by R. L. King
Ocelot sighed. “Chill, okay? He just wants to talk. I figured you might want to hear him out. This is his show.” He took the seat next to Winterhawk’s, tilting it back.
Dreja glanced up and waved to someone across the room. An ork woman in a tight black T-shirt and jeans came over. “Want a drink?” Dreja asked. “The hurlg’s good here.” When both Winterhawk and Ocelot declined, she waved the woman off again and took a long pull from her own mug. “Yeah, figured. You ujnort are too delicate to handle real drinks. Sorry they don’t have anything with an umbrella in it here.”
She shifted her gaze to Winterhawk, looking him up and down, the twist in her tusked lips clearly indicating that she didn’t like what she saw. Her eyes were dark and deep-set, smoldering out of a pale face. “What makes you think I’d be interested in anything you have to say? What I should do is kill you now and do the world a favor. One less arrogant asshole everybody has to deal with.”
“You can try if you like.” Winterhawk dropped neither his gaze nor the chill in his voice. One thing you never did around Dreja was show weakness or hesitation: she was like a shark, zeroing in on any flaws in her opponent’s armor. If it came to a fight, he knew they were probably in trouble: not because he couldn’t take Dreja one on one—he thought he had a good chance, and suspected that she did, too—but because the crowd would almost certainly turn on them as soon as things started getting ugly. They were a long way from safety right now, in a place where they stood out like a porno trid in a church. He shrugged. “Whatever else you are, though, I thought you were a professional. Perhaps I was misinformed.” He started to get up.
“Sit,” she ordered, jerking her chin downward. “You have something to say, say it.”
Winterhawk paused, studying her, then lowered himself with unhurried calm back down into his seat. She didn’t look much different from the last time he’d seen her—the last time they’d been on opposite sides of the same job. She looked a little older, but that was to be expected, given shorter ork lifespans. The fervor in her eyes hadn’t dimmed, though. If Ocelot hadn’t told him on the way over that he’d heard through the shadow grapevine that she’d been set up hard on a recent run, and was now into some unforgiving people for some large sums of money, he’d have wondered why she’d even agreed to talk to them. “I have a job I need done. I need professionals, and I need them fast. But I doubt you’d be interested, since it doesn’t have anything to do with firebombing Humanis chapterhouses or rescuing baby orks stuck in trees.”
The contempt returned. “Yeah, it wouldn’t, because I wouldn’t expect a fancy-ass skupam mecux like you to give a damn about that kind of thing. Beneath your notice, neh? Whose leash are you on these days, anyway? The DIMR? Still stealing magical artifacts from their rightful owners?”
Ocelot let out a loud, frustrated sigh. “Would you two give it a fraggin’ rest? I thought you were on a timetable, ’Hawk.”
Winterhawk ignored him. “I didn’t steal it,” he said. “You just can’t handle the fact that I got to it before you did.”
“Yeah, you go right on believing that,” she said. “The delusions must really be fun in your world.” She leaned back, lifting one combat-booted foot up and clumping it down on the tabletop next to her hurlg mug. “So, you gonna tell me what the job is, or do I give the sign and have both of you chucked out on your pasty asses? Ardo up front was just telling me he hasn’t had a good fight in weeks. I’m sure he’d love the chance to mess up that pretty face of yours.”
Winterhawk shrugged, refusing to take the bait. The thing about Dreja—the reason why he hadn’t simply refused to deal with her when Ocelot had suggested her—was that when everything was said and done, she was a pro. She was pathologically picky about the jobs she took, and she was a pain in the ass to deal with if you didn’t share her level of passion about her ideals, but if she took your money, you could count on her to do what you were paying her for. And do it well. According to Ocelot, that hadn’t changed since back in the day. He could do a hell of a lot worse right now, and he didn’t have time for personal preferences to enter the equation. Assuming that they didn’t end up killing each other before they could finish the job, she’d be a good addition.
Keeping his voice carefully even, he gave her the same pitch he’d given Ocelot. He didn’t mention money yet.
She listened in silence, sipping her hurlg and focusing her unblinking gaze on the mage’s face. “So, an extraction,” she said at last. “And you don’t know what else comes after?”
Winterhawk shook his head. “We’re after some sort of item, but I don’t know what or exactly where yet, except that it’s somewhere in Australia. We’ll find out when we secure the target. And I’m on a tight schedule. I want to leave for Los Angeles first thing in the morning. We have to finish this fast.”
“Wait.” Her gaze sharpened. “We? You’re not just hiring? You’re actually going along?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
She turned to Ocelot, her expression hard to read. “He’s serious?”
Ocelot shrugged. “Yeah. Why?”
“How long’s he been out of the biz? And you trust him not to frag things up and get us all killed?”
“He’s fine,” Ocelot said, eyes hardening. “You just look out for you. You in or not?”
She didn’t answer for a long time. After a couple of minutes she stood up. “Wait here. I’ll be back.” Without waiting for an answer, she clumped off to the bar.
“This was a bad idea,” Winterhawk said, not bothering to watch her go. “She’s probably gone off to set the whole place on us.” He looked down at his hands on the table. They were still steady—no sign of shaking. He wondered how long he had before the poison started showing its effects—and what those effects would be. Mr. Johnson hadn’t been specific about how long it would be before things started to happen, but if he actually wanted the job done right, it didn’t make sense to use something that would hinder his agent’s abilities quickly. Suddenly he felt very tired, but he shook it off. Tired wasn’t an option right now.
“I don’t think so,” Ocelot said, eyeing him oddly. “I didn’t realize how much she doesn’t like you, though. What’d you do, manabolt her puppy or something? I know you can be kind of an ass sometimes, but you’re no anti-meta bigot.”
Winterhawk was spared answering by Dreja’s return. She didn’t sit down, but loomed over the end of the table nearest where the mage sat. “Okay,” she said. “Here’s my deal. Take it or leave it. I’ll sign on for the first part of the job, assuming your offer’s not an insult. No promises on the second half, though, since you either can’t or won’t tell me what it is. If it ends up being something I can’t agree with, I walk. So ka?”
Winterhawk nodded—it was the best he was going to get. “Done.”
It took surprisingly little negotiation to arrive at a figure they could both live with, which supported the rumors Ocelot had heard about Dreja’s financial situation. Winterhawk had already accepted that he’d have to go into his personal funds to make this work, and he was fairly sure the Johnson not only knew it, but intended it. He’d already offered Ocelot more than he’d been prepared to, but the thought of doing this job without at least one trusted team member backing him up wasn’t something he was willing to consider. And Dreja, as personally distasteful as he found her, had a solid rep. Much as he hated to admit it, he was damn lucky she was available. Unless he wanted to go into this with a bunch of rank amateurs—which would almost certainly get all of them killed—he would have to pay for quality. He had a fair bit of money put away over the years: investments, and a few accounts nobody knew about, hedges against the proverbial rainy day. If need be, he could get more by selling some of his own magical collection, but that would take time he didn’t have right now. If he made it through this, he could always get more. You had very little use for funds and magical trinkets when you were dead.
The only trick was going to be keeping her around once she found o
ut that the “item” they were after was magical. He hoped whatever it was, it wasn’t something they were going to have to liberate from some downtrodden rightful owner.
After they agreed on an upfront figure and Winterhawk had transferred the cred, he stood. “I’d love to remain and enjoy your hospitality,” he said with only a hint of sarcasm as he rose, “but I’ve only got a few more hours to find at least two more for our team. So if you’ll excuse us—”
Dreja held up a hand. “What do we need?”
The mage looked at Ocelot, then back at her. “A decker, at minimum. We’ve got magic covered, along with firepower and combat capability. Aside from Matrix support, at this point I’ll take anyone who’s good, trustworthy, and available. And preferably not a trigger-happy idiot.”
“Available’s gonna be the hard part, on that kind of timeframe,” Dreja said. She thought for a moment, then indicated Ocelot with a head jerk. “You trust him to make the calls?”
Winterhawk wasn’t sure where she was going with this, but nodded. “Of course.”
“Good. He can come with me, and we’ll find some bodies. You go take care of transportation, if you haven’t already.” She fiddled with her commlink and sent him a file. “There’s how to reach me. Send us the details of where and when to meet.”
Winterhawk glanced at Ocelot, who shrugged. “Makes sense,” he said. “You’re kind of out of the loop as far as shadow talent these days anyway, ’Hawk.”
“Besides,” Dreja said, “This way I get a few more hours before I have to be in the same room with you again.”
“Charming as ever, I see,” Winterhawk said with a mocking bow. “Tomorrow, then.”
CHAPTER 9
MAXIE’S DINER
SEATTLE
FRIDAY MORNING
They met up in the back room of a seedy 24-hour diner near Sea-Tac at a little after 0700 the following morning. After arranging passage with a rigger headed to Los Angeles, transferring necessary data to a new commlink, and sending out a few communications to trusted associates, Winterhawk hadn’t slept in the intervening few hours. His mind refused to shut down, trying to work out the Johnson’s identity and his plans, wondering whether his lingering headache was just stress or whether the poison was already starting to affect him, and second-guessing his decision to leave the selection of the rest of their team members to Ocelot and Dreja instead of remaining personally involved.
He arrived early, but Ocelot and Dreja were already there, slouched over a corner table, steaming cups of soykaf in front of them. Two large duffel bags sat on the floor next to them. They didn’t appear to be having any sort of conversation, just stared moodily into their cups.
“Where are the others?” he asked. The rest of the room was empty, except for a skinny human waitress who came over to drop off another cup before resuming her circuit of wiping down tables on the opposite side.
“They’ll be here,” Dreja said. “So you made it out of the Underground on your own. I’m impressed. I bet your chummer here twenty nuyen that you’d piss off somebody big and nasty, and your body would turn up naked in a dumpster somewhere.”
Ignoring her, Winterhawk turned to Ocelot. “So—?”
“So…I won twenty nuyen?” he asked, looking innocent.
The mage sighed. It was going to be a long week. He supposed he should be grateful for one thing: If the poison was going to kill him, at least Dreja’s presence would make the time he had left seem like an eternity. Worse, she seemed to be rubbing off on Ocelot. “How many did you find? And how much am I going to have to pay them?”
“We found three. And we got lucky,” Ocelot said. “Got each one for ten up front and ten more on completion. I gotta warn you, though: two of ’em are okay, but the other one’s gonna take some getting used to.”
“More than this one?” He indicated Dreja with a head jerk. She made a rude gesture at him without looking up.
“Let’s just say when we were talking to him I counted three times I wanted to use him for monowhip practice.”
“Drek,” came a youthful whine from the doorway. “Seriously, why we leaving so early? Normal people aren’t even up this early. It’s still practically dark out.”
Winterhawk turned as a figure shuffled to them and threw a large backpack covered with patches and buttons down next to the two duffels. He carried another bag slung over one shoulder.
“’Hawk, this is Scuzzy,” Ocelot said. There was a clear note of something odd—possibly apology—in his voice. “Scuzzy, this is Winterhawk. He’s a mage, and he’s calling the shots.”
“Hoi,” Scuzzy said, thrusting out his hand. He was a tall, gawky human who might have been twenty; one side of his head was covered with a curtain of long, greasy blue hair, the other was shaved and tattooed with intricate patterns. His narrow face displayed the characteristic unhealthy pallor of someone who spent all his time under artificial light.
When Winterhawk didn’t immediately return the handshake, he looked him up and down. “So you’re the mage, huh? Wiz. I never met a real spellslinger before. I play one in Mystic Avengers sometimes, though. You ever play? I always wondered if mages could really do some of that stuff.”
Dreja snickered.
Winterhawk didn’t answer Scuzzy. Instead, he fixed Ocelot with a you have got to be kidding look and nodded for him to join him on the other side of the room. By now, the waitress had disappeared back into the kitchen.
“That is what you found?” he demanded. He tried to keep the frustrated edge out of his voice, but wasn’t very successful. “Has he ever even seen a shower? I think I can smell him from here.”
“Look,” Ocelot said, not sounding any happier about it, “you only give us a few hours, we get what we can get. And believe it or not, he actually has a damn good rep as a decker. He just—doesn’t usually work in the meat.”
“Can’t imagine why.”
“Yeah. I get it. He’s a pain to get along with, and he smells like week-old ass. Just be polite and let him do his thing, and it’ll be fine.”
Winterhawk grunted noncommittally and headed back to the table. Scuzzy had taken a seat, pulled out his deck, and was already tapping away, his eyes glassy.
The other two team members arrived a few minutes later. They came in together, but it was obvious by their wary postures that they’d never seen each other before today.
“This the meet?” asked one. A male ork nearly a head taller than Dreja, he had the physique of a bodybuilder; tanned skin covered in tattoos; blunt, ugly features; and brush-cut black-brown hair. He was dressed all in black in street style, and carried a large bag that looked like it could hold everything up to and including a heavy machine gun. His flat chrome cybereyes swept the group seated at the table, and he walked over with a rolling, fluid grace that spoke of heavy cyber modifications. He dropped his bag next to the others, spun a chair around, and threw his leg over it. “Name’s Tiny. Go ahead, laugh. Get it over with now. After today, anybody that laughs gets a free nose job.”
Nobody answered, except to nod to him. Winterhawk glanced up to study the second newcomer, who seemed content to hover in the background. She was an elf, tall and lean, dressed in functional and nondescript armored gear topped with a long, dark-gray coat. Her eyes were hidden behind narrow mirrored shades, her dark hair shaved close to reveal delicately pointed, chocolate-brown ears pierced by many studs. “And you are—?” the mage asked.
“Call me Kivuli,” she said. Her voice was nondescript too, low and precise. She carried two bags: a synthleather backpack over one shoulder, and a large briefcase in her right hand.
“I’m sure you already figured out what Tiny brings to the party,” Dreja said. “Kivuli’s a gunslinger adept. I know that makes us a little pewpew-heavy, but she’s got a great rep, and we had to go with who was available. Figured you’d rather have somebody good than hold out for the perfect composition.”
Winterhawk nodded. “Did they explain the job to you?” he asked, slappin
g the table to jolt Scuzzy out of his Matrix trance.
“Yeah,” Tiny said. “Go to LA. Grab a dwarf. Find out some stuff from him, then go with him somewhere else to get somethin’.” He shrugged. “Works for me, as long as your nuyen’s good. When do we leave?”
Winterhawk hadn’t completely forgotten how to deal with the shadows—especially since some of the shadier of his “research trips” over the past couple of years had involved making less-than-reputable travel arrangements. The rigger’s old cargo plane wasn’t the poshest transport, but at least it had seats. Add that to the fact that the rigger didn’t ask questions and was leaving right away, and it suddenly became much more attractive.
Nobody said much until the plane was in the air and on its way to Los Angeles. “Okay, ’Hawk,” Ocelot said, leaning forward in his seat. “Details time.”
Winterhawk nodded and told the group what he knew. “Our extraction target is a dwarf named Toby Boyd. Everything’s been arranged with him, so he won’t be giving us any trouble, but his handlers most likely will. They’re apparently quite motivated to keep him.”
“Why is that?” Dreja asked. “What does this guy do?”
“He’s some sort of parabotany researcher,” he said. “He’s got information about the second bit of the run—the part where we have to retrieve the item. But other than that, he appears to be a simple corporate cog. Senior-level enough that his bosses don’t want to lose him, but not so senior that he’s likely to have high-level protection.”
“So, he’s using whatever information he has that we want as a bargaining chip to get him out of someplace he doesn’t want to be,” Ocelot said.
“It appears so,” Winterhawk said, nodding.
“You haven’t looked up anything about him yet?” Scuzzy asked. He sounded surprised, clearly wondering how anyone could need more information about something and not immediately go out to hunt it down.