Shadowplay

by Nigel Findley

  “So do we,” the Scuzboy leader snapped.

  After a few moments, Knife-Edge shrugged. “Yeah, why not?”

  Slick shot his leader a disgusted glance, but didn’t say anything.

  “Does Walker have a spot for the meet?” Knife-Edge asked.

  Falcon nodded, glad he’d figured it out on the drive back. “He says Pier Forty-two, the Hyundai terminal. With the dockworkers’ strike, it’ll be deserted till dawn.”

  He glanced over at the Scuzboy leader, saw the ork nod in agreement. “Yeah, dat’s good.”

  “That’ll do,” Knife-Edge concurred. “Now let’s talk tactics.

  “I’ll specify that the local’s supposed to come to the meet alone, but there’ll probably be back-up anyway. Benbo, you and I'll do the face-to-face drek. Van, you take the god spot. Any back-up shows, you take them down.”

  Van caressed the stock of his weapon tenderly. It was a sniper rifle, Falcon now realized. “Baby’ll do the job.

  What about the local?”

  “Once I know where the pay data is, I want a clean head-shot.”

  Van nodded. “Null perspiration.”

  “And Slick, I want you to . . . bodyguard the kid.”

  The knife man smiled, showing yellowed teeth. “You got it, chummer.”

  “What about me and da boys?” the Scuzboy leader asked.

  “Perimeter support,” Knife-Edge replied. “Secure the area, sanitize it. And if back-up shows, scrag ’em.”

  The ork gave a phlegmy chuckle. “Sounds like a party,” he growled, fingering one of his chipped tusks.

  Falcon scanned the faces around him, wondering what the frag he’d gotten himself into. It wasn’t a meet they were planning. It was an ambush. But what could he say? If he raised any objections, he was sure Slick would stick a knife through his throat. Which was probably what he’d do once Knife-Edge had what he wanted.

  “Okay,” Knife-Edge said, flowing to his feet in one smooth motion. “Gear up and into the van. I’ll make the call once we’re rolling.”

  11

  0230 hours, November 14, 2053

  The telecom in the adjoining room rang. Sly answered it at once. Only one person had the direct-connect LTG number, or only one she knew about, that is. And anybody else who knew where she was holing up sure as drek wouldn’t be phoning first.

  Argent’s face filled the telecom screen. “Hoi, Sly. What’s up?”

  “Whole lot of nothing here,” she told him. His expression said he knew she was lying, wordlessly asked her to confide what was troubling her. Best to keep it quiet, she decided. The fewer who know, the better. She shook her head in answer to his unspoken question.

  He shrugged. Message received and understood, she thought. “Got word someone’s looking for a solo meet,” the chromed runner told her.

  “Who?”

  “Don’t know for sure,” he said. “The contact came from an old associate of Hawk’s, but I don’t know if he’s the principal.”

  Hawk? Sly wracked her brain for a moment, trying to place the name. Then memory returned. Hawk had been Argent's closest chummer, combat shaman and second-in-command of the Wrecking Crew. He’d bought it almost a year ago, under circumstances Argent never talked about. Sly suspected the big shaman had gotten scragged on the run that had turned Argent so solidly against Yamatetsu.

  “Did you find anything?” she asked.

  “Not much,” he admitted. “Most of my contacts are lying low because of the corp heat wave. What buzz I did hear says it’s a team of out-of-plex runners.”

  “Where from?”

  “Don’t know, except that it’s not Seattle and not UCAS. Cal Free, maybe, but it’s anybody’s guess.”

  Sly thought about that for a moment. Out-of-plex, out-of-country. That sounded promising. It was possible these people would have associations with the local corps, but not so likely. “Has the corp war spread?” she speculated out loud.

  “Not yet,” Argent said slowly, “but my guess is it’s only a matter of time.”

  Sly nodded to herself. That was good; it cut the odds still further that these out-of-town runners had been hired by Yamatetsu or any of the other big local players. “So they want a meet,” she said slowly. “Why?”

  Argent shrugged again. “The contact didn’t say much.

  Just that he knew you had some information that interested them. Something important.”

  Again Sly saw the unspoken question on his face. She just smiled and shook her head.

  The big man sighed. “Okay, your biz,” he conceded, “but sometimes keeping it too close to your chest can get you ripped, Sly. But you know that.”

  Her smile grew warmer; his concern touched her. “Do they want this . . . information?” she asked. “Are they looking for a deal?”

  “No,” Argent said, surprising her. “The way I read it is they'd be just as glad if you keep hold of it.” And take all the heat, was what he didn’t have to add. “They just want to discuss it with you, and maybe have some say in its disposition. They’re interested in figuring out the best way to handle it, to realize maximum profit for you and them. Does that make sense to you?”

  Sly nodded slowly. “It makes sense. Where do they want the meet?”

  “South harbor.” He flashed an address, plus map coordinates, onto her screen.

  “When?”

  “They say time's of the essence. Oh-four-hundred.”

  “Today?” She looked at her watch. It was already oh-two thirty-eight.

  “Yeah. Tight timing.” He paused. “Gonna go. Sly?”

  “I don't know,” she answered honestly. “Have you got any reading on these guys at all?”

  “Nothing solid,” he admitted, “either negative or positive.”

  She tapped a fingernail against her front teeth. Which way to jump? This could be a setup, or it could mean another group to work with, allies. Which way?

  “What would you do?” she asked.

  Argent’s face went totally expressionless. “Your run,” he said flatly.

  She snorted. “I know it’s my run. I’m not asking you to take responsibility, Argent. I’m no newbie. I'm just asking for your reading, friend to friend. It’s my decision, and I’ll make it no matter what you say.”

  He relaxed.”Yeah. The buzz on the street’s freaking me.” Sly knew that was the closest he’d ever come to an apology, but the sentiment was there and that was all that mattered.

  She watched him as he thought it through.”Tough call,” he said at last. “It could go either way. I don’t want to influence you and get you killed.”

  “But you’d go for it, wouldn’t you?” she pressed. “Yeah,” he said after another pause. “Yeah, I’d go. But you can bet your assets I’d take back-up. Lots of back-up.”

  “You said they wanted a solo meet.”

  “Since when do you let the other team call all the shots?”

  “Good point,” she acknowledged.

  “So, have you got back-up? Or are you totally cut off?”

  She glanced through the connecting door, into the other room where the black elf was sprawled on the bed. “Minimal back-up,” she admitted.

  “Modal,” Argent said sourly. “The street says you got him to sell out his Johnson. Do you trust him?”

  She didn’t answer immediately, which she knew was answer enough.

  “Yeah, I thought so.” Argent frowned. “I can send you two guns if you want. You know Mongoose, I think, and I’ll send his street brother Snake.”

  Sly considered it. She’d met Mongoose, a razorboy with reflexes chipped even higher than Modal's, on a run the year before. Later she’d heard that he and another sammy called Snake had signed on with Argent to replace Hawk and Toshi, the two men who’d died on a run toward the end of 2052. Mongoose was competent, she knew. Snake had to be too. Argent didn’t hire hacks.

  She nodded. “Thanks, I’ll take them. Standard rates, but”—she smiled—“you might have to wait a while for pa
yment.”

  Argent waved that off. “Just pay their per diem and forget my cut. Want them to meet you down there?” He chuckled. “I think the Mongoose and the Snake would look a little out of place in the Sheraton lobby.”

  That brought a smile. She remembered Mongoose’s scraggy reverse-mohawk, the angular tattoos on his cheeks, his polished-steel incisors. “Have them meet me at the Fourth Avenue South monorail station.” She checked her watch again. “Can they make it by oh-three-fifteen?”

  “If you can,” he confirmed. “Briefing when they get there?” She nodded. “You got it. Sly.” He hesitated. “Wish I could do more.”

  “You're doing plenty, chummer,” she reassured him. “Thanks for the assist. It’s what I need.”

  To her surprise, the heavily chromed shadowrunner seemed embarrassed by her gratitude. “Clear it,” he said, waving his hand as if to erase something. “Slot and run, Sly. The boys’ll be with you. Give me the scoop later.” And he was gone.

  She rolled her head to release the tension in her neck. Later, she thought, if there is a later.

  PART 2

  Intersection

  12

  0315 hours, November 14, 2053

  It was cold down on the docks. Falcon zipped his leather jacket shut, turned up the collar. Wished he could have afforded a fleece-collared coat like the ones the Scuzboys sported.

  The orks seemed warm enough—or if they weren’t, they were too proud to bitch about it. As for Knife-Edge and the other runners, they had to be toasty-warm in those insulated jumpsuits. Besides, the bulky body armor they wore on top would keep the chill out. The night wind gusted again from Elliot Bay, bringing with it the tang of salt overlaid with the reek of oil and a dozen chemical contaminants. Falcon crossed his arms over his chest and tried to stop his teeth from chattering.

  Getting into the Hyundai pier area had been routine.

  Like all the Seattle docks the Pier 42 section was surrounded by a high fence topped with three strands of cutwire. Private security guards patrolled the perimeter, but it was so long and the security presence diminished so much by corporate cost-cutting, that the odds were very low of actually meeting the sec patrol.

  The Scuzboys had handled the fence. One of the orks had scanned it with some kind of hand-held sensor, confirmed it wasn’t electrified and that the alarm would sound only if the wires were actually cut. Another had scrambled up the fence, to sling a flexible blanket of woven Kevlar fibers over the strands of cutwire. Then the rest of them were able to clamber over the fence, and drop safely inside the compound.

  To Falcon’s surprise the Hyundai compound wasn’t full of cars. Got to be the dock workers’ strike, he figured. Huge areas were completely empty, deserted parking lots under the carbon arc lights. Down by the pier itself, and around the periphery, huge shipping containers were stacked in long rows. They had to be at least ten meters long by four wide and maybe three high. For a moment, Falcon wondered what was in them. Not cars, he decided. Probably spare parts or something.

  Slick jabbed the ganger’s shoulder with a knuckle, pointed toward Knife-Edge, who was already leading the group toward the water. The runner was using the stacked containers as cover from any security guards who happened to be wandering around the area. Rubbing his shoulder, Falcon followed.

  The section called Pier Forty-two was actually two piers, extending almost due west. They were newer than the areas of the docks further north, less decrepit and drek-kicked. Falcon assumed they must have been destroyed when this portion of Elliot Bay caught fire three years ago—ah, the wonders of water pollution—and had recently been rebuilt. On each pier was a mobile gantry crane, huge red-painted structures that Falcon thought looked big enough to lift a small building.

  Knife-Edge stopped in an open area between two rows of containers. He looked around, apparently estimating distances and sight-angles. After a moment he nodded. “This is it. Ground zero.” He grinned nastily.

  Falcon made his own inspection, had to admit that it was a good place for a meet. Or for an ambush. The open area was roughly square, maybe fifteen meters on a side, and could be reached by following one of four “lanes” between stacked containers. (For a moment, he wondered how the local runner would know where, in the entire Hyundai compound, the meet would take place. But Knife-Edge would have that figured, wouldn’t he? Maybe he’d send out the Scuzboys to leave markers— symbols scratched on shipping containers, perhaps— identifying the specific location.)

  Knife-Edge pointed up at the gantry crane looming over the open area. “How’s that for the god spot?”

  Van considered it, cradling his sniper rifle like a baby in his arms. Then he nodded. “I'll take the catwalk there,” he stated, indicating an accessway about halfway up the crane's structure. “It gives me cover plus a three-sixty degree field of view.” He squinted his eyes, estimating distance. “About sixty meters to ground zero, give or take.” He smiled. “From that range, you tell me which eyebrow hair you want me to hit.”

  Knife-Edge slapped him on the shoulder. “Set up an open perimeter, but stay hidden,” he told the orks. “Anybody who wants to come in, let ’em. But watch them close. If I squawk three times”—he held up his microtransceiver, pressed a button, causing a muffled electronic buzz from everyone else’s radio—“take down any back-up you’ve got spotted. Understand?”

  The Scuzboy leader nodded. “Null persp,” he drawled. “Me and da boys done this before.” He gestured to his chummers, barked something unintelligible in what Falcon assumed to be some kind of gangspeak.

  As the orks dispersed into the night, Knife-Edge pointed to a container on the south side of the open area.

  “Benbo and I will hang up top,” he said. “When the trogs report the local’s arrived, we’ll make the meet.”

  He patted the microtransceiver, which was now clipped to his belt. “I’ll keep a channel open so you can all hear what’s going down.”

  “What about me? And him?" Slick demanded, glaring at Falcon.

  “Up there.” The leader pointed to another container on the north side of “ground zero.” The killing zone, Falcon thought uncomfortably. “Belly down on top of the container, and just hang. When the drek comes down, you’ll know what to do. Slick.”

  The Amerindian chuckled, a sound that chilled Falcon to the bone. “Yeah, I’ll know what to do.” He prodded Falcon in the shoulder again. “You heard the man. Let’s move.” He adjusted the sling on his assault rifle and headed for the spot Knife-Edge had indicated.

  As he climbed the ladder welded to the outside of the container, Falcon saw that the orks had already disappeared, presumably setting up a loose perimeter around the area. Van was clambering up the ladder leading to his sniper nest, while Benbo and Knife-Edge were checking the area one last time before taking their own positions.

  Falcon didn’t like what was going down. He was convinced that if Nightwalker were here, the runner would insist on a fair meet rather than this ambush. But Nightwalker can get away with that drek, he told himself. I can’t. Raising any kind of objection would be the quickest way of getting himself killed.

  With a sigh, he swung himself onto the top of the container, took up his position next to Slick. He stuck his hand in his pocket, felt the reassuring heft of his Fichetti. (To his surprise, the Amerindian runners hadn’t asked about a weapon, and he sure as frag wasn’t going to volunteer the information.) The metal container was cold, leeching from his body what little heat remained. He arranged himself into the least uncomfortable position and settled down to wait.

  * * *

  He didn’t have to wait long. It was oh-three-forty according to his watch when he heard Slick’s radio crackle. “Dey’re here,” an ork voice whispered. “Da scag an’ two back-up. Cornin' from da east.”

  “Two?” Knife-Edge’s voice over the radio sounded skeptical. “That’s all?”

  “Dat’s all we seen,” the ork confirmed.

  “Nobody could have leaked through?�
�

  The Scuzboy snarled wordlessly. “We know our biz, Mr. fragging Tribal.”

  “Check the perimeter,” Knife-Edge insisted.

  The ork was silent for a moment, and Falcon thought he was going to refuse. But then he growled, “Okay, youse guys, sound off. Position one?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Two?”

  “Check.”

  “T’ree?” Silence. “T’ree?” the ork demanded again. Beside Falcon, Slick moved nervously, flicked the safety off on his AK-97.

  “Position t’ree?” There was real tension in the Scuzboy’s voice now.

  “Three here.” The reply was a disgusted whisper. “Fraggin’ radio’s futzin’ up on me.”

  Falcon heard the ork leader snort. “Position four?”

  “Check,” the final ork answered.

  “Perimeter confirmed,” the Scuzboy boss concluded. “And dere's still just da two back-up. Razorboys, botha dem. Still coming from da nort’. Hold it." There was silence for a moment, then the ork spoke again. “Okay, we got da scag coming on alone. Da razorguys is splitting up ta cover.”

  “Can they spot your boys?” Knife-Edge asked.

  The ork laughed harshly. “If dey do, it’s gonna be da last t’ing dey ever see.”

  “I got a sighting.” The voice was Van’s. “The subject’s about thirty meters out, coming slowly.”

  “Armed?” demanded Knife-Edge.

  “Nothing heavy,” the sniper said. “Personal weapon only.” He hesitated. “I can take the shot now . .

  “Maybe the paydata’s hidden somewhere,” Knife-Edge told him. “I’ll give you the signal. Okay, chummers,” the runner’s voice came a little louder. “Show time. I’ll keep an open channel.”

  Falcon saw two dark figures drop from the top of a container across the open space. Knife-Edge, who seemed to have removed his plated vest, and the heavily armored Benbo. Neither had any obvious weapons, though Falcon was sure they had holdouts of some kind hidden somewhere on their persons. Not that they really needed them, with Van the sniper and with Slick ready to rock and roll with his AK assault rifle. Edge and Benbo positioned themselves near the southwest corner of the open area, facing the “lane” down which the local runner would be coming, but well out of Slick’s line of fire.