by R. L. King
“See anything?”
“I think there might be quite a number of corporate types here,” he said.
“He’s right,” Dreja said. “Not hard to spot the bodyguards and handlers keeping an eye on their charges.” Her voice dripped with contempt. “Can’t let the coddled little things out on their own. Some big bad ork might eat them.”
“Give it a rest,” Winterhawk said. “I’m just saying that we need to be careful. This has to go down quietly. Too many people in here who could be threats if we start a fight.”
“We can take ’em if we have to,” Tiny said.
“The point is not to have to,” Kivuli said.
Winterhawk remained where he was until the waitress brought back their drinks, then walked toward the opposite end of the bar from where Tiny was leaning. The samurai appeared to be chatting up a young elf woman, but he was oriented so that he could keep the front entrance under surveillance.
“Okay,” Scuzzy said. “I’ve got access to the main security cameras, including the ones around the outside perimeter. The ones in the rooms are gonna take a little longer.”
“They have cameras in the rooms?” Tiny asked. “Nice.”
“Shut up,” Dreja snapped. “Let’s keep the chatter down. Scuzzy, any sign of our guy?”
“Check and see if they’ve got some kind of control sheets for the rooms,” Ocelot said. “You know, like a schedule. Who’s with who and where. Place this size, they’ll need to keep track.”
“Yeah, okay.” Another pause, then another window popped up, showing a floor plan.
“Looks like the normal rooms are upstairs, ”Dreja said after a moment. She indicated a hallway with a red dot. “Looks like this is where the stairway is, and the way to the admin offices and stuff.”
“What about that section there?” Winterhawk asked, marking a series of upstairs rooms set away from what looked like the normal guest rooms.
“That’s where the…um…talent stays when they’re not working,” Scuzzy said. “Kinda like a lounge area. Hold on…” Another window popped up, showing a view of what looked like a large central area surrounded by smaller rooms. It was full of couches, mirrored makeup tables, and clothing on racks. Two of the tables were occupied by joygirls adjusting their minimal clothing and applying makeup. “There you go. See for yourself.”
“Look at those costumes,” Tiny said. “Niiice. I bet you could get a girl to dress up like whatever you want here. If you wanted her to dress at all, I mean.” The leer came through in his tone.
“Will you keep it in your pants?” Dreja growled. “You think this Lady Desdemona gets ready in here, too?”
“Dunno,” Scuzzy said. “Still trying to get the schedules. Gimme a couple more minutes. Go look around or something. I’ll ping you when I got something.”
CHAPTER 12
LOS ANGELES
PANDORA CLUB
SATURDAY MORNING
Toby Boyd had a feeling that tonight was the night.
He couldn’t be sure, of course; his contact had told him that it was too dangerous to give him any specific information, but the fact that Lady Desdemona had changed their night made him wonder. She never changed their night.
He hoped whoever they sent were good: the two goons-in-suits that his Shiawase overlords had assigned to babysit him stuck to him like lovesick schoolgirls any time he was outside the corporate complex. He couldn’t even go to the can without having at least one of them stationed outside the door, and the other one guarding any windows that might give him a means of escape. It was all fairly pathetic: what did they expect he was going to do, wriggle out through a tiny window and make a run for it? He hoped that when his shadowy contact sent somebody after him, they might be a little more inventive than to extract him from the drekker.
For a while he tried not to let the whole business bother him, but lately it was getting downright stifling. He wondered if that was because somebody at Shiawase had gotten wind that he was ready to jump ship after his little jaunt to Australia.
He doubted it, though; it was probably just his growing annoyance at being watched like some kind of prize show dog. As much as they liked to keep him as happy as reasonably possible, he doubted the upper level honchos in his organization would let him continue with his periodic visits to Pandora if they thought an extraction was in his future.
His handlers (he’d never bothered to learn their names—he referred to them as Goon One and Goon Two) were in their usual places: One, a stoic, muscular Japanese human, had stationed himself near the elevator, while Two, a bald Anglo shaped like a fireplug, was parked at the locked door to the stairway that was the only other way down to basement area. If Boyd had given a damn, he might have felt a little sorry for Goon Two. At least Goon One got to stay in the club and watch the show. Poor Two was stuck in a featureless maintenance corridor on a folding chair. He noticed they never switched jobs, and supposed it had to do with the fact that Goon Two wasn’t Japanese. For all their nods to being progressive, being the right ethnicity (and the right metatype) still went a long way toward making your life easier when you worked at Shiawase, or any of the Japanacorps for that matter. Maybe there’d be somebody else’s minder waiting there tonight, so at least he’d have company.
So tonight might be the night. Boyd hoped if somebody was going to come after him tonight, they’d wait a little while. Maybe try to grab him on his way out or something. That way, he could get in one final session with Lady Desdemona before he’d have to leave town. He was going to miss her. She was the first woman in a long time who really understood him. Not like that slitch of an ex-wife back in New York.
Still thinking about Lady Desdemona and fantasizing about what sort of humiliating delights she might have in store for him in her dungeon, he entered the elevator and took it down to the basement level. He moved with casual ease; he’d been here many times, and no doubt could traverse the place in his sleep. Stepping out into a hallway carpeted in plush red, he walked down and took a left. There were three dungeons at Pandora; Lady Desdemona’s domain never changed.
He prepared himself as she had instructed, taking a quick shower and clothing himself in the simple white robe and black synthleather briefs he found hanging in a locker. She didn’t approve of his usual clothes, which, when he wasn’t working, consisted of garish Hawai’ian shirts and surfer shorts. She said they made him look undignified.
That was, after all, her job.
Kivuli leaned against the wall in the hallway near the east-side bathrooms, having a smoke.
Boyd wondered how long it was going to be before Lady Desdemona showed up. She must be trying something new tonight, keeping him waiting longer. He lounged on the hard wooden table, anticipating the feel of the silken bonds on his wrists and ankles, the touch of her whips and floggers on his tender skin, the harsh but loving tone of her voice as she punished him for all the transgressions he’d committed this week. He shifted, a little uncomfortable; the table didn’t exactly hurt, but his muscles were starting to stiffen up a little, and his back was getting sweaty against the wooden surface of the platform. He wasn’t as young as he used to be, and she’d never kept him waiting this long before.
The door opened then and Lady Desdemona strode in, fixing him with her glittering, cold smile that always made his whole body tingle with anticipation. She didn’t speak as she crossed the room and loomed over him.
“Is…something wrong, Mistress?” Boyd asked after several moments of that silent scrutiny. “I’ve been waiting so long…have I failed to please you in some way?”
“So many ways to answer that,” she replied…only it wasn’t her voice. Instead of Lady Desdemona’s throaty, sultry purr, she spoke in a sardonic male voice with a British accent.
“M-mistress?” Boyd sat up, sweat running down his back and pooling up in his synthleather shorts.
She leaned over and grasped his wrist. “Sorry to take you away from your nightly flogging, Toby, but it’s time to go.”
Boyd stared. “Go?” And then he got it. “You mean—?”
“Up and out,” she said, nodding. “Come on, then—we’re in a bit of a hurry.”
Boyd moved numbly, sitting up and dangling his legs over the edge of the wooden table. “Where—where’s Lady Desdemona? You didn’t hurt her—?”
“She’s fine. We mucked about with her schedule, so she’s probably home enjoying a nice cup of tea and a trashy novel. Don’t you worry, she’ll be back to spanking bad little boys in no time—just not you. Now come on, hop down. We need to get you someplace safe, and then you can give us the information we need.”
Boyd nodded, breathing a little hard. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’m good for it. It’s all right here.” He tapped his head. “Headware. I didn’t want to forget anything. You get me out of here, I’ll send it all to your decker, and you can verify it before you let me go.”
“Excellent. But first, out.”
The dwarf slid off the wooden table, suddenly conscious of the fact that he was wearing nothing but a pair of synthleather briefs in the company of another man, even if that man did look like his smoking hot mistress. “Um—can I get dressed first?”
“Not unless your clothes are in here. We need to get moving right now.” She flashed a grin. “Don’t worry. They won’t be seeing the real you anyway.” She made a gesture and the air shimmered around him. “There. Now you’re a short human chap in a business suit. Just come with me and don’t draw attention to yourself. We’ll have you out of here before you know it.”
Boyd looked down at himself, but he couldn’t see what Lady Desdemona (or whoever it was) was talking about: by all he could see, he still looked like a dwarf in his underwear. He snatched up his white robe and quickly threw it on, then hurried after the dominatrix. His heart was pounding, but in a way this was exciting: being extracted by Lady Desdemona, having to follow her orders in the face of real danger (even if she did sound like a man) was an experience he’d never had before. He filed it away in his memory for closer examination later.
Upstairs, Ocelot lounged near the bar, scanning the area for potential problems.
“They’re coming out,” Scuzzy’s voice came over the link. He sounded relieved. Try as he might, he hadn’t been able to get a view into the actual dungeon room, so they hadn’t known what was going on after Winterhawk had called up his illusion and gone inside. “I got the feed on a loop so if the two bodyguards or the sec-guys are watching, they’ll just see an empty hallway.”
Ocelot pulled up his AR window and watched as the tall woman in tight black leather and boots with five-inch stiletto heels stalked up the hallway, followed by a small, slim human male in a corp suit. “’Hawk? Everything okay down there?”
“So far so good,” came the mage’s voice. “We’re almost at the elevator now. Are you ready for us?”
“Looks good here,” Tiny said from the other end of the bar. “I’m gonna head over toward the front door.”
“Moving toward the door,” Kivuli said.
“That illusion on Boyd going to hold?” Dreja asked. “If the bodyguard up here sees through it, we’re gonna be in trouble.”
“Don’t worry,” Winterhawk said. “This is what I do, remember? Just be ready. We’re entering the elevator now, so pay attention. I’m going to drop my own illusion so it doesn’t look suspicious to have Lady Desdemona escorting a different client.”
In her hallway near the restrooms, Kivuli stubbed out her cigarette, pretending to be fiddling with something showing up on one of her AR displays.
Winterhawk smiled encouragingly at Boyd as the Lady Desdemona illusion dropped away and the elevator moved slowly upward toward the ground floor. “Just stay calm and stay close,” he urged.
The dwarf studied him for a moment, swallowing hard. “I’m scared,” he said.
“No need to be. We just need to get you past those two bodyguards of yours and out the door, and we’ve got transportation waiting.” Over the link, he sent:
The elevator door opened. Boyd swallowed again. Winterhawk felt the dwarf’s hand briefly touch his arm and then pull away.
“Here we go,” Winterhawk murmured.
Every light in the club went out.
CHAPTER 13
LOS ANGELES
PANDORA CLUB
SATURDAY MORNING
A lot of things happened at once as chaos erupted all around the club.
“Oh, spirits,” Boyd moaned. “This was a bad idea…”
Winterhawk was reaching into his pocket for his low-light glasses when suddenly the darkness became even more absolute. Clouds of choking smoke billowed upward, engulfing the area.
Coughing and disoriented, he reached out blindly to grab Toby’s arm, but failed.
Ocelot had already leaped up as soon as the lights went off, and he was far enough back that the smoke cloud didn’t reach him. <’Hawk?>
All around them, the crowd was already beginning to panic as they caught on to the fact that the lights going out wasn’t part of the show. Screams rose, and in absence of any security lights showing the way to the exits, they began moving in different directions.
Somewhere, a gun went off.
More screams.
In the bar, Dreja leaped up so fast her chair flew out behind her. “Scuzzy!” she barked. “I have to go! You gonna be okay here? Get those exits locked down!”
He waved an impatient hand, his focus almost exclusively on the Matrix.
She spared him one more quick glance, but he was in the back corner of the bar and the panicked customers were, for the most p
art, moving in the direction of the exits. If she was going to see anything, she’d need to get some height. With all the lights out, Scuzzy’s camera views would be useless: even if the emergency lights came up, the mass of writhing bodies would make it difficult to pick out anything. She yanked a small, powerful flashlight from inside her vest and sent a message to the team:
Kivuli drifted backward near the side exit. It had been laughably easy a few minutes earlier to slip outside and hotwire an old Americar that undoubtedly belonged to one of the employees, then come back inside and wait for the show to start.
She nodded, feeling the spirit touching her mind. She gave it a command and it shot off.
Winterhawk was still trying to get hold of Boyd, but the choking smoke made it impossible to see. He shifted to astral sight and thought he’d spotted the dwarf when two moving forms slammed into him from two different sides, knocking him off balance. He reeled back, crashed into the wall, and in the couple of seconds it took for the panicked figures to move on past and him to right himself again, Toby Boyd’s short, stubby aura was nowhere to be seen.
The smoke gave Ocelot’s ultrasound cybereyes little trouble. He waded in, not seeing Boyd, but immediately spotting the dwarf’s Japanese bodyguard. The guard apparently either didn’t have ultrasound or hadn’t switched to it yet, because he was still fumbling and flailing in obvious attempts to either get out of the cloud, locate his charge, or both.
