“Whiskey, please,” I don’t smile as I start to dial in my focus with a deep breath, preparing for my upcoming meeting. “Do you do whiskey stones here? To keep it cold? Wonderful, please have them add three,” I state and add a flick of my fingers.
Her mouth hangs open to answer my questions, then closes with an indignant sigh. She thinks I’m an asshole. I snicker. I have a bad habit of asking questions I know the answer to and simply say what I want anyway. Maybe I am an asshole. It’s just business.
I send her a nice tip via my AR to temper my insult. Her frown becomes a smile as she starts toward the bar to put my order in the old fashioned way, using speech. It has a certain charm to it.
I sit alone at the back of the Horizon in a secluded corner. My drink arrives. I want this crew to be comfortable because if they succeed, it greases the wheels for future jobs. They might not know why exactly, but they’ll like me more than other Strings they’ve worked with.
My crew is late, far later than I. Perhaps they’re playing the power game. I have nothing else planned so I wait and enjoy my whiskey.
I settle in my chair and relax my eyes as the synths, drumbeats, and oozing lights bathe me in their numbing haze. An hour passes, and now the club has filled with fifty or so additional patrons. It won’t be long until the entirety of the room becomes a dance floor. My contact finally approaches my table, and it dawns on me that she wanted it filled for the sake of anonymity.
I expect to meet one woman, but there is a pair. The unexpected guy is decked out heavy in cyberware. His eyes are whirring servos and flexing lenses. He can zoom and adjust the focal length of his vision to see vast distances or view the minutia of textures down to the cellular level if he chooses. His arms are bare, mechanical and rippled in cords of polished chrome. They’re a hybridization of flesh and steel. They’re strong enough to press a pickup truck overhead. I like his brazen style.
He’s tall, maybe seven feet, and wears black combat pants and combat boots. Over his barrel chest is a ballistic vest showing the telltale signs of weapons. He managed to get them through the bar’s scanners, which mean they’re carbon fiber. He’s invested a princely sum into his body. Someone as modified as he is and has managed to remain alive is a testament to his resilience. It’s the type of sum only earned from tens of years of successful jobs. Every thug in Chicago would see this guy as fresh meat to be harvested. His arms alone could feed a family of four for a lifetime. His face, however, looks like it would break like glass, soft with delicate features. Perhaps he’s making up for a penile deficiency. His iron gray hair is long, looped behind his ears. He crosses his arms as he appraises me appraising him a few feet from my table.
“This is the String?” he asks.
My eyes linger on his arms then fall to the woman beside him. “I believe he is,” she answers.
She’s Japanese, and I’m instantly attracted. She’s wearing a strange robe cut like a kimono. Wait, it’s actually a kimono. It’s pulled tight around her lean torso, secured by an amber sash and flows around her lovely curves. Her lips are crimson, full, and inviting.
She wears a modified form of traditional Geisha makeup. Deep red shadows flow from the bridge of her nose, over her cheeks and up to her eyes. Her hair is shaved down to the skin on the sides while the center section is long and slicked back. Below razor sculpted eyebrows are eyes that are obsidian pools. They pierce through my consuming hubris. For an instant, I’m wordless. I think my mouth might’ve even ridiculously fallen open.
The guy sits in a chair across from me, the wood groaning under his tremendous weight. Despite his soft features, his stare is cruel. She sits beside him with feline grace. I like them already.
I feel a sort of camaraderie in their presence. We’re all consummate professionals. They’re Mercs, and I’m the String. We know our roles and execute them perfectly. There will always be an insurmountable divide between us. We both want something from the other, each vying for the slightest edge of power. I flick eyes from the guy to the woman, giving each a nod. The guy snorts back mucus, and the woman tilts her head like a wolf examining wounded prey.
I say nothing. I force them to speak first. I’ve trained myself to be comfortable with long silences. In negotiations, he who can endure it longest wins. I always win.
My waitress glides over to the table, hips sashaying beneath skin-tight leather pants. “Care for a drink?”
“Vibe Red, please,” the guy says, lips pulling into the semblance of a smile.
“We don’t serve chems here,” the waitress sighs, plainly tired of repeating herself.
“Clean water then,” he replies.
“The same for me,” the woman says.
Vibe Red is a stimulating chem that also temporarily raises one’s IQ about twenty points, depending on the individual. It’s like caffeine, but exponentially more addicting. Clean water—water that is guaranteed to be radiation free—isn’t cheap. It’s a commodity traded on the exchanges like gold and silver.
“Anything else for you, String?” the waitress asks me with a knowing smile. I actually don’t mind that she’s deduced my profession, but she needs to be careful. She has forgotten or perhaps doesn’t know that the club’s discretion on these matters is why I come here. Perhaps she shuns her life.
I raise my head to glare at her with narrowed eyes. “Loose tongues get cut out. You should watch yours.”
“I…” She’s visibly rattled, lips trembling. “I’m sorry, I’m new here. They told me and I-I’m sorry. I won’t speak of it again.”
I give her no reprieve. My eyes stare into her fragile soul for another painful minute. “Good.” I nod with satisfaction. She scurries off in a backward walk, bumping into another table and spilling a well-dressed couple’s drinks. I smirk as she bends over to clean up the mess pooling on the floor.
“Charming,” the Japanese girl says.
“Saber.” The man extends his hand, an amalgam of chrome and flesh. I tentatively shake it, wondering if he’ll crush my bones to dust, but his handshake is gentle and well calibrated. “This is Paragon.” He gives a sideways nod to the woman. His voice is deep as the ocean but laced with a measure of roughness. I know these are pseudonyms, and I don’t expect to ever know their real names.
Paragon regards me with a soft gaze. Only half of her lips smile. Perhaps it’s a sneer, but I side with a smile. My eyes drift down toward the valley of skin where her kimono sags open, exposing the majority of her breasts. She says nothing, eyes slightly narrowing. I like this game.
I wonder if her pussy has been lasered. She seems like the landing strip type. “Desmond.” I nod to Saber then extend my hand to Paragon, who responds with only a raised eyebrow. I’m not offended, and I don’t care if they know my real name.
I palm the chip containing the details of the job over to Saber. I shrug at Paragon. “Sorry, you’ll have to share, it’s the only one I have. I was told I was only meeting with one person this evening.” I hope they understand how unprofessional I think they are.
“Plans change,” Paragon muses with a ghost of a smile, her eyes tracing me over, taking me in.
Saber’s mechanical eyes whir as he processes the data, entirely missing my annoyance. I look back at Paragon watching me. Her eyes shimmer in the lights of the club as she shifts in her chair. She is beautiful for a hardened killer. I wonder if she wants to kill me and how she’d do it. I see no visible weapons, but she could have a variety of murderous implants lurking beneath her skin from synthetic claws to injectable poisons. She thinks her beauty can make me squirm under her stare, but she doesn’t know who I am and what I’ve done.
There is something I can’t place about her that I find intriguing. There’s a certain lightness about her, as if nothing in the world matters. I hunger for that level of inner peace. She makes me think that life can be easy and that it’s all a matter of perspective. I feel as though she views the world as if it were her ant farm to cultivate or destroy. I don’t know why I t
hink these things. They just flow over me.
I feel strange. Maybe my drink was spiked with chems, or maybe my alcohol inhibitor needs to be replaced.
The waitress arrives with their clean water, drawing Paragon’s attention. “Thanks,” Saber says and drinks half of it in a single gulp. “Fucking expensive,” he mutters.
Paragon takes a mouthful of her water then takes the offered chip from Saber. She presses it to the underside of her wrist to upload the data via her Mem Reader. Saber says something to Paragon in a language I don’t understand. There are countless languages now. Mercs make up their own, so they can speak in secret. I don’t care and hail the waitress before she gets too far and order another whiskey.
Paragon says something that sounds like agreement in response to Saber’s questioning stare. He nods back at her and licks his lips. Saber presses his elbows on his thick quadriceps and conspiratorially leans toward me. “Chip said there will be another crew. Is that right?”
I sip my drink and swish the liquid in my mouth to savor the flavor palette. I watch him and finally swallow. I can see the impatience in his eyes, but I make him wait. “Yes, they’ll be there in case you need backup.”
“A distraction, perhaps?” Paragon asks with a flick of elegant fingers.
I almost spit up my drink but cover it with a quick nod and a feigned cough. “They could serve as a distraction, if needed,” I say too quickly. Sweat forms under my vest, and I can feel the blood pulsing in my cheeks. It all spans no more than a second before I have my adrenaline response mastered.
Does she know?
Was I that transparent?
She couldn’t.
She was only guessing, maybe trying to throw me off with apparent success. Fucking amateur, I scold myself.
“You’re not giving us much in the way of time to prepare. This type of job usually takes at least a month of prep work,” Saber says while scowling and shaking his head. It looks weird on his handsome features.
He’s right. “I know, and I don’t blame either of you for not liking this timeline. I’m not partial to it myself, but even I have a boss. No one is coercing you to take the job… but as you can see, the pay is commensurate with the compressed time frame.” I let this sink in with a sip of my whiskey. They share in an indecipherable glance, likely texting each other via AR. “Now remember, you’ve got a support crew. The intel is good, very detailed.”
It’s uncommon for a crew to have a backup, but it’s also an unknown variable to them. They don’t know the other crew and have no idea if they can be trusted. The allure of such a large block of Spectrals is difficult to resist. I can see Saber wants the job, giving Paragon an ensuring series of nods.
I see now that she is their head. She leans back in her chair and drapes her arms over the chair’s back, looking me over with those dark pools. She needs more, and I offer it. I can overcome any objection. She’s pondering the angles, and I appreciate her competence. It’s a joy to work with professionals.
“The preparations and research are comprehensive. We’ve put our best hackers on it. You won’t find more intel than what you’ve already uploaded.”
Paragon’s lips form a sly smile. “We don’t generally accept inside jobs.”
Saber’s eyebrows furrow as his gaze slides back to me in question.
She’s put me off balance again. This woman is far more cunning than I’d anticipated. I blink stupidly at her as my brain works to produce an articulate response. Instinctively, a masking smile of confidence emerges. Before I speak, I take a long breath through my nose, so my voice comes out even and controlled. “To my knowledge, it’s not an inside job,” I say, looking deep into her eyes, trying to penetrate her soul.
My mind is racing, searching for the needle in the haystack I might be missing. It’s the quantity and depth of the intel, I realize. They’re not used to working with a String as professional as myself. I grin and sip my drink. “Our hackers are good. There’s nothing to suspect.” Despite my assurance, an alarm blares in the background of my thoughts. Something is off. Why would they care if it were an inside job? It would simply make their work easier.
The Mercs say nothing but share wary glances.
I sniff. “Think what you want. Do you want the job or not? I don’t beg.” It’s a gambit, and I need it to work. I need this crew. They come well regarded from my friends in Erinas, my employer. And they’re not slated for death. I really don’t want to beg, but I might have to. Begging will amount to adding more Spectrals to their contract.
Paragon’s smile widens. She’s enjoying my suffering. An involuntary twitch forms in my throat. “Is Desmond really your name?” she asks.
“Yes,” I respond in a disbelieving tone. Saber looks as confused as me.
“Desmond,” she says my name in a sultry rasp. “There is something I can’t place about you. Something I like.” She leans forward and clasps her hands. “We’ll do it. While we prepare, let’s plan to meet again at Mint in two nights, same time.”
I slowly let out a long-held breath clutched deep within my chest. Paragon leans closer, maybe a foot away now. Her kimono spills open at the top, exposing her chest. It takes a mountainous effort to look into her eyes and not her perfect tits. On the rare occasion, I do the right thing.
Her voice is a gurgling river in a world of chaos. “We’ll accept half of the payment now plus twenty-thousand more Spectrals than what you’ve offered for the shortened time frame.”
My eyes are drawn like a moth to a flame to the living artwork that is her lips, unable to look away from their shifting shape. The walls could’ve been crumbling, and I’m not sure I would’ve noticed.
I can smell the sweetness of her breath, discern the shades of brown in her eyes. I want to inhale all of her.
“Fine,” I say.
It’s far less than the ceiling I was approved to give. Erinas will send me a nice bonus. I let them think they’ve won. I let her think it was her attractiveness and flirtation that won me over. I appreciate beauty, but I’m not blinded by its deception. Maybe.
Everyone looks the same when skinned and gutted.
With a nod and without another word, Paragon rises, turns, and stalks away. Saber doesn’t spare me a second glance and follows after her like a lost dog. Pathetic.
4
Message from a Friend
I’m back in the autocar and on my way to the Hyatt. Through my AR screen, I send a message to my boss, Orio, at Erinas, willing my thoughts to be converted into text. “Both teams hired, all well under approved budget. Everything is on track. Will report again Tuesday.”
I’m tempted to write that a bonus is in order, but I’m a professional, and it doesn’t need saying. I watch as the text scrolls across my vision, framed in by a square of red light. I send it and close my AR in a series of blinks.
The backseats of the autocar are plush leather with two spots where the stitching is starting to unravel along decorative ribbing. The car could use a cleaning. There are three discarded plastic chem wrappers on the floor and an empty soda can. I peer through the greasy haze of the side window.
The glass of the sentinel buildings reflects flashing neon lights. One is a gorgeous portrait of a man whose razor blade smile urges me to get my teeth bleached back to that perfect clarity. No one will love you with brown teeth, it reads below his picture. The same image appears on another building’s glass, this time with the headline that boasts, Beautiful people grow together.
I take a long blink. A prostitute with plump lips and glossy black hair tugs at her pink bikini top, teasing me with the crease of her nipple. The image fuzzes and wavers as an advertisement for Xorbax detergent replaces it. The box is a harsh orange. I scrunch my eyes, trying to will the images away, but they’re burned into my psyche in a replaying loop. I want to bleach my teeth and fuck and clean. Fuck marketing and fuck marketers. I keep my eyes closed for the remainder of the ride.
I lumber through the door of my hotel room and dr
amatically fall onto the bed like a felled tree. The bedding smells like lavender oil and my theatrics make me chuckle. Shit, I’m tired. Too tired to call the front desk to tell them how much I loathe lavender. I will the news to play through my AR, audio only. I don’t care what’s being said, but only want something to mute the sound of the boisterously rutting couple next door. The walls are not as soundproof as they claim. Like many things in life, expectations don’t coalesce with reality.
I shower, slip on a crisp white t-shirt, boxers, then brush my teeth. I examine them with a broad grimace and am pleased to find they’re not as yellowed as I might’ve thought. My mirror is clean and made of glass, not that warped plastic junk they had at the Hilton.
The difference between what I have now and what I had is what makes it enjoyable. It’s the ascension that matters and what makes the fall so painful. I now find myself enjoying my time at the Hyatt because it makes me realize how shitty it was in comparison to the Hilton.
I spit and rinse my toothbrush, watching it swirl down the stainless-steel drain. There isn’t an iota of rust or any evidence of someone having been here before me.
I wonder if Sawyer is enjoying the last few meals of his life. I think that maybe we’re staring into the same swirling vortex. He seemed boring and is likely polishing off his life with a bowl of vanilla ice cream.
Following the same thread of thoughts, my mind falls on Paragon, savoring the memory of her beauty. I swim in her eyes. I dance between her breasts. I breathe in deep on the scent of her hair. My dick stiffens, and I remind myself that I need to stay focused. I dash the thoughts away as I wash my face with one hundred and ten degree water, the temperature I requested from the room through my AR.
Backstab (Worlds of Deception Book 1) Page 3