Shadowrun 45 - Aftershock

by Jean Rabe, John Helfers (v1. 0) (epub)

  “Any other of the vehicles in this place yours?” She made the question soft, though she was certain the elves could hear her.

  Hood didn’t answer.

  The troll had changed clothes again, wearing loose gray trousers, a pale yellow linen shirt open halfway down his chest, and a black blazer with buttons that were made from the horn of some animal. Around his neck was a bolo tie, the fob a piece of silver decorated with a chunk of turquoise. His bow and quiver were nested in the center of the backseat.

  “Has armor plating, doesn’t it?” Max continued. “Concealed, but it is there. I can tell ’cause the doors are so heavy.”

  Hood took a look around the garage, the hairs on the back of his neck up. There wasn’t a sign of another soul: Sindje had astrally perceived and taken a quick jaunt around to confirm that the garage was empty before they came down. There also wasn’t a sign that the other vehicles had been disturbed. The tow truck had left hours ago. He shrugged off the bad feeling and slid into the passenger seat. The RV dipped only a little.

  “Definitely a wiz suspension.” This came from Khase, who was settled face-to-face with Sindje on the floor of the cargo area. Their backs were to the plant carts, as a precaution, and his hand was extended against the third. “Wiz ride, tad. Nothing like heading to a drop in style.”

  Sindje yawned. “Max, make a pass through a Nukit Burger, will you? I need a jug of soykaf.”

  “And don’t forget about the other stop we have to make as well.” Hood glanced back to make sure their cargo was secure. “Regardless, we should be there in plenty of time.” The ork edged the RV out of the parking garage, at the same time pleased and livid that the vehicle operated so quiet and smooth.

  13

  3:28:05 p.m.

  Jhones’ hands were rigid on the Americar’s steering wheel as he weaved in and out of traffic, driving almost on instinct. He had tasked Simon with reviewing everything Lone Star had on the Plantech break-in, and sent a copy of the file to Roland, tagging it as part of an ongoing investigation so his superiors wouldn’t get their boxers in a knot. Then he and Simon had driven the entire chase route twice, looking for information or any clues as to the whereabouts or identity of the perpetrators.

  But all the while as he drove, he kept replaying the conversation he’d had a few hours ago in his mind:

  “What do you mean, you just sold me?” Jhones was so furious he barely remembered to subvocalize.

  He still remembered the bookie’s matter-of-fact tone. “Sorry, chummer, but the Azatlan-Kenya game cleaned me out. Who’d have thought those squat little muchachos would whip tail on the Afriques, knowhutimsaying? Anyway, I got overextended, and your chit was up. So I made a deal. ” “Nu, you know I’m good for it, I always have been. With the playoffs coming up I’ll get back out, you know that.” “Hey, you aren’t the only one owes money, you know. I got my own problems to deal with, and as of ten minutes ago you aren’t one of them anymore.”

  “You sold out a Lone Star, you fraggin’ son-of-a-slitch!” Jhones’ bookie tittered. “Calm down, it's not like it’s the first time that’s happened. Anyway, your new holder will be

  calling in his marker sometime soon, I expect. Sounded like a suit, so I imagine you won’t be asked for too much, maybe a bit of bodyguarding on the side, impress some locals. Who knows?”

  “Frag it, Hollander, I’m not going to do anything this meshuggener wants. If I ever find you on the street—”

  “You won’t do a thing to me, Redrock, and you know it.” The bookie’s voice turned ice-cold. “And you are going to do whatever this exec wants, you putz, because if word got out that you not only welshed on your vig, but also hauled in your bookie, the street would drop you like yesterday’s fashion. Face it, Jhones, you’ll square this, and in a few days you’ll be back for more. You can’t help it. Gambling’s in your blood. You got into this mess, and now you can get yourself out of it. Now be a good copper, and handle this like an adult.”

  Hollander rattled off a cell number, which Jhones recorded. “You can reach the exec at this number. They said to call after three this afternoon. Be smart, and be in touch before the end of today. You just tell ’em I sent you, and the exec’ll take care of the rest. Sayonara, chummer.”

  With that the bookie broke their connection, and although Jhones had been trying to reach him for the past ten minutes, he got no answer. I can’t believe it; the fragger sold me out.

  Jhones knew he had a gambling problem. Indeed, he had no problem admitting it, but that didn’t mean he was going to stop, either. Four years ago, he had gone on a spectacular seventy-two hour wagering spree, only to flame out at the end. That had cost him every nuyen he had, as well as his wife and family, his home and almost his career. Only a lot of fancy footwork had prevented his getting fired, and the fallout from the cloud still hung over him, limiting his advancement opportunities. That was fine with Jhones; he loved being on the street anyway. After the maxed-out meltdown he had even kicked the parlors for a while. But the boredom crept up on him, and before he knew it, he was devouring trid and matrix odds reports, getting back up to speed so he could get back in the game.

  Despite those odds, and the thousands of other variables that could play a part in any match or race or game, Jhones usually took only a cursory look at all of that when he wagered. He bet because deep down in his psyche, so deep that he would never admit to it, he felt he shifted the universe in some small, unexplainable way every time he put his nuyen down on a team. Somehow, he equated the act of placing a bet with shifting the odds in both his favor and the team’s as well. It made absolutely no sense, and indeed, if a person ever asked Jhones about his habit, he’d just say he gambled for the thrill. But it went much deeper than that.

  And now I’m in way too deep, he thought. Jhones had never considered himself a schlimazel, or unlucky person, but this last run just hadn’t been up to his usual standards. First the Packers had dropped what should have been a cruising win to, of all teams, their longtime rivals the Bears, then the Oakland Terminators had lost half their team in the Urban Brawl semifinals. And now, when what even he admitted was a risky trifecta in horse racing had failed to pay, he was tapped out. More than tapped out; combined with his previous debts, he was fifty thousand nuyen in the hole.

  But he had been in similar situations before and had always managed to either pay or bet his way out. Now, however, faced with this completely unknown variable, a person who doubtlessly knew he was a cop—for it couldn’t have just been the money this exec was after—the game was skewed heavily against him.

  No, tsuris like this I do not need right now, he thought as they pulled into the basement of the 3rd Precinct house. A persistent mumbling noise in his right ear made him realize that Simon was saying something.

  “Yeah, boychik?”

  “Geez, Jhones, are you all right? I’ve been trying to get your attention for the past fifteen minutes.”

  “Yeah, yeah. I’m fine, just a message from an old friend earlier. Got me a little distracted, that’s all. What’s up?”

  Simon tapped the vidscreen of the Americar as Jhones pulled into a parking space. “I’ve reviewed the chase vid and the patrol report on the Plantech break-in, and I’ve got some ideas on how to follow up our crime scene investigation. You want to talk about this inside before shift change?”

  “I’d love to, kiddo, but I’ve got some things to take care of that can’t wait. You get your facts together, and we’ll connect around dinnertime, okay?” Without waiting for an answer, Jhones slid out of the driver’s seat and headed for the elevator that would take him outside, walking as fast as his legs would take him. He felt Simon’s eyes watching him with every step, and he didn’t breathe easy until he was in the elevator and the doors had closed.

  What can 1 do? These ganefs have me hanging over a barrel, he thought. I have no choice but to see what this macher wants. But it has to be a one-time deal; no stringing me along, frag it!

  Simo
n Chays shook his head as he watched the thickset dwarf almost run to the elevator. His partner’s increased heartbeat, pulse and breathing rate, all of which had started after that meeting with the guy at the Anything Diner, meant that he was nervous about something. The sinking feeling in Simon’s stomach intensified, but he activated the security system on their cruiser and headed for the central elevators.

  Upstairs, the 3rd Precinct was the usual bustle of afternoon activity: suspects being booked, streetwalkers shuffling in and out, and officers and detectives at desks everywhere, catching up on the endless flood of electronic forms that had to be filled out on a daily basis. Privatizing the cops certainly didn’t change much in that regard, Simon thought as he stopped by his desk to download his own reports. That done, he headed for the CO’s office and knocked on the door, glancing around to make sure that no one was taking more than the usual interest in him.

  “Come in.”

  Simon slipped inside and shut the door behind him. The 3rd Precinct commander, Carson Tallfeather, sat behind a desk completing several cyberforms that swirled around him. Like many career officers, Carson was uncomfortable with jacking in and preferred using holograms to do his work, either filling them out verbally or poking at the forms with a finger to fill in the blanks. He looked up at Simon and waved the officer to a chair while he kept talking.

  “Resume dictation— Therefore, it is imperative that the budget outlined in form BUR-nine-three-five remains at the indicated request levels for the next fiscal year. Please let me know if you have any questions. End dictation, and send to stated address list.” The CO leaned back in his chair. “What’s on your mind?”

  Simon rubbed his chin then looked up. “Are we in the bubble?”

  “You’re new to IA, aren’t you?” Carson grinned. “In here, we’re always under the bubble.”

  Simon’s answering smile was weak, but he mustered it anyway. He knew a lot of cops didn’t like what he really did. And ironically, the street also looked down on Lone Star Internal Affairs as well, figuring them to be one more rusty point on a bent star. But the lanky human believed in a r< il, true concept of law and order, one that was fair and just, which is why he signed on with Lone Star Internal Affairs when offered the chance. Fortunately, Commander Tallfeather shared his attitude, which had certainly helped during Simon’s first tour of duty. But when he spoke to the chief, they always made sure that the protective shield against both magical and cyber-eavesdroppers was securely in place. “I think I might have something on Redrock.” “Do tell.”

  “Who’s assigned to the Plantech break-in?”

  Carson brought up a translucent duty roster, the hologram casting a blue sheen on his handsome Yurok features. “According to the report filed by the beat patrol, Plantech said the thieves were interrupted before getting away with anything, and the corp wouldn’t be investigating any further. Wait a minute, here’s a note from Redrock himself, saying he’s following up.”

  Simon brought up the matrix access log from their cruiser. “Jhones met with a guy I didn’t recognize at a diner near Snohomish this morning. I couldn’t catch their conversation, but on the way back I ran his face through the SINID database. He’s Roland Ators, the sec chief for Plantech. Anyway, afterward, we drove the route the shad-owrunners took from Plantech—twice, and took our time looking for any evidence as well. I think Jhones will either be investigating further under our jurisdiction, doing it on his own time, or the sec boss has something over him and is pressuring him to help out with a private investigation of some kind. Here, you see Jhones downloaded the vidfiles of the chase scene to Ators. Why would the sec man want it if his own corp wasn’t going to pursue the matter?”

  The CO canceled the report and frowned. “Good point, and also why is Jhones following up what appears to be a nonevent? But if he was going to some kind of meet, why take you along in the first place?”

  Simon leaned back in his chair. “What better cover than to have a by-the-book rookie partner to watch his back and attest to what happened if necessary? It’s possible he wants to use me as his alibi. But Jhones didn’t know I had my cybereyes installed before I came to the Third. Doesn’t know I can watch real close, and record. After breakfast, he also got a personal call that really shook him—I could barely get his attention on the ride back. Whoever he spoke to, they delivered some drek news, that’s for sure.”

  “Interesting.” Carson thrummed his fingers on his desk. “You’ve ridden with Jhones for what, two months now? What’s your impression of him?”

  Simon thought for a moment before answering. “By everything I’ve seen he’s an excellent officer, great clearance record. If it weren’t for that gambling problem a few years back, he could be gunning for an admin position . . .” “But?”

  “But he wouldn’t, sir. Jhones loves his job and the street. You can see it when he’s out there. There’s nowhere else he’d rather be, that’s obvious. He’s one of those officers who would wither and die behind a desk.”

  “Or if he was off the force completely.”

  “If that happened, he’d probably eat his gun in a month.” Simon tapped his fingers on the arm of his chair. “My gut says he’s not dirty, but the evidence is too strong to ignore. So that’s why I’m here.”

  “Well, for all of our sakes, I’m hoping there’s no dirt on him. Jhones is one of our best, but I’m not going to cover for him or anyone else on the take. All right, stick with it, and let me know what you uncover. But for frag’s sake, watch out for entrapment. Say the wrong thing while on the wire, and he could skate off scot-free.”

  Simon rose and headed for the door. “I understand, sir, and I’ll be careful. And thanks—for what it’s worth, I hope I don’t find anything, either.”

  14

  3:17:30 p.m.

  Roland tried not to fidget as Morgan guided the Mitsubishi Nightsky Limited through the late afternoon traffic. As the sleek limousine wove in and out of the lanes on Interstate 5, he silently prayed that his lieutenant wouldn’t put a scratch on the luxury vehicle. For the tenth time, he thought about checking his cell messages, but knew there would be nothing there. Jhones will contact me when he’s got something. And all the while, the countdown kept shrinking in the corner of his vision. Twenty hours left until Plantech is history.

  The sec chief also tried not to appear nervous in front of the other two passengers in the opulently appointed rear compartment. Sitting across from him was Lilith Chalmers, who had traded in her lab coat for a subdued, dark gray, three-quarter-length trench coat. Her attention was concentrated on the sniffer she held, a small wire leading out to the window, which was cracked just enough for the sensor to be slipped outside.

  Next to Roland sat a man that just made him plain uncomfortable. He looked like a well-heeled Japanese shai-kujin in a razor-pressed, lapel-less Wellington Brothers suit that cost more than the sec man made in three months. He had short, styled hair that lay immaculately in place and smelled faintly of ginger. Kenji Hiyakawa, however, was anything but a corp suit. The short Asian was a shaman, and from what Roland knew, he took great pride in not conforming to the stereotype of the traditional unkempt, tattooed, grunge-wearing spirit summoner.

  As Roland had been rounding up his sec teams to go hunting, Siskind had sent Roland a message that Hiyakawa would be joining the recovery effort. Roland didn’t protest, as he had been trying to add a mage to security operations for months now, and was certainly willing to accept any help to save the company.

  Hiyakawa had been escorted to the greenhouse, where he had summoned a city spirit and had it search for the combat mage’s astral signature. He had locked on to it, and the spirit had tracked her to an alley in Everett, but another hour of searching by it had drawn a blank. Roland had suggested that he, Lilith and Hiyakawa go to the site and look around, just to be sure.

  Behind the stylish Nightsky rumbled two Renraku Typhoon RVs, containing the rest of Squads One and Two. Roland had planned to have his group ride
in the same vehicle as his men, but when Hiyakawa watched the RVs pull to a stop in front of him, the distasteful expression on his face had said a few thousand words on the subject.

  Roland usually turned his nose up at the obsequious hoop kissing that happened every day in the corps, but he also knew when a VIP had to be pampered. Stepping forward, he spoke before the shaman could leap to the right conclusion. “Our transportation will be arriving shortly, Hiyakawa-san. These vehicles are for the rest of the team.” As he reassured their freelancer, he activated the number for Siskind’s office.

  “Yes?”

  “Our shaman has requested—more suitable transportation. ”

  “Of course he has. I’m sending a more appropriate vehicle now. He may avail himself of anything inside, naturally. Please express my gratitude again that he has agreed to assist us.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  When the Nightsky rolled up, Roland had quickly looked down the street to hide his surprise. In all his time with Plantech, he had never been inside the corporate limousine. Hiyakawa waited for the chauffeur to open the door and slipped inside like he owned it. Roland nodded to Morgan to take the wheel, ignoring the almost imperceptible stiffening of the driver’s spine at the blatant commandeering of his vehicle. He had then entered the plush passenger area, sinking into a silk-soft, real leather seat that cradled his tense muscles. Hiyakawa shot his French cuffs and perused the dry bar with barely a sniff of his upturned nose, selecting an unopened bottle from inside an authentic oak box.

  “Glenlivet 1962. I was unaware any of these still existed. You’ll join me, of course.”

  It was anything but a request. Despite the pressure Roland was under, his mouth watered in anticipation of tasting 101-year old scotch. “It would be a pleasure.”

  That’s the trouble with cat shamans, he thought. Fastidious in the extreme, they expected their surroundings to be as spotless and perfect as they thought they were. And heaven forbid they ever got dirty, then all bets were off. The other problem with the shaman was that whispers on the street said he was one of the best.. Unfortunately, Hiyakawa knew this, and charged accordingly. We’ll either be broken up for scrap or go broke feeding this snooty guy’s appetites. Ah well. . .