[Shadowrun 11] - Striper Assassin

by Nyx Smith - (ebook by Undead)

  “Ever see any of them before?” Kirkland asks.

  “No.” Ohara hands the snaps back to Kirkland. Maintaining his aura of pre-eminence is difficult now, though a lesser individual would be completely unnerved. He considers the chip safely ensconced in the plastic carrier in his inside jacket pocket. The Master Corporator. He could use an emotive boost right now. First, he’ll have to get rid of Kirkland…

  He struggles to maintain his composure.

  “I take it that these are your suspects?”

  “The major players,” Kirkland replies. “Some are just local kick-artists. The others are from out of town.” Kirkland pauses, staring openly at Ohara, then says, “The one female in the batch is an interesting case. She’s been linked to assassinations in Chicago, Seattle, San Francisco, and maybe a dozen other cities scattered across Japan, Korea, China, and Southeast Asia. She’s done work for just about every major criminal organization with ties to East Asia and North America, the yakuza, Triads, you name it. She’s absolutely ruthless. Meaning if she got the right contract she wouldn’t hesitate to kill you and everyone you’ve ever known. And probably would enjoy it, too. That’s how vicious she’s reputed to be.”

  Ohara swallows, breathes deeply. He knows precisely what Kirkland is talking about. He’s seen firsthand just how vicious this female, this creature, can be. The knowledge is almost too much for any civilized person to bear.

  “Well… well, I should certainly hope never to make her acquaintance,” is all he says.

  Kirkland nods. “Hope and pray.”

  Ohara forces an intemperate smile. He doesn’t need some lowly police lieutenant telling him how to think or behave.

  “I’m always amazed to learn, Lieutenant, that such people as you describe can so consistently evade apprehension. One would think that the police would make a priority of incarcerating such vicious creatures.”

  Kirkland nods, just once. “Oh, it’s a priority all right.” he says. “In fact, this particular case is a very hot priority. Now that we’ve got another killing.”

  Ohara drops the smile. “You’re not serious.”

  “Maybe you knew him,” Kirkland says. “Steven Jorge? I’m told he was your Deputy Director for Production.”

  Ohara feels a rush of heat up the back of his neck. “This isn’t at all amusing, Lieutenant.”

  “Of course not,” Kirkland says in a definite tone. “Murder’s never amusing.”

  The lieutenant isn’t kidding, isn’t playing games, and the recognition engulfs Ohara in a sudden wave of vertigo. With it comes an almost unbearable tension, all born of acute anxiety. Even fear. The death of Robert Neiman might have been just random, coincidental. This new death carries far more profound implications. Sudden, shocking implications.

  Kirkland lays a sheaf of hard copy on Ohara’s desk, officially stamped and marked for Minuteman Security Services. The ritual notification to Steven Jorge’s corporate masters. To that Kirkland adds three more notices.

  “This time the killer got greedy,” Kirkland says, returning to his chair. “It wasn’t enough to take out just a couple of people. The perp smoked a whole bunch, eight by last count. With various corporate affiliations. Grievous bodily injury to about seventeen more.”

  Ohara draws a deep breath. “This… wasn’t in the news.”

  “Of course it wasn’t in the news,” Kirkland says quietly. “And it isn’t gonna get into the news until we’ve got some idea what’s going on. You think we want the public to hear about this? The corporate fallout alone is going to be incredible.”

  “It’s quite a shock.”

  “I’m sure,” Kirkland replies. “And I’m sure you’ll understand if we get down to business. Two men who are both execs in your corporation got dusted, along with a couple of personal aides, a comp-spec, and a data analyst. In the business, the police business, we call that a pattern. We think your man Jorge was the real target. The others just happened to be there. What do you think?”

  “I think… I think you’d better begin treating this matter with the attention it deserved from the start!”

  “Believe me, we’re giving it all the attention it deserves. Now try answering my question.”

  “Just what would you like me to tell you?”

  “I don’t know, be creative. Why would somebody want Jorge aired out? What was he into? Did he usually frequent establishments operated by the yakuza?”

  “How… I’m sure I have no idea!”

  “Kono-Furata-Ko. Exotech’s parent corp. Very Japanese organization. Got any yakuza connections?”

  Kirkland’s whole attitude has changed, and Ohara does not like it. The man’s aggressive tone of questioning has him on edge. It’s intolerable. “I refuse to be addressed like some criminal!”

  Kirkland ignores this last. “You had a big blowout at one of your sites up near Germantown about a year ago. A fire, a few deaths. Some mana-types cooked up something that got a little out of hand. Think it might be related to Neiman and Jorge’s deaths?”

  Ohara stares for several moments, caught off guard. “That… that whole matter has been laid to rest.”

  “I read the reports.”

  “Then you know there could be no connection.”

  “I know something got out of hand. I know that some of your people got aced then, and several more just got aired out now. Everything else is conjecture. The question is why are so many of your people getting scragged?”

  “That’s absurd! What you’re implying…”

  “You’re making inferences. So am I. What part of Biotech was that up there in Germantown? The Special Projects Unit?”

  “I’ll… I’ll have to check my corporate schematic.”

  “You don’t know?”

  “As I explained to you previously, I’ve restructured the entire architecture of the corporation.”

  “Yeah, I remember. In the meantime, what was Steven Jorge’s position a year ago? What kind of work was he doing?”

  “I don’t recall.”

  “By any chance was he another guy you boosted up the corporate ladder?”

  “I don’t like your tone. Lieutenant!”

  “Did you boost Jorge up the ladder like you boosted Neiman? Yes or no!”

  “This is impossible!”

  “Yes or no, dammit!”

  “I’ll consult my records.”

  “Yeah, good idea. I’d like to see those records. In fact, I want complete corporate dossiers on both Jorge and Neiman, too.”

  “You have no authority to make those kinds of demands!”

  “Hey, no problem, chummer. You don’t wanna cooperate, that’s fine. Of course, in that case, I might have to talk to the media. Investigation stalled, Ohara withholds pertinent data.”

  “That’s blackmail!”

  “Call it leverage. Call it what you want. Just get me the files.” Kirkland rises, turns to leave and abruptly turns back. “You had some problem in Seattle. What happened?”

  Ohara jerks involuntarily. “I… I was assaulted.”

  “Shot up, beaten, and burglarized. Lots of things smashed, nothing stolen. That’s what the police reports say. You claimed you never got a good look at your assailant. No one was ever arrested. What really happened?”

  “My… one of my servants was killed.”

  “Yeah, I know. Don’t forget about the files.”

  Kirkland turns and walks out through the main door. Ohara waits for the door to close, then slumps in his chair, closes his eyes, feeling weak, drained. What happened to him in Seattle was supposed to have been swept forever from his life. He’s made every effort to bury it, to wipe the slate clean, every effort but one. Now, clearly, the horror has risen again.

  Kirkland is a fool. He has no idea what he’s up against. What the deaths of Robert Neiman and Steven Jorge imply is too obvious to be missed. Ohara sees it too plainly. The horror that shattered his life in Seattle and nearly brought his plans to ruin has followed him here to Philadelphia,
obviously with the intention of striking yet again. The death of Neiman and Jorge is just the beginning. The precursor of an assault aimed directly at him.

  It is the woman again, the one from Seattle, the one in Kirkland’s pics. The female in red and black. Striper. She is no mere denizen of the streets. She is a creature of the city’s dark underbelly. She is neither woman nor animal, but some creation of the Sixth World, a guileful demon, a vicious monstrosity, the personification of evil. His encounter with her in Seattle, the sheer violence of their meeting, the psychic torture, the bloodletting, all but destroyed him. He has lost precious time climbing out of the ruin of his former life. He will not allow the demon to ravage him again. She must be destroyed. His future demands it.

  Using the police as a tool to capture or kill her is not a viable option. It would require too many explanations. It would mean explaining what might have attracted the demon’s attention to him in the first place.

  Ohara extends a hand to the telecom, presses a tab.

  When Enoshi enters, Ohara is standing before the windows, gazing out across the metroplex. He feels equal now to the challenge of issuing orders. The threat against his life will be eliminated. Not only will he survive, he will go on to build the greatest corporate empire ever assembled.

  “I have something for you to take care of,” he says. “I cannot over-emphasize its importance. I shall simply say that the matter is essential to the well-being of our corporate holdings. It must receive top priority. At once. You must do it at once.”

  Enoshi replies, “Of course, sir. At once.”

  The demon must die.

  17

  Matsushita Gardens is located just north and west of downtown, along the eastern bank of the Schuylkill River. The five towers there rise from a lush park, a gently rolling landscape of trees, hedges, and lavish gardens of flowers and flowering shrubs. Here one may also find several traditional karesansui, or dry-landscape gardens, a teahouse, and a small Buddhist temple.

  One may enter the Gardens complex via any of three access points. Enoshi takes the one off Kelly Drive. The routine is familiar. Stop before the red and white striped barrier of the guardhouse, nod in acknowledgment of the bow offered by the uniformed guard. Extend an arm out the window, place his credstick in the receiving port and put his thumb to the pad. A soft bell tone sounds and the barrier begins to rise. His identity as an authorized guest of the complex is confirmed. The uniformed guard bows in acknowledgment, much deeper than necessary, no doubt a reaction to the automobile Enoshi is driving.

  Until recently, he drove a Ford Americar, a common enough sedan that some might view as beneath his station, but that no one could ever consider pretentious. Besides, it was a car with an American name that also gave good fuel economy and had an adequate maintenance record. He never felt embarrassed by the car. On the contrary, it coincided with his own self-image: unassuming, efficient, task-oriented. Naturally, his superior, Bernard Ohara, took issue with this when the matter came to his attention, insisting that Enoshi lease through the company, through Exotech, a vehicle more suited to the senior aide of a director of Kono-Furata-Ko.

  And so now Enoshi drives a Mercedes 200 Classic four-door sedan, equipped with a variety of wholly unnecessary options. The console portacom is just one example. Enoshi routinely carries a very serviceable Panasonic UltraThin in his briefcase.

  Parked in his usual spot in the garage beneath Tower Three, he draws the UltraThin from his briefcase and taps in a telecom code. The other end rings twice, then a male voice answers, “Hello?”

  “Are you free?” Enoshi says, without preamble.

  The line clicks, then a new voice, exquisitely soft and fine, consummately feminine, says, “Of course I’m free.”

  “I’ll be there in about ten minutes.”

  “I’ll be waiting.”

  Enoshi marks the time on his wrist watch and lets ten minutes elapse before leaving his car. It is another five or six minutes before he exits the elevator and turns down the carpeted corridor of the thirty-ninth floor. Perhaps twenty minutes in all pass before he presses the tab beside number 3905.

  It is but a moment before the door opens and she is standing there, looking as if she had spent the whole morning preparing for his arrival. Her name is Frédérique, a name that Enoshi finds every bit as exotic as the woman herself. Her eyes are blue, and naturally so. Her golden blonde hair flows luxuriously down across her brow, partially concealing the right side of her face. The diaphanous white gown she wears looks like real silk, though it is covered in places, all the special places, by a frothy white lace. The gown is very exciting without being overly revealing. It enhances her beauty, showing her to be delightfully contoured and yet not excessively styled.

  Her greatest beauty, however, and the one that keeps Enoshi enthralled, is seen only in her eyes, and in her smile… and in all she says and does.

  Enoshi bows, stepping in through the door. Softly smiling, Frédérique draws back a step, then another, and then bows like a lady of feudal Europe, lowering her head, her whole body, briefly lifting her gown from about the hips as if to keep the hem above the floor. Enoshi finds himself smiling, effortlessly beaming.

  Frédérique steps up and kisses his cheek, the only instant her eyes leave his. Her touch is as light as a butterfly’s wing, and she smells of a flowery perfume, a veritable garden of delightful scents.

  “Where have you been?” she says softly, still smiling. “I’ve missed you so.”

  It seems less a question than a soft, gentle way of pointing out that Enoshi has not been to see her for almost a week. Perhaps she has felt a bit lonely. Half a dozen explanations run through Enoshi’s mind—his work, his family, the house, other concerns—but to a woman like Frédérique these would seem like mere excuses. For her, love is paramount, and whoever she chooses to grace with that love means more, far more, than any job, than family, more than anything else in the world. Enoshi can imagine only one reply.

  “Forgive me,” he murmurs.

  “Of course,” Frédérique croons, gazing into his eyes. “How could I not?”

  “You are always in my thoughts.”

  Softly, she whispers. “You lie.”

  “In my heart, then.”

  “That I believe.”

  Again Enoshi smiles, again without forethought. The moment seems right for him to present his little gift. “This is for you.”

  Frédérique smiles, tenderly, exquisitely, as if moved to the brink of tears. “For me?”

  Enoshi nods and leans close to kiss her cheek. She rings his neck with her arms and kisses him back, then accepts the slim white box with the gold foil insert. Inside she will find a small and artfully arranged bouquet that Enoshi has personally assembled at the Kyoto Florist downtown. The small pink foil card bears ideograms that read, “Art is truth, love is more…”

  “How beautiful,” Frédérique breathes. “Thank you.”

  No thanks are necessary.

  “Let me make you tea.”

  “Of course.”

  They share a brief kiss, then Frédérique is leading him through the apartment and into her salon, a kind of den walled on two sides by windows, full of light and plants and comfortable furnishings, equipped with a bar and immense trideo screen, and dominated by a huge hearth. Frédérique seats him along one plush sofa unit facing the windows, removes his shoes, then proceeds to make him tea, all with an artist’s attention to detail.

  “It’s so wonderful to see you in the daytime,” she says.

  “Really? Why so?”

  “Must there be a reason?”

  “Yes, tell me.”

  She smiles and then slowly nods. Of course there is a reason. Why is she glad to see him in the daytime? “Because of the sun,” she says. “Because I love you. Because the two go together so well.”

  Enoshi smiles with pleasure.

  After tea, after more talk, when the proper moment finally arrives, he takes her hands in his and says, regr
etfully, “There is something I must ask of you.”

  Of course, she smiles, smiles and looks at him with eyes that gently inquire what it is that he might possibly desire. “Anything,” she whispers. “Ask me anything.”

  “I must meet with Sarabande again.”

  The look in her eyes turns curious, but that is all the inquiry she makes. Without another word, she rises and goes down the hall toward her bedroom. Enoshi hears the quiet tapping of telecom keys. Then Frédérique returns, padding quietly across the floor on naked feet. She sits beside him on the sofa, shaking back the soft thick hair that hides the side of her face. She smiles at him, saying simply, “Done.”

  Enoshi lifts her hands to his lips.

  18

  The sun is little more than a smoldering red-orange globe hanging low over the vast suburban expanse to the west of the city when Enoshi pauses on the bustling sidewalks around the Thirtieth Street transit center. He checks his watch and tries to maintain his focus on the biz immediately before him.

  The brief time he spent with Frédérique served only to distract him from his mounting concerns about his superior, Bernard Ohara. The man’s continued reliance on methods at variance with prevailing social values—covert, illegal methods—can only be viewed by any rational person as most dangerous. The extraterritorial nature of multinational corporations might prevent local government entities from preferring criminal charges or launching lawsuits, but that would never protect a corporation’s image.

  Immunity to prosecution could never save face.

  Now, a sleek silver Rolls Royce Phaeton limousine swings toward the curb and glides to a halt as smoothly as a maglev train pulling into Kyoto station, stopping precisely in front of Enoshi. He waits, hands at his sides. The door to the passenger section immediately opens. A man in a black synthleather trench coat steps out. His long white hair and pale complexion suggest the elven metatype, but this is of no special significance. The elf is merely a servant of the personage whom Enoshi has come to meet. The elf consults a small scanning device, but Enoshi is carrying no weapons.