[Shadowrun 11] - Striper Assassin

by Nyx Smith - (ebook by Undead)

  Stevenson joins Enoshi in front of the desk and there spends a few moments pursing her lips, adjusting her hair, her suitdress, clearing her throat…

  Enoshi smiles and touches her shoulder. “No need to be nervous. We’re all family here.”

  Smiles flare brilliantly all around, and several of the group chuckle or laugh, just as Enoshi had hoped. If he chooses his moment correctly, he is usually able to inspire just such a reaction, even if the joke is not really a joke at all, but merely kidding around.

  Ms. Stevenson blushes and nods, her smile gushing wide. She seems embarrassed but not uncomfortably so. “Well,” she begins, consulting her notes, “what I want to talk about, I mean what I’m going to talk about, is the importance of always trying to do your best.”

  Enoshi nods, and remembers to smile, smile with approval. Ms. Stevenson’s theme is one he considers of vital importance, and he is always pleased when the morning speaker chooses to expound upon it. He often does so himself when he feels the need to personally give the morning talk. A corporation is no better than the sum of its parts. Every part, every individual, must always strive to give the best performance if the corporation is to succeed in the very competitive global marketplace.

  “It’s so easy to get complacent,” Stevenson continues. “I see myself doing it sometimes. Oh, that’s good enough, I say to myself. But then I realize, no, that’s not good enough. It’s not as good as I can really make it, and that’s how good it really ought to be…”

  Stevenson concludes before long. A lengthy speech is not necessary. The idea is to inspire hearts or jog forgetful brain cells, not to put everyone to sleep. Enoshi leads the group in brief applause, then adds his own voice to the woman’s words. “I believe it was the Italian artist-scientist Leonardo da Vinci who said, ‘Details make perfection, and perfection is no detail.’”

  The quote is well-received with smiles and nods of the head, even another little burst of applause. Nothing more need be said, Enoshi decides. He must remember to thank his wife, for it was she who came across the quote in her reading.

  Time now for the corporate creed, the “pledge,” as some of the employees call it. Enoshi takes the printed notecard bearing the creed from the inside flap of his pocket-secretary and leads the group in reciting it. He of course knows the creed by rote, backward and forward, as he has since the first day of his employment, but he does not wish to appear pretentious or in any way superior beyond his station.

  That task he leaves in the able hands of his “boss.”

  10

  The dingy little restaurant sits just off Spring Garden Street on the fringes of Chinatown. The dining room is about the same size as a studio doss, and boasts eight linen-draped tables and six booths. The rear booth is near the swinging door to the kitchen and provides a good view of the street via the restaurant’s front windows. A pair of brass-colored fans turn slowly on the ceiling. The lacquered wooden floor is worn.

  The girl who waits tables comes by again. “More?” she inquires.

  Tikki shakes her head. The girl is already sufficiently amazed to remember her long after she’s gone, and three plates of yauk hae have her feeling a little lazy. Food in quantity has that effect. Especially yauk hae, also known as steak tartar. Raw meat in sauce. Tikki regards it as one of the rare signs suggesting that humans might be an intelligent species after all, and considers the dish definitely one of the more interesting ones humans serve. Tikki could eat a ton of it. Gorge herself till she feels barely able to move. Unfortunately, this is not a good time for her to gorge. Biz awaits.

  She lights a slim Dannemann Sumatran cigarro and blows the first flavorful drag up toward the ceiling.

  “Cha.”

  The girl nods and gets the tea.

  Tikki watches the other few people in the restaurant and on the street out front. Those who preceded her in here, like those who came in on her heels, finish eating and leave. People out on the street keep moving, hustling along the sidewalks, in and out of doorways. No one lingers. No one does more than glance in her direction. It appears that she is not under surveillance.

  The girl returns.

  “I want to see the owner,” Tikki says.

  “Owner not here,” the girl replies.

  “Kim Tae Hwan says you’re wrong.”

  The girl stares, just for an instant, then looks at Tikki long and hard, as if trying to see through the mirrored lenses of her Toshibas. “I find out. You wait.”

  Tikki nods vaguely, turning her head toward the front windows as if to look out at the street again, but watching peripherally as the girl hustles through the swinging door leading into the kitchen. There is no “Kim Tae Hwan”, at least not at this restaurant. The name is a password.

  Tikki sips her tea and waits.

  A few minutes later, the girl returns. “The owner says, how you know Kim Tae Hwan?”

  Tikki replies, “Black Mist.”

  “You wait.” The girl turns and goes off again, but is soon back.

  Tikki has a last drag of her slim cigar, finishes her tea, then follows the girl through the swinging door into the kitchen. A powerfully built adolescent male waits right there, a heavy automatic tucked under the front of his belt. “You got heat?”

  Tikki draws the sides of her jacket wide open. The boy gives her a quick frisk. Naturally, she isn’t carrying any guns, knives, or any other tool of the trade. That would be bad form. But that does not mean she isn’t armed. Even naked and empty-handed, Tikki would never be unarmed.

  “You follow.”

  Tikki follows the boy through a door at the rear of the kitchen, and into a narrow, garbage-strewn back alley. The boy knocks on a metal door of a building opposite the restaurant, three knocks, then two more. The door opens. Tikki follows the boy through the doorway, down a dimly lit hall, through a room jammed with piles and carts of clothing, through another room occupied by a dirty man seated at a worn wooden desk, down another hall, through a door, then down a wooden stairway. The air at the bottom of the stairs smells of guns, gunpowder, and the assorted oils and other chemicals used to clean and maintain guns.

  They go through a long corridor like a tunnel. Earth smells, like dirt and peat and mold, mingle with the aroma of gun metal. The boy pulls open a heavy wooden door that’s about ten centimeters thick. Beyond that waits an Asian man in a gray jump suit that shows many dark stains. He looks Tikki over very briefly, before saying in heavily accented English, “Black Mist okay. I’m Chey.”

  That’s the name.

  Chey is a specialist in weapons. You don’t get to see him if you ask for him by name. What you get in that case is a friendly greeting from the local Seoulpa gang. A blade in the stomach, maybe a bullet in the head. A quick burial in a garbage dumpster somewhere. No mourners, no funeral.

  “You got nuyen?” Chey asks.

  “You got hardware?” Tikki says.

  Chey smiles. “Believe it.”

  They step past another thick wooden door and into another room. The front end of the room is lined with racks full of hardware: handguns, assault rifles, submachine guns, and more. Samurai swords. A grenade launcher. Demo packs. Other tools. Tikki pulls a Sandler TMP from the rack. Because the Sandler submachine gun is usually available at cheap prices, it is a favorite low-rent weapon of gangs and other amateurs. Various police organizations have been known to dismiss the possibility of a pro assassin using a Sandler. Therein lies its attraction for Tikki.

  On the other hand, her upcoming job is supposed to look like a pro hit, so she exchanges the Sandler for a SCK Model-100, the favorite of Japanese Security Forces and supposedly even the elite Red Samurai guard of the Renraku arcology in Seattle.

  She pulls out two of the M-100s.

  “Demonstrate.”

  Specialists like Chey tend to be careful with newcomers. They don’t just hand over loaded weapons. Too easy to kill the storekeeper and rob the store. Chey locks one of the SMGs into a wooden mount fixed to a bench facing the fa
r end of the room. Then he hands Tikki a clip. Tikki fits the clip to the weapon, snaps the bolt, grips the grip and squeezes the trigger. Five rounds blast through the brown paper target hanging at the end of the room. The thunderous report, magnified by the confined space, briefly sets Tikki’s ears to ringing.

  She tests the other SMG, which also works satisfactorily. She’ll buy them, but wants them cleaned before she leaves. No problem, Chey informs.

  “I want slick rounds.”

  “Explosive?”

  Tikki shakes her head. A little mix-up in the vernacular here, Chey’s mistake. She’s used explosive bullets on occasion, but doesn’t like them. They limit options. She doesn’t want to have to worry about what’s going to happen to her hand and maybe her whole arm if she jams a gun into somebody’s gut and lets off a round. Also, in this particular case, explosive bullets wouldn’t suit the work she has in mind.

  “Coated bullets. Teflon.”

  “Ah.” Chey smiles. “Gel slick. Very good.”

  Tikki smiles enough to express agreement. Gel-coated armor-piercing rounds will penetrate just about anything—body armor, metal, what-have-you.

  “How many?”

  “Six.”

  “For the buzzguns?”

  Tikki shakes her head. “I.M.I. SP-57 in five-millimeter. Fabrique SMP-2A silencer. Ares optical night-sight, variable magnification to 200-X. Lumex laser targeting module. Armsman matte-black finish.”

  Chey nods and nods, then frowns. “Uh, I.M.I, very difficult,” he says. “Hard to find. Many imitations. Many badly modified. I only sell top-quality merchandise. Can get you Walther XP-700 with what you want, null sheen.”

  “How long?”

  “To get I.M.I.? Maybe several days. No guarantee. Walther top quality. Two hours.”

  Tikki prefers the finely balanced I.M.I., but she’s used the Walther with equal success. Either weapon will suffice, properly modified. She nods. “Walther.”

  Chey summons the boy from the next room, fires off quick instructions. The boy nods and hustles out like his life depends on speed. Chey holds up two fingers. “Two hours. Have everything ready. Sights and target system precision-tuned. What else?”

  “Tune it for two hundred meters.”

  Chey nods. “What else?”

  “X-heads for the SMGs.”

  “Two full clips?”

  “Four.”

  Before Tikki leaves, weapons in hand, she is impressed with Chey’s ability. Good gun techs are hard to find.

  Like he said, there are many imitations.

  11

  Ohara slips his Beretta 101-T into the flat holster at the left of his waist, then straightens and closes his suit jacket. His image reflected in the mirror is satisfactory, even pleasing. The gray custom suit is by Dunhill, the shirt a Barton & Donaldson, the tie Paul Stuart—conservatively styled, flawlessly constructed, and tailored specifically for his physique. The gun is virtually invisible, sleekly concealed.

  Most pleasing of all is the knowledge of how his appearance has improved, thanks to a generous investment of nuyen. Though in his late middle age, he looks like a much younger man, with a full head of close-trimmed hair, a face reflecting confidence and strength, a trim physique. No one who had known him as little as two or three years ago would recognize him now. Even his voice is different. The change is that complete.

  Christie comes out of the master bath wearing a robe of fiery orange-red satin. The robe does little to hide how voluptuously she jiggles up front, and sways further down. The seductive biff walks straight over and cozies up against his side. The scent of her perfume and the warm weight of her breasts oozing against his right arm give rise to a modest urge right where he feels such things the most.

  With a smile, the biff slips a plastic carrier into his inside jacket pocket. Ohara knows what’s in that, another BTL chip. “Something special,” she promised him. From private sources. Ohara’s got sources of his own, but the chips Christie’s provided in the past have been nothing short of spectacular.

  “Don’t stay out too late,” she croons. “You know how hungry I get when you’re gone.”

  Ohara restrains a smile, straightening his tie. The good thing about having a pair of biffs like Christie and Crystal, rather than just one, is that they keep each other occupied when their lord and master is away. “You can go shopping.”

  “We did that yesterday, lover.”

  “You’ll think of something, I’m sure.”

  “Oh… we will. We will.”

  Ohara can well imagine.

  “I’d just rather do it with you.”

  Ohara nods. “Get my briefcase.”

  She does, and demands a kiss before releasing it. Her petty tyrannies do not disturb him. At a word, he could have her tossed out on her well-formed buttocks. There’s no doubt as to who’s in charge. Ohara likes it that way, insists on it, in fact.

  Briefcase in hand, he heads through the living room to the entryway. His two Birnoth Comitatus executive protectors are ready and waiting. One guard precedes him as they head out into the hall, the other following close behind. They do no more than nod in greeting. No casual banter, no chatter of any kind.

  One checks the elevator, nods again. Ohara enters. They ride to the sublevel parking garage. Waiting by the elevators is Ohara’s long black Nissan Ultima V limousine, today accompanied by a Ford sedan and a General Products security van and additional guards, all provided by Kono-Furata-Ko at his request.

  It pays to be careful. The death of Exotech’s Special Projects Director Robert Neiman has reminded Ohara of the need for care. That death was probably just another incident of random violence, but until the police confirm that, Ohara will assume the worst—that he himself might be next on the assassin’s list of targets. A man like himself, who has held high posts in some of the world’s leading corporations, could hardly have risen to his current level without acquiring a few enemies here and there along the way. Such is the nature of the corporate environment. To be expected. A man in his position, a member of the corporate elite, must remain aware of the realities, and aware too of his own vulnerability.

  With four brisk strides, Ohara moves from the elevator and into the rear of the limo. His two Birnoth Comitatus protectors follow him in. The doors close and the limo moves out, gliding swiftly from the garage and out through the “estates,” a planned community of low-rise condos and parks built and maintained by a consortium of the city’s major corporations.

  The ride along Highway 30 into downtown Philadelphia passes quickly, the limo taking the express lanes and moving fast. Ohara spends some time watching real estate vids on the console trideo. His success with Exotech Entertainment has put his career back on track. A few months more and he’ll be in a position to demand that the board of KFK renegotiate his contract. After that, he’ll begin to work on his next objective, control of the board of directors, and, eventually, the chairmanship. The investigators he’s got quietly researching the board members’ backgrounds have already turned up a few choice tidbits of information that should prove very useful.

  Once he has his new contract, with a significant increase in salary and benefits, he’ll be ready for a new home, possibly an estate in the very exclusive preserve of Villanova. Almost anything would be an improvement over the Platinum Manor condominiums. Him, in a condominium? The very thought is repugnant. Practically a slap in the face.

  Will his two playmates survive the move? He’ll have to decide that soon. Certainly, the board of KFK would be more content with him if he could come up with a wife and some children.

  Perhaps a rapprochement with his ex?

  Something to think on.

  “Good morning. Mister Ohara.”

  “Enoshi and cha.”

  “Yes, sir. Right away.”

  Ohara waves a hand vaguely and continues on up the plush carpeted hall to his office. The iconic blonde at the reception desk knows how to react, and how to jump. Ohara likes that. He especially
likes it when people act as if pleased to knock themselves out doing what he wants. It’s the kind of loyalty he’s always preferred, people panting like eager puppies.

  Real talent eventually gets ambitious, then greedy. Eager puppies like the receptionist are too busy wagging their tails to concoct ways of screwing him.

  The double doors at the head of the hall snap open. His Birnoth Comitatus guards accompany him into the office and take up positions flanking the door. Ohara steps onto the low dais on which his desk sits before a wall of windows. The floor-to-ceiling window panes are constructed from heavily insulated macroplast and form an effective defense against all but the most powerful weapons. The windows are also mirrored on the outside to prevent anyone from looking in, and have a special coating that inhibits laser-borne surveillance devices from picking sound vibrations off the surface. A variety of other devices prevent snooping as well.

  Ohara lays his briefcase on the desktop and drops into his chair, then switches on his computer terminal. The keyboard slides out the back of the desk. The monitor rises out of the desktop. Ohara snaps his fingers.

  “Initiate privacy function.”

  “Acknowledged,” says one of the Birnoth protectors.

  The other one nods.

  The Comitatus guards are elite in every sense of the word. When the privacy function is initiated, implanted headware blanks their memory of everything they see and hear every sixty seconds. At the end of the day, they’ll remember nothing except accompanying Ohara into his office and then out of it again. Of course, that function would immediately end if an emergency occurred or if they perceived a need to declare a security alert. In either case, they would immediately inform him that the privacy function had been discontinued.

  Ohara looks to his computer monitor. The stylized circular logo of KFK fills the screen. He enters his personal security code, then taps a final sensor tab and finds a number of memos in his queue, as well as the report on the Special Projects Section requested from Bairnes.