by Mel Odom
“Fragging trog!” a yabo bellowed, bringing an SMG up.
Elvis moved instinctively, stepping in and slightly to one side. The stream of bullets whizzed past him, sparking tracer fire. The big troll shook his right hand out, freeing a pair of forearm snap blades. He swiped the blades forward, and the yabo’s head went rolling across the floor wearing the last look of astonishment that would ever be required of it.
A group of men gathered from the nearby tables, weapons appearing instantly. Shoving the corpse from him, Skater ran a hand along the yabo’s body next to him and found spare clips for the SMG in the joker’s pockets. He shoved one home, yelling a warning to Duran and Elvis about the gathering crowd.
Before the words were fully out of his mouth, the knot of men were thrown backward. Skater expected to hear the concussion of the grenade that blew them off their feet a moment later. Instead, only the sounds of their groans and screams reached him. From the corner of his eye, he saw Cullen Trey moving toward them, his hands weaving intricate gestures.
“I thought perhaps a little breathing room was in order,” Trey said over the commlink. “Things were looking tight.”
“Jack,” Wheeler said. “We’ve got to move. Trapped in the Underground like this, if Vankler’s got any contacts with the Star, we could be fragged. They could cover the topside in minutes.”
Skater forced himself to his feet as a tri-burst of bullets hammered against his chest. If he hadn’t been moving, the rounds would have torn his head from his shoulders. He squeezed the trigger and cut down a pair of yabos standing near Vankler. He swung the SMG to cover Vankler.
Gripping the table, Vankler threw it toward Skater, creating a momentary shield.
Adrenaline powering his system, the boosted reflexes kicking in instantly, Skater braced himself and caught the thrown table against his forearm. Sharp pain sheared through his left elbow at the impact. Staggered back by the weight and the force, he tried to bring the SMG to bear again.
Vankler shouted orders at his men as he retreated toward the back of the bar. Yabos, guided by Tyr, firmed up a new skirmish line that took advantage of the tavern terrain. Before they had time to use their position to their advantage, Wheeler cut loose with a prolonged blast from an SMG that broke their ranks and sent most of them scrambling for cover.
Shoving the pain in his elbow away, Skater launched himself in pursuit of Vankler. He cut through the broken yabo line like a combat biker streaking for the finish line in the final seconds of a competition.
Skater vaulted over the prone body, then jumped a pair of overturned chairs. Everything was happening very fast, his senses in overdrive. He was grimly aware that Elvis and Duran had set up a back-to-back defense against the gathering of yabos. A captured knife gleamed in Duran’s hand, the blade long enough to qualify it as a short sword. He held a pistol in the other hand.
Vankler’s lead had allowed him to reach the other side of the squared-off bar. Two more yabos stood in the back, holding open a door equipped with a maglock. They leveled their weapons and fired around their employer.
Dodging to the side, Skater vaulted onto the synthpecan finish of the bar, sliding along the polished surface. The bullets shattered bottles and plastiglasses on the shelves behind the bar. Some of the plastiglass along the bar shattered when rounds struck them; the rest broke and tumbled away as Skater slid along the bar.
He squeezed off rounds that made the SMG quiver in his fist. The yabo to Vankler’s left went down, twisting in a violent pirouette as the bullets shuddered against him. Then Skater was all out of bartop and plunging to the floor. He landed awkwardly, a tipped chair knocking hell out of his ribs when he went down, but he recovered quickly.
Vankler was only a handful of meters from the heavy sec-door when Archangel moved out of the crowd of dancers who were trying to get through the exit door behind the stage. She held her Ares Light Fire 70 in both hands. She’d dressed in black for the night, but her alabaster skin and platinum blond hair stood out against it. She looked like a vengeful wraith, her face sharp and expressionless, almond eyes narrow.
The yabo guarding the door tried to turn quickly enough to defend his employer.
Archangel shot the yabo squarely between the eyes once as the man brought his weapon around. Before the high-pitched crack of the Light Fire 70 died away, the yabo tumbled to the floor.
Vankler raised his weapon and fired at Archangel.
Fear filled Skater as she disappeared from sight behind the big ork’s bulk. He levered himself to his feet, crying out and cursing with the pain that pulsed along his injured arm.
Vankler’s SMG ripped through another short burst. Skater felt certain the rounds had punched holes in Archangel. Vankler had been too close to miss. A growl ripped free from his throat as he closed the distance. The captured SMG was in his hand, extended before him, laser sight touching the back of Vankler’s head, kissing it with a lethal ruby dot.
Then Vankler’s head jerked sideways, blood spewing from his cracked lips. The ork’s legs looked like they’d suddenly turned to rubber.
Another step and Vankler collapsed, then Skater found himself staring at Archangel across the prone man. The roaring rush of anxiety that had filled his ears decreased pressure.
Unhurried, though her beautiful face was a tight mask of tension, she knelt and screwed the business end of her pistol into Vankler’s triangular-shaped ear. At her quiet insistence, he released his weapon. Archangel looked up at Skater. “Help me get him back on his feet,” she said.
Transferring the SMG to his other hand so he could use his good arm in the task, Skater gripped the back of Vankler’s collar and yanked the man to his feet. Archangel’s pistol never wavered from its position.
When Skater joined her, coming into Vankler’s view, he saw the fight go out of the big ork. “Tell your men to step down. Now!”
Vankler bellowed out the command, freezing his men into position around the tavern. Tables and chairs lay in scattered pieces over the floor. Mirrored shards tumbled in careless abandon behind the stage area. The canned music kept cycling, a vicious backbeat to the strobing neon lights coming from overhead.
Skater felt a hot tendril of blood seep down the side of his face, only now registering the dulled throb of the wound along the side of his head, but not remembering when or where he’d acquired it. He moved his weapon meaningfully over the yabos, who maintained their defensive postures. Getting out of the Underground was still going to be a wiz feat.
Slowly, Duran and Elvis disengaged from the hand-to-hand brawl the battle had become in their immediate vicinity. Both of them had to step over the unmoving dead and the moaning wounded. Blood spotted their clothing, too much of it to be all their own while they remained standing.
“I’ll take him,” Elvis rumbled when he came up beside Archangel. He fisted Vankler’s neck easily in one huge paw, the gleaming edges of the snap blades only millimeters from vulnerable skin.
Archangel stepped away, keeping her pistol in both hands. The barrel never wavered from Vankler’s face. “If anything bad happens, you’re going to be the first one to get iced.”
Keeping the SMG leveled, taking his Predator back from Duran, Skater moved tensely for the club’s front door. A quick glance outside let him know a crowd had already gathered in the passageway. He cursed with real feeling, fear adding to his creativity. “We’ve pegged the needle on this one,” he said over the commlink. He ran the Underground’s logistics through his head. “We’re not far from the exit at Big Rhino’s. We could try for it.”
“I got a back door slotted, omae,” Duran said.
“Now would be the time,” Trey said with a hint of trepidation in his casual tone, “to jander out in that direction.” Duran took point and Skater automatically fell in as left wing. Archangel took up the right. Elvis brought Vankler along while Wheeler and Cullen Trey covered their retreat.
28
The team of shadowrunners moved through the passages of the Ork
Underground quickly, keeping their weapons in their fists and out of sight as much as possible. The crowds in the passages were out in force, flowing from shop to shop and starting the early rounds of the taverns.
“Here,” Duran growled, cutting to the right into a small antique shop. The door opened with a shove and shuddered into the wall, banging loudly.
Skater followed the ork through the door. The air was heavy and thick with the smell of incense, almost nauseating with the sickly sweet of it. Shelves lined the walls, filled with books, vases, knickknacks, and other items that someone had classified as valuable.
A hard-faced ork dressed in a loud Hawaiian shirt covered with jalapeno-green parrots wearing Panama hats came up from the back. He wiped at his hands with a paint-and varnish-stained towel.
“Turn into ice!” Duran ordered, leveling his weapon.
The ork came to a stop immediately and threw his hands into the air, the stained rag flying suddenly at half-mast. “I’m chill,” the man said. “I’m not going to do nothing you don’t say to do.” Paint chips flecked his short beard.
After stepping into the antique shop, Wheeler and Trey took up positions on either side of the door. Elvis kicked over a wicker chair that had seen better days but still had a serviceable frame that could handle a fair amount of abuse. Wheeler caught the chair before it came to a halt and slid it under the door, jamming it tight.
Vankler reached up for Elvis’s arm, trying to ease the pressure at his neck, but the big troll shook his head.
Falling into place to one side of the small plastiglass window overlooking the passageway outside, Skater made himself into a small target behind the window frame. Archangel flanked him on the other side, taking up a position behind a counter that was backed by a stone slab that had been artificed into shape with crude tools.
“I’m looking for the boss,” Duran said, keeping his weapon on the paint-and varnish-splattered ork.
“That’s me,” the shopkeeper said. “But I don’t know you. There’s no reason you should have trouble for me.”
“No trouble,” Duran growled, “as long as you show us the back way out of this place.”
“Sure, sure,” the ork said. “No reason nobody should get hurt, right?” He led the way into the back of the shop, past tables covered with many different items in various stages of disarray. Shelves held an assortments of putties, glues, and varnishes, as well as a kiln. Evidently the shop’s antiques didn’t happen without a lot of work.
“The door’s behind here,” the shopkeeper said. He shoved a floor-to-ceiling file cabinet to one side, revealing a narrow doorway behind it. He pushed it open to reveal carved stone steps chopped out of the earth leading up, corkscrewing around to take up less space.
“Where does it go?” Duran moved forward, taking a pocket flash out and shining it into the opening.
“To a warehouse near the docks.”
“Whose warehouse?” Archangel asked.
The shopkeeper shrugged. “It’s rental space on a contractual basis. Crews only show up there when there’s an overflow of deliveries. The word I get is that it’s been rented out to an elven company from the Tir for the next month, but they haven’t taken occupation yet.”
“What about security?” Skater asked.
“There isn’t any the last I heard,” the ork said. “Just the goons the local chapters put together to rattle the doors occasionally.”
“Jack,” Wheeler called. “The drekheads outside are getting antsy. I just spotted a couple of them moving into the shops on either side of us.”
Running the situation through his mind, Skater scanned the angles. The ventilation ductwork over his head caught his attention. “They’ve got a way in,” he said, pointing. “The whole underground’s honeycombed with ventilation. Only the most sec-conscious places are going to have defenses.”
“Then I suggest we avail ourselves of the opportunity we have facing us,” Cullen Trey said. “Post haste.”
Duran nodded. “In a minute.” He crossed the distance to Elvis and shoved the snout of his weapon under Vankler’s jaw. “I want to chat with this son of a slitch for a moment.”
“Wheeler,” Skater said. “Start us up.”
Wheeler vanished into the doorway, followed by Trey and Archangel.
Skater waved Elvis away as well. “We don’t have a lot of time, Duran.” He stared at Duran’s hard face, wondering if he was going to geek Vankler then and there. He knew he didn’t stand a chance of preventing it if that was what Duran wanted to do.
“Nothing personal going on here, kid,” Duran said. “Nothing for you to worry about. This is strictly biz.”
Skater relaxed somewhat. Duran was nothing if not a pro. “Talk to me, Vankler,” the ork said. “You held back on us, just like you held back on Luppas. You tried to hot-dog it and take us down when we walked in to you. What were you thinking about? Cutting a deal with Luppas for our hoops?”
“Go frag yourself,” Vankler snarled.
Without the slightest bit of warning, Duran rammed an elbow into Vankler’s face.
The yabo chief’s head snapped backward, bouncing off the stone wall behind him. He bellowed in pain.
“This is biz,” Duran said in a hard voice as he moved into position behind Vankler so the man couldn’t easily hit him from below. “You know how I get over biz. You can hose me off, chances are I’ll let you live. But if I need something from you and you won’t give it, I’ll ice you where you’re standing.”
Vankler made gagging noises. “All right, all right.” He smeared at his jaw with his hand, pulling it away covered with blood. His voice was thinner now, no longer as strong or as cocky.
“What is Luppas looking for?” Duran asked.
“Joker named Norris Caber.”
“Why?”
“Don’t know.”
Duran hit Vankler in the side of the head. The impact was meaty, but not loud enough or long enough to cover the sound of someone crawling through the ventilation. Skater heard the hushed whisper of tense voices too.
“What I got,” Vankler groaned, “is a tie between a joker named Coleman January and Norris Caber. Turns out maybe they’re the same guy. You heard about the raid on that funeral home last night, right?”
“Get on with it,” Duran ordered.
Skater peered intently at the air duct, counting off the seconds in his mind and pushing away the tension that threatened to fill him.
“The last few days,” Vankler said, “Luppas has been interested in Norris Caber. Just finding an address on the guy, right? I figured the joker was SINless, that had to be the reason it was so hard to do a locate on him. Then I turned up the fact that Caber worked for Fuchi. At least, once upon a time, like the story goes. He dropped out of sight months ago, with no reason why. This morning, one of my contacts in DocWagon—a slag who gets me the skinny on a wetware target from time to time when she can—tells me about the situation at Shastakovich’s.”
“What situation?” Skater asked.
“The body that disappeared. The trid snoops haven’t said anything about it yet, so I’m guessing maybe they still don’t know. But my contact told me this dead guy, Coleman January, popped up on their scramble screens as Caber.”
“So what interested you?” Skater asked.
“The January slag,” Vankler said. “There’s been street buzz through the sprawl lately about a joker who can take a top exec from a corp, defuse any cortex bombs the slag’s wired with, and get him back into a productive mode within days. Anybody who can deck their way through that kind of encoded deltaware can name his price.”
“And street buzz names this guy as Coleman January?”
“I caught his name in the last few weeks as a joker to maybe do business with. The bottom line was that if he wasn’t the guy, then he knew the guy who was.”
A small fog of dust belched out of the vent in the center of the shop’s back room. Skater lifted his SMG instantly and fired. Rounds struck sparks
from the plasteel as they punched through.
A man’s scream suddenly filled the small room only an instant before a body crashed through the ceiling tiles, leaving a huge hole. An avalanche of ancient dust cascaded down, making it look like a smoke grenade had gone off.
“Time to go,” Skater told Duran as the falling body slammed into the beveled stone floor.
The ork gave him a tight nod and clubbed Vankler’s skull, knocking him out. Duran opened his fingers and let the unconscious man drop. “Go. I got the back door.”
Skater didn’t argue. A line of bullets from a yabo still in the ductwork suddenly chattered to life and chopped miniature wooden furniture, jewelry boxes, and glassware into pieces. Skater grabbed the door frame and pulled himself around and up the steps, driving his feet hard against them. The blackness inside the passage was complete until he triggered his infrared vision. Even that, though, was fogged over by the dust rapidly filling the tunnel from the action below.
He tried not to breathe as he ran, afraid his lungs would fill up with the airborne debris. Archangel waited on him at the other end, a look of concern on her delicate face.
“Drek hit the pot down there,” Skater said, coming up out of the hole in the ground. Around him, broken blocks of ancient concrete and pavement, strands of rusted barbed wire, splintered two-by-fours, and shattered glass covered the ravaged earth. The dank smell of mold flooded his nostrils.
“There’s a door here.” Archangel pointed.
Duran erupted from the hole in the ground, the sounds of men echoing after him. “Move. They’re not going to hesitate long about following us up.”
Skater followed Archangel, dropping the SMG and drawing the Predator. Out on the street, the pistol would be easier to keep hidden. They rushed through the rectangle with Duran on their heels. Once outside, Skater took a deep breath, smelling the brine from Elliot Bay.
The opening let them out into an alley that was overgrown with weeds and grass creeping up between the broken asphalt. Twenty meters down, the alley let out onto a small side street that ran between rows of warehouses. Ten meters in the other direction, the alley dead-ended against a sagging plastiwire fence with gaping holes.