“Our last meeting sucked,” I said bluntly. “To put it mildly. And I’m not asking you to hire me back on.”
“Not in this lifetime.”
“Not that I’d go,” I snapped back. I straightened, backed off because punching him again sounded just as good as anything else, and I’d learned my lesson there. “But you want MetaCorp so bad, you were willing to risk those tools of yours, so I’m asking you for one more. One body with at least four guns.”
Both eyebrows rose, came with a step forward. Like he’d clear the gap I’d made.
I felt pinned, stuck to the floor by nothing more tangible than his eyes. The waves crashed loudly behind us. His feet didn’t crunch on the sand but pushed into it. The shiny gleam on his shoes collected a coating of dust.
Thorough. Expensive. So very meticulous.
He noted my stiffness, too. Took another step, removed that much more space. “Correction,” he said, power and weight in quiet intensity. “You have asked for nothing.”
My lip curled back in a silent snarl.
In the real space I’d pulled my attention from, Muerte laughed her harsh laugh. Guns, I thought in the back of my mind. They were comparing weapons.
My jaw set. I pulled my fists from my pockets, left them rigid at my sides.
Satisfaction touched his wickedly sharp features. Anticipation. “You are fortunate I found you useful, Riko.” His head tipped. His hands unlocked from behind him, pulled aside his blazer to rest at his hips. So very powerful executive. So wow. “If you ask,” he continued evenly, “I will consider it.”
Asking would be the same as begging.
MetaCorp. I wanted them so bad, I could taste the blood in my mouth already.
My teeth gritted so fucking hard, I felt Indigo’s hand palm my skull. “Seems to be going well,” he said. Dimly. Wryly. A disembodied voice under the projection I faced down.
Malik Reed waited.
I stared.
He had no reason to look away.
Asshole. Screw his too-harsh-for-pretty model vibe. Red crept in to the fringes of what little patience I’d mustered. Shredded the only thing keeping me toe to toe and eye to eye; it wasn’t even the shitting high ground.
There was nobody else who’d help me. Valentine and Fidelity had drawn their line in the sand, temporary or not. Boone was babysitting them, and I despised the fact he had to. They’d already tried to take me out once; one bad call was all it’d take for them to not just fuck me over, but Indigo, too.
No one else would be willing to help me on this crazy ride into shitville.
I lost.
I sucked in a shallow breath. “Will you,” I said through clenched teeth, “give me one fucking enforcer so we can burn MetaCorp to the cunting ground?”
Silence. Cool appraisal. Jacket blowing in the wind, and sunlight adding a warm golden richness under his skin I wasn’t used to seeing.
My jaw popped, eyelids straining with the effort I made to keep me from snarling outright and hunting his ass down in meatspace to rip out his intestines. I’d wear them like a dripping crown.
“Please.”
Jesus shitting syphilitic Christ, his smile wrenched a knife through my control and at least four fingers up my cunt. “So you can say it.”
“I will,” I hissed, clenching and unclenching my hands, “bring back a MetaCorp cock and fuck your lungs with it.”
A small inclination of his head. “So you say.”
“Are you going to help or not?”
Silence fell between us. Hell, even the sound of the ocean dimmed. Had I lagged him? I doubted it. The steadiness of this signal felt alien to me. Secure.
His mouth finally opened, assessing me toes to crown. Then, “Knacklock. Unless I am mistaken, 53rd and 716B West.”
I nodded sharply. He’d done his homework.
“I will make arrangements with Mr Koupra.”
I shut the pissing call down. Sweltering heat and cramped space came back to me with full force; I’d forgotten I was sweating through my clothes. “Ugh.”
“Well?” Muerte demanded, leaning forward.
“Did you set it all on fire?” Indigo asked dryly.
“You talk to him.” I thrust myself up from the counter, emptied of our ramen bowls. The stool scraped across the rough asphalt under us, clattered to the ground. “I’m out.”
“Riqa–”
“Let her be,” Digo sighed. “Those two are like gunfire and gasoline. One of them’s gonna blow.” A pause. “One way or another.”
“Eat shit and die,” I shouted back over my shoulder.
“Stay close,” he shouted back.
Yeah, whatever. Not like I had a choice until Malik Reed sent his meatpuppet along.
Maybe I’d put a bullet in the unlucky bastard after the run. How’s that for a message?
38
Two hours later, I stared as a sleek black van with blackened windows pulled into the lot we gathered in. It crunched over pitted asphalt and cement, slowing to a stop at a diagonal. I turned my incredulous stare on Indigo.
He shrugged. I guess Mantis didn’t do subtle.
I rolled my eyes, followed them as Indigo led the way towards the windowless back doors.
“Spunkstupid,” I sighed, one hand wrapped around the strap of my Valiant.
“It’s not that bad,” Muerte said, chuckling as she paced me.
I curled a lip at her without pausing. “Motherlovingpisslicking–”
Muerte’s stiffened fingers popped me in the throat, fast and hard enough that I staggered.
My reflexes didn’t save me from eating shit. I hit the lot on one knee, grinding a few layers of skin through my filthy canvas pants, and glared up at her. “The tits?”
“Enough already, yeah?” She offered me a hand back up. “It is what it is, nena, let it go.”
Grabbing at my assaulted neck, I rasped hoarsely, “Not your girlfriend and blow me.”
She clicked her tongue, laughter dancing in her wide brown eyes. “Make up your mind, you’re giving me whiplash.”
“Knock it off, you two.” Indigo waved at us without turning around, a smirk in his voice. “Stop lagging.”
“Go fuck a necro,” I growled at her. Ignoring her offer, I pushed back up to my feet and jogged to catch up. Muerte, the whorebag, just kept grinning.
Some things never changed.
As we approached, the black doors flung wide. Black interior, too, except for various blue and green signal lights inside. Each indicated power fed to the racks it was attached to.
Racks, I couldn’t help but notice as saliva pooled in my mouth, filled to the brim with weapons of death and rampant destruction.
The sucker Reed sent to play with me crouched in the back, digging through a crate of what I hoped contained armor and more weapons. Pistols, maybe some submachine guns for fun and profit. Knives or steels? Swords weren’t my thing, but when Tashi showed up, she might enjoy a little something long and hard between her hands.
My grin spread ear to ear.
“Thanks for coming,” Indigo was saying as I caught up. “You made good time.”
The crate snapped closed. The enforcer stood. “Take what you need.”
My grin froze.
I knew that voice.
Blood rushed to my ears. My fingertips tingled. Even the goddamn ones I didn’t cunting have. “You didn’t,” I managed through teeth that felt like they’d grind glass. “Tell me he’s only the escort.”
Malik Reed levered himself out of the corporate van, sturdy combat boots squaring up on the asphalt. Skinsuit. Black, gray and white urban camos like his enforcers wear between runs, but with black plates overlapping his long, powerful legs.
To my disappointment, his chest armor had been scrubbed of all Mantis insignias. No aggressive letter, no gear labels. Nothing. I couldn’t even get him tossed for being stupid. My fists clenched, weight locked down on my heels.
He didn’t smile when he saw me. He didn’t have
to. Smug arrogance was just as bad. “Riko.” A small nod. “Mr Koupra.” Then, as his gaze landed on Muerte, he raised those defined eyebrows and added, “What shall I call you?”
She sized him up. Didn’t offer a hand. “Muerte.”
“Death.” His lips twitched. My fists twitched too. Maybe they should meet. Again. “A pleasure.”
“All yours,” she said sweetly.
That’s my girl.
Unruffled, he stepped back to clear the way. “As negotiated,” he said, turning his full attention to Digo. “Armor and requisitions. Certain models are in testing stages and will require monitoring.”
“Like hell,” I snapped at his back.
Digo’s hand came up behind Malik’s back, universal sign of Riko, shut up. “No, thanks,” he replied. “We’re not on your dime.” Then that hand turned into a middle finger aimed at me.
Muerte cracked a laugh, quieter than usual.
Yeah, I deserved that. Should have trusted his common sense. I was rusty.
Letting my linker figure out the run’s needs, and getting the shit out of Malik’s general sphere of existence, I stepped to the edge of the lot and surveyed the glimpse of road beyond the crumbling wall. “Where’s Tashi?”
At my shoulder, Muerte shrugged. She, like me, had managed to keep her favorite gun, though she had a rig to hook the Viva Insurgent on. Ugh, I’d need one of those too. One more thing to borrow.
Or steal, because fucked if I’d give it back.
“All right.” Digo’s voice, pitched towards us. “Hook up.” His way of calling for a briefing. I liked it so much more than Reed’s.
Who didn’t move as we all pulled together.
I scowled at him. “Your job is done. Thanks for the gear.”
“Riko–”
I ignored Indigo’s sigh. “Go on,” I insisted, making shoo-ing motions with both hands.
Malik, the asshole, didn’t move. Hadn’t, either. He simply looked down at a transparent tablet scrolling what I figured was equipment and did whatever he was doing. Ignored me, too.
My jaw set. Maybe he’d helped, fine. Maybe he’d pulled together more than I thought he would. Hooray. But he was still him and I didn’t trust above and beyond as a concept.
Muerte jabbed me in the shoulder. The flesh one. “I hate to say it–”
My left hand darted out. Slammed up into the tablet. “Go swap out for your monkey,” I snarled.
He’d never displayed much tech, not the obvious kind. No replacement limbs, no optics, nothing I’d ever seen openly. But sometimes, when I expected otherwise, Malik moved in a way that even his defined muscle and sleek grace shouldn’t have been able to. As Indigo snapped out my name and the tablet tore up into the air – destination, corporate facehole – Malik’s grip shifted. His arm moved in a way I couldn’t trace, like a snake made of liquid, and the device flipped over.
Once. Twice.
When it settled again, it was face up, settled firmly and flat on his palm, and his motor oil eyes drilled mine. “Riko.” He tapped the tablet with his other hand, calm as I wasn’t. “I am the monkey.”
My mouth dropped open.
Muerte laughed, clapping me on the back. “Let’s be amigos, yeah?”
I hated all of them. But especially Malik cunting Reed.
“If you’re done,” Indigo said loudly, “Riko, I’m going to need your cock out of your hands.”
Sure. I’d shove it between Malik’s girly lips instead.
I shut my trap because we weren’t on Reed’s dime, no, but we were on mine. My cred, to be precise. And Indigo’s, now, too.
A map bloomed in the center of our circle, still in the shade afforded by the van. Indigo’s chip projector was strong enough to compensate for ambient light, and he used it often when we planned. Handy tech. “Knacklock spans seven city blocks, about forty-five kilometers end to end.” Indigo poked a finger into the thick red X dominating the northern end. “Hevin Kern’s chopshop sits here.” A block and a half.
“That’s only about ten kilometers in,” I noted, glancing at the lot around us as if it’d offer a clear picture. “And it’s going to be under sec.”
“It will,” Muerte confirmed. “But when I called in a few favors, I found something interesting.” She traced a line on the projection that spanned a longer path, roundabout through streets poorly designed, east to north. In its wake, a green line lit. “Because of all the traffic, there’s less security coverage here.”
“How does that make sense?”
“It’s too convoluted,” Malik said thoughtfully. This time, when he dragged a finger through the projected map, it left a stronger blue line, right down the center of the road. “This is more efficient and offers a near-perfect line of entry, but any attack will be seen coming.”
Muerte nodded.
Indigo and I exchanged glances. “Where’s Tashi?” I asked again.
His lips curved. His turn to be smug. “She’s on her way.”
Reed folded his arms across his armored chest. In a suit, he was damned impressive. In Mantis armor, thicker than it was even three weeks ago and altered for mobility, I knew offhand a dozen saints who’d try to tap that into next week. Not that he’d so much as give them the time of day.
I’d tap him with a bullet before I’d let him anywhere near my – admittedly aroused – orifices. Not unless I went out and picked up a designer version of syphilis first.
“You’ve evolved a plan,” he said to Digo. Not a question.
I’d already expected as much. Indigo was my linker for so, so many reasons.
As if on cue, the roar of an engine bigger than anything I’d drive rumbled through the lot. We all turned. We all stared. Except Indigo, whose chuckle mirrored my sudden wash of glee. “You are the best,” I gasped.
“You are dangerous,” Malik said instead, watching the express truck tear up the ground it thundered across.
The battered cab came to a stop, wafts of black smoke belching from every pipe. The door swung open, and Tashi – looking so much tinier against the enormous vehicle – poked her head up over it. “Somebody call for a battering ram?” No smile. Just near-white eyes in the sunlight and blazing white tattoos.
I was beginning to love those tattoos again. I liked it so much better when she wasn’t trying to kill me.
Malik, the stonefaced bastard, surveyed the tableau without any sign of surprise or fear.
Muerte’s laugh gave the idling, sputtering engine a run for its efforts.
“Yeah, I’ve already decided,” Indigo finally answered. “Let’s suit up.”
39
Stop me if you’ve heard this one: a linker, a fixer, two splatter specialists, and a corporate dickhead walk into a chopshop…
Only walk isn’t the word. Walking would have taken too long, exposed us to security. Not that we didn’t get exposed. The shooting started about a kilometer away. Bullets rattled the cab, bounced off the trailer dragged behind.
Muerte hissed. “We’ve passed the first wave.”
Indigo, lines carving yellowed tracks of holy fucking hell we are doing this in his face, jerked a nod.
We’d all comm’d up, helmets on. Same shit I’d worn the other day, with a HUD that outlined the team in green and bogeys in red. I hoped it worked better than the last batch. So far, it hadn’t glitched.
All three of us had wrapped ourselves in the cargo netting, armaments secured and safety on just in case.
Cute that Mantis’s supplied weapons still had safeties.
“Brace.” In the comm, Malik’s voice sounded so much more commanding. Asshole should’ve played operator. “First obstacle. Two more in quick succession. Then three between entry and structure.”
“Speed?” Indigo asked, tone crimped tight. We all firmed holds in the netting, pulled out as much as possible so we didn’t break our limbs on collision.
“You don’t want to know,” he replied. Goddamn dry.
Muerte’s snort ended on a, “Madre D
ios,” that I felt, for once, I could echo.
And then we ran out of time to think at all.
The cab plowed through three plain walls and two reinforced before jackknifing and rolling over three more. We didn’t scream; we were professionals. Instead, we swore in all the languages we knew – I was the only one whose brain didn’t process other lingual curses when pressed.
Rocked side to side and up and down, my helmet slammed against unyielding metal, my legs strained. One arm slipped out, and I jerked it back as hard as I could while the truck rolled again and again. My left arm held, shoulder girdle strong.
Outside the truck, thundering through the bowed trailer walls, echoes of our collision boomed over and over.
Indigo’s plan put us smack in the middle of sec forces sent in by the whooping alarms.
As the cab came to a screeching, sudden halt, we untangled ourselves from the side netting, relying on knives and raw strength to do it. Mine being raw strength, just so I could get to the knife in my thigh-sheath. I had three more lined up, two at each leg, to say nothing of the amount of weaponry I’d helped myself to.
“Sound off,” Malik ordered.
“One,” our linker said, groaning.
“Two,” Tashi added. Bitch didn’t even sound winded.
“Three.” Muerte.
I hit the ground – or the side of the trailer, I couldn’t tell yet – and said, “Fuck off.”
“Button it.” That was our linker. I’d listen to him. Mostly.
Taking the lead, I kicked the back doors so hard they sprang open, thudded into three security guards getting ready to open them, and sent all three sprawling. Smoke and steam poured into the hauler from busted valves, cement cracked and crumbled overhead.
I opened fire before my feet hit the cement ground – looked like a large internal warehouse of some kind. Reams of plastic rolls lined one far wall, shipping crates piled beside them. Bare rectangles in layers of grime gleamed in the lights.
“They’re moving out,” I shouted behind me. “We too late?”
Muerte hit the floor next, kneeling to take out a sweep of secsmegs rolling in from the right. “Hope not,” she replied. “I was looking forward to this.”
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