Roland scowled, he knew some of the bosses, and he wasn’t so sure, “You think they will let it go without a fight? The supply chain and the human traffic?”
Billy shook his head, “Hell no. But there will be no drugs and no ass until they do. We can hold out longer than they can… we’re already poor. When the junkies start coming to us anyway, the revenues become ours no matter what. As long as they don’t wipe us all out in the first two weeks, they lose.”
“Two weeks?” Roland smiled, “Can you hold out that long against the Combine? They can bring some serious heat.” Roland thought of the elite paramilitary units he had seen doing contractor work off-world. These teams ran with equipment and support comparable to real armies.
“We can make it worse by slashing prices and dumping the inventory at a loss. The junkies are gonna need product, and junkies don’t care how they get it. Once they are buying from us, the whole market shifts.”
Lucia, being far more business-acute than Roland, explained to him why that might work, “The return on investment gets very unattractive if the product loses value like that. It will make any money spent on reacquiring the market share painful.” She looked back at Billy, “But won’t that hurt you as well?”
Billy shrugged, “What price, freedom? Life already sucks here, at least we will be poor without a group of sadistic pricks running our lives.”
“Join the Army, sometime,” Roland quipped, then shifted back to the subject at hand, “what about the other rackets?”
“The slavers are out, too many of us have been through that meat-grinder or know someone who has. They’re done. Yeah, they’ll run to the Combine for help as soon as we start slitting their throats.” He shrugged, making his red mane bounce, “Then they’ll learn the hard truth about their masters. Uptown suits can’t afford to get caught anywhere near the slave trade. The whole reason the skin business stays here is so rich Combine fuckers can have a nice safe distance from that nasty shit. Combine won’t go to war to protect them if the other rackets are already losing money. It’s bad business. The little shits will get left to twist. I guess those pricks will end up going back off-world.”
Billy had really thought this out. The level of planning he had done impressed both the soldier and the businesswoman.
“Numbers have always been an Uptown game, so fuck the gambling, right? Lost cause.”
Most of the profitable gambling was electronic and legal, anyway. It wasn’t the cash cow it had been in past times. “Loans and laundering will stay with us. Those are Dockside rackets and those boys never go uptown if they can avoid it. That shit needs lots of cash-business and shadows to work, and Dockside is all about cash. Not to mention, the lights will always be a little too bright in Uptown. It’ll piss the Combine off to lose ’em. That will be the worst battle because that shit is profitable as hell. People are gonna die over those two gigs.”
He looked up at Roland, “Word is you might be the guy to talk to about Dockside, actually. Some of my little birds tell me best fixer for that is an eight-foot asshole who knocks building over when he’s in a bad mood. Know anyone like that?”
Lucia waved her arms in cartoonish enthusiasm, “Ooh, ooh, I do! I know a guy like that! Ask me!”
“Must be someone else,” Everybody gave the big man a scowl of disbelief, “I’m barely seven-and-a-half feet tall, and I only knock buildings over when I’m in a good mood,” was his offered explanation. Nobody thought he was funny, so Roland nodded assent, “I can definitely make some calls and smooth out any rough spots on that front.”
McGinty smirked, “For a price?”
Roland nodded again, “Naturally. I’m not a savage. Bills to pay, and all. I have a lifestyle and reputation to maintain.”
Billy flipped a page in his pad, referencing his written notes, moving onto the next item, “As for the prostitution, tail is tail, man. Uptown pimps will always work for Combine ’cuz they always have. Big Woo pimps are on our side already. Dockside and the Sprawl will have to choose sides when the time comes, but Big Woo will want a much smaller cut than Uptown, so they’ll go our way soon enough.”
“Dockside pimps won’t be an issue. They all work for Madame Madeleine in one capacity or another, and she’ll be more than happy to be done with Marko and Uptown.” Roland had done a brisk business for the Madame, ensuring that the Uptown class of johns understood that just because a girl’s time was for rent, it did not follow that she could be treated like a rental car. Super-wealthy oligarchs struggled with the distinction, sometimes.
“I don’t know her personally, but that has always been the consensus down here. Can I count on you to bring her in?” McGinty looked hopeful.
Roland couched his next words with as much polite honesty as he could, “The Madame will want to bring all your pimps under her umbrella to go along with this. She will not take ‘no’ for an answer.”
McGinty winced, “The boys won’t like that. Just get her to the table, and we will negotiate as best we can.”
“She runs a tight, profitable ship up in Dockside,” Roland offered, “there are worse ways it could go.”
“Yeah, well, us Woo crews can be territorial. We’ll sort it out though. Any ideas on the Sprawl?”
“Not my territory,” Roland mused, “but I think they are mostly Combine out there. Combine always takes a huge percentage, and that’s your best angle.” Roland was a professional fixer, and he was in his element now, “If that’s the case you may try wooing them over by offering better coverage for a smaller percentage. Combine have been fat and lazy for a while now. It’s why they stay out of Dockside… they’d have to earn their percentage there, and they aren’t interested.”
Billy looked thoughtful, “We could arrange for some incidents to occur, and when Combine drops the ball, we swoop in and handle it at a discount…”
“Exactly,” Roland said, “Expose them where they are weak, then offer to do a better job for cheaper. They’ll come over.”
“That’s a lot of moving parts. Can you hold out for long enough to make all of this happen?” Lucia brought the conversation back to the critical issue.
Billy smiled, “Maybe yes, maybe no. Like I said, life here already sucks, might as well cross the Rubicon, ya know?”
The reference surprised Roland and it must have showed on his face. Billy laughed at him, “I may not have gone to college, Big Man, but I can read a book when I want to.”
Roland nodded his approval and changed the subject, “Speaking of crossing Rubicons, what’s the plan for getting us to Umas?”
McGinty smiled, “That part is fairly easy. We will stick you into a truck and drive you there.”
“Really?” Roland managed a truly epic raised eyebrow, “he won’t have security on high alert? I may have just threatened his entire operation and everyone he knows.”
“Brilliant bit of strategy, there, Pal,” Billy rolled his eyes, “Of course he will be on high alert, but he still needs his usual supply of drugs and alcohol, though. If his boys don’t get booze they don’t fight, and if his girls don’t get their drugs, they start having independent thoughts.” Billy shook his head, “Marko can’t afford either right now.”
Roland gave a tight-lipped nod, “And today is delivery day?”
“It is.” McGinty confirmed.
“That gets us to the gate, what happens when they search the truck?”
The gangster gave a non-committal shrug, “Either they find you, and the shooting and smashing begins, or they don’t find you and we get you right up to his office. Either way you’re there.”
“I liked this plan until that part,” Lucia piped up.
Billy looked askance, “You going along, girl? We can stash you if you want. Let the Tank here handle it, maybe?”
Lucia flashed a coy smile at him, “With what I’m worth? Do you really trust ALL of your men not to turn me in for the millions of creds on the table? With my big ugly babysitter gone, someone just might get tempted.”
Roland had to agree with her assessment. Not the ‘ugly’ part. His mother had assured him throughout his childhood he was a handsome boy, and he had no reason to doubt her. But the budding relationship with the Teamsters did not have enough history for that level of trust yet. Billy also didn’t know about Lucia’s enhancements. She may not be fast enough to dodge bullets, but Roland had seen enough to trust that she would not be a liability in a firefight.
The redhead nodded in wry understanding, “Probably prudent. But I figured I’d offer.”
“Appreciated,” Lucia’s response was sincere, “but I’ll stick with the big metal asshole for now.”
Billy nodded, “He grows on you, huh? Like a big shaggy dog that no one else will love?”
Lucia shook her head, “More like a thousand-pound monkey with terrible manners and an alcohol problem.”
Roland snorted, “I can metabolize gasoline, lady. It’s biomechanically impossible for me to have an alcohol problem.”
McGinty laughed, “What do you call it when you are out of booze then?”
“I suppose that would technically be an ’alcohol problem,’” Roland found the man’s logic unassailable. Then he moved on, “Let’s suit up and get rolling. I’d like to get to Marko around sunset.”
“Gonna fight at night? Figured we’d wait until dawn, at least,” Billy asked, looking concerned.
Roland smiled a wolf grin, all teeth and malice, “I can see in the dark. They can’t.”
Billy shook his head, “Of course you can see in the fucking dark. I don’t know why I didn’t just assume that. Anything else you want to tell me?”
“Your fly is down.”
“Fucking hell!” McGinty fixed his pants with fumbling alacrity and looked to Lucia, “he really is an asshole, isn’t he?”
She looked up at the big cyborg, standing with his arms folded and a smug grin on his face and scowled, “yeah, but I guess he’s my asshole, now.”
Both men gave her a look of confused amusement, and realization dawned on her. “Crap, that sounded different from how I wanted it to!”
Her mirth came with unexpected ease. The facility and speed with which she was managing everything was a welcome surprise. Even though the firefight in the parking lot had been terrifying, she had avoided any major panic issues during the ordeal. She hadn’t told Roland, but her heart rate had settled back to normal within an hour, and she knew she was stifling her anxiety with pure willpower. It really felt like she was under control for the moment, and Lucia was oddly comfortable with their current situation. Almost too comfortable when she considered it. She wasn’t sure why, but it felt like the buzzing alarms and overwhelming fears were moving to the background more. They were all still there, still real, still terrifying; but they weren’t overwhelming the part of her brain that made decisions as much. She couldn’t be sure if she was just acclimating to mental noise, or if it was getting better on its own.
With the planning more or less complete for getting them to Umas and Marko, her attention turned to more immediate concerns. She looked to the two men and asked, “I don’t suppose there is time to eat anything before we embark on our little mission, is there?” Roland wasn’t kidding about how hungry she would get. She regretted not trying the mystery street meat earlier, which was one of the strangest thoughts she had ever had.
Billy grunted assent, “Yeah. We got food. It sucks, but it’s technically food, all the same. Sorry, but we don’t get too many Uptown ladies down here. With any luck, you’ll be able to digest it.”
“‘Technically food’ is good enough for me right now.” She was too hungry to be picky, and she resolved to acquit herself well in consuming whatever offerings the Teamsters could make. If only for the sake of her Uptown neighbors and the squashing of stereotypes.
Someone once said, “hunger makes the best sauce.” Lucia had to agree, because in short order she found herself committing what could only be considered a hate-crime on some kind of burrito-thing stuffed with muddy brown meat-ish filling, and what the people in Big Woo colloquially referred to as “cheese.” Lucia was fairly certain that it was not cheese, and may not have been an actual food item, but it was melty and salty and she ate it with gusto. Then she asked for another.
McGinty eyed her with a mixture of respect and fear, “Uhhh… Nobody’s ever eaten two of those before, you know.”
Lucia looked at the red-headed gangster askance, “What the hell does that mean?”
“Those are like, 3,000 calories each. No disrespect intended, but can your… uh… system handle that much synthetic protein?”
Lucia’s face became a little more pensive, “Am I going to shit my pants later? Is that what you are asking?”
Billy laughed, “Something like that, yeah.”
She shrugged, “I guess we’ll find out, because I’m still starving!”
“As the lady wishes,” said Billy, with mock severity.
Roland’s voice was tremulous, “I don’t want to ride in the back of the truck with her anymore.”
Chapter Eighteen
Mark Anthony Johnstone slammed the comm down on his desk, destroying his third expensive handheld in two days. Breaking comms was cliché with Marko, but it wasn’t really his fault. He was a large man, with large hands, and modern comms were just not built to handle the explosive nature of his personality. His personality was in a very explosive place at the moment and thus many of the less robust devices in his office were likely destined for a premature doom. Once, when a day was going particularly poorly, he had shoved his whole desk through the large window that made up an entire wall of his fifth-floor office.
His new desk, however, was far heavier and sturdier than the previous one, and Marko was not so young as he once was. The big antique desk, it seemed, was safe. For now.
Marko sighed and rested his head in his hands. Wayward strands of silver-grey hair peaked out from between thick fingers, and he heaved another exasperated sigh. Once a thick-muscled specimen of human genetic potential, Marko ran a little on the fat side these days. His bulk still held many external indicators of a man with prodigious strength, but age and appetite had blunted the sword-sharp look of the much-feared Big Woo enforcer he had started his career as.
As his weight approached four-hundred pounds, he was more likely to heft a pint of beer than a barbell. He massaged the bridge of a wide, pug-nose and rubbed his face with brisk strokes. He had the heavy brow of a troglodyte, and thick eyebrows shaded striking blue eyes streaked with angry red veins. A jaw like a slab of concrete worked in wordless frustration for a few seconds. With painful slowness a confluence of guttural sounds assembled themselves into words, which he directed at the nervous man trembling in front of him.
“That piece of shit, two-bit, tall-ass mutant motherfucker from Dockside just declared war on all the bosses,” Marko snorted. It was an explosive sound, replete with rage and frustration, “That big fucker thinks he can scare me off. ME! The goddamn mutherfucking boss of Big Woo.” He looked for something else to break and settled on the decorative lamp sitting atop his antique hardwood desk. The lamp smashed against the far wall in a disappointing shower of glass and plastic. He had hoped for something rather more dramatic.
The thin man across from the seething boss adjusted the lapels of his dark grey suit, and offered such comfort as he could, “Have any of the crews found him yet?” His voice wavered, “I’ve heard reports that they were spotted just off the green.”
Marko stood up and fixed the minion with a glare. He spoke with calculated deliberation, injecting each word with as much menace as he could muster, “Trey and Jimbo just tried to take them in the Teamster’s quarter,” he paused to make sure the shivering man across from him was listening very carefully, “Tank killed both fucking teams. Left one guy alive to spread the word that he was coming for me,” he shook his head, “A fucking no-name fixer, from Dockside! Calling me out?!? Shit!” His voice escalated to a roar. Mark Anthony Johnstone had not fo
ught and killed his way up from the streets to the level of Boss to have some punk-ass street-shit call him out. It was an almost unfathomable breach of protocol. It was an act of such irredeemable disrespect that Marko almost couldn’t comprehend it.
There could be only one response, he knew. The rest of the Combine bosses already thought he was beneath them; as if his humble origins made him less of a Boss than they were. They let him have the Woo because it was too dirty, too dangerous for their white-gloved hands, and Marko was fine with that. He liked the Woo plenty and knew that he had control of the most important piece of the supply chain. But that didn’t make their sneers easier to take.
Letting someone like Tank call him out could cost him dearly in the universal currency of respect if he did not handle it in spectacular fashion. It was a foregone conclusion that the other Bosses would use this insult against him if he didn’t send the correct message and make a statement. He felt their merciless eyes on him, and he did not like it.
He liked nothing about the last few days. None of it was making sense. First, the bounty for that Uptown broad had hit the boards, and it was huge. Having a big-ass bounty to collect was exciting, but bounties happened all the time. The size made it obvious that this would be an interesting hunt, but no other red flags went up at that time.
Then somebody hit Dockside without clearing it, and they used some heavy shit to do it. Dockside could be a real no-man’s-land, not having a Boss, but nobody should run that kind of op without checking with the Combine first. No matter where things went down in New Boston, the proper conventions should be observed; otherwise it would be constant gang warfare and anarchy. Even the criminals knew that much. That’s when the calls came in from other Bosses. It seemed nobody knew who ran that hit.
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