very heart of her territory, and to make their derogatory remarks in the presence of many who know her. including Castillano.

  She will not tolerate their insulting child's play any longer. Seattle is her city, and she has been challenged. If Uza and Sonny remain in this garage much longer, they will have to do more than just "talk."

  She does not care if they are Yakuza. Tikki is not afraid of Yakuza.<
br />
  Minutes pass. Sonny and Uza exchange amicable insults, but when the elevator dings, the muscleboys cease their joking play. Gleaming chrome doors trundle open. A large man with dark hair, a close-trimmed beard, and glitzy threads steps briskly from the lift. Sonny and Uza close in.

  "Mr. Cortez!" says Uza, putting one hand up and out. The newcomer turns his head to look, and that is his mistake. As he focuses his attention on Uza, Sonny steps in on his blind side and pounds a fist into his middle. The blow resounds dully. This one called Cortez grunts loudly and doubles over. The muscleboys seize him by the arms and run him back into the wall beside the lift, hard enough to make him shout. These are standard tactics.

  "A friendly greeting from the local Yak ..."

  "Don’t be in such a hurry," Sonny says, smiling broadly, jabbing Cortez in the ribs. Uza puts one brawny arm across Cortez's throat, pinning the man to the wall. "Mr. Yamamoto wants to talk to you, chummer," Sonny explains. "It’s a call you don’t wanna miss."

  Cortez grunts. Like a fool, he shakes his head. "Sorry . . .

  I ... I’ve got another appointment. Important."

  "Friend, you’re not listening."

  Sonny pounds the man in the stomach. The blow draws another shout. Uza twists Cortez’s arm up behind his back and forces the man to his knees. Sonny seizes a handful of the well-groomed hair, and seems about to ram his knee into Cortez’s face, but then merely bends the man’s head up and back, baring his throat.

  "Mr. Yamamoto don’t like being jerked around."

  Cortez puts up a hand, gasps, "Where’s the phone?"

  The muscleboys drag their quarry up by the arms and hustle him into the limo. which immediately rolls off. heading toward the street entrance. Sonny and Uza remain behind. They dust themselves off, straighten their jackets, joke about how easily this Cortez submitted to their will.

  Tikki slips out of her clothes.

  The transformation takes only an instant. She wills the change and her body stretches out long, her musculature swells immense, red and black fur rushes up her arms and body and over her face, hands spread wide and grow into paws. Claws emerge, ears arise twitching and flicking, her tail slides out the end of her spine. Her breathing deepens and resonates with the menacing timbre of a long, low growl.

  The two muscleboys stop and look around.

  "What the hell was that?" Sonny murmurs.

  "Sounded like a lion."

  By then, it is too late.

  She is hurtling between ranks of cars, bounding over a guardrail and launching herself into space. Uza turns and looks right at her, but merely frowns, as though not comprehending the sight. Her forepaws slam down on his shoulders and slap him flat to the ground. There is a sound like an eggshell cracking against the concrete. Blood and gore spray through the air. Tikki bounds up onto her hind legs. Sonny is twisting around to face her, a pair of gleaming razorclaws snapping out of the back of his hand, but he is too slow. Her right forepaw lashes out like lightning and leaves only a shredded ruin in place of Sonny’s face. She strikes again, ripping the man’s head from his body. It is all too easy.

  She drags the remains into a private corner.

  Feeding time.

  * * *

  Tikki meets Castillano’s friends in the back alleys of Riverton, not far from Sea-Tac I.A. They are the fixer’s special friends: two males and one female. They are all Were. The male and female in human guise wear black leather and display all the typical signs of the Wolven type: dark hair, heavy brows, hirsute hands. The male in Wolf-form stands nearly a meter at the shoulders and is so dark a gray that he blends almost entirely into the shadows.

  Tikki turns a corner to find the three of them looking directly at her.

  No one sneaks up on these Wolves.

  As Tikki approaches, the two males advance a step out in front of the female. That is no surprise. Wolven Weres tend to be rather protective of their females when faced by powerful predators. The advance of the males is not intended as a gesture of menace. It is more a precaution urged by instinct than a threat. Tikki takes care to keep her hands away from her pockets. "I’m here to see this man Hogan."

  The man-like male nods. "We had word."

  "He’s in there," the female says, pointing at the rear of a nearby building. "Room 302. He’s alone."

  The one in Wolf-form softly growls.

  "Yes," says the man-like male. "And he’s hurt."

  Alone, cornered, and wounded—things to keep in mind. Tikki supposes. If this Hogan were one of her own kind, she might reconsider going up. "How long’s he been there?"

  "Since midnight last," the man-like male replies. "We think he’s running from something. He’s afraid. It’s hard to describe. We’re thinking he has no place else to run."

  Tikki nods.

  They describe a man who is desperate, but Tikki perceives the deeper meaning, that she should take warning, be wary, examine things closely, assume nothing. She accepts this advice with all seriousness, for these are not merely Wolven hunters. They are Trackers. Their senses are especially keen. What they can discern in Wolf-form from the realm of scent goes beyond even what she can detect as the Tigress. It is maybe several million times more than the average human being could ever hope to perceive. There are shadings and inflections of scent that have no precise definition, so their warning is necessarily inexact.

  "Steel wants you to stay clear."

  The man-like male nods. "Understood."

  "Steel" is a name sometimes used for Castillano. Very few people know of this name, which is reserved for special purposes.

  The Trackers fade into the deeper darkness of the alley. Tikki takes a convenient fire escape to the rooftops, then moves from roof to roof until she reaches the one she wants.

  There, she finds one of those kiosk-things with a door, which undoubtedly leads onto some stairs. The door is locked, but this presents no obstacle to one with the proper tools. Unlawful entry is her stock-in-trade. She is not quite the artist her mother was. but she makes out. No alarms, no problem. Tikki passes silently onto the stairs and draws the Kang, recalling the Tracker’s warning.

  No one on the stairs, no one in the third-floor hallway. This is some kind of low-rent transient hotel. She moves down to the door of 302. Her progress is swift.

  If this were Tacoma, or better still the Zone, she would just shoot out the lock and kick in the door. That would not be wise this near the airport. This district is well-patrolled by police. Instead, she applies her maglock decoder to the doorlock, the same model decoder used by the cops. Very expensive. When the lock clicks, she pushes inside. The room is threadbare. Closet on the left, windows overlooking the back alley. The bed is merely a mattress thrown down on the floor. That strikes a familiar chord. The sort of bed most humans prefer, rising a meter or so above the floor, always makes her feel like some kind of tree-swinging primate.

  The man lying there on the mattress is definitely Hogan— lanky and blonde and reeking of tobacco, just as Castiliano described. Hogan makes an effort to reach the gun lying to his left amid the litter of empty liquor containers and an overflowing ashtray. Seeing the gun already pointed at his face, he stops and draws back his hand.

  "You're a fragging mess." Tikki remarks.

  Hogan coughs and gives her a look of puzzlement as he slowly raises his hands. This suggests to Tikki that the man doesn’t know City Speak.

  She tries again in English.

  Now, the man nods. "That I am, love."

  Hogan’s clothes are in shreds. Nearly every millimeter of exposed skin is gouged and scratched, as though he had tried to dive through razor wire. Only the worst of his wounds seem to have been attended. The bandages swathing his left shoulder, arm, and right thigh more suggest a hurry-up job by a man on the run than hasty treatment by a roving Doc-Wagon. The remains of the bedsheets used to make those bandages lay in a heap in the doorway to the lav.

  Tikki moves close enough to clear Hogan's gun away with her toe. It
is a Swiss-made Krueger 7mm, very chic. The cigarette butts in the ashtray have gold-tipped filters, a Russian brand called Sobranie. Castiliano mentioned these also.

  "Where do I start?"

  Hogan peers at her questioningly and coughs again. By way of explanation, Tikki motions up and down the length of his body with the barrel of the Kang. Subtle interrogation is not her style. The Kang is equipped tonight with a heavy-duty silencer as big around as her forearm. "If you don’t mind, love," Hogan says, coughing again, "save the torture for somebody else."

  "You have something I want."

  "There ain’t much left."

  Tikki considers, then takes a few minutes to go through the room. This includes checking out the lav and dumping Hogan onto the floor so she can have a look at the mattress. She also strips the man of his clothes and goes through the tattered remains. This datapak Castillano told her about isn’t really the sort of thing a person could hide in a packet, but who knows? Hogan might have stashed the thing in a place such as a locker. Lockers, of course, have keys that fit very nicely into pockets. Tonight, though, luck is not with her. No keys, no pak.

  Hogan has another bout of coughing. The spittle he wipes from his chin is tinged with an orange-red.

  "I’m getting angry," Tikki remarks.

  "Love," Hogan replies, "I wouldn’t be in this drekhole if I still had the merchandise."

  "What merchandise is that?"

  "You’re playin’ this real cozy," he says.

  Tikki just stares at him for a moment.

  "The module from Mr. Freise." Hogan wipes at his mouth again. "Afraid you’re a little late. I was set up. Some trog bastard’s got it. Nearly ripped me to pieces taking it, too." On the surface, at least, this sounds like a load of manure. Just the kind of flimsy fabrication she would expect from some Streeter without the brains to concoct a really good story. She has a look underneath Hogan’s bandages, never mind what Castillano’s Trackers told her about the man being hurt. What she finds is a lot of raw meat. It is entirely possible that Hogan is in the process of dying. That changes her opinion a little. It also suggests she better go easy. Castillano was pretty definite about wanting Hogan alive, for reasons of his own. "So what the hell are you doing here?"