by Mel Odom
The commlink buzzed for attention, and it went without being answered long enough that Hawke thought the SIN had already been burned and almost hung up. Finally, though, the connection went through.
“Hello?” The person at the other end was using voice-masking software.
Hawke’s own voice-masking software was built-in. He gave the password they’d agreed on after leaving Tang’s, then received the countersign. It still didn’t mean he was talking to the Mr. Johnson he’d met. The man could have been replaced by design, or been intercepted. The shadows shifted constantly, so no one ever truly knew what was going on.
“Events have gotten sufficiently fragged on the recruitment drive that I’m gonna be a day late delivering.”
“I’ve seen the stories.” Even with the masking software, the speaker didn’t sound happy. “What happened?”
“I’d ask you the same thing, but we don’t have time for that.” Hawke kept up with the passing seconds on his PAN. “I’ll be arriving in three days. Do you still feel comfortable with the prearranged meeting place?”
“Yes. I think so. But I was given specific directions about the time frame.”
“If three days doesn’t work for you, just let me know, and the deal’s off. There’s plenty of other buyers for this package. I’ve already gotten a local offer.”
The reply came immediately. “No. Three days will work. I’ll make it work.”
“Good. I’ll see you then.” Hawke broke the connection.
Clothed in darkness, Hawke sat in the small room Flicker had arranged in Caracas. He’d known getting her for the run was a good idea, but since things had gone sideways, she’d been even more solid than he’d thought she would be.
Or than she would have to be. That thought curdled inside his mind as he scanned the street through the west-facing window. A few pedestrians were out, mostly the sprawl’s poor walking home after a late shift or partying.
On a threadbare couch, Fredericks slept, his mind blotted by the slap patches they kept administering to him. Rachel slept on one of the room’s two beds. Like the professor, she hadn’t stirred. Hawke had been worried when he and Flicker had been forced to carry her inside the room, but her otherworldly guardian hadn’t made another appearance yet. IV bags attached to her arm kept her pumped with fluids and calories. Even then, he’d expected to see some negative impact on her physical health. But her vitals had remained solid. He felt fairly certain that was due to the thing that had latched onto her.
It was still there, hiding wherever it hid. Hawke felt its vibrations rattling inside his chest like the angry growls of a muzzled beast. He couldn’t believe how sensitive he’d become to it.
A few minutes later, the pickup pulled into the alley beside the building where Hawke waited. He watched the cyberdeck stream images from the rigger’s drones. Flicker was alone and carried food cartons. His stomach rumbled in anticipation.
The rigger had locked down the room using gear she’d salvaged from the drug lab site. The cybersec wouldn’t stop anyone from getting in, but it would slow their entry and give plenty of warning.
The maglocks on the door clicked almost silently as they released, allowing Flicker to enter. She crossed the room and set the cartons on the small, square table marred by knife scars.
Flicker glanced at Rachel. “Still not awake?”
“No.” Hawke stood, leathered the Predator he’d had sitting in his lap, and joined her at the table. The cooked meat smells and spices tickled his nose, and his hunger spiked. “She can make it three more days, but we need to keep her hydrated.”
“Null sheen. I’ll arrange for some more IV rigs to feed her meds and glucose. We’ll keep her as healthy as we can.” Flicker handed Hawke a plate and locked eyes with him. “We don’t know what that artifact is. There’s the possibility that she won’t come back from wherever she’s gone.”
“I know.” Admitting that bothered Hawke. He wasn’t much older than Rachel Gordon, but he was certain he’d seen more of the world than she had. Now it was possible she wouldn’t ever see anything else.
Unless she was somewhere in the astral realm. That thought concerned him, too. He wondered if Rachel was even now standing next to him, yelling at him in frustration to help her. Or maybe she was prey for astral beasts and predators. He’d heard about that, though he’d never experienced it.
“Mr. Johnson and his people probably have a way to deal with this.” Flicker doled out the meal, filling Hawke’s plate with acarajé, bolinhos de arroz, empadinhas de palmito, and coxinha. She passed him a bulb of beer and they sat to eat, keeping watch on their surroundings through the drone array.
Hawke popped an acarajé ball into his mouth, savoring the fresh shrimp, black-eyed pea, and onion concoction. The beer was weak, but it was cold and that was fine.
Flicker used a spork to cut into the empadinhas de palmito. The honey-yellow mini-pie split easily, revealing hearts of palm, sautéed onions, and black olives. “Something crossed my mind while I was out.”
Lifting an inquisitive eyebrow, Hawke forked up a chunk of coxinha and ate the deep fried morsel. The chicken filling was made with catupiry cheese, not cream cheese, which was used in other places. It gave the savory snack a subtle but definitely different flavor. “What?”
“Why the Johnson wanted you to pick up Rachel Gordon at the dig in Guatemala, not at a hotel or in a sprawl.”
Hawke shook his head. “Maybe no one knew about her ’til then.”
“Or maybe Mr. Johnson wanted a package deal. Rachel and the artifact.” Flicker picked up a bolinhos de arroz with her fingers and bit it in half. Parsley and onions showed in the rice fritter.
“There was no guarantee we’d get both.”
Flicker regarded the sleeping girl. “Wasn’t there? She and that thing have been inseparable since we recovered them. And we were told where to pick up the woman.” She dove back into her food. “It’s something to think about, omae. I’d hate to find out somebody’s been jerking our strings from the start when its too late to do anything about it.”
CHAPTER FORTY
Three days later, just as Dorival had promised, Hawke and Flicker landed in Denver. Also as promised, no one was waiting for them. Their arrival remained clandestine.
Before clearing the airport, Hawke arranged medical support for Rachel Gordon through an ex-CrashCart caregiver who’d gotten sideways with a superior who had then sabotaged his career. Hawke had received medical attention from the man during his CrashCart days, and helped set him up in the shadows after his dismissal. Other runners used him these days as well, and he operated private facilities in a half-dozen sprawls, always working through off-grid channels.
Fredericks was returned to consciousness and immediately demanded to be released or to see Rachel, who still remained in a coma. Ignoring his demands, and later his threats and pleading, Hawke parked the man under lockdown with a street samurai he knew.
“I don’t like the idea of you going to this meet on your own.” Flicker stood outside the door to the small hospital room where Rachel lay unconscious, monitored by several med devices—as well as some of the rigger’s drones. “Especially not with me in Denver and you in Santa Fe.”
“Mr. Johnson came looking for me,” Hawke said. “The guy knows me. Maybe he doesn’t know you. If that’s the case, I wanna keep it that way.” He gazed back inside the room where Rachel slept. “Besides, somebody’s gotta keep an eye on the goods.”
“I know.” Flicker leaned against the white wall and crossed her arms. Despite the relative quiet of the last three days, she looked worn. “What do you think Mr. Johnson’s going to do if she’s still like this when we hand her over?”
“Pay us. A deal’s a deal, and I’m not settling for less than I was promised.” Hawke nodded at Flicker. “See you soon.”
Flicker wrapped her arms around herself. “Take care of yourself.”
“I always do.”
At 2318 hours, two minutes early to the meet in Santa Fe,
Hawke braked his Yamaha Growler dirt bike to a halt in an alley across the street from the Hellstorm Club and lowered the kickstand. He removed the helmet and hung it just behind the motorcycle’s large gas tank.
The desert outside the sprawl was filled with abandoned mines that hollowed out large sections of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains and cut through the Pecos Wilderness. When the mining had played out, smugglers set up underground supply runs. The go-gangers protected their retreat routes with anti-aircraft fire and booby-traps in the tunnels. Hawke knew the area well.
Wearing temporary tattoos, and dressed in road armor he’d bought from a fixer when he first hit the sprawl, Hawke knew he blended in with the locals. Go-gangers frequented the Hellstorm Club, and most citizens knew to stay out of the area.
Deep-throated roars of designer machines and heavy rolling stock blasted between the two- and three-story buildings on either side of Zelazny Avenue. All of the structures sported the flat, pueblo-style roofs. That architecture, Spanish Pueblo Revival, had been enforced in the sprawl since 1912, and reinforced with a later zoning ruling in 1957. The NAN, particularly the Hopi and Zuni tribes, had added their own unique artistry to the area with bright colors and designs woven into storefronts and neon signs.
As he crossed the street, Hawke automatically shifted into the go-ganger swagger that would help him blend into the environment. His jacket bore the colors of the Eye-Fivers out of Seattle. If challenged by any local talent, Hawke would claim his visit was to duck heat from Knight Errant while catching up with some local friends and looking for side work to cover his food and housing. The story would hold up for the next hour or two, but he planned on being long gone before then.
By then, if the meet worked out, Rachel Gordon and her black phantasm would be someone else’s problem, and Hawke and Flicker would split a fat recovery fee.
He looked forward to that, and tried not to wonder what would happen to the young woman. She wasn’t his responsibility. Flicker was right about that: Rachel Gordon had her own problems, and Hawke wasn’t about to take them on. Surviving in the shadows meant staying away from anything more than temporary responsibilities, and having only quick, infrequent partnerships as the need arose. His life was about moving fast, lethal when he had to, and staying small in the shadows. He didn’t take on permanent relationships.
And no matter where Rachel went, it had to be an improvement over letting her fall into Azzie hands. He’d brought Flicker into this fragmire, and owed her an escape route and a payoff, if that could be arranged.
As if sensing he was thinking about her, Flicker spoke in his ear. “I’ve got drones covering the street to keep an eye on you, but I’m getting a lot of interference from black ice covering the local hubs and the high usage in the area. My coverage is spotty at best. If I was there, it might be better.”
“Understood. We’ll work with what we have.”
“I’ll try to get inside the club’s security, but if I can’t, I’ll watch through the windows and walls whenever I’m able.”
“Just keep an exfil route on deck for me.” Hawke wasn’t expecting trouble, but too many players were after Rachel Gordon to think everything would go smoothly here.
“Null sheen, omae. I’ve got your back.” One of the small drones buzzed Hawke, reminding him she was there, then it flew high and disappeared against the light haze.
Industrial metal blared through the club’s batwing doors. Pushing through them, Hawke filtered his audio pickups as he slotted an open credstick for the troll bouncer minding the entrance.
“Enjoy, chummer,” the big street sam growled. He flew the deep purple and black of the Ravens, one of the NAN biker gangs. “Careful with the Cactus Water.”
The local brand of alcohol had a small but dedicated following, and was carefully policed by the go-gangs. If bad batches of hooch got out, blindness, nerve damage, and birth defects trailed afterward. And the stricken were usually dead before sobering up, either killed in a fight or just flatlining. Since most of those victims tended to be bikers, the go-gangers watched the suppliers.
Inside, the bar occupied the wall to the left, and a balcony ran the length of the back of the room, overlooking everything. A raised stage along the right wall featured a six-piece band with synth instruments. The lead singer was a delicate-looking female elf with a flared raspberry Mohawk tipped in white and showing a lot of skin. Her baritone vocal cords had to be cybered, or maybe it was magic, because her voice was huge. She sang in German and sounded menacing and depressing. The crowd of bikers and hangers-on threw themselves at each other in a frenzy on the dance floor.
Above the writhing mob, a holo of a mechanical buffalo herd ridden by go-gangers charged across a mesa and leaped into the air. A scarlet haze of novacoke vapor streamed up from many of the dancers, adding its pall to the holo.
Hawke circled the room, staying away from the dancers and deftly avoiding the servers. When he reached the other side, he went up the stairs and discovered Mr. Johnson sitting at a small table against the back wall in the shadows. He had to have paid a small fortune for the spot, which was a noob move, because people would remember him.
The man wore casual clothes, but still couldn’t fit in with the crowd. Two go-gangers had already posted up on him, in case he turned out to be a fed trying to infiltrate. Instead of being dismayed by the presence of the enforcers, Hawke felt buoyed by their proximity. That meant no one else had set up on the Johnson. The man hadn’t attracted rival corp attention.
Yet.
Hawke slid into a chair on the other side of the table. Mr. Johnson frowned at him, started to object, then looked again, seeing Hawke for who he was at that point.
“You made it.” The relief in his voice seemed heartfelt.
“I did. This is gonna be quick.”
Nearby, three sec men in street clothes shifted in the loose triangle they used to keep Mr. Johnson under observation. Mr. Johnson tilted his head and subvocalized a few words. The sec men remained at a distance, but still on overwatch.
Mr. Johnson looked around in confusion. “Where’s—” He stopped.
“Not here.” Taking care to not be seen, Hawke drew one of his Predators and sat with the weapon in his lap. Even with the go-gangers and sec men keeping watch, he wasn’t taking any chances.
Mr. Johnson shook his head. “I don’t understand. You can’t just show up here empty-handed. We had a deal.”
“We still do. I’ve got your package, but I want to set up a drop to make the exchange.”
“This is the drop. I’ve got a helo waiting nearby.” Mr. Johnson’s face reddened, and his voice turned coarse.
“She’s in a coma.”
Mr. Johnson’s face turned white. “You hurt her?”
“Not me. That artifact she’s saddled with is responsible for that.” Hawke had no other culprits in mind for Rachel’s continued lack of presence. Whatever the stone was, he was convinced it was keeping the woman out of the loop for the moment.
“The—artifact.”
Although Mr. Johnson tried to sound casual, Hawke knew the man was in the dark about what was truly going on. His deception suite agreed with his assessment. Mr. Johnson had not known about the artifact. That was disappointing, because it told Hawke there were a number of other things the man wouldn’t know.
Mr. Johnson put his hands on the table and interlaced his fingers. He leaned forward and tried to sit taller, but there was no way he could match Hawke in a size competition. “People are not going to be happy with the way you just hijacked this operation. You were told that time was of the essence, and you come here, tonight, a day late.”
“I’m still alive, and I’ve got your package. The way I scan it, that’s a bonus.”
“The people I represent are not going to be happy.”
“What people?” Hawke pinned the man with his gaze.
Cowering a little in spite of himself, Mr. Johnson drew back slightly. “Don’t worry about other people. You’re de
aling with me.”
“Fine. We also need to talk about my fee.”
“Your fee has already been established.”
“You led me to believe this was a simple recruitment effort.” Hawke tapped the table top with his forefinger, underscoring his words. “It wasn’t. I drew fire from Aztechnology and a mercenary group put into the field by NeoNET.” He name-dropped to see if he could get a reaction out of the man.
The corp names didn’t seem to faze Mr. Johnson. “Once you go south, you know you risk dealing with Aztechnology.”
“Your package was in Guatemala—smack in the middle of Aztlan. What’s more, the Azzies were already watching the dig site, and they had a large team sitting there, ready to capture the package when the word came down. That tells me the job’s worth more than you’re paying me. Add the NeoNET presence as well—especially since they funded your package on the dig—and I got promoted to the big leagues without being told.” Hawke glared at the man, remembering all the near-misses he and Flicker had survived over the last few days. “Now I want big league pay.”
“I don’t know anything about that.” Mr. Johnson ran a hand through his hair, brushing it back from his forehead. “I’ll have to talk to my people to get you an answer.”
Hawke nodded. “That’s fine, but tell those people that mercs are out hunting for their goods while they choose to haggle over a few more credits.”
“It’s not going to be a few more, though, is it?”
Hawke smiled, but there was no mirth in his expression. “No, it’s not, but I get the feeling they can afford me. Whatever that artifact is, it has to be worth a lot. And there’s a reason—maybe more than one—your boss or bosses didn’t go after the package themselves, and chose to send someone like me. Whoever it is will pay.”
“When should we—?”
A hole suddenly appeared in the back of Mr. Johnson’s hand as he brushed at his forehead again. His eyes went wide, the black pupils expanding to drown the irises like tide pools pulling in flotsam. Sitting there, he quivered, then scarlet leaked from behind his damaged hand and ran down the left side of his nose to drip onto his chin. Already dead, he went slack and toppled forward.
