“Go, then,” she said. “Now.”
Mouse nodded. He closed up the blade, tucked the knife back into his boot, then staggered to the door, half-carrying, half-dragging the duffel bag. “You keep the TV,” he said, grinning at her one final time. “Piece of shit, anyway.” Then he opened the door, lurched through it, and headed down the hall.
Caroline slammed the door shut and threw the two dead bolts. She was suddenly very afraid for Tito. What the hell was Cancer Cell? She’d heard the name before, but she couldn’t remember anything about it. She couldn’t imagine Tito involved in anything that could get him kidnapped or killed. Or had he gone with them voluntarily? She wasn’t sure she could trust Mouse’s version of what had happened. Maybe no one had come for Tito. Maybe he’d just gone out for a while, and Mouse had decided to ransack the place. Mouse and Tito had been something like friends, but that might not mean that much to Mouse.
She crossed the room to the sink and opened the cabinet above it. It looked like all of Tito’s meds were still there, forty or fifty little plastic bottles. She picked one up, shook it. Maybe half full. Same thing with two others she checked. If Tito had gone somewhere on his own, he would have taken some of them with him. But why hadn’t Mouse taken them? Probably because they were all half-ass meds, the only things Tito could get from the free clinics—cheap antibiotics, weak painkillers, ineffective antidepressants, and unproven immune system boosters. Mouse probably couldn’t get shit for them on the street.
Caroline took a quick tour of the room, but except for what was missing nothing seemed out of place. No signs of struggle. She went to the window, pulled it open, and looked out into the air well between the buildings. Night was falling quickly, and she could barely see the weeds and garbage at the bottom of the air well. She wasn’t sure she’d be able to see a body if one was lying there. Then she craned her neck around, looking up. Brick walls rose to a rectangle of darkening sky three more floors above her. Boarded windows, screened vents, cracks of light, the rusted remains of what had once been a fire escape.
She pulled her head back inside, but remained at the window, her gaze unfocused. She would wait for Tito. Yes. She would wait through the night and see if he came back; she was better off not going out into the DMZ now anyway. And if Tito wasn’t back by morning? Maybe wait some more; she’d worry about it then. She turned away from the window, walked over to the hot plate, and put on water for tea.
Caroline woke in the middle of the night, sitting up abruptly. She listened intently, unable to see a thing. Something had awakened her, some sound. Street noise filtered in through the window, the DMZ night—some kind of irregular banging, a motor revving, muted popping sounds, someone screaming in a strange, deep monotone—but she was sure that wasn’t it. Something else. Something inside the building.
Heartbeat loud and fast, she sat without moving, eyes gradually adjusting to the darkness. The room was empty, no strange shadows or movements, and she didn’t hear anything unusual—faint snoring from the room next door; tinny, Spanish music from somewhere below her; a creaking floorboard above.
There. Something. A hum she felt more than heard.
She eased the blanket aside and stood, then padded barefoot across the room to the door and put her eye to the peephole. The hall lights were out, but there was a faint, shifting blue glow. Her view was distorted by the peephole, and the glow was dark and dim and shadowy, but she could make out hooded figures moving past the door, steps slow, bodies swaying in unison to a slow, unheard rhythm.
What was this? Who were they?
Phantoms. She could almost see through them; inside the hoods, where their faces should be, she saw only darker shadows and a deeper blue glow. She shivered, feeling and hearing the deep, penetrating hum, feeling suddenly cold. She wanted to back away from the door, retreat into a far corner of the room, but she remained where she was, transfixed, hardly breathing, hardly moving. The ghostlike figures moved past the door and progressed slowly along the hall, humming and swaying, the glow fading until it was out of the peephole’s range, and only complete darkness remained.
She returned to the sofa and sat, knees pulled up to her chin, and wrapped herself in the blanket. Where are you, Tito? What happened to you?
She remained on the sofa, watching the dark and listening to the night. She did not sleep.
2
RYLAND CAGE CROUCHED on the Tenderloin rooftop just before dawn, gazing out across the street at the dark, crumbling ruins of the Core. The Core was four square blocks of Hell in the black heart of the Tenderloin. Or four square blocks of Chaos, if you were a different kind of believer. Maybe it was a little of both. Walled off by street barricades and crash nets from the rest of the Tenderloin, the Core was a bleak pocket of ruined buildings, unnatural darkness and eerie quiet, and rubble-strewn streets deserted except for the shadowy movement of animals or ghosts. Strange lights did break through the darkness on occasion: flickering candles or fires visible through windows or shattered walls, pulsing glows of shimmering blue, pale drifting clouds of phosphorescence. Some people thought there was something supernatural about the Core, that it was inhabited by spirits, demons, banshees. Cage suspected the truth was far more horrible—that only human beings lived inside the Core.
Cage wore faded denims, a charcoal gray long-sleeved shirt, and black leather boots. His dark brown hair was long and straight and, though he was only thirty-nine, heavily streaked with gray. He wasn’t tall, just five-foot-nine, but he was strong and quick. Sometimes not quick enough, though. A long thin scar ran along his jaw—a souvenir from a reluctant patient whose life Cage had been trying to save. And there were other scars, too, that weren’t visible.
A muted flapping sound came from somewhere within the Core, and Cage searched the shadowy ruins for its source. He didn’t see anything at first, only heard a faint, high whistle added to the flapping. Then a dark, shivering form rose from one of the taller buildings near the center. A strange glow came to life within the thing, giving it shape. It appeared to be an enormous dove, frantically flapping its wings and craning its neck as it climbed in an ever-widening spiral. But the motion of its wings was wrong, stilted and far too regular, and Cage knew it wasn’t alive. When its spiraling route brought it closer to him, he could see pale white jets of propellant streaming from it.
The mechanical dove rose high above the Core, circling and climbing, becoming smaller and dimmer. The flapping sounds faded, and only the dim glow of its internal light was visible, a pale and shrinking blotch against the sky.
Suddenly the dove exploded with a brilliant burst of light followed by faint popping sounds. Hundreds of glittering message streamers fell through the darkness, like skyrocket flares that didn’t burn out. The streamers drifted and fell with the air currents, spreading out over the Core and the Tenderloin.
One of the streamers drifted near Cage, and he stepped to the edge of the roof, steadied himself, then reached out over nine stories of empty air. He caught the message streamer and stepped back from the edge. The streamer glowed and tingled in his fingers, like electrified tinsel. He stretched out the streamer and read its message:
YOU ARE BECOMING.
NOTHING CAN STOP YOU NOW.
Fortunes from the Core, but without the cookie. He smiled, wadded the streamer into a tiny ball, and tossed it over the edge of the roof.
He stood gazing at the Core for a long time. Almost certainly he was going to end up in that godforsaken place before this business was over. He didn’t much like the idea, but it was going to happen. He knew it.
Gravel crunched behind him, and he turned to see Nikki cross the roof toward him. She was a couple of inches taller than he was, and probably just as strong. Dreadlocks, gold cheek inlays, and a smile to die for. Black shock suit that hid her weapons and med-kit better than it did her figure. Cage loved her.
Nikki stopped about a foot away from him and frowned.
“These people are bloody assholes,” she said. “Ha
ven’t even met them, but just talking to them, I already know they’re assholes.”
“I know,” Cage said. “But we need them for this.”
Nikki closed her eyes for a moment and shrugged. “Angel says they’ve arrived.”
“Good. Let’s go.”
“Afterward, you want to go dancing?”
Cage nodded. “Maybe.” Then, “Sure, we’ll go dancing.” And he got just what he was hoping for—Nikki’s smile. “But first, let’s see what we can do with the assholes.”
They were to meet Stinger and his jackals in Binky’s Arcade down on the second floor of the building. Stinger. Everyone’s got to have a fucking moniker, Cage thought. It was absurd.
He and Nikki walked into crashing waves of sound and shifting colored lights. The place was crowded, the music and voices loud. The front section of Binky’s was a series of stunner booths, and Cage watched the jerking forms visible through the opaque glass, the jerking almost in sync with the thumping sounds coming from within the booths—he’d probably end up treating some of these people over the next few days.
He moved past the stunner booths and onto the dance floor, Nikki right behind him. They pushed their way through the gyrating dancers, bumping and shoving and fending off flailing limbs. The air was stifling, heavy with perfume and smoke and sweat. His eyes burned.
The rear section of Binky’s was a restaurant and bar. Cage and Nikki stepped through the array of acoustic baffles, and the sound cut back by more than half. It was still fairly noisy, but now the music was relatively muted. Conversation was possible.
Cage stopped and looked out over the tables and booths. He spotted Angel at the bar, who cut his glance toward a booth near the back. A tall, thin man in the booth caught Cage’s eye. The man was older and better dressed than Cage had expected—he wore a dark suit and tie, and his short, thick, styled hair was more than half gone to gray. Mid to late forties, maybe even a little older. Cage had expected a young techno-punk or street medico. Three people sat in the booth opposite the man, but Cage could only see the top of the back of their heads.
“That Stinger?” Nikki said.
“I think so.” Cage turned to her and smiled. “Maybe it won’t be so bad.”
“Hah.”
Cage and Nikki made their way through the tables, and as they approached the rear booth the thin man nodded at those seated across from him. The three jackals slid out of the booth, walked to the rear, and stood side by side against the back wall of the restaurant, keeping their attention on Cage. All three were heavily muscled and wore cheap black suits over black T-shirts; all three looked ramped up to their eyeballs.
Up close, Cage could see that the thin man’s suit was probably silk, and the dark green tie was made from reptile skin. The man sat with both arms on the table, hands relaxed. His jacket and shirtsleeves were too short, exposing his wrists. Or maybe this was the current fashion.
“You Stinger?” Cage said.
The man nodded. “You must be Cage.”
“Yeah, I must be.” He slid into the booth, and Nikki slid in next to him.
“Who’s the nigger bitch with you?” Stinger asked. His voice was calm, his tone matter-of-fact.
Cage hesitated a few moments, eyes going hard, then said, “That’s not helpful.”
Stinger smiled. The index finger of his right hand rubbed at the pitted surface of the table, but he made no other response.
Nikki’s hand lashed out across the table and latched into Stinger’s wrist with her barbed finger hooks. She smiled back at him.
“Just try pulling away,” she said. “We’ll see what I rip out from under your skin.”
Stinger didn’t move, just looked down at the blood leaking from the tiny holes in his skin. Cage kept an eye on the jackals, who were leaning forward, tense, eyes wide, but waiting for a signal from their master.
“The nigger bitch’s name is Nikki,” Cage said.
Stinger looked at her, tipped his head slightly. “My apologies, Nikki.”
The barbs retracted with faint clicks, and Nikki released his hand. Stinger brought his wrist to his mouth, then gently licked and sucked at the blood until his skin was clean and white again. He laid his arm back on the table and sighed. “Business, then?” he said.
Cage nodded. “Business.”
A waitress approached the booth, but a look from Stinger warded her off. Cage stared at the man, assessing him. Stinger was twisted up way too tight, despite his outward appearance of calm; too slick and hard and mean. But there was something else, something he couldn’t quite identify. Something wrong with Stinger.
Without shifting his gaze, Cage took a folded piece of paper from his back pocket and slid it across the table. “That’s a list of the drugs we need, and the quantities.”
Stinger took the paper, unfolded it, and read. His mouth twitched into a slight smile. “Don’t want much, do you?” His voice was overly sarcastic; there wasn’t much subtle about Stinger.
“That’s what we need,” Cage replied. There was something about Stinger’s eyes. They were red, but in a strange way—not bloodshot, exactly. Injected. And the way his lips and tongue worked at themselves…
“You used to be a doctor,” Stinger said to him, shaking his head. “What a fucking waste.”
“I’m still a doctor,” Cage replied.
Stinger continued to shake his head. “Slaving your ass off in street clinics and death houses. You used to have a hell of a practice doing image enhancements, making a goddamn fortune. A lot safer, too. And you slammed it all to do this? What happen, you get a dose of brain fever from one of your patients?”
Now Cage caught a whiff of something masked by Stinger’s Body-Scent—like sweat gone sour. And a foul stench to his breath. Christ, Cage thought, the man is sick. Not with the flu or a cold, nothing simple like that. Drug-induced? Maybe. Some other toxin? Something bacterial? Viral? Something. Something bad.
“Well? Why’d you give it all up?” Stinger asked. He frowned, apparently waiting for a response.
But Cage wasn’t going to give him one. He wasn’t going to talk to this stranger about his life, the decisions he’d made. The only person he talked to about things like that was Nikki, and not always with her.
Nikki. Cage glanced at her hand, the one that had grabbed Stinger and finger-hooked him, drawing blood. His hand out of sight under the table, Cage reached into the med-kit belted around his waist and removed two disinfectant wipes, pressed them into Nikki’s hand. He rubbed her fingers with them until she got the message and began to work them herself.
Stinger sighed heavily, finally giving up on an answer. He tapped at the list. “You can’t afford to buy all this,” he said.
“No,” Cage replied, working hard to keep his concentration on the business. He glanced at Stinger’s wrist, at the tiny fresh droplets of blood that had formed on the surfaces of the finger-hook punctures.
“But you’re willing to trade your services.”
“Up to a point, yes.”
“One day a week of image enhancements at the clinics of our choosing. Or perhaps other surgeries or treatments, depending on our needs. For one year.”
Cage hesitated, still having difficulty concentrating. He was worried about Nikki, though he knew there was probably no reason to be. But he’d seen too much weird shit in the past few years. “One day a month, for a year,” he finally said. “If we get monthly shipments of that size.” He gestured at the piece of paper still laid out on the table under Stinger’s hand.
Stinger laughed. “Too much, Cage. You overvalue your services.” He paused, shrugging, “One day a month, fine. But only four shipments, one every three months. Not negotiable.”
It probably wasn’t. Besides, Cage didn’t have the stomach for hard-edged negotiating with this man right now. Stinger was ill, and Cage wanted to get away from him; the man probably didn’t even know he was sick. Cage hoped whatever it was wasn’t an airborne transmitter, or that his nose filters
could do the job; or the I.S. boosters he’d taken last week.
“All right,” Cage said. “One year, four shipments. First delivery before I make a single cut.”
“Good enough, Cage. We’ll be in touch with delivery place and time, and with your first assignment.”
Stinger put out his hand, but Cage didn’t move. He stared at Stinger’s hand, then up into Stinger’s red-rimmed eyes. He nudged Nikki, and she slid out of the booth.
“I want to see you at the delivery,” Cage said.
Stinger smiled. “What, is this some kind of setup? Entrapment?”
Cage didn’t answer. Stinger and his people knew him better than that. But he very much wanted to see Stinger again, see if the guy got any sicker, see if he could figure out what Stinger had.
“We’ll see,” Stinger said, still smiling.
Cage and Nikki stood on the sidewalk, the signs for Binky’s Arcade pulsing directly above them. The air out here was cool and fresh, and Cage breathed deeply.
“What the hell was all that in aid of?” Nikki asked him. “With the wipes? What was that about?”
He shrugged. He didn’t want to worry her about what was probably nothing. “Stinger’s sick,” he answered.
“With what?”
“No idea. Just didn’t want to take any chances.”
“Great.” Nikki dug into her shock suit with her left hand, brought out a wipe, and gave her right hand another thorough scrub, including the finger hooks. She walked over to a burn canister and tossed in the wipe.
“So what do you think about these people?” she asked when she rejoined him.
“Just what you said,” Cage replied. “Assholes. And Stinger, in spite of his silk suit, the biggest asshole of all. But we’ll do business. These guys have pharmaceutical resources no one else has, and at costs that beat the hell out of the streets.”
“So you’re pretty sure he’s linked up to Cancer Cell?”
“Oh yeah. No one else could provide this shit, outside of New Hong Kong.”
Nikki didn’t seem convinced, but she half-nodded. “Let’s go dancing, then.”
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