“And his band of Merry Men. Little John, Friar Tuck, Marian, the Sheriff of. . . .” Pan stopped when he realized the names were lost on Khase.
“How long after that did our troll friend start calling himself Hood?”
Pan drew his face forward until it looked pinched. “These are things you should know already, if you know Hood-san well.”
“Oh, I know him very well,” Khase lied. “Hood doesn’t bring just anyone to his place at Alki or to here.” His voice was mellow, the words slow and smooth. It was something he’d learned from his sister. And though her words could have real magic behind them and be hypnotic, his were at least convincing. “But I never asked his real name. Never thought to.” He waved around at the theater. “Still, someone who’s restored this old lady to her former grandeur, well, it would be nice to know the real person behind an act like that, not just a street handle.” He focused with all of his charisma, trying to find that chink in the other man’s armor.
“Darkren.” Pan was caught up in the power of Khase’s act. “Darkren Boeing.”
The last name hit Khase like a fist, but he managed to keep his composure. “Ah, the aircraft family. Impressive.” “And the shipyards.”
Khase remembered driving by the shipyards this afternoon. No wonder he defended them. “He doesn’t seem like the freighter type.”
“The last true Boeing, they say, ended his association with the aerospace company far back in the 1930s. And the family lost influence. William Boeing did have a son, however, and down the line and after some decades passed, the family regained control of the company. It has only been in the past thirty years that the Boeing name has regained prominence in this area.”
“Interesting bit of history,” Khase said. “So my pal’s important.”
Pan’s face took on a sad cast. “Khase-san, didn’t Hood tell you? His family shuns him, has ever since he— changed—as he was growing up. So while he is still of their blood and holds their name, he was forced to distance himself. He built his own fortune, with a little seed money from his father. Darkren Boeing, and Hood, keep low profiles to appease the family. He is a very private man out of respect and necessity. He owns a few of his own corporations in this city and elsewhere on the coasts, though he operates them through other individuals. He owns several businesses and . . .”
“And the Historic Everett Theatre.”
“And the block it sits upon.” Pan adjusted a tray of chips on the shelf. “He funnels some of his profits into continued renovations. As you can see, we still have some work to do here.” He pointed to the mildewed strip.
“I didn’t think this place could financially support itself.” Pan frowned at Khase’s comment. “Our revenues are improving. Hood has made this building sound and fashioned apartments upstairs for me and my wife, my sister, and built a workroom for himself. And he has installed the latest technology for security to protect against vandals and treasure hunters. And to block tech.”
“Block tech?”
“Broad spectrum jammers. So the patrons in the audience are not disturbed, we have jammers to prevent signals from coming in.”
“No phone calls.”
“Except in the lobby.”
“Impressive and expensive.”
“Hood-san can afford it.” Pan returned to the viewing window, just as the elf in the black leather outfit was singing on a carnival ride that spun away from the screen. “His industry ventures ... and some of his other undertakings ... do well.” “Other undertakings? His runs? Do you know about those, Pan?”
The older man didn’t answer.
“And does he rob from the rich and give to the poor?” “He does have several charitable projects in the neighborhood.” Pan watched the film’s closing credits, and thumbed a switch to slowly bring up the house lights.
Khase got a good look at the auditorium now. It appeared new and old at the same time—seats he thought he might find in a museum upholstered in dark red velvet, walls papered in something flecked with maroon and gold, and wood trim everywhere meticulously painted a creamy off-white. He imagined that it would be comfortable to sit and watch a movie there, and he decided he would come back some time and do just that—without Hood knowing, of course. Perhaps he would take in one of those Robin Hood tridee festivals, and perhaps he could talk Sindje into coming along. No flat movies, though. Well, except for the samurai feature Pan mentioned. That would be excellent.
“I worry that I have spoken too much about Hood-san.” Pan was readying another set of chips to cue up the next film.
“I don’t recall a single thing you mentioned about our troll friend.” Khase’s voice was again smooth and reassuring. “Besides, like everyone else on the street, I’ve secrets of my own. Maybe I’ll tell you a few someday to even things out.” The elf bowed formally to the old man and slipped out of the projection room.
Khase quietly closed the door behind him, listening as the opening theme music swelled and the same elf’s voice started singing again. This time it was some foolish tune about staying alive.
My friend, you have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about. Then he padded down the hall and to the other door, taking the creaking stairs up to the next floor.
* * *
“Sophisticated recording devices.” Hood was studying the purple-green plant. “Six of them, all thick with bioware, all undetectable by virtually anything because the stems and leaves mask the vein-wires so thoroughly. Wildly valuable.” He whistled appreciatively.
He quickly culled as many of the recording seed pods as he could find, wrapped them in a large handkerchief and put them in his front shirt pocket.
“So our employer wants only these plants, and probably because they recorded something very interesting.”
“Or very incriminating,” Khase said in the doorway.
33
8:25 p.m.
Jhones disconnected his commlink, a stunned look on his face. “That Johnson who owns my marker just dropped the runners in our laps. He said they’re holed up in the Historic Everett Theatre right now. Drek, the address is only two dozen blocks from here. I think we’d better get some backup over there pronto.”
Simon hit the lights on the Honda and traffic magically parted for them as the interceptor sped down the narrow street. “You gonna let Roland know?”
“Not this time, he’s taken enough risks for one day.” The dwarf activated his commlink. “Precinct Ninety-Five, Precinct Ninety-Five, this is Three Romeo Three, requesting backup at the Everett Theatre to assist in apprehending suspects in the Plantech agricorp heist. Three Romeo Three is en route at this time, and as investigating officers will coordinate operations on site.”
“Three Romeo Three, backup en route to Everett Theatre. Officers Redrock and Chays are commanding officers on scene," the computer’s voice confirmed.
Jhones switched over to his private line. “Hoi, Roland? Tell me, just how did you track the runners to Ballard? .. . Shaman, eh? . . . Did they go anywhere else besides there? . . . An apartment building in Alki? ... You saw them there? . . . trace physical evidence, I see. Hmm, I might have something, but we need to check out a lead first. I just needed to know if these guys had been anywhere else recently . . . yeah, yeah, you’ll be the first to know after us. I’ll be in touch.”
Simon glanced at him as he pulled around a Seattle MTA bus. “ETA to The Everett four minutes. What was that all about?”
“Something that’s been bugging me since we got wind these guys were running around in the first place. Assuming their Roadmaster was trashed, which, judging by those camera shots, it was, they managed to put their hands on that Bison—an expensive piece of machinery—in about twelve hours.”
“Okay, so why were you calling Roland?”
“I wanted to see where it had come from—it is one of the best leads we have on these guys.”
“Is that all? Well, let me run that plate I recorded on it.” Jhones and Simon waited the standard twenty-
five seconds for the Seattle DMV mainframe to give them the information. “Hmm, registered to Lakeshore Gardens Condominiums on Elliot Bay.”
“Corp-owned, eh? So who owns the corp?” Jhones asked. “Let’s see—a holding corporation called Baysound Real Estate Development—that’s original—which, as I suspected, is a holding company owned by—Debarring Keno Enterprises, and that in turn is owned by—”
“ETA to Everett, one minute.” Simon palmed the steering wheel as the Honda slipped around a corner. “Hope P-Ninety-Five is glad to see us.”
“Sha, hold your fire a minute, will you, I’ve almost got it—b’emetl It says that Debarring is controlled one hundred percent by the Boeing Consortium.”
“Boeing owns that real estate? Okay, that makes sense, maybe their corp suits stay there.”
“Maybe, but if I cross reference the Everett Theatre with that real estate corp, I get—the exact same match. Either these runners are from Boeing, or they’re working for them. Either way, this will be one very interesting interrogation.” “Look sharp—we’re here.” Simon unsnapped the restraint on his Ruger as he looked out the window. “Hey, that vehicle isn’t Lone Star.”
Jhones peered out as well, seeing a large RV disgorging heavily armed men in riot gear and full face helmets. “What the—Who the frag are these guys? And where’s our backup, this is Ninety-Five’s backyard, for crying out loud!”
“I don’t know, but they’re armed for bear. What do you want to do?”
Jhones pulled back the slide on his Browning. “Let’s give them sixty seconds, then we roust the driver. Hopefully our backup will show, and we can take the team when they come outside. For now, all we can do is wait and pray no one inside does anything stupid.”
34
8:32:03 p.m.
Hood-san, a war has come to us!” Pan squeezed through the doorframe, brushed past Khase and went straight toward Hood, moving remarkably fast for a man his age. “The theater, Hood-san. We are under attack! Just like in the The Killer!”
Hood darted to a cabinet and pulled out a bow. It wasn’t as large or well made as the one he’d lost on the road this afternoon. In fact, in his huge hands it looked like a toy or a flimsy stage prop. He reached to the bottom of the cabinet and came up with a quiver. Not near so many arrows as he usually toted around. He shouldered the bow and quiver, then he looked to the elf, but Khase was already gone.
“Hood-san, they are out front.”
“What gang?”
Pan shook his head and nervously wrung his hands. “No gang, Hood-san. The Red Army has come! These are professionals.” Then he was hurrying from the room. “I must see to my wife and sister.”
Hood grabbed a chair and poked it at the skylights to break the old glass. Then he reached up an arm, grabbed the edge and pulled himself up. He climbed out onto a roof covered with finely pebbled tarpaper. The soles of his shoes slapped against it as he raced to the edge of the building, fitting an arrow.
He paused at the edge, looking down on the neon-speckled street and searching for his first target. The sounds of traffic drifted up, accompanied by loud jazz music from the bar across the street. There was also the sound of men hurrying, the Red Army Pan mentioned.
“In the name of the Green Mother, what?”
A truck was double-parked in front of The Everett. It looked like military issue, save it was a shiny maroon with white letters and a logo on the side. The last few members of a private security team disgorged from the back. Hood couldn’t read the truck’s logo from his vantage point, or the small logos on the breast pockets of the sec team’s maroon body armor jackets. But they were as heavily armed as the Plantech force had been, carrying a mix of shotguns, assault rifles and submachine guns. But these weren’t Plantech, and they weren’t an arm of Lone Star. They were all humans that he could see. Hood wasn’t sure of the number, but the back of the truck could easily carry two dozen.
His mind churned. How could anyone have traced them to this theater?
Hood was a private man who kept his properties as secret as possible. Too, neither he nor Khase had bugs or electronic hounds on them that he could tell—certainly not on himself. He’d changed clothes often enough he would have found something. The Everett was filled with security devices so the patrons would not be interrupted with calls and other nuisances. So no one should have been able to find them here with sniffers—particularly a private team that hadn’t been at the house in Ballard and hadn’t chased them through the city streets to get a clue where they were running.
Hood fired an arrow near the truck’s front tire. The head dug into the street and emitted a high-pitched shriek. The sound attracted the attention of three sec team members who left the front of the theater to investigate. A heartbeat later they were splayed on the asphalt, as the arrowhead erupted into a cloud of sleep-inducing gas.
“Teach ’em not to wear breathers,” Hood muttered. “They’re issued breathers, they should use ’em. Standard operating procedure.” Two more arrows followed the first, one with another sleep-gas canister. The second produced an acrid tear-bringing smoke that the troll could smell three stories up. The sickly green cloud spread out under the marquee and across the street to the bar. Curious customers had spilled out onto the sidewalk, all of them gawking at the Everett and the security force. The green cloud gave them coughing fits and forced them away. Hood considered another arrow to drive them back farther, but he hadn’t many in this quiver and so had to conserve them.
“Frag it.” He pictured his expensive bow ruined on the street, and the quiver of arrows he’d thoughtlessly left behind when he abandoned the Bison. One last look below, eyes picking through the tear gas and the sleep gas and seeing only a few of the maroon-clad men moving sluggishly. No one he recognized. “Frag it all to the bottom pits of hell.”
He turned from the edge of the roof and jumped through the closest skylight, wincing as the glass sliced into his legs and arms and groaning when he hit the bed, which broke below him. He was up on his feet, glancing at the table of plants he’d nearly come down on. Then his feet were pounding across the old wooden floor, carrying him out the door and down the hall, past three other doors and down the narrow stairway. Running down the second floor hallway now, he paused only to look in the projection room and make sure Pan wasn’t there. A movie was still playing; Hood caught a glimpse of an elf in a white suit whirling on a multi-colored dance floor that flashed in dizzying patterns. The troll’s frantic footsteps matched the beat of the music as he spun down the curving marble staircase that took him into the lobby.
Now Hood could see the insignia on their uniforms, but it still didn’t make sense. What would Keashee Corp be doing here, and in force?
The Keashee sec men had already swarmed the place. The three who were leveling Uzi IVs at the old woman quivering behind the popcorn machine were soon gagging and rubbing their eyes—Hood had shot another one of the green-gas arrows at their feet. The old woman was succumbing, too, but the troll knew she wouldn’t be seriously harmed—and it would be better than getting shot. The green gas continued to spread.
Khase occupied four men by himself, twirling and lashing out with his feet and hands, all hints of his fatigue and pain gone. He was holding his own, but the Keashee men were doing their best to contain him. Because of the way they were arranged, however, they couldn’t shoot him for fear of hitting their own men. More sec men rushed by the elf, two of them charging Pan, another two coming at Hood, and a half a dozen heading into the auditorium, leading with their shotguns and Uzi subguns.
“Fools!” the troll bellowed. “This is private property!” Hood shouldered his bow again and slammed his fist into the face of the nearest sec man. Bones cracked from the impact, at the very least a broken nose. The man dropped just as his companion swung his own Uzi up and fired at Hood, the slug missing its mark and only grazing the troll’s cheek. “Kill me for plants? For plants!”
Hood bellowed like a rabid beast and threw himself
at the sec man. Another round went off, and another, one finding its way deep into the troll’s left shoulder. Hood felt a hotness, smelled his own blood. Mixed with the scent of fear and tear gas and popcorn it was nauseating. The troll felt bile rising, but managed to keep it down as he drove his fist into the sec man’s chest, breaking his ribs and pushing him back into another man who had charged forward.
“Khase?” Hood shouted over the screams that were coming from the auditorium.
“I’m fine. I’m handling these. And just who are they?” Two men were crumpled at the elf’s feet, though another two had moved up to take their places. “Do these goons want the fraggin’ plants, too? How could . . .” The elf started coughing, the green gas reaching his feet. Still, he kept battling with the men, whipping one leg out in a circle kick that shattered a sec guard’s visor and sent him flopping to the floor while straight-arming the second guy who had tried to rush him. Khase used the human’s own momentum and sent him sailing over the concessions stand to thwack into the wall behind it and slide out of sight. He waited a moment, but the man didn’t get back up.
“Pan?”
“I am fine, Hood-san. See to our customers.” The old man was not as fast as Khase, but seemed to be just as skilled. He was artfully dancing with his opponents, managing to disarm them and keep them away from his wife, who stared in disbelief from the corner.
“Mei sei go ah?” Pan spat at the taller of his foes. “Seung sei ah?”
“No geeking, Pan! You either, Khase!” The troll rammed his elbow into another sec man, caught him in the jaw with an uppercut, then picked him up and tossed him against the nearest wall. Without looking to see if the man was getting up, Hood barreled into the auditorium.
It took a moment for his eyes to adjust. The screen was bright, but the rest of the immense room was dark. Shadows ran along the aisles, patrons fleeing in panic from the sec men waving their guns. At least the security force wasn’t firing at innocents; Hood had to give them that. Still, they were inflicting enough mental terror on people who would never come back to this precious place. That last thought further incensed the troll.
Shadowrun 45 - Aftershock Page 25