Shadowboxer (14 page)

“Recon?”

Delphia set the Elite on auto, and the Manhunter slapped into his palm with blinding speed and he began attaching an acoustical silencer to the big-bore muzzle with trained ease. “Data extraction,” he corrected, concentrating on his work for a tick as the vehicle maintained course and speed.

“Ah, my second fave pastime,” Moonfeather purred, flexing her fingers, the rainbow nails glistening. “How nice.”

“Oh, yeah. Here. This is for you,” said Thumbs, reaching inside his fringed vest and retrieving a gat. He passed it to Silver.

“I already have a Colt,” she said, hefting the sleek ergonomic pistol he’d handed her. “It’s so light!”

“But no reliable backup piece. That”—he gestured—“is a Seco LD 120 loaded with armor-piercing rounds and tracers. It’ll put holes in a wendigo and set the damn thing on fire. That two-bit Colt wheelgun of yours wouldn’t stop a sick devil rat.”

“Thanks.” Silver ejected the clip, inspecting the caseless ammo neatly stacked inside. “Hope you don’t mind.”
Thumbs waved that aside. “Course not. The only folks you should trust are your enemies, because you know what they want.”

“Too true,” she agreed.

“That’s Bushido,” said Delphia.

“Oh, yeah? Around here they call it the law of the street.” Silver dry-fired the Seco a few times, then rammed in the clip. “Good gun. Excellent balance. If you’d sell it to me, I’d like to buy it from you after the run.” Removing the Colt from her belt holster, she stuffed it into her shoulder bag under the Fuchi and tucked the Seco into the empty holster. It was a bit snug, but did fit.

“Keep it,” said Thumbs. “A gift from the Latin Kings.”
Silver adjusted her jacket over the weapon. “Arctic. Any more goodies?”

“Care for a grenade?” he asked, offering her one.

“Def.” Silver took dull metallic sphere and hefted it. “Always nice to have some boom in your pocket. What is it? Anti-personnel, concussion, flare, thermite?”

“Ah ..Thumbs seemed embarrassed. “Don’t know, actually. Didn’t have a tag when I stole it.”

Silver looked at the grenade as if it was going to explode in her hand. “Are you jerking my strings?”

“No tag?” repeated Delphia from the front. “Well, what color is it? Most armaments are color-coded.”

“Green,” said Two Bears, looking over his shoulder at it, “with stripes.”

Delphia adjusted the mirror to see for himself. “Green stripes? There are no striped grenades.”

Moonfeather snickered.

“An unlabled willy peter. This fragging thing could do anything!” Silver gingerly added it to the weapons in her shoulder bag. “I’ll save it for a special occasion. Such as when I’m already geeked and want to take the other sonofaslitch with me.”

“Hey, better than nothing,” rumbled Thumbs.

“Agreed. But not by much.”

“Dorsey Park,” said Delphia, slowing through the traffic and pulling the Elite up to the curb. The vehicle nearly dislodged a dozing ork slotmachine girl with frizzled green hair from her precarious perch on a busted parking meter. The lounging locals stared at the slickmobile invading their turf, but didn’t approach it. Just the opposite. Many of them started to saunter away, casual but quick.

Two Bears didn’t blame them. A tinted limo meant one of two things, corps or shadowrunners, neither of which were desirable to be near when the drek hit the operating turbine.

Thumbs pulled his vest shut tight and stared bullets at a leatherboy lustfully checking out their wheels. The punkster smiled shakily and ambled away, hands stuffed deep into his pockets, whistling innocently.

“Perimeter clear,” Thumbs announced. “What was the ork’s name again?”

Two Bears answered. “Gordon, Scott Gordon. Research librarian for the city gov. Now retired.” He’d called the lovely little dwarf clerk from the library. She hadn’t been able to help him at first, but this time she’d located just the scan.

“And this slag wrote some book on pirate action in the Atlantic?”

Two Bears nodded.

“Stone. Just the chummer we need to flap gums with.”

“Exactamundo.”

“Not much farther now,” Thumbs said. “One block up, over one block. Twenty-one seventy-four northwest Eighteenth Street, fifth floor.”

“Didn’t think anything around here was that high.”

“Loft doss.”

“Ah.” This far away, there was no way this Gordon guy could have seen their car arrive. If he actually knew anything about IronHell, however, he might be just a little bit jumpy about strangers with guns.

“My search earlier showed that this dump is too old to have security cameras, or sensors, or anything,” said Silver. “I’m surprised it’s got running water.”

“Neighboring buildings?” asked Delphia, sliding on dark glasses.

For night? Two Bears considered that odd, until he got a peek from the side and saw that they were IE boosted. Image enhancers. To the gunsel there would be no shadows. Where
did he get stuff like that? How did he get stuff like that? Who
was this norm?

“No regular security patrols and no known wired buildings,” said Silver, reporting on her earlier recon of the neighborhood via the Matrix.

“Escape routes?” asked Thumbs.

Dusk was falling, and with the coming darkness the civilians were hurrying for home and the predators were coming out. Go-gangs on their hyped-wheels, razorboys in their leather and chromes, the full assortment of Miami gutterkin. But this was a residential hood. No flash bars, topless jis arenas, simsense parlors, or anything of real interest. The muscle would head for better hunting grounds. Soon the area would be clear.

Silver half-shut her eyes, trying to remember the layout from the city plans. “Front door, back door. Windows too small, coal chute welded shut. Fire escape solid rust. Take a week to make it work.”

“Roof is out then. Any pools nearby for us to jump into?”

“No,” she frowned. “And you’re being paranoid. This is a fifty-five-year-old ork. We’ll be lucky if he’s not senile.”

“Yeah, but if he’s feeble he might have purchased insurance from the local gangbangers,” Thumbs said. “He yells help and we could find ourselves hoop deep in flying lead.”

“I agree with Thumbs. It is the wise man who prepares for disaster,” said Delphia, adjusting his tie in the rearview mirror.

“Going cruising for quim later?” asked Moonfeather softly.

“Civilians are always shocked when a well-dressed person slaps a gun across their face,” he answered, combing his hair into place. “It mentally throws off their center of balance. A basic interrogation technique. If the ork is not friendly, or buyable, then rougher means will be necessary.”

“You bother me, chummer,” admitted Two Bears. “You really on our side?”

Behind his shades, Delphia smiled. “Of course.”

Yeah, sure. “Ready?” asked Two Bears, hand on the doorlatch.

“Hold!” snapped Moonfeather staring out the window into the passing crowd. An elderly elf in tattered leathers and
embroidered duster stopped to stare at their vehicle. Behind
the one-way windows, Moonfeather seemed to go into a trance, then gestured at the oldster. Oddly, he repeated the gesture exactly, then shuffled on.

“A guard?” demanded Silver, working the bolt on the Seco. “No. Just a Dog shaman,” she said, rubbing a bracelet. “We don’t get along very well, and he caught my .. . call it my scent. But I told him this was nothing to do with him or his and we parted in peace.”

“Arctic. Let’s hoof.”

The four doors opened, disgorging the team, all except Silver, who slid back into the driver’s seat and took the keys from Two Bears. “Keep cruising around the block and be ready to rock if we shout 911,” he told her.

She nodded. “Scan.”

“Stay toothy, people.” Two Bears tucked his canvas bundle tight under an arm. “We’re here for info, not combat.”

“Captain Friendly, that’s me,” grinned Thumbs, stretching mightily.

“Confirmed,” said Delphia, looking over the street in that weird mechanical way of his.

Bored, Moonfeather yawned. “Yeah, yeah, sure, right. Then why you got so many zappers, short stuff?”

“We got one dead already,” said Two Bears. “I’m not planning on acquiring any more. Let’s go.”

The group spread out to cross the street, headed for the apartment doss near the graveyard. Two Bears privately hoped it wasn’t a prophetic location.

11

Dusk enveloped the streets in ever-darkening purple, and the summer mosquitoes arrived in buzzing droves. Staying loose, and swatting constantly, except for Moonfeather, the group traversed the short distance to the building, a gray stone monolith with the aesthetic appeal of hair clog. The steps were covered with gang graffiti and spit. They tried to avoid both. As they entered the front door, the runners found the foyer lit by a single EverBright in a wire cage, the postboxes merely holes in the cracked plaster walls.

There were no names on the crevices; each tenant obviously knew which hole was his or hers. The inner door was sprung, barely hanging from one hinge. The lobby was floored with faded Spanish tiles from long before the Awakening. There was a battered baby carriage against one wall, a bullet-marked elevator before them, dark stairs on either side. A cracked dish of metacrab poison lay untouched near the sweat-stained newel. The elevator was busted, of course, so they proceeded up the stairs. The building smelled of cabbage, urine, and garlic.

“Reminds me of Brooklyn,” said Moonfeather in disgust. “Before the big quake.”

“That where you’re from?” asked Thumbs, watching slits of light click off under every doorjamb as they passed by.

“No,” was all she offered.

A second flight of stairs led to many more, and finally the ramshackle door to the attic apartment. The hallway was cramped, barely a meter wide, no more than an afterthought of the builder. Taking positions on either side of the portal, Two Bears tried knocking on the door. The only answer was echoes. He nudged Moonfeather.

“Mr. Gordon?” she called out sweetly, affecting a Southern belle accent thick as honeysuckle. “Scott Gordon?

I’m from the city benevolent association? I have a cred voucher for you!”

Nothing.

After a tick, Two Bears motioned Delphia forward to disable the maglock with a gadget from his pocket. In a doss like this he was sure it wouldn’t set off any alarms. The lock gave with a soft click, then Two Bears banged the old door open wide with a gentle kick.

Immediately, guns came out in everybody’s hands. Predator at the ready in his right hand, Thumbs made a fist with the left, and four blades extended from his left arm to the full nineteen centimeters. They could see that the doss was huge, occupying what should have been another floor above it. Place was large enough to land a helo here without hindrance. They followed a dim hallway through a string of closed doors, which led to a stained glass window of a lighthouse sweeping the sea at night. Illuminated by the street lamps, it was beautiful. Above the hallway, a balcony edged a second tier with curtained windows on either side of a second corridor. Pure rotting posh. In its heyday, this must have been some deluxe doss for toffs like visiting royalty and other drekheads. Nowadays, it was a flop.

And it was completely trashed, cushions slit open, telecom smashed apart, carpeting hacked to pieces to expose the old four-n-groove floorboards from another era. Bits of trash and busted glass were everywhere like party confetti, the walls were lined with empty shelves, the ripped remains of books stacked in chest-high piles. Actual paper and leather books. Actual bound volumes you could hold and read.

Several of the bookcases had been ripped from the wall, the paneling itself removed to show the studs and cats on the interior support system. Only one wall had escaped such an ignoble fate. Gordon was nailed to the smoke-stained paneling, arms outstretched and legs together. Crucified. Wrists and throat were sliced to the bone, his blood pooling underneath the corpse and trailing away in a slim stream dribbling
out under the kitchen door. White things in the dark pool
seemed to be his missing fingers, and other bodily parts.

Silently, the four approached the dead man, skirting the piles of his possessions and furniture. Nobody made any attempt to see if he could be resuscitated. Only a DocWagon fanatic would have thought of that.

“Motherfragger,” whispered Thumbs, making the sign of the cross in deference. “I’ve aced my share, but never like this! Are the Morlocks back?”

“No way,” stated Two Bears, studying the ork. “And this wasn’t done for robbery or revenge. Everything here is junk.”

“Then he had something he shouldn’t have,” reasoned Moonfeather, her own Beretta out. “Maybe a chip he found.”

“But they didn’t get it,” said Delphia, silenced Manhunter in his right hand.

Moonfeather looked at him. “And how the drek do you know that?”

Two Bears motioned at the piles of destruction. “His blood is sprayed on top. They trashed the place, then cut him to bits. No reason for that unless they didn’t find it.”

“Find what?” she demanded nervously.

Two Bears undid his canvas bundle, then loudly worked the bolt on his Crusader. “Let’s see if we can find out.”