The Bridge Chronicles Trilogy

by Gary Ballard

  Angela had done her work well. The plate’s registration information came up almost immediately. Originally purchased by an Eduardo Sanchez of El Segundo, deceased, the car had passed through a succession of hands before being swept up in a CLED drug raid shortly after the riots had ended. The car had sat in police impound for over a year before it had been signed out by an officer in early summer 2028. From then on, its record was empty. The car had simply ceased to exist, its data trail ending at that point. How did a car get signed out from police impound to show up a year later as the getaway vehicle in a gang war drive-by? Bridge shifted back to the name of the officer assigned the vehicle, an Officer Vasquez. The name contained a link which Bridge clicked. Angela must have thought Vazquez was important enough to explore.

  The cop’s dossier popped up, and Bridge sighed. “Of fucking course,” he said, everything becoming clear. He recognized the face instantly, despite the differences. Officer Vasquez was Chimuelo, second-in-command of El Diablos. The dossier listed Vasquez as deceased, of course, the, a bundle perfect cover for the kind of deep undercover work he must be doing.

  He thought back to the conversation with Mayor Soto in the limo. Bridge had thought the mayor merely an opportunist, taking the most advantage of a situation that likely had been inevitable since the riots. He had thought Soto capable of spotting a weakness and profit from exploiting that weakness, but no more than that. But the shape of the real plan revealed itself to be much larger, much more ambitious than even Bridge could have imagined. Not content with waiting for an opportunity to exploit, Soto had decided to create one. Vasquez had been sent into El Diablos undercover and had worked himself very quickly into a position of influence. That was why Chimuelo had never taken a shot at Nacho. Why kill the leader when you could manipulate him instead? Chimuelo likely got Diablos the shiny new guns they were sporting, he got them cars and access to all the information CLED could gather. That was why Diablos had been able to work without an army of hackers. Once Vasquez as Chimuelo had created a big enough shitstorm between the gangs, CLED would be forced to step in and with all that super-duper hardware Diablos had been given, CLED would have no choice but to respond with superior force. The resulting bloodbath could not only take out most of the gangs, it could open up all new areas of the city for exploitation under the confiscation laws.

  Bridge had exactly the information he needed, and the plan he’d been making up as he went along crystallized. He would need someone in the corporate way, someone with enough juice to make Chronosoft an offer they couldn’t refuse. It would be the only way to end the gang war without the destruction of the Families, but it would be dangerous. Bridge finished up what he could in Angela’s domain, then logged out. The apartment was dark as he crawled out of the crèche, stumbled to the shower, legs wobbly from so much time without use. The cold water pouring over his body cleared his mind further, setting an unavoidable path before him.

  It was time for that Bridge magic.

  Chapter 14

  March 11, 2029

  10:27 a.m.

  After a quick shower, Bridge stalked out of Freeman’s apartment towards the nearest subway station with Mu in tow. As he walked, he tugged an ancient 3G phone out of his pants pocket. Staring at the battered pink shell of the device caused him to chuckle. No one had used phones like this for at least a decade, with its actual keyboard, little mouse and buggy voice activation. No one, that is, except criminals like himself looking to live off the grid. The Families had raided landfills from Northern and Southern California and the surrounding states to build up the collection of disposable junk phones. The Bottle City Boys had helped set up an assembly line of throwaway SIM cards and dead-end phone numbers, stealing bandwidth wherever they cn oould get it. The Families had the most sophisticated cell network in the Los Angeles area, and it technically didn’t even exist. Bridge laughed every time he heard tone on one of these phones, amazed at how much more reliable they were than the commercial handheld phone market these days.

  The line rang once. “Talk,” returned Stonewall’s fatigue-saturated voice.

  “It’s me, I’m coming in.”

  “Your little conversation fruitful?”

  “If I had to guess, I’d say yes. What station?”

  Stonewall gave him a station address and a set of cipher numbers to indicate the actual station he was meant to find. “See you soon, brother,” Bridge said. Stonewall cut the connection without even a goodbye. He was still a bit miffed.

  The subway stations, which had been left alone by CLED for so long, were being targeted with deadly accuracy. Most of the Families were in full retreat. Stonewall had put the Magos on what he called “The Nomad Plan.” No group could stay in any one station longer than eight hours, shuffling families, gangsters and support equipment around in one giant, city-wide shell game. It was effective but tiring.

  Bridge had to hoof it over a mile to get to the proper station, bypassing two stations along the way. The cops had retaken the first, the other firmly in AsiaTown possession. Even though he was friendly with Stonewall, the rank and file Magos showed him little warmth. Once the train began moving, he relaxed a little. The guards never relaxed at all. Every station they passed could contain Diablos or CLED, and though the trains were running on express protocols, only stopping at specific stations, any run through enemy territory could be a gauntlet of gunfire or an intentional derailment.

  Bridge glanced over at Mu, who sat in silent meditation, his eyes closed. The kid’s haggard face showed signs of the strain Bridge had put him under. Mu must maintain a force field over the two of them at almost all times, and the effort must have been considerable. Bridge wasn’t about to take any more chances, though, at least not until he could solve this situation.

  Stonewall greeted him gruffly at the train’s door. Bridge took no time for pleasantries. “What the situation, brother?” he said as soon as the doors had swished open.

  “It ain’t good, Bridge. I got injured all over the city and way too few doctors. We lost thirty overnight, and CLED just took back the last North Hollywood station we had.”

  “They’re pushing you south, aren’t they? Towards the Warehouse?”

  The large Mexican nodded grimly. “Si, just like you said they would. Herding us like cattle into the slaughter stalls.”

  “Any hope of breaking through to the south?”

  “Seventh Street is almost wall-to-wall cops. They got Gunheds patrolling up and down 24-7. And after that warehouse blowup yesterday, Sixth is pretty stacked up too.” He scratched the blonde stubble growing on his cheeks and grimaced. “You know they confiscated that place? What’s left of it, anyway. Told Earnest he had aided and abetted criminal activity and his assets were fucking forfeit. How the fuck they able to do that in this country? I thought this was America.”

  “Welcome to the Sovereign State of Chronosoft,” Bridge replied, his words dripping sarcasm thick as molasses. “You know as well as I do this ain’t that place anymore.”

  They walked on in silence for a moment. Bridge got a look around the station. The subway entrances were trashed deliberately, as a warning to the foolhardy and the tourists that the subways were not safe for them. But once a visitor had penetrated to the interior, they would have found Magos-dedicated housekeepers, the abandoned shops kept spotless. Not so these days. Everywhere Bridge looked, trash piled up, and disconsolate refugees stared back with shell-shocked eyes. The wounded and the well were stacked on top of each other like cordwood. The smell of human misery permeated every inch of the place, a sickly sour smell of fear sweat with desperation mirrored in every eye. They had not given up yet, but they were wobbling.

  Bridge coughed. “How’s Cierra?”

  “Bleeding but alive. She woke up about ten minutes ago.”

  “Can I talk to her?”

  “That’s where we’re going.” Stonewall led them through the back of an old sub shop. The young Shotcaller had been propped up against the wall, a dirty, bloo
d-stained blanket wrapped around her legs. Her eyes were closed. Her head leaned back against the wall, sweat drenching her face, her mocha skin ashen.

  “Little sister, Bridge is here,” Stonewall said softly.

  Cierra’s eyes snapped open. “Good for him. You got el médico in your pocket for me?”

  “He’s making his way here. One of them is, anyway. I got as many as I could find on short notice willing to risk the gangland.”

  “They needs to move their asses then,” she replied with a rueful smile. “This shit hurts.” She indicated the large bandage on her shoulder, stained shiny with blood.

  “Tell Bridge what you told me,” Stonewall said, “about who did this to you.”

  “That old buzzard Goyo shot me. Fucking traidor. He let me and the boys get pinned down then come out to finish the job like a good little backstabber. If he wasn’t such a shitty shot, he might have got me, too. When I find that cocksucker, I am going to eat his fucking liver.” Her anger got the better of her, her emphatic hand gestures causing a wince of pain.

  “We can probably arrange that without much trouble. He’s in the morgue. CLED got him. Well, they say it was CLED but what little scuttlebutt I’m getting is that it wasn’t exactly CLED strictly speaking.”

  “Federales?”

  Bridge shook his head. “No, they were Chronosoft. Danton mentioned something called Special Squad, which is a new one on me. But they are mean, terminator motherfuckers with no qualms about popping caps in asses. Three guys took down the warehouse and blew the fuck out of the Gun Club next door with barely a scratch.”

  “Good. Hope it fucking hurt.”

  Stonewall tossed Bridge an earnest look. “Goyo’s been Magos before we was Magos. How did Nacho turn him?”

  All Bridge could offer was a shrug. “Maybe he didn’t share your vision of the future. Maybe he wanted to go out in a blaze of glory and didn’t care how it happened. The real question is who do you trust now?”

  “Besides her? Nobody.”

  “Good man.”

  “I got your back, Tapia. You can count on that.”

  “You get better, hermana.”

  Stonewall stood and ushered Bridge away. “She going to be all right? She looks like shit,” the fixer whispered.

  “Fuck you!” Cierra muttered from the floor.

  “Yeah, she’ll be fine,” Bridge chuckled.

  With the door closed, Stonewall’s smile faded. He fixed Bridge with as serious a gaze as Bridge had ever seen. “You said you got something cooking. You want to let me in on it?”

  “You ain’t going to like it.”

  “Do I ever?” Bridge began to explain the skeleton of his burgeoning plan, and each sentence made the ex-footballer’s mood darker.

  Their conversation had led them out of the restaurant into the larger station mall, through a set of double doors leading down an access hallway into the station’s office. They sat on either side of a battered pre-21st desk made of cheap imitation wood that was chipped and scarred with decades of abuse. Mu stood guard outside the office. No one had bothered to clean the place, all manner of papers strewn everywhere. Sitting in battered padded chairs, they s with decaipped coffee and discussed Bridge’s plan. Stonewall’s grim frown amply demonstrated his thoughts on the plan.

  “You know that’s not only crazy and immoral, it’s practically barbaric,” Stonewall said, his right hand absentmindedly stroking the blonde soul patch. “You really think you can pull that off?”

  “I’d say it’s maybe 50-50.” The confident smile only deepened the Mexican’s frown. “Look, there aren’t many other options out there. Magos can’t fight a street war on two fronts, especially when one of those fronts is the goddamn CLED and the other is better supplied and frankly, bugfuck crazy. You can’t count on the other Families for help, because they are getting squeezed just as hard by the cops. Hell, even the Panthers are getting hassled, and they ain’t fighting nobody. And how many of your Shotcallers can you trust after what happened with Goyo? I mean, he was old school Magos from way back.”

  “That was the problem, brother,” Stonewall replied. “That old school macho bullshit is still alive and well. I thought Goyo had more respect for Pedro’s vision than that.”

  “Well, you were wrong.”

  “And it almost got Cierra killed. I know. But this thing… it’s insane.”

  “It’s exactly the kind of thing you say you’ve been working towards, only it ain’t all flowers and rainbows. It was never going to be. It’s going to take blood and you goddamn well know it.”

  Stonewall nodded solemnly, lost in silent thought. “Speaking of blood,” he began reluctantly. “You not going to Angela’s funeral?” Phrased like a question, it hit Bridge like an accusatory statement of fact.

  “I’m dead, remember. And I killed her, least that’s what anybody showing up to that thing will think. I show up to that funeral, it’s all going to shit. They’d arrest me on sight. And I’m betting Angie’s mom is going to be there. I’d rather be thrown in pound-me-in-the-ass-prison than have to face that crazy bitch at her daughter’s funeral.”

  “She’s that bad?”

  “Dude, you have no idea. You think Angie lived ‘Netside as much as she did because she was a happy sort? When her mom was sober, and that wasn’t fucking often, she could tear Angie down with two sentences. And I mean, tear down to a sobbing, crying husk. Drunk? That woman could take on King Kong single-handedly.”

  “Sounds like a winner.”

  Bridge rolled his eyes. “Totally.”

  “You got any idea who killed her?” Stonewall seemed to choose his words carefully, treading with caution through the difficult subject.

  “Definitely corporate. The guy was overconfident, but not without reason. Disabled the security system p>

  “It have anything to do with this war?”

  Bridge shook his head. “No. Boulder.” Stonewall nodded knowingly. “I want to say it was Legios, but really, can you think of one big-time corp that wouldn’t want a piece of that technomancer pie at this stage? Yeah, me neither. Well, they ain’t getting it. Those fuckers have taken enough already.”

  Stonewall leaned forward, an intent curiosity in his eyes. “Is that why you’re doing this? Helping us, I mean. It ain’t like you. Is this just some misplaced revenge thing you got going on?”

  Bridge returned the look with a smile of pure malice. “Maybe.”

  “¡Híjole! That’s pretty cold, Bridge. You do realize lots of people could die because of this, right?” Bridge answered with a solemn nod. “Well, whatever your motivation, I don’t give a shit. We need your help. Where you headed next?”

  “I got to meet a limey bastard with two fake fingers.”

  “Not…?”

  “Yep. I’m taking a lunch with Paulie.”

  “Ay wey. Doesn’t he want you dead?”

  “We came to a mutual understanding. And I’m about to offer his boss a golden ticket out of corporate purgatory.”

  “If Paulie doesn’t kill you first.”

  “Naturally.”

  “What else do you need from me? Besides a place to sleep, food and free transportation?” The footballer’s crooked smile warmed the room slightly.

  Bridge chuckled. “I could use a few more SIM cards.”

  “I think we can manage that.” Stonewall reached into the desk drawer and passed over a handful of tiny chips, used to connect the ancient cell phones to their pirate network. “We’ve having to switch cards after every call.”

  “You got enough cards?”

  “Oh yeah, we got thousands of them. As long as you’re switching with every call, you can reuse some too. It’ll take them days to kill off one card and by that time we’ve used twenty others they have to trace. Not a lot of programmers working for the man even understand the language on these things anymore.”

  “Good thing,” Bridge quipped. “I’ll let you know when and where the meet is going down. Stay safe.”

>   “You oratetoo,” Stonewall replied.

  Chapter 15

  March 11, 2029

  1:32 p.m.

  Bridge’s lunch appointment wouldn’t be expecting him. Bridge rolled up in a taxi outside the Pub Grub, a hole-in-the-wall bar and grill that served the most authentic English pub food in Los Angeles in complete obscurity. Dimly lit, its afternoon clientele ate their bangers and mash, black puddings or fish and chips in a muted silence despite the countless televisions spilling classic Premier League football matches out into the dining area. One solitary drunk held up the end of the bar with a tall glass of some foully dark lager, his head hovering over the half-empty glass. Bridge motioned Mu to a spot in the corner by the door as he spotted his target.

  Paulie, the ex-footballer turned corporate thug, ate his lunch hungrily, a slit-eyed predator backed into a corner. His massive hands shielded the plate to either side, his back hunched as he guarded his plate like he guarded goal. His eyes seemed to be glazed, but Bridge knew he had a scope on everything in the place. He had spotted Bridge the moment the fixer walked in the door. Bridge kept a consistent, purposeful stride straight up to the monster and pulled up a chair without asking.

  Paulie kept eating in silence, refusing to acknowledge the interruption. Bridge stared him down. Around a mouthful of potatoes, Paulie said, “You’re looking awful fit for a fuckin’ corpse.”

  “Afterlife Pilates. I swear by them.”