11 - Striper Assassin

by Nyx Smith - (ebook by Undead)

  “Está bien. Entre.” The elf nods toward the limousine.

  Enoshi nods, gets in. The elf follows on his heels. The limousine is swinging away from the curb and moving off even as Enoshi settles into the rear-facing seat. The elf sits at his left. Facing him across the center console, fully equipped with portacom/stereo/wetbar and possibly a satellite uplink, is the woman known as Sarabande. She is kuromaku, a fixer, one who arranges matters from behind the scenes. She appears to be pure human, European, Spanish, or possibly Italian—Enoshi is not sure which. Her black hair is drawn back sleek and flat from her face and brow. Dark, visor-style shades conceal her eyes, but clearly visible is the black wire-lead of a data-jack descending from her right temple. She wears a black jacket adorned with swirls of gold over a tight-fitting black blouse and matching slacks. Her low-heeled black boots shine like mirrors.

  Seated to her left is an enormous ork and to her right a huge Asian male. Both wear mirrored shades, sharply tailored suits, and show the massive builds of weight lifters or sumotori.

  “Your business?” Sarabande says.

  “Yes,” Enoshi replies, with a nod. “I have the details here.” He extends his left arm fully, then draws back the sleeve of his jacket and dress shirt to display the chip-carrier case strapped to his arm just above the wrist. He opens the case and passes the chip carrier to the elf, who inspects it before handing it to Sarabande. Experience has taught Enoshi never to make any sudden moves or do anything that might be perceived as threatening. In his first meeting with Sarabande, he suddenly found himself staring into the muzzle of a gun, an extremely large automatic pistol, merely because he had reached rather suddenly toward his inside jacket pocket.

  Without further comment, Sarabande slots the chip carrier into the computer deck set into the center console, then sits back, briefly lifting a hand to the datajack at her right temple. Several minutes pass. The limousine seems to pick up speed. Enoshi glances out the dark-tinted windows to his right and sees that they are riding up onto a highway, the section of I-76 that loops around the southern end of the central city.

  Abruptly, Sarabande is asking him, “What is your interest in the person referenced on this datafile?”

  “The person must be invalidated.”

  “What are you willing to pay?”

  “What price do you ask?”

  “The shadows are very busy. Talent is coming at premium prices. How much talent are you willing to buy?”

  “Whatever will be adequate for the work to be done.”

  “First-rate talent serves the global market, is always in demand, and is unlikely to be available on short notice.”

  “Time is of the essence.”

  “The price will then be approximately double what you paid for your last run.”

  Price is not a major concern. The funds generated by Ohara-san’s illegal BTL production lab were significant, in the millions of nuyen, and provided Exotech with a much-needed infusion of cash. The cost to destroy that same lab, to do all that was required by Operation Clean Sweep, was trivial by comparison. Enoshi’s only concern regarding the price of the run he is now trying to arrange is that the kuromaku, the fixer Sarabande, should not think him foolish or gullible.

  “The price you suggest seems somewhat high,” he says. “The task in this case seems much simpler. I would expect the price to be lower.”

  “Then you do not realize what you are asking.”

  Enoshi hesitates a moment, then catches himself, suppresses a rush of irritation. Sarabande’s manner has always been rather curt, in his limited experience. His impression is that she is merely to the point, rather than intentionally rude. He composes himself, and says, “Please explain.”

  “The individual in question is extremely dangerous. And known to be eccentric. Unpredictable. What you want will therefore entail a high risk. The individual must also be found. Locating the SINless takes time.”

  And time takes money. Enoshi had presumed that this new run would cost more than the last, more than Clean Sweep, but had wanted to hear the fixer’s reasons for quoting higher fees. “You will guarantee completion?”

  “I will guarantee only that the attempt will be made,” Sarabande replies. “If it fails, the loss is yours.”

  “You guaranteed success on the last run.”

  “The point is not open to negotiation.”

  “May I have some reason?”

  “I’ve already given you the reason. The individual who is the focus of this new run is extremely dangerous. Eliminating that person will entail a high degree of risk.”

  Enoshi nods. Fortunately, he had some idea of what to expect during this meeting and was able to decide on possible contingencies ahead of time. “I believe I must split my options.”

  “Continue.”

  “I would like to go ahead, arrange for the run as we have discussed, for immediate execution and using available talent. At the same time, I would ask that you make inquiries, ascertain whether first-rate talent is available, and when, so that if the first attempt fails, another first-rate individual or team will be ready to act at once.”

  “You want back-up.”

  “Quality back-up. Yes.”

  “That is no problem. However, first-rate talent will require compensation merely to open a window of availability. This may increase your cost by a factor of four. I will act on your behalf to obtain an equitable price, but where elite skills are concerned, the room for negotiation is limited.”

  “That is understood.”

  That first-rate talent should require such a premium is no surprise to Enoshi, and the point would not sway him in any event. Time is the critical element. Ohara-san had said, “At once.”

  To Enoshi, that meant, “Now!”

  “Then our negotiation is concluded,” Sarabande says.

  “I will require an immediate payment of one hundred-kay nuyen.” That is easily arranged.

  19

  The glaring trid screen set into the wall at the rear of the booth jammers about some suit chewed up by a machine gun inside a parking garage. Neona ignores it. The bar is Humphrey’s Jack Zone, and from her booth near the street entrance it has the wild-eyed ambiance of an arcade. A billion multicolored lights flash and flare from the mirrored ceiling, walls, tables, and bar, and from at least half the people crowding the place, all wearing mirrored NeoMonochrome. The band is wired for sound and playing frantic-time from the semicircular stage up behind the U-shaped bar. Holographic images of impossibly proportioned naked and semi-naked women dance along the top of the bar, in alcoves along the walls, and on top of the few unoccupied tables. Every table has a bowl of Nerps, a paycom, a Matrix port of deckers, and headsets for those who want to sample the bar’s 1,000+! Dir-X! Theatrical! Masterpiece! simsense recordings, including Monochrome Dreams and The Summoning of Abbirleth, looping twenty-four hours a day. The roaring music, the jammering trids, and the bells, buzzers, and sirens of the games being played everywhere blend into a deafening electronic babble that threatens Neona’s head with static.

  That static is about all that’s keeping her from a babble all her own. Her chiller thriller Amerind biker dude, Ripsaw, got her into the city, then just bugged out. She can understand that. In the short time they spent together, she wasn’t anything but baggage. Neona never had a chance to show him what she could do, except in bed, and that’s never enough by itself. Getting dumped might not be so bad if she hadn’t found him so exciting, so totally massively intensely male that she couldn’t help herself. At least he saved her a long goodbye. Slot and run. It hurts less like that.

  Between her and the wall at the back of the booth is the black nylon bag holding her Fuchi-6 cyberdeck in its gray macroplast case. If she’s gonna eat anytime soon, she’s gonna have to put the Fuchi to work.

  She wipes at her eyes, and glances around.

  Walking toward her is a group just emerged from the crowd at the rear of the bar. They go straight past her table, heading for the door to
the street. Three of them look like razorguys. One has gleaming silver cybereyes to go with his cool, smirky smile and NeoMonochrome duster. Another has an Ingram smartgun dangling from one hand down along his side. Another of the slags has razorcut hair sliced into fins and a datajack in his right temple. The one girl with the group could be a mage. She wears a lot of dull metal jewelry—necklaces, pins, bangles, and rings—and once, just once, she lifts a hand and does something funny with her fingers.

  They gotta be runners, shadowrunners. Neona’s sure of it. She scrambles out of her booth, hustling after them, calling, “Yo, chummers! Hoi! Hey, hoi!”

  Her voice seems totally drowned by the thundering noise of the club. Yet, suddenly, the shadowrunners turn to face her, and the one with the Ingram smartgun is pointing it directly at her. The mage girl has both hands raised and flickering with blue energy like eldritch lightning. Neona freezes, wide-eyed, heart pounding, but manages a shaky smile—what she hopes is a friendly-looking smile.

  “Uhh… hoi.”

  The slag with the Ingram watches her a moment, then leans the smartgun back against his shoulder. The mage lowers her hands. They all turn away.

  “Hey, wait!” Neona calls. “WAIT A SEC!”

  This time the guy with the Ingram turns around and steps right into her face, glaring. The Ingram presses lightly into her left ribs. “What’s your beef?” he growls.

  Neona swallows. What she’d give right now for some heavy-duty back-up. “I’m just… I’m new in the plex. Tryin’ to make a connection.”

  The guy tilts his head, studying the side of her head where she’s got her datajack, her right temple. “Yeah? So what?” he says.

  “Know anybody who needs a decker?”

  “You a ramjammer or a chiphead?”

  “I’m burning chrome on a hotjack!” she blurts adamantly. The slag just watches her for a moment, glancing down at her bag, then says, “Hardwired?”

  “Neu… neuromantically radical,” she stammers.

  The slag opens his mouth to say something, but doesn’t get any further than that. A troll built like the front end of a bus comes up behind the group and brawls, “Hammer! Cloak da iron, dammit! ’Fore I count zero on you!”

  Hammer, the slag glaring into Neona’s face, lifts a hand to his mirrorshades, and shouts back, “I’m talkin’ biz with a Mona Lisa!”

  The guy with the silver eyes and smirky grin nods at Neona and says. “Let’s try ’er, Hammer.”

  “HAMMER!” the troll roars.

  Hammer’s face turns a furious red, but then the mage puts a hand to his right shoulder and says, “Let’s go outside and talk.” With a glance at Neona, then a glance back at the troll, she adds amiably, “We’re not looking for grief.”

  “Yeah, right!” Hammer looks at Neona, then nods curtly toward the main entrance. Neona follows the group outside.

  It’s looking like maybe she’s made a connection.

  That would make it a good night.

  20

  The digital display on Tikki’s wrist chronograph reads 00:56:29 as she steers the stolen Volkswagen Super-kombi III into the southwest parking field of the Ardmore Royal Residence Plaza. She notes with satisfaction that, as usual, a minimum of a half-dozen other personal-use commuter and cargo vans are scattered about the parking field, along with a wide variety of standard autos, everything from executive sedans to basic econocars. Maybe a thousand vehicles in all. The Volkswagen will blend in just fine.

  The sprawling apartment complex lies just off Route 30, just beyond the Philadelphia city limits. Nine tall towers rise from the orange-vapor glare of the parking fields. At this hour, the only other illumination is from the desolate ground-floor lobbies and the flaring red strobes of aircraft warning lights stroking the dark night sky.

  All very, very good.

  Tikki steers the Volkswagen around the parking field. Position is important. There are no empty parking spaces close to Tower Seven, but that is no problem. She planned to park at a distance. Tikki finds a space where she can park the van with the rear window facing the southwest facade of Tower Seven at a range of about two hundred meters. She cuts the engine and waits, waits and watches, then gets down to business.

  Tonight’s work requires that she carry an unusual amount of gear. That meant careful planning and now requires methodical execution. Tikki takes her time, spends a few moments adjusting the fit of her gloves, black plastic ones that fit like a second skin. She moves to the rear of the van and takes a Walther XP-700 semiautomatic pistol from her compartmentalized duffel bag. The XP-700 is one of the few match-grade precision weapons that load more than one bullet at a time—five rounds via an integral magazine, and one directly into the firing chamber. The weapon is loaded and ready to go.

  Tikki kneels on the back bench seat and takes another look around. Except for the vehicles parked there, the parking field is deserted.

  With a touch of a sensor tab, Tikki lowers the van’s rear window, then braces her arms on the back of the bench seat and sights in on the southwest face of Tower Seven. The pistol’s flat-black finish absorbs light rather than reflects it. The Ares optical night sight brings the distant rectangle of a fire door so close it seems only an arm’s length away. Tikki inclines the muzzle of the XP a bit, bringing the security cam mounted just above the door clearly into view, seeming close enough to touch. The Lumex laser targeting module puts a sharply focused red dot on the upper surface of the downward-angled cam to indicate her exact point of aim.

  When she pulls the trigger, there is only a quiet thump, thanks to the Fabrique silencer.

  Through the optical sight, Tikki sees a hole appear in the top surface of the security cam. That is exactly as planned. She also glimpses what seems to be a quick shower of sparks. Better and better. She touches the tab to raise the van’s window, returns the Walther to the duffel bag and crouches down to wait.

  In about three minutes, according to her wrist chrono, a car comes squealing into the parking field, amber strobes flashing as it races through the turn, then rushes across the lot toward the southwest fire door. The timing is important, suggestive. The first time she gave Ardmore security a reason to respond, a car showed up in about thirty seconds. That was two weeks ago. Response times, on average, have been growing progressively slower even since.

  The car slows abruptly in approaching the fire door, then races off across the lot, then returns, then races around some more—back and forth, back and forth—and finally comes to a halt by the fire door.

  A uniformed guard gets out and looks around, then up at the security cam. He tugs on the fire door, which does not open. He glances back and forth, then again, and again, then gets into his car and lifts something to his mouth, probably the mike from the dashboard com.

  Twenty minutes pass. A police cruiser rolls into the lot and pulls up beside the security car. The guard gets out. The contract cops do not. This is the sixth night in just under two weeks that someone has shot at the complex, or committed other acts that might be taken as mere vandalism. The targets on other nights included parking field lights, lobby windows, and the cardkey lock on one of the automated booths at the entrance to the complex. One of the private vehicles that patrol the complex was also vandalized, forcibly entered, and stripped of various equipment.

  The guard puts on a good show, but the response times tell the story. No one gets very excited about a busted security cam. Their voices carry across the parking field, in through the van’s side windows, to Tikki’s ears. Audibly enough for her to discern tones and emotive inflections, even if she doesn’t catch every word.

  It’s just one more incident of malicious property damage, they seem to decide. Probably it’s all random.

  “So call repair,” says one of the cops.

  Good, very good.

  The cops soon depart.

  The guard stands around a while, then drives around a while, then finally goes away and doesn’t come back. Tikki spends a few moments in preparatio
n, then pulls on a knee-length lightweight black duster. She has no further use for the Volkswagen van and abandons it where it sits.

  Duffel bag in hand, she walks across the parking field to the fire door. The second floor of the apartment tower projects out over the ground floor and casts moderate shadows over the door. That provides some useful cover.

  She takes a pair of Zeiss Optik CFS-49 goggles from the duffel bag and slings the unit around her neck. That’s so she can bring them quickly into use when the moment arrives. She could have put them on in the van, but preferred not to walk across the parking field with a military-grade vision-enhancement device dangling from her neck.

  Under the duster she wears a nylon-reinforced web belt and harness. From a clip at the front of the belt, she pulls out a passkey marked for Ardmore security. She presses the On tab. Something like a standard cardkey slides out the business end of the device. She fits that to the fire door’s cardkey port, and the unit engages automatically.

  The door buzzes and clicks.

  Tikki pulls the door open, returns the passkey to her belt, then lifts the Zeiss goggles over her eyes. A pair of blue laser beams cross the doorway, one at chest-height, the other just below the level of her knees. The beams spring alarms if interrupted, but Tikki can easily by-pass them. She removes the duster, tosses it between the beams, then follows the duster, bending under one laser and stepping over the other. Still carrying the duffel bag, she enters the stairwell, then eases the fire door shut behind her.

  Penetrating supposedly secure civilian facilities is generally no problem. What Tikki has encountered so far—guard patrol, security cam, hi-tech lock, laser-activated alarm—is about standard for apartment complexes. Enough to deter the average felon. For her, a casual slide. All it takes is preparation.