[Shadowrun 11] - Striper Assassin

by Nyx Smith - (ebook by Undead)

“Enough of the skanky games already!”

  “You must do something before I pay you.”

  “Dammit! What?”

  “The tigress feels left out.” With a brief gesture, Adama indicates Tikki. “She is a passionate creature. Hot-blooded. Strong. You must play a little game with her.”

  “Are you whacked?”

  “Whacked? Indeed, no.” Adama smiles quite contentedly. “You must let the tigress kiss you.”

  “What?”

  Tikki rises to all fours, and the elf’s smell swells with fear. “She wants to kiss you,” Adama says.

  “Keep it away from me!” Sticks shouts.

  It…? Tikki grumbles disconsolately and steps toward the center of the room. Sticks snatches up one of the gleaming stainless-steel knives from the table beside him and hurls it at Tikki’s face. She swats the knife out of the air. The blade scratches her paw, but the minor discomfort is mere and gone in an instant. She bares her fangs and roars.

  Sticks’ eyes go wide, his smell turns acid with fear.

  “You shouldn’t have done that,” Adama says, laughing. “That’s bad. Very bad. The tigress doesn’t like that.”

  Prey should never turn on the hunter.

  It is wrong.

  Tikki advances. The elf shouts at Adama and darts around to the distant side of the table, snatching up another knife, two or three, a handful of knives. Tikki doesn’t care about that. She puts her head to the edge of the table. With a quick snap of her head, the table flips onto its side. The gleaming instruments crash to the floor. The elf jumps back. Tikki swats at the table with a paw and sends it skidding across the floor to crash against the wall. The elf shouts, smelling like panic, and frantically throws the knives. Tikki waits for him to finish, then advances. What little injuries the knives inflict scab over, heal and vanish even as the last knife clangs to the floor.

  She backs the elf into a corner.

  “NO!” the elf shrieks. “YOU FRAGGER!”

  Adama chuckles. “Don’t take it personally,” he says. “It’s just business. I cannot risk allowing you to compromise my security. The tigress I can trust. We have an arrangement, you might say. But you?” Adama chuckles. “I’m sure you understand my position.”

  Terror floods the air anew.

  Tikki bounds up onto her hind legs, just briefly, and drives her forelegs against the elf’s chest. It’s like swatting flies or monkeys. She need hardly exert herself at all, yet the force of the blow drives the elf back off his feet, slams him into the wall, and drops him to the floor. She has several times his mass and strength, and a speed and agility to equal any human, or any elf. She lets him stagger to his feet. She has time, time to do this right. Prey is best when taken on the run, possessed with terror for the hunter, heart pounding, blood thundering hot and rich through its veins. That is when the kill is truly a kill. That is when the meat tastes sweetest.

  Adama begins to laugh softly.

  The hunter in him understands.

  28

  The creature rises out of the darkness with eyes like fire and huge gnashing fangs and slashing claws, roaring like all the demons of hell combined into one malevolent form. There is no escaping it. The monster is filled with anger and hate and a primitive ruthlessness that exceeds all human comprehension. It comes roaring through the darkness, closer and closer, growing larger, growing huge, possessed by the will to maim and kill and destroy.

  Ohara screams and becomes suddenly aware of the subdued red glow of his bedroom, of lying in his bed, gripping the sheets, drenched in rank sweat, his hands shaking, his heart pounding wildly. He’s been dreaming again. He knows too well the exegesis of the monster, the embodiment of the horror that haunts him still, not only when he sleeps. He’s been living with it since Seattle, going on three years. Will it never end?

  As he struggles to catch his breath, he notices the biffs, Christie and Crystal, sprawled beside him on the bed. Christie moans and shifts, then lies still. The other one doesn’t even stir. They’re laxed out on dorphs. Ohara tried candy like that once. It sent him into what doctors described as a schizo-paranoid episode that lasted for most of three days.

  Ohara reaches over to the shelf sweeping away from the head of the bed, and fumbles for his bottle of Dalium tranx. Dry-swallows a pair of capsules, the dosage his doctor prescribed.

  The pills help slow his pounding heart, but leave him wide-awake and anxious. He takes a shower, then wraps himself in a satin and cashmere robe and steps into his study. Reddish panels in the ceiling cast a subdued light. Heavy black drapes cover the windows. He sits behind his curving, semi-circular desk and slots The Power Master into the datajack behind his right ear. A little track-loop BTL helps him regain his composure. Provides a very minor emotive boost. Once his hands cease quivering, he switches on his desktop comp, brings up his planning portfolio, and reviews the files there for the nth time.

  Making a success of Exotech is just a starting point. Gaining control of the board of Exotech’s parent, Kono-Furata-Ko, is only a first step. He has plans, long-range plans, strategic objectives, secret objectives shared with no one. He has his eyes on the real power blocs, the titanic multinationals controlling automated orbital factories and other stations. That’s where the future lies. That’s where the real power will arise, power enough to manipulate the entire global infrastructure, the whole of the human race.

  The possibilities are endless. A railgun equipped to launch bits of spaceborne debris like asteroids could subjugate the entire planet. He’s studied the data carefully. A sufficiently large rock fired at the Earth could strike with the impact of a nuclear weapon. That’s one possibility. The massive orbital production of designer chemicals such as his two biffs constantly abuse could just as easily turn humanity into a race of slaves.

  The telecom bleeps.

  Ohara touches the pickup key, audio only, so he will be heard but not seen. The small screen on the desktop displays the number of the calling telecom, then adds a chest-up view of Ohara’s chief of staff, Enoshi Ken.

  “What now?” Ohara snaps impatiently.

  “Please excuse this interruption, sir,” says Enoshi. “I know the hour is very late. But I thought you should know. There has been a terrible incident.”

  “A what?”

  “Mister Thomas Harris is dead.”

  “What?”

  Enoshi briefly bows his head. “Mister Harris was killed along with his wife and a number of personal friends—”

  “Impossible!” Ohara interrupts.

  “Please excuse me, sir, but this information has been confirmed. Lieutenant Kirkland of the police has only just left my residence. He brought the information personally.”

  “What…? What did you tell him?”

  “Naturally, sir, I thanked him for his diligence, and assured him that the corporation would cooperate fully with the ongoing investigation.”

  “That’s all? That’s all you said?”

  “Sir, there was nothing that I could tell him.”

  And there’s nothing that he can say now, over a telecom line. The police might be listening in. Ohara realizes that he’ll have to cut this short, before Enoshi gives something away. Before anything else goes wrong.

  “See me in my office first thing tomorrow. I… I want a full report. We have things to talk about.”

  “Yes, sir. I understand, sir.”

  “Good.”

  Ohara jabs at the telecom, switches off, then tugs at a desk drawer. The Power Master just isn’t doing it for him tonight. What he needs is something heavy, a personalized track-loop called Omnipower. That’s his salvation.

  The call from Enoshi only reminds him of the one real threat to his strategic plans, his accession to ultimate power, the fulfillment of all his goals. The police investigation into the deaths of Thomas Harris, Jorge, and Neiman are practically irrelevant compared to the monstrous evil that turns his sleep into a series of recurring, captivating nightmares, psycho-traumatic recollections of
the horror that nearly killed him back in Seattle.

  The demonic creature masquerading as a woman called Striper must be destroyed!

  He stabs at the telecom, gets Enoshi back on the line.

  “Your top priority job, the special biz. You know what I mean. I want a report on that, too.”

  “Of course, sir. I’ll do my best, sir.”

  “See that you do!”

  Ohara breaks the connection, scans the study for some clue as to where he might have left the Omnipower BTL chip. He can feel himself growing just a bit frantic trying to remember where he left it. There’s an excellent reason for that. Neiman, Jorge, now Harris—a progression pointing straight at Ohara himself. Those three men were nothing until Ohara took over Exotech, exploiting their abilities to the max. Doubtless, the demon knows that. Killing Neiman, Jorge, and now Harris is just her way of preparing him for the death she yearns to give him. She wants him to suffer, to squirm, to writhe in unholy agony until the moment when she comes for him.

  Ohara won’t give her the satisfaction. He finally finds the Omnipower chip in his private bathroom, slots it into the datajack behind his right ear. He realizes then that he’s in absolute control, not only of his emotions, but of his entire situation. He knows what must be done. He returns to the study and calmly punches up the number of Birnoth Security Associates, the emergency line.

  The woman who answers promises to have a high-threat response team at his door within twenty minutes.

  The time passes swiftly.

  29

  Seated in his small but comfortable den, still in shirt and tie, Enoshi removes his glasses to rub briefly at his eyes. The tension headache that has been plaguing him all evening shows no sign of abating, and little wonder. His briefcase sits open on the coffee table. The cursor of his portacomp winks relentlessly at him from the display. An abundance of hard copy lies scattered around him on the table and the sofa. The air is full of the smoke from the spent cigarettes now overflowing the ashtray. He’s poisoning himself with carbon monoxide, or whatever it is that cigarettes produce, and he’s probably overdue for an eye examination. And he’s out of coffee again.

  A rustling of slipper-clad feet draws his eyes to the doorway from the kitchen. Without his glasses, he sees only a colorful blur, but that’s enough. His wife is wearing her favorite robe, which is a soft pink decorated with white chrysanthemums.

  “It’s after two,” she says softly.

  Enoshi nods. “Yes… yes, I know.”

  Setsuko is a very different sort of woman from Enoshi’s mistress, neither exotic nor the least bit foreign. She is, rather, as familiar and as comfortable as one person could possibly be for another. She is quiet and persevering, his wife and the mother of his children, a trusted and devoted partner whom he would not forsake for anyone or anything. His love for her is more than love, physical love, more than infatuation. It is the sort of love that will certainly hold the two of them together for the rest of their lives.

  Enoshi slips his glasses on. “I won’t be long.”

  “Something must be wrong.”

  “I wish I were free to say.”

  “It’s that gaijin, isn’t it?”

  “Ohara-san is my superior.”

  And for that reason, if no other, Setsuko should not speak of the man as if he were some kind of barbarian. They’ve had this discussion before. Ohara-san’s position demands respect.

  “Yes, I know that,” Setsuko replies. “Please excuse me. But it is him, isn’t it?”

  Enoshi nods. “I must make another call.”

  “I’ll wait for you in bed.”

  Setsuko bows slightly, to which Enoshi responds with a slight bow of his head. As she turns to leave, Enoshi keys the telecom, tapping in a number he knows by rote, one he could never forget. It is too important.

  The other end bleeps twice, then the grave features of Torakido Buntaro appear on the screen. Some of his North American associates refer to the man as Ben, but he is always Torakido-sama to Enoshi, even in his thoughts. Enoshi bows his head fully, and says, “Moshi-moshi, Torakido-sama.”

  “Yosh…” Torakido-sama says softly, more a grunt than a word. “What have you to report?”

  Enoshi gives a succinct recap of his conversation with Bernard Ohara, first the facts, then his impressions of Ohara’s response.

  “Did he seem unbalanced?” Torakido-sama asks.

  “No, Torakido-sama,” Enoshi replies. “He sounded greatly disturbed, but apparently sane.”

  This time Torakido-sama actually does grunt, a sound Enoshi perceives as one of thought and evaluation. As he has come to realize, the vice-chairman of the board of KFK International does nothing without at least a moment of thought. He is decisive, but not given to impulse. Unlike other executives Enoshi knows, Torakido-sama gives the impression of being fully in command, the master of his own fate, without ever appearing to seek to give that impression.

  Enoshi waits for his next question or remark.

  “Have you any more information on the matter we discussed?”

  The matter previously discussed is Bernard Ohara’s hiring, through Enoshi, of those persons necessary to ensure the elimination of the underworld assassin known as Striper. As Torakido-sama himself previously explained, this action is both good and bad. It is good, In Torakido-sama’s view, that an executive of the corporation should take whatever measures are necessary to eliminate a threat to his own person, and, hence, the corporation. However, it is also bad for an executive and therefore the corporation to become involved with shadowrunners and other criminals. Any action that might compromise the welfare of the corporation must be considered very dangerous. It is especially dangerous coming on the heels of the highly illegal and morally despicable Operation Clean Sweep.

  Each new operation adds to the risk of discovery, exposure. Torakido-sama is deeply concerned.

  Unfortunately, Enoshi has no further information to convey.

  “You must watch this matter very closely, Enoshi-kun,” Torakido-sama goes on to say, using the familiar, almost paternal form of address. “The image of our corporation could be severely damaged if the worst comes to pass.”

  That Torakido-sama would bother to say this only emphasizes to Enoshi the depth of Torakido-sama’s concern. Enoshi bows. “I understand, Torakido-sama. Please be assured that this matter is utmost in my mind, day and night.”

  “As it should be. As indeed it must be. We are daikazoku, neh? One great family? The shame of one is the shame of all.”

  Enoshi replies immediately, and gravely, “Yes, most definitely, Torakido-sama. Daikazoku.”

  In Enoshi’s view, Torakido-sama is every bit as ambitious as Bernard Ohara, but with one critical exception. Torakido-sama’s loyalty to the corporation of Kono-Furata-Ko and all its subsidiary units and all its employees is beyond question. The course of his career is guided by the needs of the corporation. If Torakido-sama has trod on any backs in his rise up the corporate ladder, those backs belonged to his immediate rivals, men who lacked the vision or loyalty to serve the corporation properly.

  Enoshi believes that Torakido-sama’s karma is great and that he is destined to one day take full control of KFK. It is Enoshi’s hope that when that day comes Torakido-sama will remember the loyal service and devotion to duty of those who rank below him.

  Even now, at this late hour, in this uncertain situation, Torakido-sama is magnanimous. He smiles. He addresses Enoshi in a warm tone, as if speaking to a close friend. “Of course, you will do your best. You have always done so, and I know you will continue to do so. I have great confidence in your ability, Ken.”

  Enoshi smiles with pride and pleasure and briefly bows his head. “Thank you, Torakido-sama.”

  “Your oldest son? He will be preparing for college soon, neh?”

  Enoshi again bows his head. “Yes, Torakido-sama. In a few more months.”

  Torakido-sama’s expression turns sober. “College is an important step in a young man
’s life. The entrance examinations can be very challenging. I’m sure that you and your wife are aware that the right tutors can provide a distinct advantage.”

  “Yes, Torakido-sama. That is certainly true.”

  Torakido-sama gazes at Enoshi for a moment, then shows the faintest of smiles. “Of course, the best tutors are difficult to engage. They are in great demand, neh? I will give you a few names. Certain highly recommended tutors have available slots in their schedules. You should call them immediately.”

  The tutors Torakido-sama names serve the corporate elite. Merely to seek an appointment requires that one have the proper referral. Enoshi had previously considered such tutors far beyond his reach. He bows deeply, overwhelmed, barely able to contain his gratitude. “Thank you, Torakido-sama. You are most generous.”

  “It is my duty,” Torakido-sama says simply. “But enough. You have served our firm well tonight, and it’s very late. Go to bed, Ken. Men of our age need their rest.”

  “Yes, Torakido-sama. Thank you. And good night.”

  30

  The warehouse is six stories of grimy brick, squat and square, and very wide across. It stands north of Franklin Bridge and just east of the interstate, amid the congested confusion of streets and buildings crammed between the highway and the waterfront. The garish neon sign rising from the warehouse roof proclaims:

  DELGATO MOVING AND STORAGE

  PHILADELPHIA’S PRIMO MOVERS

  Axle hangs almost motionless in the night some five hundred meters above the rooftop sign. In reality, he’s sitting in a van on the ground, but that is a trivial detail. He’s jacked into his heavily modified Mitsuhama control deck and flying his Aerodesign Condor LDSD-23 surveillance drone. It’s like hanging from a balloon, dangling in empty air. Hydrogen gas cells provide lift. Turboprop rotors keep him on station. His eyes are Versatek zooms, thermographically enhanced, with a heads-up display in targeting mode feeding him data from his ground-seeking radar. He can see practically the whole world beneath him, every direction at once, kind of like looking through a super wide-angle lens, but without the distortion. Targeting sights direct his attention to everything that moves in the vicinity of the warehouse.