Shadowrun 45 - Aftershock

by Jean Rabe, John Helfers (v1. 0) (epub)

  “No kidding. Hood! Just get us away from this stuff!”

  “Can’t kill a Lone Star,” the troll growled to Sindje, “or one of those security guards. Then we’ll be in shoulder-deep drek with no prayer of getting out. Nothing would make us Seattle’s Most Wanted faster than killing a rent-a-cop.”

  Sindje’s voice was as dry as the desert. “Gee, tad, thanks for the shadowrunning lesson, I had no idea it could be so dangerous.”

  They cleared the south end of Ballard and were streaking down the main road parallel to the ocean. It was risky, fleeing in the open like this, with the chance more Lone Stars could join the chase, or even worse, call some backup rotorcraft into the fray. If that happened, Hood knew he might as well plow the Bison straight into Elliot Bay and have them all swim for it. But then Max wouldn’t make it for sure. With the workday over, traffic was thin going into the heart of the city and the Bison had plenty of room to swerve around the few cars it came up on.

  “This is a drekload of work, Hood, for no nuyen so far.” Sindje’s face was a mask of fury. She thumbed the button to take down her window, unhooked her safety belt and leaned out as far as her waist. Then she searched for her inner spark, a daunting task given all the mana she’d already expended today, her features contorting with the effort. “Nothing there! I’ve no magic!”

  “Fortunately you’ve still got me, chwaer.” On the roof of the Bison, Khase lashed out with his whip, catching the front bumper of the Plantech Typhoon and slicing the chrome in two. Sparks flew across the road as the split bumper fell, and the van ran over a piece. Khase lashed out with the whip again, cutting the grill in half and tearing it away, adding more sparks on the road. The Typhoon pulled back, and the side door opened, revealing the huge troll K-Tog leaning out, a shotgun every bit as big as he was in his hands.

  “Hood, incoming!” Khase tensed, unsure if the guard would try to nail him or the RV. Just my luck, he’ll go for both.

  Hood increased the speed, reaching under the dash and flipping a switch. The engine whined, revving hotter now, and he put a little more distance between the Typhoon and the Bison.

  “Wiz ride indeed,” Sindje said. She was still hanging out the window, she and her brother drawing the attention of motorists as the Bison sped by. She gripped the edge, so tight her fingers turned bone white, and she squinted when strands of her hair whipped in her face and stung her eyes. “Let’s see if I can find juice to take care of their tires.”

  “Don’t push it, chwaer,” Khase’s voice came from up lop.

  “You worry about your own pretty head, brawd, and let me worry about mine.” Somehow, Sindje found a shred of mana lurking, and stoked it with the full measure of her concentration. As she reached deeper and deeper into the magic inside her, she became oblivious to the traffic and the speed, to the sirens—three Lone Star cars trailing them now, the horrid salt air with its dead fish smell and the slashing hums of her brother’s whip. She saw only the ball of energy, and she pictured it streaking toward the Plantech Typhoon.

  The energy formed at a spot between her eyes and struck out like a bolt of lightning to the front left tires. Though they were run-flats, she shredded them in a heartbeat, the Typhoon swerving over the median as the rim screamed against the road, sending the troll tumbling back inside the cargo area. It stopped in a lane of oncoming traffic, flashers going to alert other motorists. The pack of Lone Star squad cars swerved around the accident in progress and kept coming, their lights and sirens flashing off the scraped and dented Bison.

  “Am I something, or am I something!” Sindje beamed and looked to the lead Lone Star vehicle. “If Max were up she could tap into the engines or something.” She plopped back into the seat and clicked her safety belt around her waist. “My battery’s burned out. Sorry.”

  Hood didn’t offer a reply, all his concentration focused on putting more distance between the Bison and the rent-a-cops. The sun was dipping toward the horizon, but it would be at least an hour before it set. And the shadows wouldn’t grow thick until some time afterward. Hood wanted the shadows so they could hide and think.

  “Who was the dead man, Sindje? Got a clue?”

  She shrugged. “Didn’t get a look at his face. Wasn’t the Johnson. I figured it would have been. Just one more thing going wrong with this caper.”

  “I think he worked for Plantech.” Hood had decided that upstairs in the house, the dirt and the green fingers being a giveaway. “Why would he be at the house? Was he behind our Mr. Johnson?”

  She shrugged again. “I’m more interested in how you’re going to lose the Stars, tad. Yeah, you’ve got a lead, but I’m sure they’ve called ahead and have some more cars waiting for us.”

  Hood slammed his open hand against the steering wheel, bending it. “Of course they do.” A glance in the rearview mirror, and a look to the oncoming lanes on the other side of the median. “Khase! Hold tight!” Then Hood punched another button under the dash and the Bison growled like an angry beast and lunged forward. He turned the wheel hard left, jumping the median and scraping the undercarriage and throwing the Bison on its three left wheels again. It hung poised for only a moment this time, then dropped down with a crunch and he sped across three lanes, whipping the wheel back and forth to avoid the stream of cars and vans coming straight at him. He cut east, taking a main street then swerving into the first alley he came to.

  “You’re getting pretty good at taking out trash cans, Hood.” Sindje looked over her shoulder and winked at Khase, who had climbed back inside.

  “Hood! This jostling can’t be good for Max.” Khase knelt next to the ork again and was stuffing the bloodied blanket under her head. “Take some care, willya!”

  Hood’s growl matched the noise the engine was making. The Bison roared through the alley and turned left at the next street, cruising past a row of trendy boutiques and a posh hotel. The sun’s rays struck the shop windows, making fun-house mirror reflections of all the vehicles going by. Sindje frowned. “Where are you going?”

  “Frag!” Hood slammed on the brakes and hung another left. He lost the car that was tailing them, but he picked up two more Lone Stars, a traditional Ford Americar with a dwarf driving, and a van with a spread of lights on the roof.

  Khase let out a breath he’d been holding and climbed out the window again. He was a little slower this time, the ache in his arm a dull, persistent throb that was finally getting to him. Once more riding the top of the van like he was a surfer in the bay, he balanced himself and cracked his whip.

  The businesses they passed were closing down for the evening, save the scattering of restaurants and bars they whizzed by. There were people out on the sidewalks, heading to the nearest light rail stop and to parking lots, most of them pausing to stare at Khase, but only few of them seemed really curious.

  “Hood! Look lively!” Khase watched as the van pulled even with the Americar, and as a hatch opened on top. A man’s head and shoulders appeared, and he brought a missile launcher with him, steadying it against the roof. “Frag, Hood! Heads up!”

  The elf crouched and flicked his whip forward, not quite able to reach the car or the van. That situation was remedied a moment later, as both Lone Star vehicles sped up and the man with the missile launcher took aim.

  Khase’s left arm cocked back, about to snap his whip toward the rocket launcher. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the officer in the passenger’s seat of the Americar stick his pistol out the window, aim at his head, and fire. Without thought, the adept brought his hand up in front of his face, the bullet smashing into the monofilament whip mount and shattering it into a dozen pieces.

  “Kutabare!” But Khase didn’t let himself dwell on his lost whip. He took two giant steps and propelled himself off the Bison, hands outstretched and pointed at the missile launcher. His keen eyes saw the man’s finger tense on the trigger, and then his own fingers closed on the end of the missile weapon, yanking it out of the man’s hands and hurling it away as he came down.
Khase landed with a bone-jarring thud next to the hatch, and reached in to pull the Lone Star officer all the way out. He grinned before punching the cop’s lights out, turning the man upside down and flinging him back down into the interior of the speeding van. “Hope that didn’t hurt too much.”

  “Sindje!” Hood hollered a second time to pull her attention away from the rearview mirror and her brother. “Take the wheel.” The troll reached behind him and grabbed his bow and quiver. Then he squeezed himself out the driver’s side window, ripping his clothes, scraping his skin and cursing with each centimeter he gained.

  “I don’t have a license, Hood.”

  “Like a legality would stop you. Fragging small window.” “I don’t know how to drive this behemoth.”

  “Gas pedal, steering wheel. Keep it going straight down this street. That’s the five second course.”

  Hood somehow scrambled on top of the Bison, kneeling and reeling as he slung the quiver on his back and tried to take aim at the Lone Star Americar. He didn’t hear Sindje’s reply, though he heard the squeal of the Bison’s tires as she pushed the pedal down, and he nearly fell off the roof as the RV picked up speed.

  “How the frag does Khase do this?” He took a different tactic, lying flat against the roof of the Bison, head and arms dangling over the back. It was awkward, aiming and drawing the bow this way, but he angled it sideways and selected an arrow. He couldn’t risk a shot at the van, not with Khase now locked in a struggle with another officer on top of it. So he kept to the Americar, sending a dikoted arrow through the grill and into the engine. He saw a hand with a pistol snake out of the passenger side, and shot an arrow that starred the windshield, making seeing though it impossible. He followed that arrow with a third and a fourth, both aimed at the engine again, and grinned when he saw sparks fly from underneath and the car drop out of gear and begin slowing down.

  “Khase! Quit fooling around and get back here!”

  The second officer lying unconscious next to him, the elf had pulled a third officer out of the van and briefly struggled with him before head-butting him across the bridge of the nose and dropping him back inside. A fourth officer now leaned out the passenger window and aimed a subgun, while the driver had a Predator IV pointed at Hood.

  The troll drew another arrow and let it loose at the man’s gun hand. The arrowhead pierced the officer’s wrist up to the fletchings, the gun falling from his grasp. The man screamed and the van swerved into an oncoming lane, falling farther behind the Bison.

  “Sindje, slow down. We have to get Khase back. Sindje!” The Bison smashed against three cars parked in a line outside a bar and grille. Hood was nearly thrown from the roof, and as he dug his fingers into the metal his bow clattered onto the street and was run over when Sindje, gears grinding, accidentally threw the Bison into reverse. The RV lumbered across the center lane as she tried to regain control of it. Then it struck the stopped Lone Star van, which had braked to a halt in the middle of the street.

  The impact sent Hood sliding off the roof and onto the van, knocking the wind out of him. Dazed, he looked over to see the remaining uninjured officer climbing out the passenger side.

  “Lone Star, don’t move! Don’t give me an excuse, troll. Don’t twitch a . . .”

  A shadow appeared, and the officer and Hood looked up just as Khase pile-drove both his legs into the officer’s back, effectively ending the order and the man’s consciousness in one blow. The elf stepped off the cop’s motionless body and helped Hood down from the Lone Star van.

  “And you,” Khase directed this to the officer who’d been driving. The man cupped his wrist, with Hood’s arrow still protruding from it. “You don’t move from your seat.” The elf reached through the window and smashed the communications panel with his fist.

  Then he and Hood hobbled to the Bison, the elf climbing into the back, where he could again nursemaid Max. The troll glared at Sindje, who glided into the passenger seat.

  “Told you I didn’t know how to drive.” The elf flipped her hair back as she settled herself.

  “Max’s still breathing,” Khase reported.

  “It’s a wonder any of us still are.” Sindje’s sarcasm was left hanging as Hood punched the gas pedal. The Bison didn’t budge. He reached beneath the dash and turned a knob, pulled a wire free and thumbed something. The RV grated to life, its engine missing on at least one cylinder, and limped away, accompanied by the distant sound of more sirens. He took the first street to the west, followed it and then went north. The buildings and businesses appeared little different here, though decorations in some of the windows looked exotic, with a definite nature theme; and the holo-images of girls dancing outside the strip clubs were definitely elven.

  The Bison died at the far south end of the neighborhood.

  “We’re on foot from here,” Hood announced. He got out of the Bison and gave the tire a solid kick. “RIP, old friend.”

  “More sirens. Closer now.” Khase slid out the back, cradling Max in his arms. Despite his injuries, it didn’t look like her weight bothered him.

  “Ow. Frag, frag, frag.” Max raised her head to complain, then drifted off into the blackness again, her eyes fluttering closed.

  “That’s the understatement of the year,” Sindje said. They hadn’t taken more than a dozen steps before she collapsed.

  27

  5:13:11 p.m.

  Two blocks later the high-pitched whine of cycle engines reverberated off the walls of the alley they had just ducked into.

  “Great. Now what?” Sindje’s voice carried none of its customary sarcasm, which told just how truly strung out she was. She was cradled in her brother’s arms.

  Hood was carrying Max. All of their recent exertion, combined with the past twenty hours of no sleep, was starting to wear down even the indefatigable troll, and his steps were plodding rather than quick.

  “Looks like a go-gang out for kicks.” Khase said, noting the single halogen headlamps that strobed the entrance of the alley. Hood and Khase scanned the length of the narrow lane, but there was no other way out, the path terminating in a solid concrete wall.

  “Hoi, chummers, you look lost!” The innocuous comment was followed by laughter and the sound of revving engines. “Maybe we can help you find your way out of here.”

  “Is that a troll? No wonder they’re lost. Fraggin’ metas never could read a map!” This ember of wit brought howls of laughter from the group behind the bright lights.

  Hood snarled and turned to face them, but was stopped by Khase’s nudge. “This one isn’t your fight, tad. Besides, once I start the distraction, only you can carry my sister and Max.”

  The adept handed off Sindje, who groaned and reached for her brother with trembling hands. Now both she and Max were in Hood’s huge arms. “Brawd . . . what are you . . . doing?”

  Khase kissed her on the forehead. “Just got to take care of some business, chwaer. Don’t you worry, I’ll be right back.”

  “Don’t . . . get . . . killed,” the mage mumbled as her head lolled back.

  “Not today.” He nodded at Hood, his eyes flicking toward a nearby loading ramp and the steel fire escape above the troll’s head. “Make sure they get out of here. Get to the roof if you can. I’ll catch up sooner than you think.”

  “Khase—be careful.”

  “How one can make the enemy arrive of their own accord—offer them advantage. Watch and learn, brother.” With that the elf jandered down the alley toward the men clustered at the far end, raising a hand in a casual wave, as if he were greeting a group of friends instead of thrill seekers.

  “Hoi, chummers.” Khase’s shoulders slumped in relaxation as he got closer, his voice carrying back to the troll. “And here I was worried for a second. I thought you guys might have been the Halloweeners, or another gang I’d actually have to worry about.”

  Hood’s jaw dropped at the open insult. Did he get hit on the head during the chase, knock his brain loose? Apparently the elf’s word
s were having the same effect on his audience, for only shocked silence greeted him.

  Finally, a wiry Japanese with green and black kanji tattooed in vertical rows down his face, revved his bike long and loud, the tires screaming on the pavement. “Brave words from a baka-gaijin with no wheels!”

  “Well, perhaps you’d let me borrow yours, then?” Khase was the picture of studied innocence, as he clasped his hands behind his back. Hood was so flabbergasted by the elf’s performance he almost didn’t notice the elf’s slim finger jabbing at the air. Is he flipping me off? The finger pointed again, and Hood looked up at the fire escape again. Oh, right!

  “What did you just say?” the gang leader moved his bike closer. “Go on, say that again, you chikushome

  The elf remained unruffled, and put his unwounded arm on the handlebar of the sleek cycle. “I said, maybe you’d let me borrow yours.”

  Oh drek, I hope he knows what he’s doing! Setting Sindje down. Hood hoisted Max over a shoulder, stepped up onto the slanted ramp and grabbed the rusty ladder with one hand, praying the structure would hold both Max’s weight and his. The old metal creaked alarmingly, but seemed to be solid. Hood kept an eye on Khase, then he grabbed Sindje, put her over his other shoulder and started to climb, praying all the while to the Green Mother that the bolts would hold.

  “Frag, this baka yaro got a slottin’ death wish!” the leader said. “Okay, henjin, you’re on. We got ourselves a duel!” The cycles all revved at once, the noise of their engines a howl that shattered the night.

  Hood reached the top of the three-story building, and he laid Max and Sindje on the roof, the ork moaning softly as she hit the pebbled surface. He crawled to the edge of the roof and peeked over.

  The street was deserted at this time of day, with the families that worked in the sweatshops locked inside, sewing or weaving or performing any of a hundred other chores for their taskmasters—heartless criminals that thought nothing of enslaving their own brethren to accomplish their criminal goals.