by R. L. King
Ortega didn’t reply. He stared at Winterhawk, his grip on the edge of the table tightening until his knuckles whitened. His hands shook.
“Shame about that,” Winterhawk said. “Really, it is. And this friend I mentioned, the one who told me these secrets? He’s got quite the mouth on him. Can’t keep anything to himself, you understand. Frightful character flaw. By now, I’m sure I’m not the only one he’s told. I expect that a number of your superiors have received some very interesting communications in the last hour or so.”
Ortega leapt to his feet, his expression darkening with rage. When he spoke his voice shook with it. “How…dare you?” he bit out through gritted teeth. “You have no idea what you’re messing with. You might have worked out a way to deal with the ritual, but that doesn’t mean you’re out of danger. You’re here at my favor, and you might not be aware of it, but my guards here aren’t the only members of my team at this restaurant. You won’t leave here alive, I promise you.”
Winterhawk rose too, still smiling. Goading people like Ortega into losing their cool and showing their hands was one of the simple pleasures in his life, and one of the few that didn’t involve magic. “You shouldn’t make promises you can’t keep, Mr. Ortega. It tends to make people distrust you.” With studied disregard, he picked up his overcoat and draped it over his arm. “I’ll leave you to it, then. I’ve got some friends who are waiting for me, and believe me, they’re much more pleasant company than you’ll ever be.”
Ortega glanced sideways at the two bodyguards, who still hadn’t moved or shown any sort of expression. “Kill him,” he said in a cold, even tone.
Winterhawk turned his back on Ortega and headed for the door.
“Did you hear me?” Ortega barked. “I said kill him! I gave you a direct order!” A pause, and then, in a strangled tone: “Wait. What are you doing? You—”
Winterhawk paused and turned back around as he reached the door. The two expressionless guards had raised their elegant little SMGs, pointing them not at him, but at Ortega.
“Come with us, sir,” the elven woman said. “The others are waiting out front.”
“What is this?” Ortega’s gaze darted around from one guard to the other, to their weapons, and finally to Winterhawk.
“A proper reward, I’d say,” Winterhawk said with a smile and a nod at the guards. He opened the door and two more grim-faced, suit-clad men stepped into the room, also holding weapons trained on Ortega. “I’d wish you all the best, but—well—I’m afraid I wouldn’t mean it. Cheers.”
A couple hours later, he sat at a table at the Glass Onion. Ocelot, Dreja, and Scuzzy rounded out the party. By mutual, unspoken agreement they’d kept the conversation light while finishing up a good meal and a few rounds of drinks, but as it always did with shadowrunners, the talk eventually turned to biz.
“I’d love to have seen the expression on old Ortega’s face when his own guards turned on him,” Dreja said. “What do you suppose will happen to him?”
“Nothing good,” Scuzzy said. “I intercepted some messages earlier—sounds like they’re gonna be sending him to Tenochtitlán. Something about a ‘special project.’”
Ocelot’s smile was nasty. “Special. Yeah, I’m guessin’ he’s gonna end up as the main course in some nice new blood magic ritual they’ve just been itching to try out.”
“One can only hope,” Winterhawk said.
“By the way,” Dreja asked, “did Narrah get home all right?”
Winterhawk nodded. “I heard from him last night. He made it back with no trouble. He’s got quite a few stories to share with Thuma. I suspect when he’s finished telling them, he might not be an apprentice anymore.” His mind went back to the aftermath of the fight: he had awakened along with the others in the center of the vast open space; the circle was dead, the gateway gone, along with the Nanga Mai koradji who had been Akurra’s host. The coiled pair of serpents were nothing but a pile of crumbled dust. The team had escaped before anyone else had shown up, which was a good thing, given the number of twisted, bloody, bullet-ridden bodies they’d left behind.
He paused, then looked around at each of them in turn. “Listen,” he said. “I’ve never been much for sentiment, but—well—I just wanted all of you to know how grateful I am for your help. If not for you, I’d be dead now. And since I have far too many things I still want to do before that happens, I want you to know I appreciate everything you’ve done.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Dreja said, her tone gruff, but with a grin lurking behind her tusks. “Sorry, though—not gonna kiss you. You’re not my type.”
“Don’t look at me,” Ocelot protested, also grinning. “I’m not gonna kiss you, either.”
“I didn’t think I could be any more relieved tonight, but apparently I was mistaken,” Winterhawk said, eyebrow creeping upward. He shot Scuzzy a warning glance, only to see the decker raise both hands and shake his head.
“So,” Dreja said, “what will you do now? You going back to chasing down artifacts for the DIMR?”
Winterhawk shrugged. “Quite probably. But I’ll try not to cross paths with you if I can manage it.”
“Yeah, same. I still got Gianelli to pay off, but the money from this run will make a good dent in that.”
“Ah,” Winterhawk said. “I nearly forgot about that. If you’ll check your account, you’ll find funds that should more than cover your debt to Mr. Gianelli. You’ll see a deposit as well,” he added to Ocelot.
Dreja checked her commlink. Her eyes widened. “How did you—?”
“You can thank Scuzzy for that,” he said. “I don’t remember whether I mentioned the involvement of a certain Ms. Lydia Duvall in this affair, but I felt that she owed me a bit of compensation for all the inconvenience she set in motion.”
“I still say you shoulda let me take more,” Scuzzy said. “She’s so fraggin’ rich she won’t even miss it.”
Winterhawk shrugged. “I suspect she had no idea about the details of what she was getting herself into. That should be enough to settle her debts. And yours,” he said to Dreja.
She nodded, still looking a little shell-shocked. “Y-yeah. That’ll get Gianelli off my back. And help a lot of people, too.” Chuckling, she added, “Maybe you’re not the elitist bastard I thought you were after all.”
“Oh, no doubt I am,” Winterhawk said cheerfully. “But even we elitist bastards are grateful when someone helps us out of a fix.”
“So, I guess you’re back to retirement now, yeah?” Ocelot asked. “Can’t say I blame you, actually. Though if you ever decide you’re bored—”
Winterhawk stood. “No promises,” he said. “But give me a call if you ever come across something you think I’d find interesting.”
“Seriously?”
He shrugged and grinned. “Anything’s possible.”
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
This book has been a long time coming for me. Ever since I discovered Shadowrun back in 1989, it’s been one of my fondest bucket-list items to add to the world by contributing to the novel line. Finally the stars have aligned, and for that, I want to offer my heartfelt thanks to the folks at Catalyst Game Labs—not just for letting me write this book, but for letting me bring Winterhawk out to play.
Particular thanks go to John Helfers for encouragement, support, commas, and just generally making my story better; and to him, Jason Hardy, and Loren Coleman for letting me live the dream.
And last but definitely not least: thanks to Dan Nitschke, my spousal unit, best friend, and the first audience for everything I write, for patience and general awesomeness.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
R. L. “Rat” King is patiently hoping that the Awakening is just a few years late, because she’d really like her magic powers to show up one of these days. When she’s not spending time in the Sixth World or working on her original urban fantasy series, she writes technical documentation for a Silicon Valley megacorp and enjoys hanging out with her understanding spouse, herd of
cats, and a gecko named Lofwyr. Find her at rlkingwriting.com.