by R. L. King
“I wouldn’t want to do it that way anyway,” Ocelot said, shaking his head. “No offense, ’Hawk, but none of us are used to working together, you’re out of practice, and Tiny here would probably start shooting the minute somebody looked at him sideways.”
Tiny glared at him, but didn’t answer.
“What are we going to do, then, if we can’t take him inside his workplace?” Kivuli asked. “What about his residence?”
Scuzzy shook his head. “Corp housing, inside the complex. Security there looks like it’s a little less heinous than in the R&D section, but we’d still have to get past some pretty heavy-duty automated stuff, not to mention I’m sure they’ve got your full set of guards with big guns.”
“No doubt formidable magical security as well,” Winterhawk said, pacing. “If they’ve got multiple spirits on patrol, I won’t be able to handle all of them on my own.” He sighed. “So the workplace and the residence are out. What else? Do they ever let him leave the complex?”
“Still working on that,” Scuzzy said. “Gimme a little time. I got some feelers out, and I’m waitin’ for them to come back. Even I can’t do everything at once. Anyway, I’m freakin’ starving. Let’s make a Stuffer Shack run or something, yeah? I got a jones for a double Sloppy Soy and a Buzz.”
Back at the house a little over an hour later after two stops to pick up supplies (mainly because Winterhawk and Dreja both refused to touch Scuzzy’s idea of “food”), the decker got back into the Matrix. This time, it only took him about twenty minutes to come up with something. When he came up for air, he wore a sly smile. “Okay, I got some more intel.”
“Yes?” Winterhawk asked.
“Mr. Boyd’s a naughty boy.” He dragged the sentence out into a lascivious singsong.
Dreja glared at him. “Just spill it, will you?”
“Looks like he does get out of the corp complex. Fairly often, in fact.” He grinned. “Always to the same place, too.”
“And that is—?” Winterhawk asked.
“Pandora.” Scuzzy’s voice was triumphant.
“What the hell is Pandora?” Ocelot demanded. “Sounds like someplace you pick up cheap joygirls.”
“And social diseases,” Winterhawk added sourly.
Scuzzy looked delighted, nodding. “You got it! Well, not the social diseases. Also not cheap. It’s a private—er—club on the east side of Hollywood. Members only.”
Winterhawk frowned. “I don’t follow. Corporations generally take care of that sort of thing in-house, as it were. Why would they risk—”
“Because,” Scuzzy said, nearly oscillating in his eagerness to reveal what he’d found, “Mr. Boyd isn’t into your standard vanilla joygirls. Or joyboys. He likes things a little rougher.”
“So—this Pandora is some kind of kink club?” Ocelot asked.
“Nah. It’s kind of an everything club. Whatever you’re into, they can provide it. And Toby Boyd is into Lady Desdemona, apparently.” He tapped at his deck and called up a holopic, which he sent to everyone’s AR.
Winterhawk studied it. It was the sort of ad you might see in a high-end publication catering to wealthy gentlemen. Lady Desdemona was human, with dark skin, long auburn hair, glittering blue eyes, and a build like an Amazon warrior. Her black leather bustier and short skirt, despite their obvious sex appeal, only made her look more formidable, as did the intricately inked UV sleeve tattoos covering her arms. Her piercing gaze met the viewer’s head-on, her cold little smile promising what might be in store for anyone brave enough to retain her services. “Well,” he said after a moment. “That’s different.”
“She’s hot,” Tiny said, studying the AR image. “For a human, at least.”
Dreja made a contemptuous noise. “She’s trying to look intimidating, but I could take her apart in five minutes. In the dark.”
“I bet she’d be into that,” Scuzzy said, grinning.
“Unless you’re planning a career as a dominatrix,” Winterhawk said, “That’s really beside the point. But this does open up some new possibilities for us.” He addressed Scuzzy: “How’s the security at this place? And do we know when he’ll be there? If it’s not soon, it won’t work.”
“Far as I can tell security’s good, but not anywhere near as tough as at the corp complex. Like I said, it’s members only, but anybody can get a membership if they have the cred and pass the background checks.”
“How much?” Tiny asked.
“Seriously?” Scuzzy asked, shaking his head. “If you have to ask, you can’t afford it. As far as when, it looks like he doesn’t have an appointment until later this week, but gimme a minute and I’ll hack in and change that to tonight. I’ll tell him she’s gotta change the night ’cuz there’s an out-of-town client coming in for the usual time.” He grinned. “I’ll change her schedule too, and offer him an extra-special deal for bein’ so accommodating.”
“Do it,” Winterhawk said. “And get us on the membership list.”
“While you’re at it, see what you can get for floorplans, schedules, that kind of thing,” Dreja added.
“Especially where this Lady Desdemona does her thing,” Ocelot said. “If we can get in there fast, find him, and get him out, that’ll make me a lot less nervous about this whole thing.”
Winterhawk nodded. “I hope that’s all there is to it,” he said.
“Why wouldn’t it be?” Ocelot asked.
“We still have to get his files, remember?”
“Pfft, easy,” Scuzzy said. “Especially if we have him. He can just give us access to his systems. I won’t even have to break in.” His eyes glittered. “But that’s for later. First, joygirls. I’m liking this job more and more already.”
“You and me both, kid,” Tiny said.
CHAPTER 11
LOS ANGELES
PANDORA CLUB
FRIDAY NIGHT
It was just before midnight when they arrived at Pandora. Cosworth pulled the van into the large parking lot, scanning for an open space. There weren’t many to be had: it looked like the place was busy. Finally, he squeezed the big vehicle into a spot between a bright yellow Saab Dynamit and a couple tricked-out Harley Scorpions. A pair of stylishly-dressed male orks leaned against the back of the Dynamit, clearly too busy with each other to notice the Bulldog.
Dreja sighed, frowning. “Would be nice to be closer. Cos, if you see a spot open up closer to the door, move into it and let us know, okay?”
“Sure thing,” the rigger said. He’d settled back into his seat and only seemed to be half there. “I don’t wanna send the drones out to keep an eye on things—too conspicuous. But I’ll stick one up on that light pole there and keep an eye on the parking lot. Let ya know if anybody shows up.”
Scuzzy was in the back next to Ocelot, his attention fully focused on his deck as he cycled through views from the street cameras surrounding the building and displayed them to the others’ AR. “Everything looks quiet,” he said.
Pandora’s appearance belied its level of security, giving no outward indication of its function. It looked like a typical Los Angeles night club: lots of neon, palm trees (which might or might not have been genuine) out front, the club name spelled out in tasteful red near the door. Clubgoers dressed in everything from street gear to trés chic suits and slinky party dresses stood in small knots near some of the cars, and the faint beat of music wafted through the lot. Winterhawk, in the shotgun seat, adjusted his commlink to look at the AROs: out here they came in two flavors: those related to what might happen to your vehicle if you left it unlocked, and advertisements for drinks, the current bands playing at the club, and the “entertainment.”
He twisted around to face Scuzzy. “All right, everybody’s got the plan, yes? Last chance for questions.”
Scuzzy rolled his eyes; it seemed to be his default go-to expression. “It’s all handled,” he said. “Null persp. You old guys worry too much. We’re all on the guest list for tonight. I’ve uploaded your IDs to your co
mmlinks. You’ve even got clearance to be packing small weapons. Just make sure you remember who you’re supposed to be and don’t try to smuggle in any big-time armaments, and you’re golden.”
Tiny started to say something, then shook his head and remained silent.
Dreja sighed. “If we’re cleared to carry, I wonder how many others in there are.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Ocelot said. “If we’re shooting, something’s gone wrong big-time.”
Winterhawk studied the floorplan Scuzzy had sent everybody earlier. “Two floors and a basement.” He indicated a large room in the basement. “Here’s the dungeon Lady Desdemona operates out of. Can you get us a view of that?”
“Not till we get inside,” Scuzzy said. “They’ve got something blocking access from out here.”
“Probably because they don’t want every slot with a deck hacking their camera feeds and broadcasting the show to the Matrix,” Ocelot said.
Scuzzy nodded. “Yeah. I’ve done it myself. It’d blow your mind some of the stuff you can see when people think nobody’s watching.” His voice rose in pitch, taking on more animation. “Like this one time, I saw these two mind-blowingly hot chicas—”
“Let’s stay on task, shall we?” Winterhawk interrupted.
Scuzzy looked disappointed, but shut up.
“All right, then.” The mage opened the door. “Good luck, everyone. Remember: fast and quiet.”
“I don’t like this,” Ocelot said. He’d switched off the outgoing audio on his comm so the entire team couldn’t hear him. “We’re staking a lot that some pimply kid knows what he’s doing.”
“Not mad about it myself,” Winterhawk agreed. “But you said he was good. I suppose now’s when we’ll find out. I just wish I could have done a bit of astral recon before we went in there. I don’t like being blind.” He had taken a quick pass back in the van before they left, but apparently Pandora took its security seriously: similar to the measures they had taken to ensure that no unwanted Matrix intruders could get inside, they had also taken precautions against astral incursions. “First brothel I’ve ever seen with wards,” he muttered.
“Oh, and you’ve seen so many?” Ocelot grinned. “’Hawk, you dog. I had no idea.”
“Quiet, you.” The two of them headed up the walk toward the front of the club. The only indication of its function was a discreet sign on the wall next to the double doors, proclaiming Pandora – Private Club – Members Only. There were no AROs, at least not out here.
Two doorkeepers—a human male and an elf female—dressed in matching, long, blood-red coats that didn’t look armored but undoubtedly were stood at the front, sheltered from the warm wind by a short awning with the club’s logo—a heavily stylized P fashioned into a boxlike shape—on the front.
Winterhawk and Ocelot approached the two guards, who took subtle steps toward each other to block the way. Winterhawk nodded pleasantly to them, while Ocelot remained behind him, playing the role of an attentive bodyguard. They presented their identification and waited silently while the elf woman examined it.
After less than a minute that seemed at least ten times that long, she nodded. She and the human man stepped aside, and the doors opened. “Welcome to Pandora, gentlemen. Enjoy your evening.”
Dreja slouched in the Bulldog’s middle seat, watched the two orks through the tinted glass, and waited. The waiting was always the hardest part, especially when she was more than half-convinced that the whole thing was going to blow up in their faces as soon as somebody inevitably screwed up.
She took deep breaths and forced herself to remain calm; she had a reputation to maintain, and there was no way in hell she was going to display any kind of stress in front of Timmy the Wonder Spaz and Rocky the Lunkhead. At least Kivuli was quiet. Dreja liked her: she did what she needed to do without unnecessary conversation. She wished Scuzzy was more like that. Winterhawk, too, but she really just didn’t want to hear anything out of him.
The comm crackled to life. “We’re in,” Ocelot said.
Somebody snickered from the third row. Probably Tiny. She ignored him. “Good,” she said. “Any trouble?”
“Nope. We’re in the bar area now. Get in here so we can get started.”
“Okay,” Dreja said, turning to Tiny and Kivuli. “You two are next. Tiny, just hang out in the bar for now. Anybody asks you if you want some action, tell ’em you want to get good and drekfaced for a while first. Keep an eye on the front door.”
“Null persp,” Tiny said, shoving open the van’s door.
Kivuli slid out behind him, straightening her long, armored coat. She said nothing, merely nodded. Dreja didn’t bother to reiterate the plan to her; there was no need. “Okay, go. Let me know when you’re in, and we’ll follow. Scuzzy and I will coordinate from the bar once we’re there.”
The two of them slipped off, their dark-clothed figures disappearing into the night. Dreja leaned back, trying her best to project an aura of ‘don’t talk to me’ now that she and Scuzzy were alone with the zoned-out Cosworth.
“So how come you and Hawk-man don’t like each other?” the decker asked.
So much for auras. “You want to tell me why that’s any of your business?”
She saw him shrug in the rearview mirror. “Isn’t, I guess. You guys run together before?” His hands were still flitting over his deck in his lap.
“No.” The single word came out harsher than she meant it to. She wished the kid would just shut up and let her focus.
“I looked you guys up. This isn’t your usual kind of job. Isn’t his, either.”
She let her breath out, gripping her seat arms to stop herself from doing anything she might later regret. The kid was a decker. That’s what deckers did. Trying to stop them from ferreting out any information they could track down was like trying to stop elves from being insufferable. “No,” she said.
“So, I guess I’m just curious about why you took it.”
She did turn then, glaring at him. “Kid, this is your last chance to shut your mouth and do your job. Got it?”
He held up a hand, nodding. “Sure. Null sweat. Just makin’ conversation, is all.”
“Hey, we’re inside,” Tiny’s voice came in through the comm. “Everything’s frosty. There are some seriously hot chicks in here.”
“On our way,” Dreja said. She glared one more time at Scuzzy. “Come on. Let’s get this done. Sooner we do, the sooner I can get away from you people. And please try not to drool.”
The evening was in full swing inside Pandora. Winterhawk and Ocelot drifted down a short stairway and a thickly carpeted hall into the main bar area, taking the place in. “Lot of people,” Ocelot said through the comm. “I expected the customers to mostly be off in the rooms, doing their thing.”
Winterhawk nodded, looking around. Most of the main floor of the club was one large open area; a long horseshoe-shaped bar underlit with red neon dominated the left side, with a few small round tables scattered near it. On the other side, barely visible past a large open dance floor seething with writhing partiers, rose a stage featuring an elven band playing something with a pounding tribal beat. A couple smaller alcoves—one near the bar, one near the dance floor—provided more tables for those who wanted to get drunk or watch the action without becoming part of it. Cages suspended from the high ceiling above the dance floor held nearly nude dancers: elves, humans, and orks of both genders, grinding and gyrating against the neon-lit bars as they tried to entice the crowd to dance. All together, the club area probably contained a couple hundred people: most of them looked like clients, but more than a few had the watchful, focused look of undercover club security or bodyguards for some of the individual clubgoers. “You don’t see our man, do you?”
Ocelot scanned the crowd. “Not here. There are a couple dwarfs over there by the bar, but they don’t match the holo we’ve got.”
Winterhawk adjusted his commlink so he could see the AROs; they were surprisingly tasteful, advertising
the club’s nightly drink specials, the locations of the private party rooms upstairs, and a “menu” of the available talent on offer for the evening’s festivities. It offered the chance to fine-tune the selection by gender, sexual preference, metatype, ethnicity, and numerous other factors. “I don’t see Lady Desdemona here,” he said, indicating the choices.
“Maybe you need to make an appointment with her in advance. Doesn’t matter, though—we know what we’re looking for is downstairs. We need to get over to the elevator and get down there without anybody catching on.”
“We’re inside,” Dreja’s voice cut in. “Had to hand over a couple of my guns for safekeeping, but otherwise fine. We’ve got a table in the back of the bar.”
“I’m at the bar,” Tiny said. “Other than you guys, nobody’s come in since we got here.”
“Doing a little recon,” Kivuli said. “Checking out the bathrooms, and I’m about to get ‘lost,’ and see if I can get a look at the kitchen area.”
“Scuzzy, do you know where the security center is?” Ocelot asked. “Place like this has got to have one somewhere, so their guys can keep an eye on biz and run the system.”
“Yeah, working on it,” Scuzzy said. “Just like I thought, it’s a lot easier once we’re inside. Gimme a minute, and I’ll have a feed and a floor plan.”
A scantily clad human woman drifted up to Winterhawk and Ocelot, and they both ordered drinks. “I guess they like the personal touch here,” Ocelot said, watching her departure with approval.
“Stay focused,” Winterhawk ordered. He scanned the crowd, cycling between normal vision and astral sight: even just assensing, the club’s sensual vibe came through loud and clear. He looked around, trying to spot any signs of tension or threat that might indicate potential trouble.
